The matrons stand upon the walls, distraught, And mark the dust-cloud and the mail-clad train.
These through the brushwood, where the road lies short, Move on in arms.

The war-shout peals again, The hard hoofs clattering shake the crumbling plain.
And now, where, cold with crystal waves, is found Fair Caere's stream, a spreading grove they gain.
Ages have spread its sanctity, and, crowned With pine-woods dark as night, the hollow hills stand round.
LXXX.

This grove, 'tis said, the tribes Pelasgian--they, Who first in Latin marches dwelt of old-- Kept sacred to Silvanus, and the day Vowed to the guardian of the field and fold.
Hard by, brave Tarchon and his Tuscans bold Lay camped.

His legions, stretching o'er the meads, The Trojans from a rising ground behold.
AEneas here his toil-worn warriors leads; Food for themselves they bring, and forage for their steeds.
LXXXI.

Meanwhile fair Venus through the clouds came down, Bearing her gifts.