Its barbed point the fleshy fragments bore, And let the soul gush out in streams of purple gore. But Damasichthon, by a double wound, Beardless and young, lay gasping on the ground: Fix’d in his sinewy ham, the steely point, Stuck through his knee, and pierced the nervous joint; And as he stoop’d to tug the painful dart, Another stuck him in a vital part; Shot through his windpipe, by the wing it hung, The life-blood forced it out, and darting upward sprung. Ilioneus, the last, with terror stands, Lifting in prayer his unavailing hands, And ignorant from whom his griefs arise; “Spare me, O all ye heavenly powers,” he cries. Phoebus was touch’d too late; the sounding bow Had sent the shaft, and struck the fatal blow, Which yet but gently gored his tender side; So by a slight and easy wound he died.