With dying hand she strives to pluck the spear: Deep 'twixt the rib-bones in the wound it lies.
Bloodless she faints; her features, late so fair, Fade, as the crimson from the pale cheeks flies, And cold and misty wax the drooping eyes.
Then, with quick gasps, and groaning from her breast, She calls to faithful Acca, ere she dies,-- Acca, her truest comrade and her best, The partner of her cares,--and breathes a last request.
CIV.

"Sister, 'tis past; the bitter shaft apace Consumes me; all is growing dark.

Go, tell This news to Turnus; bid him take my place, And keep these Trojans from the town.

Farewell." So saying, she dropped the bridle, as she fell.
Death's creeping chills the loosened limbs o'erspread.
Down dropped the weapons she had borne so well, The neck drooped, slackened; and she bowed her head, And the disdainful soul went groaning to the dead.
CV.

Up rose a shout, Camilla fall'n, that beat The golden stars, and fiercer waxed the fray.
On press the host, in serried ranks complete, Trojans, Arcadians, Tuscans in array.
High on a hill, fair Opis watched the day, Set there by Trivia, undisturbed till now, When, lo, amid the tumult far away She sees Camilla, in the dust laid low, Deep from her breast she sighs, and thus in words of woe: CVI.