The Aeneid - LightNovelsOnl.com
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In deep suspense the Trojan seem'd to stand, And, just prepar'd to strike, repress'd his hand.
He roll'd his eyes, and ev'ry moment felt His manly soul with more compa.s.sion melt; When, casting down a casual glance, he spied The golden belt that glitter'd on his side, The fatal spoils which haughty Turnus tore From dying Pallas, and in triumph wore.
Then, rous'd anew to wrath, he loudly cries (Flames, while he spoke, came flas.h.i.+ng from his eyes) "Traitor, dost thou, dost thou to grace pretend, Clad, as thou art, in trophies of my friend?
To his sad soul a grateful off'ring go!
'T is Pallas, Pallas gives this deadly blow."
He rais'd his arm aloft, and, at the word, Deep in his bosom drove the s.h.i.+ning sword.
The streaming blood distain'd his arms around, And the disdainful soul came rus.h.i.+ng thro' the wound.
