d rolled him helpless. Lausus takes his gear;
The shining crest he fits upon his head,
And dons the breastplate. 'Neath the conqueror's spear
Phrygian Evanthes falls, and Paris' friend and peer,

XCVI. Young Mimas, whom to Amycus that night
Theano bore, when, big with Ilion's bane,
Queen Hecuba brought Paris forth to light.
Now Paris sleeps upon his native plain,
But Mimas on a foreign shore is slain.
As when a wild-boar, hounded from the hill,
Who long on pine-clad Venulus hath lain,
Or in Laurentum's marish fed his fill,
Now in the toils caught fast, before his foes stands still,

XCVII. And snorts with rage, and rears his bristling back;
None dares approach him, but aloof they wait,
Safe-shouting, and with distant darts attack;
E'en so, of those who burn with righteous hate,
None dares against Mezentius try his fate.
But cries are hurled, and distant missiles plied,
While he, undaunted, but in desperate strait,
Gnashes his teeth, and from his shield's tough hide
Shakes off the darts in showers, and shifts from side to side.

XCVIII. From ancient Corythus came Acron there,
A Greek, in exile from his half-won bride.
Him, dealing havoc in the ranks, elsewhere
Mezentius marked; the purple plumes he eyed,
The robe his loved one for her lord had dyed.
As when a lion, prowling to and fro,
Sore pinched with hunger, round the fold, hath spied
A stag tall-antlered, or a timorous roe,
Ghastly he grins, erect his horrid mane doth show;

XCIX. Prone o'er his victim, to the flesh he clings,
And laps the gore; so, burning in his zeal,
The fierce Mezentius at his foemen springs.
Poor Acron falls, and earth with dying heel
Spurns, and the red blood stains the splintered steel.
Orodes fled; Mezentius marks his flight,
And scorns with lance a covert wound to deal,
But face to face confronts him in the fight,
Courage, not craft, prevails, and might o'ermatches might.

C. With foot and spear upon him, "See," he cries,
"Their champion; see the great Orodes slain!"
All shout applause, but, dying, he replies,
"Strange foe, not long thy triumph shall remain;
Like fate awaits thee, on the self-same plain."
"Die!" said Mezentius, with a smile of spite,
"Jove cares for me," and plucked the shaft again.
Grim rest and iron slumber seal his sight;
The drooping eyelids close on everlast