And clouds of missive arms obscure the sky. Advancing to the front, the hero stands, And, stretching out to heaven his pious hands, Attests the gods, asserts his innocence, Upbraids with breach of faith the Ausonian prince; Declares the royal honour doubly stained, And twice the rites of holy peace profaned. Dissenting clamours in the town arise: Each will be heard, and all at once advise. One part for peace, and one for war, contends: Some would exclude their foes, and some admit their friends. The helpless king is hurried in the throng, And (whate'er tide prevails) is borne along. Thus, when the swain, within a hollow rock, Invades the bees with suffocating smoke, They run around, or labour on their wings, Disused to flight, and shoot their sleepy stings; To shun the bitter fumes, in vain they try; Black vapours, issuing from the vent, involve the sky. But Fate and envious Fortune now prepare To plunge the Latins in the last despair. The queen, who saw the foes invade the town, And brands on tops of burning houses thrown, Cast round her eyes, distracted with her fear:-- No troops of Turnus in the field appear. Once more she stares abroad, but still in vain, And then concludes the royal youth is slain. Mad with her anguish, impotent to bear The mighty grief, she loaths the vital air. She calls herself the cause of all this ill, And owns the dire effects of her ungoverned will: She raves against the gods; she beats her breast; She tears with both her hands her purple vest: Then round a beam a running noose she tied, And, fastened by the neck, obscenely died. Soon as the fatal news by fame was blown, And to her dames and to her daughter known, The sad Lavinia rends her yellow hair, } And rosy cheeks: the rest her sorrow share: } With shrieks the palace rings, and madness of despair. } The spreading rumour fills the public place: } Confusion, fear, distraction, and disgrace, } And silent shame, are seen in every face. } Latinus tears his garments as he goes, Both for his public and his private woes; With filth his venerable beard besmears, And sordid dust deforms his silver hairs. And much he blames the softness of his mind, } Obnoxious to the charms of woman-kind, } And soon reduced to change what he so well designed-- } To break the solemn league so long desired, Nor finish what his fates, and those of Troy, required. Now Turnus rolls aloof o'er empty plains, And here and there some straggling foes he gleans. His flying coursers please him less and less, Ashamed of easy fight, and cheap success. Thus half-contented, anxious in his mind, The distant cries come driving in the wind-- Shouts from the walls, but shouts in murmurs drowned;