Fierce Volscens storms, yet finds no foe,
Nor sees the hand that dealt the blow,
Nor knows on whom to fly.
"Your heart's warm blood for both shall pay,"
He cries, and on his beauteous prey
With naked sword he sprang.
Scared, maddened, Nisus shrieks aloud:
No more he hides in night's dark shroud,
Nor bears the o'erwhelming pang:
"Me, guilty me, make me your aim,
O Rutules! mine is all the blame;
He did no wrong, nor e'er could do;
That sky, those stars attest 't is true;
Love for his friend too freely shown,
This was his crime, and this alone."
In vain he spoke: the sword, fierce driven,
That alabaster breast had riven.
Down falls Euryalus, and lies
In death's enthralling agonies:
Blood trickles o'er his limbs of snow;
"His head sinks gradually low":
Thus, severed by the ruthless plough,
Dim fades a purple flower:
Their weary necks so poppies bow,
O'erladen by the shower.
But Nisus on the midmost flies,
With Volscens, Volscens in his eyes:
In clouds the warriors round him rise,
Thick hailing blow on blow:
Yet on he bears, no stint, no stay,
Like thunderbolt his falchion's sway:
Till as for aid the Rutule shrieks
Plunged in his throat the weapon reeks:
The dying hand has reft away
The life-blood of its foe.
Then, pierced to death, asleep he fell
On the dead breast he loved so well.
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