HKB
In purest white the priests their heads attire; And living waters bear, and holy fire; And, o’er their linen hoods and shaded hair, Long twisted wreaths of sacred vervain wear.
In order issuing from the town appears The Latin legion, arm’d with pointed spears; And from the fields, advancing on a line, The Trojan and the Tuscan forces join: Their various arms afford a pleasing sight; A peaceful train they seem, in peace prepar’d for fight. Betwixt the ranks the proud commanders ride, Glitt’ring with gold, and vests in purple dyed; Here Mnestheus, author of the Memmian line, And there Messapus, born of seed divine. The sign is giv’n; and, round the listed space, Each man in order fills his proper place. Reclining on their ample shields, they stand, And fix their pointed lances in the sand. Now, studious of the sight, a num’rous throng Of either sex promiscuous, old and young, Swarm the town: by those who rest behind, The gates and walls and houses’ tops are lin’d. Meantime the Queen of Heav’n beheld the sight, With eyes unpleas’d, from Mount Albano’s height (Since call’d Albano by succeeding fame, But then an empty hill, without a name). She thence survey’d the field, the Trojan pow’rs, The Latian squadrons, and Laurentine tow’rs. Then thus the goddess of the skies bespoke, With sighs and tears, the goddess of the lake, King Turnus’ sister, once a lovely maid, Ere to the lust of lawless Jove betray’d: Compress’d by force, but, by the grateful god, Now made the Nais of the neighb’ring flood. “O nymph, the pride of living lakes,” said she, “O most renown’d, and most belov’d by me, Long hast thou known, nor need I to record, The wanton sallies of my wand’ring lord. Of ev’ry Latian fair whom Jove misled To mount by stealth my violated bed, To thee alone I grudg’d not his embrace, But gave a part of heav’n, and an unenvied place. Now learn from me thy near approaching grief, Nor think my wishes want to thy relief. While fortune favour’d, nor Heav’n’s King denied To lend my succour to the Latian side, I sav’d thy brother, and the sinking state: But now he struggles with unequal fate, And goes, with gods averse, o’ermatch’d in might, To meet inevitable death in fight; Nor must I break the truce, nor can sustain the sight. Thou, if thou dar’st thy present aid supply; It well becomes a sister’s care to try.”
At this the lovely nymph, with grief oppress’d, Thrice tore her hair, and beat her comely breast. To whom Saturnia thus: “Thy tears are late: Haste, snatch him, if he can be snatch’d from fate: New tumults kindle; violate the truce: Who knows what changeful fortune may produce? ’Tis not a crime t’ attempt what I decree; Or, if it were, discharge the crime on me.” She said, and, sailing on the winged wind, Left the sad nymph suspended in her mind.
And now in pomp the peaceful kings appear: Four steeds the chariot of Latinus bear; Twelve golden beams around his temples play, To mark his lineage from the God of Day. Two snowy coursers Turnus’ chariot yoke, And in his hand two massy spears he shook: Then issued from the camp, in arms divine, Aeneas, author of the Roman line; And by his side Ascanius took his place, The second hope of Rome’s immortal race. Adorn’d in white, a rev’rend priest appears, And off’rings to the flaming altars bears; A porket, and a lamb that never suffer’d shears. Then to the rising sun he turns his eyes, And strews the beasts, design’d for sacrifice, With salt and meal: with like officious care He marks their foreheads, and he clips their hair. Betwixt their horns the purple wine he sheds; With the same gen’rous juice the flame he feeds.