As a lion, who far away Has marked a bull, that butts the sandy plain For battle, springs to grapple with his prey; So dreadful Turnus looks, advancing to the fray.
LXII.

Him, deemed within his spear-throw, undismayed The youth prevents, if chance the odds should square, And aid his daring.

To the skies he prayed, "O thou, my father's guest-friend, wont whilere A stranger's welcome at his board to share, Aid me, Alcides, prosper my emprise; Let Turnus fall, and, falling, see me tear His blood-stained arms, and may his swooning eyes Meet mine, and bear the victor's image, when he dies." LXIII.

Alcides heard, and, stifling in his breast A deep groan, poured his unavailing grief.
Whom thus the Sire with kindly words addressed: "Each hath his day; irreparably brief Is mortal life, and fading as the leaf.
'Tis valour's part to bid it bloom anew By deeds of fame.

Dead many a godlike chief, Dead lies my son Sarpedon.