“Dear mother of the gods, Idean queen, Lover of tower-crowned cities, and the lions That draw the chariot, be my leader now Before the fight begins, affirm the omen, Favor the Trojans, goddess, with your blessing.” And as he spoke, new day broke over the ocean In a great blaze of light, and the darkness vanished. It was time for the last warnings to his comrades: _Follow the signals, nerve the spirit for battle, Make every preparation!_ And he stood there, High on the stern, seeing, before his eyes, The Trojans and his camp, and he lifted high The blazing shield, and the Trojans raised a clamor To the high stars; new hope inflamed their anger, And the darts flew, as cranes come back to Strymon Noisy before the southern gales. But Turnus And the Rutulian leaders were dumbfounded,-- What miracle was this?--looked back and saw The sterns lined up to the shore, the whole great ocean One mass of moving ships. The helmet burned, The crest streamed fire, the golden boss of the shield Poured golden radiance: even so, at night-time The comets burn blood-red, or Sirius’ fire, Portent of drought and pestilence to mortals, Saddens the sky with evil glare. But Turnus Never lost confidence or nerve; he would beat them There at the shore, he knew, and stop the landing. “Men, here is what you always prayed for; do it! Break through with sword-arm! Mars is in your hands. Remember, every man, his wife, his household, His fathers’ noble glories. On to meet them At the water’s edge: they tremble there, they stagger, And luck helps men who dare.” He chose his captains, Picked men for this attack, and left to others The duty of the siege. Meanwhile Aeneas Landed his comrades, down from the tall ships, Over the gangways. Many leapt boldly down Catching the ebb of the sea, and others vaulted Over the oar-blades. Tarchon, watching the shore-line, Saw where the shallow water was hardly breathing, Where never a breaker roared, where the smooth ocean Came gliding slowly in, and he turned his prow, Calling on comrades:--“Now is the time, bend to it, Lean on the oars, pick up the ships and lift them! Let the beaks split this hostile land, and keels Plough a deep furrow: what does a shipwreck matter, So we take hold of land?” And as he urged them They rose to the oars, they drove the foaming ships To the dry Latin fields, and every vessel Came in, unhurt, except for one. For Tarchon Ran up on a ledge of rock and hung there, doubtful, Tilting now back, now forward, until he broke Above the weary wave, and the timbers weakened, Gave way, and the men were flung in the midst of ocean, Among the broken oars and the floating cross-beams, And the drag of the undertow.