Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/311

So now, though shame and scornful rage,
Quick blending, prompt them to engage,
They act his bidding, close the gate,
And armed, in sheltering towers await
The coming of the foe.
Turnus with twice ten chosen horse
Outstrips his column's tardy course,
And nears them unforeseen:
A Thracian steed he rides, white-flecked,
With auburn crest his helm is decked,
Itself of golden sheen.
And 'Gallants, who with me will dare
The first assault?' he cries 'look there!'
Then sends his javelin through the air
(This the first drop of war's red rain),
And tower-like bears him o'er the plain.
Clamorous and eager to attack,
His comrades follow at his back;
The Teucrian hearts, they deem, are slack,
Their valour laid asleep:
They dare not trust the level space
Or fight as men do, face to face,
But still the encampment keep.
So round and round the camp he wheels
Enraged, and for an entrance feels:
Like wolf, who, ranging round the fold,
Whines at the gate, in rain and cold,
At midnight's season still:
Safe 'neath their dams the lambkins bleat:
He rages in infuriate heat
At those he cannot kill,
With hunger's gathered flame unslaked
And bloodless jaws to dryness baked.
Thus while he wall and camp surveys,
The fire of wrath begins to blaze,
Grief burns in every vein: