With shouts his comrades welcome the attack, And clamouring fiercely follow in his train.
They marvel at the Teucrian hearts so slack, That none will dare to trust the open plain, And fight like men, but in the camp remain, And safe behind their sheltering rampart stay.
Now here, now there, fierce Turnus in disdain Rides round the walls, and, searching for a way, Where way is none, still strives an entrance to essay.
IX.

As wolf, in ambush by the fold, sore beat With winds, at midnight howls amid the rain.
The lambs beneath their mothers safely bleat.
He, mad with rage, and faint with famine's pain, Thirsts for their blood, and ramps at them in vain; So raves fierce Turnus, as his eyes survey The walls and camp.

Grief burns in every vein, As round he looks for access and a way To shake the Teucrians out, and strew them forth to slay.
X.

The fleet, as by the flanking camp it lies, Fenced by the river and the mounded sand, He marks, then loudly to the burning cries, And with a flaming pinestock fills his hand, Himself aflame.

His presence cheers the band.
All set to work, and strip the watchfires bare: Each warrior arms him with a murky brand: The smoking torch shoots up a pitchy glare, And clouds of mingled soot the Fire-god flings in air.
XI.