Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/314

An awful voice through ether thrills,
The ranks of either army fills,
And deafens every ear:
'Forbear your weapons to employ
To guard my ships, ye sons of Troy:
Know, Turnus' fire shall burn the seas
Or ere it touch my sacred trees;
Go free, my favourites: loose your bands:
Be Ocean-nymphs: your queen commands.'
At once they burst their cords and dip,
Like dolphins, each with brazen tip
Down plunging 'neath the flood;
Then all in maiden forms emerge,
Swim out to sea and breast the surge,
As many as on the river's verge
Had erst in order stood.

In wonder gaze the Rutule crowd:
Messapus' valiant self is cowed:
His horses start and leap:
The river falters, sounding hoarse,
Old Tiber, and retracks his course,
Nor hurries to the deep.
Yet Turnus still is undismayed,
Still prompt to cheer or to upbraid:
'At Troy, at Troy these portents aim:
See, Jove has ta'en away
The means of flight, her wonted game:
For Rutule sword and Rutule flame
Her navy will not stay.
No path for her across the sea:
She has no hope to scape us, she:
One half her world is gone:
Ourselves are masters of the land;
Such multitudes beside us stand,
Italians every one.