Aeneid

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