Couched in a secret glade, By a cool river, she espies her son, And hails him: "See the promised gifts displayed, Wrought by my husband's cunning for thine aid.
Thy prowess now let proud Laurentum taste, Nor fear with Turnus to contend." So said Cythera's goddess, and her child embraced, And on an oak in front the radiant arms she placed.
LXXXII.

Joy fills AEneas; with insatiate gaze He views the gifts, and marvels at the sight.
In turn he handles, and in turn surveys The helmet tall with fiery crest bedight, The fateful sword, the breastplate's brazen might, Blood-red, and huge, and glorious to behold As some dark cloud, far-blazing with the light Of sunset; then the polished greaves of gold, The spear, the mystic shield, too wondrous to be told.
LXXXIII.

There did the Fire-king, who the future cons, The tale of ancient Italy portray, Rome's triumphs, and Ascanius' distant sons, Their wars in order, and each hard-fought fray.
There, in the cave of Mars all verdurous, lay The fostering she-wolf with the twins; they hung About her teats, and licked in careless play Their mother.

She, with slim neck backward flung, In turn caressed them both, and shaped them with her tongue.
LXXXIV.

There, later Rome, and there, the Sabine dames Amid the crowded theatre he viewed, Raped by the Romans at the Circus games; The sudden war, that from the deed ensued, With aged Tatius and his Cures rude.
There stand the kings, still armed, but foes no more, Beside Jove's altar, and abjure the feud.
Goblet in hand, the sacred wine they pour, And o'er the slaughtered swine the plighted peace restore.
LXXXV.