LXVII. Pine-stock in hand, Mezentius hurls the flame; There, fierce Messapus rends the palisade,-- Tamer of steeds, from Neptune's loins he came,-- And shouts aloud for ladders to invade. Aid me, Calliope; ye Muses, aid To sing of Turnus and his deeds that day, The deaths he wrought, the havoc that he made, And whom each warrior singled for his prey; Roll back the war's great scroll, the mighty leaves display. LXVIII. Built high, with lofty gangways, stood a tower, Fit post of vantage, which the Latins vied, With utmost effort and with all their power, To capture and destroy, while armed inside With stones, the Trojans through the loopholes plied Their missiles. Turnus, 'mid the foremost, cast A blazing brand, and, fastening to the side, Up went the flame; from floor to floor it passed, Clung to and licked the posts, and maddened with the blast. LXIX. Within 'twas hurrying and tumultuous fright, As, crowding backward, they retreat before The advancing flames, and vainly long for flight. Lo! toppling suddenly, the tower went o'er, And shook the wide air with reverberant roar. Half-dead, the huge mass following amain, They come to earth, stabbed by the darts they bore, Or pierced by splinters through the breast. Scarce twain Escape--Helenor one, and Lycus--from the slain. LXX. Of these Helenor,--whom to Lydia's lord By stealth his slave, the fair Licymnia, bore, And sent to Ilium, where a simple sword And plain, white shield, yet unrenowned, he wore,-- He, when he sees, around him and before, The Latin hosts, as when in fierce disdain, Hemmed round by huntsmen, in his rage the boar O'erleaps the spears, so, where the thickest rain The foemen's darts, springs forth Helenor to be slain. LXXI. But fleeter far, young Lycus hastes to slip Through swords, through foes, and gains the walls, and tries To climb them, and a comrade's hand to grip. With foot and spear behind him, as he flies, Comes Turnus. Scornfully the victor cries, "Mad fool! to fly, whom I have doomed to fall; Think'st thou to baffle Turnus of his prize?" Therewith he grasps him hanging, and withal Down with his victim drags huge fragments of the wall. LXXII. E'en so some snowy swan, or timorous hare Jove's armour-bearer, swooping from the sky, Grips in his talons, and aloft doth bear. So, where apart the folded weanlings lie, Swift at some lamb the warrior-wolf doth fly, And leaves the mother, bleating in her woe. Loud rings the noise of battle. With a cry The foe press on; these fill the trench below, These to the topmost towers the blazing firebrands throw.