Aeneid
Virgil
Vergil. The Aeneid of Virgil. Williams, Theodore, C, translator. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1910.
- By such discourse he stirred the burning blood
- of Turnus, who groaned loud and from his heart
- this utterance hurled: “O Drances, thou art rich
- in large words, when the day of battle calls
- for actions. If our senators convene
- thou comest early. But the council hall
- is not for swollen talk, such as thy tongue
- in safety tosses forth; so long as walls
- hold back thy foes, and ere the trenches flow
- with blood of brave men slain. O, rattle on
- in fluent thunder—thy habitual style!
- Brand me a coward, Drances, when thy sword
- has heaped up Trojan slain, and on the field
- thy shining trophies rise. Now may we twain
- our martial prowess prove. Our foe, forsooth,
- is not so far to seek; around yon wall
- he 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 tell
- of my defeat, while Tiber overflows
- with Trojan blood? while King Evander's house
- in ruin dies, and his Arcadians lie
- stripped naked on the field? O, not like thee
- did Bitias or the giant Pandarus
- misprize 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 penned
- a prisoner in the ramparts of my foe.
- War will not save us? Fling that prophecy
- on the doomed Dardan's head, or on thy own,
- thou madman! Aye, with thy vile, craven soul
- disturb the general cause. Extol the power
- of a twice-vanquished people, and decry
- Latinus' rival arms. From this time forth
- let all the Myrmidonian princes cower
- before the might of Troy; let Diomed
- and let Achilles tremble; let the stream
- of Aufidus in panic backward flow
- from Hadria's wave. But hear me when I say
- that though his guilt and cunning feign to feel
- fear of my vengeance, much embittering so
- his taunts and insult—such a life as his
- my 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 hour
- thou castest hope of armed success away,
- if we be so unfriended that one rout
- o'erwhelms us utterly, if Fortune's feet
- never turn backward, let us, then, for peace
- offer petition, lifting to the foe
- our feeble, suppliant hands. Yet would I pray
- some spark of manhood such as once we knew
- were ours once more! I count him fortunate,
- and of illustrious soul beyond us all,
- who, rather than behold such things, has fallen
- face forward, dead, his teeth upon the dust.
- But if we still have power, and men-at-arms
- unwasted and unscathed, if there survive
- Italian tribes and towns for help in war,
- aye! if the Trojans have but won success
- at bloody cost,—for they dig graves, I ween,
- storm-smitten not less than we,—O, wherefore now
- stand faint and shameful on the battle's edge?
- Why quake our knees before the trumpet call?
- Time and the toil of shifting, changeful days
- restore lost causes; ebbing tides of chance
- deceive us oft, which after at their flood
- do lift us safe to shore. If aid come not
- from Diomed in Arpi, our allies
- shall be Mezentius and Tolumnius,
- auspicious name, and many a chieftain sent
- from many a tribe; not all inglorious
- are Latium's warriors from Laurentian land!
- Hither the noble Volscian stem sends down
- Camilla with her beauteous cavalry
- in glittering brass arrayed. But if, forsooth,
- the Trojans call me singly to the fight,
- if this be what ye will, and I so much
- the public weal impair—when from this sword
- has victory seemed to fly away in scorn?
- I should not hopeless tread in honor's way
- whate'er the venture. Dauntless will I go
- though equal match for great Achilles, he,
- and though he clothe him in celestial arms
- in 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 crave
- that challenge. Drances is not called to pay
- the 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 line
- moved forward. The ill tidings wildly sped
- from royal hall to hall, and filled the town
- with rumors dark: for now the Trojan host
- o'er the wide plains from Tiber's wave was spread
- in close array of war. The people's soul
- was vexed and shaken, and its martial rage
- rose to the stern compulsion. Now for arms
- their terror calls; the youthful soldiery
- clamor for arms; the sires of riper days
- weep or repress their tears. On every side
- loud shouts and cries of dissonant acclaim
- trouble the air, as when in lofty grove
- legions of birds alight, or by the flood
- of Padus' fishy stream the shrieking swans
- far 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 foe
- speeds 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 forth
- my Rutules also! O'er the spreading plain,
- ye brothers Coras and Messapus range
- our host of cavalry! Let others guard
- the city's gates and hold the walls and towers:
- I and my followers elsewhere oppose
- the shock of arms.” Now to and fro they run
- to 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 ask
- Trojan Aeneas for his daughter's Iord,
- and gain him for his kingdom's lasting friend.
- They dig them trenches at the gates, or lift
- burden of stakes and stones. The horn's harsh note
- sounds forth its murderous signal for the war;
- striplings and women, in a motley ring,
- defend the ramparts; the decisive hour
- lays tasks on all. Upon the citadel
- a train of matrons, with the doleful Queen,
- toward Pallas' temple moves, and in their hand
- are gifts and offerings. See, at their side
- the maid Lavinia, cause of all these tears,
- drops down her lovely eyes! The incense rolls
- in clouds above the altar; at the doors
- with 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 forth
- his evil blood beneath our lofty towers!”
- Fierce Turnus girds him, emulous to slay:
- a crimson coat of mail he wears, with scales
- of burnished bronze; beneath his knees are bound
- the golden greaves; upon his naked brow
- no helm he wears; but to his thigh is bound
- a glittering sword. Down from the citadel
- runs he, a golden glory, in his heart
- boldly exulting, while impatient hope
- fore-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 mane
- o'er neck and shoulder flies. Across his path
- Camilla with her Volscian escort came,
- and at the city-gate the royal maid
- down from her charger leaped; while all her band
- at 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 vow
- to meet yon squadrons of Aeneadae
- alone, and front me to the gathered charge
- of Tuscan cavalry. Let me alone
- the 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 gratitude
- can words or deeds repay? But since thy soul
- so large of stature shows, I bid thee share
- my burden and my war. Our spies bring news
- that now Aeneas with pernicious mind
- sends light-armed horse before him, to alarm
- the plains below, while through the wilderness
- he climbs the steep hills, and approaches so
- our leaguered town. But I in sheltered grove
- a stratagem prepare, and bid my men
- in ambush at a mountain cross-road lie.
- Meet thou the charge of Tuscan cavalry
- with all thy banners. For auxiliar strength
- take bold Messapus with his Latin troop
- and King Tiburtus' men: but the command
- shall be thy task and care.” He spoke, and urged
- with like instruction for the coming fray
- Messapus and his captains; then advanced
- to meet the foe. There is a winding vale
- for armed deception and insidious war
- well fashioned, and by interlacing leaves
- screened 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 retreat
- from whence on either hand to challenge war,
- or, standing on the ridges, to roll down
- huge mountain boulders. Thither Turnus fared,
- and, ranging the familiar tract, chose out
- his 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-day
- with sudden sweetness in Diana's breast:
- for long ago, when from his kingdom driven,
- for insolent and envied power, her sire
- King Metabus, from old Privernum's wall
- was taking flight amidst opposing foes,
- he bore a little daughter in his arms
- to 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, pressed
- the Volscian soldiery. Across his path,
- lo, Amasenus with full-foaming wave
- o'erflowed its banks—so huge a rain had burst
- but lately from the clouds. There would he fain
- swim over, but the love of that sweet babe
- restrained him, trembling for his burden dear.
- In his perplexed heart suddenly arose
- firm resolve. It chanced the warrior bore
- huge spear in his brawny hand, strong shaft
- of knotted, seasoned oak; to this he lashed
- his little daughter with a withe of bark
- pulled from a cork-tree, and with skilful bonds
- fast bound her to the spear; then, poising it
- high in his right hand, thus he called on Heaven:
- ‘Latona's daughter, whose benignant grace
- protects this grove, behold, her father now
- gives thee this babe for handmaid! Lo, thy spear
- her infant fingers hold, as from her foes
- she flies a suppliant to thee! Receive,
- O goddess, I implore, what now I cast
- upon the perilous air.’—He spoke, and hurled
- with lifted arm the whirling shaft. The waves
- roared loud, as on the whistling javelin
- hapless 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 nevermore
- could cities hold, nor would his wild heart yield
- its sylvan freedom, but his days were passed
- with shepherds on the solitary hills.
- His daughter too in tangled woods he bred:
- a brood-mare from the milk of her fierce breast
- suckled the child, and to its tender lips
- .Her udders moved; and when the infant feet
- their first firm steps had taken, the small palms
- were armed with a keen javelin; her sire
- a 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 hands
- she made her plaything of a whirling spear,
- or, swinging round her head the polished thong
- of her good sling, she fetched from distant sky
- Strymonian cranes or swans of spotless wing.
- From Tuscan towns proud matrons oft in vain
- sought her in marriage for their sons; but she
- to Dian only turned her stainless heart,
- her virgin freedom and her huntress' arms
- with faithful passion serving. Would that now
- this Iove of war had ne'er seduced her mind
- the Teucrians to provoke! So might she be
- one of our wood-nymphs still. But haste, I pray,
- for bitter is her now impending doom.
- Descend, dear nymph, from heaven, and explore
- the country of the Latins, where the fight
- with unpropitious omens now begins.
- These weapons take, and from this quiver draw
- a vengeful arrow, wherewith he who dares
- to wound her sacred body, though he be
- a Trojan or Italian, shall receive
- bloody and swift reward at my command.
- Then, in a cloud concealed, I will consign
- her corpse, ill-fated but inviolate
- unto the sepulchre, restoring so
- the virgin to her native land.” Thus spake
- the goddess; but her handmaid, gliding down,
- took her loud pathway on the moving winds,
- and mantled in dark storm her shape divine.