Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/329

With conquest crowned, of trophies proud,
The Rutule warriors, weeping loud,
Slain Volscens campward bring:
Nor fewer tears in camp are shed
For Rhanmes and Serranus dead,
By one fell stroke their noblest sped
To darkness, chief and king.
Crowds gather to the spot, where lie
The bodies, dead or soon to die,
And see the place afloat with blood
And frothing gore in many a flood.
From hand to hand they pass the spoil:
Messapus' helm they know,
And trappings gay, with deadly toil
Recovered from the foe.

Now, rising from Tithonus' bed,
The Dawn o'er earth her radiance spread:
When all is flooded by the ray,
And nature lies exposed to day,
Bold Turnus, armed from head to heel,
Inflames the warriors' martial zeal:
Each to his followers makes appeal,
And goads them to engage:
Moreover, fixed on lifted spears,
(Where in that hour were human tears?)
Two gory heads they thrust to view,
Euryalus' and Nisus' too,
With cries of hate and rage.
Troy's iron sons array their fight
On the left rampart—for the right
Adjoins the river shore:—
Above their breadth of moat they stood
In lofty turrets, sad of mood:
And horror on their spirit fell
To see those heads they knew so well
Dripping with loathly gore.