Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/374

350 'Not these the steeds of Diomed,

Nor this Achilles' car,

Nor Phrygia's plains before you spread:

This land shall see the invader dead,

And terminate the war.'

Thus Liger madly vaunts: the foe

Speaks not, but answers with a blow.

As Lucagus low bends him o'er

The chariot's rim his steeds to smite,

And with left foot advanced before,

Prepares him for the doubtful fight,

Just where the shield's last sutures join

Comes the fell spear, and strikes the groin.

He, from his chariot overthrown,

Down toppling, on the field lies prone:

And thus in sharp contemptuous strain

Æneas glories o'er the slain:

'So, friend, no shadows seen from far

Have turned to flight your luckless car;

No frightened horses caused its shame:

Its nimble lord is all to blame.'

Then on the steeds his hand he laid,

When sliding from the seat

The wretched brother knelt and prayed,

A suppliant at his feet:

'O, by your own illustrious worth,

By those who gave such greatness birth,

Brave chief of Troy, your suitor spare'—

The warrior stopped his further prayer:

'Not this the strain you breathed so late:

Die; brother should be brother's mate.'

His sword unlocks the springs of breath,

And opes a way to let in death.

So plies the chief his work of blood

Through the wide field, like torrent flood

Or black tempestuous wind: