And Turnus’ violence blazed out in fury, A groan or a growl and savage words erupting:-- “A flow of talk is what you have, O Drances, Always, when wars need men; and you come running The first one there, whenever the senate gathers. But this is not the time for words, that fly From your big mouth in safety, in a meeting, While the walls keep off the foe, and the dry trenches Have not yet swum in blood. As usual, Orator, thunder on! Convict me, Drances, Of cowardice, you having slain so many Tremendous heaps of Trojans, all the fields Stacked with your trophies! Try your courage, Drances: The enemy are not far to seek, our walls Are circled with them. Coming? Why the coyness? Will your idea of Mars be found forever In windy tongue and flying feet? I, beaten? Who says so? What foul liar calls me beaten, Seeing the Tiber red with blood, Evander Laid low with all his house, and the Arcadians Stripped of their arms? Ask Pandarus and Bitias, The thousands I have sent to hell, cut off Inside their walls, hedged by a ring of foemen. _In war there is no safety._ Sing that song, Madman, to your own cause and prince Aeneas! Keep on, don’t stop, confound confusion further With panic fear, and praise those noble heroes Of that twice-beaten race, despite the arms Of King Latinus. Now the Myrmidons, Or so we hear, are trembling, and their river Runs backward in sheer fright, and Diomedes Turns pale, and I suppose Achilles also! Now he pretends my threats, my anger, scare him-- A nice artistic piece of work!--he sharpens Slander with apprehension. Listen to him! Listen to me: I tell you, you will never Lose such a life as yours by this right hand, Quit worrying, keep that great and fighting spirit Forever in that breast! And now, my father, I turn to you and more important counsels. If you have hope no longer in our arms, If we are so forsaken, if we are lost, Utterly, over one repulse, if fortune Cannot retrace her steps, let us pray for peace, Let us hold out helpless hands in supplication. But still, if only some of our valor, something-- Happy the men who died before they saw it! But if we still have any power, warriors Standing unhurt, any Italian city, Any ally at all, if any Trojans Have ever died (their glory has been costly As well as ours, and the storm has no more spared them), Why do we fail like cowards on the edge Of victory? Why do we shudder and tremble Before the trumpet sounds? Many an evil Has turned to good in time; and many a mortal Fate has despised and raised. Diomede, Arpi, Refuse us help; so be it. There are others, There is Messapus for one, Tolumnius Whose luck is good, and all those other leaders Sent by so many nations, and great glory Will follow Latium’s pride. We have Camilla