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Nor e'er behold, ah wretch forlorn,
The camp, the city more?
And where are they, that gallant band,
Who fieldward followed my command?
In Death's fell grasp I left them all:
I see them fly—I see them fall—
I hear their dying groans.
What gulf will hide me from the day?
Have pity, O ye winds, I pray,
And dash me on the stones!
'Tis Turnus, yes, 'tis I that kneel!
Strand on the shoals this cursed keel,
And whelm me where nor Rutule rout
Nor prying fame may find me out.'
E'en thus he raves, and all distraught
Whirls in an agony of thought,
Or should he bury in his side
The hard cold steel, sure salve of pride,
Or plunge in ocean, swim to shore,
And tempt the Teucrian arms once more.
Thrice had he rushed on either fate:
Thrice Jove's great spouse withstood,
Looked down with eyes compassionate,
And checked his maddening mood.
The swift wind wafts him o'er the foam,
And bears him to his father's home.

Now, sped by promptings from the skies,
Mezentius takes the field, and flies
On Troy's triumphant van.
With gathered hate and furious blows
The Tyrrhene legions round him close,
A nation 'gainst a man.
He stands like rock that breasts the deep,
Exposed to winds' and waters' sweep,