Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/416

392 Their mettled steeds the champaign spurn,

And chafing this and that way turn;

Spears bristle o'er the fields, that burn

With arms on high displayed.

Messapus and the Latian force

And Coras and Camilla's horse

An adverse front array:

With hands drawn back, they couch the spear,

And aim the dart in full career;

The tramp of heroes strikes the ear,

Mixed with the charger's neigh.

Arrived within a javelin's throw

The armies halt a space: when lo!

Sudden they let their good steeds go

And meet with deafening cry:

Their volleyed darts fly thick as snow,

Dark shadowing all the sky.

Tyrrhenus and Aconteus rash

With lance in rest together clash,

And falling both with hideous crash

Inaugurate the strife:

Each gallant steed has burst its heart:

Like spring-launched stone or lightning's dart

Hurled is Aconteus far apart,

And spends on air his life.

At once the line of battle breaks:

The Latians one and all

Sling their broad bucklers on their backs

And gallop toward the wall:

The Trojans follow them apace;

Asilas leads the martial chase.

And now the gates were well in sight,

When with a ringing shout

The Latian hosts renew the fight,

And wheel their steeds about.