"To Teucrian outcasts shall our maid, Lavinia, wedded be? O Father, hast thou nought of ruth of her, forsooth, and thee? 360 Nor of the mother, whom that man forsworn shall leave behind, Bearing the maiden o'er the sea with the first northern wind? Nay, not e'en so the Phrygian herd pierced Lacedæmon's fold, And bore Ledæan Helen off unto the Trojan hold. Nay, where is gone thine hallowed faith, thy kinsomeness of yore? Thine hand that oft to Turnus' hand, thy kinsman, promise bore? Lo, if we needs must seek a son strange to the Latin folk, And Father Faunus' words on thee are e'en so strait a yoke, I deem, indeed, that every land free from our kingdom's sway Is stranger land, and even so I deem the Gods would say: 370 And Turnus comes, if we shall seek beginning of his race. From Inachus, Acrisius old, and mid Mycenæ's place." But when she thus had said in vain, and saw Latinus still Withstand her: when all inwardly the maddening serpent's ill Hath smitten through her heart of hearts and passed through all her frame, Then verily the hapless one, with dreadful things aflame, Raves through the city's length and breadth in God-wrought agonies: As 'neath the stroke of twisted lash at whiles the whip-top flies, Which lads all eager for the game drive, ever circling wide Round some void hall; it, goaded on beneath the strip of hide, 380 From circle unto circle goes; the silly childish throng Still hanging o'er, and wondering how the box-tree spins along, The while their lashes make it live: no quieter she ran Through the mid city, borne amid fierce hearts of many a man. Then in the wilderness she feigns the heart that Bacchus fills, And stirs a greater madness up, beginning greater ills, And mid the leafy mountain-side her daughter hides away, To snatch her from the Teucrian bed, the bridal torch to stay; Foaming: "Hail, Bacchus! thou alone art worthy lord to wed This virgin thing: for thee she takes the spear's soft-fruited head, 390 For thee she twinkleth dancing feet, and feeds her holy hair." The rumour flies, and one same rage all mother-folk doth bear, Heart-kindled by the Fury's ill, to roofs of all unrest: They flee the house and let the wind play free o'er hair and breast: While others fill the very heavens with shrilly quivering wail, And skin-clad toss about the spear the wreathing vine-leaves veil: But she ablaze amidst of them upholds the fir-lit flame, And sings her daughter's bridal song, and sings of Turnus' name, Rolling her blood-shot eyes about; then eager suddenly She shouts: "Ho, mothers! Latin wives, wherever ye may be, 400 Hearken! if in your righteous souls abideth any love Of lorn Amata; if your souls a mother's right may move, Cast off the fillets from your locks, with me the madness bear."