Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/335

No more his spear Mezentius hurled;
Thrice round his head his sling he whirled
With shrill and whizzing sound:
Sheer through the warrior's temples sped
With fatal aim the glowing lead;
He falls, and lies unnerved and dead
O'er many a foot of ground.

Then first, they say, Ascanius tried
In battle-field his bow,
Till then 'gainst flying silvans plied,
And laid Numanus low:
He late to his connubial bed
Had Turnus' youngest sister led:
And now, of new-worn purple proud,
He stalks erect, with vaunting loud,
Arid thus before the battle's van
With wordy turbulence began.
'Twice captured Phrygians! to be pent
Once more in leaguered battlement,
And plant unblushingly between
Yourselves and death a stony screen!
Lo, these the men that draw their swords
To part our ladies from their lords!
What god, what madness brings you here
To taste of our Italian cheer?
No proud Atridæ lead our vans:
No false Ulysses talks and plans:
E'en from the birth a hardy brood,
We take our infants to the flood,
And fortify their tender mould
With icy wave and ruthless cold.
Early and late our sturdy boys
Seek through the woods a hunter's joys:
Their pastime is to tame the steed,
To bend the bow and launch the reed.