One passion burns,--to let the sword decide.
Stript stand the altars, and the shrines are bare; Dark drives the storm of javelins far and wide, The iron tempest hurtles in the air, And bowls and censers from the hearths they tear.
Himself Latinus, flying, bears afar His home-gods, outraged by the league's misfare.
Some leap to horse, and others yoke the car, Or bare the glittering sword, and hurry to the war.
XXXVII.

Aulestes first, a king with kingly crown, Messapus scares, and, spurring forward, fain To break the treaty, rides the Tuscan down.
He, bating ground, falls back, and hurled amain Against the altars, pitches on the plain.
Up comes Messapus, with his beam-like spear, And smites him, pleading sorely but in vain, Steep-rising heavily smites him, with a jeer, "He hath it; Heaven hath gained a better victim here." XXXVIII.

Up Latins rush, and strip the limbs yet warm, A brand half-burnt fierce Corynoeus there Flings full at Ebusus, as with lifted arm He nears him, and the long beard, all aflare, Shines crackling, with a smell of burning hair.
He with his left hand, following up the throw, Grasps the long locks, and, planting firm and fair His knee, beneath him pins the prostrate foe, And drives the stark sword home, so deadly is the blow.
XXXIX.

Then, fired with fury, Podalirius flew At shepherd Alsus, as he rushed among The foremost.

With his naked sword he drew Behind him close, and o'er his foeman hung.
He turning round his broad axe backward swung, And clave the chin and forehead.