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No distant foemen wait our call:
Behold them mustered round the wall!
Come, march we on to meet the foe!
What, Drances linger? why so slow?
Has Mars found out no worthier seat
That that loose tongue, those flying feet?
Confess defeat? I routed? I?
Who dares retail that slanderous lie?
Who, that has seen old Tiber's flood
Foaming and swollen with Dardan blood,
Evander's stock at once laid low,
And Arcads vanquished at a blow?
Not Bitias thus and Pandarus found
The hand that brought them to the ground,
Or the great host to death I sent
By trench and hostile rampart pent.
"No hope from war." Go, dotard, drone
In ears of Dardans, or your own;
Spread wild alarms, extol the powers
Of twice-foiled tribes, disparage ours.
Now Myrmidons are all afraid
Of conquering Phrygia's ruthless blade;
Now fails the heart of Diomede
And Peleus' Larissæan seed,
And Aufidus recoils with dread
Prom Hadria to his fountain head.
Or hear the trickster when he feigns
He cowers before my threatening strains,
And, counterfeiting fear, forsooth,
Adds venom to his serpent tooth!
No, Drances; ne'er shall you resign
Such life as yours to hand of mine:
No; let it dwell with you, nor quit
A mansion for its use so fit.
Now, gracious Sire, my thoughts return
To that your theme of high concern.