Up from the sea now soared the dawning day:Aeneas, though his sorrow bids him hasteto burial of the slain, and his sad soulis clouded with the sight of death, fulfils,for reward to his gods, a conqueror's vow,at morning's earliest beam. A mighty oakshorn of its limbs he sets upon a hilland clothes it o'er with glittering arms, the spoilof King Mezentius, and a trophy proudto thee, great lord of war. The hero's plumesbedewed with blood are there, and splintered spears;there hangs the corselet, by the thrusting steeltwelve times gored through; upon the left he bindsthe brazen shield, and from the neck suspendsthe ivory-hilted sword. Aeneas thus,as crowding close his train of captains throng,addressed his followers: “Ye warriors mine,our largest work is done. Bid fear begoneof what is left to do. Behold the spoils!Yon haughty King was firstfruits of our war.See this Mezentius my hands have made!Now to the Latin town and King we go.Arm you in soul! With heart of perfect hopeprepare the war! So when the gods give signto open battle and lead forth our braveout of this stronghold, no bewilderment,nor tarrying, nor fearful, faltering mindshall slack our march. Meanwhile in earth we layour comrades fallen; for no honor elsein Acheron have they. Go forth,” said he,“bring gifts of honor and of last farewellto those high hearts by shedding of whose bloodour country lives. To sad Evander's townbear Pallas first; who, though he did not failof virtue's crown, was seized by doom unblest,and to the bitterness of death consigned.”
Weeping he spoke, and slowly backward drewto the tent-door, where by the breathless clayof Pallas stood Acoetes, aged man,once bearer of Evander's arms, but nowunder less happy omens set to guardhis darling child. Around him is a throngof slaves, with all the Trojan multitude,and Ilian women, who the wonted waylet sorrow's tresses loosely flow. When nowAeneas to the lofty doors drew near,all these from smitten bosoms raised to heavena mighty moaning, till the King's abodewas loud with anguish. There Aeneas viewedthe pillowed head of Pallas cold and pale,the smooth young breast that bore the gaping woundof that Ausonian spear, and weeping said:“Did Fortune's envy, smiling though she came,refuse me, hapless boy, that thou shouldst seemy throne established, and victorious ridebeside me to thy father's house? Not thismy parting promise to thy King and sire,Evander, when with friendly, fond embraceto win imperial power he bade me go;yet warned me anxiously I must resistbold warriors and a stubborn breed of foes.And haply even now he cheats his heartwith expectation vain, and offers vows,heaping with gifts the altars of his gods.But we with unavailing honors bringthis lifeless youth, who owes the gods of heavenno more of gift and vow. O ill-starred King!Soon shalt thou see thy son's unpitying doom!What a home-coming! This is glory's dayso Iong awaited; this the solemn pledgeI proudly gave. But fond Evander's eyeswill find no shameful wounding on the slain,nor for a son in coward safety keptwilt thou, the sire, crave death. But woe is me!How strong a bulwark in Ausonia falls!What loss is thine, Iulus!” Thus lamenting,he bids them lift the body to the bier,and sends a thousand heroes from his hostto render the last tributes, and to sharefather's tears:—poor solace and too smallfor grief so great, but due that mournful sire.Some busy them to build of osiers finethe simple litter, twining sapling oakswith evergreen, till o'er death's Iofty bedthe branching shade extends. Upon it lay,as if on shepherd's couch, the youthful dead,like fairest flower by virgin fingers culled,frail violet or hyacinth forlorn,of color still undimmed and leaf unmarred;but from the breast of mother-earth no moreits life doth feed. Then good Aeneas broughttwo broidered robes of scarlet and fine gold,which with the gladsome labor of her handsSidonian Dido wrought him long ago,the thin-spun gold inweaving. One of thesethe sad prince o'er the youthful body threwfor parting gift; and with the other veiledthose tresses from the fire; he heaped on highLaurentum's spoils of war, and bade to bringmuch tribute forth: horses and arms he gave,seized from the fallen enemy; with handsfettered behind them filed a captive traindoomed to appease the shades, and with the flamesto mix their flowing blood. He bade his chiefsset up the trunks of trees and clothe them wellwith captured arms, inscribing on each onesome foeman's name. Then came Acoetes forth,a wretched, worn old man, who beat his breastwith tight-clenched hands, and tore his wrinkled facewith ruthless fingers; oft he cast him downfull length along the ground. Then lead they forththe blood-stained Rutule chariots of war;Aethon, the war-horse, of his harness bare,walks mournful by; big teardrops wet his cheek.Some bear the lance and helm; for all the restvictorious Turnus seized. Then filed alonga mournful Teucrian cohort; next the hostEtrurian and the men of Arcadywith trailing arms reversed. Aeneas now,when the long company had passed him by,spoke thus and groaned aloud: “Ourselves from henceare summoned by the same dread doom of warto other tears. Farewell forevermore!Heroic Pallas! be forever blest!I bid thee hail, farewell!” In silence thenback to the stronghold's Iofty walls he moved.
Now envoys from the Latin citadelcame olive-crowned, to plead for clemency:would he not yield those bodies of the deadsword-scattered o'er the plain, and let them liebeneath an earth-built tomb? Who wages warupon the vanquished, the unbreathing slain?To people once his hosts and kindred called,would he not mercy show? To such a prayer,deemed not unworthy, good Aeneas gavethe boon, and this benignant answer made:“Ye Latins, what misfortune undeservedhas snared you in so vast a war, that nowyou shun our friendship? Have you here imploredpeace for your dead, by chance of battle fallen?Pain would I grant it for the living too.I sailed not hither save by Heaven's decree,which called me to this land. I wage no warwith you, the people; 't was your King refusedour proffered bond of peace, and gave his causeto Turnus' arms. More meet and just it werehad Turnus met this death that makes you mourn.If he would end our quarrel sword in hand,thrusting us Teucrians forth, 't was honor's wayto cross his blade with mine; that man to whomthe gods, or his own valor, had decreedthe longer life, had lived. But now depart!Beneath your lost friends light the funeral fires!”So spoke Aeneas; and with wonder muteall stood at gaze, each turning to beholdhis neighbor's face. Then Drances, full of years,and ever armed with spite and slanderous wordagainst young Turnus, made this answering plea:“O prince of mighty name, whose feats of armsare even mightier! Trojan hero, howshall my poor praise exalt thee to the skies?Is it thy rectitude or strenuous warmost bids me wonder? We will bear thy wordright gladly to the city of our sires;and there, if Fortune favor it, contrivea compact with the Latin King. Henceforthlet Turnus find his own allies! Ourselveswill much rejoice to see thy destined walls,and our own shoulders will be proud to bearthe stone for building Troy.” Such speech he made,and all the common voice consented loud.So twelve days' truce they swore, and safe from harmLatins and Teucrians unmolested rovedtogether o'er the wooded hills. Now rangloud steel on ash-tree bole; enormous pines,once thrusting starward, to the earth they threw;and with industrious wedge asunder clovestout oak and odorous cedar, piling highharvest of ash-trees on the creaking wain. Now Rumor, herald of prodigious woe,to King Evander hied, Evander's houseand city filling, where, but late, her wordhad told in Latium Pallas' victory.th' Arcadians thronging to the city-gatesbear funeral torches, the accustomed way;in lines of flame the long street flashes far,lighting the fields beyond. To meet them movesa Phrygian company, to join with theirsits lamentation loud. The Latin wives,soon as they saw them entering, arousedthe whole sad city with shrill songs of woe.No hand could stay Evander. Forth he flewinto the midmost tumult, and fell proneon his dead Pallas, on the resting bier;he clung to the pale corse with tears, with groans,till anguish for a space his lips unsealed:“Not this thy promise, Pallas, to thy sire,to walk not rashly in the war-god's way.I knew too well how honor's morning-star,and sweet, foretasted glory tempt and wooin a first battle. O first-fruit forlornof youth so fair! O prelude pitilessof war approaching! O my vows and prayers,which not one god would hear! My blessed wife,how happy was the death that spared thee notto taste this bitterness! But I, the while,by living longer lived to meet my doom,—a father sole-surviving. Would I myselfhad perished by the Rutule's cruel spear,the Trojan's cause espousing! This breath of lifehow gladly had I given! And O, that nowyon black solemnity were bearing homemyself, not Pallas, dead! Yet blame I not,O Teucrians, the hallowed pact we made,nor hospitable bond and clasp of hands.This doom ye bring me was writ long ago,for my old age. And though my child is fallenuntimely, I take comfort that he fellwhere thousands of the Volscians slaughtered lie,and into Latium led the Teucrian arms.What brighter glory could I crave in deathfor thee, my Pallas, than Aeneas brings,and Phrygian princes, and Etrurian lordswith all Etruria's legions? Lo, they bearyon glittering spoils of victims of thy sword!Thou, Turnus, too, wert now an effigyin giant armor clad, if but his yearsand strength full ripe had been fair match for thine!But now my woes detain the Trojan hostfrom battle. I beseech ye haste away,and bear this faithful message to your King:since I but linger out a life I loathe,without my Pallas, nothing but thy swordcan bid me live. Then let thy sword repayits debt to sire and son by Turnus slain!Such deed alone may with thy honor fit,and happier fortunes. But my life to mehas no joy left to pray for, save to bringmy son that solace in the shadowy land.” Meanwhile o'er sorrowing mortals the bright mornhad lifted her mild beam, renewing sothe burden of man's toil. Aeneas nowbuilt funeral pyres along the winding shore,King Tarchon at his side. Each thither broughtthe bodies of his kin, observing wellall ancient ritual. The fuming firesburned from beneath, till highest heaven was hidin blackest, overmantling cloud. Three timesthe warriors, sheathed in proud, resplendent steel,paced round the kindling pyres; and three timesfair companies of horsemen circled slow,with loud lamenting, round the doleful flame.The wail of warriors and the trumpets' blarethe very welkin rend. Cast on the flamesare spoils of slaughtered Latins,—helms and blades,bridles and chariot-wheels. Yet others bringgifts to the dead familiar, their own shieldsand unavailing spears. Around them slaingreat herds of kine give tribute unto death:swine, bristly-backed, from many a field are borne,and slaughtered sheep bleed o'er the sacred fire.So on the shore the wailing multitudebehold their comrades burning, and keep guardo'er the consuming pyres, nor turn awaytill cooling night re-shifts the globe of heaven,thick-strewn with numberless far-flaming stars.
