“Less evil were our case, if long agoye had provided for your country's weal,O Latins, as I urged. It is no timeto 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 foundin your own bosoms only. But ye knowhow slight it is and small. What ruin widehas fallen, is now palpable and clear.No blame I cast. What valor's uttermostmay do was done; our kingdom in this warstrained its last thews. Now therefore I will tellsuch project as my doubtful mind may frame,and briefly, if ye give good heed, unfold:an ancient tract have I, close-borderingthe river Tiber; it runs westward farbeyond Sicania's bound, and filth it bearsto Rutule and Auruncan husbandmen,who furrow its hard hills or feed their flocksalong 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 heartsfor other land or people yearn, and fatepermits them hence to go, then let us buildtwice ten good galleys of Italian oak,or more, if they can man them. All the woodlies yonder on the shore. Let them but sayhow numerous and large the ships they crave,and we will give the brass, the artisans,and ship-supplies. Let us for envoys choosea hundred of the Latins noblest bornto tell our message and arrange the peace,bearing mild olive-boughs and weighty giftsof ivory and gold, with chair of stateand purple robe, our emblems as a king.But freely let this council speak; give aidto our exhausted cause.” Then Drances rose,that foe inveterate, whom Turnus' fameto stinging hate and envy double-tonguedever pricked on. Of liberal wealth was heand flowing speech, but slack of hand in warat council board accounted no weak voice,in quarrels stronger still; of lofty birthin the maternal line, but by his sire'suncertain 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 seethe way of public weal, but smother closethe telling of it. Turnus must concedefreedom to speak, and his own arrogancediminish! Under his ill-boding starand fatal conduct—yea, I speak it plain,though with his naked steel my death he swear—yon host of princes fell, and we beholdthe whole land bowed with grief; while he assailsthe 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 restrainfrom granting, sire, thy virgin daughter's handto son-in-law illustrious, in a matchworthy of both,—and thus the lasting bondof peace establish. But if verilyour hearts and souls be weak with craven fear,let us on Turnus call, and grace imploreeven of him. Let him no more oppose;but to his country and his King concedetheir natural right. Why wilt thou o'er and o'erfling 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 suesfor peace, O Turnus! and, not less than peace,its one inviolable pledge. Behold,I lead in this petition! even Iwhom thou dost feign thy foe—(I waste no wordsdenying)—look! I supplicate of thee,take pity on thy kindred; drop thy pride,and get thee home defeated. We have seenslaughter enough, enough of funeral flames,and many a wide field waste and desolate.If glory move thee, if thy martial breastso swell with strength, and if a royal dowerbe thy dear dream, go, pluck thy courage up,and front thy own brave bosom to the foe.for, lo, that Turnus on his wedding daymay 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 dropsof thy undaunted sires, Iook yonder wherethe Trojan chieftain waits thee in the field.”

By such discourse he stirred the burning bloodof Turnus, who groaned loud and from his heartthis utterance hurled: “O Drances, thou art richin large words, when the day of battle callsfor actions. If our senators convenethou comest early. But the council hallis not for swollen talk, such as thy tonguein safety tosses forth; so long as wallshold back thy foes, and ere the trenches flowwith blood of brave men slain. O, rattle onin fluent thunder—thy habitual style!Brand me a coward, Drances, when thy swordhas heaped up Trojan slain, and on the fieldthy shining trophies rise. Now may we twainour martial prowess prove. Our foe, forsooth,is not so far to seek; around yon wallhe 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 tellof my defeat, while Tiber overflowswith Trojan blood? while King Evander's housein ruin dies, and his Arcadians liestripped naked on the field? O, not like theedid Bitias or the giant Pandarusmisprize 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 penneda prisoner in the ramparts of my foe.

War will not save us? Fling that prophecyon the doomed Dardan's head, or on thy own,thou madman! Aye, with thy vile, craven souldisturb the general cause. Extol the powerof a twice-vanquished people, and decryLatinus' rival arms. From this time forthlet all the Myrmidonian princes cowerbefore the might of Troy; let Diomedand let Achilles tremble; let the streamof Aufidus in panic backward flowfrom Hadria's wave. But hear me when I saythat though his guilt and cunning feign to feelfear of my vengeance, much embittering sohis taunts and insult—such a life as hismy 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 hourthou castest hope of armed success away,if we be so unfriended that one routo'erwhelms us utterly, if Fortune's feetnever turn backward, let us, then, for peaceoffer petition, lifting to the foeour feeble, suppliant hands. Yet would I praysome spark of manhood such as once we knewwere ours once more! I count him fortunate,and of illustrious soul beyond us all,who, rather than behold such things, has fallenface forward, dead, his teeth upon the dust.But if we still have power, and men-at-armsunwasted and unscathed, if there surviveItalian tribes and towns for help in war,aye! if the Trojans have but won successat bloody cost,—for they dig graves, I ween,storm-smitten not less than we,—O, wherefore nowstand faint and shameful on the battle's edge?Why quake our knees before the trumpet call?Time and the toil of shifting, changeful daysrestore lost causes; ebbing tides of chancedeceive us oft, which after at their flooddo lift us safe to shore. If aid come notfrom Diomed in Arpi, our alliesshall be Mezentius and Tolumnius,auspicious name, and many a chieftain sentfrom many a tribe; not all ingloriousare Latium's warriors from Laurentian land!Hither the noble Volscian stem sends downCamilla with her beauteous cavalryin glittering brass arrayed. But if, forsooth,the Trojans call me singly to the fight,if this be what ye will, and I so muchthe public weal impair—when from this swordhas victory seemed to fly away in scorn?I should not hopeless tread in honor's waywhate'er the venture. Dauntless will I gothough equal match for great Achilles, he,and though he clothe him in celestial armsin 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 cravethat challenge. Drances is not called to paythe 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 linemoved forward. The ill tidings wildly spedfrom royal hall to hall, and filled the townwith rumors dark: for now the Trojan hosto'er the wide plains from Tiber's wave was spreadin close array of war. The people's soulwas vexed and shaken, and its martial ragerose to the stern compulsion. Now for armstheir terror calls; the youthful soldieryclamor for arms; the sires of riper daysweep or repress their tears. On every sideloud shouts and cries of dissonant acclaimtrouble the air, as when in lofty grovelegions of birds alight, or by the floodof Padus' fishy stream the shrieking swansfar 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 foespeeds 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 forthmy Rutules also! O'er the spreading plain,ye brothers Coras and Messapus rangeour host of cavalry! Let others guardthe city's gates and hold the walls and towers:I and my followers elsewhere opposethe shock of arms.” Now to and fro they runto 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 askTrojan Aeneas for his daughter's Iord,and gain him for his kingdom's lasting friend.They dig them trenches at the gates, or liftburden of stakes and stones. The horn's harsh notesounds forth its murderous signal for the war;striplings and women, in a motley ring,defend the ramparts; the decisive hourlays tasks on all. Upon the citadela train of matrons, with the doleful Queen,toward Pallas' temple moves, and in their handare gifts and offerings. See, at their sidethe maid Lavinia, cause of all these tears,drops down her lovely eyes! The incense rollsin clouds above the altar; at the doorswith 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 forthhis evil blood beneath our lofty towers!”Fierce Turnus girds him, emulous to slay:a crimson coat of mail he wears, with scalesof burnished bronze; beneath his knees are boundthe golden greaves; upon his naked browno helm he wears; but to his thigh is bounda glittering sword. Down from the citadelruns he, a golden glory, in his heartboldly exulting, while impatient hopefore-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 maneo'er neck and shoulder flies. Across his pathCamilla with her Volscian escort came,and at the city-gate the royal maiddown from her charger leaped; while all her bandat 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 vowto meet yon squadrons of Aeneadaealone, and front me to the gathered chargeof Tuscan cavalry. Let me alonethe 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 gratitudecan words or deeds repay? But since thy soulso large of stature shows, I bid thee sharemy burden and my war. Our spies bring newsthat now Aeneas with pernicious mindsends light-armed horse before him, to alarmthe plains below, while through the wildernesshe climbs the steep hills, and approaches soour leaguered town. But I in sheltered grovea stratagem prepare, and bid my menin ambush at a mountain cross-road lie.Meet thou the charge of Tuscan cavalrywith all thy banners. For auxiliar strengthtake bold Messapus with his Latin troopand King Tiburtus' men: but the commandshall be thy task and care.” He spoke, and urgedwith like instruction for the coming frayMessapus and his captains; then advancedto meet the foe. There is a winding valefor armed deception and insidious warwell fashioned, and by interlacing leavesscreened 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 retreatfrom whence on either hand to challenge war,or, standing on the ridges, to roll downhuge mountain boulders. Thither Turnus fared,and, ranging the familiar tract, chose outhis 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-daywith sudden sweetness in Diana's breast:for long ago, when from his kingdom driven,for insolent and envied power, her sireKing Metabus, from old Privernum's wallwas taking flight amidst opposing foes,he bore a little daughter in his armsto 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, pressedthe Volscian soldiery. Across his path,lo, Amasenus with full-foaming waveo'erflowed its banks—so huge a rain had burstbut lately from the clouds. There would he fainswim over, but the love of that sweet baberestrained him, trembling for his burden dear.In his perplexed heart suddenly arosefirm resolve. It chanced the warrior borehuge spear in his brawny hand, strong shaftof knotted, seasoned oak; to this he lashedhis little daughter with a withe of barkpulled from a cork-tree, and with skilful bondsfast bound her to the spear; then, poising ithigh in his right hand, thus he called on Heaven: