“Either my hand Shall send this Dardan foe to Tarturus, Asia’s deserter (let the Latians sit, And see), and with the sword I will refute The common charge, or let him rule over us, Vanquished, and take Lavinia for this wife.”
What god can now declare unto my verse The dire events, what carnage was ensued, What deaths of chiefs? Whom Turnus now pursues, And now the Trojan hero, over the fields? Was it the will of Jupiter that thus The nations whom eternal peace one day Would join such clash in such dire conflict?
“What you will, I grant; and vanquished, willingly submit. The Ausonians shall retain their ancient tongue And customs; and their name shall be as now. But, mingled with the mass, the Trojan race Shall settle in their land. I will ordain Their customs and their sacred rites, and all Shall be Latins, one common speech to all. Hence, mingle Ausonian blood, shall rise A nation above men and gods in worth, Nor matched by any race in serving you.”
“The Ausonians have beheld A vanquished enemy stretch forth his hands. Lavinia is your bride. Stretch not your hate Beyond what you have done.”
“And do you think,” he cried, “to escape my hand, Clothed in the spoils you have snatched from my friend? It’s Pallas, Pallas slays you with this blow, And takes his vengeance with your accursed blood!” He spoke, and plunged his sword into his breast. Relaxed, the limbs lay cold, and, with a groan, Down to the Shades the soul, indignant, fled.