After the ships were changed to living nymphs,
there was some hope that the Rutulians,
awed by that prodigy, would stop at last.
But they fought on; each side could count upon
its gods and—just as good as gods—its courage.
By now it’s not the dowry of a kingdom,
and not the scepter of a father-in-law,
nor even you, virgin Lavinia,
that spurs them—it is simply victory:
for shame of giving up, they will not stop.
But Venus finally could see her son
triumphant: Turnus fell. So did the town
of Ardea; while Turnus was alive
its power won much fame. But when the flames
of foreigners had razed it, what remained
was nothing but warm ashes; yet from that
debris, a bird flew up, one never seen
before; it beat the ashes with its wings.
Its sound, its scrawny frame, its ashen hue,
all these seemed suited to a ruined town;
and so that bird still bears the city’s name:
the heron is an Ardeidae bird—
its beating wings are Ardea in mourning.