And sent to Ilium, where a simple sword
And plain, white shield, yet unrenowned, he wore,--
He, when he sees, around him and before,
The Latin hosts, as when in fierce disdain,
Hemmed round by huntsmen, in his rage the boar
O'erleaps the spears, so, where the thickest rain
The foemen's darts, springs forth Helenor to be slain.

LXXI. But fleeter far, young Lycus hastes to slip
Through swords, through foes, and gains the walls, and tries
To climb them, and a comrade's hand to grip.
With foot and spear behind him, as he flies,
Comes Turnus. Scornfully the victor cries,
"Mad fool! to fly, whom I have doomed to fall;
Think'st thou to baffle Turnus of his prize?"
Therewith he grasps him hanging, and withal
Down with his victim drags huge fragments of the wall.

LXXII. E'en so some snowy swan, or timorous hare
Jove's armour-bearer, swooping from the sky,
Grips in his talons, and aloft doth bear.
So, where apart the folded weanlings lie,
Swift at some lamb the warrior-wolf doth fly,
And leaves the mother, bleating in her woe.
Loud rings the noise of battle. With a cry
The foe press on; these fill the trench below,
These to the topmost towers the blazing firebrands throw.

LXXIII. Ilioneus with a rock's huge fragment quelled
Lucetius, creeping to the gate below
With fire. Asylas Corynaeus felled,
Liger Emathion, one skilled to throw
The flying dart, one famous with the bow.
Caenus--brief triumph!--made Ortygius fall,
With Dioxippus, Turnus lays him low,
Then Itys, Clonius, Promolus withal,
Sagaris, and Idas last, the warder of the wall.

LXXIV. There, slain by Capys, poor Privernus lay,
Grazed by Themilla's javelin; with a start
The madman flung his trusty shield away,
And clapped his left hand to the wounded part,
Fain, as he thought, to ease him of the smart.
Thereat, a light-winged arrow, unespied,
Whirred on the wind. It missed the warrior's heart,
But pierced his hand, and pinned it to his side,
And, entering, clave the lung, and with a gasp he died.

LXXV. With broidered scarf of Spanish crimson, stood
A comely youth, young Arcens was his name,
Sent by his father, from Symaethus' flood,
And nurtured in his mother's grove, he came,
Where, rich and kind, Palicus' altars flame.
His lance laid by, thrice whirling round his head
The whistling thong, Meze