Likewise the mournful Latins far awayhave built their myriad pyres. Yet of the slainnot few in graves are laid, and borne with tearsto neighboring country-side or native town;the rest—promiscuous mass of dead unknown—to nameless and unhonored ashes burn;with multitude of fires the far-spread fieldsblaze forth unweariedly. But when from heaventhe third morn had dispelled the dark and cold,the mournful bands raked forth the mingled bonesand plenteous ashes from the smouldering pyres,then heaped with earth the one sepulchral mound.Now from the hearth-stones of the opulent townof old Latinus a vast wail burst forth,for there was found the chief and bitterest shareof all the woe. For mothers in their tears,lone brides, and stricken souls of sisters fond,and boys left fatherless, fling curses Ioudon Turnus' troth-plight and the direful war:“Let him, let Turnus, with his single sworddecide the strife,”—they cry,—“and who shall claimLordship of Italy and power supreme.”Fierce Drances whets their fury, urging allthat Turnus singly must the challenge hear,and singly wage the war; but others pleadin Turnus' favor; the Queen's noble nameprotects him, and his high renown in armsdefends his cause with well-won trophies fair. Amid these tumults of the wrathful throng,lo, the ambassadors to Diomedarrive with cloudy forehead from their questin his illustrious town; for naught availedtheir toilsome errand, nor the gifts and gold,nor strong entreaty. Other help in warthe Latins now must find, or humbly suepeace from the Trojan. At such tidings direeven Latinus trembles: Heaven's decreesand influence of gods too visiblesustain Aeneas; so the wrath divineand new-filled sepulchres conspicuousgive warning clear. Therefore the King convenesa general council of his captains bravebeneath the royal towers. They, gathering,throng the approaches thither, where their Iord,gray-haired Latinus, takes the central throne,wearing authority with mournful brow.He bids the envoys from Aetolia's Kingsent back, to speak and tell the royal wordsin order due. Forthwith on every tonguefell silence, while the princely Venulus,heeding his Iord's behest, began the parle:
“My countrymen,” he said, “our eyes have seenstrongholds of Greeks and Diomed the King.We braved all perils to our journey's endand clasped that hand whereof the dreadful strokewrought Ilium's fall. The hero built a town,Argyripa, hereditary name,near mount Garganus in Apulian land:passing that city's portal and the King's,we found free audience, held forth thy gifts,and told our names and fatherland. We showedwhat condict was enkindled, and what causebrought us to Arpi's King. He, hearing all,with brow benign made answer to our plea:‘O happy tribes in Saturn's kingdom born,Ausonia's ancient stem! What fortune blindtempts ye from peace away, and now ensnaresin wars unknown? Look how we men that daredlay Ilium waste (I speak not of what woesin battling neath her lofty walls we bore,nor of dead warriors sunk in Simois' wave)have paid the penalty in many a landwith chastisement accurst and changeful woe,till Priam's self might pity. Let the starof Pallas tell its tale of fatal storm,off grim Caphereus and Eubcea's crags.Driven asunder from one field of war,Atrides unto farthest Egypt strayed,and wise Ulysses saw from Aetna's cavesthe Cyclops gathering. Why name the throneof Pyrrhus, or the violated hearthwhence fled Idomeneus? Or Locri caston Libya's distant shore? For even he,Lord of Mycenae by the Greeks obeyed,fell murdered on his threshold by the handof that polluted wife, whose paramourtrapped Asia's conqueror. The envious godswithheld me also from returning hometo see once more the hearth-stone of my sires,the wife I yearn for, and my Calydon,the beauteous land. For wonders horriblepursue me still. My vanished followersthrough upper air take wing, or haunt and rovein forms of birds the island waters o'er:ah me, what misery my people feel!The tall rocks ring with their lament and cry.Naught else had I to hope for from that daywhen my infatuate sword on gods I drew,and outraged with abominable woundthe hand of Venus. Urge me not, I pray,to conflicts in this wise. No more for meof war with Trojans after Ilium's fall!I take no joy in evils past, nor wishsuch memory to renew. Go, lay these gifts,brought to my honor from your ancient land,at great Aeneas' feet. We twain have stoodconfronting close with swords implacablein mortal fray. Believe me, I have knownthe stature of him when he lifts his shield,and swings the whirlwind of his spear. If Troy
