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Rh 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.