C. "O Phoebus, guardian of Soracte's steep, Whom first we honour, to whose sacred name, Thy votaries, we, the blazing pine-wood heap, And, firm in faith, pass through the smouldering flame, Grant that our arms may wipe away this shame. Trophies, nor spoils, nor plunder from the prey Be mine; I look to other deeds for fame. If wound of mine this hateful pest shall slay, Home will I gladly go, and fameless quit the fray." CI. Apollo heard, and granted half his prayer, And half he scattered to the winds. To slay With sudden stroke Camilla unaware He gave, but gave not his returning day; The breezes puffed the bootless wish away. Shrill sang the lance; each Volscian eye and heart Turned to the queen. The weapon on its way,-- The rush of air she heeds not, till the dart Strikes home, and, staying, draws the life-blood from her heart. CII. Up run her friends, the fainting queen to aid, More scared than all, in fear and joy amain, False Aruns flies, nor dares to face the maid, Or trust the venture of his spear again. As guilty wolf, some steer or shepherd slain, Slinks to the hills, ere hostile darts pursue, And clasps his tail between his thighs, full fain To seek the woods, so Aruns shrank from view, Sore scared and glad to fly, and in the crowd withdrew. CIII. With dying hand she strives to pluck the spear: Deep 'twixt the rib-bones in the wound it lies. Bloodless she faints; her features, late so fair, Fade, as the crimson from the pale cheeks flies, And cold and misty wax the drooping eyes. Then, with quick gasps, and groaning from her breast, She calls to faithful Acca, ere she dies,-- Acca, her truest comrade and her best, The partner of her cares,--and breathes a last request. CIV. "Sister, 'tis past; the bitter shaft apace Consumes me; all is growing dark. Go, tell This news to Turnus; bid him take my place, And keep these Trojans from the town. Farewell." So saying, she dropped the bridle, as she fell. Death's creeping chills the loosened limbs o'erspread. Down dropped the weapons she had borne so well, The neck drooped, slackened; and she bowed her head, And the disdainful soul went groaning to the dead. CV. Up rose a shout, Camilla fall'n, that beat The golden stars, and fiercer waxed the fray. On press the host, in serried ranks complete, Trojans, Arcadians, Tuscans in array. High on a hill, fair Opis watched the day, Set there by Trivia, undisturbed till now, When, lo, amid the tumult far away She sees Camilla, in the dust laid low, Deep from her breast she sighs, and thus in words of woe: