LXXXVII. Then straight the Goddess from a hollow cloud-- Strange sight to see!--a thin and strengthless shade Shaped like the great AEneas, and endowed With Dardan arms, and fixed the shield, and spread The plume and crest as on his godlike head. And empty words, a soulless sound, she gave, And feigned the fashion of the warrior's tread. Thus ghosts are said to glide above the grave; Thus oft delusive dreams the slumbering sense enslave. LXXXVIII. Proud stalks the phantom, gladdening in the van, With darts provokes him, and with words defies. Forth rushed fierce Turnus, hurling as he ran His whistling spear. The shadow turns and flies. Then Turnus, glorying in his fancied prize, "Where now, AEneas, from thy plighted bride? The land thou soughtest o'er the deep, it lies Here, and this hand shall give it thee." He cried, And waved his glittering sword, and chased him, nor espied LXXXIX. The winds bear off his triumph.--Hard at hand, With steps let down and gangway ready laid, Moored by the rocks, a vessel chanced to stand, Which brave Osinius, Clusium's king, conveyed. Here, as in haste, for shelter plunged the shade. On Turnus pressed, and with a bound ascends The lofty gangways, dauntless nor delayed. The bows scarce reached, the rope Saturnia rends, And down the refluent tide the loosened ship descends. XC. Loud calls AEneas for his absent foe, And many a hero-body--all who dare To meet him--hurries to the shades below. No more the phantom lingers in his lair, But, soaring, melts into the misty air. Turnus a storm-wind o'er the deep sea blows. Backward he looks, and of events unware, And all unthankful to escape his foes. Up to the stars of heaven his hand and voice he throws. XCI. "Great Sire, was I so guilty in thy sight, To make thee deem such punishment my due? Whence came I? Whither am I borne? What flight Is this? and how do I return, and who? Again Laurentum's city shall I view? What of that band, who followed me, whom I-- Shame on me--left a shameful death to rue? E'en now I see them scattered,--see them fly,-- And see them fall; and hear the groans of those that die. XCII. "What am I doing? Where can Earth for me Gape deep enough? Ye winds that round me roar, Pity I crave, on rocks amid the sea-- 'Tis Turnus, I, a willing prayer who pour-- Dash me this ship, or drive it on the shore, 'Mid ruthless shoals, where no Rutulian eyes May see my shame, nor prying Fame explore." Thus he, and, tost in spirit, as he cries, This plan and that in turn his wavering thoughts devise: