Now with full force his spear young Pallas threw, And, having thrown, his shining faulchion drew. The steel just grazed along the shoulder-joint, And marked it slightly with the glancing point. Fierce Turnus first to nearer distance drew, And poised his pointed spear, before he threw: Then, as the winged weapon whizzed along, "See now," said he, "whose arm is better strung." The spear kept on the fatal course, unstayed By plates of iron, which o'er the shield were laid: Through folded brass, and tough bull-hides, it passed, His corslet pierced, and reached his heart at last. In vain the youth tugs at the broken wood; The soul comes issuing with the vital blood: He falls; his arms upon his body sound; And with his bloody teeth he bites the ground. Turnus bestrode the corpse:--"Arcadians, hear, Said he; "my message to your master bear: Such as the sire deserved, the son I send; It costs him dear to be the Phrygian's friend. The lifeless body, tell him, I bestow Unasked, to rest his wandering ghost below." He said, and trampled down, with all the force Of his left foot, and spurned the wretched corse; Then snatched the shining belt, with gold inlaid-- The belt Eurytion's artful hands had made, Where fifty fatal brides, expressed to sight, } All in the compass of one mournful night, } Deprived their bridegrooms of returning light. } In an ill hour insulting Turnus tore Those golden spoils, and in a worse he wore. O mortals! blind in[11] fate, who never know To bear high fortune, or endure the low! The time shall come, when Turnus, but in vain, Shall wish untouched the trophies of the slain-- Shall wish the fatal belt were far away, And curse the dire remembrance of the day. The sad Arcadians, from the unhappy field, Bear back the breathless body on a shield. O grace and grief of war! at once restored, With praises, to thy sire, at once deplored. One day first sent thee to the fighting field, } Beheld whole heaps of foes in battle killed; } One day beheld thee dead, and borne upon thy shield. } This dismal news, not from uncertain fame, But sad spectators, to the hero came: His friends upon the brink of ruin stand, Unless relieved by his victorious hand. He whirls his sword around, without delay, And hews through adverse foes an ample way, To find fierce Turnus, of his conquest proud. Evander, Pallas, all that friendship owed To large deserts, are present to his eyes-- His plighted hand, and hospitable ties. Four sons of Sulmo, four whom Ufens bred, He took in fight, and living victims led, To please the ghost of Pallas, and expire, In sacrifice, before his funeral fire. At Magus next he threw: he stooped below The flying spear, and shunned the promised blow,