Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/448

424 No happy chance on art attends,

No patron god the leech befriends:

And wilder grows the fierce alarm,

And nearer yet the deadly harm:

The thick dust props the skies:

The tramp of cavalry they hear,

And 'mid the encampment dart and spear

Rain down before their eyes:

And dismal rings the mingled cry

Of those that fight and those that die.

Then Venus, all a mother's heart

Touched by her son's unworthy smart,

Plucks dittany, a simple rare,

From Ida's summit brown,

With flower of purple, bright and fair,

And leaf of softest down:

Well known that plant to mountain goat,

Should arrow pierce its shaggy coat.

There as they toil, she brings the cure,

Her bright face wrapped in cloudy hood,

And drops it where in shining ewer

The crystal water stood,

With juices of ambrosia blent

And panace of fragrant scent.

So with the medicated flood

The sage unknowing stanched the blood:

When all at once the anguish fled,

And the torn flesh no longer bled.

Now at a touch, no violence used,

Drops out the barbed dart,

And strength by heavenly aid infused

Revives the feinting heart.

'Arms for the valiant chief!' exclaims

Iapis 'why so slow?'

The gentle leech the first inflames

The warrior 'gainst the foe.