Here on our shores a woman died, Caieta,
Nurse of Aeneas, and her name still guards
Her resting-place with honor, if such glory
Is comforting to dust.

Her funeral mound
Was raised, and solemn rites performed; Aeneas,
When the deep water quieted, set sail.
The wind held fair to the night, and the white moon
Revealed the way over the tremulous water.
They skimmed the shores of Circe’s island; there
The sun’s rich daughter made the secret groves
Ring with continual singing, and the halls
Were bright with cedar burning through the night,
And the strident shuttle ran across the weaving.
Off shore, they heard the angry growl of lions
Trying to shake their shackles off, and roaring
In the late darkness, bristling boars, and bears
Coughing in cages, and the great wolves howling.
All these were men, whom cruel Circe’s magic
Changed into animals. But Neptune kept
The Trojans safely seaward, filled the sails,
Carried them safely past these anxious harbors.

And now the sea is crimson under the dawn,
Aurora glowing in her ruddy car,
And the winds go down, and the air is very still,
The slow oars struggle in the marble sea,
As from the ship Aeneas sees a grove
And through its midst a pleasant river running,
The Tiber, yellow sand and whirling eddy,
Down to the sea. Around, above and over,
Fly the bright-colored birds, the water-haunters,
Charming the air with song. The order given,
The Trojans turn their course to land; they enter
The channel and the shade.

Help me, Erato,
To tell the story: who were kings in Latium,
What was the state of things, when that strange army
First made for shore? Dear goddess, help the poet!
There is much to tell of, the initial trouble,
The grim development of war, the battles,
The princes in their bravery driven to death,
Etruscan cohorts, all the land in the west
Marshalled in armor. This is a greater mission,
A greater work, that moves me.

King Latinus
Was an old man, long ruler over a country
Blessed with the calm of peace. He was, they tell us,
The son of Faunus; Marica was his mother,
A nymph, Laurentian-born. And Faunus’ father
Was Picus, son of Saturn, the line’s founder.
Latinus had no sons; they had been taken,
By fate, in their young manhood; an only daughter
Survived to keep the house alive, a girl
Ripe for a husband. She had many suitors
From Latium, from Ausonia. Most handsome,
Most blessed in ancestry, was the prince Turnus,
Whom the queen mother favored, but the portents
Of the high gods opposed. There was a laurel
In the palace courtyard, tended through the years
With sacred reverence, which king Latinus,
When first he built the city, had discovered,
And hallowed to Apollo, and the people
Were called Laurentians, from its name. A marvel,
So runs the story, occurred here once, a swarm
Of bees, that came, loud-humming through clear air
To settle in the branches, a dense jumble
All through the leafy boughs. “We see a stranger,”
The prophet cried, “and a strange column coming
On the same course to the same destination,
We see him lord it over the height of the city.”
Another time Lavinia was standing
Beside her father at the altar, bringing
The holy torch to light the fire, when—horror!—
Her hair broke out in flame, sparks leaped and crackled
From diadem and coronal; her progress
Was a shower of fire, as she moved through the palace
Robed with gray smoke and yellow light, a vision
Fearful and wonderful. She would be glorious,
They said, in fame and fortune, but the people
Were doomed, on her account, to war.

Latinus
Was troubled by such prophecies, and turned
To Faunus, his prophetic father, seeking
His oracles for help, in Albunean
Woodland and forest, where the holy fountain
Makes music, breathing vapor from the darkness.
Italian men, Oenotrian tribes, in trouble
Come here for answers; here the priesthood, bringing
The offerings for sacrifice, by night-time
Slumbers on fleece of victims, seeing visions,
Hearing strange voices, meeting gods in converse,
Deep down in Acheron. Hither Latinus
Came, pilgrim and petitioner; the fleeces
Were spread for him, a hundred woolly victims,
And as he lay, half waking and half sleeping,
From the deep grove he heard a voice:—“My son,
Seek not a Latin husband for the princess;
Distrust this bridal; stranger sons are coming
To wed our children, to exalt our title
High as the stars, and from that marriage offspring
Will see, as surely as sun looks down on ocean,
The whole world at their feet.” These answers Faunus
Gave to his son, warnings in night and silence;
Latinus may have said no word, but Rumor
Had spread the news, all up and down the cities
Throughout Ausonia, by the time the Trojans
Tied up their vessels at the grassy landing.

Aeneas and the captains and Iulus
Sprawled in the shade; a feast was spread; they placed
The wheels of hardtack on the ground, and on them
Morsels of food, and sliced or quartered apples,
And after these were eaten, hunger drove them
To break the disks beneath with teeth and fingers.
“Ho!” cries Iulus, “We are eating our tables!”
A boy’s joke, nothing more. But the spoken word
Deep in the woods, acts like a drunken woman,
Cries, over and over, “This girl is meant for Bacchus,
And not for any Trojans, only Bacchus
Is worthy of her; she honors him in dancing,
Carries his wand, and keeps for him the sacred
Lock of her hair!” And Rumor, flying over,
Excites the other wives to leave their houses.
They come with maddened hearts, with their hair flying,
Their necks bare to the winds; they shriek to the skies,
Brandish the vine-bound spears, are dressed as tigers,
Circle and wheel around their queen, whose frenzy
Tosses the burning pine-brand high, in gesture
To suit the marriage-hymn: “O Latin mothers,
Listen, wherever you are: if any care
For poor Amata moves you, or any sense
Of any mother’s rights, come join the revels,
Loosen the hair, exult!” Allecto drives her
To the dens of the beasts; her eyes are stained and bloodshot,
Rolled upward to the white.

