Aeneid

Virgil

Vergil. The Aeneid of Virgil. Williams, Theodore, C, translator. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1910.

First in his path was Lagus, thither led
by evil stars; whom, as he tried to lift
a heavy stone, the shaft of Pallas pierced
where ribs and spine divide: backward he drew
the clinging spear; But Hisbo from above
surprised him not, though meaning it; for while
(In anger blind for friend unpitying slain)
at Pallas' face he flew:—he, standing firm,
plunged deep into that swelling breast the sword.
Then Sthenius he slew; and next Anchemolus
of Rhoetus' ancient line, who dared defile
his step-dame's bridal bed. And also ye,
fair Thymber and Larides, Daucus' twins,
fell on that Rutule field; so like were ye,
your own kin scarce discerned, and parents proud
smiled at the dear deceit; but now in death
cruel unlikeness Pallas wrought; thy head
fell, hapless Thymber, by Evander's sword;
and thy right hand, Larides, shorn away,
seemed feeling for its Iord; the fingers cold
clutched, trembling, at the sword. Now all the troop
of Arcady, their chief's great action seen,
and by his warning roused, made at their foes,
spurred on by grief and shame. Next Pallas pierced
the flying Rhoetus in his car; this gained
for Ilus respite and delay, for him
the stout spear aimed at; but its flight was stopped
by Rhoetus, as in swift retreat he rode,
by the two high-born brothers close pursued,
Teuthras and Tyres: from his car he rolled,
making deep furrows with his lifeless heels
along the Rutule plain. Oft when the winds
of summer, long awaited, rise and blow,
a shepherd fires the forest, and the blaze
devours the dense grove, while o'er the fields,
in that one moment, swift and sudden spread
grim Vulcan's serried flames; from some high seat
on distant hill, the shepherd peering down
sees, glad at heart, his own victorious fires:
so now fierce valor spreads, uniting all
in one confederate rage, 'neath Pallas' eyes.
But the fierce warrior Halaesus next
led on the charge, behind his skilful shield
close-crouching. Ladon and Demodocus
and Pheres he struck down; his glittering blade
cut Strymon's hand, which to his neck was raised,
sheer off; with one great stone he crushed the brows
of Thoas, scattering wide the broken skull,
bones, brains, and gore. Halaesus' prophet-sire,
foreseeing doom, had hid him in dark groves;
but when the old man's fading eyes declined
in death, the hand of Fate reached forth and doomed
the young life to Evander's sword; him now
Pallas assailed, first offering this prayer:
“O Father Tiber, give my poising shaft
through stout Halaesus' heart its lucky way!
The spoil and trophy of the hero slain
on thine own oak shall hang.” The god received
the vow, and while Halaesus held his shield
over Imaon, his ill-fated breast
lay naked to th' Arcadian's hungry spear.

But Lausus, seeing such a hero slain,
bade his troop have no fear, for he himself
was no small strength in war; and first he slew
Abas, who fought hard, and had ever seemed
himself the sticking-point and tug of war.
Down went Arcadia's warriors, and slain
etruscans fell, with many a Trojan brave
the Greek had spared. Troop charges upon troop
well-matched in might, with chiefs of like renown;
the last rank crowds the first;—so fierce the press
scarce hand or sword can stir. Here Pallas stands,
and pushes back the foe; before him looms
Lausus, his youthful peer, conspicuous both
in beauty; but no star will them restore
to home and native land. Yet would the King
of high Olympus suffer not the pair
to close in battle, but each hero found
a later doom at hands of mightier foes.

