A jarring mixture, and a boding sound. "Alas!" said he, "what mean these dismal cries? What doleful clamours from the town arise?" Confused, he stops, and backward pulls the reins. She, who the drivers office now sustains, Replies:--"Neglect, my lord, these new alarms: Here fight, and urge the fortune of your arms: There want not others to defend the wall. If by your rival's hand the Italians fall, So shall your fatal sword his friends oppress, In honour equal, equal in success." To this, the prince:--"O sister!--for I knew, The peace infringed proceeded first from you: I knew you, when you mingled first in fight: And now in vain you would deceive my sight-- Why, goddess, this unprofitable care? Who sent you down from heaven, involved in air, Your share of mortal sorrows to sustain, And see your brother bleeding on the plain? For to what power can Turnus have recourse, Or how resist his fate's prevailing force? These eyes beheld Murrhanus bite the ground-- Mighty the man, and mighty was the wound. I heard my dearest friend, with dying breath, My name invoking to revenge his death. Brave Ufens fell with honour on the place, To shun the shameful sight of my disgrace. On earth supine, a manly corpse he lies; His vest and armour are the victor's prize. Then, shall I see Laurentum in a flame, Which only wanted, to complete my shame? How will the Latins hoot their champion's flight! How Drances will insult and point them to the sight! Is death so hard to bear?--Ye gods below! (Since those above so small compassion show,) Receive a soul unsullied yet with shame, Which not belies my great forefathers' name." He said: and while he spoke, with flying speed Came Saces urging on his foamy steed: Fixed on his wounded face a shaft he bore, And, seeking Turnus, sent his voice before: "Turnus! on you, on you alone, depends Our last relief:--compassionate your friends! Like lightning, fierce Æneas, rolling on, With arms invests, with flames invades, the town: The brands are tossed on high; the winds conspire To drive along the deluge of the fire. All eyes are fixed on you: your foes rejoice; Even the king staggers, and suspends his choice-- Doubts to deliver or defend the town, Whom to reject, or whom to call his son. The queen, on whom your utmost hopes were placed, Herself suborning death, has breathed her last. 'Tis true, Messapus, fearless of his fate, With fierce Atinas' aid, defends the gate: On every side surrounded by the foe, } The more they kill, the greater numbers grow; } An iron harvest mounts, and still remains to mow. } You, far aloof from your forsaken bands, Your rolling chariot drive o'er empty sands." Stupid he sate, his eyes on earth declined,