Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/298

274 Far hence Agylla's city stands,

Built, like our own, by alien hands:

There warlike Lydia's ancient stock

Is planted on the Etruscan rock.

Long years of prosperous empire past,

Mezentius took the throne at last,

By arms compelled them to obey,

And governed with a tyrant's sway.

Why tell the blood the monster spilt,

Each freak of madness or of guilt?

Nay—Heaven return it on his head!—

He chained the living to the dead,

Hand joined to hand and face to face

In noisome pestilent embrace;

So trickling down with foul decay

They wore their lingering lives away.

But wearied out with tyrannies

In arms at length his people rise,

Besiege his gates, his guards lay low,

And firebrands to his roof-tree throw.

He 'mid the tumult of the strife,

So Fortune willed, escapes with life,

To haughty Turnus' kingdom flies,

And hides him with his old allies.

Etruria glows with righteous ire:

All, sheathed in arms, his head require.

Now gallant guest, this numerous band

I offer to your sole command:

Around the shore their vessels crowd

And call for action, fierce and loud:

An aged seer their speed restrains,

Rehearsing things which Heaven ordains:

'Brave sons of brave Mæonian sires,

Whom dark Mezentius' rule inspires

With wrath and righteous grief,