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Not all so weak these hands of mine
That I the combat should decline.
Nay, though Achilles' self be there
And Vulcan make him arms to wear,
I yet will meet him. Here I stand,
I, Turnus, like my fathers manned,
And pledge the life your needs require
To you and to my own wife's sire.
'Tis I the Phrygian claims to meet;
Pray Heaven the challenge he repeat,
Nor in my stead let Drances pay
His forfeit breath or win the day!'

Thus they in passionate debate
The weary hours prolong:
Æneas through the encampment's gate
Leads forth his armed throng.
A messenger comes hastening down
And fills the palace and the town
With tumult and dismay;
'The Trojan and the Tuscan train
From Tiber pour along the plain
In battle's stern array.'
A turmoil takes the public mind;
Their passions flame, by furious wind
To conflagration blown:
At once to arms they fain would fly:
'To arms!' the youth impatient cry:
The old men weep and moan.
A dissonance of various cries
Keeps swelling, soaring to the skies,
As when in lofty wood
Birds settle, lighting in a cloud,
Or swans make clangor hoarse and loud
Along Padusa's flood.