Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/329

Rh With conquest crowned, of trophies proud,

The Rutule warriors, weeping loud,

Slain Volscens campward bring:

Nor fewer tears in camp are shed

For Rhanmes and Serranus dead,

By one fell stroke their noblest sped

To darkness, chief and king.

Crowds gather to the spot, where lie

The bodies, dead or soon to die,

And see the place afloat with blood

And frothing gore in many a flood.

From hand to hand they pass the spoil:

Messapus' helm they know,

And trappings gay, with deadly toil

Recovered from the foe.

Now, rising from Tithonus' bed,

The Dawn o'er earth her radiance spread:

When all is flooded by the ray,

And nature lies exposed to day,

Bold Turnus, armed from head to heel,

Inflames the warriors' martial zeal:

Each to his followers makes appeal,

And goads them to engage:

Moreover, fixed on lifted spears,

(Where in that hour were human tears?)

Two gory heads they thrust to view,

Euryalus' and Nisus' too,

With cries of hate and rage.

Troy's iron sons array their fight

On the left rampart—for the right

Adjoins the river shore:—

Above their breadth of moat they stood

In lofty turrets, sad of mood:

And horror on their spirit fell

To see those heads they knew so well

Dripping with loathly gore.