LIII. Nay, simulating Bacchus, now she dares To feign new orgies, and her crime complete. Swift with her daughter to the woods she fares, And hides her on the mountains, fain to cheat The Trojans, and the purposed rites defeat. "Hail, thou alone art worthy of the fair! Evoe, Bacchus! for thy name is sweet. For thee she grows her dedicated hair, For thee she leads the dance, the ivied wand doth bear." LIV. The matrons then--so fast the rumour flew,-- Fired like the Queen, and frenzied with despair, Rush forth, and leave their ancient homes for new, And to the breezes give their necks and hair. These with their tremulous wailings fill the air, And, girt about with fawn-skins, bear along The vine-branch javelins, and Amata there, Herself ablaze with fury, o'er the throng A blazing pine-torch waves, and chants the nuptial song LV. Of Turnus and Lavinia. Fiercely roll Her blood-shot eyes, and, frowning, suddenly She pours the frantic passions of her soul. "Ho! Latin mothers all, where'er ye be, Here, if ye love me, if a mother's plea Deserve your pity, let your hair be seen Loosed from the fillets, and be mad, like me." So through the woods, the wild-beasts' lairs between, With Bacchanalian goads Alecto drives the Queen. LVI. When now thus fairly was the work begun, The barbs of anger planted, pleased to view Latinus' purpose and his house undone, On dusky wings the Goddess soared, and through The liquid air to neighbouring Ardea flew, The bold Rutulian's city, built of yore By Danae, thither when the South-wind blew Her and her followers. Ardea's name it bore, And Ardea's name still lives, though fortune smiles no more. LVII. There in his palace, locked in sleep's embrace, Lay Turnus. Straight Alecto, versed in snares, Doffs the fiend's figure and her frowning face. The likeness of a withered crone she wears, With wrinkled forehead and with hoary hairs. Her fillet and her olive crown proclaim The priestess. Changed in semblance, she appears Like Calybe, great Juno's sacred dame; Thus to the youth she comes, and hails him by his name. LVIII. "Fie! Turnus, fie! wilt thou behold unstirred Such labours wasted, and thy hopes belied? Thy sceptre to a Dardan guest transferred? See, now, to thee Latinus hath denied Thy blood-bought dowry, and thy promised bride, And seeks a stranger for his throne. Away To thankless perils, while thy friends deride! Go, strew the Tuscans, scatter their array, Till Latins, saved once more, their plighted word betray.