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his lofty chariot gains,
And with a ready hand assumes the reins.
He drives impetuous, and, whereā€™er he goes,
He leaves behind a lane of slaughterā€™d foes.
These his lance reaches; over those he rolls
His rapid car, and crushes out their souls:
In vain the vanquishā€™d fly; the victor sends
The dead menā€™s weapons at their living friends.
Thus, on the banks of Hebrusā€™ freezing flood,
The God of Battles, in his angry mood,
Clashing his sword against his brazen shield,
Let loose the reins, and scours along the field:
Before the wind his fiery coursers fly;
Groans the sad earth, resounds the rattling sky.
Wrath, Terror, Treason, Tumult, and Despair
(Dire faces, and deformā€™d) surround the car;
Friends of the god, and followers of the war.
With fury not unlike, nor less disdain,
Exulting Turnus flies along the plain:
His smoking horses, at their utmost speed,
He lashes on, and urges oā€™er the dead.
Their fetlocks run with blood; and, when they bound,
The gore and gathā€™ring dust are dashā€™d around.
Thamyris and Pholus, masters of the war,
He killā€™d at hand, but Sthenelus afar:
From far the sons of Imbracus he slew,
Glaucus and Lades, of the Lycian crew;
Both taught to fight on foot, in battle joinā€™d,
Or mount the courser that outstrips the wind.

Meantime Eumedes, vaunting in the field,
New firā€™d the Trojans, and their foes repellā€™d.
This son of Dolon bore his grandsireā€™s name,
But emulated more his fatherā€™s fame;
His guileful father, sent a nightly spy,
The Grecian camp and order to descry:
Hard enterprise! and well he might require
Achillesā€™ car and horses, for his hire:
But, met upon the scout, thā€™ Aetolian prince
In death bestowā€™d a juster recompense.
Fierce Turnus viewā€™d the Trojan from afar,
And launchā€™d his javā€™lin from his lofty car;
Then lightly leaping down, pursued the blow,
And, pressing with his foot his prostrate foe,
Wrenchā€™d from his feeble hold the shining sword,
And plungā€™d it in the bosom of its lord.
ā€œPossess,ā€ said he, ā€œthe fruit of all thy pains,
And measure, at thy length, our Latian plains.
Thus are my foes rewarded by my hand;
Thus may they build their town, and thus enjoy the land!ā€

Then Dares, Butes, Sybaris he slew,
Whom oā€™er his neck his floundā€™ring courser threw.
As when loud Boreas, with his blustā€™ring train,
Stoops from above, incumbent on the main;
Whereā€™er he flies, he drives the rack before,
And rolls the billows on thā€™ Aegaean shore:
So, where resistless Turnus takes his course,
The scatterā€™d squadrons bend before his force;
His crest of horsesā€™ hair is blown behind
By adverse air, and rustles in the wind.

This haughty Phegeus saw with high disdain,
And, as the chariot rollā€™d along the plain,
Light from the ground he leapt, and seizā€™d the rein.
Thus hung in air, he still retainā€™d his hold,
The coursers frighted, and their course controllā€™d.
The lance of Turnus reachā€™d him as he hung,
And piercā€™d his plated arms, but passā€™d along,
And only razā€™d the skin. He turnā€™d, and held
Against his threatā€™ning foe his ample shield;
Then callā€™d for aid: but, while he cried in vain,
The chariot bore him backward on the plain.
He lies reversā€™d; 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 forcā€™d 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.
Resolvā€™d 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 tā€™ inlarge the wound.
Eager of fight, impatient of delay,
He begs; and his unwilling friends obey.

Iapis was at hand to prove his art,
Whose blooming youth so firā€™d Apolloā€™s heart,
That, for his love, he profferā€™d 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,
Preferrā€™d the powā€™r of plants, and silent praise
Of healing arts, before Phoebean bays.

Proppā€™d on his lance the pensive hero stood,
And heard and saw, unmovā€™d, the mourning crowd.
The famā€™d 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 heavā€™nly art.
All softā€™ning simples, known of sovā€™reign use,
He presses out, and pours their noble juice.
These first infusā€™d, to lenify the pain,
He tugs with pincers, but he tugs in vain.
Then to the patron of his art he prayā€™d:
The patron of his art refusā€™d his aid.

Meantime the war approaches to the tents;
Thā€™ 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 fillā€™d with terror and affright:
The hissing shafts within the trench alight;
An undistinguishā€™d noise ascends the sky,
The shouts of those who kill, and groans of those who die.

But now the goddess mother, movā€™d with grief,
And piercā€™d with pity, hastens her relief.
A branch of healing dittany she brought,
Which in the Cretan fields with care she sought:
Rough is the stern, which woolly leafs surround;
The leafs with flowā€™rs, the flowā€™rs with purple crownā€™d,
Well known to wounded goats; a sure relief
To draw the pointed steel, and ease the grief.
This Venus brings, in clouds involvā€™d, and brews
Thā€™ extracted liquor with ambrosian dews,
And odorous panacee. Unseen she stands,
Tempā€™ring the mixture with her heavā€™nly hands,
And pours it in a bowl, already crownā€™d
With juice of medā€™cā€™nal herbs preparā€™d to bathe the wound.
The leech, unknowing of superior art
Which aids the cure, with this foments the part;
And in a moment ceasā€™d the raging smart.
Stanchā€™d is the blood, and in the bottom stands:
The steel, but scarcely touchā€™d with tender hands,
Moves up, and follows of its own accord,
And health and vigour are at once restorā€™d.
Iapis first perceivā€™d the closing wound,
And first the footsteps of a god he found.
ā€œArms! arms!ā€ he cries; ā€œthe sword and shield prepare,
And send the willing chief, renewā€™d, to war.
This is no mortal work, no cure of mine,
Nor artā€™s effect, but done by hands divine.
Some god our general to the battle sends;
Some god preserves his life for greater ends.ā€

The hero arms in haste; his hands infold
His thighs with cuishes of refulgent gold:
Inflamā€™d to fight, and rushing

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