Here on the weary Latins fell another stroke of fate, That moved the city deep adown with sorrow sore and great; For when the Queen from house aloft beheld the foe draw nigh, The walls beset, the flaming brands unto the house-roofs fly, And nowhere the Rutulian ranks or Turnus' warring host, The hapless woman deems the youth in stress of battle lost, And, all bewildered in her mind by these so sudden woes, Curses herself for head and spring whence all the evil flows; 600 And crying many a bitter word, and mad with sorrow grown, She riveth with her dying hand the queenly purple gown, And knits the knot of loathly death from lofty beam on high. But when the wretched Latin wives know all this misery, Her daughter first, Lavinia, wastes the blossom of her hair, And wounds her rosy cheeks; then they that stood about her there Run wild about, and all the house resoundeth with their wail. Thence through the city flies the sound of that unhappy tale, And all hearts sink: Latinus goes with raiment rent and torn, Stunned by his wife's unhappy lot, and city lost and lorn, 610 And scattering o'er his hoariness defilement of the dust; And often he upbraids himself that he took not to trust That Dardan lord, nor willingly had hallowed him his son. Meanwhile across the outer plain war-Turnus followeth on The last few stragglers, duller grown, and less and less his heart Rejoices in his hurrying steed and their victorious part. The air bore to him noise of men with doubtful terror blent, And round about his hearkening ears confusèd murmur sent; The noise of that turmoilèd town, a sound of nought but woe: "Ah, me!" he cried, "what mighty grief stirs up the city so? 620 Why from the walls now goeth up this cry and noise afar?" He spake, and, wildered, drew the rein and stayed the battle-car: His sister met his questioning, as she in seeming clad Of that Metiscus, all the rule of battle-chariot had, And steeds and bridle: "Hereaway, O Turnus, drive we on The sons of Troy; where victory shows a road that may be won: For other hands there are, belike, the houses to defend. Æneas falls on Italy, and there doth battle blend; So let our hands give cruel death to Teucrian men this day, No less in tale: so shalt thou hold thine honour in the fray." 630