No lazy dawdling Held Turnus back; he hurled his lines against them, He stopped them at the shore. Aeneas charged, Aeneas was the first invader, Aeneas Struck down the Latin countrymen, killed Theron, The biggest of them all. That was an omen; Theron had taken extra pains to meet him, But the sword went through his mail and through his tunic And pierced his side and drank his blood. Next, Lichas Was slain, Apollo’s devotee, at birth Cut from the womb of his dead mother: the child Escaped the steel, but not the man. Two others, One of them tough, one huge, Cisseus, Gyas, Went down before Aeneas. They were fighting With clubs, as Hercules used to, and much good It did them, though their father was Melampus Who had been with Hercules through many labors. Then there was Pharus, who had his mouth wide open, For boast or taunt, and got a javelin in it, Flung by Aeneas’ hand. Cydon loved Clytius, And followed him everywhere, his golden darling, And would have had a lesson in forgetting All his beloved young men, falling a victim Under Aeneas’ hand, but his seven brothers, The sons of Phorcus, hurried to his rescue. Each one let fly a dart: helmet and shield Turned them aside, or they only grazed the body Through Venus’ help. “Achates,” cried Aeneas, “Bring up more weapons! Any I ever landed In bodies of the Greeks, on the plains of Ilium, Will never miss Rutulians here.” He snatched A great spear up, and flung it; it went flying Through Maeon’s shield of bronze; it rent the breastplate, It tore the breast, went through, and struck Alcanor Through the right arm around his falling brother, And pierced the arm, and kept its bloody journey While the dead arm dangled from shoulder-sinew. Numitor ripped the spear from his brother’s body, Aimed at Aeneas, missed, but grazed Achates. Clausus from Cures, proud of his young body, Let fly, far off, a javelin, which caught Dryops Under the chin and pierced the throat and robbed him Of voice--he tried to speak--and life together, And Dryops’ forehead hit the ground, and blood Poured thick from mouth and wound. Three Thracians fell, Sons of the race of Boreas, and three others, Ismarians, sons of Idas, killed by Clausus. Halaesus came to his side, and Neptune’s son, Messapus, joined them, that famous tamer of horses. Here, there, on every side, the struggle rages: The cry is _Drive them back!_ Here is the beach-head For gain or loss. As warring winds in heaven, Rage at each other through that wide dominion, Equal in will and violence, the battle Doubtful and long, and nothing yields, not wind, Not cloud, not sea, in that eternal deadlock, So Troy meets Latium in the shock of fighting, Foot tramples foot, man grapples man.