So, thought Allecto,
That should suffice: the palace of Latinus,
And all the king intended, in confusion.
She flew on dusky wings, a gloomy goddess,
To the bold Rutulian’s walls, that city, founded,
Men say, by DanaË and Acrisian settlers,
A place once called Ardea, and it keeps
Its ancient name; its glory has departed.
And here, in his high palace, Turnus slumbered.
In the dead of night, Allecto changed her features,
Her limbs, transformed her glowering, her grimness,
To an old woman’s wrinkles, bound a ribbon
Around gray hair, worked in a wreath of olive,
And she was Calybe then, an aged priestess
Of Juno’s temple, and so she came to Turnus:—
“Turnus! Can this be borne, so many labors
Wasted, the kingdom given to the Trojans?
The king denies you all, the bride, the dowry
Bought with your blood; his heir must be a stranger.
They mock you; never mind. Go forth, protect them,
Save them from dangers, see what thanks they give you,
Lay low the Tuscan ranks, hold over the Latins
The shield of peace. I tell you, Juno told me,
And you so calmly slumbering all through it,
Rise up, be doing something, and be happy
To see the young men armed, and get them going
Out of the gates! There are ships to burn, and captains
To set on fire: the mighty gods command it.
Let King Latinus know it, let him reckon
With Turnus in arms, unless he keeps his promise.”
But Turnus, smiling at her, answered:—“Mother,
You tell me nothing new; I know a fleet
Has come to Tiber’s waters; do not scare me
With fears imagined; Juno, I am certain,
Has not forgotten me. Your age, old woman,
Worn-down, truth-weary, harries you with worries,
Makes you ridiculous, a busybody,
Nervous for nothing in the wars of kings.
Back to the temple, mind your proper business,
Leave war and peace where they belong, with warriors.”
Allecto blazed with anger: Turnus, speaking,
Was suddenly afraid, so wild her features,
So fierce her flaming eyes, the snakes of the Fury
Hissing disaster. She shoves him back; he falters,
Tries to say more; she plies her whip, she doubles
The rising serpents, and her wild mouth cries,
“See me for what I am, worn down, truth-weary,
Nervous for nothing in the wars of kings!
See what I am, see where I come from, bringing
War, war and death, from the Grim Sisters’ home.”
She flung the firebrand at him, torch and terror
Smoking with lurid light. The body, sweating,
Is torn from sleep; he cries for arms, he seeks
Arms at his bedside, through the hallways, lusting
For sword and steel, war’s wicked frenzy mounting
To rampant rage. Even so a cauldron bubbles
When fire burns hot beneath, and water seethes,
Stirs, shifts, breaks out in boiling, and the cloud
Of steam goes toward the sky. The peace is broken.
The call to arms is given; let the captains
March on Latinus, drive the foe from Latium,
Protect the fatherland. Turnus is coming;
No matter who they are, Trojans or Latins,
Turnus will take them on. And his example,
His frenzied prayer, shook his Rutulian comrades,
All eagerness for war. They all admired him,
For handsome bearing, youth, or deeds of courage,
Or kingly birth: boldness engenders boldness.

Allecto, meanwhile, took a new direction,
To the Trojans now; she had found a place for mischief
Along the shore, she had seen Iulus hunting;
His hounds were driven to madness; the scent was rank,
Hot in their nostrils; away they went, the pack
In full cry after the deer, and that pursuit
Was the first cause of trouble; that first kindled
The countryside to violence. That deer,
A handsome animal, with mighty antlers,
Belonged, a pet, to Tyrrhus and his children,
Who had raised him from a fawn. Tyrrhus, the father,
Was keeper of the royal herds, and Silvia,
The daughter, used to comb the beast, and wash him,
Twine garlands in his horns, caress and love him,
And he, grown used to her, would wander freely
Over the woods and meadows, and come home
At nightfall to the friendly door and stable.
This was the deer Iulus’ hounds had started
Floating downstream, reclining by the river
For coolness’ sake, where young Ascanius, burning
For a huntsman’s praise, saw him, and loosed the arrow
That pierced the belly and side, so the poor creature
Came wounded to the house he knew, and moaning
Crept into his stall, bleeding, and like a person
Asking for help, filled all the house with sorrow.
First Silvia came, beating he Ploughmen of Circe’s ridge, soldiers from Anxur,
Sons of Feronia, that land of greenness
Where Satura’s marsh lies dark, and the cold river
Runs seaward through the valley.

And last of all
Camilla rode, leading her troops on horseback,
Her columns bright with bronze, a soldieress,
A woman whose hands were never trained to weaving,
To the use of wool, to basketry, a girl
As tough in war as any, in speed afoot
Swifter than wind. She could go flying over
The tips of the ears of the wheat, and never bruise them,
So light her way, she could run on the lift of the wave,
Dry-shod; and they came from the houses and fields to wonder,
To gaze at her going, young men, and matrons thronging,
Wide-eyed and with parted lips, at the glory of royal crimson
Over her shoulders’ smoothness, the clasp of the gold
In her hair, and the way she carried the Lycian quiver,
The heft of the pastoral myrtle, the wand with the spearpoint.