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Snaps his vain teeth that close on nought,
He catching still, she still uncaught.
Turnus flies on, and as he flies
To every Rutule loudly cries,
Calls each by name, invokes their aid,
And clamours for his well-known blade.
Æneas in imperious tone
Denounces death should help be shown,
Threats the doomed town with sword and flame,
And, wounded, follows on the same.
Five times they circle round the place,
Five times the winding course retrace:
No trivial game is here: the strife
Is waged for Turnus' own dear life.
A wilding olive on the sward,
Sacred to Faunus, late had stood:
The seaman's dutiful regard
Preserved that venerable wood:
There hung they, rescued from the wave,
The weeds they doffed, the gifts they gave.
When for the fight the ground was traced,
The Trojans felled it in their haste,
Reckless of sacred or profane,
That nought might break the level plain.
Here lodged Æneas' javelin: here
It lighted, borne in fierce career,
And in the stump stood fast:
He strives the weapon to unroot,
And whom he cannot catch on foot
O'ertake by lance's cast.
Then out cries Turnus, wild with fear;
'Great Faunus, of thy pity hear!
Sweet Earth, hold fast the steel,