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340 'Friends, whither would you fly? for shame!

O, by your former deeds of fame,

Tour chief Evander's glorious name,

Your fights beneath him won,

And my young hopes, that now aspire

To match the honours of my sire,

I charge you, stand, not run!

The sword, the sword must hew a pass

To take you through that living mass;

There, where the battle fiercest flames,

The noble land that bore us claims

Her Pallas and his host.

No angry heaven above you lowers:

Mortal, we cope with mortal powers:

The breath they draw is but as ours,

Nor stronger arms they boast.

Lo, here the ocean hems us in:

Earth leaves no room to flee:

Come, choose the goal ye mean to win:

The city or the sea?'

He said, and rushes all aglow

Full on the midmost of the foe.

First Lagus, led by evil chance,

Confronts the inevitable lance;

Him, as in vain a ponderous stone

With toiling hands he heaves,

The victor strikes where deftly join

The sutures of the ribs and spine,

And sudden from the jointed bone

The unwilling spear retrieves.

On rushes Hisbo, madly fain

To catch him, hampered with the slain:

But Pallas, still more fleet,

Prevents him, as with reckless zeal

He breathes revenge, and plants the steel

E'en where the heartstrings beat.