Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/434

They bustle round, the menial train,
Comb o'er the neck the graceful mane,
And pat the sounding chest:
In mail his shoulders he arrayed
(Of gold and orichalc 'twas made);
Then dons his shield, his trusty blade,
His helm with ruddy crest:
That blade which to his royal sire
The hand of Vulcan gave,
Brought red from Liparæan fire
And dipped in Stygian wave.
Reposing from its work of blood
His lance beside a column stood,
Auruncan Actor's prize:
He seized it, shook the quivering wood,
And thus impetuous cries:
'The hour is come, my spear, my spear,
Thou who hast never failed to hear
Thy master's proud appeal:
Once Actor bore thee, Turnus now:
Grant that my hand to earth may bow
The Phrygian's all unmanly brow,
From off his breast the corslet tear,
And soil in dust his essenced hair,
New crisped with heated steel.'
Such furies in his bosom rise:
His features all ablaze
Shoot direful sparkles: from his eyes
A stream of lightning plays.
So ere he tries the combat's shock
A bull loud bellowing makes,
And butting at a tree's hard stock
His horns to anger wakes,
With furious heel the sand upthrows,
And challenges the winds for foes.