LXVII. Him the fierce hounds now startle far astray,
As down the stream he floats, or, crouching low,
Rests on the green bank from the noontide ray.
Athirst for praise, Ascanius bends his bow;
Loud whirs the arrow, for Fate aims the blow,
And cleaves his flank and belly. Homeward flies
The wounded creature, moaning in his woe.
Blood-stained, with piteous and imploring eyes,		595
Like one who sues for life, he fills the house with cries.
LXVIII. Smiting the breast, poor Silvia calls for aid.
Forth rush the churls, scarce waiting her demand,
Roused by the Fury in the wood's still shade.
One grasps a club, another wields a brand;
Rage makes a weapon of what comes to hand.
Forth from his work ran Tyrrheus, who an oak
Was cleaving with the wedge, and cheered the band.
His hand still grasped the hatchet for the stroke,		604
And bitter wrath he breathed, and fierce the words he spoke.

LXIX. The Fury snatched the moment; forth she flew,
And, perching on the cabin-roof, looked round,
And from the curved horn of the shepherds blew
A blast of Tartarus, that shook the ground,
And made the forests and the groves rebound
The infernal echoes. [Trivia's lakes] afar,
And [Velia's fountains] heard the dreadful sound;
The white waves heard it of the sulphurous Nar,		613
And mothers clasped their babes, and trembled at the war.
LXX. Swift at the summons, as the trumpet brayed,
The sturdy shepherds arm them for the fray.
Swift pour the Trojans from their camp, to aid
Ascanius. Lo! 'tis battle's stern array,
No village brawl, where churls dispute the day
With charred oak-staves and cudgels. Broadswords clash
With broadswords, and War's harvest far away
Stands, bristling black with iron, as they dash		622
Together, and drawn swords in doubtful conflict flash.
LXXI. And brazen arms shoot many a blinding ray,
Smit by the sun, as clouds that fill the sky,
Disparting, show the splendours of the fray.
As when a light wind o'er the sea doth fly,
And the wave whitens as the breeze goes by,
And by degrees the bosom of the deep
Heaves up and swells, till higher and more high
The billows rise, and, gathering in a heap,		631
From Ocean's caves mount up, and storm the ethereal steep.
LXXII. First falls the son of Tyrrheus, stretched in death,
Young Almo. In his throat the deadly bane
Stuck fast, and choked the humid pass of breath,
And clipped the thin-spun life. There, too, is slain
Grey-haired Galæsus, parleying but in vain.
More righteous none, though many around lie killed,
None wealthier did Ausonia's realm contain.
Five herds, five bleating flocks, his pastures filled,		640
And with a hundred ploughs his fruitful lands he tilled.

LXXIII. Thus while the conflict wavered on the plain,
The Fury, pleased her triumph to survey,
Her pledge fulfilled,—War crimsoned with the stain
Of gore, and grim Death busy with his prey,—
Swift from Hesperia wings her airy way,
And proudly speaks to Juno: "See, 'tis done;
The discord perfect in the dolorous fray,
And War with all its miseries begun.		649
Now bid, forsooth, the foes plight friendship and be one.
LXXIV. "Steeped are thy Trojans in Ausonian gore.
Yet speak, and more will I perform, if so
Thy purpose holds. Along the neighbouring shore
Each town shall hear the rumour of the foe,
Each breast with frenzy for the strife shall glow,
Till all bring aid, and fruitful is the land
In deeds of blood."—Then Juno: "Nay, not so;
Enough of fraud and terror. Firmly stand		658
The causes of the feud; they battle hand to hand,