Aeneas, Hearing the name of Turnus, leaves the city, Forsakes the lofty walls; he has no patience With any more delay, breaks off all projects, Exults, a terrible thunderer in armor, As huge as Athos, or as huge as Eryx, Or even father Apennine, that mountain Roaring above the oaks, and lifting high His crown of shimmering trees and snowy crest. Now all men turned their eyes, Rutulians, Trojans, Italians, those who held the lofty ramparts, Those battering at the wall below; their shoulders Were eased of armor now. And king Latinus Could hardly, in amazement, trust his senses Seeing these two big men, born worlds apart Meeting to make decision with the sword. The plain was cleared, and they came rushing forward, Hurling, far off, their spears; the fight is on, The bronze shields clang and ring. Earth gives a groan. The swords strike hard and often; luck and courage Are blent in one. And as on mighty Sila Or on Taburnus’ mountain, when two bullocks Charge into fight head-on, and trembling herdsmen Fall back in fear, and the herd is dumb with terror, And heifers, hardly lowing, stare and wonder Which one will rule the woodland, which one the herd Will follow meekly after, and all the time They gore each other with savage horns, and shoulders And necks and ribs run streams of blood, and bellowing Fills all the woodland,--even so, Aeneas And Daunus’ son clash shield on shield; the clamor Fills heaven. And Jupiter holds the scales in balance With each man’s destiny as weight and counter, And one the heavier under the doom of death. Confident, Turnus, rising to the sword Full height, is a flash of light; he strikes. The Trojans, The Latins, cry aloud and come up standing. But the sword is treacherous; it is broken off With the blow half spent: the fire of Turnus finds No help except in flight. Swift as the wind He goes, and stares at a broken blade, a hand Unarmed. The story is that in that hurry, That rush of his, to arms, when the steeds were harnessed, He took Metiscus’ sword, not the one Daunus Had left him. For a while it served its purpose While the Trojans ran away, but when it met The armor Vulcan forged, the mortal blade Split off, like brittle ice, with glittering splinters Like ice on the yellow sand. So Turnus flies Madly across the plain in devious circles: The Trojans ring him round, and a swamp on one side, High walls on the other.