Sword at my side, I was on the point of going, Working the left arm into the shield. Creusa Clung to me on the threshold, held my feet, And made me see my little son:--‘Dear husband, If you are bent on dying, take us with you, But if you think there is any hope in fighting, And you should know, stay and defend the house! To whom are we abandoned, your father and son, And I, once called your wife?’ She filled the house With moaning outcry. And then something happened, A wonderful portent. Over Iulus’ head, Between our hands and faces, there appeared A blaze of gentle light; a tongue of flame, Harmless and innocent, was playing over The softness of his hair, around his temples. We were afraid, we did our best to quench it With our own hands, or water, but my father Raised joyous eyes to heaven, and prayed aloud:-- ‘Almighty Jupiter, if any prayer Of ours has power to move you, look upon us, Grant only this, if we have ever deserved it, Grant us a sign, and ratify the omen!’ He had hardly spoken, when thunder on the left Resounded, and a shooting star from heaven Drew a long trail of light across the shadows. We saw it cross above the house, and vanish In the woods of Ida, a wake of gleaming light Where it had sped, and a trail of sulphurous odor. This was a victory: my father rose In worship of the gods and the holy star, Crying: ‘I follow, son, wherever you lead; There is no delay, not now; Gods of my fathers, Preserve my house, my grandson; yours the omen, And Troy is in your keeping. O my son, I yield, I am ready to follow.’ But the fire Came louder over the walls, the flames rolled nearer Their burning tide. ‘Climb to my shoulders, father, It will be no burden, so we are together, Meeting a common danger or salvation. Iulus, take my hand; Creusa, follow A little way behind. Listen, you servants! You will find, when you leave the city, an old temple That once belonged to Ceres; it has been tended For many years with the worship of our fathers. There’s a little hill there, and a cypress tree; And that’s where we shall meet, one way or another. And one thing more: you, father, are to carry The holy objects and the gods of the household, My hands are foul with battle and blood, I could not Touch them without pollution.’ I bent down And over my neck and shoulders spread the cover Of a tawny lion-skin, took up my burden; Little Iulus held my hand, and trotted, As best he could, beside me; Creusa followed. We went on through the shadows. I had been Brave, so I thought, before, in the rain of weapons And the cloud of massing Greeks. But now I trembled At every breath of air, shook at a whisper, Fearful for both my burden and companion.