Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/472

Makes passage through the corslet's marge,
And enters the seven-plated targe
Where the last ring runs round.
The keen point pierces through the thigh:
Down on his bent knee heavily
Comes Turnus to the ground.
With pitying groans the Rutules rise;
The mountain to their grief replies:
The lofty woods resound.
Now fallen an upward look he sends,
And pleadingly his hand extends;
'Yes, I have earned' he cries 'the fate
No weakling prayers may deprecate:
Let those enjoy that win.
If thought of hapless sire can touch
Your heart—Anchises once was such—
Show grace to Daunus, old and grey,
And me, or if you will, my clay,
Send hack to home and kin.
Yours is the victory: Latian bands
Have seen me stretch imploring hands:
The bride Lavinia is your own:
Thus far let foeman's hate be shown.'

Rolling his eyes, Æneas stood,
And checked his sword, athirst for blood,
Now faltering more and more he felt
The human heart within him melt,
When round the shoulder wreathed in pride
The belt of Pallas he espied,
And sudden flashed upon his view
Those golden studs so well he knew,
Which Turnus from the stripling tore
When breathless on the field he lay,
And on his breast in triumph wore,
Memorial of the bloody day.