d in haste, and, spurring, strives to flee.
"Fool," cries Camilla, "let thy pride beware.
Think not to palm thy father's tricks on me,
Nor hope with craft like this thy lying sire to see."

XCII. So spake she, and on flying feet afire
Outruns his steed, and stands athwart the way,
Then grasps the reins, and deals the wretch his hire,
Doomed with his life-blood for his craft to pay.
So on a dove, amid the clouds astray,
Down swoops the sacred falcon through the sky
From some tall cliff, and fastens on his prey,
And grips, and rends, and sucks the life-blood dry;
The feathers, foul with blood, come, fluttering down from high.

XCIII. Nor Jove meanwhile with unregarding ken,
Throned on Olympus, doth the scene survey.
Watchful of all, the Sire of gods and men
Stirs up the Tuscan Tarchon to the fray,
And plies the war-goad with no gentle sway.
He through the squadrons on his steed aflame
Rides 'mid the carnage, where the ranks give way;
Now chides, now cheers, and calling each by name,
Re-forms the broken lines, and reinspires the tame.

XCIV. "Cowards, why faint ye, Tuscans but in name?
Fie! shall a woman scatter you in flight?
O, slack! O, never to be stung to shame!
What use of weapons, if ye fear to fight?
No laggards ye for amorous jousts at night,
Or Bacchic revels, when the fife ye hear.
The feast and wine-cup--these are your delight;
For these ye linger, till the approving seer
Calls to the grove's deep shade, where bleeds the fattened steer."

XCV. Then, spurring forth, himself prepared to die,
He dashed at Venulus, unhorsed his prize,
And bore him on his saddle-bow. A cry
Goes up, and all the Latins turn their eyes.
Swift with his prey the fiery Tarchon flies,
And, while the steel-head from his spear he rends,
Each chink and crevice in his armour tries,
To deal the death-blow. He, as fierce, contends,
And, countering force with force, his naked throat defends.

XCVI. As when a golden eagle, high in air,
Wreathed with a serpent, fastens, as she flies,
With feet that clutch, and taloned claws that tear.
Coil writhed in coil, the roughening scales uprise,
The crest points up, the hissing tongue defies.
She with sharp beak still rends the struggling prey,
And beats the air. So Tarchon with his prize
Through Tibur's host exulting speeds away.
With cheers the