XCIX. Prone o'er his victim, to the flesh he clings, And laps the gore; so, burning in his zeal, The fierce Mezentius at his foemen springs. Poor Acron falls, and earth with dying heel Spurns, and the red blood stains the splintered steel. Orodes fled; Mezentius marks his flight, And scorns with lance a covert wound to deal, But face to face confronts him in the fight, Courage, not craft, prevails, and might o'ermatches might. C. With foot and spear upon him, "See," he cries, "Their champion; see the great Orodes slain!" All shout applause, but, dying, he replies, "Strange foe, not long thy triumph shall remain; Like fate awaits thee, on the self-same plain." "Die!" said Mezentius, with a smile of spite, "Jove cares for me," and plucked the shaft again. Grim rest and iron slumber seal his sight; The drooping eyelids close on everlasting night. CI. Now Caedicus made great Alcathous fall, Sacrator killed Hydaspes; Rapo too Parthenius and Orses, strong and tall; Messapus Clonius, whom his steed o'erthrew, And, foot to foot, Lycaon's son he slew, Brave Ericetes. Valerus with a blow Felled Agis, Lycia' s warrior. Salius flew At Thronius, but Nealces lays him low, Skilled with the flying dart and far-deceiving bow. CII. Stern Mars, impartial, weighs in equal scale The mutual slaughter, and the ghastly fight Raves, as in turn they perish or prevail, Vanquished or victor, for none dreams of flight. From Heaven the gods look pitying on the sight, Such fruitless hate, such scenes of mortal woe. Here Venus, there great Juno, filled with spite, Sits watching. Pale Tisiphone below Fierce amid thousands raves, and bids the discord grow. CIII. His massive spear Mezentius, flown with pride, Shakes in his fury, as he towers amain, Like huge Orion, when with ample stride He cleaves the deep-sea, where the Nereids reign, And lifts his lofty shoulders o'er the main, Or when, uprooting from the mountain head An aged ash, he stalks along the plain, And hides his forehead in the clouds; so dread Mezentius clangs his arms, so terrible his tread. CIV. AEneas marks him in the files of fight Far off, and hastes to meet him in advance. Dauntless he waits, collected in his might, The noble foe, then, measuring at a glance The space his arm can cover with the lance; "May this right hand, my deity," cried he, "And this poised javelin aid the doubtful chance. The spoils, from this false pirate stript, to thee My Lausus, I devote; his trophy shalt thou be."