o close,
Loud were the groans, and fearful was the sight,
Arms splashed with gore, steeds, riders, friends and foes,
Blent in the deadly broil, and fierce the din uprose.

LXXXI. Lo, here, Orsilochus, too faint with fear
To meet fierce Remulus, a distant dart
Hurls at his steed. Beneath the charger's ear
The shaft stands fixt; the beast, with sudden start,
His breast erect, and maddened by the smart,
Rears up, and flings his rider to the ground.
Here brave Iolas, from his friends apart,
Catillus slew; Herminius next he found,
Large-hearted, large of limb, and eke in arms renowned.

LXXXII. Bare is his head, with auburn locks aglow,
And bare his shoulders. Wounds to him are vain;
Tower-like he stands, defenceless to the foe.
Through his broad chest the javelin, urged amain,
Pierced him, and quivered, and he writhed with pain,
His giant form bent double. Far and nigh
The dark blood pours in torrents on the plain,
As, dealing havoc with the sword, they vie,
And, courting wounds, rush on, a warrior's death to die.

LXXXIII. There, quiver-girt, the Amazonian maid,
One bosom bare, amidst the carnage wheeled,
Camilla, glorying in the war's grim trade.
Her limber darts she scatters o'er the field,
Her arms untired the ponderous axe can wield.
Diana's arrows and the golden bow
Sound at her back. She too, if forced to yield,
Fights as she flies, and well the maid doth know
With flying shafts hurled back to stay the following foe.

LXXXIV. Around her, Tulla and Larinia stand,
Tarpeia too, with brazen axe bedight,
Italians all, the choicest of her band,
In peace or war her glory and delight.
So, battling round Hippolyte, unite
Her Thracians, when Thermodon's banks afar
Ring with their arms. So rides the maid of might,
Penthesilea, in her conquering car,
And hosts, with moon-shaped shields, exulting hail the war.

LXXXV. Whom first, dread maiden, did thy javelin quell?
Whom last? how many in the dust lay low?
Eunaeus first, the son of Clytius, fell.
Sheer through his breast, left naked to the blow,
Ploughed the long fir-shaft, as he faced his foe.
Prone falls the warrior, and in deadly stound
Gasps out his life-blood, and the crimson flow
Spouts forth in torrents, as he bites the ground,
And, dying, grasps the spear, and writhes upon the wound.

LXXXVI. Liris anon and P