two more such sons had bred, the Dardan hordehad stormed at Argos' gates, and Greece to-daywere for her fallen fortunes grieving sore.Our lingering at Ilium's stubborn wall,our sluggard conquest halting ten years Iong,was his and Hector's work. Heroic pair!Each one for valor notable, and eachfamous in enterprise of arms,—but hewas first in piety. Enclasp with hisyour hands in plighted peace as best ye may:but shock of steel on steel ye well may shun.’now hast thou heard, good King, a king's reply,and how his wisdom sits in this vast war.” Soon as the envoys ceased, an answering soundof troubled voices through the council flowedof various note, as when its rocky bedimpedes an arrowy stream, and murmurs breakfrom the strait-channelled flood; the fringing shoresrepeat the tumult of the clamorous wave.But when their hearts and troublous tongues were still,the King, invoking first the gods in heaven,thus from a Iofty throne his sentence gave:
“Less evil were our case, if long agoye had provided for your country's weal,O Latins, as I urged. It is no timeto hold dispute, while, compassing our walls,the foeman waits. Ill-omened war is ours against a race of gods, my countrymen,invincible, unwearied in the fray,and who, though lost and fallen, clutch the sword.If hope ye cherished of Aetolia's power,dismiss it! For what hope ye have is foundin your own bosoms only. But ye knowhow slight it is and small. What ruin widehas fallen, is now palpable and clear.No blame I cast. What valor's uttermostmay do was done; our kingdom in this warstrained its last thews. Now therefore I will tellsuch project as my doubtful mind may frame,and briefly, if ye give good heed, unfold:an ancient tract have I, close-borderingthe river Tiber; it runs westward farbeyond Sicania's bound, and filth it bearsto Rutule and Auruncan husbandmen,who furrow its hard hills or feed their flocksalong the stonier slopes. Let this demesne,together with its pine-clad mountain tall,be given the Teucrian for our pledge of peace,confirmed by free and equitable league,and full alliance with our kingly power.Let them abide there, if it please them so,and build their city's wall. But if their heartsfor other land or people yearn, and fatepermits them hence to go, then let us buildtwice ten good galleys of Italian oak,or more, if they can man them. All the woodlies yonder on the shore. Let them but sayhow numerous and large the ships they crave,and we will give the brass, the artisans,and ship-supplies. Let us for envoys choosea hundred of the Latins noblest bornto tell our message and arrange the peace,bearing mild olive-boughs and weighty giftsof ivory and gold, with chair of stateand purple robe, our emblems as a king.But freely let this council speak; give aidto our exhausted cause.” Then Drances rose,that foe inveterate, whom Turnus' fameto stinging hate and envy double-tonguedever pricked on. Of liberal wealth was heand flowing speech, but slack of hand in warat council board accounted no weak voice,in quarrels stronger still; of lofty birthin the maternal line, but by his sire'suncertain and obscure. He, claiming place,thus multiplies with words the people's ire:“A course most clear, nor needing voice of mine,thy council is, good King; for all men seethe way of public weal, but smother closethe telling of it. Turnus must concedefreedom to speak, and his own arrogancediminish! Under his ill-boding starand fatal conduct—yea, I speak it plain,though with his naked steel my death he swear—yon host of princes fell, and we beholdthe whole land bowed with grief; while he assailsthe Trojan camp (beating such bold retreats!)and troubles Heaven with war. One gift the more,among the many to the Trojans given,one chiefly, best of kings, thy choice should be.Let not wild violence thy will restrainfrom granting, sire, thy virgin daughter's handto son-in-law illustrious, in a matchworthy of both,—and thus the lasting bondof peace establish. But if verilyour hearts and souls be weak with craven fear,let us on Turnus call, and grace imploreeven of him. Let him no more oppose;but to his country and his King concedetheir natural right. Why wilt thou o'er and o'erfling thy poor countrymen in danger's way,O chief and fountain of all Latium's pain?War will not save us. Not a voice but suesfor peace, O Turnus! and, not less than peace,its one inviolable pledge. Behold,I lead in this petition! even Iwhom thou dost feign thy foe—(I waste no wordsdenying)—look! I supplicate of thee,take pity on thy kindred; drop thy pride,and get thee home defeated. We have seenslaughter enough, enough of funeral flames,and many a wide field waste and desolate.If glory move thee, if thy martial breastso swell with strength, and if a royal dowerbe thy dear dream, go, pluck thy courage up,and front thy own brave bosom to the foe.for, lo, that Turnus on his wedding daymay win a princess, our cheap, common lives—we the mere mob, unwept, unsepulchred—must be spilled forth in battle! Thou, I say,if there be mettle in thee and some dropsof thy undaunted sires, Iook yonder wherethe Trojan chieftain waits thee in the field.” By such discourse he stirred the burning bloodof Turnus, who groaned loud and from his heartthis utterance hurled: “O Drances, thou art richin large words, when the day of battle callsfor actions. If our senators convenethou comest early. But the council hallis not for swollen talk, such as thy tonguein safety tosses forth; so