One, for an omen, from the skies he sends, To front Juturna.

Down, with sudden spring, To earth, as in a whirlwind, she descends.
As when a poisoned arrow from the string Through clouds a Parthian launches on the wing,-- Parthian or Cretan--and in darkling flight The shaft, with cureless venom in its sting, Screams through the shadows; so, arrayed in might, Swift to the earth came down the daughter of the Night.
CXII.

But when Troy's host and Turnus' ranks were known, Shrunk to the semblance of a bird in size, Which oft on tombs or ruined roofs alone Sits late at night, and with ill-omened cries Vexes the darkness; so in dwarfed disguise The foul fiend, shrieking around Turnus' head, Flaps on his shield, and flutters o'er his eyes.
Strange torpor numbs the Daunian's limbs with dread; The stiffening hair stands up, and all his voice is dead.
CXIII.

The rustling wings Juturna knew, and tore Her comely face, and rent her scattered hair, And smote her breast: "O cruel me! what more For Turnus can a sister now?
What care Or craft thy days can lengthen?
Can I dare To face this fiend?
At last, at last I go, And quit the field.

Foul birds, avaunt, nor scare My fluttering soul.