Amidmost of his court he mounts the ancestral throne.

XXIII. Raised on a hundred columns, vast and tall,
Above the city reared its reverend head
A stately fabric, once the palace-hall
Of Picus. Dark woods shrouded, and the dread
Of ages filled, the precinct. Here, 'tis said,
Kings took the sceptre and the axe of fate,
Their senate house this temple; here were spread
The tables for the sacred feast, where sate,
What time the ram was slain, the elders of the State.

XXIV. In ancient cedar o'er the doors appear
The sculptured effigies of sires divine.
Grey Saturn, Italus, Sabinus here,
Curved hook in hand, the planter of the vine.
There two-faced Janus, and, in ordered line,
Old kings and patriot chieftains. Captive cars
Hang round, and arms upon the doorposts shine,
Curved axes, crests of helmets, towngates' bars,
Spears, shields and beaks of ships, the trophies of their wars.

XXV. There Picus sat, with his Quirinal wand,
Tamer of steeds. The augur's gown he wore,
Short, striped and belted; and his lifted hand
The sacred buckler on the left upbore.
Him Circe, his enamoured bride, of yore,
Wild with desire, so ancient legends say,
Smote with her golden rod, and sprinkling o'er
His limbs her magic poisons, made a jay,