He cries:--“You will pay for both of them, your blood Be the atonement.” Nisus, from the darkness, Shrieks in his terror:--“Here I am, I did it, The guilt is mine, let him alone, come get me, Rutulians! How could he have dared or done it? God knows, the only thing he did was love A luckless friend too well.” But the sword is driven Deep in the breast. Euryalus rolls over, Blood veins the handsome limbs, and on the shoulder The neck droops over, as a bright-colored flower Droops when the ploughshare bends it, or as poppies Sink under the weight of heavy summer rainfall. And Nisus rushes them; he is after Volcens, Volcens alone. They mass around him, cluster, Batter him back, but through them all he charges, Whirling the blade like fire, until he drives it Full in the face while the Rutulian, shrieking, Goes down, and Nisus, dying, sees him die, Falls over his lifeless friend, and there is quiet In the utter peace of death. Fortunate boys! If there is any power in my verses, You will not be forgotten in time and story While rock stands firm beneath the Capitol, While the imperial house maintains dominion. With victory and tears, with spoil and plunder, They brought Rutulian Volcens home to camp-ground, And a great wail arose, for Rhamnes slaughtered, For Numa, for Serranus, for so many Slain in one fight. They rush to see the bodies, To heroes dead or dying, to the ground Reeking with carnage, the red foaming rivers. They recognize the spoil, the shining helmet Brought back for Messapus, and all the trappings It cost them sweat to win. And the Dawn-goddess Came from her husband’s saffron couch, bestowing Fresh light across the world. Turnus, in armor, Summoned his men to arms, and every leader Marshalled his ranks of bronze, and each man sharpens His anger with one rumor or another. And more than that, a pitiful sight, they fix On spears upraised, and follow with loud shouting, The heads of Nisus and Euryalus. On the left of the wall the Trojans form their line Whose right rests on the river. They hold the trenches, Stand on the high towers, sorrowing; they know, And all too well, those heads with spears for bodies, And the black blood running down.