'Tis now my bitter banishment I feel,
This is a wound too deep for time to heal.
My Guilt thy growing Virtues did defame;
My blackness blotted thy unblemish'd Name.
Chas'd from a Throne, abandon'd, and exil'd
For foul mifdeeds, were Punishments too mild:
I ow'd my People thefe; and from their hate
With lefs injuftice cou'd have born my fate.
And yet I live, and yet fupport the fight
Of hateful Men, and of more hated Light:
But will not long. With that he rais'd from ground
His fainting Limbs, that stagger'd with his wound.
Yet with a mind refolv'd, and unapal'd
With pains or perils, for his Courfer call'd.
Well-mouth'd, well manag'd, whom himself did
With daily care; and mounted with fuccefs, (dress
His Aid in Arms; his Ornament in Peace.
Soothing his Courage with a gentle stroke,
The Horfe feem'd fenfible, while thus he fpoke:
O Rhebus, we have liv'd too long for me;
(If long and Life were terms that cou'd agree!)
This day, thou either fhalt bring back the head,
And bloody Trophies of the Trojan dead;
This day, thou either shalt revenge my woe
For Murther'd Laufus on his cruel Foe;
Or if inexorable Fate deny
Our Conqueft, with thy Conquer'd Master die.
For after fuch a Lord, I reft fecure,
Thou wilt no Foreign reins, or Trojan load endure.
He faid; and straight th' officious Courfer kneels
To take his wonted weight: His hands he fills
With pointed Javelins; on his head he lac'd
His glittering Helm, which terribly was grac'd
With crested Horse-hair, nodding from afar,
Then spurr'd his thundring Steed amidst the War.
Love, anguish, wrath, and grief to madness wrought,
Despair, and secret shame, and conscious thought
Of inborn Worth, his lab'ring Soul opprest,
Rowl'd in his eyes, and rag'd within his breast.
Then loud he call'd Eneas, thrice by Name;
The loud repeated voice to glad Æneas came.
Great Jove, faid he, and the far fhooting God,
Inspire thy mind to make thy challenge good.
He said no more; but haften'd to appear,
And threatn'd with his long protended spear.
To whom Mezentius thus; Thy vaunts are vain,
My Laufus lyes extended on the plain;
He's loft; thy conqueft is already won:
This was my only way to be undone.
Nor Fate I fear, but all the Gods defie,
Forbear thy threats; my business is to die:
But first receive this parting Legacie. I
He said, and straight a whirling dart he fent,
Another after, and another went.
Round in a fpacious Ring he rides the field,
And vainly plies th' impenetrable Shield.
Thrice rode he round, and thrice Eneas wheel'd:
Turn'd as he turn'd: The Golden Orb withstood
The ftrokes, and bore about an Iron wood.
Impatient of delay; and weary grown
Still to defend, and to defend alone;
To wrench the Darts that in his Buckler light,
Urg'd and o'relabour'd in unequal fight,
At last refolv'd, he throws with all his force
Full at the Temples of the warlike Horse:
Betwixt the Temples pafs'd th' unerring spear,
And piercing stood transfixt from ear to ear.
Seiz'd with the fudden pain, furpriz'd with fright,
The Courfer bounds aloft and ftands upright:
He beats his Hoofs a-while in air; then prest
With anguifh, floundering falls the gen'rous beast,
And his cast Rider with his weight opprest.
From either Hoft the mingled shouts and cries
Of Trojans and Rutilians rend the Skies.
Æneas hastning, way'd his fatal Sword
High o're his head, with this reproachful word: Now, where are now thy vaunts, the fierce difdain Of proud Mezentius, and the lofty strain? Strugling, and wildly staring on the Skies,
With scarce recover'd breath, he thus replies:
Why these infulting threats, this waste of breath,
To Souls undaunted, and fecure of Death?
'Tis no difhonour for the brave to die;
Nor came I hear with hope of Victory;
But, with a glorious Fate, to end my pain;
When Laufus fell, I was already flain :
Nor ask I life,
My dying Son contracted no fuch band :
Nor wou'd I take it from his Mud'rers hand.
For this, this only favour let me fue,
(If pity to a conquer'd Foe be due)
Refuse not that; but let my Body have
The laft retreat of humane kind; a Grave.
Too well I know my injur'd peoples hate;
Protect me from their vengeance after fate:
This refuge for my poor Remains provide;
And lay my much lov'd Laufus by my fide;
He said, and to the Sword his Throat apply'd.
The Crimson stream distain'd his Arms around,
And the disdainful Soul came rushing through the
wound.
Latter Part of the Third Book
LUCRETIUS; Against the fear of Death.
Hat has this Bugbear Death to frighten Man, If Souls can die, as well as Bodies can? For, as before our Birth we felt no Pain, When Punick arms infefted Land and Main,
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