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With groans the Latins rend the vaulted sky:
Woods, hills, and valleys, to the voice reply.

1345

Now low on earth the lofty chief is laid, With eyes cast upwards, and with arms display'd, And, recreant, thus to the proud victor pray'd: "I know my death deserv'd, nor hope to live: Use what the gods and thy good fortune give. 1350 Yet think, oh! think, if mercy may be shown, (Thou hadst a father once, and hast a son) Pity my sire, now sinking to the grave; And, for Anchises' sake, old Daunus save! Or, if thy vow'd revenge pursue my death, Give to my friends my body void of breath! The Latian chiefs have seen me beg iny life: Thine is the conquest, thine the royal wife: Against a yielded man, 'tis mean ignoble strife."

1355

In deep suspense the Trojan seem'd to stand, 1360 And, just prepar'd to strike, repress'd his hand. He roll'd his eyes, and ev'ry moment felt His manly soul with more compassion melt; When, casting down a casual glance, he spy'd The golden belt that glitter'd on his side, The fatal spoil which haughty Turnus tore

1365

From dying Pallas, and in triumph wore.

Then rous'd anew to wrath, he loudly cries,

(Flames, while he spoke, came flashing from his eyes)

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"Traitor! dost thou, dost thou to grace pretend,
Clad, as thou art, in trophies of my friend?
To his sad soul a grateful off'ring go!

'Tis Pallas, Pallas gives this deadly blow."

He rais'd his arm aloft, and, at the word,

1371

Deep in his bosom drove the shining sword.

1375

The streaming blood distain'd his arms around;

And the disdainful soul came rushing through the

wound.

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