And now Mezentius, shaking his great spear, Sweeps like a whirlwind over the plain, a giant Huge as Orion, wading through the waters, Towering with his shoulders over the waves, Lugging an ancient ash-tree from the mountains, And his head hidden in the clouds of heaven, So looms Mezentius, monstrous in his armor, And, from the other side, Aeneas sees him, And moves to meet him, and Mezentius stands there, Unfrightened, heavy-set, waiting his foe. He eyes the distance that the spear may need, Indulges in mock prayer:--“Let my right hand, That is to say, my god, and the dart I balance Favor me now! And as a trophy, Lausus, I vow yourself, my son, to carry, living, The spoil stripped from this robber.” The spear flew on, Glanced from the shield, wounded the knight Antores Between the side and thigh; Evander’s ally, Hercules’ comrade, a man from Argos, he falls, Killed by a wound meant for another; dying, He thinks of his dear Argos. And Aeneas Lets drive his spear: it penetrates the shield, The triple bronze, the layers of leather, biting Deep in the groin, not going through. And happy At sight of Tuscan blood, Aeneas draws Sword from his side, comes hotly on; Mezentius Staggers, and Lausus grieves; he loves his father, The tears stream down his face. Mezentius, dragging back, useless, disabled, Slowly gives ground, the hostile spear still trailing, Still fastened to the shield. Lausus runs forward, Lifts his right arm and strikes. Aeneas parries, Lausus is halted. But his comrades follow-- The father, with the son’s protecting shield, Has, still, a chance of safety. Missiles shower From all sides at Aeneas: though he rages, He huddles under shelter, like a farmer When hailstones rattle down, or any traveller Seeking what he can find, a river bank, An overhanging rock, or any cover Until the downpour stops, and the sun returns Men to their daily labor: so Aeneas, With javelins thickening, every way, against him, Endures the storm of war, and threatens Lausus:-- “What rush to death is this? What silly daring Beyond the limit of strength? O foolish youngster, You love your father, I know, but fool yourself With too much loving.” Lausus, in his madness, Has never a thought of stopping, and Aeneas Feels anger rise against him, and the Fates Tie off the ends of Lausus’ thread: the Trojan Drives with the sword; it is buried in the body Deep to the hilt. The little shield, frail armor Against so great a menace, could not hold it. The pliant tunic, woven by his mother With golden thread, is no more help; the blood Stains it another color, and through air The life went sorrowing to the shades. And now Aeneas changes. Looking on that face So pale in death, he groans in pity; he reaches