As Turnus raised war’s banner, and the trumpets Blared loud above Laurentum’s citadel, And fiery horses reared, and arms were clashing, Confusion reigned: all Latium joined alliance, The youth were mad for war. Messapus, Ufens, And that despiser of the gods, Mezentius, Brought forces in from everywhere; wide fields Were stripped of countrymen. They sent a message By Venulus, to Diomede in Arpi: _Come to our aid; the Trojans are in Latium; Aeneas with a fleet and vanquished gods Proclaims himself a king; it is fate, he says; And many tribes are joining him; his name Spreads far and wide in Latium._ Diomede (The message says) better than many others, Should know the outcome, if the grace of fortune Follows Aeneas in the scheme he nurtures. He knows the Trojans; he can judge them better Than Turnus or Latinus. So, in Latium, Events were shaping, and Aeneas knew it, And saw it all, and turned and tossed in torment On a great sea of trouble. The swift mind Went searching, probing, veering with every shift, As when in a bronze bowl the light of water, Reflected by the sun or moonlight, wavers, Dances and flits about, from wall to ceiling. Night: over all the world the weary creatures, The beasts and birds, were deep in sleep; Aeneas, With warfare in his heart, stretched out for rest Where the cold sky was awning over the river, And sleep came late. Before him rose an image, An aged head amid the poplar leaves, A mantle of gray, and shady reeds around him, Tiber, the river-god, in consolation And comfort speaking:--“Son of the gods, redeemer Of Troy from overseas, her savior ever, O long-awaited on Laurentian fields, Here is your home, be sure of it; here dwell Your household gods, be sure. Do not turn back, Do not be frightened by the threats of war: The swollen rage of Heaven has subsided. Soon--do not take my words for idle phantoms, Illusions of a dream--under the holm-oaks Along the shore, you will find a huge sow lying, White, with a new-born litter at her udders, Thirty of them, all white, a certain token Of a new city, in thirty years. Your son Will found it; he will call it the White City, A glorious name, beyond all doubt whatever. Further, I have a word or two of guidance To speed you through the pressure of the moment Toward ultimate victory. Inland a little Arcadian people live, a race descended From Pallas’ line; their king is called Evander, Under whose banner they have built a city, High on the hills; its name is Pallanteum. They wage continual warfare with the Latins; Take them as allies, in covenant and treaty. And I myself will guide you there, upstream Along the banks, the oars against the current. Rise, goddess-born; when the stars set, make prayer