And inland,
On ground where a raging stream had sent stones rolling,
And torn the bushes from the banks, the horsemen
Had to be infantry, for the rough ground
Forbade the use of chariots. Their nerve
Was at low ebb; they fled. And Pallas saw them,
And being their one hope, with scorn and prayer
Rallied their courage:—“Where do you flee, Arcadians?
By your own brave deeds I beg you, by your king,
By the old wars won in Evander’s name,
By my own hopes to match my father’s praise,
Trust not to flight. The sword must cut the way,
And where that mass of men comes thickest toward us,
That way we go, with Pallas as your leader
Our country calls; no gods pursue us: men,
We are being chased by men, with no more hands,
With no more lives than we have. Ocean blocks us
With his great dam; earth offers us no haven:
Are we bound for Troy or the sea?” And he dashed in
Where the enemy was thickest. Lagus came
To meet him; fate was far from kind to Lagus.
He was trying to lift a stone when Pallas hit him
And the javelin stuck in the spine between the ribs
Till Pallas pulled it loose again. Then Hisbo
Hoped to surprise him and failed; he came in rushing,
Reckless and angry over the death of Lagus,
And Pallas was ready for him, and drove the sword
Deep in the swollen lung. He went for Sthenius,
Then Anchemolus, of Rhoetus’ ancient line,
The consort of his stepmother in incest,
And then he saw twin brothers, sons of Daucus,
Named Thymber and Larides, whom their kinsmen
Could never tell apart, and their own parents
Made fond mistakes about them. But Pallas made
Them different, once for all; Evander’s sword
Cut off the head of Thymber; Larides’ hand,
Severed, looked blindly for its arm, the fingers
Closed, quivering and dying, on the sword.

So the Arcadians rallied; his example
Armed them with shame and rage. Tyres and Teuthras,
Arcadian brothers, started after Rhoeteus,
Who fled, and that saved Ilus’ life, for Pallas
Had flung a spear at Ilus, but Rhoeteus, driving
Into its path, received it, rolled from the chariot,
And his heels kicked the ground in death’s convulsion.
And as in summer, when a shepherd kindles
Fire here and there among the brush or forest,
And waits for wind, and hears it rise, and swiftly
The many fires are one great blaze, and Vulcan
Takes charge of all the field, above the battle
Watching victorious, so Pallas’ comrades
Swept in from all directions, bright and burning,
Toward him, their focus and centre. And Halaesus
Came on to meet them, pulling himself together,
Setting himself for battle. He killed Ladon,
Pheres, Demodocus: Strymonius threatened
His throat with the gleaming sword, and for his trouble
Got his right hand cut off, and then Halaesus
Bashed Thoas’ head in with a rock and scrambled
His skull-bones, blood and brains. Halaesus’ father
Knew his son’s destiny and tried to spare him,
Hiding him in the woodlands, but grew old
And could not watch forever, and when his eyes
Were blind in death, the fates reached out, Halaesus
Could not avoid his doom. Pallas attacked him,
Praying before he flung the spear:—“O Tiber,
Grant to the steel I poise and hurl good fortune,
A pathway through the breast of tough Halaesus:
Your oak will hold his arms and spoil as trophy.”
And Tiber heard the prayer; Halaesus’ luck
Ran out, he had left himself exposed, to cover
Imaon with his shield, and the bare breast
Took the Arcadian lance.

Lausus, unfrightened,
Himself no little portion of war, fought on,
Kept up the courage of his men, found Abas
And cut him down; when Abas fell, a cluster
Of stubborn fight was broken. The young men die,
Arcadians, Etruscans, Trojan fighters
Who had survived Greek wounds; they come to grips,
Both armies, equal in leadership and valor;
Lines become columns, columns lines: all thickens
Into confusion, a press too close for fighting.
On one side Pallas thrusts and strains, and Lausus
Struggles to meet him, two young heroes, equal,
Or nearly so, in years, in worth, in courage,
In handsome manliness; and both denied
Return to fatherland; and each forbidden
To meet the other; and both assured of finding
Their fate where a greater enemy is waiting.

Meanwhile the sister of Turnus brought him warning,
Lausus needs aid! So, with his car, he drove
Swift through the ranks. “Break off, and give me room,”
He cried, “Room for my duel. I am bound
To battle Pallas; Pallas is my prize,
My prize alone. I only wish his father
Were here to watch!” Obedient, his comrades
Gave place, and as they yielded, Pallas stood
Astonished at this arrogance, this giant:
He took the whole scene in, undaunted, proud,
Fierce, high in spirit, with a ready answer
For Turnus’ taunting:—“Either I win my praise
For kingly spoils or glorious death, and soon:
My father can face either: spare the threats!”
And he moved forward, and the blood ran chill
In all Arcadian hearts. Down from his car
Jumps Turnus; he comes nearer, like a lion
Who sees far-off a bull, intent on battle,
And stalks, and rushes; even so came Turnus,
Came within spear-throw; Pallas, watching, knew it,
T e way a hungry lion sees a deer
And the jaws open and the mane is lifted
And after one great leap the claws are fastened
Deep in the flank, and the mouth is red with slaughter.
So charged Mezentius into the midst, and Acron
Went down, heels drumming on the ground, and blood
Staining the broken spear. Orodes fled,
Or tried to, but no spear for him; Mezentius
Closed in, and struck with the sword, leaned on his spear,
With one foot on the body, and cried aloud:—
“Here lies Orodes, men, a mighty captain,
No little bit of the war!” His comrades joined him,
Shouting applause; with his last breath Orodes
Managed an answer:—“Not for long, O foeman,
Shall I be unavenged: exult a little.
Your doom keeps watch; you will hold these fields, as I do,
Before too long.” Mezentius, smiling at him,
Said only, “Die; and let the sire of the gods,
The king of men, look after me.” The steel
Came from the body; iron sleep and heavy
Repose weighed down his eyes; they closed forever
In night’s eternal dark.

