Classic Poem

But now, encountering the armor forged
By the god Vulcan, the mere mortal blade
Snapped into fragments like an icicle,
And shattered bits shone on the yellow sand.
Crazed by the loss, in search of open ground,
Turnus ran, weaving circles at a loss
This way and that — for the dense crowd of Trojans
Ringed and shut him in, and on one side
A broad marsh, on the other high stone walls
Made limits to his flight. As for Aeneas,
Slowed though his knees were by the arrow wound
That hampered him at times, cutting his speed,
He pressed on hotly, matching stride for stride,
Behind his shaken foe. As when a stag-hound
Corners a stag, blocked by a stream, or by
Alarm at a barrier of crimson feathers
Strung by beaters, then the dog assails him
With darting, barking runs; the stag in fear
Of nets and the high river-bank attempts
To flee and flee again a thousand ways,
But, packed with power, the Umbrian hound hangs on,
Muzzle agape: now, now he has him, now,
As though he had him, snaps eluded jaws
And bites on empty air. Then he gives tongue
In furious barking; river banks and pools
Echo the din, reverberant to the sky.
As Turnus ran he raged, raged at Rutulians,
Calling their names, demanding his own sword.
Aeneas countered, threatening instant death
For any who came near; he terrified them,
Promising demolition of their city,
And pressed the chase, despite his wound. Five times
They ran the circular track and five again
Reran it backward, this way and now that.
They raced for no light garland of the games
But strove to win the life and blood of Turnus.