And true Achates waited on his friend. They join their hands; a secret seat they chuse; The Arcadian first their former talk renews: "Undaunted prince! I never can believe The Trojan empire lost, while you survive. Command the assistance of a faithful friend: But feeble are the succours I can send. Our narrow kingdom here the Tyber bounds; } That other side the Latian state surrounds, } Insults our walls, and wastes our fruitful grounds. } But mighty nations I prepare to join Their arms with yours, and aid your just design. You come, as by your better genius sent, And Fortune seems to favour your intent. Not far from hence there stands a hilly town, Of ancient building, and of high renown, Torn from the Tuscans by the Lydian race, Who gave the name of Cære to the place, Once Agyllina called. It flourished long, In pride of wealth and warlike people strong, Till cursed Mezentius, in a fatal hour, Assumed the crown, with arbitrary power. What words can paint those execrable times, The subjects' sufferings, and the tyrant's crimes? That blood, those murders, O ye gods! replace On his own head, and on his impious race! The living and the dead, at his command, Were coupled, face to face, and hand to hand, Till, choked with stench, in loathed embraces tied, The lingering wretches pined away and died. Thus plunged in ills, and meditating more-- The people's patience, tried, no longer bore The raging monster; but with arms beset His house, and vengeance and destruction threat. They fire his palace: while the flame ascends, They force his guards, and execute his friends. He cleaves the crowd, and, favoured by the night, To Turnus' friendly court directs his flight. By just revenge the Tuscans set on fire, With arms, their king to punishment require: Their numerous troops, now mustered on the strand, My counsel shall submit to your command. Their navy swarms upon the coasts; they cry To hoist their anchors, but the gods deny. An ancient augur, skilled in future fate, With these foreboding words restrains their hate:-- "Ye brave in arms, ye Lydian blood, the flower Of Tuscan youth, and choice of all their power, Whom just revenge against Mezentius arms, To seek your tyrant's death by lawful arms! Know this: no native of our land may lead This powerful people; seek a foreign head." Awed with these words, in camps they still abide, And wait with longing looks their promised guide. Tarchon, the Tuscan chief, to me has sent Their crown, and every regal ornament: The people join their own with his desire; And all my conduct, as their king, require. But the chill blood that creeps within my veins, And age, and listless limbs unfit for pains, And a soul conscious of its own decay,