Patroclus and Achilles - Take Four

Dūrīs, Achille, ex cautibus et gelū

numquam solūtō nāte, movent neque haec

dīrae bucīnae nuntiantēs

Dardana tēla fugasse nostrōs;

nec celsa virtus nunc morientium?

vallō minātur Trōica pīneō

pūbēs, resistet firma porta

illa diū neque fortis Ājax.

silvās velut cum flamma vorat, velut

nīvēs perennēs Thrēiciae cadunt

sīc ista saevit semper īra

rōbora quā pereunt Achaea.

Born of the hard rock, Achilles,

and of ice never-dissolved,

do neither the dread trumpets

move you, announcing that

Dardan weapons have put our own to flight,

nor the lofty courage of the dying?

Trojan youth now threaten the pine-wood

rampart, nor will that firm gate,

nor brave Ajax long withstand (them).

As when a fire devours forests, like

Thracian snows fall, year-round,

so does your anger ever rage,

for which the picked men of Achaea perish.