XCIII. Madly to grasp the dagger in his hand, And through his ribs drive home the naked blade, Or plunge into the deep, and swim to land, And, armed, once more the Teucrian foes invade. Thrice, but in vain, each venture he essayed. Thrice Heaven's high queen, in pity fain to save, Held back the youth, and from his purpose stayed. And borne along by favouring tide and wave, On to his father's town the level deep he clave. XCIV. Jove prompting, fierce Mezentius now the fight Takes up, and charges at the Teucrian foes. And, hurrying up, the Tuscan troops unite. All against one--one only--these and those Their gathered hate and crowding darts oppose. Unmoved he stands, as when a rocky steep In ocean, bare to every blast that blows, Around whose base the savage waves upleap, Braves all the threats of heaven, and buffets of the deep. XCV. Hebrus he slew, from Dolichaon sprung, Then Latagus, then Palmus, as he fled. Full in the face of Latagus he flung A monstrous stone, that stretched him with the dead. Palmus, with severed hamstring, next he sped, And rolled him helpless. Lausus takes his gear; The shining crest he fits upon his head, And dons the breastplate. 'Neath the conqueror's spear Phrygian Evanthes falls, and Paris' friend and peer, XCVI. Young Mimas, whom to Amycus that night Theano bore, when, big with Ilion's bane, Queen Hecuba brought Paris forth to light. Now Paris sleeps upon his native plain, But Mimas on a foreign shore is slain. As when a wild-boar, hounded from the hill, Who long on pine-clad Venulus hath lain, Or in Laurentum's marish fed his fill, Now in the toils caught fast, before his foes stands still, XCVII. And snorts with rage, and rears his bristling back; None dares approach him, but aloof they wait, Safe-shouting, and with distant darts attack; E'en so, of those who burn with righteous hate, None dares against Mezentius try his fate. But cries are hurled, and distant missiles plied, While he, undaunted, but in desperate strait, Gnashes his teeth, and from his shield's tough hide Shakes off the darts in showers, and shifts from side to side. XCVIII. From ancient Corythus came Acron there, A Greek, in exile from his half-won bride. Him, dealing havoc in the ranks, elsewhere Mezentius marked; the purple plumes he eyed, The robe his loved one for her lord had dyed. As when a lion, prowling to and fro, Sore pinched with hunger, round the fold, hath spied A stag tall-antlered, or a timorous roe, Ghastly he grins, erect his horrid mane doth show;