XXXI. So saying, Juturna to the youths imparts Fresh rage, and murmurs through the concourse run, And changed are Latin and Laurentian hearts, And they, who lately sought the strife to shun, And longed for rest, now wish the league undone, And, pitying Turnus, wrongly doomed to die, Call out for arms. And now, her work begun, Juturna shows a lying sign on high, That shakes Italian hearts, and cheats the wondering eye. XXXII. Jove's golden eagle through the crimson skies In chase of clanging marsh-fowl, swooped in flight Down on a swan, and trussed the noble prize. The Latins gaze, when lo, a wondrous sight! Back wheels the flock, and all with screams unite, And darkening, as a cloud, in dense array Press on the foe, till, overborne by might, And yielding to sheer weight, he drops the prey Into the stream below, and cloudward soars away. XXXIII. With shouts the glad Rutulians hail the sign, And lift their hands. Then spake the seer straightway, Tolumnius: "Welcome, welcome, powers divine! 'Twas this--'twas this I longed for, day by day. To arms! 'Tis I, Tolumnius, lead the way. Poor souls! whom yon strange pirate would enslave, Like feeble birds, and make your coast a prey. He too shall fly, and vanish o'er the wave. Stand close and fight as one, your captive king to save." XXXIV. He spake and hurled his javelin at the foes, Advancing. Shrill the cornel hissed, and flew True to its quarry. Then a shout uprose, And the ranks wavered, and hearts throbbed anew With ardour, as the gathering tumult grew. On went the missile to where, side by side, Nine brethren stood, of comely form, whom, true To her Gylippus, bare a Tuscan bride, Nine tall Arcadian sons, in bloom of youthful pride. XXXV. One, where the belt chafes, and the strong clasp bites The broidered edges,--comeliest of the band, And sheathed in shining mail--the steel-head smites, And rives the ribs, and rolls him on the sand. Blind with hot rage, his brethren, sword in hand, Or snatching missiles, to avenge the slain, Rush to the charge. Laurentum's ranks withstand Their onset, and a deluge sweeps the plain, Trojans, Agylla's bands, Arcadia's glittering train. XXXVI. One passion burns,--to let the sword decide. Stript stand the altars, and the shrines are bare; Dark drives the storm of javelins far and wide, The iron tempest hurtles in the air, And bowls and censers from the hearths they tear. Himself Latinus, flying, bears afar His home-gods, outraged by the league's misfare. Some leap to horse, and others yoke the car, Or bare the glittering sword, and hurry to the war.