Then loud he call'd Eneas thrice by name:

The loud repeated voice to glad Æneas came.

Great Jove," he said, "and the far-shooting god, Inspire thy mind to make thy challenge good!" He spoke no more, but hasten'd, void of fear, 1255 And threaten'd with his long protended spear.

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To whom Mezentius thus: "Thy vaunts are vain.
My Lausus lies extended on the plain :
He's lost! thy conquest is already won :
The wretched sire is murder'd in the son.
Nor fate I fear, but all the gods defy.
Forbear thy threats: my bus'ness is to die;
But first receive this parting legacy.”

He said; and straight a whirling dart he sent :
Another after, and another, went.

Round in a spacious ring he rides the field,

And vainly plies th' impenetrable shield.

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Thrice rode he round; and thrice Æneas wheel'd, Turn'd as he turn'd: the golden orb withstood The strokes, and bore about an iron wood. Impatient of delay, and weary grown,

Still to defend, and to defend alone,

To wrench the darts which in his buckler light,
Urg'd, and o'erlabour'd in unequal fight

At length resolv'd, he throws, with all his force,

Full at the temples of the warrior horse.

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Just where the stroke was aim'd, th' unerring spear
Made way, and stood transfix'd through either ear.
Seis'd with unwonted pain, surpris'd with fright,
The wounded steed curvets, and, rais'd upright, 1280
Lights on his feet before: his hoofs behind

Spring up in air aloft, and lash the wind.

Down comes the rider headlong from his height:
His horse came after with unwieldy weight,

And flound'ring forward, pitching on his head, 1285
His lord's encumber'd shoulder overlaid.

From either host, the mingled shouts and cries
Of Trojans and Rutulians rend the skies :
Eneas, hast'ning, wav'd his fatal sword

High o'er his head, with this reproachful word: 1290 "Now! where are now the vaunts, the fierce disdain, Of proud Mezentius, and the lofty strain ?"

Struggling, and wildly staring on the skies

With scarce recover'd sight, he thus replies: 1295

Why these insulting words, this waste of breath,

To souls undaunted, and secure of death?

'Tis no dishonour for the brave to die:
Nor came I here with hope of victory;
Nor ask I life, nor fought with that design.
As I had us'd my fortune, use thou thine.
My dying son contracted no such band;
The gift is hateful from his murd'rer's hand.

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For this, this only favour let me sue,
If pity can to conquer'd foes be due,
Refuse it not but let my body have
The last retreat of human kind, a grave.

1305

Too well I know th' insulting people's hate :
Protect me from their vengeance after fate:
This refuge for my poor remains provide ;
And lay my much-lov'd Lausus by my side." 1310
He said, and to the sword his throat apply'd.

The crimson stream distain'd his arms around,

And the disdainful soul came rushing through the

wound.

Æ NEÏS,

BOOK XI,

ARGUMENT.

Æneas erects a trophy of the spoils of Mezentius, grants a truce for burying the dead, and sends home the body of Pallas with great solemnity. Latinus calls a council, to propose offers of peace to Æneas ; which occasions great animosity betwixt Turnus and Drances. In the mean time there is a sharp engagement of the horse; wherein Camilla signalises herself, is killed; und the Latine troops are entirely defeated.

SCARCE had the rosy morning rais'd her head

Above the waves, and left her watʼry bed;
The pious chief, whom double cares attend
For his unbury'd soldiers and his friend,
Yet first to heav'n perform'd a victor's vows:
He bar'd an ancient oak of all her boughs;
Then on a rising ground the trunk he plac'd,
Which with the spoils of his dead foe he grac'd,

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The coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn,
Now on a naked snag in triumph borne,
Was hung on high, and glitter'd from afar,
A trophy sacred to the god of war.
Above his arms, fix'd on the leafless wood,
Appear'd his plumy crest, besmear'd with blood.
His brazen buckler on the left was seen:
Trunchions of shiver'd lances hung between;
And on the right was plac'd his corslet, bor'd;
And to the neck was tied his unavailing sword.
A crowd of chiefs inclose the godlike man,

Who thus, conspicuous in the midst, began:

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"Our toils, my friends, are crown'd with sure success:

The greater part perform'd, achieve the less.

Now follow cheerful to the trembling town:

Press but an entrance, and presume it won.
Fear is no more: for fierce Mezentius lies,
As the first fruits of war, a sacrifice.
Turnus shall fall extended on the plain,

And, in this omen, is already slain.

Prepar'd in arms, pursue your happy chance;
That none unwarn'd may plead his ignorance
And I, at heav'n's appointed hour, may find
Your warlike ensigns waving in the wind.
Meantine the rites and fun'ral pomps prepare,
Due to your dead companions of the war-

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