“Came too from old Marruvia’s realm, An olive-garland round his helm, Bold Umbro, priest at once and knight, By king Archippus sent to fight: Who baleful serpents knew to steep By hand and voice in charmèd sleep, Soothed their fierce wrath with subtlest skill, And from their bite drew oft the ill. But ah! his medicines could not heal The death-wound dealt by Dardan steel; His slumberous charms availed him nought, Nor herbs on Marsian mountains sought, And cropped with magic shears: For thee Anguitia’s woody cave, For thee the glassy Fucine wave, For thee the lake shed tears.” Nearly last of the warlike array, who all acknowledge him as their leader, comes the prince of the Rutuli, Æneas’s rival and enemy:-- “In foremost rank see Turnus move, His comely head the rest above: On his tall helm with triple cone Chimæra in relief is shown; The monster’s gaping jaws expire Hot volumes of Ætnean fire: And still she flames and raves the more The deeper floats the field with gore. With bristling hide and lifted horns, Io, all gold, his shield adorns, E’en as in life she stood; There too is Argus, warder stern, And Inachus from graven urn, Her father, pours his flood.” He brings with him the largest host of all--a cloud of well-armed footmen of various tribes, whose shields seem to cover the plain. This pretty picture of Camilla, the Volscian huntress (whom Dryden very ungallantly terms a “virago”), vowed from her childhood to Diana--the prototype of Tasso’s Clorinda, but far more attractive--closes at once the warlike pageant and the book:-- “Last marches forth for Latium’s sake Camilla fair, the Volscian maid, A troop of horsemen in her wake In pomp of gleaming steel arrayed; Stern warrior-queen! those tender hands Ne’er plied Minerva’s ministries: A virgin in the fight she stands, Or wingèd winds in speed outvies; Nay, she could fly o’er fields of grain Nor crush in flight the tapering wheat, Or skim the surface of the main Nor let the billows touch her feet. Where’er she moves, from house and land The youths and ancient matrons throng, And fixed in greedy wonder stand, Beholding as she speeds along: In kingly dye that scarf was dipped: ’Tis gold confines those tresses’ flow: Her pastoral wand with steel is tipped, And Lycian are her shafts and bow.”[40]