And for the bleeding land a lasting peace provide. } Let insolence no longer awe the throne; But, with a father's right, bestow your own. For this maligner of the general good, If still we fear his force, he must be woo'd; His haughty godhead we with prayers implore, Your sceptre to release, and our just rights restore. O cursed cause of all our ills! must we Wage wars unjust, and fall in fight, for thee? What right hast thou to rule the Latian state, And send us out to meet our certain fate? 'Tis a destructive war: from Turnus' hand Our peace and public safety we demand. Let the fair bride to the brave chief remain; If not, the peace, without the pledge, is vain. Turnus, I know you think me not your friend, Nor will I much with your belief contend: I beg your greatness not to give the law In other realms, but, beaten, to withdraw. Pity your own, or pity our estate; Nor twist our fortunes with your sinking fate. Your interest is, the war should never cease; But we have felt enough, to wish the peace-- A land exhausted to the last remains, Depopulated towns, and driven plains. Yet, if desire of fame, and thirst of power, A beauteous princess, with a crown in dower, So fire your mind, in arms assert your right, And meet your foe, who dares you to the fight. Mankind, it seems, is made for you alone! We, but the slaves who mount you to the throne-- A base ignoble crowd, without a name, Unwept, unworthy of the funeral flame, By duty bound to forfeit each his life, That Turnus may possess a royal wife! Permit not, mighty man, so mean a crew } Should share such triumphs, and detain from you } The post of honour, your undoubted due. } Rather alone your matchless force employ, To merit what alone you must enjoy." These words, so full of malice mixed with art, Inflamed with rage the youthful hero's heart. Then groaning from the bottom of his breast, He heaved for wind, and thus his wrath expressed:-- "You, Drances, never want a stream of words, Then, when the public need requires our swords. First in the council-hall to steer the state, And ever foremost in a tongue-debate, While our strong walls secure us from the foe, Ere yet with blood our ditches overflow: But let the potent orator declaim, And with the brand of coward blot my name; Free leave is given him, when his fatal hand } Has covered with more corps the sanguine strand, } And high as mine his towering trophies stand. } If any doubt remains, who dares the most, Let us decide it at the Trojans' cost, And issue both a-breast, where honour calls-- (Foes are not far to seek without the walls,) Unless his noisy tongue can only fight, And feet were given him but to speed his flight. I beaten from the field? I forced away?