Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/424

400 While all the woman's fond desire

For plunder sets her soul on fire.

His moment Arruns marked: he aims

His dart, and thus to heaven exclaims:

'Lord of Soracte, Phœbus sire,

Whose rites we Tuscans keep,

For whom the blaze of sacred fire

Lives in the pine-wood heap,

While, safe in piety, we tread,

Thy votaries we, on embers red,

Grant, mightiest of the gods above,

My arms may this foul stain remove!

No blazonry I look to gain,

Trophy or spoil, from maiden slain;

My other deeds shall guard my name,

And keep the doer fresh in fame;

This fury let me once bring low,

Home unrenowned I gladly go.'

Apollo granted half his prayer:

The rest was scattered into air.

With unexpected wound to slay

The foe he dreads—so much he may:

In safety to return, and see

His stately home—that may not be:

E'en as 'twas breathed, the wild winds caught

The uttered prayer, and turned to nought.

So now, as hurtling through the sky

Flew the fell spear, each Volscian eye

On the doomed queen was bent:

She hears no rushing sound, nor sees

The javelin sweeping down the breeze,

Till 'neath her naked breast it stood,

And drinking deep the unsullied blood

At length its fury spent.