CXI. "Alas! what meed, to match such worth divine,
Can good Æneas give thee? Take to-day
The arms wherein thou joyed'st; they are thine.
Thy corpse—if aught can please the senseless clay—
Back to thy parents' ashes I repay.
Poor youth! thy solace be it to be slain
By great Æneas." Then his friends' delay
He chides, and lifts young Lausus from the plain,		991
Dead, and with dainty locks fouled by the crimson stain.
CXII. Meanwhile the sire Mezentius, faint with pain,
In Tiber's waters bathes the bleeding wound.
Against a trunk he leans; the boughs sustain
His brazen helm; his arms upon the ground
Rest idly, and his comrades stand around.
Sick, gasping, spent, his weary neck he tends;
Loose o'er his bosom floats the beard unbound.
Oft of his son he questions, oft he sends		1000
To bid him quit the field, and seek his sire and friends.
CXIII. But, sad and sorrowful, the Tuscan train
Bear back the lifeless Lausus from the field,
Weeping—the mighty by a mightier slain,
And laid in death upon the warrior's shield.
Far off, their wailing to the sire revealed
The grief, that made his boding heart mistrust.
In agony of vanquish, down he kneeled,
His hoary hairs disfiguring with the dust,		1009
And, grovelling, clasped the corpse, and both his hands outthrust.
CXIV. "Dear son, was life so tempting to the sire,
To let thee face the foemen in my room,
Whom I begot? Shalt thou, my son, expire,
And I live on, my darling in the tomb,
Saved by thy wounds, and living by thy doom?
Ah! woe is me; too well at length I own
The pangs of exile, and the wound strikes home.
'Twas I, thy name who tarnished, I alone,		1018
Whom just resentment thrust from sceptre and from throne.
CXV. "Due to my country was the forfeit; yea,
All deaths Mezentius had deserved to die.
Yet still I leave, and leave not man and day,
But leave I will,—the fatal hour is nigh."
Then, slowly leaning on his crippled thigh
(Deep was the wound, but dauntless was his breast),
He rose, and calling for his steed hard by,
The steed, that oft in victory's hour he pressed,		1027
His solace and his pride, the sorrowing beast addressed:
CXVI. "Rhæbus, full long, if aught of earth be long,
We two have lived. Æneas' head to-day,
And spoils, blood-crimsoned to avenge this wrong,
Back shalt thou bring, or, failing in the fray,
Bite earth with me, and be the Dardan's prey.
Not thou would'st brook a foreign lord, I weet,
Brave heart, or deign a Teucrian to obey."
He spoke, and, mounting to his well-known seat,		1036
Swift at the ranks spurred forth, his dreaded foe to meet.
CXVII. Each hand a keen dart brandished; o'er his head
Gleamed the brass helmet with its horse-hair crest.
Shame for himself, and sorrow for the dead,
The parent's anguish, and the warrior's zest,
Thrilled through his veins, and kindled in his breast,
And thrice he called Æneas. With delight
Æneas heard him, and his vows addressed:
"So help me Jove, so Phoebus lend his might,		1045
Come on," and couched his spear, advancing to the fight.
CXVIII. "Wretch," cries Mezentius, "having robbed my son,
Why scare me now? Thy terrors I defy.
Only through Lausus were his sire undone.
I heed not death nor deities, not I;
Forbear thy taunting; I am here to die,
But send this gift to greet thee, ere I go."
He spake, and quickly let a javelin fly,
Another—and another, as round the foe		1054
In widening orbs he wheels; the good shield bides the blow.
CXIX. Thrice round Æneas leftward he careers,
Raining his darts. Thrice, shifting round, each way
The Trojan bears the forest of his spears.
At length, impatient of the long delay,
And tired with plucking all the shafts away,
Pondering awhile, and by the ceaseless blows
Hard pressed, and chafing at the unequal fray,
Forth springs Æneas, and betwixt the brows		1063
Full at the warrior-steed a fatal javelin throws.
CXX. Up rears the steed, and paws the air in pain,
Then, following on his falling rider, lies
And pins him with his shoulder to the plain.
Shouts from each host run kindling through the skies.
Forth springs Æneas, glorying in his prize,
And plucks the glittering falchion from his thigh,
"Where now is fierce Mezentius? where," he cries,
"That fiery spirit?" Then, with upturned eye,		1072
Gasping, with gathered sense, the Tuscan made reply: