HKB
cause which hasten’d to his end The daughter’s lover and the father’s friend? Weigh in your mind the various chance of war; Pity your parent’s age, and ease his care.”
Such balmy words he pour’d, but all in vain: The proffer’d med’cine but provok’d the pain. The wrathful youth, disdaining the relief, With intermitting sobs thus vents his grief: “The care, O best of fathers, which you take For my concerns, at my desire forsake. Permit me not to languish out my days, But make the best exchange of life for praise. This arm, this lance, can well dispute the prize; And the blood follows, where the weapon flies. His goddess mother is not near, to shroud The flying coward with an empty cloud.”
But now the queen, who fear’d for Turnus’ life, And loath’d the hard conditions of the strife, Held him by force; and, dying in his death, In these sad accents gave her sorrow breath: “O Turnus, I adjure thee by these tears, And whate’er price Amata’s honour bears Within thy breast, since thou art all my hope, My sickly mind’s repose, my sinking age’s prop; Since on the safety of thy life alone Depends Latinus, and the Latian throne: Refuse me not this one, this only pray’r, To waive the combat, and pursue the war. Whatever chance attends this fatal strife, Think it includes, in thine, Amata’s life. I cannot live a slave, or see my throne Usurp’d by strangers or a Trojan son.”
At this, a flood of tears Lavinia shed; A crimson blush her beauteous face o’erspread, Varying her cheeks by turns with white and red. The driving colours, never at a stay, Run here and there, and flush, and fade away. Delightful change! Thus Indian iv’ry shows, Which with the bord’ring paint of purple glows; Or lilies damask’d by the neighb’ring rose.
The lover gaz’d, and, burning with desire, The more he look’d, the more he fed the fire: Revenge, and jealous rage, and secret spite, Roll in his breast, and rouse him to the fight. Then fixing on the queen his ardent eyes, Firm to his first intent, he thus replies: “O mother, do not by your tears prepare Such boding omens, and prejudge the war. Resolv’d on fight, I am no longer free To shun my death, if Heav’n my death decree.” Then turning to the herald, thus pursues: “Go, greet the Trojan with ungrateful news; Denounce from me, that, when tomorrow’s light Shall gild the heav’ns, he need not urge the fight; The Trojan and Rutulian troops no more Shall dye, with mutual blood, the Latian shore: Our single swords the quarrel shall decide, And to the victor be the beauteous bride.”
He said, and striding on, with speedy pace, He sought his coursers of the Thracian race. At his approach they toss their heads on high, And, proudly neighing, promise victory. The sires of these Orythia sent from far, To grace Pilumnus, when he went to war. The drifts of Thracian snows were scarce so white, Nor northern winds in fleetness match’d their flight. Officious grooms stand ready by his side; And some with combs their flowing manes divide, And others stroke their chests and gently soothe their pride.