long as wallshold back thy foes, and ere the trenches flowwith blood of brave men slain. O, rattle onin fluent thunder—thy habitual style!Brand me a coward, Drances, when thy swordhas heaped up Trojan slain, and on the fieldthy shining trophies rise. Now may we twainour martial prowess prove. Our foe, forsooth,is not so far to seek; around yon wallhe lies in siege: to front him let us fly!Why art thou tarrying? Wilt thou linger here,a soldier only in thy windy tongue,and thy swift, coward heels? Defeated, I?Foul wretch, what tongue that honors truth can tellof my defeat, while Tiber overflowswith Trojan blood? while King Evander's housein ruin dies, and his Arcadians liestripped naked on the field? O, not like theedid Bitias or the giant Pandarusmisprize my honor; nor those men of Troy
whom this good sword to death and dark sent down,a thousand in a day,—though I was penneda prisoner in the ramparts of my foe. War will not save us? Fling that prophecyon the doomed Dardan's head, or on thy own,thou madman! Aye, with thy vile, craven souldisturb the general cause. Extol the powerof a twice-vanquished people, and decryLatinus' rival arms. From this time forthlet all the Myrmidonian princes cowerbefore the might of Troy; let Diomedand let Achilles tremble; let the streamof Aufidus in panic backward flowfrom Hadria's wave. But hear me when I saythat though his guilt and cunning feign to feelfear of my vengeance, much embittering sohis taunts and insult—such a life as hismy sword disdains. O Drances, be at ease!In thy vile bosom let thy breath abide!But now of thy grave counsel and thy cause,O royal sire, I speak. If from this hourthou castest hope of armed success away,if we be so unfriended that one routo'erwhelms us utterly, if Fortune's feetnever turn backward, let us, then, for peaceoffer petition, lifting to the foeour feeble, suppliant hands. Yet would I praysome spark of manhood such as once we knewwere ours once more! I count him fortunate,and of illustrious soul beyond us all,who, rather than behold such things, has fallenface forward, dead, his teeth upon the dust.But if we still have power, and men-at-armsunwasted and unscathed, if there surviveItalian tribes and towns for help in war,aye! if the Trojans have but won successat bloody cost,—for they dig graves, I ween,storm-smitten not less than we,—O, wherefore nowstand faint and shameful on the battle's edge?Why quake our knees before the trumpet call?Time and the toil of shifting, changeful daysrestore lost causes; ebbing tides of chancedeceive us oft, which after at their flooddo lift us safe to shore. If aid come notfrom Diomed in Arpi, our alliesshall be Mezentius and Tolumnius,auspicious name, and many a chieftain sentfrom many a tribe; not all ingloriousare Latium's warriors from Laurentian land!Hither the noble Volscian stem sends downCamilla with her beauteous cavalryin glittering brass arrayed. But if, forsooth,the Trojans call me singly to the fight,if this be what ye will, and I so muchthe public weal impair—when from this swordhas victory seemed to fly away in scorn?I should not hopeless tread in honor's waywhate'er the venture. Dauntless will I gothough equal match for great Achilles, he,and though he clothe him in celestial armsin Vulcan's smithy wrought. I, Turnus, now,not less than equal with great warriors gone,vow to Latinus, father of my bride,and to ye all, each drop of blood I owe.Me singly doth Aeneas call? I cravethat challenge. Drances is not called to paythe debt of death, if wrath from Heaven impend;nor his a brave man's name and fame to share.” Thus in their doubtful cause the chieftains strove.Meanwhile Aeneas his assaulting linemoved forward. The ill tidings wildly spedfrom royal hall to hall, and filled the townwith rumors dark: for now the Trojan hosto'er the wide plains from Tiber's wave was spreadin close array of war. The people's soulwas vexed and shaken, and its martial ragerose to the stern compulsion. Now for armstheir terror calls; the youthful soldieryclamor for arms; the sires of riper daysweep or repress their tears. On every sideloud shouts and cries of dissonant acclaimtrouble the air, as when in lofty grovelegions of birds alight, or by the floodof Padus' fishy stream the shrieking swansfar o'er the vocal marish fling their song.Then, seizing the swift moment, Turnus cried:“Once more, my countrymen,—ye sit in parle,lazily praising peace, while yonder foespeeds forth in arms our kingdom to obtain.”He spoke no more, but hied him in hot haste,and from the housetop called, “Volusus, go!Equip the Volscian companies! Lead forthmy Rutules also! O'er the spreading plain,ye brothers Coras and Messapus rangeour host of cavalry! Let others guardthe city's gates and hold the walls and towers:I and my followers elsewhere opposethe shock of arms.” Now to and fro they runto man the walls. Father Latinus quits—the place of council and his large design,vexed and bewildered by the hour's distress.He blames his own heart