XLV. Then cried AEneas to Achates true, "Quick, hand me store of weapons; none in vain This arm shall hurl at yon Rutulian crew, Not one of all that whilom knew the stain Of Argive blood upon the Trojan plain." So saying, he snatched, and in a moment threw His mighty spear, that, hurtling, rent in twain The brazen plates of Maeon's shield, and through The breastplate pierced the breast, nor faltered as it flew. XLVI. Up ran, and raised his brother, as he lay, Alcanor. Shrill another javelin sung, And pierced his arm, and, reddening, held its way, And from his shoulders by the sinews hung The dying hand. Then straight, the dart outwrung, His brother Numitor the barb let fly Full at AEneas. In his face he flung, But failed to smite. The weapon, turned awry, Missed the intended mark, and grazed Achates' thigh. XLVII. Up Clausus came, of Cures, in the pride Of youth. His stark spear, urged with forceful sway, Through Dryops' throat, beneath the chin, he plied, And voice and life forsook him, as he lay, Spewing thick gore, his forehead in the clay. Three Thracians next, three sons of Idas bleed. Ismarians these. Halaesus to the fray Brings his Auruncan bands, and Neptune's seed, Messapus, too, comes up, the tamer of the steed. XLVIII. Each side strives hard the other's ground to win. E'en on Ausonia's threshold raves the fray. As in the broad air warring winds begin The battle, matched in strength and rage, nor they, The winds themselves, nor clouds nor sea give way, All locked in strife, and struggling as they can, And long in doubtful balance hangs the day, So meet the ranks, and mingle in the van, And foot clings close to foot, and man is massed with man. XLIX. Where, in another quarter, stones and trees, Torn from its banks, a torrent at its height Had strewn with wide-wrought ravage, Pallas sees His brave Arcadians break the ranks of fight, And turn before their Latin foes in flight. Strange to foot-combat, from his trusty horse The rough ground lured each rider to alight. Now with entreaties--'tis his last resource-- And now with bitter words he fires their flagging force. L. "Shame on ye, comrades! whither do ye run? By your brave deeds, and by the name ye bear, And great Evander's, by the wars ye won, By these my hopes, which even now bid fair E'en with my father's honours to compare. Trust not your feet; the sword, the sword must hew A pathway through the foemen. See, 'tis there, Where foes press thickest, and our friends are few, Our noble country calls for Pallas and for you.