Still opening, following still, where'er he steers; The persecuted creature, to and fro, Turns here and there, to 'scape his Umbrian foe: Steep is the ascent, and, if he gains the land, The purple death is pitched along the strand: His eager foe, determined to the chase, Stretched at his length, gains ground at every pace: Now to his beamy head he makes his way, And now he holds, or thinks he holds, his prey: Just at the pinch, the stag springs out with fear; He bites the wind, and fills his sounding jaws with air: The rocks, the lakes, the meadows, ring with cries; The mortal tumult mounts, and thunders in the skies. Thus flies the Daunian prince, and, flying, blames His tardy troops, and calling by their names, Demands his trusty sword. The Trojan threats The realm with ruin, and their ancient seats To lay in ashes, if they dare supply, With arms or aid, his vanquished enemy; Thus menacing, he still pursues the course, With vigour, though diminished of his force. Ten times already, round the listed place, One chief had fled, and t'other given the chase: No trivial prize is played; for on the life Or death of Turnus, now depends the strife. 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 engraved, Of sinking mariners from shipwreck saved. With heedless hands the Trojans felled the tree, To make the ground inclosed for combat free. Deep in the root, whether by fate, or chance, Or erring haste, the Trojan drove his lance; Then stooped, and tugged with force immense, to free The encumbered spear from the tenacious tree; That, whom his fainting limbs pursued in vain, His flying weapon might from far attain. Confused with fear, bereft of human aid, Then Turnus to the gods, and first to Faunus, prayed:-- "O Faunus! pity! and thou, mother Earth, Where I thy foster-son received my birth, Hold fast the steel! If my religious hand Your plant has honoured, which your foes profaned, Propitious hear my pious prayer!" He said, Nor with successless vows invoked their aid. The incumbent hero wrenched, and pulled, and strained; But still the stubborn earth the steel detained. Juturna took her time; and, while in vain He strove, assumed Metiscus' form again, And, in that imitated shape, restored To the despairing prince his Daunian sword. The queen of love--who, with disdain and grief, Saw the bold nymph afford this prompt relief-- To assert her offspring with a greater deed, From the tough root the lingering weapon freed. Once more erect, the rival chiefs advance: } One trusts the sword, and one the pointed lance; } And both resolved alike, to try their fatal chance.