Thrice he the sword essayed, and thrice the flood; But Juno, moved with pity, both withstood, And thrice repressed his rage; strong gales supplied, And pushed the vessel o'er the swelling tide. At length she lands him on his native shores, And to his father's longing arms restores. Meantime, by Jove's impulse, Mezentius armed, Succeeding Turnus, with his ardour warmed His fainting friends, reproached their shameful flight, Repelled the victors, and renewed the fight. Against their king the Tuscan troops conspire; Such is their hate, and such their fierce desire Of wished revenge--on him, and him alone, All hands employed, and all their darts are thrown. He, like a solid rock by seas inclosed, To raging winds and roaring waves opposed, From his proud summit looking down, disdains Their empty menace, and unmoved remains. Beneath his feet fell haughty Hebrus dead, Then Latagus, and Palmus as he fled. At Latagus a weighty stone he flung: His face was flatted, and his helmet rung. But Palmus from behind receives his wound: Hamstringed he falls, and grovels on the ground: His crest and armour, from his body torn, Thy shoulders, Lausus, and thy head, adorn. Evas and Mimas, both of Troy, he slew. Mimas his birth from fair Theano drew-- Born on that fatal night, when, big with fire, The queen produced young Paris to his sire. But Paris in the Phrygian fields was slain, Unthinking Mimas on the Latian plain. And, as a savage boar, on mountains bred, With forest mast and fattening marshes fed, When once he sees himself in toils inclosed, By huntsmen and their eager hounds opposed, He whets his tusks, and turns, and dares the war, The invaders dart their javelins from afar: All keep aloof, and safely shout around; But none presumes to give a nearer wound: He frets and froths, erects his bristled hide, And shakes a grove of lances from his side: Not otherwise the troops, with hate inspired, And just revenge against the tyrant fired, Their darts with clamour at a distance drive, And only keep the languished war alive. From Corythus came Acron to the fight, Who left his spouse betrothed, and unconsummate night. Mezentius sees him through the squadron ride, Proud of the purple favours of his bride. Then, as a hungry lion, who beholds A gamesome goat, who frisks about the folds, Or beamy stag, that grazes on the plain-- He runs, he roars, he shakes his rising mane; He grins, and opens wide his greedy jaws: The prey lies panting underneath his paws: He fills his famished maw; his mouth runs o'er With unchewed morsels, while he churns the gore: So proud Mezentius rushes on his foes, And first unhappy Acron overthrows: Stretched at his length, he spurns the swarthy ground;