BOOK IX.
321
His plumes are reft: his shield 'gins fail,
While spear on spear the Trojans hail,
With Mnestheus, soul of flame.
O'er all his limbs dark sweat-drops break;
No time to breathe: thick pantings shake
His vast and labouring frame.
At length, accoutred as he stood,
Headlong he plunged into the flood.
The yellow flood the charge received,
With buoyant tide his weight upheaved,
And cleansing off the encrusted gore,
Returned him to his friends once more.
