A thousand various thoughts his soul confound;He star'd about, nor aid nor issue found;His own men stop the pass, and his own walls surround.
Once more he pauses, and looks out again, And seeks the goddess charioteer in vain.
Trembling he views the thund'ring chief advance, And brandishing aloft the deadly lance:
Amaz'd he cow'rs beneath his conqu'ring foe, Forgets to ward, and waits the coming blow.
Astonish'd while he stands, and fix'd with fear, Aim'd at his shield he sees th' impending spear.
The hero measur'd first, with narrow view, The destin'd mark; and, rising as he threw, With its full swing the fatal weapon flew.
Not with less rage the rattling thunder falls, Or stones from batt'ring-engines break the walls:
Swift as a whirlwind, from an arm so strong, The lance drove on, and bore the death along.
Naught could his sev'nfold shield the prince avail, Nor aught, beneath his arms, the coat of mail:
It pierc'd thro' all, and with a grisly wound Transfix'd his thigh, and doubled him to ground.
With groans the Latins rend the vaulted sky:
Woods, hills, and valleys, to the voice reply.
Now low on earth the lofty chief is laid, With eyes cast upward, and with arms display'd, And, recreant, thus to the proud victor pray'd: