"
So whispers he with bated breath,
And straight begins the work of death
On Rhamnes, haughty lord;
On rugs he lay, in gorgeous heap,
From all his bosom breathing sleep,
A royal seer by Turnus loved:
But all too weak his seer-craft proved
To stay the rushing sword.
Three servants next the weapon found
Stretched 'mid their armor on the ground:
Then Remus' charioteer he spies
Beneath the coursers as he lies,
And lops his downdropt head;
The ill-starred master next he leaves,
A headless trunk, that gasps and heaves:
Forth spouts the blood from every vein,
And deluges with crimson rain,
Green earth and broidered bed.
Then Lamyrus and Lamus died,
Serranus, too, in youth's fair pride:
That night had seen him long at play:
Now by the dream-god tamed he lay:
Ah, had his play but matched the night,
Nor ended till the dawn of light!
So famished lion uncontrolled
Makes havoc through the teeming fold,
As frantic hunger craves;
Mangling and harrying far and near
The meek, mild victims, mute with fear,
With gory jaws he raves.
Nor less Euryalus performs:
The thirst of blood his bosom warms;
'Mid nameless multitudes he storms,
Herbesus, Fadus, Abaris kills
Slumbering and witless of their ills,
While Rhoetus wakes and sees the whole,
But hides behind a massy bowl.
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