“Less evil were our case, if long ago ye had provided for your country's weal, O Latins, as I urged. It is no time to hold dispute, while, compassing our walls, the foeman waits. Ill-omened war is ours against a race of gods, my countrymen, invincible, unwearied in the fray, and who, though lost and fallen, clutch the sword. If hope ye cherished of Aetolia 's power, dismiss it! For what hope ye have is found in your own bosoms only. But ye know how slight it is and small. What ruin wide has fallen, is now palpable and clear. No blame I cast. What valor's uttermost may do was done; our kingdom in this war strained its last thews. Now therefore I will tell such project as my doubtful mind may frame, and briefly, if ye give good heed, unfold: an ancient tract have I, close-bordering the river Tiber ; it runs westward far beyond Sicania's bound, and filth it bears to Rutule and Auruncan husbandmen, who furrow its hard hills or feed their flocks along the stonier slopes. Let this demesne, together with its pine-clad mountain tall, be given the Teucrian for our pledge of peace, confirmed by free and equitable league, and full alliance with our kingly power. Let them abide there, if it please them so, and build their city's wall. But if their hearts for other land or people yearn, and fate permits them hence to go, then let us build twice ten good galleys of Italian oak, or more, if they can man them. All the wood lies yonder on the shore. Let them but say how numerous and large the ships they crave, and we will give the brass, the artisans, and ship-supplies. Let us for envoys choose a hundred of the Latins noblest born to tell our message and arrange the peace, bearing mild olive-boughs and weighty gifts of ivory and gold, with chair of state and purple robe, our emblems as a king. But freely let this council speak; give aid to our exhausted cause.” Then Drances rose, that foe inveterate, whom Turnus' fame to stinging hate and envy double-tongued ever pricked on. Of liberal wealth was he and flowing speech, but slack of hand in war at council board accounted no weak voice, in quarrels stronger still; of lofty birth in the maternal line, but by his sire's uncertain and obscure. He, claiming place, thus multiplies with words the people's ire: “A course most clear, nor needing voice of mine, thy council is, good King; for all men see the way of public weal, but smother close the telling of it. Turnus must concede freedom to speak, and his own arrogance diminish! Under his ill-boding star and fatal conduct—yea, I speak it plain, though with his naked steel my death he swear— yon host of princes fell, and we behold the whole land bowed with grief; while he assails the Trojan camp (beating such bold retreats!) and troubles Heaven with war. One gift the more, among the many to the Trojans given, one chiefly, best of kings, thy choice should be. Let not wild violence thy will restrain from granting, sire, thy virgin daughter's hand to son-in-law illustrious, in a match worthy of both,—and thus the lasting bond of peace establish. But if verily our hearts and souls be weak with craven fear, let us on Turnus call, and grace implore even of him. Let him no more oppose; but to his country and his King concede their natural right. Why wilt thou o'er and o'er fling thy poor countrymen in danger's way, O chief and fountain of all Latium 's pain? War will not save us. Not a voice but sues for peace, O Turnus! and, not less than peace, its one inviolable pledge. Behold, I lead in this petition! even I whom thou dost feign thy foe—(I waste no words denying)—look! I supplicate of thee, take pity on thy kindred; drop thy pride, and get thee home defeated. We have seen slaughter enough, enough of funeral flames, and many a wide field waste and desolate. If glory move thee, if thy martial breast so swell with strength, and if a royal dower be thy dear dream, go, pluck thy courage up, and front thy own brave bosom to the foe. for, lo, that Turnus on his wedding day may win a princess, our cheap, common lives— we the mere mob, unwept, unsepulchred— must be spilled forth in battle! Thou, I say, if there be mettle in thee and some drops of thy undaunted sires, Iook yonder where the Trojan chieftain waits thee in the field.” By such discourse he stirred the burning blood of Turnus, who groaned loud and from his heart this utterance hurled: “O Drances, thou art rich in large words, when the day of battle calls for actions. If our senators convene thou comest early. But the council hall is not for swollen talk, such as thy tongue in safety tosses forth; so long as walls hold back thy foes, and ere the trenches flow with blood of brave men slain. O, rattle on in fluent thunder—thy habitual style! Brand me a coward, Drances, when thy sword has heaped up Trojan slain, and on the field thy shining trophies rise. Now may we twain our martial prowess prove. Our foe, forsooth, is not so far to seek; around yon wall he lies in siege: to front him let us fly! Why art thou tarrying? Wilt thou linger here, a soldier only in thy windy tongue, and thy swift, coward heels? Defeated, I? Foul wretch, what tongue that honors truth can tell of my defeat, while Tiber overflows with Trojan blood? while King Evander's house in ruin dies, and his Arcadians lie stripped naked on the field? O, not like thee did Bitias or the giant Pandarus misprize my honor; nor those men of Troy 
