Classic Poem

Now stern Æneas waves his weighty Spear
Against his Foe, and thus upbraids his Fear,
What farther Subterfuge can Turnus find;
What empty Hopes are harbour'd in his Mind?
'Tis not thy Swiftness can secure thy Flight:
Not with their Feet, but Hands, the Valiant fight.
Vary thy Shape in thousand Forms, and dare
What Skill and Courage can attempt in War:
Wish for the Wings of Winds, to mount the Sky;
Or hid, within the hollow Earth to lye.
The Champion shook his Head; and made this short reply.
No threats of thine, my manly Mind can move:
Tis Hostile Heav'n I dread; and Partial Jove .
He, said no more: but with a Sigh, repress'd
The mighty Sorrow, in his swelling Breast.
Then, as he rowl'd his troubled Eyes around,
An Antique Stone he saw: the Common Bound
Of Neighb'ring Fields; and Barrier of the Ground:
So vast, that Twelve strong Men of modern Days,
Th' enormous weight from Earth cou'd hardly raise.
He heav'd it at a Lift: and poiz'd on high,
Ran stagg'ring on, against his Enemy.
But so disorder'd, that he scarcely knew
His Way: or what unwieldy weight he threw.
His knocking Knees are bent beneath the Load:
And shiv'ring Cold congeals his vital Blood.
The Stone drops from his arms: and falling short,
For want of Vigour, mocks his vain Effort.
And as, when heavy Sleep has clos'd the sight,
The sickly Fancy labours in the Night:
We seem to run; and destitute of Force
Our sinking Limbs forsake us in the Course:
In vain we heave for Breath; in vain we cry:
The Nerves unbrac'd, their usual Strength deny;
And, on the Tongue the falt'ring Accents dye:
So Turnus far'd: what ever means he try'd,
All force of Arms, and points of Art employ'd,
The Fury flew athwart; and made th' Endeavour void.
A thousand various Thoughts his Soul confound:
He star'd about; nor Aid nor Issue found:
His own Men stop the Pass; and his own Walls surround.
Once more he pauses; and looks out again:
And seeks the Goddess Charioteer in vain.
Trembling he views the Thund'ring Chief advance:
And brandishing aloft the deadly Lance:
Amaz'd he cow'rs beneath his conqu'ring Foe,
Forgets to ward; and waits the coming Blow.
Astonish'd while he stands, and fix'd with Fear,
Aim'd at his Shield he sees th' impending Spear.
The Heroe measur'd first, with narrow view,
The destin'd Mark: And rising as he threw,
With its full swing the fatal Weapon flew.
Not with less Rage the rattling Thunder falls;
Or Stones from batt'ring Engins break the Walls:
Swift as a Whirlwind, from an Arm so strong,
The Lance drove on; and bore the Death along.
Nought cou'd his sev'n-fold Shield the Prince avail,
Nor ought beneath his Arms the Coat of Mail;
It pierc'd thro' all; and with a grizly Wound,
Transfix'd his Thigh, and doubled him to Ground.
With Groans the Latins rend the vaulted Sky:
Woods, Hills, and Valleys, to the Voice reply.
Now low on Earth the lofty Chief is laid;
With Eyes cast upward, and with Arms display'd;
And Recreant thus to the proud Victor pray'd.
I know my Death deserv'd, nor hope to live:
Use what the Gods, and thy good Fortune give.
Yet think; oh think, if Mercy may be shown,
(Thou hadst a Father once; and hast a Son:)
Pity my Sire, now sinking to the Grave;
And for Anchises sake, old Daunus save!
Or, if thy vow'd Revenge pursue my Death;
Give to my Friends my Body void of Breath!
The Latian Chiefs have seen me beg my Life;
Thine is the Conquest, thine the Royal Wife:
Against a yielded Man, 'tis mean ignoble Strife.
In deep Suspence the Trojan seem'd to stand;
And just prepar'd to strike repress'd his Hand.
He rowl'd his Eyes, and ev'ry Moment felt
His manly Soul with more Compassion melt.
When, casting down a casual Glance, he spy'd
The Golden Belt that glitter'd on his side:
The fatal Spoils which haughty Turnus tore
From dying Pallas , and in Triumph wore.
Then rowz'd anew to Wrath, he loudly cries,
(Flames, while he spoke, came flashing from his Eyes:)
Traytor, dost thou, dost thou to Grace pretend,
Clad, as thou art, in Trophees of my Friend?
To his sad Soul a grateful Off'ring go;
'Tis Pallas, Pallas gives this deadly Blow.
He rais'd his Arm aloft; and at the Word,
Deep in his Bosom drove the shining Sword.
The streaming Blood distain'd his Arms around:
And the disdainful Soul came rushing thro' the Wound.