Groaning, with a gasp, he dies.
Upsoars the gladdening Nymph, and seeks the Olympian skies.
CIX.

First flies Camilla's troop, their mistress slain, Then, routed, the Rutulian ranks give way, And fierce Atinas gallops from the plain, And scattered chiefs and squadrons in dismay Spur towards the town for shelter from the fray.
None dares that murderous onset of the foe To stem with javelins, nor their charge to stay.
Slack from their fainting shoulders hangs the bow, The clattering horse-hoofs shake the crumbling ground below.
CX.

Dark rolls the dust-cloud, to the town-walls driven, And mothers on the watch-towers, pale with fear, Smite on their breasts, and shriek aloud to heaven.
These, bursting in, their foemen in the rear Crush in the crowd, and slaughter with the spear, Slain in the gateway--miserably slain!-- Their walls in sight, their happy homes so near.
Those bar the gates, while comrades on the plain Stretch their imploring hands, and call to them in vain.
CXI.

Then piteous waxed the carnage by the gate, Some storming, some defending.

These without, In sight of parents, weeping at their fate, Roll down the moat, swept headlong by the rout, Or charge the battered doorposts with a shout.
The very matrons, at their country's call, Their javelins hurl.