LXX. Of these Helenor,—whom to Lydia's lord
By stealth his slave, the fair Licymnia, bore,
And sent to Ilium, where a simple sword
And plain, white shield, yet unrenowned, he wore,—
He, when he sees, around him and before,
The Latin hosts, as when in fierce disdain,
Hemmed round by huntsmen, in his rage the boar
O'erleaps the spears, so, where the thickest rain		622
The foemen's darts, springs forth Helenor to be slain.
LXXI. But fleeter far, young Lycus hastes to slip
Through swords, through foes, and gains the walls, and tries
To climb them, and a comrade's hand to grip.
With foot and spear behind him, as he flies,
Comes Turnus. Scornfully the victor cries,
"Mad fool! to fly, whom I have doomed to fall;
Think'st thou to baffle Turnus of his prize?"
Therewith he grasps him hanging, and withal		631
Down with his victim drags huge fragments of the wall.

LXXII. E'en so some snowy swan, or timorous hare
[Jove's armour-bearer,] swooping from the sky,
Grips in his talons, and aloft doth bear.
So, where apart the folded weanlings lie,
Swift at some lamb the warrior-wolf doth fly,
And leaves the mother, bleating in her woe.
Loud rings the noise of battle. With a cry
The foe press on; these fill the trench below,		640
These to the topmost towers the blazing firebrands throw.
LXXIII. Ilioneus with a rock's huge fragment quelled
Lucetius, creeping to the gate below
With fire. Asylas Corynæus felled,
Liger Emathion, one skilled to throw
The flying dart, one famous with the bow.
Cænus—brief triumph!—made Ortygius fall,
With Dioxippus, Turnus lays him low,
Then Itys, Clonius, Promolus withal,		649
Sagaris, and Idas last, the warder of the wall.
LXXIV. There, slain by Capys, poor Privernus lay,
Grazed by Themilla's javelin; with a start
The madman flung his trusty shield away,
And clapped his left hand to the wounded part,
Fain, as he thought, to ease him of the smart.
Thereat, a light-winged arrow, unespied,
Whirred on the wind. It missed the warrior's heart,
But pierced his hand, and pinned it to his side,		658
And, entering, clave the lung, and with a gasp he died.

LXXV. With broidered scarf of Spanish crimson, stood
A comely youth, young Arcens was his name,
Sent by his father, from [Symæthus'] flood,
And nurtured in his mother's grove, he came,
Where, rich and kind, Palicus' altars flame.
His lance laid by, thrice whirling round his head
The whistling thong, Mezentius took his aim.
Clean through his temples hissed the molten lead,		667
And prostrate in the dust, the gallant youth lay dead.
LXXVI. Then first, 'tis said, in war Ascanius drew
His bow, wherewith in boyish days he plied
The flying game. His hand Numanus slew,
Called Remulus, to Turnus late allied,
For Turnus' youngest sister was his bride.
He, puffed with new-won royalty and proud,
Stalked in the forefront of the fight, and cried
With random clamour and big words and loud,		676
Fain by his noise to show his grandeur to the crowd.