LII. "No hope from war?--Go, fool, to Dardan ears These bodings whisper, to thy new ally. Go, swell the panic, spread the coward's fears. Puff up the foemen's prowess to the sky,-- Twice-conquered churls,--and Latin arms decry. See now, forsooth, the Myrmidons afraid Of Phrygian arms, Tydides fain to fly, Achilles trembling, Aufidus in dread Shrunk from the Hadrian deep, and cowering in his bed. LIII. "Or mark the trickster's cunning when he feigns To fear my vengeance, whom his taunts revile! Nay, Drances, be at ease; this hand disdains To take the forfeit of a soul so vile. Keep it, fit inmate of that breast of guile, And now, good Sire, if, beaten, we despair, If never Fate on Latin arms shall smile, And naught our ruined fortunes can repair, Stretch we our craven hands, and beg the foe to spare. LIV. "Yet oh! if aught of ancient worth remain, Him deem I noblest, and his end renowned, Brave soul! who sooner than behold such stain, Fell once for all, and, dying, bit the ground. But, if fit men and martial means abound, And towns and tribes, to muster at our call, Hath Italy; if Trojans, too, have found Fame dearly bought with many a brave man's fall (For they have, too, their deaths; the storm hath swept o'er all), LV. "Why fail we on the threshold, faint with fears, And sick knees tremble ere the trumpets bray? Time--healing Time--and long, laborious years Oft raise the humble; Fortune in her play Lifts those to-morrow, whom she lowers to-day. What though no aid AEtolian Arpi lends, Ours is Messapus, ours Tolumnius, yea, And all whom Latium or Laurentum sends, Nor scanty fame, nor slow Italia's hosts attends. LVI. "Ours, too, is brave Camilla, noble maid, The pride of Volscians, and she leads a band Of horsemen fierce, in brazen arms arrayed. If me the foe to single fight demand, And so ye will, and I alone withstand The common good, come danger as it may, Not so hath victory fled this hated hand, Not yet so weak is Turnus, as to stay With such a prize unsnatched, and falter from the fray. LVII. "Though greater than the great Achilles he, Though, like Achilles, Vulcan's arms he wear, Fain will I meet him. Lo, to you, to thee, Latinus, father of the bride so fair, I, Turnus, I, in prowess past compare, Devote this life. AEneas calls but me, So let him, rather than that Drances bear The smart, if death the wrathful gods decree, Or, if 'tis glory's field, usurp the victor's fee."