Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/431

Rh Wash out the blot that stains our pride—

Or let him take the forfeit bride,

Accept the conquered throne!'

He spoke: the aged majesty

Of Latium makes him calm reply:

'O gallant youth! the more intense

Your generous spirit's vehemence,

The wiselier should Latinus' care

For Fortune's every chance prepare.

Yours is your father Daunus' reign;

Yours are the towns your sword has ta'en:

And I that speak have stores of gold

And hand that knows not to withhold:

Latium has other maids unwed

And worthy of a royal bed.

Thus let me speak, direct and clear,

Though sharp the pang: now further hear:

I might not give my daughter's hand

To suitor from her native land:

Gods, prophets, with unfaltering voice

And plain accord forbade the choice:

But kindred sympathies are strong,

And weeping wives can sway to wrong:

Heaven's ties I snapped; I failed my word;

I drew the inexpiable sword:

Since then what dire result of ill

Has followed me and follows still

Your eyes bear witness: why recall

What Turnus feels the first of all?

We, twice in bloody field o'erthrown,

Scarce in our ramparts hold our own:

Still Tiber reeks from Latium's veins,

And whitening bone-heaps mound the plains.

Why reel I thus, confused and blind?

What madness mars my sober mind?

If Turnus' death makes Troy my friend,

E'en while he lives let war have end.