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My sire is nerved for either fate:
Loud vaunts are empty breath.'
He spoke, and marched into the field;
Chill fear the Arcadian hearts congealed.
Down plunges Turnus from his car,
Prepared on foot to fight:
As when a lion from afar
Beholds a bull intending war,
Headlong he comes with furious bound;
So fierce, advancing o'er the ground,
Looks Turnus to the sight.

When Pallas saw his foe advance
Within the cover of his lance,
He steps in front, in hope that chance
His ill-matched powers may aid,
And thus with upraised countenance
To highest heaven he prayed:
'Now by the board whose homely fare,
A stranger, thou wast fain to share,
Assist me, Hercules, I pray,
In this my all too bold essay:
Let Turnus' eyes in dying brook
Upon a conqueror's face to look,
The while I spoil him as he lies
Of his stained arms, my gory prize.'
His votary's prayer Alcides hears;
His cheeks are bathed in fruitless tears,
And deep within his labouring breast
He heaves a stifled groan
Whom thus the Almighty Sire addressed
In grave and soothing tone:
'Each has his destined time: a span
Is all the heritage of man:
'Tis virtue's part by deeds of praise
To lengthen fame through after days.