In sign of war: applauding shouts ensue. Amazed to find a dastard race, that run Behind the rampires, and the battle shun, He rides around the camp, with rolling eyes, And stops at every post, and every passage tries. So roams the nightly wolf about the fold: Wet with descending showers, and stiff with cold, He howls for hunger, and he grins for pain, (His gnashing teeth are exercised in vain,) And, impotent of anger, finds no way In his distended paws to grasp the prey. The mothers listen; but the bleating lambs Securely swig the dug, beneath the dams. Thus ranges eager Turnus o'er the plain, Sharp with desire, and furious with disdain; Surveys each passage with a piercing sight, To force his foes in equal field to fight. Thus while he gazes round, at length he spies, Where, fenced with strong redoubts, their navy lies. Close underneath the walls: the washing tide Secures from all approach this weaker side. He takes the wished occasion, fills his hand With ready fires, and shakes a flaming brand. Urged by his presence, every soul is warmed, And every hand with kindled fires is armed. From the fired pines the scattering sparkles fly; Fat vapours, mixed with flames, involve the sky. What power, O Muses, could avert the flame, Which threatened, in the fleet, the Trojan name? Tell: for the fact, through length of time obscure, Is hard to faith; yet shall the fame endure. 'Tis said, that, when the chief prepared his flight, And felled his timber from mount Ida's height, The Grandame goddess then approached her son, And with a mother's majesty begun:-- "Grant me (she said) the sole request I bring, Since conquered heaven has owned you for its king. On Ida's brows, for ages past, there stood, With firs and maples filled, a shady wood; And on the summit rose a sacred grove, Where I was worshipped with religious love. These woods, that holy grove, my long delight, I gave the Trojan prince, to speed his flight. Now, filled with fear, on their behalf I come; Let neither winds o'erset, nor waves intomb, The floating forests of the sacred pine; But let it be their safety to be mine." Then thus replied her awful son, who rolls The radiant stars, and heaven and earth controuls:-- "How dare you, mother, endless date demand For vessels moulded by a mortal hand? What then is fate? Shall bold Æneas ride, Of safety certain, on the uncertain tide? Yet, what I can, I grant: when, wafted o'er, The chief is landed on the Latian shore, Whatever ships escape the raging storms, At my command shall change their fading forms To nymphs divine, and plough the watery way, Like Doto and the daughters of the sea." To seal his sacred vow, by Styx he swore, The lake of liquid pitch, the dreary shore,