LXXIX. The women heard; Lavinia first of all, Her golden locks, her rosy cheeks doth tear. All rave around, and wailings fill the hall. Fast flies the news, and shakes the town with fear. Then rends his robes Latinus in despair, His town in ruins and his consort dead, And, scattering dust upon his hoary hair, Himself he blames, that ne'er in Turnus' stead The Dardan prince he chose, his dear-lov'd child to wed. LXXX. Meanwhile, in chase of distant stragglers, speeds Fierce Turnus. Slacker is his car's career, And less he glories in his conquering steeds, When lo, the breezes from Laurentum bear The sound of shouting, and the shrieks of fear, And a dull murmur, as of men that groan,-- The city's roar--strikes on his listening ear. "Ah me! what clamour on the winds is blown? What noise of grief," he cries, "comes rolling from the town?" LXXXI. He spake, and madly pulled the rein. Then she, His sister, like Metiscus changed in view, Who ruled the chariot, "Forward, Turnus! See The path that victory points thee to pursue. This way--this way to chase the Trojan crew! Others there are, who can the walls defend, See here AEneas, how he storms. We, too, Our foes, Troy's varlets, to their graves can send, Nor thee less tale of slain, nor scantier praise attend." LXXXII. Then quickly answered Turnus, glancing round, "Sister, long since I knew thee--knew thee plain, When first thy cunning did the league confound, And sent thee forth, fierce battle to darrain; And now thou think'st to cheat me, but in vain, Albeit a goddess. But what power on high Hath willed thee, sent from the Olympian reign, Such toils to suffer, and such tasks to try? Cam'st thou, forsooth, to see thy wretched brother die? LXXXIII. "What can I do? What pledge of safety more Doth Fortune give? what better hopes remain? Myself beheld, these very eyes before, Murranus die, the dearest of our train, Stretched by a huge wound hugely on the plain. I saw, how, backward as his comrades reeled, Poor Ufens, sooner than behold such stain, Sank low in death; himself, his sword and shield The Teucrian victors hold, their trophies of the field. LXXXIV. "What, shall I see our houses wrapt in flame,-- Last wrong of all--and coward-like, stand by, Nor make this arm put Drances' taunts to shame? Shall Turnus run, and Latins see him fly? And is it then so terrible to die? Be kind, dread spirits of the world below! To you, since envious are the powers on high, Worthy my ancestors of long ago, Free from the coward's blame, a sacred shade I go."