Now Turnus' goddess-sister bids him haste
to Lausus' help. So he, in wheeling car,
cut through the lines; and when his friends he saw,
“Let the fight stop! “ he cried, “for none but I
may strike at Pallas; unto me alone
the prize of Pallas falls. I would his sire
stood by to see.” He spake: his troop withdrew
a fitting space. But as they made him room,
the young prince, wondering at the scornful words,
looked upon Turnus, glancing up and down
that giant frame, and with fierce-frowning brows
scanned him from far, hurling defiant words
in answer to the King's. “My honor now
shall have the royal trophy of this war,
or glorious death. For either fortune fair
my sire is ready. Threaten me no more!”
So saying, to the midmost space he strode,
and in Arcadian hearts the blood stood still.
Swift from his chariot Turnus leaped, and ran
to closer fight. As when some lion sees
from his far mountain-lair a raging bull
that sniffs the battle from the grassy field,
and down the steep he flies—such picture showed
grim Turnus as he came. But when he seemed
within a spear's cast, Pallas opened fight,
expecting Fortune's favor to the brave
in such unequal match; and thus he prayed:
“O, by my hospitable father's roof,
where thou didst enter as a stranger-guest,
hear me, Alcides, and give aid divine
to this great deed. Let Turnus see these hands
strip from his half-dead breast the bloody spoil!
and let his eyes in death endure to see
his conqueror!” Alcides heard the youth:
but prisoned in his heart a deep-drawn sigh,
and shed vain tears; for Jove, the King and Sire, .
spoke with benignant accents to his son:
“To each his day is given. Beyond recall
man's little time runs by: but to prolong
life's glory by great deeds is virtue's power.
Beneath the lofty walls of fallen Troy
fell many a son of Heaven. Yea, there was slain
Sarpedon, my own offspring. Turnus too
is summoned to his doom, and nears the bounds
of his appointed span.” So speaking, Jove
turned from Rutulia's war his eyes away.
But Pallas hurled his lance with might and main,
and from its hollow scabbard flashed his sword.
The flying shaft touched where the plated steel
over the shoulders rose, and worked its way
through the shield's rim—then falling, glanced aside
from Turnus' giant body. Turnus then
poised, without haste, his iron-pointed spear,
and, launching it on Pallas, cried, “Look now
will not this shaft a good bit deeper drive?”
He said: and through the mid-boss of the shield,
steel scales and brass with bull's-hide folded round,
the quivering spear-point crashed resistlessly,
and through the corselet's broken barrier
pierced Pallas' heart. The youth plucked out in vain
the hot shaft from the wound; his life and blood
together ebbed away, as sinking prone
on his rent side he fell; above him rang
his armor; and from lips with blood defiled
he breathed his last upon his foeman's ground.
Over him Turnus stood: “Arcadians all,”
He cried, “take tidings of this feat of arms
to King Evander. With a warrior's wage
his Pallas I restore, and freely grant
what glory in a hero's tomb may lie,
or comfort in a grave. They dearly pay
who bid Aeneas welcome at their board.”
So saying, with his left foot he held down
the lifeless form, and raised the heavy weight
of graven belt, which pictured forth that crime
of youthful company by treason slain,
all on their wedding night, in bridal bowers
to horrid murder given,—which Clonus, son
of Eurytus, had wrought in lavish gold;
this Turnus in his triumph bore away,
exulting in the spoil. O heart of man,
not knowing doom, nor of events to be!
Nor, being lifted up, to keep thy bounds
in prosperous days! To Turnus comes the hour
when he would fain a prince's ransom give
had Pallas passed unscathed, and will bewail
cuch spoil of victory. With weeping now
and lamentations Ioud his comrades lay
young Pallas on his shield, and thronging close
carry him homeward with a mournful song:
alas! the sorrow and the glorious gain
thy sire shall have in thee. For one brief day
bore thee to battle and now bears away;
yet leavest thou full tale of foemen slain.

No doubtful rumor to Aeneas breaks
the direful news, but a sure messenger
tells him his followers' peril, and implores
prompt help for routed Troy. His ready sword
reaped down the nearest foes, and through their line
clove furious path and broad; the valiant blade
through oft-repeated bloodshed groped its way,
proud Turnus, unto thee! His heart beholds
Pallas and Sire Evander, their kind board
in welcome spread, their friendly league of peace
proffered and sealed with him, the stranger-guest.
So Sulmo's sons, four warriors, and four
of Ufens sprung, he took alive—to slay
as victims to the shades, and pour a stream
of captives' blood upon a flaming pyre.
Next from afar his hostile shaft he threw
at Mago, who with wary motion bowed
beneath the quivering weapon, as it sped
clean over him; then at Aeneas' knees
he crouched and clung with supplicating cry:
“O, by thy father's spirit, by thy hope
in young Iulus, I implore thee, spare
for son and father's sake this life of mine.
A lofty house have I, where safely hid
are stores of graven silver and good weight
of wrought and unwrought gold. The fate of war
hangs not on me; nor can one little life
thy victory decide.” In answer spoke
Aeneas: “Hoard the silver and the gold
for thy own sons. Such bartering in war
finished with Turnus, when fair Pallas fell.
Thus bids Anchises' shade, Iulus—thus!”
He spoke: and, grasping with his mighty left
the helmet of the vainly suppliant foe,
bent back the throat and drove hilt-deep his sword.
A little space removed, Haemonides,
priest of Phoebus and pale Trivia, stood,
whose ribboned brows a sacred fillet bound:
in shining vesture he, and glittering arms.
Him too the Trojan met, repelled, and towered
above the fallen form, o'ermantling it
in mortal shade; Serestus bore away
those famous arms a trophy vowed to thee,
Gradivus, Iord of war! Soon to fresh fight
came Caeculus, a child of Vulcan's line,
and Umbro on the Marsic mountains bred:
these met the Trojan's wrath. His sword shore off
Anxur's left hand, and the whole orbed shield
dropped earthward at the stroke: though Anxur's tongue
had boasted mighty things, as if great words
would make him strong, and lifting his proud heart
as high as heaven, had hoped perchance to see
gray hairs and length of days. Then Tarquitus
strode forth, exulting in his burnished arms
(Him Dryope, the nymph, to Faunus bore),
and dared oppose Aeneas' rage. But he
drew back his lance and, charging, crushed at once
corselet and ponderous shield; then off he struck
the supplicating head, which seemed in vain
preparing speech; while o'er the reeking corpse
the victor stood, and thrusting it away
spoke thus with wrathful soul: “Now lie thou there,
thou fearsome sight! No noble mother's hand
shall hide thee in the ground, or give those limbs
to their ancestral tomb. Thou shalt be left
to birds of ravin; or go drifting far
along yon river to engulfing seas,
where starving fishes on those wounds shall feed.”
Antceus next and Lucas he pursues,
though all in Turnus' van; and Numa bold
and Camers tawny-tressed, the son and heir
of Volscens the stout-hearted, whose domain
surpassed the richest of Ausonia's lords,
when over hushed Amyclae he was king.
Like old Aegaeon of the hundred arms,
the hundred-handed, from whose mouths and breasts
blazed fifty fiery blasts, as he made war
with fifty sounding shields and fifty swords
against Jove's thunder;—so Aeneas raged
victorious o'er the field, when once his steel
warmed to its work. But lo, he turns him now
where come Niphaeus' bold-advancing wheels
and coursers four, who, when at furious speed
they faced his giant stride and dreadful cry,
upreared in panic, and reversing spilled
their captain to the ground, and bore away
the chariot to the river's distant shore.

