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But now not blindly from Olympian throne
the Sire of gods and men observant saw
how sped the day. Then to the conflict dire
the god thrust Tarchon forth, the Tyrrhene King,
goading the warrior's rage. So Tarchon rode
through slaughter wide and legions in retreat,
and roused the ranks with many a wrathful cry:
he called each man by name, and toward the foe
drove back the routed lines. “What terrors now,
Tuscan cowards, dead to noble rage,
have seized ye? or what laggard sloth and vile
unmans your hearts, that now a woman's arm
pursues ye and this scattered host confounds?
Why dressed in steel, or to what purpose wear
your futile swords? Not slackly do ye join
the ranks of Venus in a midnight war;
or when fantastic pipes of Bacchus call
your dancing feet, right venturesome ye fly
to banquets and the flowing wine—what zeal,
what ardor then! Or if your flattering priest
begins the revel, and to Iofty groves
fat flesh of victims bids ye haste away!”
So saying, his steed he spurred, and scorning death
dashed into the mid-fray, where, frenzy-driven,
he sought out Venulus, and, grappling him
with one hand, from the saddle snatched his foe,
and, clasping strongly to his giant breast,
exultant bore away. The shouting rose
to heaven, and all the Latins gazed his way,
as o'er the plain the fiery Tarchon flew
bearing the full-armed man; then, breaking off
the point of his own spear, he pried a way
through the seam'd armor for the mortal wound;
the other, struggling, thrust back from his throat
the griping hand, full force to force opposing.
As when a golden eagle high in air
knits to a victim—snake his clinging feet
and deeply-thrusting claws; but, coiling back,
the wounded serpent roughens his stiff scales
and stretches high his hissing head; whereat
the eagle with hooked beak the more doth rend
her writhing foe, and with swift stroke of wing
lashes the air: so Tarchon, from the ranks
of Tibur's sons, triumphant snatched his prey.
The Tuscans rallied now, well pleased to view
their king's example and successful war.
Then Arruns, marked for doom, made circling line
around Camilla's path, his crafty spear
seeking its lucky chance. Where'er the maid
sped furious to the battle, Arruns there
in silence dogged her footsteps and pursued;
or where triumphant from her fallen foes
she backward drew, the warrior stealthily
turned his swift reins that way: from every side
he circled her, and scanned his vantage here
or vantage there, his skilful javelin
stubbornly shaking.

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