Like one who sues for life, he fills the house with cries.

LXVIII. Smiting the breast, poor Silvia calls for aid.
Forth rush the churls, scarce waiting her demand,
Roused by the Fury in the wood's still shade.
One grasps a club, another wields a brand;
Rage makes a weapon of what comes to hand.
Forth from his work ran Tyrrheus, who an oak
Was cleaving with the wedge, and cheered the band.
His hand still grasped the hatchet for the stroke,
And bitter wrath he breathed, and fierce the words he spoke.

LXIX. The Fury snatched the moment; forth she flew,
And, perching on the cabin-roof, looked round,
And from the curved horn of the shepherds blew
A blast of Tartarus, that shook the ground,
And made the forests and the groves rebound
The infernal echoes. Trivia's lakes afar,
And Velia's fountains heard the dreadful sound;
The white waves heard it of the sulphurous Nar,
And mothers clasped their babes, and trembled at the war.

LXX. Swift at the summons, as the trumpet brayed,
The sturdy shepherds arm them for the fray.
Swift pour the Trojans from their camp, to aid
Ascanius. Lo! 'tis battle's stern array,
No village brawl, where churls dispute the day
With charred oak-staves and cudgels. Broadswords clash
With broadswords, and War's harvest far away
Stands, bristling black with iron, as they dash