Book 7
of kith and kin, and many a troth-plight given
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unto our kinsman Turnus? If we need
an alien son, and Father Faunus' words
irrevocably o'er thy spirit brood,
I tell thee every land not linked with ours
under one sceptre, but distinct and free,
is alien; and 't is thus the gods intend.
Indeed, if Turnus' ancient race be told,
it sprang of Inachus, Acrisius,
and out of mid-Mycenae.” But she sees
her lord Latinus resolute, her words
an effort vain; and through her body spreads
the Fury's deeply venomed viper-sting.
Then, woe-begone, by dark dreams goaded on,
she wanders aimless, fevered and unstrung
along the public ways; as oft one sees
beneath the twisted whips a leaping top
sped in long spirals through a palace-close
by lads at play: obedient to the thong,
it weaves wide circles in the gaping view
of its small masters, who admiring see
the whirling boxwood made a living thing
under their lash. So fast and far she roved
from town to town among the clansmen wild.
Then to the wood she ran, feigning to feel
the madness Bacchus loves; for she essays
a fiercer crime, by fiercer frenzy moved.
Now in the leafy dark of mountain vales
she hides her daughter, ravished thus away
from Trojan bridegroom and the wedding-feast.
“Hail, Bacchus! Thou alone,” she shrieked and raved,
“art worthy such a maid. For thee she bears
the thyrsus with soft ivy-clusters crowned,
and trips ecstatic in thy beauteous choir.
For thee alone my daughter shall unbind
the glory of her virgin hair.” Swift runs
the rumor of her deed; and, frenzy-driven,
the wives of Latium to the forests fly,
enkindled with one rage. They leave behind
their desolated hearths, and let rude winds
