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So came the council to its close:
Jove from his golden throne arose:
The gods around their sovereign wait
And lead him to his palace gate.

Meantime, intent to burn and slay,
The foe once more the siege essay.
Pent in their camp the Trojans lie,
Despair of help, yet cannot fly.
Arrayed in vain, they ring the wall,
A hapless remnant, thin and small.
Asius Imbrasides is there,
And Hicetaon's valiant heir;
The Assaraci, twin warriors they,
Castor, and Thymbris old and grey
In battle's forefront stand:
Claros and Themon join the train,
The brethren of Sarpedon slain,
From Lycia's mighty land.
Lyrnesian Acmon heaves a block,
Vast fragment of its parent rock,
Born of a race no toil that shun,
Menestheus' brother, Clytius' son.
These fight with stones, with javelins those,
Rain fiery torches on their foes,
Or bend with force unerring bows.
There in the midst is Venus' care,
The princely boy, his head all bare;
So, set in gold, beams forth a gem,
For collar or for anadem;
So polished ivory shines
Inlaid in terebinth or box;
Down his fair neck bright stream his locks,
Which pliant gold entwines.