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From ancient Corythus' domain
Had Acron come, of Grecian strain,
Leaving his spouse unwed:
Him dealing death Mezentius spied
Clad in the robe his lady dyed
And crowned with plumage red:
As lion ranging o'er the wold,
Made mad by hunger uncontrolled,
If flying roe his eyes behold
Or lofty-antlered deer,
Grins ghastly, rears his mane, and hangs
O'er the rent flesh: his greedy fangs
Dark streams of gore besmear:
So springs Mezentius on the foe:
Soon lies unhappy Acron low,
Spurns the soaked ground with dying heel,
And stains with blood the shivered steel.
Now, as Orodes strides before,
He deigns not to shed out his gore
By javelin's covert blow;
He heads, and meets him front to front,
Not by base stealth but strength's sheer brunt
Prevailing o'er his foe.
With spear infixed and scornful tread
Pressing the fallen, the conqueror said:
'Behold the great Orodes slain,
Who stemmed the war so long!'
And at the word his joyous train
Raise high the pæan song.
The chief replies: 'Whate'er thy name,
Not long shall be thy hour of pride:
The same dark powers thy presence claim,
And soon shall stretch thee at my side.'
Mezentius answers, smiling stern:
'Die thou: my fate is Jove's concern.'