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Cheeks whence the bloom of health is gone,
And that young frame so ghastly wan.
Juturna saw their whispers grow,
And marked them wavering to and fro:
Then, like to Camers' form and face—
A warrior he of noblest race,
Long by his fathers' exploits known
And long by valour of his own—
She joins their ranks, each heart to read,
And sows in all dissension's seed:
'Shame, shame, ye Rutules, thus to try
The coward hazard of the die!
A myriad warrior lives to shun
The deadly risk reserved for one!
Compute the numbers and the powers:
Say whose the vantage, theirs or ours?
Behold them all, in arms allied,
Troy and Arcadia, side by side,
And all Etruria, leagued in hate
Of him, our chief, the men of fate!
Take half our force, we scarce should know
Each for himself to find a foe.
Aye, Turnus' name to heaven shall rise,
Devoted to whose shrines he dies,
On lips of thousands borne:
We, as in listless ease we sit,
To foreign tyrants shall submit,
And our lost country mourn.'
By whisper thus and chance-dropped word
Their hearts to farther rage are stirred:
From band to band the murmur runs:
Changed are Laurentum's fickle sons,
Changed is the Latian throng:
Who late were hoping war to cease,
Now yearn for arms, abhor the peace,
And pity Turnus' wrong.