And Venus’ heart Was anxious for her son, and with good reason, Knowing the threats and tumult of the Latins. She spoke to Vulcan, in that golden chamber Where they were wife and husband, and her words Were warm with love:--“When the Greek kings were tearing Troy’s towers as they deserved, and the walls were fated To fall to enemy fire, I sought no aid For those poor people, I did not ask for weapons Made by your art and power; no, dearest husband, I would not put you to that useless labor, Much as I owed to Priam’s sons, however I sorrowed for my suffering Aeneas. But now, at Jove’s command, he has made a landing On the Rutulian coast; I come, a suppliant To the great power I cherish, a mother asking Arms for her son. If Thetis and Aurora Could move you with their tears, behold what people Unite against me, what cities sharpen weapons Behind closed gates, intent on our destruction!” So Venus pleaded, and as she saw him doubtful, The goddess flung her snowy arms around him In fondlement, in soft embrace, and fire Ran through him; warmth, familiar to the marrow, Softened his sternness, as at times in thunder Light runs through cloud. She knew her charms, the goddess, Rejoicing in them, conscious of her beauty, Sure of the power of love, and heard his answer:-- “No need for far-fetched pleading, dearest goddess; Have you no faith in me? You might have asked it In those old days; I would have armed the Trojans, And Jupiter and the fates might well have given Another ten years of life to Troy and Priam. Now, if your purpose is for war, I promise Whatever careful craft I have, whatever Command I have of iron or electrum, Whatever fire and air can do. Your pleading Is foolish; trust your power!” And he came to her With the embrace they longed for, and on her bosom Sank, later, into slumber. And rose early When night was little more than half way over, The way a housewife must, who tends the spindle, Rising to stir and wake the drowsing embers, Working by night as well as day, and keeping The housemaids at the task, all day, till lamplight, A faithful wife, through toil, and a good mother, Even so, like her, with no more self-indulgence, The Lord of Fire rose early, from soft pillows To the labor of the forge.