Through the whirling dust they steer Their chariots and the practised steeds, or bend The tight-strung bow, or aim the limber spear, Or urge fist-combat or the foot's career.
Now to their king a message quick has flown; Tall men and strange, in foreign garb are here.
Latinus summons them within: anon, Amidmost of his court he mounts the ancestral throne.
XXIII.

Raised on a hundred columns, vast and tall, Above the city reared its reverend head A stately fabric, once the palace-hall Of Picus.

Dark woods shrouded, and the dread Of ages filled, the precinct.

Here, 'tis said, Kings took the sceptre and the axe of fate, Their senate house this temple; here were spread The tables for the sacred feast, where sate, What time the ram was slain, the elders of the State.
XXIV.

In ancient cedar o'er the doors appear The sculptured effigies of sires divine.
Grey Saturn, Italus, Sabinus here, Curved hook in hand, the planter of the vine.
There two-faced Janus, and, in ordered line, Old kings and patriot chieftains.