But whether from fome human hand it came,
Or hostile god, is left unknown by fame :
No human hand, or hoftile god was found,
To boast the triumph of so base a wound.
When Turnus faw the Trojan quit the plain,
His chiefs difmay'd, his troops a fainting train:
Th' unhop'd event his heighten'd soul inspires,
At once his arms and courfers he requires.
Then, with a leap, his lofty chariot gains,
And with a ready hand affumes the reins.
He drives impetuous, and where-e'er he goes,
He leaves behind a lane of flaughter'd foes.
These his lance reaches, over those he rolls
His rapid car, and crushes out their fouls:
In vain the vanquish'd fly; the victor sends
The dead mens' weapons at their living friends.
Thus on the banks of Hébrus' freezing flood
The god of battles, in his angry mood,
Clashing his fword against his brazen shield,
Let loose the reins, and fcours along the field:
Before the wind his fiery courfers fly,
<Groans the fad earth, refounds the rattling sky.
Wrath, terror, treason, tumult, and despair,
Dire faces, and deform'd, furround the car;
Friends of the god, and followers of the war.
With fury not unlike, nor less disdain,
Exulting Turnus flies along the plain :
His smoking horses, at their utmost speed,
He lashes on; and urges o'er the dead.
Their fetlocks run with blood; and when they bound,
The gore, and gathering duft, are dafh'd around.
Thamyris and Pholus, masters of the war,
He kill'd at hand, but Sthelenus afar:
From far the fons of Imbracus he flew,
Glaucus, and Lades, of the Lycian crew::
Both taught to fight on foot, in battle join'd;
Or mount the courfer that out-ftrips the wind.
Mean time Eumedes, vaunting in the field,
New fir'd the Trojans, and their foes repell'd.
This fon of Dolon bore his grandfire's name;
But emulated more his father's fame.
His guileful father, fent a nightly spy,
The Grecian camp and order to defcry::
Hard enterprize, and well he might require
Achilles' car, and horfes for his hire;
But, met upon the fcout, th' Etolian prince
In death bestow'd a jufter recompence.
Fierce Turnus view'd the Trojan from afar;
And lanch'd his javelin from his lofty car:
Then lightly leaping down, pursued the blow,
And, preffing with his foot, his proftrate foe,
Wrench'd from his feeble hold the fhining fword.;
And plung'd it in the bofom of its lord.
Poffefs, faid he, the fruit of all thy pains,
And measure, at thy length, our Latian plains.
Thus are my foes rewarded by my
Thus may they build their town, and thus enjoy the land.
Then Daris, Butis, Sybaris, he flew,
Whom o'er his neck the floundering courfer threw.
As when loud Boreas, with his bluftering train,
Stoops from above, incumbent on the main;
Where-e'er he flies, he drives the rack before,
And rolls the billows on th'
So where refiftlefs Turnus takes his courfe,
The fcatter'd fquadrons bend before his force :
His creft of horfes hair is blown behind,
By adverse air, and ruftles in the wind.
This haughty Phegeus faw with high difdain, 550 And as the chariot roll'd along the plain, Light from the ground he leapt, and feiz'd the rein. Thus hung in air, he ftill retain'd his hold; The courfers frighted, and their course control'd. The lance of Turnus reach'd him as he hung, And pierc'd his plated arms; but pass'd along, And only raz'd the skin: he turn'd, and held Againft his threatening foe his ample thield; Then call'd for aid: but, while he cry'd in vain, The chariot bore him backward on the plain. He lies revers'd; the victor-king descends, And strikes fo justly where his helmet ends, He lops the head. The Latian fields are drunk, With streams that iffue from the bleeding trunk. While he triumphs, and while the Trojans yield, 565 The wounded prince is forc'd to have the field: Strong Mneftheus and Achates often try'd, And young Afcanius weeping by his fide, Conduct him to his tent: fcarce can he rear His limbs from earth, supported on his spear. : VOL. VII.
Refolv'd in mind, regardless of the smart,
He tugs with both his hands, and breaks the dart.
The steel remains. No readier way he found
To draw the weapon, than t'inlarge the wound.
Eager of fight, impatient of delay,
He begs; and his unwilling friends obey.
Täpis was at hand to prove his art,
Whofe blooming youth fo fir'd Apollo's heart,
That for his love he proffer'd to bestow
His tuneful harp, and his unerring bow:
The pious youth, more ftudious how to fave
His aged fire, now finking to the grave,
Preferr'd the power of plants, and filent praise
Of healing arts, before Phoebeian bays.
Prop'd on his lance the penfive hero stood,
And heard, and faw unmov'd, the mourning crowd.
The fam'd phyfician tucks his robes around
With ready hands, and haftens to the wound.
With gentle touches he performs his part,
This way and that, foliciting the dart,
And exercises all his heavenly art.
All foftening fimples, known of fovereign use,
He preffes out, and pours their noble juice;
These first infus'd, to lenify the pain,
He tugs with pincers, but he tugs in vain.
Then to the patron of his art he pray'd;
The patron of his art refus'd his aid.
Meantime the war approaches to the tents:
Th' alarm grows hotter, and the noise augments:
The driving duft proclaims the danger near,
And firft their friends, and then their foes appear;
Their friends retreat, their foes pursue the rear.
The camp is fill'd with terror and affright;
The hiffing shafts within the trench alight;
An undistinguish'd noise ascends the sky;
The shouts of those who kill, and groans of those who die.
But now the goddess mother, mov'd with grief,
And pierc'd with pity, haftens her relief.
A branch of healing Dittany she brought,
Which in the Cretan fields with care fhe fought:
Rough is the ftem, which woolly leaves furround;
The leaves with flowers, the flowers with purple crown'd't
Well known to wounded goats; a fure relief
To draw the pointed steel, and ease the grief,
This Venus brings, in clouds involv'd; and brews 615 Th' extracted liquor with ambrofial dews,
And odorous Panacee: unfeen she stands,
Tempering the mixture with her heavenly hands:
it in a bowl, already crown'd
With juice of med'c'nal herbs prepar'd to bathe the wound.
The leech, unknowing of fuperior art,
Which aids the cure, with this foments the part,
And in a moment ceas'd the raging smart.
Stanch'd is the blood, and in the bottom stands:
The steel, but scarcely touch'd with tender hands, 625
Moves up, and follows of its own accord;
And health and vigour are at once restor’d.
Täpis first perceiv'd the closing wound;
And first the footsteps of a god he found,
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