Meanwhile, with two white coursers to their car,
the brothers Lucagus and Liger drove
into the heart of battle: Liger kept
with skilful hand the manage of the steeds;
bold Lucagus swung wide his naked sword.
Aeneas, by their wrathful brows defied,
brooked not the sight, but to the onset flew,
huge-looming, with adverse and threatening spear.
Cried Liger, “Not Achilles' chariot, ours!
Nor team of Diomed on Phrygia's plain!
The last of life and strife shall be thy meed
upon this very ground.” Such raving word
flowed loud from Liger's lip: not with a word
the Trojan hero answered him, but flung
his whirling spear; and even as Lucagus
leaned o'er the horses, goading them with steel,
and, left foot forward, gathered all his strength
to strike—the spear crashed through the under rim
of his resplendent shield and entered deep
in the left groin; then from the chariot fallen,
the youth rolled dying on the field, while thus
pious Aeneas paid him taunting words:
“O Lucagus, thy chariot did not yield
because of horses slow to fly, or scared
by shadows of a foe. It was thyself
leaped o'er the wheel and fled.” So saying, he grasped
the horses by the rein. The brother then,
spilled also from the car, reached wildly forth
his helpless hands: “O, by thy sacred head,
and by the parents who such greatness gave,
good Trojan, let me live! Some pity show
to prostrate me!” But ere he longer sued,
Aeneas cried, “Not so thy language ran
a moment gone! Die thou! Nor let this day
brother from brother part!” Then where the life
hides in the bosom, he thrust deep his sword.
Thus o'er the field of war the Dardan King
moved on, death-dealing: like a breaking flood
or cloudy whirlwind seemed his wrath. Straightway
the boy Ascanius from the ramparts came,
his warriors with him; for the siege had failed.

Now Jupiter to Juno thus began:
“O ever-cherished spouse and sister dear,
surely 't is Venus—as thy mind misgave—
whose favor props—O, what discernment thine!
Yon Trojan power; not swift heroic hands,
or souls of fury facing perilous war!”
Juno made meek reply: “O noblest spouse!
Why vex one sick at heart, who humbly fears
thy stern command? If I could claim to-day
what once I had, my proper right and due,
love's induence, I should not plead in vain
to thee, omnipotent, to give me power
to lead off Turnus from the fight unscathed,
and save him at his father Daunus' prayer.
Aye, let him die! And with his loyal blood
the Teucrians' vengeance feed! Yet he derives
from our Saturnian stem, by fourth remove
sprung from Pilumnus. Oft his liberal hands
have heaped unstinted offering at thy shrine.”
Thus in few words th' Olympian King replied:
“If for the fated youth thy prayer implores
delay and respite of impending doom,
if but so far thou bidst me interpose,—
go—favor Turnus' flight, and keep him safe
in this imperilled hour; I may concede
such boon. But if thy pleading words intend
some larger grace, and fain would touch or change
the issue of the war, then art thou fed
on expectation vain.” With weeping eyes
Juno made answer: “Can it be thy mind
gives what thy words refuse, and Turnus' life,
if rescued, may endure? Yet afterward
some cruel close his guiltless day shall see—
or far from truth I stray! O, that I were
the dupe of empty fears! and O, that thou
wouldst but refashion to some happier end
the things by thee begun—for thou hast power!”

