There was a Latin custom, Cherished, thereafter, by the Alban cities, As now by Rome, great empress--when they rouse The god of war to battle, against the Getans, Arabians, Hyrcanians, no matter; Whether they march on India, or strive To win back captured standards from the Parthians, The custom holds. There are twin gates of Mars, Held in both awe and reverence; they are fastened By bolts of bronze, a hundred, by the eternal Solidity of iron, and their guardian Is Janus, always watchful at the threshold. These, when the fathers vote for war, the consul, Girt in the dress of Romulus, and belted Gabinian-wise, with his own hand must open, Must swing the portals wide, with his own voice Cry war, and the others follow, and the trumpets Give tongue in bronze agreement. So Latinus Was called on, by that custom, for announcement Of war against the Trojans, for the opening Of those grim gates. But he refused to touch them, Fled from the task he loathed, hid in the darkness, And Juno, coming from heaven, shoved them open With her own hand; the turning hinges grated, The iron was loosed for war. And all Ausonia, Listless till then, unmoved, blazed out in fury: On foot they came, on horseback; through the dust The cry rang out _To arms!_ They oil the shields, They make the javelins shine, they hone the axes, They love the sight of banner, the sound of trumpet. In five great cities, Tibur, Crustumerium, Antemnae, and Atina, and Ardea, Strong towns, and proud, and turret-crowned, they forge New weapons on their anvils; they carve out helmets, Make wicker covers for the shields; they hammer Breastplates of bronze, or greaves of pliant silver. They beat their ploughshares into swords; the furnace Gives a new temper to the blades of their fathers. Alarum sounds, password is whispered. Helmets Come down from the wall; the yoke weighs down the horses; A man puts on his armor, picks up his shield, Buckles his sword to his side. Open the mountain, Muses, release the song!--what kings were hurried Hot-haste to war, who filled their battle-lines, How Italy blossomed with men, and burned with weapons, For you remember, Muses, and you have power To make us all remember, deeds that rumor, Far-off and faint, brings to our recollection. First from the Tuscan shore came fierce Mezentius, Arming his columns, the man who scorned the gods. Beside him, handsomer than any other, Save only Turnus, stood his son, young Lausus, Tamer of horses, huntsman, from Agylla, Leading a thousand warriors, a vain mission; He was worthy, Lausus, of a happier fortune Than being his father’s subject; he was worthy Of a better father.