 whom this good sword to death and dark sent down, a thousand in a day,—though I was penned a prisoner in the ramparts of my foe. War will not save us? Fling that prophecy on the doomed Dardan's head, or on thy own, thou madman! Aye, with thy vile, craven soul disturb the general cause. Extol the power of a twice-vanquished people, and decry Latinus' rival arms. From this time forth let all the Myrmidonian princes cower before the might of Troy ; let Diomed and let Achilles tremble; let the stream of Aufidus in panic backward flow from Hadria 's wave. But hear me when I say that though his guilt and cunning feign to feel fear of my vengeance, much embittering so his taunts and insult—such a life as his my sword disdains. O Drances, be at ease! In thy vile bosom let thy breath abide! But now of thy grave counsel and thy cause, O royal sire, I speak. If from this hour thou castest hope of armed success away, if we be so unfriended that one rout o'erwhelms us utterly, if Fortune's feet never turn backward, let us, then, for peace offer petition, lifting to the foe our feeble, suppliant hands. Yet would I pray some spark of manhood such as once we knew were ours once more! I count him fortunate, and of illustrious soul beyond us all, who, rather than behold such things, has fallen face forward, dead, his teeth upon the dust. But if we still have power, and men-at-arms unwasted and unscathed, if there survive Italian tribes and towns for help in war, aye! if the Trojans have but won success at bloody cost,—for they dig graves, I ween, storm-smitten not less than we,—O, wherefore now stand faint and shameful on the battle's edge? Why quake our knees before the trumpet call? Time and the toil of shifting, changeful days restore lost causes; ebbing tides of chance deceive us oft, which after at their flood do lift us safe to shore. If aid come not from Diomed in Arpi , our allies shall be Mezentius and Tolumnius, auspicious name, and many a chieftain sent from many a tribe; not all inglorious are Latium 's warriors from Laurentian land! Hither the noble Volscian stem sends down Camilla with her beauteous cavalry in glittering brass arrayed. But if, forsooth, the Trojans call me singly to the fight, if this be what ye will, and I so much the public weal impair—when from this sword has victory seemed to fly away in scorn? I should not hopeless tread in honor's way whate'er the venture. Dauntless will I go though equal match for great Achilles, he, and though he clothe him in celestial arms in Vulcan's smithy wrought. I, Turnus, now, not less than equal with great warriors gone, vow to Latinus, father of my bride, and to ye all, each drop of blood I owe. Me singly doth Aeneas call? I crave that challenge. Drances is not called to pay the debt of death, if wrath from Heaven impend; nor his a brave man's name and fame to share.” Thus in their doubtful cause the chieftains strove. Meanwhile Aeneas his assaulting line moved forward. The ill tidings wildly sped from royal hall to hall, and filled the town with rumors dark: for now the Trojan host o'er the wide plains from Tiber 's wave was spread in close array of war. The people's soul was vexed and shaken, and its martial rage rose to the stern compulsion. Now for arms their terror calls; the youthful soldiery clamor for arms; the sires of riper days weep or repress their tears. On every side loud shouts and cries of dissonant acclaim trouble the air, as when in lofty grove legions of birds alight, or by the flood of Padus' fishy stream the shrieking swans far o'er the vocal marish fling their song. Then, seizing the swift moment, Turnus cried: “Once more, my countrymen,—ye sit in parle, lazily praising peace, while yonder foe speeds forth in arms our kingdom to obtain.” He spoke no more, but hied him in hot haste, and from the housetop called, “Volusus, go! Equip the Volscian companies! Lead forth my Rutules also! O'er the spreading plain, ye brothers Coras and Messapus range our host of cavalry! Let others guard the city's gates and hold the walls and towers: I and my followers elsewhere oppose the shock of arms.” Now to and fro they run to man the walls. Father Latinus quits— the place of council and his large design, vexed and