She ceased; and swiftly from the peak of heaven
moved earthward, trailing cloud-wrack through the air,
and girdled with the storm. She took her way
to where Troy's warriors faced Laurentum's line.
There of a hollow cloud the goddess framed
a shape of airy, unsubstantial shade,
Aeneas' image, wonderful to see,
and decked it with a Dardan lance and shield,
a crested helmet on the godlike head;
and windy words she gave of soulless sound,
and motion like a stride—such shapes, they say,
the hovering phantoms of the dead put on,
or empty dreams which cheat our slumbering eyes.
Forth to the front of battle this vain shade
stalked insolent, and with its voice and spear
challenged the warrior. At it Turnus flew,
and hurled a hissing spear with distant aim;
the thing wheeled round and fled. The foe forthwith,
thinking Aeneas vanquished, with blind scorn
flattered his own false hope: “Where wilt thou fly,
Aeneas? Wilt thou break a bridegroom's word?
This sword will give thee title to some land
thou hast sailed far to find!” So clamoring loud
he followed, flashing far his naked sword;
nor saw the light winds waft his dream away.

By chance in covert of a lofty crag
a ship stood fastened and at rest; her sides
showed ready bridge and stairway; she had brought
Osinius, king of Clusium. Thither came
Aeneas' counterfeit of flight and fear,
and dropped to darkness. Turnus, nothing loth,
gave close chase, overleaping every bar,
and scaling the high bridge; but scarce he reached
the vessel's prow, when Juno cut her loose,
the cables breaking, and along swift waves
pushed her to sea. Yet in that very hour
Aeneas to the battle vainly called
the vanished foe, and round his hard-fought path
stretched many a hero dead. No longer now
the mocking shadow sought to hide, but soared
visibly upward and was Iost in cloud,
while Turnus drifted o'er the waters wide
before the wind. Bewildered and amazed
he looked around him; little joy had he
in his own safety, but upraised his hands
in prayer to Heaven: “O Sire omnipotent!
Didst thou condemn me to a shame like this?
Such retribution dire? Whither now?
Whence came I here? What panic wafts away
this Turnus—if 't is he? Shall I behold
Laurentum's towers once more? But what of those
my heroes yonder, who took oath to me,
and whom—O sin and shame!—I have betrayed
to horrible destruction? Even now
I see them routed, and my ears receive
their dying groans. What is this thing I do?
Where will the yawning earth crack wide enough
beneath my feet? Ye tempests, pity me!
On rocks and reef—'t is Turnus' faithful prayer,
let this bark founder; fling it on the shoals
of wreckful isles, where no Rutulian eye
can follow me, or Rumor tell my shame.”
With such wild words his soul tossed to and fro,
not knowing if to hide his infamy
with his own sword and madly drive its blade
home to his heart, or cast him in the sea,
and, swimming to the rounded shore, renew
his battle with the Trojan foe. Three times
each fatal course he tried; but Juno's power
three times restrained, and with a pitying hand
the warrior's purpose barred. So on he sped
o'er yielding waters and propitious tides,
far as his father Daunus' ancient town.

At Jove's command Mezentius, breathing rage,
now takes the field and leads a strong assault
against victorious Troy. The Tuscan ranks
meet round him, and press hard on him alone,
on him alone with vengeance multiplied
their host of swords they draw. As some tall cliff,
projecting to the sea, receives the rage
of winds and waters, and untrembling bears
vast, frowning enmity of seas and skies,—
so he. First Dolichaon's son he slew,
Hebrus; then Latagus and Palmus, though
they fled amain; he smote with mighty stone
torn from the mountain, full upon the face
of Latagus; and Palmus he let lie
hamstrung and rolling helpless; he bestowed
the arms on his son Lausus for a prize,
another proud crest in his helm to wear;
he laid the Phrygian Euanthus Iow;
and Mimas, Paris' comrade, just his age,—
born of Theano's womb to Amycus
his sire, that night when royal Hecuba,
teeming with firebrand, gave Paris birth:
one in the city of his fathers sleeps;
and one, inglorious, on Laurentian strand.
As when a wild boar, harried from the hills
by teeth of dogs (one who for many a year
was safe in pine-clad Vesulus, or roamed
the meres of Tiber, feeding in the reeds)
falls in the toils at last, and stands at bay,
raging and bristling, and no hunter dares
defy him or come near, but darts are hurled
from far away, with cries unperilous:
not otherwise, though righteous is their wrath
against Mezentius, not a man so bold
as face him with drawn sword, but at long range
they throw their shafts and with loud cries assail;
he, all unterrified, makes frequent stand,
gnashing his teeth, and shaking off their spears.

