Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/331

Since otherwise I may not break
This life of bitter tears!'
That wail the hearts of Troy congealed;
From rank to rank the infection ran;
Each sickens of the battle-field,
And feels no longer man.
Still raves the miserable dame,
Still higher piles grief's frantic flame:
Iulus, shedding tears like rain,
And old Ilioneus call their train,
And Actor and Idæus come
And bear her from the rampart home.

Now shrills the trump its dire alarms:
At once the warriors cry to arms:
Heaven thunders back the note.
The Volscian host a penthouse form,
And strive the palisade to storm
And choke the gaping moat:
Some try the approach, and ladders plant
Where most the battle-line looks scant,
And the dark ring that crowns the wall
Presents a glimmering interval.
With equal zeal the sons of Troy
Stout poles and missile darts employ,
Taught by experience long and hard
How best a leaguered wall to guard.
Stones too with cruel weight they throw
In hope to break the shielded foe:
Sure on such fence the heaviest blow
Must fall like idle hail!
See, see, at length it yields, it yields!
Where threats the densest mass of shields
A rock the Trojans topple o'er:
Down on the Rutule host it bore,
Dashed wide their ranks behind, before,
And burst their quilted mail.