So, where resistless Turnus takes his course, The scattered squadrons bend before his force: His crest of horses hair is blown behind By adverse air, and rustles in the wind. This haughty Phegeus saw with high disdain, } And, as the chariot rolled along the plain, } Light from the ground he leapt, and seized the rein. } Thus hung in air, he still retained his hold, The coursers frighted, and their course controuled. The lance of Turnus reached him as he hung, And pierced his plated arms, but passed along, And only razed the skin. He turned, and held Against his threatening foe his ample shield, Then called for aid: but, while he cried in vain, The chariot bore him backward on the plain. He lies reversed; the victor king descends, And strikes so justly where his helmet ends, He lops the head. The Latian fields are drunk With streams that issue from the bleeding trunk. While he triumphs, and while the Trojans yield, The wounded prince is forced to leave the field: Strong Mnestheus, and Achates often tried, And young Ascanius, weeping by his side, Conduct him to his tent. Scarce can he rear His limbs from earth, supported on his spear. Resolved in mind, regardless of the smart, He tugs with both his hands, and breaks the dart. The steel remains. No readier way he found To draw the weapon, than to enlarge the wound. Eager of fight, impatient of delay, He begs; and his unwilling friends obey. Iäpis was at hand to prove his art, Whose blooming youth so fired Apollo's heart, That, for his love, he proffered to bestow His tuneful harp, and his unerring bow: The pious youth, more studious how to save His aged sire now sinking to the grave, Preferred the power of plants, and silent praise Of healing arts, before Phœbean bays. Propped on his lance the pensive hero stood, And heard and saw, unmoved, the mourning crowd. The famed physician tucks his robes around With ready hands, and hastens to the wound. With gentle touches he performs his part, } This way and that, soliciting the dart, } And exercises all his heavenly art. } All softening simples, known of sovereign use, He presses out, and pours their noble juice. These first infused, to lenify the pain-- He tugs with pincers, but he tugs in vain. Then to the patron of his art he prayed: The patron of his art refused his aid. Meantime the war approaches to the tents: The alarm grows hotter, and the noise augments: The driving dust proclaims the danger near; } And first their friends, and then their foes, appear: } Their friends retreat; their foes pursue the rear. } The camp is filled with terror and affright: The hissing shafts within the trench alight; An undistinguished noise ascends the sky--