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 Thus too Patroclus with his latest breath, Foretold his unregarding victor's death. His parting soul anticipates the blow, That waits brave Hector from a greater foe. Thou too poor Turnus, just before thy doom, Couldst read thy end, and antedate a tomb, When o'er thy head the baleful fury flew, And in dire omens set thy fate to view; A bird obscene, she flutter'd o'er the field, And scream'd thy death, and beat thy sounding shield. For lo! the time, the fatal time is come, Charg'd with thy death, and heavy with thy doom, When Turnus, tho' in vain, shall rue the day; Shall curse the golden belt he bore away; Shall wish too late young Pallas' spoils unsought, And mourn the conquest he so dearly bought. Th' event should glimmer thro' its gloomy shrowdshroud [sic], Tho' yet confus'd, and struggling in the cloud. So, to the trav'ller, as he journeys on To reach the walls of some far distant town. If, high in air, the dubious turrets rise, Peep o'er the hills, and dance before his eyes;