LXVII. The belt, whereon the tale of guilt was told,—
The wedding night, the couches smeared with gore,
[The bridegrooms slain]—which Clonus in the gold,
The son of Eurytus, had grav'n of yore,
And Turnus now, exulting, seized and wore.
Vain mortals! triumphing past bounds to-day,
Blind to to-morrow's destiny. The hour
Shall come, when gold in plenty would he pay		595
Ne'er Pallas to have touched, and curse the costly prey.

LXVIII. With tears his comrades lifted from the ground
Dead Pallas; groaning, on his shield they bore
Him homeward, and the bitter wail went round.
"O grief! O glory! fall'n to rise no more!
Thus back we bring thee, thus the son restore!
One day to battle gave thee, one hath ta'en,
Victor and vanquished in the self-same hour!
Yet fall'n with honour, for behind thee slain,		604
Heaps of Rutulian foes thou leavest on the plain!"
LXIX. Sure tidings to Æneas came apace,—
'Twas no mere rumour—of his friends in flight;
Time pressed for help, death stared them in the face.
Sweeping his foes before him, left and right
He mows a passage through the ranks of fight.
Thee, haughty Turnus, thee he burns to find,
Hot with new blood, and glorying in thy might.
The sire, the son, the welcome warm and kind,		613
The feast, the parting grasp—all crowd upon his mind.
LXX. Eight youths alive he seizes for the pyre,
Four, sons of Sulmo, four, whom Ufens bred,
Poor victims, doomed to feed the funeral fire,
And pour their blood in quittance for the dead.
Then from afar a bitter shaft he sped
At Magus. Warily he stoops below
The quivering steel, that whistles o'er his head,
And, like a suppliant, crouching to his foe,		622
Clings to Æneas' knees, and cries in words of woe:
LXXI. "O by the promise of thy youthful heir,
By dead Anchises, pity, I implore,
My son, my father; for their sakes forbear.
Rich is my house, its cellars heaped with store
Of gold, and silver talents by the score.
'Tis not my doom, that shall the day decide.
If Trojans win, one foeman's life the more
Mars not the triumph, nor can turn the tide."		631
Thus he, and thus in scorn the Dardan chief replied:
LXXII. "The treasures that thou vauntest, let them be.
Thy gold, thy silver, and thy hoarded gain
Spare for thy children, for they bribe not me.
Since Pallas fell by Turnus' hand, 'twere vain
To think thy pelf will traffic for the slain,
So deems my son, so deems Anchises' shade."
He spake, and with his left hand grasped amain
His helmet. Even as the suppliant prayed,		640
Hilt-deep, the neck bent back, he drove the shining blade.

LXXIII. Hard by, the son of Hæmon there was seen,
Apollo's priest and [Trivia's,] all aglow
In robe and armour of resplendent sheen,
The holy ribboned chaplet on his brow.
Him, met, afield he chases, lays him low,
And o'er him, like a storm-cloud, dark as night,
Stands, hugely shadowing the fallen foe:
And back Serestus bears his armour bright,		649
A trophy, vowed to thee, [Gradivus,] lord of fight.
LXXIV. Then Cæculus, to Vulcan's race allied,
And Marsian Umbro, rally 'gainst the foe
The wavering ranks. The Dardan on his side
Still rages. First from Anxur with a blow
His sword the shield-arm and the shield laid low.
Big things had Anxur boasted, empty jeers,
And deemed his valour with his vaunts would grow:
Perchance, with spirit lifted to the spheres,		658
Hoar hairs he looked to see, and length of peaceful years.