In silent order either army stands, And drop their swords, unknowing, from their hands. The Ausonian king beholds, with wondering sight, Two mighty champions matched in single fight, Born under climes remote, and brought by fate, With swords to try their titles to the state. Now, in closed field, each other from afar They view; and, rushing on, begin the war. They launch their spears; then hand to hand they meet, The trembling soil resounds beneath their feet: Their bucklers clash; thick blows descend from high, And flakes of fire from their hard helmets fly. Courage conspires with chance; and both engage With equal fortune yet, and mutual rage. As, when two bulls for their fair female fight In Sila's shades, or on Taburnus' height, With horns adverse they meet; the keeper flies; Mute stands the herd; the heifers roll their eyes, And wait the event--which victor they shall bear, And who shall be the lord, to rule the lusty year: With rage of love the jealous rivals burn, And push for push, and wound for wound, return; Their dewlaps gored, their sides are laved in blood; Loud cries and roaring sounds rebellow through the wood: Such was the combat in the listed ground; So clash their swords, and so their shields resound. Jove sets the beam: in either scale he lays The champions' fate, and each exactly weighs. On this side, life, and lucky chance ascends; Loaded with death, that other scale descends. Raised on the stretch, young Turnus aims a blow Full on the helm of his unguarded foe: Shrill shouts and clamours ring on either side, As hopes and fears their panting hearts divide. But all in pieces flies the traitor sword, And, in the middle stroke, deserts his lord. Now 'tis but death or flight: disarmed he flies, When in his hand an unknown hilt he spies. Fame says that Turnus, when his steeds he joined, } Hurrying to war, disordered in his mind, } Snatched the first weapon which his haste could find. } 'Twas not the fated sword his father bore, But that his charioteer Metiscus wore. This, while the Trojans fled, the toughness held: But, vain against the great Vulcanian shield, The mortal-tempered steel deceived his hand: The shivered fragments shone amid the sand. Surprised with fear, he fled along the field, And now forthright, and now in orbits wheeled: For here the Trojan troops the list surround, And there the pass is closed with pools and marshy ground. Æneas hastens, though with heavier pace-- His wound, so newly knit, retards the chase, And oft his trembling knees their aid refuse-- Yet, pressing foot by foot, his foe pursues. Thus, when a fearful stag is closed around With crimson toils, or in a river found, High on the bank the deep-mouthed hound appears,