And on Aeneas presses: the flashing spear, Brandished, is big as a tree; his anger cries:-- “Why put it off forever, Turnus, hang-dog? We must fight with arms, not running. Take what shape You will, gather your strength or craft; fly up To the high stars, or bury yourself in earth!” And Turnus shook his head and answered:--“Jove, Being my enemy, scares me, and the gods, Not your hot words, fierce fellow.” And his vision, Glancing about, beheld a mighty boulder, A boundary-mark, in days of old, so huge A dozen men in our degenerate era Could hardly pry it loose from earth, but Turnus Lifts it full height, hurls it full speed and, acting. Seems not to recognize himself, in running, Or moving, or lifting his hands, or letting the stone Fly into space; he shakes at the knees, his blood Runs chill in the veins, and the stone, through wide air going, Falls short, falls spent. As in our dreams at night-time, When sleep weighs down our eyes, we seem to be running, Or trying to run, and cannot, and we falter, Sick in our failure, and the tongue is thick And the words we try to utter come to nothing, No voice, no speech,--so Turnus finds the way Blocked off, wherever he turns, however bravely. All sorts of things go through his mind: he stares At the Rutulians, at the town; he trembles, Quails at the threat of the lance; he cannot see Any way out, any way forward. Nothing. The chariot is gone, and the charioteer, Juturna or Metiscus, nowhere near him. The spear, flung by Aeneas, comes with a whir Louder than stone from any engine, louder Than thunderbolt; like a black wind it flies, Bringing destruction with it, through the shield-rim, Its sevenfold strength, through armor, through the thigh. Turnus is down, on hands and knees, huge Turnus Struck to the earth. Groaning, the stunned Rutulians Rise to their feet, and the whole hill resounds, The wooded heights give echo. A suppliant, beaten, Humbled at last, his hands reach out, his voice Is low in pleading:--“I have deserved it, surely, And I do not beg off. Use the advantage. But if a parent’s grief has any power To touch the spirit, I pray you, pity Daunus, (I would Anchises), send him back my body. You have won; I am beaten, and these hands go out In supplication: everyone has seen it. No more. I have lost Lavinia. Let hatred Proceed no further.” Fierce in his arms, with darting glance, Aeneas Paused for a moment, and he might have weakened, For the words had moved him, when, high on the shoulder, He saw the belt of Pallas, slain by Turnus, Saw Pallas on the ground, and Turnus wearing That belt with the bright studs, of evil omen Not only to Pallas now, a sad reminder, A deadly provocation. Terrible In wrath, Aeneas cries:--“Clad in this treasure,