From ancient Corythus had Acron come,
a Greek, who left half-sung his wedding-song,
and was an exile; him Mezentius saw
among long lines of foes, with flaunting plumes
and purple garments from his plighted spouse.
Then as a starving lion when he prowls
about high pasture-lands, urged on his way
by maddening hunger (if perchance he see
a flying she-goat or tall-antlered stag)
lifts up his shaggy mane, and gaping wide
his monstrous jaws, springs at the creature's side,
feeding foul-lipped, insatiable of gore:
so through his gathered foes Mezentius
flew at his prey. He stretched along the ground
ill-fated Acron, who breathed life away,
beating the dark dust with his heels, and bathed
his broken weapons in his blood. Nor deigned
Mezentius to strike Orodes down
as he took flight, nor deal a wound unseen
with far-thrown spear; but ran before his face,
fronting him man to man, nor would he win
by sleight or trick, but by a mightier sword.
Soon on the fallen foe he set his heel,
and, pushing hard, with heel and spear, cried out:
“Look ye, my men, where huge Orodes lies,
himself a dangerous portion of this war!”
With loyal, Ioud acclaim his peers reply;
but thus the dying hero: “Victor mine,
whoe'er thou art, I fall not unavenged!
Thou shalt but triumph for a fleeting hour.
Like doom for thee is written. Speedily
thou shalt this dust inhabit, even as I!”
Mezentius answered him with wrathful smile:
“Now die! What comes on me concerns alone
the Sire of gods and Sovereign of mankind.”
So saying, from the wounded breast he plucked
his javelin: and on those eyes there fell
inexorable rest and iron slumber,
and in unending night their vision closed.

Then Caedicus cut down Alcathous,
Sacrator slew Hydaspes, Rapo smote
Parthenius and Orses stout and strong;
Messapus, good blade cut down Clonius
and Ericetes, fierce Lycaon's child;
the one from an unbridled war-horse thrown,
the other slain dismounted. Then rode forth
Agis the Lycian, but bold Valerus,
true to his valiant breeding, hurled him down;
having slain Thronius, Salius was slain
by skilled Nealces, of illustrious name
for spear well cast and far-surprising bow.

Thus Mars relentless holds in equal scale
slaughters reciprocal and mutual woe;
the victors and the vanquished kill or fall
in equal measure; neither knows the way
to yield or fly. Th' Olympians Iook down
out of Jove's house, and pity as they see
the unavailing wrath of either foe,
and burdens measureless on mortals laid.
Lo! Venus here, Saturnian Juno yon,
in anxious watch; while pale Tisiphone
moves on infuriate through the battling lines.
On strode Mezentius o'er the gory plain,
and swollen with rage waved wide-his awful spear.
Like tall Orion when on foot he goes
trough the deep sea and lifts his shoulders high
above the waves; or when he takes his path
along the mountain-tops, and has for staff
an aged ash-tree, as he fixes firm
his feet in earth and hides his brows in cloud;—
so Ioomed Mezentius with his ponderous arms.

To match him now, Aeneas, Iooking down
the long array of war, came forth in arms
to challenge and defy. But quailing not,
a mass immovable, the other stood
waiting his noble foe, and with a glance
measured to cast his spear the space between.
“May this right hand“, he said, “and this swift spear
which here I poise, be favoring gods for me!
The spoils from yonder robber's carcase stripped
I vow to hang on thee, my Lausus, thou
shalt stand for trophy of Aeneas slain.”
He said, and hurled from far the roaring spear,
which from the shield glanced off, and speeding still
smote famed Antores 'twixt the loin and side—
antores, friend of Hercules, who came
from Argos, and had joined Evander's cause,
abiding in Italia. Lo, a wound
meant for another pierced him, and he lay,
ill-fated! Iooking upward to the light,
and dreaming of dear Argos as he died.
Then good Aeneas hurled his spear; it passed
through hollow orb of triple bronze, and through
layers of flax and triple-twisted hides;
then in the lower groin it lodged, but left
its work undone. Aeneas, not ill-pleased
to see the Tuscan wounded, swiftly drew
the falchion from his thigh, and hotly pressed
his startled foe. But Lausus at the sight
groaned loud, so much he loved his father dear,
and tears his cheek bedewed. O storied youth!
If olden worth may win believing ear,
let not my song now fail of thee to sing,
thy noble deeds, thy doom of death and pain!
Mezentius, now encumbered and undone,
fell backward, trailing from the broken shield
his foeman's spear. His son leaped wildly forth
to join the fray; and where Aeneas' hand
lifted to strike, he faced the thrusting sword
and gave the hero pause. His comrades raised
applauding cries, as shielded by his son
the father made retreat; their darts they hurl,
and vex with flying spears the distant foe:
Aeneas, wrathful, stands beneath his shield.
As when the storm-clouds break in pelting hail,
the swains and ploughmen from the furrows fly,
and every traveller cowers in sure defence
of river-bank or lofty shelving crag,
while far and wide it pours; and by and by,
each, when the sun returns, his task pursues:
so great Aeneas, by assault o'erwhelmed,
endured the cloud of battle, till its rage
thundered no more; then with a warning word
to Lausus with upbraiding voice he called:
“Why, O death-doomed, rush on to deeds too high
for strength like thine. Thou art betrayed, rash boy,
by thine own loyal heart!” But none the less
the youth made mad defence; while fiercer burned
the Trojan's anger; and of Lausus' days
the loom of Fate spun forth the last thin thread;
for now Aeneas thrust his potent blade
deep through the stripling's breast and out of sight;
through the light shield it passed—a frail defence
to threaten with!—and through the tunic fine
his mother's hand had wrought with softest gold:
blood filled his bosom, and on path of air
down to the shades the mournful soul withdrew,
its body quitting. As Anchises' son
beheld the agonizing lips and brow
so wondrous white in death, he groaned aloud
in pity, and reached o'er him his right hand,
touched to the heart such likeness to behold
of his own filial love. “Unhappy boy!
What reward worthy of heroic deeds
can I award thee now? Wear still those arms
so proudly worn! And I will send thee home
(Perhaps thou carest!) to the kindred shades
and ashes of thy sires. But let it be
some solace in thy pitiable doom
that none but great Aeneas wrought thy fall.”
Then to the stripling's tardy followers
he sternly called, and lifted from the earth
with his own hand the fallen foe: dark blood
defiled those princely tresses braided fair.

