LXXIII. Ilioneus with a rock's huge fragment quelled Lucetius, creeping to the gate below With fire. Asylas Corynaeus felled, Liger Emathion, one skilled to throw The flying dart, one famous with the bow. Caenus--brief triumph!--made Ortygius fall, With Dioxippus, Turnus lays him low, Then Itys, Clonius, Promolus withal, Sagaris, and Idas last, the warder of the wall. LXXIV. There, slain by Capys, poor Privernus lay, Grazed by Themilla's javelin; with a start The madman flung his trusty shield away, And clapped his left hand to the wounded part, Fain, as he thought, to ease him of the smart. Thereat, a light-winged arrow, unespied, Whirred on the wind. It missed the warrior's heart, But pierced his hand, and pinned it to his side, And, entering, clave the lung, and with a gasp he died. LXXV. With broidered scarf of Spanish crimson, stood A comely youth, young Arcens was his name, Sent by his father, from Symaethus' flood, And nurtured in his mother's grove, he came, Where, rich and kind, Palicus' altars flame. His lance laid by, thrice whirling round his head The whistling thong, Mezentius took his aim. Clean through his temples hissed the molten lead, And prostrate in the dust, the gallant youth lay dead. LXXVI. Then first, 'tis said, in war Ascanius drew His bow, wherewith in boyish days he plied The flying game. His hand Numanus slew, Called Remulus, to Turnus late allied, For Turnus' youngest sister was his bride. He, puffed with new-won royalty and proud, Stalked in the forefront of the fight, and cried With random clamour and big words and loud, Fain by his noise to show his grandeur to the crowd. LXXVII. "Think ye no shame, poor cowards, thus again Behind your sheltering battlements to stand, Twice-captured Phrygians! and to plant in vain These walls, to shield you from the foemen's hand? Lo, these the varlets who our wives demand! What God, what madness blinded you, that e'er Ye thought to venture to Italia's land? No wily-worded Ithacan is near; Far other foes than he or Atreus' sons are here. LXXVIII. "Our babes are hardened in the frost and flood, Strong is the stock and sturdy whence we came. Our boys from morn till evening scour the wood, Their joy is hunting, and the steed to tame, To bend the bow, the flying shaft to aim. Patient of toil, and used to scanty cheer, Our youths with rakes the stubborn glebe reclaim, Or storm the town. Through life we grasp the spear. In war it strikes the foe, in peace it goads the steer.