Vary thy shape in thousand forms, and dare What skill and courage can attempt in war;Wish for the wings of winds, to mount the sky;Or hid, within the hollow earth to lie!"
The champion shook his head, and made this short reply:
"No threats of thine my manly mind can move;'T is hostile heav'n I dread, and partial Jove."He said no more, but, with a sigh, repress'd The mighty sorrow in his swelling breast.
Then, as he roll'd his troubled eyes around, An antique stone he saw, the common bound Of neighb'ring fields, and barrier of the ground;So vast, that twelve strong men of modern days Th' enormous weight from earth could hardly raise.
He heav'd it at a lift, and, pois'd on high, Ran stagg'ring on against his enemy, But so disorder'd, that he scarcely knew His way, or what unwieldly weight he threw.
His knocking knees are bent beneath the load, And shiv'ring cold congeals his vital blood.
The stone drops from his arms, and, falling short For want of vigor, mocks his vain effort.
And as, when heavy sleep has clos'd the sight, The sickly fancy labors in the night;We seem to run; and, destitute of force, Our sinking limbs forsake us in the course:
In vain we heave for breath; in vain we cry;The nerves, unbrac'd, their usual strength deny;And on the tongue the falt'ring accents die:
So Turnus far'd; whatever means he tried, All force of arms and points of art employ'd, The Fury flew athwart, and made th' endeavor void.