Virgil

Our whole house is falling and you are its one support.

And dying, dreams of his sweet Argos.

In deep suspense the Trojan seemed to stand,

And, just prepared to strike, repressed his hand.

He rolled his eyes, and every moment felt

His manly soul with more compassion melt;

When, casting down a casual glance, he spied

The golden belt that glittered on his side,

The fatal spoils which haughty Turnus tore

From dying Pallas, and in triumph wore.

Then, roused anew to wrath, he loudly cries

(Flames, while he spoke, came flashing from his eyes)

"Traitor, dost thou, dost thou to grace pretend,

Clad, as thou art, in trophies of my friend?

To his sad soul a grateful offering go!

'Tis Pallas, Pallas gives this deadly blow."

He raised his arm aloft, and, at the word,

Deep in his bosom drove the shining sword.

Within that single heart surges mighty shame, and madness mingled with grief, and love stung by fury, and the consciousness of worth.

Forever worthy of my great fathers' fame!

Me—here I am, I did it! Turn your blades on me,

Rutulians! The crime's all mine, he never dared,

could never do it! I swear by the skies up there,

the stars, they know it all! All he did was love

his unlucky friend too well!

We first bring our new-born sons to the river, and harden them with the water's cruel cold.

Let me first, I beg, give vent to this madness.

Don't let your corrosive grief

devour you in silence.

Faith in the tale is old, but its fame is everlasting.

But go no further. I forbid you now.

Learn courage from me, my son, true hardship too.

Learn good luck from others.