itter wail went round.
"O grief! O glory! fall'n to rise no more!
Thus back we bring thee, thus the son restore!
One day to battle gave thee, one hath ta'en,
Victor and vanquished in the self-same hour!
Yet fall'n with honour, for behind thee slain,
Heaps of Rutulian foes thou leavest on the plain!"

LXIX. Sure tidings to AEneas came apace,--
'Twas no mere rumour--of his friends in flight;
Time pressed for help, death stared them in the face.
Sweeping his foes before him, left and right
He mows a passage through the ranks of fight.
Thee, haughty Turnus, thee he burns to find,
Hot with new blood, and glorying in thy might.
The sire, the son, the welcome warm and kind,
The feast, the parting grasp--all crowd upon his mind.

LXX. Eight youths alive he seizes for the pyre,
Four, sons of Sulmo, four, whom Ufens bred,
Poor victims, doomed to feed the funeral fire,
And pour their blood in quittance for the dead.
Then from afar a bitter shaft he sped
At Magus. Warily he stoops below
The quivering steel, that whistles o'er his head,
And, like a suppliant, crouching to his foe,
Clings to AEneas' knees, and cries in words of woe:

LXXI. "O by the promise of thy youthful heir,
By dead Anchises, pity, I implore,
My son, my father; for their sakes forbear.
Rich is my house, its cellars heaped with store
Of gold, and silver talents by the score.
'Tis not my doom, that shall the day decide.
If Trojans win, one foeman's life the more
Mars not the triumph, nor can turn the tide."
Thus he, and thus in scorn the Dardan chief replied:

LXXII. "The treasures that thou vauntest, let them be.
Thy gold, thy silver, and thy hoarded gain
Spare for thy children, for they bribe not me.
Since Pallas fell by Turnus' hand, 'twere vain
To think thy pelf will traffic for the slain,
So deems my son, so deems Anchises' shade."
He spake, and with his left hand grasped amain
His helmet. Even as the suppliant prayed,
Hilt-deep, the neck bent back, he drove the shining blade.

LXXIII. Hard by, the son of Haemon there was seen,
Apollo's priest and Trivia's, all aglow
In robe and armour of resplendent sheen,
The holy ribboned chaplet on his brow.
Him, met, afield he chases, lays him low,
And o'er him, like a storm-cloud, dark as night,
Stands, hugely shadowing the fallen foe:
And back S