Book 12
Aeneas' fatal spear; whose eye perceived
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the moment of success, and all whose strength
struck forth: the vast and ponderous rock outflung
from engines which make breach in sieged walls
not louder roars nor breaks in thunder-sound
more terrible; like some black whirlwind flew
the death-delivering spear, and, rending wide
the corselet's edges and the heavy rim
of the last circles of the seven-fold shield,
pierced, hissing, through the thigh. Huge Turnus sinks
o'erwhelmed upon the ground with doubling knee.
Up spring the Rutules, groaning; the whole hill
roars answering round them, and from far and wide
the lofty groves give back an echoing cry.
Lowly, with suppliant eyes, and holding forth
his hand in prayer: “I have my meed,” he cried,
“Nor ask for mercy. Use what Fate has given!
But if a father's grief upon thy heart
have power at all,—for Sire Anchises once
to thee was dear,—I pray thee to show grace
to Daunus in his desolate old age;
and me, or, if thou wilt, my lifeless clay,
to him and his restore. For, lo, thou art
my conqueror! Ausonia's eyes have seen
me suppliant, me fallen. Thou hast made
Lavinia thy bride. Why further urge
our enmity?”With swift and dreadful arms
Aeneas o'er him stood, with rolling eyes,
but his bare sword restraining; for such words
moved on him more and more: when suddenly,
over the mighty shoulder slung, he saw
that fatal baldric studded with bright gold
which youthful Pallas wore, what time he fell
vanquished by Turnus' stroke, whose shoulders now
carried such trophy of a foeman slain.
Aeneas' eyes took sure and slow survey
of spoils that were the proof and memory
of cruel sorrow; then with kindling rage
and terrifying look, he cried, “Wouldst thou,
clad in a prize stripped off my chosen friend,
