XCII. So spake she, and on flying feet afire
Outruns his steed, and stands athwart the way,
Then grasps the reins, and deals the wretch his hire,
Doomed with his life-blood for his craft to pay.
So on a dove, amid the clouds astray,
Down swoops the sacred falcon through the sky
From some tall cliff, and fastens on his prey,
And grips, and rends, and sucks the life-blood dry;		820
The feathers, foul with blood, come, fluttering down from high.
XCIII. Nor Jove meanwhile with unregarding ken,
Throned on Olympus, doth the scene survey.
Watchful of all, the Sire of gods and men
Stirs up the Tuscan Tarchon to the fray,
And plies the war-goad with no gentle sway.
He through the squadrons on his steed aflame
Rides 'mid the carnage, where the ranks give way;
Now chides, now cheers, and calling each by name,		829
Re-forms the broken lines, and reinspires the tame.
XCIV. "Cowards, why faint ye, Tuscans but in name?
Fie! shall a woman scatter you in flight?
O, slack! O, never to be stung to shame!
What use of weapons, if ye fear to fight?
No laggards ye for amorous jousts at night,
Or Bacchic revels, when the fife ye hear.
The feast and wine-cup—these are your delight;
For these ye linger, till the approving seer		838
Calls to the grove's deep shade, where bleeds the fattened steer."
XCV. Then, spurring forth, himself prepared to die,
He dashed at Venulus, unhorsed his prize,
And bore him on his saddle-bow. A cry
Goes up, and all the Latins turn their eyes.
Swift with his prey the fiery Tarchon flies,
And, while the steel-head from his spear he rends,
Each chink and crevice in his armour tries,
To deal the death-blow. He, as fierce, contends,		847
And, countering force with force, his naked throat defends.
XCVI. As when a golden eagle, high in air,
Wreathed with a serpent, fastens, as she flies,
With feet that clutch, and taloned claws that tear.
Coil writhed in coil, the roughening scales uprise,
The crest points up, the hissing tongue defies.
She with sharp beak still rends the struggling prey,
And beats the air. So Tarchon with his prize
Through Tibur's host exulting speeds away.		856
With cheers the Tuscans charge, and hail their chief's essay.
XCVII. Now, due to fate, aloof with lifted lance,
The crafty Aruns round Camilla wheels,
And tries where fortune lends the readiest chance.
Oft as she charges, where the war-shout peals,
He slips unseen, and follows on her heels.
When back she runs, triumphant from the foe,
He shifts the rein, and from the conflict steals.
Now here, now there, he doubles to and fro,		865
And shakes his felon spear, but hesitates to throw.
XCVIII. Lo, Chloreus, priest of Cybele, aglow
In Phrygian armour, gorgeous to behold,
Urges his foaming charger at the foe,
All decked in feathered chain-work, linked with gold.
Cretan his shafts, his bow of Lycian mould.
Dark blue and foreign purple clothed his breast,
Golden his casque and bow; his mantle's fold
Of yellow saffron knots of gold compressed,		874
And buskins bound his knees, and broidered was his vest.
XCIX. Him the fierce huntress, whether fain the shrine
To deck with trophies, or with envious eyes
Wishful herself in Trojan arms to shine,
Marks in the strife; at him alone she flies,
Proud, like a woman, of her fancied prize.
Blindly she runs, uncautious of the snare,
When, darting from the ambush, where he lies,
The moment snatched, false Aruns shakes his spear,		883
And thus, with measured aim, invokes the Gods with prayer.
C. "O Phoebus, guardian of Soracte's steep,
Whom first we honour, to whose sacred name,
Thy votaries, we, the blazing pine-wood heap,
And, firm in faith, pass through the smouldering flame,
Grant that our arms may wipe away this shame.
Trophies, nor spoils, nor plunder from the prey
Be mine; I look to other deeds for fame.
If wound of mine this hateful pest shall slay,		892
Home will I gladly go, and fameless quit the fray."
CI. Apollo heard, and granted half his prayer,
And half he scattered to the winds. To slay
With sudden stroke Camilla unaware
He gave, but gave not his returning day;
The breezes puffed the bootless wish away.
Shrill sang the lance; each Volscian eye and heart
Turned to the queen. The weapon on its way,—
The rush of air she heeds not, till the dart		901
Strikes home, and, staying, draws the life-blood from her heart.