The Daunian hero lifts his hands and eyes, And thus invokes the goddess as she flies: “Iris, the grace of heav’n, what pow’r divine Has sent thee down, thro’ dusky clouds to shine? See, they divide; immortal day appears, And glitt’ring planets dancing in their spheres! With joy, these happy omens I obey, And follow to the war the god that leads the way.” Thus having said, as by the brook he stood, He scoop’d the water from the crystal flood; Then with his hands the drops to heav’n he throws, And loads the pow’rs above with offer’d vows. Now march the bold confed’rates thro’ the plain, Well hors’d, well clad; a rich and shining train. Messapus leads the van; and, in the rear, The sons of Tyrrheus in bright arms appear. In the main battle, with his flaming crest, The mighty Turnus tow’rs above the rest. Silent they move, majestically slow, Like ebbing Nile, or Ganges in his flow. The Trojans view the dusty cloud from far, And the dark menace of the distant war. Caicus from the rampire saw it rise, Black’ning the fields, and thick’ning thro’ the skies. Then to his fellows thus aloud he calls: “What rolling clouds, my friends, approach the walls? Arm! arm! and man the works! prepare your spears And pointed darts! the Latian host appears.” Thus warn’d, they shut their gates; with shouts ascend The bulwarks, and, secure, their foes attend: For their wise gen’ral, with foreseeing care, Had charg’d them not to tempt the doubtful war, Nor, tho’ provok’d, in open fields advance, But close within their lines attend their chance. Unwilling, yet they keep the strict command, And sourly wait in arms the hostile band. The fiery Turnus flew before the rest: A piebald steed of Thracian strain he press’d; His helm of massy gold, and crimson was his crest. With twenty horse to second his designs, An unexpected foe, he fac’d the lines. “Is there,” he said, “in arms, who bravely dare His leader’s honour and his danger share?” Then spurring on, his brandish’d dart he threw, In sign of war: applauding shouts ensue.