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He with a backward spring retires,
And headlong falls 'mid altar fires
That meet him in the rear:
Up spurs Messapus, hot with speed,
And as the pale lips vainly plead
Drives through him, towering on his steed,
His massy beam-like spear.
'He has his death' the victor cries:
'Heaven gains a worthier sacrifice.'
Around the corpse the Italians swarm,
And strip the limbs, yet reeking warm.
From blazing altar close at hand
Bold Corynæus seized a brand:
As Ebysus a death-wound aims,
Full in his face he dashed the flames.
The bushy beard that instant flares
And wafts a scent of burning hairs.
The conqueror rushes on his prize,
Wreathes in his hair his hand,
To his broad breast his knee applies,
And pins him to the sand:
Then, grovelling as he lay in dust,
Deep in his side his sword he thrust.
Stout Alsus, born of shepherd race,
Death in the forefront braves,
When Podalirius gives him chase
And high his falchion waves:
A ponderous axe the swain upheaves:
From brow to chin the head he cleaves,
While blood the arms o'erflows:
A heavy slumber, iron-bound,
Seals the dull eyes in rest profound:
In endless night they close.

But good Æneas chides his band,
His head all bare, unarmed his hand,