What chiefs and champions fell on either side, In combat slain, or by what deaths they died? Whom Turnus, whom the Trojan hero killed? Who shared the fame and fortune of the field? Jove! could'st thou view, and not avert thy sight, } Two jarring nations joined in cruel fight, } Whom leagues of lasting love so shortly shall unite? } Æneas first Rutulian Sucro found, Whose valour made the Trojans quit their ground; Betwixt his ribs the javelin drove so just, It reached his heart, nor needs a second thrust. Now Turnus, at two blows, two brethren slew; First from his horse fierce Amycus he threw: Then, leaping on the ground, on foot assailed Diores, and in equal fight prevailed. Their lifeless trunks he leaves upon the place; Their heads, distilling gore, his chariot grace. Three cold on earth the Trojan hero threw, Whom without respite at one charge he slew: Cethegus, Tanaïs, Talus, fell oppressed, And sad Onytes, added to the rest-- Of Theban blood, whom Peridia bore. Turnus two brothers from the Lycian shore, And from Apollo's fane to battle sent, O'erthrew; nor Phœbus could their fate prevent. Peaceful Menœtes after these he killed, Who long had shunned the dangers of the field: On Lerna's lake a silent life he led, And with his nets and angle earned his bread. Nor pompous cares, nor palaces, he knew, But wisely from the infectious world withdrew. Poor was his house: his father's painful hand Discharged his rent, and ploughed another's land. As flames among the lofty woods are thrown On different sides, and both by winds are blown; The laurels crackle in the sputtering fire; The frighted sylvans from their shades retire: Or as two neighbouring torrents fall from high, Rapid they run; the foamy waters fry; They roll to sea with unresisted force, And down the rocks precipitate their course Not with less rage the rival heroes take Their different ways; nor less destruction make. With spears afar, with swords at hand, they strike; And zeal of slaughter fires their souls alike. Like them, their dauntless men maintain the field; And hearts are pierced, unknowing how to yield: They blow for blow return, and wound for wound; And heaps of bodies raise the level ground. Murrhanus, boasting of his blood, that springs From a long royal race of Latian kings, Is by the Trojan from his chariot thrown, Crushed with the weight of an unwieldy stone: Betwixt the wheels he fell; the wheels, that bore His living load, his dying body tore. His starting steeds, to shun the glittering sword, Paw down his trampled limbs, forgetful of their lord. Fierce Hyllus threatened high, and, face to face, Affronted Turnus in the middle space: The prince encountered him in full career,