And, murmuring with disdain, to Stygian sounds retires. A shout, that struck the golden stars, ensued; Despair and rage, and languished fight renewed. The Trojan troops and Tuscans, in a line, Advance to charge; the mixed Arcadians join. But Cynthia's maid, high seated, from afar Surveys the field, and fortune of the war, Unmoved a while, till, prostrate on the plain, } Weltering in blood, she sees Camilla slain, } And, round her corpse, of friends and foes a fighting train. } Then, from the bottom of her breast, she drew A mournful sigh, and these sad words ensue:-- "Too dear a fine, ah much lamented maid! For warring with the Trojans, thou hast paid: Nor aught availed, in this unhappy strife, Diana's sacred arms, to save thy life. Yet unrevenged thy goddess will not leave Her votary's death, nor with vain sorrow grieve. Branded the wretch, and be his name abhorred; But after-ages shall thy praise record. The inglorious coward soon shall press the plain: Thus vows thy queen, and thus the Fates ordain." High o'er the field, there stood a hilly mound-- Sacred the place, and spread with oaks around-- Where, in a marble tomb, Dercennus lay, A king that once in Latium bore the sway. The beauteous Opis thither bent her flight, To mark the traitor Arruns from the height. Him in refulgent arms she soon espied, Swoln with success; and loudly thus she cried:-- "Thy backward steps, vain boaster, are too late; Turn, like a man, at length, and meet thy fate. Charged with my message to Camilla go, } And say I sent thee to the shades below-- } An honour undeserved from Cynthia's bow." } She said, and from her quiver chose with speed The winged shaft, predestined for the deed; Then to the stubborn yew her strength applied, Till the far distant horns approached on either side. The bow-string touched her breast, so strong she drew; Whizzing in air the fatal arrow flew. At once the twanging bow and sounding dart The traitor heard, and felt the point within his heart. Him beating with his heels in pangs of death, His flying friends to foreign fields bequeath. The conquering damsel, with expanded wings, The welcome message to her mistress brings. Their leader lost, the Volscians quit the field; And, unsustained, the chiefs of Turnus yield. The frighted soldiers, when their captains fly, More on their speed than on their strength rely. Confused in flight, they bear each other down, And spur their horses headlong to the town. Driven by their foes, and to their fears resigned, Not once they turn, but take their wounds behind. These drop the shield, and those the lance forego, Or on their shoulders bear the slackened bow. The hoofs of horses, with a rattling sound,