To heaven he lifts his eyes, And of sweet Argos dreams, his native land, and dies.
CVI.

His javelin then the good AEneas cast; Flying it pierced the hollow disk, and through The plates of brass, thrice welded firm and fast, And linen folds, and triple bull-hides flew, And in the groin, with failing force but true, Lodged deep.

At once AEneas, for his eye Glistens with joy, the Tuscan's blood to view, His trusty sword unfastening from his thigh, Springs at the faltering foe, and bids Mezentius die.
CVII.

Love for his sire stirred Lausus, and the tears Rolled down, and heavily he groaned.

Thy fate, Brave youth! thy prowess, if the far-off years Shall give due credence to a deed so great, My verse at least shall spare not to relate.
While backward limped Mezentius, spent and slow, His shield still cumbered with the javelin's weight, Forth sprang the youth, and grappled with the foe, And 'neath AEneas' sword, uplifted for the blow, CVIII.