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war.
Collected in his strength, and like a rock,
Poisā€™d on his base, Mezentius stood the shock.
He stood, and, measuring first with careful eyes
The space his spear could reach, aloud he cries:
ā€œMy strong right hand, and sword, assist my stroke!
(Those only gods Mezentius will invoke.)
His armour, from the Trojan pirate torn,
By my triumphant Lausus shall be worn.ā€
He said; and with his utmost force he threw
The massy spear, which, hissing as it flew,
Reachā€™d the celestial shield, that stoppā€™d the course;
But, glancing thence, the yet unbroken force
Took a new bent obliquely, and betwixt
The side and bowels famā€™d Anthores fixā€™d.
Anthores had from Argos travelā€™d far,
Alcidesā€™ friend, and brother of the war;
Till, tirā€™d with toils, fair Italy he chose,
And in Evanderā€™s palace sought repose.
Now, falling by anotherā€™s wound, his eyes
He cast to heavā€™n, on Argos thinks, and dies.

The pious Trojan then his javā€™lin sent;
The shield gave way; throā€™ treble plates it went
Of solid brass, of linen trebly rollā€™d,
And three bull hides which round the buckler fold.
All these it passā€™d, resistless in the course,
Transpiercā€™d his thigh, and spent its dying force.
The gaping wound gushā€™d out a crimson flood.
The Trojan, glad with sight of hostile blood,
His falchion drew, to closer fight addressā€™d,
And with new force his fainting foe oppressā€™d.

His fatherā€™s peril Lausus viewā€™d with grief;
He sighā€™d, he wept, he ran to his relief.
And here, heroic youth, ā€™tis here I must
To thy immortal memory be just,
And sing an act so noble and so new,
Posterity will scarce believe ā€™tis true.
Painā€™d with his wound, and useless for the fight,
The father sought to save himself by flight:
Encumberā€™d, slow he draggā€™d the spear along,
Which piercā€™d his thigh, and in his buckler hung.
The pious youth, resolvā€™d on death, below
The lifted sword springs forth to face the foe;
Protects his parent, and prevents the blow.
Shouts of applause ran ringing throā€™ the field,
To see the son the vanquishā€™d father shield.
All, firā€™d with genā€™rous indignation, strive,
And with a storm of darts to distance drive
The Trojan chief, who, held at bay from far,
On his Vulcanian orb sustainā€™d the war.

As, when thick hail comes rattling in the wind,
The plowman, passenger, and labā€™ring hind
For shelter to the neighbā€™ring covert fly,
Or housā€™d, or safe in hollow caverns lie;
But, that oā€™erblown, when heavā€™n above ā€™em smiles,
Return to travel, and renew their toils:
Aeneas thus, oā€™erwhelmed on evā€™ry side,
The storm of darts, undaunted, did abide;
And thus to Lausus loud with friendly threatā€™ning cried:
ā€œWhy wilt thou rush to certain death, and rage
In rash attempts, beyond thy tender age,
Betrayā€™d by pious love?ā€ Nor, thus forborne,
The youth desists, but with insulting scorn
Provokes the lingā€™ring prince, whose patience, tirā€™d,
Gave place; and all his breast with fury firā€™d.
For now the Fates preparā€™d their sharpenā€™d shears;
And lifted high the flaming sword appears,
Which, full descending with a frightful sway,
Throā€™ shield and corslet forcā€™d thā€™ impetuous way,
And buried deep in his fair bosom lay.
The purple streams throā€™ the thin armour strove,
And drenchā€™d thā€™ imbroiderā€™d coat his mother wove;
And life at length forsook his heaving heart,
Loth from so sweet a mansion to depart.

But when, with blood and paleness all oā€™erspread,
The pious prince beheld young Lausus dead,
He grievā€™d; he wept; the sight an image brought
Of his own filial love, a sadly pleasing thought:
Then stretchā€™d his hand to hold him up, and said:
ā€œPoor hapless youth! what praises can be paid
To love so great, to such transcendent store
Of early worth, and sure presage of more?
Accept whateā€™er Aeneas can afford;
Untouchā€™d thy arms, untaken be thy sword;
And all that pleasā€™d thee living, still remain
Inviolate, and sacred to the slain.
Thy body on thy parents I bestow,
To rest thy soul, at least, if shadows know,
Or have a sense of human things below.
There to thy fellow ghosts with glory tell:
ā€˜ā€Šā€™Twas by the great Aeneas hand I fell.ā€™ā€Šā€
With this, his distant friends he beckons near,
Provokes their duty, and prevents their fear:
Himself assists to lift him from the ground,
With clotted locks, and blood that wellā€™d from out the wound.

Meantime, his father, now no father, stood,
And washā€™d his wounds by Tiberā€™s yellow flood:
Oppressā€™d with anguish, panting, and oā€™erspent,
His fainting limbs against an oak he leant.
A bough his brazen helmet did sustain;
His heavier arms lay scatterā€™d on the plain:
A chosen train of youth around him stand;
His drooping head was rested on his hand:
His grisly beard his pensive bosom sought;
And all on Lausus ran his restless thought.
Careful, concernā€™d his danger to prevent,
He much enquirā€™d, and many a message sent
To warn him from the fieldā ā€”alas! in vain!
Behold, his mournful followers bear him slain!
Oā€™er his broad shield still gushā€™d the yawning wound,
And drew a bloody trail along the ground.
Far off he heard their cries, far off divinā€™d
The dire event, with a foreboding mind.
With dust he sprinkled first his hoary head;
Then both his lifted hands to heavā€™n he spread;
Last, the dear corpse embracing, thus he said:
ā€œWhat joys, alas! could this frail being give,
That I have been so covetous to live?
To see my son, and such a son, resign
His life, a ransom for preserving mine!
And am I then preservā€™d, and art thou lost?
How much too dear has that redemption cost!
ā€™Tis now my bitter banishment I feel:
This is a wound too deep for time to heal.
My guilt thy growing virtues did defame;
My blackness blotted thy unblemishā€™d name.
Chasā€™d from a throne, abandonā€™d, and exilā€™d
For foul misdeeds, were punishments too mild:
I owā€™d my people these, and, from their hate,
With less resentment could have borne my fate.
And yet I live, and yet sustain the sight
Of hated men, and of more hated light:
But will not long.ā€ With that he raisā€™d from ground
His fainting limbs, that staggerā€™d with his wound;
Yet, with a mind resolvā€™d, and unappallā€™d
With pains or perils, for his courser callā€™d
Well-mouthā€™d, well-managā€™d, whom himself did dress
With daily care, and mounted with success;
His aid in arms, his ornament in peace.

Soothing his courage with a gentle stroke,
The steed seemā€™d sensible, while thus he spoke:
ā€œO Rhoebus, we have livā€™d too long for meā ā€”
If life and long were terms that could agree!
This day thou either shalt bring back the head
And bloody trophies of the Trojan dead;
This day thou either shalt revenge my woe,
For murderā€™d Lausus, on his cruel foe;
Or, if inexorable fate deny
Our conquest, with thy conquerā€™d master die:
For,

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