"Prompt was thy wit, when, powerless to prevail, Around thee twined, the beast of Lerna's fen Hissed with the legion of its heads.

O hail, True son of Jove, the praise of mortal men, And Heaven's new glory.

Hither turn thy ken, And cheer thy votaries." So with heart and will They chant his praise, nor less the monster's den, And Cacus, breathing flames.

The loud notes fill The sacred grove around, and echo to the hill.
XLI.

The rites thus ended, to the town they fare.
In front, the good Evander, old and grey, Moves 'twixt AEneas and his youthful heir, And oft with various converse, as they stray, Beguiles the lightened labour of the way.
Now this, now that the Trojan chief admires, Filled with new pleasure, as his eyes survey Each place in turn.