Within the space, an olive tree had stood, A sacred shade, a venerable wood, For vows to Faunus paid, the Latins’ guardian god. Here hung the vests, and tablets were engrav’d, Of sinking mariners from shipwreck sav’d. With heedless hands the Trojans fell’d the tree, To make the ground enclos’d for combat free. Deep in the root, whether by fate, or chance, Or erring haste, the Trojan drove his lance; Then stoop’d, and tugg’d with force immense, to free Th’ incumber’d spear from the tenacious tree; That, whom his fainting limbs pursued in vain, His flying weapon might from far attain. Confus’d with fear, bereft of human aid, Then Turnus to the gods, and first to Faunus pray’d: “O Faunus, pity! and thou Mother Earth, Where I thy foster son receiv’d my birth, Hold fast the steel! If my religious hand Your plant has honour’d, which your foes profan’d, Propitious hear my pious pray’r!” He said, Nor with successless vows invok’d their aid. Th’ incumbent hero wrench’d, and pull’d, and strain’d; But still the stubborn earth the steel detain’d. Juturna took her time; and, while in vain He strove, assum’d Meticus’ form again, And, in that imitated shape, restor’d To the despairing prince his Daunian sword. The Queen of Love, who, with disdain and grief, Saw the bold nymph afford this prompt relief, T’ assert her offspring with a greater deed, From the tough root the ling’ring weapon freed. Once more erect, the rival chiefs advance: One trusts the sword, and one the pointed lance; And both resolv’d alike to try their fatal chance.