Caedicus slaughters
Alcathous, Sacrator kills Hydaspes,
Rapo cuts two men down, Parthenius, Orses,
A tough, strong fighter; Messapus slays Clonius,
Lying, defenceless, on the ground, a rider
Thrown when the bridle of the horse was broken,
And Messapus slays another, Erichaetes,
Who tried to fight on foot; and Lycian Agis
Attempts to fight on foot, and meets Valerus,
And finds him a stout foeman, like his fathers,
And falls; and Thronius falls; his victor, Salius,
Is victim of Nealces, a good fighter
With javelin and far-deceiving arrow.
The scales were balanced: Trojans and Rutulians,
Arcadians, Etruscans, died and slaughtered.
Mars was a heavy-handed god, impartial
In dealing death and wounds. Victors and vanquished
Stood firm, in death or triumph, and the gods
Pitied both sides and all that useless anger,
That suffering which mortals take in battle.
Venus is watching, and Saturnian Juno,
And pale Tisiphone through the hosts goes raging.

And now Mezentius, shaking his great spear,
Sweeps like a whirlwind over the plain, a giant
Huge as Orion, wading through the waters,
Towering with his shoulders over the waves,
Lugging an ancient ash-tree from the mountains,
And his head hidden in the clouds of heaven,
So looms Mezentius, monstrous in his armor,
And, from the other side, Aeneas sees him,
And moves to meet him, and Mezentius stands there,
Unfrightened, heavy-set, waiting his foe.
He eyes the distance that the spear may need,
Indulges in mock prayer:—“Let my right hand,
That is to say, my god, and the dart I balance
Favor me now! And as a trophy, Lausus,
I vow yourself, my son, to carry, living,
The spoil stripped from this robber.” The spear flew on,
Glanced from the shield, wounded the knight Antores
Between the side and thigh; Evander’s ally,
Hercules’ comrade, a man from Argos, he falls,
Killed by a wound meant for another; dying,
He thinks of his dear Argos. And Aeneas
Lets drive his spear: it penetrates the shield,
The triple bronze, the layers of leather, biting
Deep in the groin, not going through. And happy
At sight of Tuscan blood, Aeneas draws
Sword from his side, comes hotly on; Mezentius
Staggers, and Lausus grieves; he loves his father,
The tears stream down his face.
Mezentius, dragging back, useless, disabled,
Slowly gives ground, the hostile spear still trailing,
Still fastened to the shield. Lausus runs forward,
Lifts his right arm and strikes. Aeneas parries,
Lausus is halted. But his comrades follow—
The father, with the son’s protecting shield,
Has, still, a chance of safety. Missiles shower
From all sides at Aeneas: though he rages,
He huddles under shelter, like a farmer
When hailstones rattle down, or any traveller
Seeking what he can find, a river bank,
An overhanging rock, or any cover
Until the downpour stops, and the sun returns
Men to their daily labor: so Aeneas,
With javelins thickening, every way, against him,
Endures the storm of war, and threatens Lausus:—
“What rush to death is this? What silly daring
Beyond the limit of strength? O foolish youngster,
You love your father, I know, but fool yourself
With too much loving.” Lausus, in his madness,
Has never a thought of stopping, and Aeneas
Feels anger rise against him, and the Fates
Tie off the ends of Lausus’ thread: the Trojan
Drives with the sword; it is buried in the body
Deep to the hilt. The little shield, frail armor
Against so great a menace, could not hold it.
The pliant tunic, woven by his mother
With golden thread, is no more help; the blood
Stains it another color, and through air
The life went sorrowing to the shades. And now
Aeneas changes. Looking on that face
So pale in death, he groans in pity; he reaches
As if to touch him with his hand, in comfort,
Knowing, himself, how one can love a father.
“Poor boy, what tribute can Aeneas offer,
What praise for so much glory? Keep the armor
You loved so much: if there is any comfort
In burial at home, know I release you
To your ancestral shades and ashes. Further,
You have one solace, this, that you have fallen
By great Aeneas’ hand.” He lifted Lausus
From the bloody ground and raised the head, that dust
And earth and blood should not defile its glory,
And called the Etruscans closer, scornful of them,
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