LXXVII. Nor less, meanwhile, Saturnia hastes to crown The war's mad tumult. Home the shepherds bore Their dead from out the battle to the town. Young Almo, and Galaesus, fouled with gore. All bid Latinus witness, and implore The gods, and while the blood-cry calls for flame And slaughter, Turnus swells the wild uproar. What! he an outcast? Shall the Trojans claim The realm, and bastards dare the Latin race to shame? LXXVIII. Then they, whose mothers through the pathless vales And forests, fired with Bacchic frenzy, ply Their orgies--so Amata's name prevails-- Come forth, and, gathering from far and nigh, Weary the War-god with their clamorous cry, Till, thwarting Heaven's high purpose, each and all Omens at once and oracles defy, And swarm around Latinus in his hall, War now is all their wish, "to arms" the general call. LXXIX. Firm stands the monarch as a sea-girt rock, A sea-girt rock against the roaring main, Which, spite of barking billows and the shock Of Ocean, doth its own huge mass sustain. The foaming crags around it chafe in vain, And back it flings the seaweed from its side. Too weak at length their madness to restrain, For things move on as Juno's whims decide, Oft to the gods, and oft to empty air he cried. LXXX. "Ah me! the tempest hurries us along. Fate grinds us sore. Poor Latins! ye must sate, Your blood must pay, the forfeit for your wrong. Thee, Turnus, thee the avenging fiends await, Thou, too, the gods shalt weary, but too late. My rest is won, and in the port I ride; Happy in all, had not an envious fate Denied a happy ending." Thus he cried, And to his chamber fled, and flung the crown aside. LXXXI. A custom in Hesperian Latium reigned, Which Alban cities kept with sacred care, And Rome, the world's great mistress, hath retained. Thus still they wake the War-god, whensoe'er For Arabs or Hyrcanians they prepare, Or Getic tribes the tearful woes of war, Or push to Ind their distant arms, or dare To track the footsteps of the Morning star, And claim their standards back from Parthia's hosts afar. LXXXII. Twain are the Gates of War, to dreadful Mars With awe kept sacred and religious pride. A hundred brazen bolts and iron bars Shut fast the doors, and Janus stands beside. Here, when the senators on war decide, The Consul, decked in his Quirinal pall And Gabine cincture, flings the portals wide, And cries to arms; the warriors, one and all, With blare of brazen horns make answer to the call.