LXI. Now Fame, winged herald, through the wildered town Swift to Euryalus' mother speeds her way. Life's heat forsakes her; from her hand drops down The shuttle, and the task-work rolls away. Forth with a shriek, like women in dismay, Rending her hair, in frantic haste she flies, And seeks the ramparts and the war's array, Heedless of darts and dangers and surprise, Heedless of armed men, and fills the heaven with cries. LXII. "Thou--is it thou, Euryalus, my own? Thou, the late solace of my age? Ah, why So cruel? Could'st thou leave me here alone, Nor let thy mother bid a last good-bye? Now left a prey on Latin soil to lie Of dogs and birds, nor I, thy mother, there To wash thy wounds, and close thy lightless eye, And shroud thee in the robe I wrought so fair, Fain with the busy loom to soothe an old wife's care! LXIII. "Where shall I follow thee? Thy corpse defiled, Thy mangled limbs--where are they? Woe is me! Is this then all of what was once my child? Was it for this I roamed the land and sea? Pierce _me_, Rutulians; hurl your darts at me, Me first, if ye a mother's love can know. Great Sire of Heaven, have pity! set me free. Hurl with thy bolt to Tartarus below This hateful head, that longs to quit a world of woe!" LXIV. So wails the mother, weeping and undone, And sorrow smites each warrior, as he hears, Each groaning, as a father for his son. Grief runs, like wildfire, through the Trojan peers, And numbs their courage, and augments their fears. Then, fain the spreading sorrow to allay, Ilioneus and Iulus, bathed in tears Call Actor and Idaeus; gently they The aged dame lift up, and to her home convey. LXV. Now terribly the brazen trumpet pealed Its summons, and the war-shout rent the air. On press the Volscians, locking shield to shield, And fill the trenches, and the breastwork tear. These plant their ladders for assault, where'er A gap, just glimmering, shows the line less dense. Vain hope! the Teucrians with their darts are there. Stout poles they ply, and thrust them from the fence, Trained by a lingering siege, and tutored to defence. LXVI. Stones, too, they roll, to crush the serried shields: Blithely the warriors bear the storm below, Yet not for long; for, see, the penthouse yields. Down on the midst, where thickest press the foe, The Teucrians, rolling, with a crash let go A ponderous mass, that opens to the light The jointed shields, and lays the warriors low. Nor care they longer in the dark to fight, But vie with distant darts to sweep the rampart's height.