Meanwhile the Latians all their power prepare,
’Gainst fortune, and the foe to push the war.
With Phrygian blood the floating-fields they stain;
But short of succours, still contend in vain.
Turnus remarks the Trojan fleet ill mann’d,
Unguarded, and at anchor near the strand;
He thought; and straight a lighted brand he bore,
And fire invades what ’scaped the waves before.
The billows from the kindling prow retire;
Pitch, rosin, searwood on red wings aspire,
And Vulcan on the seas exerts his attribute of fire.
This when the mother of the gods beheld,
Her towery crown she shook, and stood reveal’d;
Her brindled lions rein’d, unveil’d her head,
And hovering o’er her favour’d fleet, she said:
“Cease, Turnus, and the heavenly powers respect,
Nor dare to violate what I protect.
These galleys once fair trees on Ida stood,
And gave their shade to each descending god.
Nor shall consume; irrevocable fate
Allots their being no determined date.”
Straight peals of thunder heaven’s high arches rend
The hailstones leap, the showers in spouts descend.
The winds with widen’d throats the signal give;
The cables break, the smoking vessels drive.
Now, wondrous, as they beat the foaming flood,
The timbers soften into flesh and blood;
The yards and oars new arms and legs design;
A trunk the hull; the slender keel a spine:
The prow a female face; and by degrees
The gallies rise green daughters of the seas.
Sometimes on coral beds they sit in state,
Or wanton on the waves they fear’d of late.
The barks that beat the seas are still their care,
Themselves remembering what of late they were;
To save a Trojan sail in throngs they press,
But smile to see Alcinous in distress.
Unable were those wonders to deter
The Latians from their unsuccessful war.
Both sides for doubtful victory contend;
And on their courage and their gods depend.
Nor bright Lavinia, nor Latinus’ crown,
Warm their great soul to war, like fair renown.
Venus at last beholds her godlike son
Triumphant, and the field of battle won;
Brave Turnus slain, strong Ardea but a name,
And buried in fierce deluges of flame.
Her towers, that boasted once a sovereign sway,
The fate of fancied grandeur now betray.
A famish’d heron from the ashes springs,
And beats the ruin with disastrous wings.
Calamities of towns distress’d she feigns,
And oft, with woeful shrieks, of war complains.