Pine-stock in hand, Mezentius hurls the flame; There, fierce Messapus rends the palisade,-- Tamer of steeds, from Neptune's loins he came,-- And shouts aloud for ladders to invade.
Aid me, Calliope; ye Muses, aid To sing of Turnus and his deeds that day, The deaths he wrought, the havoc that he made, And whom each warrior singled for his prey; Roll back the war's great scroll, the mighty leaves display.
LXVIII.

Built high, with lofty gangways, stood a tower, Fit post of vantage, which the Latins vied, With utmost effort and with all their power, To capture and destroy, while armed inside With stones, the Trojans through the loopholes plied Their missiles.

Turnus, 'mid the foremost, cast A blazing brand, and, fastening to the side, Up went the flame; from floor to floor it passed, Clung to and licked the posts, and maddened with the blast.
LXIX.

Within 'twas hurrying and tumultuous fright, As, crowding backward, they retreat before The advancing flames, and vainly long for flight.
Lo! toppling suddenly, the tower went o'er, And shook the wide air with reverberant roar.
Half-dead, the huge mass following amain, They come to earth, stabbed by the darts they bore, Or pierced by splinters through the breast.

Scarce twain Escape--Helenor one, and Lycus--from the slain.
LXX.