"And when the tottering infant first essayed To plant her footsteps, to her hands he strung A lance, and o'er the shoulders of the maid The light-wing'd arrows and the bow he slung.
For golden coif and trailing mantle, hung A tiger's spoils.

Her tiny hand e'en then Hurled childish darts; e'en then the tough hide, swung Around her temples, as she roamed the plain, Brought down the snowy swan, or swift Strymonian crane.
LXXV.

"Full many a Tuscan mother far and near Has wooed Camilla for her son in vain.
Contented with Diana year by year, She loves her silvan weapon, free and fain To live a maiden-huntress, pure of stain.
And O! had battle, and the toils of fight Not lured her thus to combat on the plain, And match her prowess with the Teucrians' might, Mine were the maiden still, my darling and delight.
LXXVI.

"Now, since well-nigh the fatal threads are spun, Go, Nymph, to Latin frontiers wing thy way, Where evil omens mark the fight begun.
Take, too, this quiver; who the maid shall slay,-- Trojan or Latin--with his blood shall pay Myself the armour and the corpse will bear, Wrapt in a cloud, and in her country lay." She spake, and, girt with whirlwind, and the blare Of sounding arms, the Nymph glides down the yielding air.
LXXVII.

Meanwhile, the Trojans and the Tuscan train, In marshalled squadrons, to the walls draw near, Steeds neigh, and chafe, and prance upon the plain, And lances bristling o'er the field appear.
Messapus, too, and Latium's hosts are here, Coras, Catillus, and Camilla leads Her troops to aid.