With impious haste their altars are o'erturned, The sacrifice half broiled, and half unburned. Thick storms of steel from either army fly, And clouds of clashing darts obscure the sky; Brands from the fire are missive weapons made, With chargers, bowls, and all the priestly trade. Latinus, frighted, hastens from the fray, And bears his unregarded gods away. These on their horses vault; those yoke the car; The rest, with swords on high, run headlong to the war. Messapus, eager to confound the peace, Spurred his hot courser through the fighting prease, At king Aulestes, by his purple known } A Tuscan prince, and by his regal crown; } And, with a shock encountering, bore him down. } Backward he fell; and, as his fate designed, The ruins of an altar were behind: There pitching on his shoulders and his head, Amid the scattering fires he lay supinely spread. The beamy spear, descending from above, His cuirass pierced, and through his body drove. Then, with a scornful smile, the victor cries:-- "The gods have found a fitter sacrifice." Greedy of spoils, the Italians strip the dead Of his rich armour, and uncrown his head. Priest Corynæus armed his better hand, From his own altar, with a blazing brand; And, as Ebusus with a thundering pace Advanced to battle, dashed it on his face: His bristly beard shines out with sudden fires; The crackling crop a noisome scent expires. Following the blow, he seized his curling crown With his left hand; his other cast him down. The prostrate body with his knees he pressed, And plunged his holy poignard in his breast. While Podalirius, with his sword, pursued The shepherd Alsus through the flying crowd, Swiftly he turns, and aims a deadly blow Full on the front of his unwary foe. The broad axe enters with a crashing sound, } And cleaves the chin with one continued wound; } Warm blood, and mingled brains, besmear his arms around. } An iron sleep his stupid eyes oppressed, And sealed their heavy lids in endless rest. But good Æneas rushed amid the bands; Bare was his head, and naked were his hands, In sign of truce: then thus he cries aloud:-- "What sudden rage, what new desire of blood, Inflames your altered minds? O Trojans! cease From impious arms, nor violate the peace. By human sanctions, and by laws divine, The terms are all agreed; the war is mine. Dismiss your fears, and let the fight ensue; This hand alone shall right the gods and you: Our injured altars, and their broken vow, To this avenging sword the faithless Turnus owe." Thus while he spoke, unmindful of defence, A winged arrow struck the pious prince. But, whether from some human hand it came, Or hostile god, is left unknown by fame: