hus, and Sybaris, withal;
Thymoetes, who from rearing horse had hap to catch a fall;
And e'en as when the breathing forth of Thracian Boreas roars
O'er deep AEgean, driving on the wave-press to the shores,
Then wheresoe'er the wind stoops down the clouds flee heaven apace;
So wheresoe'er cleaves Turnus way all battle giveth place,
All war-array is turned to wrack: his onrush beareth him,
And in the breeze that meets his car his tossing crest doth swim. 370

This onset of the maddened heart nought Phegeus might abide,
But cast himself before the steeds, and caught and wrenched aside
The bit-befoaming mouths of them, the heart-stung hurrying steeds.
But while he hangeth dragged along, the spear broad-headed speeds
Unto his shieldless side, and rends the twilinked coat of mail,
And for the razing of his flesh a little doth avail:
But he turned round about his shield and at the foemen made,
And from his naked sword drawn forth sought most well-needed aid;
When now the axle-tree and wheel, unto fresh speeding won,
Cast him down headlong unto earth, and Turnus following on, 380
Betwixt the lowest of the helm and haubert's upper lip
Sheared off his head, and left the trunk upon the sand to slip.

But while victorious Turnus gives these deaths unto the plain,
Mnestheus and that Achates leal, Ascanius with the twain,
Bring great AEneas to the camp all covered with his blood;
There, propping up his halting steps with spear-shaft long, he stood:
Mad wroth he is, and strives to pluck the broken reed away,
And bids them help by any road, the swiftest that they may,
To cut away the wound with sword, cut to the hiding-place
Where lies the steel, and send him back to meet the battle's face. 390
Iapis, son of Iasus, by Phoebus best beloved,
Draws nigh now: Phoebus on a time, by mighty longing moved,
Was fain to give him gifts of God, his very heavenly craft--
Foresight, or skill of harp-playing, or mastery of the shaft:
But he, that from his bed-rid sire the death he yet might stave,
Would liefer know the might of herbs, and how men heal and save,
And, speeding of a silent craft, inglorious life would wear.

AEneas, fretting bitterly, stood leaning on his spear
Midst a great concourse of the lords, with sad Iulus by,
Unmoved amid their many tears: the elder, girded high