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care,
Indued with windy wings to flit in air,
With serpents girt alike, and crownā€™d with hissing hair.
In heavā€™n the Dirae callā€™d, and still at hand,
Before the throne of angry Jove they stand,
His ministers of wrath, and ready still
The minds of mortal men with fears to fill,
Wheneā€™er the moody sire, to wreak his hate
On realms or towns deserving of their fate,
Hurls down diseases, death and deadly care,
And terrifies the guilty world with war.
One sister plague if these from heavā€™n he sent,
To fright Juturna with a dire portent.
The pest comes whirling down: by far more slow
Springs the swift arrow from the Parthian bow,
Or Cydon yew, when, traversing the skies,
And drenchā€™d in poisā€™nous juice, the sure destruction flies.
With such a sudden and unseen a flight
Shot throā€™ the clouds the daughter of the night.
Soon as the field inclosā€™d she had in view,
And from afar her destinā€™d quarry knew,
Contracted, to the boding bird she turns,
Which haunts the ruinā€™d piles and hallowā€™d urns,
And beats about the tombs with nightly wings,
Where songs obscene on sepulchers she sings.
Thus lessenā€™d in her form, with frightful cries
The Fury round unhappy Turnus flies,
Flaps on his shield, and flutters oā€™er his eyes.

A lazy chillness crept along his blood;
Chokā€™d was his voice; his hair with horror stood.
Juturna from afar beheld her fly,
And knew thā€™ ill omen, by her screaming cry
And stridor of her wings. Amazā€™d with fear,
Her beauteous breast she beat, and rent her flowing hair.

ā€œAh me!ā€ she cries, ā€œin this unequal strife
What can thy sister more to save thy life?
Weak as I am, can I, alas! contend
In arms with that inexorable fiend?
Now, now, I quit the field! forbear to fright
My tender soul, ye baleful birds of night;
The lashing of your wings I know too well,
The sounding flight, and funā€™ral screams of hell!
These are the gifts you bring from haughty Jove,
The worthy recompense of ravishā€™d love!
Did he for this exempt my life from fate?
O hard conditions of immortal state,
Thoā€™ born to death, not privilegā€™d to die,
But forcā€™d to bear imposā€™d eternity!
Take back your envious bribes, and let me go
Companion to my brotherā€™s ghost below!
The joys are vanishā€™d: nothing now remains,
Of life immortal, but immortal pains.
What earth will open her devouring womb,
To rest a weary goddess in the tomb!ā€
She drew a length of sighs; nor more she said,
But in her azure mantle wrappā€™d her head,
Then plungā€™d into her stream, with deep despair,
And her last sobs came bubbling up in air.

Now stern Aeneas his weighty spear
Against his foe, and thus upbraids his fear:
ā€œWhat farther subterfuge can Turnus find?
What empty hopes are harbourā€™d in his mind?
ā€™Tis not thy swiftness can secure thy flight;
Not with their feet, but hands, the valiant fight.
Vary thy shape in thousand forms, and dare
What skill and courage can attempt in war;
Wish for the wings of winds, to mount the sky;
Or hid, within the hollow earth to lie!ā€
The champion shook his head, and made this short reply:
ā€œNo threats of thine my manly mind can move;
ā€™Tis hostile heavā€™n I dread, and partial Jove.ā€
He said no more, but, with a sigh, repressā€™d
The mighty sorrow in his swelling breast.

Then, as he rollā€™d his troubled eyes around,
An antique stone he saw, the common bound
Of neighbā€™ring fields, and barrier of the ground;
So vast, that twelve strong men of modern days
Thā€™ enormous weight from earth could hardly raise.
He heavā€™d it at a lift, and, poisā€™d on high,
Ran staggā€™ring on against his enemy,
But so disorderā€™d, that he scarcely knew
His way, or what unwieldly weight he threw.
His knocking knees are bent beneath the load,
And shivā€™ring cold congeals his vital blood.
The stone drops from his arms, and, falling short
For want of vigour, mocks his vain effort.
And as, when heavy sleep has closā€™d the sight,
The sickly fancy labours in the night;
We seem to run; and, destitute of force,
Our sinking limbs forsake us in the course:
In vain we heave for breath; in vain we cry;
The nerves, unbracā€™d, their usual strength deny;
And on the tongue the faltā€™ring accents die:
So Turnus farā€™d; whatever means he tried,
All force of arms and points of art employā€™d,
The Fury flew athwart, and made thā€™ endeavor void.

A thousand various thoughts his soul confound;
He starā€™d about, nor aid nor issue found;
His own men stop the pass, and his own walls surround.
Once more he pauses, and looks out again,
And seeks the goddess charioteer in vain.
Trembling he views the thundā€™ring chief advance,
And brandishing aloft the deadly lance:
Amazā€™d he cowā€™rs beneath his conquā€™ring foe,
Forgets to ward, and waits the coming blow.
Astonishā€™d while he stands, and fixā€™d with fear,
Aimā€™d at his shield he sees thā€™ impending spear.

The hero measurā€™d first, with narrow view,
The destinā€™d mark; and, rising as he threw,
With its full swing the fatal weapon flew.
Not with less rage the rattling thunder falls,
Or stones from battā€™ring-engines break the walls:
Swift as a whirlwind, from an arm so strong,
The lance drove on, and bore the death along.
Naught could his sevā€™nfold shield the prince avail,
Nor aught, beneath his arms, the coat of mail:
It piercā€™d throā€™ all, and with a grisly wound
Transfixā€™d his thigh, and doubled him to ground.
With groans the Latins rend the vaulted sky:
Woods, hills, and valleys, to the voice reply.

Now low on earth the lofty chief is laid,
With eyes cast upward, and with arms displayā€™d,
And, recreant, thus to the proud victor prayā€™d:
ā€œI know my death deservā€™d, nor hope to live:
Use what the gods and thy good fortune give.
Yet think, O think, if mercy may be shownā ā€”
Thou hadst a father once, and hast a sonā ā€”
Pity my sire, now sinking to the grave;
And for Anchisesā€™ sake old Daunus save!
Or, if thy vowā€™d revenge pursue my death,
Give to my friends my body void of breath!
The Latian chiefs have seen me beg my life;
Thine is the conquest, thine the royal wife:
Against a yielded man, ā€™tis mean ignoble strife.ā€

In deep suspense the Trojan seemā€™d to stand,
And, just preparā€™d to strike, repressā€™d his hand.
He rollā€™d his eyes, and evā€™ry moment felt
His manly soul with more compassion melt;
When, casting down a casual glance, he spied
The golden belt that glitterā€™d on his side,
The fatal spoils which haughty Turnus tore
From dying Pallas, and in triumph wore.
Then, rousā€™d anew to wrath, he loudly cries
(Flames, while he spoke,

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