Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/362

'Neath that dread arm the field hadst pressed,
Forgetful of thy love,
But thy brave brethren, Phorcus' seed,
Were near thee in thy direst need;
Seven mighty men, they front the foe;
Seven javelins all at once they throw.
Some from his helm and shield rebound,
And, falling harmless, strew the ground;
While others, hurled with truer aim,
Kind Venus wards from off his frame.
Then to Achates cries the king:
'Quick, give me store of darts to fling:
No spear shall thirst in vain
To dye its point in Rutule blood
Which erst in corpse of Grecian stood
On Ilium's fated plain.'
He grasped his mighty lance and threw;
Through Mæon's shield the weapon flew,
And breast and breastplate rends.
Alcanor brings his brother aid;
The falling chief his hand has stayed:
In vain: the fell spear holds its course,
Cleaves the stretched arm with fatal force,
And dangling from the shoulder-blade
The severed hand depends.
Then gallant Numitor outdrew
The javelin that his brother slew
And at Æneas sent:
The erring weapon cleft the sky,
Just grazed Achates' brawny thigh,
Nor gained the mark it meant.

Now Clausus, who from Cures came,
In pride of youth and stalwart frame,
Takes up the work of death;