Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/424

While all the woman's fond desire
For plunder sets her soul on fire.
His moment Arruns marked: he aims
His dart, and thus to heaven exclaims:
'Lord of Soracte, Phœbus sire,
Whose rites we Tuscans keep,
For whom the blaze of sacred fire
Lives in the pine-wood heap,
While, safe in piety, we tread,
Thy votaries we, on embers red,
Grant, mightiest of the gods above,
My arms may this foul stain remove!
No blazonry I look to gain,
Trophy or spoil, from maiden slain;
My other deeds shall guard my name,
And keep the doer fresh in fame;
This fury let me once bring low,
Home unrenowned I gladly go.'
Apollo granted half his prayer:
The rest was scattered into air.
With unexpected wound to slay
The foe he dreads—so much he may:
In safety to return, and see
His stately home—that may not be:
E'en as 'twas breathed, the wild winds caught
The uttered prayer, and turned to nought.

So now, as hurtling through the sky
Flew the fell spear, each Volscian eye
On the doomed queen was bent:
She hears no rushing sound, nor sees
The javelin sweeping down the breeze,
Till 'neath her naked breast it stood,
And drinking deep the unsullied blood
At length its fury spent.