Then Venus, shaken with a mother’s anguish Over a suffering son, from Cretan Ida Plucked dittany, a plant with downy leaves And crimson blossom: the wild goats know and use it As cure for arrow-wounds. This herb the goddess Brought down, her presence veiled in cloud, and steeped it With secret healing in the river-water Poured in the shining caldrons, and she added Ambrosia’s healing juice, and panacea, And agèd Iapyx washed the wound, unknowing The virtues of that balm, and all the pain Suddenly, and by magic, left the body; The blood was staunched, deep in the wound; the arrow Dropped from the flesh, at the least touch; the hero Felt all his strength return. “Quick! Bring his weapons!” Iapyx cries out, the first to fire their spirit Against the foe, “Why are you standing there, What are you waiting for? These things have happened By more than mortal aid or master talent, It is not my hand, Aeneas, that has saved you, Some greater god is working here, to send you To greater deeds.” Aeneas, eager for battle, Had the gold shin-guards on while he was talking, Makes the spear flash, impatient, gets the armor Buckled about the body, and the sword Ready at the left side, and through the helmet Stoops down to kiss Iulus:--“Learn, my son, What I can show you, valor and real labor: Learn about luck from others. Now my hand Will be your shield in war, your guide to glory, To great rewards. When you are grown, remember; You will have models for your inspiration, Your father Aeneas and your uncle Hector.”