Have forced me to refuse imperial sway. My Pallas were more fit to mount the throne, And should, but he's a Sabine mother's son, And half a native: but, in you, combine A manly vigour, and a foreign line. Where Fate and smiling Fortune shew the way, Pursue the ready path to sovereign sway. The staff of my declining days, my son, Shall make your good or ill success his own; In fighting fields, from you shall learn to dare, And serve the hard apprenticeship of war; Your matchless courage and your conduct view, And early shall begin to admire and copy you. Besides, two hundred horse he shall command-- Though few, a warlike and well-chosen band. These in my name are listed; and my son As many more has added in his own." Scarce had he said; Achates and his guest, With downcast eyes, their silent grief expressed; Who, short of succours, and in deep despair, Shook at the dismal prospect of the war. But his bright mother, from a breaking cloud, To cheer her issue, thundered thrice aloud; Thrice forky lightning flashed along the sky, And Tyrrhene trumpets thrice were heard on high. Then, gazing up, repeated peals they hear; And in a heaven serene, refulgent arms appear: Reddening the skies, and glittering all around, The tempered metals clash, and yield a silver sound. The rest stood trembling: struck with awe divine, Æneas only, conscious to the sign, Presaged the event, and joyful viewed, above, The accomplished promise of the queen of love. Then, to the Arcadian king:--"This prodigy (Dismiss your fear) belongs alone to me. Heaven calls me to the war: the expected sign Is given of promised aid, and arms divine. My goddess mother, whose indulgent care Foresaw the dangers of the growing war, This omen gave, when bright Vulcanian arms, Fated from force of steel by Stygian charms, Suspended, shone on high: she then foreshowed Approaching fights, and fields to float in blood. Turnus shall dearly pay for faith forsworn; And corps, and swords, and shields, on Tyber borne, Shall choke his flood: now sound the loud alarms; And, Latian troops, prepare your perjured arms." He said, and, rising from his homely throne, The solemn rites of Hercules begun, And on his altars waked the sleeping fires; Then cheerful to his household gods retires; There offers chosen sheep. The Arcadian king And Trojan youth the same oblations bring. Next, of his men and ships he makes review; Draws out the best, and ablest of the crew. Down with the falling stream the refuse run, To raise with joyful news his drooping son. Steeds are prepared to mount the Trojan band, Who wait their leader to the Tyrrhene land. A sprightly courser, fairer than the rest, The king himself presents his royal guest. A lion's hide his back and limbs infold,