Now, if one generous spark remains
Of native fire in those dull veins,
Front him that calls you, eye to eye,
And, oft defied, in turn defy!’
He groaned and into utterance broke:
‘High, Drances, swells your stream of words,
When battle claims not tongues but swords:
When council gathers to the hall,
You still are there, the first of all:
But needs not now the court to fill
With that big talk you vent at will
While ramparts yet the foe repel,
Nor choked-up moats with carnage swell.
Then roll your thunders, storm and rave;
Be Turnus coward, and Drances brave:
Since yours the hand that heaps our plain
With trophied trunks and hills of slain.
What valour at its heat can do
We twain may try, myself and you:
No distant foemen wait our call:
Behold them mustered round the wall!
Come, march we forth to meet the foe!
What, Drances linger? why so slow?
Has Mars found out no worthier seat
Than that loose tongue, those flying feet?
Confess defeat? I routed? I?
Who dares retail that cankerous lie?
Who, that has seen old Tiber’s flood
Foaming and swollen with Dardan blood,
Evander’s stock at once laid low,
And Arcads vanquished at a blow?
Not Bitias thus and Pandarus found
The hand that brought them to the ground,
Or the great host to death I sent
By trench and hostile rampart pent.
“No hope from war.” Go, dotard, drone
In ears of Dardans, or your own;
Spread wild alarms, extol the powers
Of twice-foiled tribes, disparage ours.
Now Myrmidons are all afraid
Of conquering Phrygia’s ruthless blade;
Now fails the heart of Diomede
And Peleus’ Larissæan seed,
And Aufidus recoils with dread
From Hadria to his fountain-head.
Or hear the trickster when he feigns
He cowers before my threatening strains,
And, counterfeiting fear, forsooth,
Adds venom to his serpent tooth!
No, Drances; ne’er shall you resign
Such life as yours to hand of mine:
No; let it dwell with you, nor quit
A mansion for its use so fit.
Now, gracious Sire, my thoughts return
To that your theme of high concern.
If, baffled, you relinquish hope
That Latium’s arms with Troy may cope,
If our estate have fallen so low,
Crushed by a single overthrow,
Nor Fortune can her steps retrace,
Stretch we weak hands and sue for grace.
Yet O! were aught of valour here,
Sure his were deemed the happiest cheer,
Who, sooner than behold such stain,
Fell prone, and dying bit the plain.
But if resources still are ours,
Unbroken still our martial powers,
If Italy e’en yet affords
Fresh tribes to draw their friendly swords,
If Trojan blood in streams has run
To gain the vantage Troy has won
(For they too have their deaths; the blast
Of withering war o’er all has passed),
Why fail we on the threshold? why,
Ere sounds the trumpet, quake and fly?
Time, toil, and circumstance full oft
A humbled cause have raised aloft,
And Fortune whom she mocked before
Has placed on solid ground once more.
Ætolian Diomede will send
No help our efforts to befriend;
But brave Messapus yet is here,
Tolumnius too, auspicious seer,
And all the chiefs of all the bands
That swell our ranks from neighbouring lands:
Nor scant the trophies that await
The flower of Latium’s own estate.
Camilla too, the Volscian maid,
Her horseman brings in steel arrayed.
If ’tis on me the Trojans call
And my one life imperils all,
Not all so weak these hands of mine
That I the combat should decline.
Nay, though Achilles’ self be there
And Vulcan make him arms to wear,
I yet will meet him. Here I stand,
I, Turnus, like my fathers manned,
And pledge the life your needs require
To you and to my own wife’s sire.
’Tis I the Phrygian claims to meet:
Pray Heaven the challenge he repeat,
Nor in my stead let Drances pay
His forfeit breath or win the day!’
The weary hours prolong:
Æneas through the encampment’s gate
Leads forth his armed throng.
A messenger comes hastening down
And fills the palace and the town
With tumult and dismay;
‘The Trojan and the Tuscan train
From Tiber pour along the plain
In battle’s stern array.’
A turmoil takes the public mind;
Their passions flame, by furious wind
To conflagration blown:
At once to arms they fain would fly:
‘To arms!’ the youth impatient cry:
The old men weep and moan.
A dissonance of various cries
Keeps swelling, soaring to the skies,
As when in lofty wood
Birds settle, lighting in a cloud,
Or swans make clangor hoarse and loud
Along Padusa’s flood.
‘Ay, sit,’ cries Turnus, striking in
As for an instant flags the din,
‘Sit still, and while of peace you prate
Let foemen armed assail your gate!’
He spoke, and speaking rushed away:
‘You, Volusus, in arms array
The Volscians’ warlike power;
Lead out the Rutules: Coras too,
Catillus, and Messapus, you
With horse the champaign scour.
Let others every inlet guard,
And on the towers keep watch and ward
The residue myself obey,
And follow where I point the way.’
Forth from the city, one and all,
They rush, and hurry to the wall:
Latinus, bowed with grief, adjourns
The council and its high concerns,
And oft himself he blames,
Who gave not to his daughter fair
A husband, to the state an heir,
Nor owned the Trojan’s claims.
Before the gates some trenches make,
Or load their backs with stone and stake:
The trump peals shrill and clear:
Matrons and boys enring the wall
In close array: the last dread call
Resounds in every ear.
Now up to Pallas’ rock-built fane
The queen amid a matron train
Is
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