“Two gates there stand of War--’twas so Our fathers named them long ago-- The war-god’s terrors round them spread An atmosphere of sacred dread. A hundred bolts the entrance guard, And Janus there keeps watch and ward. These, when his peers on war decide, The consul, all in antique pride Of Gabine cincture deftly tied And purple-striped attire, With grating noise himself unbars, And calls aloud on Father Mars: The warrior train takes up the cry, And horns with brazen symphony Their hoarse assent conspire.” Since Latinus will not do his office, Juno in person--so the poet has it--descends from heaven, smites upon the barred portals, and “lets slip the dogs of war.” “Ausonia, all inert before, Takes fire and blazes to the core: And some on foot their march essay, Some, mounted, storm along the way; To arms! cry one and all: With unctuous lard their shields they clean, And make their javelins bright and sheen, Their axes on the whetstone grind; Look how that banner takes the wind! Hark to yon trumpet’s call! Five mighty towns, with anvils set, In emulous haste their weapons whet: Crustumium, Tibur the renowned, And strong Atina there are found, And Ardea, and Antemnæ crowned With turrets round her wall. Steel caps they frame their brows to fit, And osier twigs for bucklers knit: Or twist the hauberk’s brazen mail And mould them greaves of silver pale: To these has passed the homage paid Erewhile to ploughshare, scythe, and spade: Each brings his father’s battered blade, And smelts in fire anew: And now the clarions pierce the skies: From rank to rank the watchword flies; This tears his helmet from the wall, That drags his war-horse from the stall, Dons three-piled mail and ample shield, And girds him for the embattled field With falchion tried and true.” The whole remaining portion of this seventh book is in Virgil’s most spirited style. And it is here that the harp of our northern minstrel answers best to Mr Conington’s touch. The gathering of the clans--for it is nothing else--the rapid sketches of the chiefs as they pass in succession with their array of followers--the details of costume--the legendary tale which the poet has to tell of more than one of them as he passes them in review--even the devices borne on the shields,--are all features in which Scott delighted as thoroughly as Virgil, and which his well-known rhythm suits better than any other which a translator could choose. Some few portions of this stirring warlike diorama must content the readers of these pages. The first who passes is the terrible chief of Agylla, who fears neither god nor man, and whose notorious cruelties have so exasperated his own people against him that he is now a refugee in the court of Turnus:--