Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/434

410 They bustle round, the menial train,

Comb o'er the neck the graceful mane,

And pat the sounding chest:

In mail his shoulders he arrayed

(Of gold and orichalc 'twas made);

Then dons his shield, his trusty blade,

His helm with ruddy crest:

That blade which to his royal sire

The hand of Vulcan gave,

Brought red from Liparæan fire

And dipped in Stygian wave.

Reposing from its work of blood

His lance beside a column stood,

Auruncan Actor's prize:

He seized it, shook the quivering wood,

And thus impetuous cries:

'The hour is come, my spear, my spear,

Thou who hast never failed to hear

Thy master's proud appeal:

Once Actor bore thee, Turnus now:

Grant that my hand to earth may bow

The Phrygian's all unmanly brow,

From off his breast the corslet tear,

And soil in dust his essenced hair,

New crisped with heated steel.'

Such furies in his bosom rise:

His features all ablaze

Shoot direful sparkles: from his eyes

A stream of lightning plays.

So ere he tries the combat's shock

A bull loud bellowing makes,

And butting at a tree's hard stock

His horns to anger wakes,

With furious heel the sand upthrows,

And challenges the winds for foes.