Yet, since reclaim’d to chariots they submit, And bend to stubborn yokes, and champ the bit, Peace may succeed to war.’
In humble vales they built their soft abodes, Till Cybele, the mother of the gods, With tinkling cymbals charm’d th’ Idaean woods, She secret rites and ceremonies taught, And to the yoke the savage lions brought.
Yet she had heard an ancient rumor fly, (Long cited by the people of the sky,) That times to come should see the Trojan race Her Carthage ruin, and her tow’rs deface; Nor thus confin’d, the yoke of sov’reign sway Should on the necks of all the nations lay.
Four sable bullocks, in the yoke untaught, For sacrifice the pious hero brought.
Such were his looks, so gracefully he spoke, That, were I not resolv’d against the yoke Of hapless marriage, never to be curst With second love, so fatal was my first, To this one error I might yield again; For, since Sichaeus was untimely slain, This only man is able to subvert The fix’d foundations of my stubborn heart.
These on their horses vault; those yoke the car; The rest, with swords on high, run headlong to the war.
Two snowy coursers Turnus’ chariot yoke, And in his hand two massy spears he shook: Then issued from the camp, in arms divine, Aeneas, author of the Roman line; And by his side Ascanius took his place, The second hope of Rome’s immortal race.
First Almon falls, old Tyrrheus’ eldest care, Pierc’d with an arrow from the distant war: Fix’d in his throat the flying weapon stood, And stopp’d his breath, and drank his vital blood Huge heaps of slain around the body rise: Among the rest, the rich Galesus lies; A good old man, while peace he preach’d in vain, Amidst the madness of th’ unruly train: Five herds, five bleating flocks, his pastures fill’d; His lands a hundred yoke of oxen till’d.
No sooner were his eyes in slumber bound, When, from above, a more than mortal sound Invades his ears; and thus the vision spoke: "Seek not, my seed, in Latian bands to yoke Our fair Lavinia, nor the gods provoke.