As newborn gales in forest pent
Confusedly struggle for a vent,
And rippling 'mid the leaves, inform
The seaman of a coming storm.
Then he begins, the Sire of all,
Who rules the world at will:
E'en as he speaks, the gods' great hall
Grows tremulously still:
The firm earth quivers to her base:
High heaven is still through all its space:
The winds are whispered into sleep,
And waveless calm controls the deep.
'Give ear, and with attention lay
Deep in your hearts the words I say.
Since Troy with Latium must contend,
And these your wranglings find no end,
Let each man use his chance to-day
And carve his fortune as he may;
Rutule or Trojan let him be,
Nations and names are nought to me:
Or be they fates to Rutules kind
That Ilium's camp in leaguer bind,
Or Trojan rashness, soon betrayed,
And warnings by a foe conveyed.
Nor would I yet the Rutules spare:
They too the common chance must share:
Each warrior from his own good lance
Shall reap the fruit of toil or chance:
Jove deals to all an equal lot,
And Fate shall loose or cut the knot.'
This said, to witness his intent
He called his Stygian brother's lake,
The banks where pitch and sand and mud
Together mix their seething flood,
And as his kingly brows he bent
Made all Olympus shake,[errata 1]
