And pins him to the sand:
Then, grovelling as he lay in dust,
Deep in his side his sword he thrust.
Stout Alsus, born of shepherd race,
Death in the forefront braves,
When Podalirius gives him chase
And high his falchion waves:
A ponderous axe the swain upheaves:
From brow to chin the head the cleaves,
While blood the arms o’erflows:
A heavy slumber, iron-bound,
Seals the dull eyes in rest profound:
In endless night they close.
His head all bare, unarmed his hand,
And, ‘Whither now so fast?’ he cries:
‘What demon bids contention rise?
O soothe your rage, I pray!
The terms are fixed, the treaty plight:
Mine, mine alone the combat’s right:
Be calm and give me way.
My hand shall make the assurance true:
Henceforward Turnus is my due.’
Thus while to lay the storm he strives,
Full on the chief an arrow drives:
Sped by what arm, what wind it came,
If Heaven or Fortune ruled its aim,
None knew: the deed was lost to fame;
Nor then nor after was there found
Who boasted of Æneas’ wound.
Retiring from his band
And Troy’s brave chiefs dismayed, his heart
With sudden hope he manned:
He calls his armour and his car,
Leaps to his seat in pride of war,
And takes the reins in hand.
Full many a gallant chief he slays,
Or pierced on earth in torture lays,
Drives down whole ranks in fierce career,
And plies the fliers with spear on spear.
As, where cold Hebrus parts the field,
Grim Mars makes thunder on his shield
And stings his steeds to fight;
They scud, the Zephyrs not so fleet:
Thrace groans beneath the hoof’s quick beat;
His dire attendants round him fly,
Anger, and blackest Treachery,
And gloomy-browed Affright:
So where the battle sorest bleeds
Keen Turnus drives his smoking steeds
Insulting o’er the slain,
While gore and sand the horse-hoof kneads
And spirts the crimson rain.
Thamyris and Sthenelus lie dead,
Encountered hand to hand;
Pholus by spear from distance sped,
And Glaucus too and Lades bled,
Whom Imbrasus their father bred
In native Lycian land,
And trained alike to fight or speed
Like lightning with the harnessed steed.
Now through the field Eumedes came,
Old Dolon’s son, of Trojan fame,
His grandsire’s counterpart in name,
In courage like his sire,
Who erst, the Danaan camp to spy,
Pelides’ car, a guerdon high,
From Hector dared require:
But Tydeus’ son with other meed
Requited that audacious deed,
And cured his proud desire.
Him from afar when Turnus views
With missile dart he first pursues,
Then quits the chariot with a bound,
Stands o’er him grovelling on the ground,
Plants on his neck his foot, and tears
From his weak grasp the lance he bears,
Deep in his throat the bright point dyes,
And o’er the corpse in triumph cries:
‘Lie there, and measure out the plain,
The Hesperian soil you sought to gain:
Such meed they win who wish me killed,
’Tis thus their city-walls they build.’
Again he hurls his spear, and sends
Asbytes to rejoin his friends:
And Chloreus, Dares, Sybaris,
The ground in quick succession kiss;
Thersilochus, Thymœtes too,
Whose restive steed his rider threw.
As when the north wind’s tyrant stress
Makes loud the Ægæan roar,
Still following on the waves that press
Tumultuous to the shore,
Where drives the gale, the cloud- rack flies
In wild confusion o’er the skies:
So wheresoe’er through all the field
Comes Turnus on, whole squadrons yield,
Turn, and resist no more:
The impulse bears him as he goes,
And ’gainst the wind his plumage flows.
With shame and anger Phegeus saw
The chief’s insulting pride:
He meets the car, and strives to draw
The steeds’ tall necks aside.
There, dragged as to the yoke he clings,
The spear his side has found,
Bursts through the corslet’s plaited rings,
And prints a surface wound:
Shifting his shield, he threats the foe,
His sword plucks out, and aims a blow:
When the fierce wheels with onward bound
Dislodge and dash him to the ground:
And Turnus’ weaponed hand,
Stretched from the car, the head has reft,
Where helm and breastplate meet, and left
The trunk upon the sand.
Æneas, with Achates tried
And Mnestheus moving at his side,
And young Ascanius near,
All bleeding to the camp is led,
Faltering and propping up his tread
With guidance of a spear.
He frets and strives with vain essay
To pluck the broken reed away,
Demands the surest, readiest aid,
To ope the wound with broadsword blade,
Unflesh the barb so deep concealed,
And send him back to battle-field.
And now Iapis had appeared,
Blest leech, to Phœbus’ self endeared
Beyond all men below,
On whom the fond indulgent God
His augury had fain bestowed,
His lyre, his sounding bow:
But he, the further to prolong
A sickly parent’s span,
The humbler art of medicine chose,
The knowledge of each herb that grows,
Plying a craft unknown to song,
An unambitious man.
Chafing with anguish, rage, and grief,
Impatient halts the wounded chief,
Propped on his mighty spear:
Iulus weeping and a band
Of gallant youths around him stand:
He heeds not groan or tear.
The aged leech, his garment wound
In Pæon sort his shoulder round,
In vain his sovereign simples plies,
His science skilled to heal,
In vain with hand and pincer tries
To loose the
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