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Shall one more man, on all sides pent
Within your mounded battlement,
Such deaths have dealt, such warriors sent
Unvenged to shades below?
Feel ye no shame, no manly grief
For gods, for country, or for chief,
O craven hearts and slow?'
Roused by the word, they stand at length,
And front him with collected strength,
While Turnus by degrees gives ground,
And seeks the part the stream runs round.
The Trojans follow, shouting loud,
And closer still and closer crowd.
So when the gathering swains assail
A lion with their brazen hail,
He, glaring rage, begins to quail
And sullenly departs:
For shame his back he will not turn,
Yet dares not, howsoe'er he yearn,
To charge their serried darts:
So Turnus lingeringly retires,
And glows with ineffectual fires.
Twice on the foe e'en then he falls,
Twice routs and drives them round the walls:
But from the camp in swarms they pour,
Nor Juno dares to help him more,
For Iris hastens down
With words from Jove of angry threat,
Should Turnus make resistance yet,
Nor quit the leaguered town.
No longer now by force of hand
Or buckler may the youth withstand,
So thick the javelins play:
Round his broad brows the helmet rings:
Crushed by the volley from the slings
Its solid sides give way.