"O Phoebus, guardian of Soracte's steep, Whom first we honour, to whose sacred name, Thy votaries, we, the blazing pine-wood heap, And, firm in faith, pass through the smouldering flame, Grant that our arms may wipe away this shame.
Trophies, nor spoils, nor plunder from the prey Be mine; I look to other deeds for fame.
If wound of mine this hateful pest shall slay, Home will I gladly go, and fameless quit the fray." CI.

Apollo heard, and granted half his prayer, And half he scattered to the winds.

To slay With sudden stroke Camilla unaware He gave, but gave not his returning day; The breezes puffed the bootless wish away.
Shrill sang the lance; each Volscian eye and heart Turned to the queen.

The weapon on its way,-- The rush of air she heeds not, till the dart Strikes home, and, staying, draws the life-blood from her heart.
CII.

Up run her friends, the fainting queen to aid, More scared than all, in fear and joy amain, False Aruns flies, nor dares to face the maid, Or trust the venture of his spear again.
As guilty wolf, some steer or shepherd slain, Slinks to the hills, ere hostile darts pursue, And clasps his tail between his thighs, full fain To seek the woods, so Aruns shrank from view, Sore scared and glad to fly, and in the crowd withdrew.
CIII.