Blindly we rush on foes, from whom'Twere triumph won to steal away.That race which, strong from Ilion's fires,Its gods, on Tuscan waters tost,Its sons, its venerable sires,Bore to Ausonia's citied coast;That race, like oak by axes shornOn Algidus with dark leaves rife,Laughs carnage, havoc, all to scorn,And draws new spirit from the knife.Not the lopp'd Hydra task'd so soreAlcides, chafing at the foil:No pest so fell was born of yoreFrom Colchian or from Theban soil.Plunged in the deep, it mounts to sightMore splendid: grappled, it will quellUnbroken powers, and fight a fightWhose story widow'd wives shall tell.No heralds shall my deeds proclaimTo Carthage now: lost, lost is all: