There stands Murranus, vaunting in vain joy His sires, and grandsires, he the princely son Of Latin monarchs.

Him the chief of Troy Smites with the whirlwind of a monstrous stone, Huge as a rock.

Down from his chariot thrown, 'Twixt reins and yoke, he tumbles on the sward.
The fierce wheels, thundering onward, beat him down; His starting steeds, to shun the victor's sword, Tread on his trampled limbs, unmindful of their lord.
LXIX.

Here, fronting Hyllus, as he rushed amain, Fierce Turnus stood; his levelled spear-head clave The golden casque, and quivered in his brain.
Nor thee, poor Creteus, though of Greeks most brave, From Turnus had thy prowess power to save.
Nor aught availed Cupencus' gods to aid Against the dread AEneas, as he drave.
Squaring his breast, he met the glittering blade, Nor long his brazen shield the mortal stroke delayed.
LXX.

Thee, too, great AEolus, Laurentum's plain Saw trampled down by Turnus, as he flew, And stretched at length among the Trojan slain.
Thou diest, whom ne'er could Argive bands subdue, Nor Peleus' son, who Priam's realm o'erthrew.
Thy goal is here; beyond the distant wave, Beneath the mount where Ida's fir-trees grew, High house was thine; high house Lyrnessus gave, Thy home; Laurentum's soil hath given thee a grave.
LXXI.