And meanwhile Rumor Goes flying through the panic of the city, Comes to Euryalus’ mother. That poor woman Is cold as death; the shuttle falls from her hands, The yarn is all unwound. She rushes, shrieking, Tearing her hair, out to the walls, in frenzy, Heedless of men, heedless of darts and danger To fill the air with terrible lamentation:-- “Is this thing you I see, Euryalus? Could you, a poor old woman’s only comfort, Leave her to loneliness? O cruel, cruel! To go to danger, and never a farewell word Between the mother and son! And now you lie On a strange land for dogs and birds to pick at, No mother to bathe the wounds, or close the eyes, To veil the body with the robe I worked on For quite another purpose, night and day, Comforting, so, the cares of age. Where can I Go now, to find you? In what land are lying The limbs, dismembered, and the mangled body? Is this thing all you bring me from the wars, Is this what I have followed on land and sea? If you have anything of decent feeling, Rutulians, kill me; hurl your weapons on me, All of you, all of them: let steel destroy me. Or, father of the gods, have pity on me And strike with the bolt of lightning; hurl to Hell The life I hate; no other way is left me To break the cruel thread.” And at her wailing The Trojan spirit sank, and a groan of sorrow Passed through the ranks, their will to battle broken. She kindles mourning; the leaders give an order, Idaeus and Actor, taking her between them, Lead her away. And the loud terrible trumpet Blared in bronze-throated challenge, and the shouting Rose to the sky. And on they came, the Volscians Under their tortoise-shield, in a wild hurry To fill the moat, tear down the wall: some sought A quick way in, or over, with scaling-ladders Where the ring of men is thin, and light breaks in Where no men stand. And in reply the Trojans Rain every kind of weapon down--long war Has taught them how the walls must be defended. They use crude poles to push men off the ladders, They roll tremendous boulders to crush the ranks Covered by shields, and glad of that protection, Too little now, too small for the great rock The Trojans heave and pry and dump down on them Where the clump of men is thickest. The back of the tortoise Is broken, like the bodies of men beneath it. No more blind war, like this, for the Rutulians! They change their tactics, sweep the wall with arrows, Mezentius, grim to look at, works with firebrands, While Neptune’s son, Messapus, tamer of horses, Keeps tearing at the walls, and screaming for ladders.