Latinus Was troubled by such prophecies, and turned To Faunus, his prophetic father, seeking His oracles for help, in Albunean Woodland and forest, where the holy fountain Makes music, breathing vapor from the darkness. Italian men, Oenotrian tribes, in trouble Come here for answers; here the priesthood, bringing The offerings for sacrifice, by night-time Slumbers on fleece of victims, seeing visions, Hearing strange voices, meeting gods in converse, Deep down in Acheron. Hither Latinus Came, pilgrim and petitioner; the fleeces Were spread for him, a hundred woolly victims, And as he lay, half waking and half sleeping, From the deep grove he heard a voice:--“My son, Seek not a Latin husband for the princess; Distrust this bridal; stranger sons are coming To wed our children, to exalt our title High as the stars, and from that marriage offspring Will see, as surely as sun looks down on ocean, The whole world at their feet.” These answers Faunus Gave to his son, warnings in night and silence; Latinus may have said no word, but Rumor Had spread the news, all up and down the cities Throughout Ausonia, by the time the Trojans Tied up their vessels at the grassy landing. Aeneas and the captains and Iulus Sprawled in the shade; a feast was spread; they placed The wheels of hardtack on the ground, and on them Morsels of food, and sliced or quartered apples, And after these were eaten, hunger drove them To break the disks beneath with teeth and fingers. “Ho!” cries Iulus, “We are eating our tables!” A boy’s joke, nothing more. But the spoken word Meant something more, and deeper, to Aeneas, An end of hardship. He caught up the saying, Felt the god’s presence. “Hail!” he cried, remembering, “Hail, O my destined land! All hail, ye faithful Gods of our homeland! Here our country lies. Now I remember what Anchises told me: _My son, when hunger overtakes you, driven To unknown shores, and the food seems so little You find it best to gnaw the tables also, There hope for home, there build, however weary, The city walls, the moat, the ditch, the rampart._ This must have been that hunger, and the ending Of our misfortunes. Come then, let us gladly Explore what lands these are, what people hold them. Now pour your cups to Jove, in the light of morning, Pray to Anchises; let the wine again Go round in happiness.” He wreathed his temples With forest greenery, and made his prayers, To the genius of the place, to the nymphs, to Earth, Oldest of goddesses, to the unknown rivers, To Night, and all her rising stars, to Jove, To Cybele, to his parents, in heaven or Hades. And the almighty father thrice made thunder From the clear sky, and a bright cloud blazed above them