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And 'Whither now so fast?' he cries:
'What demon bids contention rise?
O soothe your rage, I pray!
The terms are fixed, the treaty plight:
Mine, mine alone the combat's right:
Be calm, and give me way.
My hand shall make the assurance true:
Henceforward Turnus is my due.'
Thus while to lay the storm he strives,
Full on the chief an arrow drives:
Sped by what arm, what wind it came,
If Heaven or fortune ruled its aim,
None knew: the deed was lost to fame;
Nor then nor after was there found
Who boasted of Æneas' wound.

When Turnus saw Æneas part
Retiring from his band
And Troy's brave chiefs dismayed, his heart
With sudden hope he manned:
He calls his armour and his car,
Leaps to his seat in pride of war,
And takes the reins in hand.
Full many a gallant chief he slays,
Or pierced on earth in torture lays,
Drives down whole ranks in fierce career,
And plies the fliers with spear on spear.
As, where cold Hebrus parts the field,
Grim Mars makes thunder on his shield
And stings his steeds to fight;
They scud, the Zephyrs not so fleet:
Thrace groans beneath the hoof's quick beat;
His dire attendants round him fly,
Anger and blackest Treachery,
And gloomy-browed Affright: