In deep suspense the Trojan seem’d to stand,And, just prepar’d to strike, repress’d his hand.He roll’d his eyes, and ev’ry moment feltHis manly soul with more compassion melt;When, casting down a casual glance, he spiedThe golden belt that glitter’d on his side,The fatal spoils which haughty Turnus toreFrom dying Pallas, and in triumph wore.Then, rous’d anew to wrath, he loudly cries(Flames, while he spoke, came flashing from his eyes)“Traitor, dost thou, dost thou to grace pretend,Clad, as thou art, in trophies of my friend?To his sad soul a grateful off’ring go!’Tis Pallas, Pallas gives this deadly blow.”He rais’d his arm aloft, and, at the word,Deep in his bosom drove the shining sword.The streaming blood distain’d his arms around;And the disdainful soul came rushing through the wound.
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