Beneath his feet fell haughty Hebrus dead, Then Latagus, and Palmus as he fled. At Latagus a weighty stone he flung: His face was flatted, and his helmet rung. But Palmus from behind receives his wound; Hamstring’d he falls, and grovels on the ground: His crest and armour, from his body torn, Thy shoulders, Lausus, and thy head adorn. Evas and Mimas, both of Troy, he slew. Mimas his birth from fair Theano drew, Born on that fatal night, when, big with fire, The queen produc’d young Paris to his sire: But Paris in the Phrygian fields was slain, Unthinking Mimas on the Latian plain. And, as a savage boar, on mountains bred, With forest mast and fatt’ning marshes fed, When once he sees himself in toils inclos’d, By huntsmen and their eager hounds oppos’d, He whets his tusks, and turns, and dares the war; Th’ invaders dart their jav’lins from afar: All keep aloof, and safely shout around; But none presumes to give a nearer wound: He frets and froths, erects his bristled hide, And shakes a grove of lances from his side: Not otherwise the troops, with hate inspir’d, And just revenge against the tyrant fir’d, Their darts with clamour at a distance drive, And only keep the languish’d war alive. From Coritus came Acron to the fight, Who left his spouse betroth’d, and unconsummate night. Mezentius sees him thro’ the squadrons ride, Proud of the purple favours of his bride. Then, as a hungry lion, who beholds A gamesome goat, who frisks about the folds, Or beamy stag, that grazes on the plain— He runs, he roars, he shakes his rising mane, He grins, and opens wide his greedy jaws; The prey lies panting underneath his paws: He fills his famish’d maw; his mouth runs o’er With unchew’d morsels, while he churns the gore: So proud Mezentius rushes on his foes, And first unhappy Acron overthrows: Stretch’d at his length, he spurns the swarthy ground; The lance, besmear’d with blood, lies broken in the wound. Then with disdain the haughty victor view’d Orodes flying, nor the wretch pursued, Nor thought the dastard’s back deserv’d a wound, But, running, gain’d th’ advantage of the ground: Then turning short, he met him face to face, To give his victory the better grace. Orodes falls, in equal fight oppress’d: Mezentius fix’d his foot upon his breast, And rested lance; and thus aloud he cries: “Lo! here the champion of my rebels lies!” The fields around with Io Paean! ring; And peals of shouts applaud the conqu’ring king. At this the vanquish’d, with his dying breath, Thus faintly spoke, and prophesied in death: “Nor thou, proud man, unpunish’d shalt remain: Like death attends thee on this fatal plain.”