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If Turnus still has held divine
Those sanctities which Troy's rude line
Treads down 'neath battle's heel!'
So prayed he: nor his prayers were vain:
Long o'er the stump Æneas hangs,
And tugs with many a fruitless strain
To make the hard wood loose its fangs:
When lo! impatient as he strives,
Changed to Metiscus' shape once more
Forth runs the Daunian fair, and gives
Her brother back the sword he wore.
Then Venus, filled with ire to see
A Nymph assume so bold a part,
Approached, and from the stubborn tree
Tore out the long imprisoned dart.
Again the haughty chiefs advance,
Their strength repaired, their arms restored,
That towering with uplifted lance,
This waving high his faithful sword,
And front to front resume the game
That drains the breath and racks the frame.

Meanwhile Olympus' master, Jove,
Addressed his queenly bride,
As from a yellow cloud above
The warring chiefs she eyed:
'What now the end, fair consort, say?
What latest stake remains to play?
Long since you knew, and owned you knew,
Æneas to the skies is due,
A nation's hero: Fate's own power
Uplifts him to the starry tower.
What plan you now? what hopes o'erbold
Thus keep you throned aloft in cold?