LXII. "Thou—is it thou, Euryalus, my own?
Thou, the late solace of my age? Ah, why
So cruel? Could'st thou leave me here alone,
Nor let thy mother bid a last good-bye?
Now left a prey on Latin soil to lie
Of dogs and birds, nor I, thy mother, there
To wash thy wounds, and close thy lightless eye,
And shroud thee in the robe I wrought so fair,		550
Fain with the busy loom to soothe an old wife's care!
LXIII. "Where shall I follow thee? Thy corpse defiled,
Thy mangled limbs—where are they? Woe is me!
Is this then all of what was once my child?
Was it for this I roamed the land and sea?
Pierce me, Rutulians; hurl your darts at me,
Me first, if ye a mother's love can know.
Great Sire of Heaven, have pity! set me free.
Hurl with thy bolt to Tartarus below		559
This hateful head, that longs to quit a world of woe!"
LXIV. So wails the mother, weeping and undone,
And sorrow smites each warrior, as he hears,
Each groaning, as a father for his son.
Grief runs, like wildfire, through the Trojan peers,
And numbs their courage, and augments their fears.
Then, fain the spreading sorrow to allay,
Ilioneus and Iulus, bathed in tears
Call Actor and Idæus; gently they		568
The aged dame lift up, and to her home convey.

LXV. Now terribly the brazen trumpet pealed
Its summons, and the war-shout rent the air.
On press the Volscians, locking shield to shield,
And fill the trenches, and the breastwork tear.
These plant their ladders for assault, where'er
A gap, just glimmering, shows the line less dense.
Vain hope! the Teucrians with their darts are there.
Stout poles they ply, and thrust them from the fence,		577
Trained by a lingering siege, and tutored to defence.
LXVI. Stones, too, they roll, to crush the serried shields:
Blithely the warriors bear the storm below,
Yet not for long; for, see, the penthouse yields.
Down on the midst, where thickest press the foe,
The Teucrians, rolling, with a crash let go
A ponderous mass, that opens to the light
The jointed shields, and lays the warriors low.
Nor care they longer in the dark to fight,		586
But vie with distant darts to sweep the rampart's height.
LXVII. Pine-stock in hand, Mezentius hurls the flame;
There, fierce Messapus rends the palisade,—
Tamer of steeds, from Neptune's loins he came,—
And shouts aloud for ladders to invade.
Aid me, Calliope; ye Muses, aid
To sing of Turnus and his deeds that day,
The deaths he wrought, the havoc that he made,
And whom each warrior singled for his prey;		595
Roll back the war's great scroll, the mighty leaves display.

LXVIII. Built high, with lofty gangways, stood a tower,
Fit post of vantage, which the Latins vied,
With utmost effort and with all their power,
To capture and destroy, while armed inside
With stones, the Trojans through the loopholes plied
Their missiles. Turnus, 'mid the foremost, cast
A blazing brand, and, fastening to the side,
Up went the flame; from floor to floor it passed,		604
Clung to and licked the posts, and maddened with the blast.
LXIX. Within 'twas hurrying and tumultuous fright,
As, crowding backward, they retreat before
The advancing flames, and vainly long for flight.
Lo! toppling suddenly, the tower went o'er,
And shook the wide air with reverberant roar.
Half-dead, the huge mass following amain,
They come to earth, stabbed by the darts they bore,
Or pierced by splinters through the breast. Scarce twain		613
Escape—Helenor one, and Lycus—from the slain.