bewildered by the hour's distress. He blames his own heart that he did not ask Trojan Aeneas for his daughter's Iord, and gain him for his kingdom's lasting friend. They dig them trenches at the gates, or lift burden of stakes and stones. The horn's harsh note sounds forth its murderous signal for the war; striplings and women, in a motley ring, defend the ramparts; the decisive hour lays tasks on all. Upon the citadel a train of matrons, with the doleful Queen, toward Pallas' temple moves, and in their hand are gifts and offerings. See, at their side the maid Lavinia, cause of all these tears, drops down her lovely eyes! The incense rolls in clouds above the altar; at the doors with wailing voice the women make this prayer: “Tritonian virgin, arbitress of war! Break of thyself yon Phrygian robber's spear! Hurl him down dying in the dust! Spill forth his evil blood beneath our lofty towers!” Fierce Turnus girds him, emulous to slay: a crimson coat of mail he wears, with scales of burnished bronze; beneath his knees are bound the golden greaves; upon his naked brow no helm he wears; but to his thigh is bound a glittering sword. Down from the citadel runs he, a golden glory, in his heart boldly exulting, while impatient hope fore-counts his fallen foes. He seemed as when, from pinfold bursting, breaking his strong chain, th' untrammelled stallion ranges the wide field, or tries him to a herd of feeding mares, or to some cooling river-bank he knows, most fierce and mettlesome; the streaming mane o'er neck and shoulder flies. Across his path Camilla with her Volscian escort came, and at the city-gate the royal maid down from her charger leaped; while all her band at her example glided to the ground, their horses leaving. Thus the virgin spoke: “Turnus, if confidence beseem the brave, I have no fear; but of myself do vow to meet yon squadrons of Aeneadae alone, and front me to the gathered charge of Tuscan cavalry. Let me alone the war's first venture-prove. Take station, thou, here at the walls, this rampart to defend.” With fixed eyes on the terror-striking maid, Turnus replied, “O boast of Italy , O virgin bold! What praise, what gratitude can words or deeds repay? But since thy soul so large of stature shows, I bid thee share my burden and my war. Our spies bring news that now Aeneas with pernicious mind sends light-armed horse before him, to alarm the plains below, while through the wilderness he climbs the steep hills, and approaches so our leaguered town. But I in sheltered grove a stratagem prepare, and bid my men in ambush at a mountain cross-road lie. Meet thou the charge of Tuscan cavalry with all thy banners. For auxiliar strength take bold Messapus with his Latin troop and King Tiburtus' men: but the command shall be thy task and care.” He spoke, and urged with like instruction for the coming fray Messapus and his captains; then advanced to meet the foe. There is a winding vale for armed deception and insidious war well fashioned, and by interlacing leaves screened darkly in; a small path thither leads, through strait defile-a passage boding ill. Above it, on a mountain's lofty brow, are points of outlook, level spaces fair, and many a safe, invisible retreat from whence on either hand to challenge war, or, standing on the ridges, to roll down huge mountain boulders. Thither Turnus fared, and, ranging the familiar tract, chose out his cunning ambush in the dangerous grove. But now in dwellings of the gods on high, Diana to fleet-footed Opis called, a virgin from her consecrated train, and thus in sorrow spoke: “O maiden mine! Camilla now to cruel conflict flies; with weapons like my own she girds her side, in vain, though dearest of all nymphs to me. Nor is it some new Iove that stirs to-day with sudden sweetness in Diana's breast: for long ago, when from his kingdom driven, for insolent and envied power, her sire King Metabus, from old Privernum 's wall was taking flight amidst opposing foes, he bore a little daughter in his arms to share his exile; and he called the child (Changing Casmilla, her queen-mother's name) Camilla. Bearing on his breast the babe, he fled to solitary upland groves. But hovering round him with keen lances, pressed the Volscian soldiery. Across his path, lo, Amasenus with full-foaming wave o'erflowed its banks—so huge a rain had burst but lately from the clouds. There would he fain swim over, but the love of that sweet babe restrained him, trembling for his burden dear. In his perplexed heart suddenly arose firm resolve. It chanced the warrior bore huge spear in his brawny hand, strong shaft of knotted, seasoned oak; to this he lashed his little daughter with a withe of bark pulled from a cork-tree, and with skilful bonds fast bound her to the spear; then, poising it high in his right hand, thus he called on Heaven: