Aeneid
Virgil
Vergil. The Aeneid of Virgil. Williams, Theodore, C, translator. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1910.
- War will not save us? Fling that prophecy
- on the doomed Dardan's head, or on thy own,
- thou madman! Aye, with thy vile, craven soul
- disturb the general cause. Extol the power
- of a twice-vanquished people, and decry
- Latinus' rival arms. From this time forth
- let all the Myrmidonian princes cower
- before the might of Troy; let Diomed
- and let Achilles tremble; let the stream
- of Aufidus in panic backward flow
- from Hadria's wave. But hear me when I say
- that though his guilt and cunning feign to feel
- fear of my vengeance, much embittering so
- his taunts and insult—such a life as his
- my sword disdains. O Drances, be at ease!
- In thy vile bosom let thy breath abide!
- But now of thy grave counsel and thy cause,
- O royal sire, I speak. If from this hour
- thou castest hope of armed success away,
- if we be so unfriended that one rout
- o'erwhelms us utterly, if Fortune's feet
- never turn backward, let us, then, for peace
- offer petition, lifting to the foe
- our feeble, suppliant hands. Yet would I pray
- some spark of manhood such as once we knew
- were ours once more! I count him fortunate,
- and of illustrious soul beyond us all,
- who, rather than behold such things, has fallen
- face forward, dead, his teeth upon the dust.
- But if we still have power, and men-at-arms
- unwasted and unscathed, if there survive
- Italian tribes and towns for help in war,
- aye! if the Trojans have but won success
- at bloody cost,—for they dig graves, I ween,
- storm-smitten not less than we,—O, wherefore now
- stand faint and shameful on the battle's edge?
- Why quake our knees before the trumpet call?
- Time and the toil of shifting, changeful days
- restore lost causes; ebbing tides of chance
- deceive us oft, which after at their flood
- do lift us safe to shore. If aid come not
- from Diomed in Arpi, our allies
- shall be Mezentius and Tolumnius,
- auspicious name, and many a chieftain sent
- from many a tribe; not all inglorious
- are Latium's warriors from Laurentian land!
- Hither the noble Volscian stem sends down
- Camilla with her beauteous cavalry
- in glittering brass arrayed. But if, forsooth,
- the Trojans call me singly to the fight,
- if this be what ye will, and I so much
- the public weal impair—when from this sword
- has victory seemed to fly away in scorn?
- I should not hopeless tread in honor's way
- whate'er the venture. Dauntless will I go
- though equal match for great Achilles, he,
- and though he clothe him in celestial arms
- in Vulcan's smithy wrought. I, Turnus, now,
- not less than equal with great warriors gone,
- vow to Latinus, father of my bride,
- and to ye all, each drop of blood I owe.
- Me singly doth Aeneas call? I crave
- that challenge. Drances is not called to pay
- the debt of death, if wrath from Heaven impend;
- nor his a brave man's name and fame to share.”