Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/335

Rh No more his spear Mezentius hurled;

Thrice round his head his sling he whirled

With shrill and whizzing sound:

Sheer through the warrior's temples sped

With fatal aim the glowing lead;

He falls, and lies unnerved and dead

O'er many a foot of ground.

Then first, they say, Ascanius tried

In battle-field his bow,

Till then 'gainst flying silvans plied,

And laid Numanus low:

He late to his connubial bed

Had Turnus' youngest sister led:

And now, of new-worn purple proud,

He stalks erect, with vaunting loud,

Arid thus before the battle's van

With wordy turbulence began.

'Twice captured Phrygians! to be pent

Once more in leaguered battlement,

And plant unblushingly between

Yourselves and death a stony screen!

Lo, these the men that draw their swords

To part our ladies from their lords!

What god, what madness brings you here

To taste of our Italian cheer?

No proud Atridæ lead our vans:

No false Ulysses talks and plans:

E'en from the birth a hardy brood,

We take our infants to the flood,

And fortify their tender mould

With icy wave and ruthless cold.

Early and late our sturdy boys

Seek through the woods a hunter's joys:

Their pastime is to tame the steed,

To bend the bow and launch the reed.