Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/448

No happy chance on art attends,
No patron god the leech befriends:
And wilder grows the fierce alarm,
And nearer yet the deadly harm:
The thick dust props the skies:
The tramp of cavalry they hear,
And 'mid the encampment dart and spear
Rain down before their eyes:
And dismal rings the mingled cry
Of those that fight and those that die.
Then Venus, all a mother's heart
Touched by her son's unworthy smart,
Plucks dittany, a simple rare,
From Ida's summit brown,
With flower of purple, bright and fair,
And leaf of softest down:
Well known that plant to mountain goat,
Should arrow pierce its shaggy coat.
There as they toil, she brings the cure,
Her bright face wrapped in cloudy hood,
And drops it where in shining ewer
The crystal water stood,
With juices of ambrosia blent
And panace of fragrant scent.
So with the medicated flood
The sage unknowing stanched the blood:
When all at once the anguish fled,
And the torn flesh no longer bled.
Now at a touch, no violence used,
Drops out the barbed dart,
And strength by heavenly aid infused
Revives the feinting heart.
'Arms for the valiant chief!' exclaims
Iapis 'why so slow?'
The gentle leech the first inflames
The warrior 'gainst the foe.