The lashing of your wings I know too well, The sounding flight, and funeral screams of hell! These are the gifts you bring from haughty Jove, The worthy recompense of ravished love! Did he for this exempt my life from fate? O hard conditions of immortal state! Though born to death, not privileged to die, But forced to bear imposed eternity! Take back your envious bribes, and let me go Companion to my brother's ghost below! The joys are vanished: nothing now remains Of life immortal, but immortal pains. What earth will open her devouring womb, To rest a weary goddess in the tomb?" She drew a length of sighs; nor more she said, But in her azure mantle wrapped her head, Then plunged into her stream, with deep despair, And her last sobs came bubbling up in air. Now stern Æneas waves his weighty spear Against his foe, and thus upbraids his fear:-- "What farther subterfuge can Turnus find? What empty hopes are harboured in his mind? 'Tis not thy swiftness can secure thy flight; Not with their feet, but hands, the valiant fight. Vary thy shape in thousand forms, and dare What skill and courage can attempt in war; Wish for the wings of winds, to mount the sky; } Or hid within the hollow earth to lie!" } The champion shook his head, and made this short reply:-- } "No threats of thine my manly mind can move; Tis hostile heaven I dread, and partial Jove." He said no more, but, with a sigh, repressed The mighty sorrow in his swelling breast. Then, as he rolled his troubled eyes around, } An antique stone he saw, the common bound } Of neighbouring fields, and barrier of the ground-- } So vast, that twelve strong men of modern days The enormous weight from earth could hardly raise. He heaved it at a lift, and, poised on high, Ran staggering on against his enemy, But so disordered, that he scarcely knew His way, or what unwieldy weight he threw. His knocking knees are bent beneath the load, And shivering cold congeals his vital blood. The stone drops from his arms, and, falling short For want of vigour, mocks his vain effort. And as, when heavy sleep has closed the sight, The sickly fancy labours in the night; We seem to run; and, destitute of force, Our sinking limbs forsake us in the course: In vain we heave for breath; in vain we cry; } The nerves, unbraced, their usual strength deny; } And on the tongue the faltering accents die; } So Turnus fared; whatever means he tried, } All force of arms, and points of art employed, } The Fury flew athwart, and made the endeavour void. } A thousand various thoughts his soul confound; } He stared about, nor aid nor issue found; } His own men stop the pass, and his own walls surround. }