XXXIII. "When on us late the false Rutulian pressed With sword and flame, perforce, sweet life to save, We broke our chains, and wander in thy quest. Our shape the Mother, pitying, changed and gave Immortal life, to spend beneath the wave. Thy son, he stays in Latin leaguer pent; Arcadian horsemen, with the Tuscans brave, Hold tryst to aid. His troops hath Turnus sent, Charged, with opposing arms, their succour to prevent. XXXIV. "Now rise, and when to-morrow's dawn shall shine, Bid forth thy followers to arms. Be bold, And take this shield, the Fire-King's gift divine, Invincible, immortal, rimm'd with gold. Next morn--so truly as the word is told-- Huge heaps of dead Rutulian foes shall view." She spake; her hand, departing, loosed its hold, And pushed the vessel; well the way she knew; Swift as a dart it flies; the rest its flight pursue. XXXV. Wondering, AEneas pauses in amaze, Yet hails the sign, and gladdens at the sight, And, gazing on the vaulted skies, he prays, "Mother of Heaven, whom Dindymus' famed height, And tower-girt towns, and lions yoked delight, Assist the Phrygians, and direct the fray. Kind Goddess, prosper us, and speed aright This augury." He ended, and the day Returning, climbed the sky, and chased the night away. XXXVI. Forthwith he calls his comrades to arise And take fresh heart, and for the fight prepare. Now, from the stern, the Dardans he espies, Hemmed in their camp. Aloft his hands upbear The burning shield. With shouts his Dardans tear Heaven's concave. Hope with fury fires their veins. Fast fly their darts, as when through darkened air With clang and clamour the Strymonian cranes Stream forth, the signal given, from winter's winds and rains. XXXVII. Then lost in wonderment, the foemen stand, Till, looking round, they see the watery ways A sea of ships, all crowding to the land, The flaming crest, the helmet all ablaze, The golden shield-boss, with its lightning rays. As when a comet, bright with blazing hair, Its blood-red beams athwart the night displays, Or Sirius, rising, with its baleful glare Brings pestilence and drought, and saddens all the air. XXXVIII. Yet quails not Turnus; still his hopes are high To seize the shore, and keep them from the land. Now cheering, and now chiding, rings his cry "Lo, here--'tis here, the battle ye demand. Up, crush them; war is in the warrior's hand. Think of your fathers and their deeds of old, Your homes, your wives. Forestall them on the strand, Now, while they totter, while the foot's faint hold Slips on the shelving beach. Fair Fortune aids the bold."