King Latinus Was an old man, long ruler over a country Blessed with the calm of peace. He was, they tell us, The son of Faunus; Marica was his mother, A nymph, Laurentian-born. And Faunus’ father Was Picus, son of Saturn, the line’s founder. Latinus had no sons; they had been taken, By fate, in their young manhood; an only daughter Survived to keep the house alive, a girl Ripe for a husband. She had many suitors From Latium, from Ausonia. Most handsome, Most blessed in ancestry, was the prince Turnus, Whom the queen mother favored, but the portents Of the high gods opposed. There was a laurel In the palace courtyard, tended through the years With sacred reverence, which king Latinus, When first he built the city, had discovered, And hallowed to Apollo, and the people Were called Laurentians, from its name. A marvel, So runs the story, occurred here once, a swarm Of bees, that came, loud-humming through clear air To settle in the branches, a dense jumble All through the leafy boughs. “We see a stranger,” The prophet cried, “and a strange column coming On the same course to the same destination, We see him lord it over the height of the city.” Another time Lavinia was standing Beside her father at the altar, bringing The holy torch to light the fire, when--horror!-- Her hair broke out in flame, sparks leaped and crackled From diadem and coronal; her progress Was a shower of fire, as she moved through the palace Robed with gray smoke and yellow light, a vision Fearful and wonderful. She would be glorious, They said, in fame and fortune, but the people Were doomed, on her account, to war.