LXVII. Lo, as fierce flames drive in from left and right Through woodlands parched and groves of crackling bay, As sweep impetuous from a mountain height Loud, foaming torrents, that withouten stay Cleave to the sea their devastating way: So, while in each full tides of anger flow, Rush Turnus and AEneas to the fray: Their tameless breasts with bursting valour glow, On, on they speed amain, nor fear the opposing blow. LXVIII. There stands Murranus, vaunting in vain joy His sires, and grandsires, he the princely son Of Latin monarchs. Him the chief of Troy Smites with the whirlwind of a monstrous stone, Huge as a rock. Down from his chariot thrown, 'Twixt reins and yoke, he tumbles on the sward. The fierce wheels, thundering onward, beat him down; His starting steeds, to shun the victor's sword, Tread on his trampled limbs, unmindful of their lord. LXIX. Here, fronting Hyllus, as he rushed amain, Fierce Turnus stood; his levelled spear-head clave The golden casque, and quivered in his brain. Nor thee, poor Creteus, though of Greeks most brave, From Turnus had thy prowess power to save. Nor aught availed Cupencus' gods to aid Against the dread AEneas, as he drave. Squaring his breast, he met the glittering blade, Nor long his brazen shield the mortal stroke delayed. LXX. Thee, too, great AEolus, Laurentum's plain Saw trampled down by Turnus, as he flew, And stretched at length among the Trojan slain. Thou diest, whom ne'er could Argive bands subdue, Nor Peleus' son, who Priam's realm o'erthrew. Thy goal is here; beyond the distant wave, Beneath the mount where Ida's fir-trees grew, High house was thine; high house Lyrnessus gave, Thy home; Laurentum's soil hath given thee a grave. LXXI. So met the ranks, and mingled, man with man, Latins and Dardans in promiscuous throng, Mnestheus and fierce Serestus in the van, Messapus, tamer of the steed, and strong Asylas. There in tumult swept along Arcadian horsemen, and the Tuscan train. No rest is theirs, no respite; loud and long The conflict rages, as with might and main, Each for his own dear life, the warriors strive and strain. LXXII. Now lovely Venus doth her son persuade To seek the walls, and townward turn his train, And deal swift havoc on the foe dismayed. While here and there AEneas scans the plain, Still tracking Turnus through the ranks in vain, Far off the peaceful city he espies, Unscathed, unstirred, and in his restless brain The vision of a greater war doth rise; Larger the War-God looms, and to his chiefs he cries.