Meanwhile Mezentius by the Tiber's wave
with water staunched his wound, and propped his weight
against a tree; upon its limbs above
his brazen helmet hung, and on the sward
his ponderous arms lay resting. Round him watched
his chosen braves. He, gasping and in pain,
clutched at his neck and let his flowing beard
loose on his bosom fall; he questions oft
of Lausus, and sends many a messenger
to bid him back, and bear him the command
of his sore-grieving sire. But lo! his peers
bore the dead Lausus back upon his shield,
and wept to see so strong a hero quelled
by stroke so strong. From long way off the sire,
with soul prophetic of its woe, perceived
what meant their wail and cry. On his gray hairs
the dust he flung, and, stretching both his hands
to heaven, he cast himself the corpse along.
“O son,” he cried, “was life to me so sweet,
that I to save myself surrendered o'er
my own begotten to a foeman's steel?
Saved by these gashes shall thy father be,
and living by thy death? O wretched me,
how foul an end have I! Now is my wound
deep! deep! 't was I, dear son, have stained
thy name with infamy—to exile driven
from sceptre and hereditary throne
by general curse. Would that myself had borne
my country's vengeance and my nation's hate!
Would my own guilty life my debt had paid—
yea, by a thousand deaths! But, see, I live!
Not yet from human kind and light of day
have I departed. But depart I will.”
So saying, he raised him on his crippled thigh,
and though by reason of the grievous wound
his forces ebbed, yet with unshaken mien
he bade them lead his war-horse forth, his pride,
his solace, which from every war
victorious bore him home. The master then
to the brave beast, which seemed to know his pain,
spoke thus: “My Rhoebus, we have passed our days
long time together, if long time there be
for mortal creatures. Either on this day
thou shalt his bloody spoils in triumph bear
and that Aeneas' head,—and so shalt be
avenger of my Lausus' woe; or else,
if I be vanquished, thou shalt sink and fall
beside me. For, my bravest, thou wouldst spurn
a stranger's will, and Teucrian lords to bear.”
He spoke and, mounting to his back, disposed
his limbs the wonted way and filled both hands
with pointed javelins; a helm of brass
with shaggy horse-hair crest gleamed o'er his brow.
Swift to the front he rode: a mingled flood
surged in his heart of sorrow, wrath, and shame;
and thrice with loud voice on his foe he called.

Aeneas heard and made exulting vow:
“Now may the Father of the gods on high,
and great Apollo hear! Begin the fray!”
He said, and moved forth with a threatening spear.
The other cried: “Hast robbed me of my son,
and now, implacable, wouldst fright me more?
That way, that only, was it in thy power
to cast me down. No fear of death I feel.
Nor from thy gods themselves would I refrain.
Give o'er! For fated and resolved to die
I come thy way: but; bring thee as I pass
these offerings.” With this he whirled a spear
against his foe, and after it drove deep
another and another, riding swift
in wide gyration round him. But the shield,
the golden boss, broke not. Three times he rode
in leftward circles, hurling spear on spear
against th' unmoved Aeneas: and three times
the Trojan hero in his brazen shield
the sheaf of spears upbore. But such slow fight,
such plucking of spent shafts from out his shield,
the Trojan liked not, vexed and sorely tried
in duel so ill-matched. With wrathful soul
at length he strode forth, and between the brows
of the wild war-horse planted his Iong spear.
Up reared the creature, beating at the air
with quivering feet, then o'er his fallen lord
entangling dropped, and prone above him lay,
pinning with ponderous shoulder to the ground.
The Trojans and the Latins rouse the skies
with clamor Ioud. Aeneas hastening forth
unsheathes his sword, and looming o'er him cries:
“Where now is fierce Mezentius, and his soul's
wild pulse of rage?” The Tuscan in reply
with eyes uprolled, and gasping as he gave
long looks at heaven, recalled his fading mind:
“Why frown at me and fume, O bitterest foe?
Why threaten death? To slay me is no sin.
Not to take quarter came I to this war,
not truce with thee did my lost Lausus crave,
yet this one boon I pray,—if mercy be
for fallen foes: O, suffer me when dead
in covering earth to hide! Full well I know
what curses of my people ring me round.
Defend me from that rage! I pray to be
my son's companion in our common tomb.”
He spoke: then offered with unshrinking eye
his veined throat to the sword. O'er the bright mail
his vital breath gushed forth in streaming gore.

