And slipped a-side, and shunned the long-descending blow.
Entellus wastes his forces on the wind,
And, thus deluded of the stroke designed,
Headlong and heavy fell, his ample breast
And weighty limbs his ancient mother pressed.
So falls a hollow pine that long had stood
On Ida’s height or Erymanthus’ wood,
Torn from the roots. The differing nations rise,
And shouts, with mingled murmurs, rend the skies.
Acestes runs with eager haste to raise