_The heart and flower of men of old, whom grief's just measure bears_ 500 _Against the foe; souls that your king hath stirred to righteous wrath,_ _No man of Italy is meet to lead this army forth;_ _Seek outland captains._ Then, indeed, the Tuscan war array, Feared by such warnings of the Gods, amidst these meadows lay. Tarchon himself hath hither sent sweet speakers, bearing me Their lordships' kingly staff and crown, and signs of royalty; And bidding take the Tuscan land and join their camp of war. But eld adull with winter frost and spent with days of yore, My body over-old for deeds begrudged such government. I would have stirred my son, but he, with Sabine mother blent, 510 Shared blood of this Italian land: but thee the Fates endow With years and race full meet hereto; the Gods call on thee now. Go forth, O captain valorous of Italy and Troy. Yea, I will give thee Pallas here, my hope and darling joy, And bid him 'neath thy mastery learn in battle to be bold, And win the heavy work of Mars, and all thy deeds behold; And, wondering at thy valiancy, win through his earliest years. Two hundred knights of Arcady, the bloom of all it bears, I give thee; in his own name, too, like host shall Pallas bring." Scarce had he said, and still their gaze unto the earth did cling, 520 Æneas of Anchises born and his Achates true, For many thoughts of matters hard their minds were running through, When Cytherea gave a sign amid the open sky; For from the left a flash of light went quivering suddenly, And sound went with it, and all things in utter turmoil fared, And clangour of the Tyrrhene trump along the heavens blared. They look up; ever and anon a mighty clash they hear, And gleams they see betwixt the clouds, amid the sky-land clear, The glitter of the arms of God, the thunder of their clang. The man of Troy, while others' hearts amazed and fearful hang, 530 Knoweth the sound, the promised help, his Goddess-mother's meed. He saith: "Yea, verily, O host, to ask is little need What hap this portent draweth on: the Gods will have me wend; The God that made me promised erst such heavenly signs to send If war were toward; and through the sky she promised to bear down Arms Vulcan-fashioned for my need. Woe's me for poor Laurentium's folk! what death, what bloody graves! --Ah, Turnus, thou shalt pay it me!--how many 'neath thy waves, O Father Tiber, shalt thou roll the shields and helms of men, And bodies of the mighty ones! Cry war, oath-breakers, then!" 540