Up from the sea now soared the dawning day:
Aeneas, though his sorrow bids him haste
to burial of the slain, and his sad soul
is clouded with the sight of death, fulfils,
for reward to his gods, a conqueror's vow,
at morning's earliest beam. A mighty oak
shorn of its limbs he sets upon a hill
and clothes it o'er with glittering arms, the spoil
of King Mezentius, and a trophy proud
to thee, great lord of war. The hero's plumes
bedewed with blood are there, and splintered spears;
there hangs the corselet, by the thrusting steel
twelve times gored through; upon the left he binds
the brazen shield, and from the neck suspends
the 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 begone
of 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 hope
prepare the war! So when the gods give sign
to open battle and lead forth our brave
out of this stronghold, no bewilderment,
nor tarrying, nor fearful, faltering mind
shall slack our march. Meanwhile in earth we lay
our comrades fallen; for no honor else
in Acheron have they. Go forth,” said he,
“bring gifts of honor and of last farewell
to those high hearts by shedding of whose blood
our country lives. To sad Evander's town
bear Pallas first; who, though he did not fail
of virtue's crown, was seized by doom unblest,
and to the bitterness of death consigned.”

Weeping he spoke, and slowly backward drew
to the tent-door, where by the breathless clay
of Pallas stood Acoetes, aged man,
once bearer of Evander's arms, but now
under less happy omens set to guard
his darling child. Around him is a throng
of slaves, with all the Trojan multitude,
and Ilian women, who the wonted way
let sorrow's tresses loosely flow. When now
Aeneas to the lofty doors drew near,
all these from smitten bosoms raised to heaven
a mighty moaning, till the King's abode
was loud with anguish. There Aeneas viewed
the pillowed head of Pallas cold and pale,
the smooth young breast that bore the gaping wound
of that Ausonian spear, and weeping said:
“Did Fortune's envy, smiling though she came,
refuse me, hapless boy, that thou shouldst see
my throne established, and victorious ride
beside me to thy father's house? Not this
my parting promise to thy King and sire,
Evander, when with friendly, fond embrace
to win imperial power he bade me go;
yet warned me anxiously I must resist
bold warriors and a stubborn breed of foes.
And haply even now he cheats his heart
with expectation vain, and offers vows,
heaping with gifts the altars of his gods.
But we with unavailing honors bring
this lifeless youth, who owes the gods of heaven
no 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 day
so Iong awaited; this the solemn pledge
I proudly gave. But fond Evander's eyes
will find no shameful wounding on the slain,
nor for a son in coward safety kept
wilt 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 host
to render the last tributes, and to share
father's tears:—poor solace and too small
for grief so great, but due that mournful sire.
Some busy them to build of osiers fine
the simple litter, twining sapling oaks
with evergreen, till o'er death's Iofty bed
the 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 more
its life doth feed. Then good Aeneas brought
two broidered robes of scarlet and fine gold,
which with the gladsome labor of her hands
Sidonian Dido wrought him long ago,
the thin-spun gold inweaving. One of these
the sad prince o'er the youthful body threw
for parting gift; and with the other veiled
those tresses from the fire; he heaped on high
Laurentum's spoils of war, and bade to bring
much tribute forth: horses and arms he gave,
seized from the fallen enemy; with hands
fettered behind them filed a captive train
doomed to appease the shades, and with the flames
to mix their flowing blood. He bade his chiefs
set up the trunks of trees and clothe them well
with captured arms, inscribing on each one
some foeman's name. Then came Acoetes forth,
a wretched, worn old man, who beat his breast
with tight-clenched hands, and tore his wrinkled face
with ruthless fingers; oft he cast him down
full length along the ground. Then lead they forth
the 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 rest
victorious Turnus seized. Then filed along
a mournful Teucrian cohort; next the host
Etrurian and the men of Arcady
with trailing arms reversed. Aeneas now,
when the long company had passed him by,
spoke thus and groaned aloud: “Ourselves from hence
are summoned by the same dread doom of war
to other tears. Farewell forevermore!
Heroic Pallas! be forever blest!
I bid thee hail, farewell!” In silence then
back to the stronghold's Iofty walls he moved.