that he did not askTrojan Aeneas for his daughter's Iord,and gain him for his kingdom's lasting friend.They dig them trenches at the gates, or liftburden of stakes and stones. The horn's harsh notesounds forth its murderous signal for the war;striplings and women, in a motley ring,defend the ramparts; the decisive hourlays tasks on all. Upon the citadela train of matrons, with the doleful Queen,toward Pallas' temple moves, and in their handare gifts and offerings. See, at their sidethe maid Lavinia, cause of all these tears,drops down her lovely eyes! The incense rollsin clouds above the altar; at the doorswith wailing voice the women make this prayer:“Tritonian virgin, arbitress of war!Break of thyself yon Phrygian robber's spear!Hurl him down dying in the dust! Spill forthhis evil blood beneath our lofty towers!”Fierce Turnus girds him, emulous to slay:a crimson coat of mail he wears, with scalesof burnished bronze; beneath his knees are boundthe golden greaves; upon his naked browno helm he wears; but to his thigh is bounda glittering sword. Down from the citadelruns he, a golden glory, in his heartboldly exulting, while impatient hopefore-counts his fallen foes. He seemed as when,from pinfold bursting, breaking his strong chain,th' untrammelled stallion ranges the wide field,or tries him to a herd of feeding mares,or to some cooling river-bank he knows,most fierce and mettlesome; the streaming maneo'er neck and shoulder flies. Across his pathCamilla with her Volscian escort came,and at the city-gate the royal maiddown from her charger leaped; while all her bandat her example glided to the ground,their horses leaving. Thus the virgin spoke:“Turnus, if confidence beseem the brave,I have no fear; but of myself do vowto meet yon squadrons of Aeneadaealone, and front me to the gathered chargeof Tuscan cavalry. Let me alonethe war's first venture-prove. Take station, thou,here at the walls, this rampart to defend.”With fixed eyes on the terror-striking maid,Turnus replied, “O boast of Italy,O virgin bold! What praise, what gratitudecan words or deeds repay? But since thy soulso large of stature shows, I bid thee sharemy burden and my war. Our spies bring newsthat now Aeneas with pernicious mindsends light-armed horse before him, to alarmthe plains below, while through the wildernesshe climbs the steep hills, and approaches soour leaguered town. But I in sheltered grovea stratagem prepare, and bid my menin ambush at a mountain cross-road lie.Meet thou the charge of Tuscan cavalrywith all thy banners. For auxiliar strengthtake bold Messapus with his Latin troopand King Tiburtus' men: but the commandshall be thy task and care.” He spoke, and urgedwith like instruction for the coming frayMessapus and his captains; then advancedto meet the foe. There is a winding valefor armed deception and insidious warwell fashioned, and by interlacing leavesscreened darkly in; a small path thither leads,through strait defile-a passage boding ill.Above it, on a mountain's lofty brow,are points of outlook, level spaces fair,and many a safe, invisible retreatfrom whence on either hand to challenge war,or, standing on the ridges, to roll downhuge mountain boulders. Thither Turnus fared,and, ranging the familiar tract, chose outhis cunning ambush in the dangerous grove. But now in dwellings of the gods on high,Diana to fleet-footed Opis called,a virgin from her consecrated train,and thus in sorrow spoke: “O maiden mine!Camilla now to cruel conflict flies;with weapons like my own she girds her side,in vain, though dearest of all nymphs to me.Nor is it some new Iove that stirs to-daywith sudden sweetness in Diana's breast:for long ago, when from his kingdom driven,for insolent and envied power, her sireKing Metabus, from old Privernum's wallwas taking flight amidst opposing foes,he bore a little daughter in his armsto share his exile; and he called the child(Changing Casmilla, her queen-mother's name)Camilla. Bearing on his breast the babe,he fled to solitary upland groves.But hovering round him with keen lances, pressedthe Volscian soldiery. Across his path,lo, Amasenus with full-foaming waveo'erflowed its banks—so huge a rain had burstbut lately from the clouds. There would he fainswim over, but the love of that sweet baberestrained him, trembling for his burden dear.In his perplexed heart suddenly arosefirm resolve. It chanced the warrior borehuge spear in his brawny hand, strong shaftof knotted, seasoned oak; to this he lashedhis little daughter with a withe of barkpulled from a cork-tree, and with skilful bondsfast bound her to the spear; then, poising ithigh in his right hand, thus he called on Heaven: ‘Latona's daughter, whose benignant graceprotects this grove, behold, her father nowgives thee this babe for handmaid! Lo, thy spearher infant fingers hold, as from her foesshe flies a suppliant to thee! Receive,O goddess, I implore, what now I castupon the perilous air.’