turmoil and alarm
In turns distract the town. "Arm," cry the young men, "arm!"

LIX. The old men weep and mutter. Clamours rend
The startled skies, and discord reigns supreme,
E'en as when birds on lofty woods descend
In flocks, or in Padusa's fishful stream
The swans sing hoarsely, and the wild-fowl scream
Along the babbling waters. Turnus straight
The moment snatched. "Ah! townsmen, sooth, ye deem
This hour an hour to chatter and debate;
Sit on, and praise sweet peace, while foemen storm the gate."

LX. He spake, and from the council dashed with speed.
"Go, Volusus," he cries, "and arm amain
The Volscians; hither the Rutulians lead.
Messapus, go, with horsemen in thy train,
And Coras, with thy brother scour the plain.
Let these all entrance at the gate forestall,
And man the turrets; let the rest remain
In arms, and wait my bidding." One and all,
The townsmen throng the streets, and hurry to the wall.

LXI. Then, sore distrest, the aged king proclaims
The council closed, and for a happier tide
Puts off debate; and oft himself he blames,
Who welcomed not AEneas to his side,
Nor graced his city with a Dardan's bride.
But hark! to battle peals the clarion's call.
These by the gate dig trenches, those provide
Sharp stakes and stones. Along the girdling wall
Pale boys and matrons stand: the last hour cries for all.

LXII. To Pallas' rock-built temple rides the queen,
Bearing her gifts. The matrons march in line,
And by her side is fair Lavinia seen,
The war's sad authoress, with down-dropt eyne.
They, entering in, with incense fume the shrine,
And from the threshold pour the mournful strain:
"O strong in arms, Tritonian maid divine!
Break thou the Phrygian robber's spear in twain,
And 'neath the gates strike down and stretch him on the plain."

LXIII. Now in hot haste fierce Turnus dons the mail,
Eager for battle. On his breast he laced
The corselet, rough with many a brazen scale.
Around his legs the golden greaves he placed,
His brow yet bare, and at his side he braced,
The trusty sword. All golden is the glow
Of burnished arms, as down the height in haste
He flies exulting to the field below.
High leaps his heart, and hope anticipates the foe.

LXIV. So, free at length, his tether snapt in twain,
Swift from his stall, in eager joy, the steed
Bounds forth an