Page:Aeneid (Conington 1866).djvu/469

Death-laden past the cure of art
Flies through the shade the hurtling dart,
So secret and so fleet.
E'en thus the deadly child of Night
Shot from the sky with earthward flight.
Soon as the armies and the town
Descending she descries,
She dwarfs her huge proportions down
To bird of puny size,
Which perched on tombs or desert towers
Hoots long and lone through darkling hours:
In such disguise, the monster wheeled
Round Turnus' head, and 'gainst his shield
Unceasing flapped her wings:
Strange chilly dread his limbs unstrung:
Upstands his hair: his voiceless tongue
To his parched palate clings.
But when from far Juturna heard
The whirring flight of that foul bird,
She rent her hair as sister mote,
Her cheeks she tore, her breast she smote
'Ah Turnus! what can sister now?
How other prove than cruel? how
Prolong your forfeit life?
Can goddess meet with fearless brow
A pest like this? At length I bow
And part me from the strife.
Nay, spare to aggravate my fear,
Ye birds of evil wing!
I know the sounds that stun mine ear:
That death-note speaks the bests severe
Of heaven's imperious king.
No meeter guerdon can he find
For maiden purity resigned?
Why gave he life to last for aye?
Why took the laws of death away?