—He spoke, and hurledwith lifted arm the whirling shaft. The wavesroared loud, as on the whistling javelinhapless Camilla crossed th' impetuous flood.But Metabus, his foes in hot pursuit,dared plunge him in mid-stream, and, triumphing,soon plucked from grass-grown river-bank the spear,the child upon it,—now to Trivia vowed,a virgin offering. Him nevermorecould cities hold, nor would his wild heart yieldits sylvan freedom, but his days were passedwith shepherds on the solitary hills.His daughter too in tangled woods he bred:a brood-mare from the milk of her fierce breastsuckled the child, and to its tender lips.Her udders moved; and when the infant feettheir first firm steps had taken, the small palmswere armed with a keen javelin; her sirea bow and quiver from her shoulder slung.Instead of golden combs and flowing pall,she wore, from her girl-forehead backward thrown,the whole skin of a tigress; with soft handsshe made her plaything of a whirling spear,or, swinging round her head the polished thongof her good sling, she fetched from distant skyStrymonian cranes or swans of spotless wing.From Tuscan towns proud matrons oft in vainsought her in marriage for their sons; but sheto Dian only turned her stainless heart,her virgin freedom and her huntress' armswith faithful passion serving. Would that nowthis Iove of war had ne'er seduced her mindthe Teucrians to provoke! So might she beone of our wood-nymphs still. But haste, I pray,for bitter is her now impending doom.Descend, dear nymph, from heaven, and explorethe country of the Latins, where the fightwith unpropitious omens now begins.These weapons take, and from this quiver drawa vengeful arrow, wherewith he who daresto wound her sacred body, though he bea Trojan or Italian, shall receivebloody and swift reward at my command.Then, in a cloud concealed, I will consignher corpse, ill-fated but inviolateunto the sepulchre, restoring sothe virgin to her native land.” Thus spakethe goddess; but her handmaid, gliding down,took her loud pathway on the moving winds,and mantled in dark storm her shape divine.
Meanwhile the Teucrian legions to the walldraw near, with Tuscan lords and cavalryin numbered troops arrayed. Loud-footed steedsprance o'er the field, to manage of the reinrebellious, but turned deftly here or there.The iron harvest of keen spears spreads far,and all the plain burns bright with lifted steel.Messapus and swift Latin cavalry,Coras his brother, and th' attending trainof the fair maid Camilla, form their linesin the opposing field. Their poised right handspoint the long lances forward, and light shaftsare brandished in the air; the warrior hostson steeds of fire come kindling as they ride.One instant, at a spear-throw's space, each lineits motion stays; then with one sudden crythey rush forth, spurring on each frenzied steed.From-every side the multitudinous spearspour down like snowflakes, mantling heaven in shade.Now with contending spears and straining thews,Tyrrhenus, and Aconteus, champion bold,ride forward; with the onset terrible loudly their armor rings; their chargers twaincrash breast to breast, and like a thunderboltAconteus drops, or like a ponderous stonehurled from a catapult; full length he falls,surrend'ring to the winds his fleeting soul.
Now all is panic: holding their light shieldsbehind their backs, the Latin horse wheel round,retreating to the wall, the Trojan foein close pursuit. Asilas, chieftain proud,led on th' assault. Hard by the city gatesthe Latins wheeled once more and pressed the reinstrong on the yielding neck; the charging foetook flight and hurried far with loose-flung rein.'T was like the shock and onset of the seathat landward hurls the alternating floodand hides high cliffs in foam,—the tawny sandsupflinging as it rolls; then, suddenlywhirled backward on the reingulfing waves,it quits the ledges, and with ebbing flowfar from the shore retires. The Tuscans twicedrive back the flying Rutules to the town;and twice repulsed, with shields to rearward thrown,glare back at the pursuer; but conjoinedin the third battle-charge, both armies mergeconfusedly together in grim fightof man to man; then follow dying groans,armor blood-bathed and corpses, and strong steedsinextricably with their masters slain,so fierce the fray. Orsilochus—afraidto front the warrior's arms—launched forth a spearat Remulus' horse, and left the fatal steelclinging below its ear; the charger plungedmadly, and tossed its trembling hoofs in air,sustaining not the wound; the rider fell,flung headlong to the ground. Catillus slewIollas; and then struck Herminius down,great-bodied and great-hearted, who could wielda monster weapon, and whose yellow hairfrom naked head to naked shoulder flowed.By wounds unterrified he dared opposehis huge bulk to the foe: the quivering spearpierced to his broad back, and with throes of painbowed the man double and clean clove him through.Wide o'er the field th' ensanguined horror flowed,where fatal swords were crossed and cut their waythrough many a wound to famous death and fair.