Now envoys from the Latin citadel
came olive-crowned, to plead for clemency:
would he not yield those bodies of the dead
sword-scattered o'er the plain, and let them lie
beneath an earth-built tomb? Who wages war
upon 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 gave
the boon, and this benignant answer made:
“Ye Latins, what misfortune undeserved
has snared you in so vast a war, that now
you shun our friendship? Have you here implored
peace 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 war
with you, the people; 't was your King refused
our proffered bond of peace, and gave his cause
to Turnus' arms. More meet and just it were
had 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 way
to cross his blade with mine; that man to whom
the gods, or his own valor, had decreed
the longer life, had lived. But now depart!
Beneath your lost friends light the funeral fires!”
So spoke Aeneas; and with wonder mute
all stood at gaze, each turning to behold
his neighbor's face. Then Drances, full of years,
and ever armed with spite and slanderous word
against young Turnus, made this answering plea:
“O prince of mighty name, whose feats of arms
are even mightier! Trojan hero, how
shall my poor praise exalt thee to the skies?
Is it thy rectitude or strenuous war
most bids me wonder? We will bear thy word
right gladly to the city of our sires;
and there, if Fortune favor it, contrive
a compact with the Latin King. Henceforth
let Turnus find his own allies! Ourselves
will much rejoice to see thy destined walls,
and our own shoulders will be proud to bear
the stone for building Troy.” Such speech he made,
and all the common voice consented loud.
So twelve days' truce they swore, and safe from harm
Latins and Teucrians unmolested roved
together o'er the wooded hills. Now rang
loud steel on ash-tree bole; enormous pines,
once thrusting starward, to the earth they threw;
and with industrious wedge asunder clove
stout oak and odorous cedar, piling high
harvest of ash-trees on the creaking wain.

Now Rumor, herald of prodigious woe,
to King Evander hied, Evander's house
and city filling, where, but late, her word
had told in Latium Pallas' victory.
th' Arcadians thronging to the city-gates
bear funeral torches, the accustomed way;
in lines of flame the long street flashes far,
lighting the fields beyond. To meet them moves
a Phrygian company, to join with theirs
its lamentation loud. The Latin wives,
soon as they saw them entering, aroused
the whole sad city with shrill songs of woe.
No hand could stay Evander. Forth he flew
into the midmost tumult, and fell prone
on 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 woo
in a first battle. O first-fruit forlorn
of youth so fair! O prelude pitiless
of war approaching! O my vows and prayers,
which not one god would hear! My blessed wife,
how happy was the death that spared thee not
to taste this bitterness! But I, the while,
by living longer lived to meet my doom,—
a father sole-surviving. Would I myself
had perished by the Rutule's cruel spear,
the Trojan's cause espousing! This breath of life
how gladly had I given! And O, that now
yon black solemnity were bearing home
myself, 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 fallen
untimely, I take comfort that he fell
where thousands of the Volscians slaughtered lie,
and into Latium led the Teucrian arms.
What brighter glory could I crave in death
for thee, my Pallas, than Aeneas brings,
and Phrygian princes, and Etrurian lords
with all Etruria's legions? Lo, they bear
yon glittering spoils of victims of thy sword!
Thou, Turnus, too, wert now an effigy
in giant armor clad, if but his years
and strength full ripe had been fair match for thine!
But now my woes detain the Trojan host
from 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 sword
can bid me live. Then let thy sword repay
its debt to sire and son by Turnus slain!
Such deed alone may with thy honor fit,
and happier fortunes. But my life to me
has no joy left to pray for, save to bring
my son that solace in the shadowy land.”

Meanwhile o'er sorrowing mortals the bright morn
had lifted her mild beam, renewing so
the burden of man's toil. Aeneas now
built funeral pyres along the winding shore,
King Tarchon at his side. Each thither brought
the bodies of his kin, observing well
all ancient ritual. The fuming fires
burned from beneath, till highest heaven was hid
in blackest, overmantling cloud. Three times
the warriors, sheathed in proud, resplendent steel,
paced round the kindling pyres; and three times
fair companies of horsemen circled slow,
with loud lamenting, round the doleful flame.
The wail of warriors and the trumpets' blare
the very welkin rend. Cast on the flames
are spoils of slaughtered Latins,—helms and blades,
bridles and chariot-wheels. Yet others bring
gifts to the dead familiar, their own shields
and unavailing spears. Around them slain
great 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 multitude
behold their comrades burning, and keep guard
o'er the consuming pyres, nor turn away
till cooling night re-shifts the globe of heaven,
thick-strewn with numberless far-flaming stars.