LVIII. While thus, with wrangling and contentious doubt, They urged debate, AEneas his array Moved from the camp. Behold, a trusty scout Back, through Latinus' palace, speeds his way, And fills the town with tumult and dismay. The Trojans--see!--the Trojans,--down they swarm From Tiber. See the meadows far away Alive with foes! Rage, turmoil and alarm In turns distract the town. "Arm," cry the young men, "arm!" LIX. The old men weep and mutter. Clamours rend The startled skies, and discord reigns supreme, E'en as when birds on lofty woods descend In flocks, or in Padusa's fishful stream The swans sing hoarsely, and the wild-fowl scream Along the babbling waters. Turnus straight The moment snatched. "Ah! townsmen, sooth, ye deem This hour an hour to chatter and debate; Sit on, and praise sweet peace, while foemen storm the gate." LX. He spake, and from the council dashed with speed. "Go, Volusus," he cries, "and arm amain The Volscians; hither the Rutulians lead. Messapus, go, with horsemen in thy train, And Coras, with thy brother scour the plain. Let these all entrance at the gate forestall, And man the turrets; let the rest remain In arms, and wait my bidding." One and all, The townsmen throng the streets, and hurry to the wall. LXI. Then, sore distrest, the aged king proclaims The council closed, and for a happier tide Puts off debate; and oft himself he blames, Who welcomed not AEneas to his side, Nor graced his city with a Dardan's bride. But hark! to battle peals the clarion's call. These by the gate dig trenches, those provide Sharp stakes and stones. Along the girdling wall Pale boys and matrons stand: the last hour cries for all. LXII. To Pallas' rock-built temple rides the queen, Bearing her gifts. The matrons march in line, And by her side is fair Lavinia seen, The war's sad authoress, with down-dropt eyne. They, entering in, with incense fume the shrine, And from the threshold pour the mournful strain: "O strong in arms, Tritonian maid divine! Break thou the Phrygian robber's spear in twain, And 'neath the gates strike down and stretch him on the plain." LXIII. Now in hot haste fierce Turnus dons the mail, Eager for battle. On his breast he laced The corselet, rough with many a brazen scale. Around his legs the golden greaves he placed, His brow yet bare, and at his side he braced, The trusty sword. All golden is the glow Of burnished arms, as down the height in haste He flies exulting to the field below. High leaps his heart, and hope anticipates the foe.