Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/431

Wash out the blot that stains our pride—
Or let him take the forfeit bride,
Accept the conquered throne!'
He spoke: the aged majesty
Of Latium makes him calm reply:
'O gallant youth! the more intense
Your generous spirit's vehemence,
The wiselier should Latinus' care
For Fortune's every chance prepare.
Yours is your father Daunus' reign;
Yours are the towns your sword has ta'en:
And I that speak have stores of gold
And hand that knows not to withhold:
Latium has other maids unwed
And worthy of a royal bed.
Thus let me speak, direct and clear,
Though sharp the pang: now further hear:
I might not give my daughter's hand
To suitor from her native land:
Gods, prophets, with unfaltering voice
And plain accord forbade the choice:
But kindred sympathies are strong,
And weeping wives can sway to wrong:
Heaven's ties I snapped; I failed my word;
I drew the inexpiable sword:
Since then what dire result of ill
Has followed me and follows still
Your eyes bear witness: why recall
What Turnus feels the first of all?
We, twice in bloody field o'erthrown,
Scarce in our ramparts hold our own:
Still Tiber reeks from Latium's veins,
And whitening bone-heaps mound the plains.
Why reel I thus, confused and blind?
What madness mars my sober mind?
If Turnus' death makes Troy my friend,
E'en while he lives let war have end.