XXXVIII. "Thou hast, great king, the answer of the king,
And this, his sentence on the war." So they,
And diverse murmurs in the crowd upspring;
As when big rocks a rushing torrent stay,
The prisoned waters, chafing with delay,
Boil, and the banks in many a foaming crest
Fling back with echoes the tumultuous spray.
Now from his throne, their murmurs laid to rest,		334
The King, first offering prayer, his listening folk addressed:
XXXIX. "I would, ye peers, and better it had been
An earlier hour had called us to debate,
Than thus in haste a council to convene,
And meet, while foemen battle at the gate.
A war ill-omened, with disastrous fate,
We wage with men unconquered in the field,
A race of gods, whose force nor toils abate,
Nor wounds can tire; who, driven back, still wield		343
The sword and shake the spear, and, beaten, scorn to yield.
XL. "What hope ye had in Diomede, give o'er;
Each for himself must be his hope and stay.
This hope how slender, and our straits how sore,
Ye see; the general ruin and decay
Is open, palpable and clear as day.
Yet blame I none; what valour could, was done.
Our country's strength, our souls were in the fray.
Hear then in brief, and ponder every one,		352
What wavering thoughts have shaped, our present fate to shun.
XLI. "Far-stretching westward, past Sicania's bound,
By Tiber's stream, an ancient tract is mine.
Auruncans and Rutulians till the ground;
Their ploughshares cleave the stubborn slopes, their kine
Graze on the rocks. This tract, these hills of pine
Let Latins yield the Trojans for their own,
And both, as friends, in equal league combine
And share the realm. Here let them settle down,		361
If so they love the land, and build the wished-for town.
XLII. "But if new frontiers, and another folk,
They fain would look for, and can leave our shore,
Then twice ten ships of tough Italian oak
Build we, nor only let us build a score
Can they but man them (by the stream good store
Of timber is at hand); let them decide
The form, the number, and the size. What more
Is wanting, we will grudge not to provide,		370
Gold, labour, brass, and docks, and naval gear beside.
XLIII. "Nay more, to strike the proffered league, 'twere good
That chosen envoys to their camp should fare,
A hundred Latins of the noblest blood,
The peaceful olive in their hands to bear,
With gifts, the choicest that the realm can spare,
Talents of gold and ivory, just in weight,
The royal mantle, and the curule chair,
The marks of rule. With freedom now debate,		379
Consult the common weal, and help the sickly state."
XLIV. Up rose then Drances, with indignant mien,
Whom, spiteful still, the fame of Turnus stung
With carping envy, and malignant spleen;
Lavish of wealth, and fluent with his tongue,
No mean adviser in debate, and strong
In faction, but in battle cold and tame.
From royal seed his mother's race was sprung,
His sire's unknown. He thus with words of blame		388
Piles up the general wrath, and fans resentment's flame.
XLV. "Good king, the matter—it is plain, for each
Knows well our needs, but hesitates to say.
Let him cease blustering, and allow free speech,
Him, for whose pride and sullen temper, yea,
I say it, let him threaten as he may—
Quenched is the light of many a chief, that lies
In earth's cold lap, and mourning and dismay
Have filled the town, while, sure of flight, he tries		397
To storm the Trojan camp, and idly flouts the skies.
XLVI. "One gift, O best of monarchs, add, to crown
Thy bounty to the Dardans,—one, beside
These many, nor let bluster bear thee down.
A worthy husband for thy child provide,
And peace shall with the lasting pact abide.
Else, if such terror doth our souls enslave,
Him now, in hope to turn away his pride,
Him let us pray his proper right to waive,		406
And, pitying, deign to yield what king and country crave.
XLVII. "O Turnus, cause of all our ills to-day,
Why make the land these miseries endure?
The war is desperate; for peace we pray,
And that one pledge, inviolably sure,
Naught else but which can make the peace secure.
Thy foeman, I—nor be the fact concealed,
For so thou deem'st—entreat thee and adjure.
Blood flows enough on many a wasted field.		415
Relent, and spare thine own, and, beaten, learn to yield.