told, 150
Mezentius now had gotten him, and Turnus' wrothful heart;
He warned him in affairs of men to trust not Fortune's part;
And therewithal he mingleth prayers: Tarchon no while doth wait,
But joineth hosts and plighteth troth; and so, set free by Fate,
A-shipboard go the Lydian folk by God's command and grace,
Yet 'neath the hand of outland duke: AEneas' ship hath place
In forefront: Phrygian lions hang above its armed tyne
O'ertopped by Ida, unto those Troy's outcasts happy sign:
There great AEneas sits, and sends his mind a-wandering wide
Through all the shifting chance of war; and by his left-hand side 160
Is Pallas asking of the stars and night-tide's journey dim,
Or whiles of haps by land or sea that fortuned unto him.

Ye Goddesses, ope Helicon, and raise the song to say
What host from out the Tuscan land AEneas led away,
And how they dight their ships, and how across the sea they drave.

In brazen Tiger Massicus first man the sea-plain clave;
A thousand youths beneath him are that Clusium's walls have left
And Cosae's city: these in war with arrow-shot are deft,
And bear light quivers of the bark, and bear the deadly bow.

Then comes grim Abas, all his host with glorious arms aglow, 170
And on his stern Apollo gleams, well wrought in utter gold.
But Populonia's mother-land had given him there to hold
Six hundred of the battle-craft; three hundred Ilva sent,
Rich isle, whose wealth of Chalyb ore wastes never nor is spent.

The third is he, who carrieth men the words God hath to say,
Asylas, whom the hearts of beasts and stars of heaven obey,
And tongues of birds, and thunder-fire that coming tidings bears.
A thousand men he hurrieth on with bristling of the spears;
Pisa, the town Alpheues built amid the Tuscan land,
Bids them obey.
Came Astur next, goodliest of all the band; 180
Astur, who trusteth in his horse and shifty-coloured weed;
Three hundred hath he, of one heart to wend as he shall lead:
And these are they in Caeres' home and Minios' lea that bide,
The Pyrgi old, and they that feel Gravisca's heavy tide.

Nor thee, best war-duke, Cinyras, of that Ligurian crew,
Leave I unsung: nor thee the more, Cupavo lord of few,
Up from the cresting of whose helm the feathery swan-wings rise.
Love was thy guilt