No term of time this union shall divide: No force, no fortune, shall my vows unbind, Or shake the stedfast tenor of my mind; Not, though the circling seas should break their bound, O'erflow the shores, or sap the solid ground; Not, though the lamps of heaven their spheres forsake, Hurled down, and hissing in the nether lake: Even as this royal sceptre" (for he bore A sceptre in his hand) "shall never more Shoot out in branches, or renew the birth-- An orphan now, cut from the mother earth By the keen axe, dishonoured of its hair, And cased in brass, for Latian kings to bear." When thus in public view the peace was tied With solemn vows, and sworn on either side, All dues performed which holy rites require, The victim beasts are slain before the fire, The trembling entrails from their bodies torn, And to the fatten'd flames in chargers borne. Already the Rutulians deemed their man O'ermatched in arms, before the fight began. First rising fears are whispered through the crowd; Then, gathering sound, they murmur more aloud. Now, side to side, they measure with their eyes The champions' bulk, their sinews, and their size: The nearer they approach, the more is known The apparent disadvantage of their own. Turnus himself appears in public sight Conscious of fate, desponding of the fight. Slowly he moves, and at his altar stands With eyes dejected, and with trembling hands: And, while he mutters undistinguished prayers, A livid deadness in his cheeks appears. With anxious pleasure when Juturna viewed The increasing fright of the mad multitude, When their short sighs and thickening sobs she heard, And found their ready minds for change prepared; Dissembling her immortal form, she took Camertes' mien, his habit, and his look-- A chief of ancient blood:--in arms well known Was his great sire, and he his greater son. His shape assumed, amid the ranks she ran, And humouring their first motions, thus began:-- "For shame, Rutulians! can you bear the sight Of one exposed for all, in single fight? Can we, before the face of heaven, confess Our courage colder, or our numbers less? View all the Trojan host, the Arcadian band, And Tuscan army; count them as they stand: Undaunted to the battle if we go, Scarce every second man will share a foe. Turnus, 'tis true, in this unequal strife, Shall lose, with honour, his devoted life, Or change it rather for immortal fame, Succeeding to the gods, from whence he came: But you, a servile and inglorious band, For foreign lords shall sow your native land, Those fruitful fields, your fighting fathers gained, Which have so long their lazy sons sustained." With words like these, she carried her design. A rising murmur runs along the line.