rms and hasten to defend the walls: as when a shepherd
tracks bees to their retreat in a recessed rock, and fills it with
stinging smoke, they within run uneasily up and down their waxen
fortress, and hum louder in rising wrath; the smell rolls in darkness
along their dwelling, and a blind murmur echoes within the rock as the
smoke issues to the empty air.

This fortune likewise befell the despairing Latins, this woe shook the
whole city to her base. The queen espies from her roof the enemy's
approach, the walls scaled and firebrands flying on the houses; and
nowhere Rutulian ranks, none of Turnus' columns to meet them; alas! she
deems him destroyed in the shock of battle, and, distracted by sudden
anguish, shrieks that she is the source of guilt, the spring of ill, and
with many a mad utterance of frenzied grief rends her purple attire with
dying hand, and ties from a lofty beam the ghastly noose of death. And
when the unhappy Latin women knew this calamity, first her daughter
Lavinia tears her flower-like tresses and roseate cheeks, and all the
train around her madden in her suit; the wide palace echoes to their
wailing, and from it the sorrowful rumour spreads abroad throughout the
town. All hearts sink; Latinus goes with torn raiment, in dismay at his
wife's doom and his city's downfall, defiling his hoary hair with
soilure of sprinkled dust.

[614-648]Meanwhile on the skirts of the field Turnus chases scattered
stragglers, ever slacker to battle, ever less and less exultant in his
coursers' victorious speed. The confused cry came to him borne in blind
terror down the breeze, and his startled ears caught the echoing tumult
and disastrous murmur of the town. 'Ah me! what agony shakes the city?
or what is this cry that fleets so loud from the distant town?' So
speaks he, and distractedly checks the reins. And to him his sister, as
changed into his charioteer Metiscus' likeness she swayed horses and
chariot-reins, thus rejoined: 'This way, Turnus, let us pursue the brood
of Troy, where victory opens her nearest way; there are others whose
hands can protect their dwellings. Aeneas falls fiercer on the Italians,
and closes in conflict; let our hand too deal pitiless death on his
Teucrians. Neither in tale of dead nor in glory of battle shalt thou
retire outdone.' Thereat Turnus: . . .

'Ah my sister, long ere now I knew thee, when first thine arts shattered
the treaty, and thou didst mingle in the strife; and now thy g