Swift through the midmost slaughter proudly stridesthe quiver-girt Camilla, with one breastthrust naked to the fight, like Amazon.Oft from her hand her pliant shafts she rains,or whirls with indefatigable arma doughty battle-axe; her shoulder bearsDiana's sounding arms and golden bow.Sometimes retreating and to flight compelled,the maiden with a rearward-pointing bowshoots arrows as she flies. Around her moveher chosen peers, Larina, virgin brave,Tarpeia, brandishing an axe of bronze,and Tulla, virgins out of Italy
whom the divine Camilla chose to beher glory, each a faithful servitressin days of peace or war. The maids of Thrace
ride thus along Thermodon's frozen flood,and fight with blazoned Amazonian armsaround Hippolyta; or when returnsPenthesilea in triumphal car'mid acclamations shrill, and all her hostof women clash in air the moon-shaped shield. What warrior first, whom last, did thy strong spear,fierce virgin, earthward fling? Or what thy taleof prostrate foes laid gasping on the ground?Eunaeus first, the child of Clytius' Ioins,whose bared breast, as he faced his foe, she piercedwith fir-tree javelin; from his lips outpouredthe blood-stream as he fell; and as he bitthe gory dust, he clutched his mortal wound.Then Liris, and upon him Pagasusshe slew: the one clung closer to the reinsof his stabbed horse, and rolled off on the ground;the other, flying to his fallen friend,reached out a helpless hand; so both of thesefell on swift death together. Next in lineshe smote Amastrus, son of Hippotas;then, swift-pursuing, pierced with far-flung spearTereus, Harpalycus, Demophoon,and Chromis; every shaft the virgin threwlaid low its Phrygian warrior. From afarrode Ornytus on his Apulian steed,bearing a hunter's uncouth arms; for cloakhe wore upon his shoulders broad a hidefrom some wild bull stripped off; his helmet wasa wolf's great, gaping mouth, with either jawfull of white teeth; the weapon in his hand,a farmer's pole. He strode into the throng,head taller than them all. But him she seizedand clove him through (his panic-stricken troopgave her advantage), and with wrathful heartshe taunted thus the fallen: “Didst thou deemthis was a merry hunting in the woodin chase of game? Behold, thy fatal daybefalls thee at a woman's hand, and thusthy boasting answers. No small glory thouunto the ghosts of thy dead sires wilt tell,that 't was Camilla's javelin struck thee down.”
The turn of Butes and Orsilochuscame next, who were the Trojans, hugest twain:yet Butes with her javelin-point she clovefrom rearward, 'twixt the hauberk and the helm,just where the horseman's neck showed white, and wherefrom shoulder leftward slung the light-weight shield.From swift Orsilochus she feigned to fly,through a wide circle sweeping, craftilytaking the inside track, pursuing soher own pursuer; then she raised herselfto her full height, and through the warrior's helmdrove to his very skull with doubling blowsof her strong battle-axe,—while he imploredher mercy with loud prayers: his cloven brainspilt o'er his face. Next in her pathway came—but shrank in startled fear—the warrior sonof Aunus, haunter of the Apennine,not least of the Ligurians ere his doomcut short a life of lies. He, knowing wellno flight could save him from the shock of armsnor turn the royal maid's attack, beganwith words of cunning and insidious guile:“What glory is it if a girl be bold,on sturdy steed depending? Fly me not!But, venturing with me on this equal ground,gird thee to fight on foot. Soon shalt thou seewhich one of us by windy boast achievesa false renown.” He spoke; but she, to pangsof keenest fury stung, gave o'er her steedin charge of a companion, and opposedher foe at equal vantage, falchion drawn,on foot, and, though her shield no blazon bore,of fear incapable. But the warrior fled,thinking his trick victorious, and rode offfull speed, with reins reversed,—his iron heelgoading his charger's flight. Camilla cried:“Ligurian cheat! In vain thy boastful heartpuffs thee so large; in vain thou hast essayedthy father's slippery ways; nor shall thy trickbring thee to guileful Aunus safely home.”Herewith on winged feet that virgin boldflew past the war-horse, seized the streaming rein,and, fronting him, took vengeance on her foein bloody strokes: with not less ease a hawk,dark bird of omen, from his mountain cragpursues on pinions strong a soaring doveto distant cloud, and, clutching with hooked claws,holds tight and rips,—while through celestial airthe torn, ensanguined plumage floats along.