Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/388

At length, impatient of delay,
Wearied with plucking spears away,
Indignant at the unequal fray,
His wary fence he leaves,
And, issuing with resistless force,
The temples of the gallant horse
With darted javelin cleaves.
The good steed rears and wildly sprawls,
Distracted with its wound;
Then heavily on the rider falls,
And pins him to the ground.
Fierce shouts, enkindling all the air,
From either host arise:
Forth springs the chief, with falchion bare,
And thus triumphant cries:
'Say, where is proud Mezentius now?
Where sleep the terrors of his brow?'
Recovering sense, with upturned eye
The Tuscan, gasping, made reply:
'Stern foe, why waste your threatening breath?
He wrongs me not, who works my death.
When late I dared you to the strife,
I made no covenant for life,
Nor he, my Lausus, e'er such pledge
Extorted from your weapon's edge.
One boon (if vanquished foe may crave
The victor's grace) I ask—a grave.
My wrathful subjects round me wait:
Protect me from their savage hate,
And let me in the tomb enjoy
The presence of my slaughtered boy.'
He said, and to the conqueror's sword
His throat unshrinking gave:
The life-blood, o'er his armour poured,
Spreads wide its crimson wave.