Aeneid

Virgil

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

‘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.

Meanwhile the Teucrian legions to the wall
draw near, with Tuscan lords and cavalry
in numbered troops arrayed. Loud-footed steeds
prance o'er the field, to manage of the rein
rebellious, 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 train
of the fair maid Camilla, form their lines
in the opposing field. Their poised right hands
point the long lances forward, and light shafts
are brandished in the air; the warrior hosts
on steeds of fire come kindling as they ride.
One instant, at a spear-throw's space, each line
its motion stays; then with one sudden cry
they rush forth, spurring on each frenzied steed.
From-every side the multitudinous spears
pour 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 twain
crash breast to breast, and like a thunderbolt
Aconteus drops, or like a ponderous stone
hurled from a catapult; full length he falls,
surrend'ring to the winds his fleeting soul.

Now all is panic: holding their light shields
behind their backs, the Latin horse wheel round,
retreating to the wall, the Trojan foe
in close pursuit. Asilas, chieftain proud,
led on th' assault. Hard by the city gates
the Latins wheeled once more and pressed the rein
strong on the yielding neck; the charging foe
took flight and hurried far with loose-flung rein.
'T was like the shock and onset of the sea
that landward hurls the alternating flood
and hides high cliffs in foam,—the tawny sands
upflinging as it rolls; then, suddenly
whirled backward on the reingulfing waves,
it quits the ledges, and with ebbing flow
far from the shore retires. The Tuscans twice
drive back the flying Rutules to the town;
and twice repulsed, with shields to rearward thrown,
glare back at the pursuer; but conjoined
in the third battle-charge, both armies merge
confusedly together in grim fight
of man to man; then follow dying groans,
armor blood-bathed and corpses, and strong steeds
inextricably with their masters slain,
so fierce the fray. Orsilochus—afraid
to front the warrior's arms—launched forth a spear
at Remulus' horse, and left the fatal steel
clinging below its ear; the charger plunged
madly, and tossed its trembling hoofs in air,
sustaining not the wound; the rider fell,
flung headlong to the ground. Catillus slew
Iollas; and then struck Herminius down,
great-bodied and great-hearted, who could wield
a monster weapon, and whose yellow hair
from naked head to naked shoulder flowed.
By wounds unterrified he dared oppose
his huge bulk to the foe: the quivering spear
pierced to his broad back, and with throes of pain
bowed 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 way
through many a wound to famous death and fair.

Swift through the midmost slaughter proudly strides
the quiver-girt Camilla, with one breast
thrust naked to the fight, like Amazon.
Oft from her hand her pliant shafts she rains,
or whirls with indefatigable arm
a doughty battle-axe; her shoulder bears
Diana's sounding arms and golden bow.
Sometimes retreating and to flight compelled,
the maiden with a rearward-pointing bow
shoots arrows as she flies. Around her move
her chosen peers, Larina, virgin brave,
Tarpeia, brandishing an axe of bronze,
and Tulla, virgins out of Italy
whom the divine Camilla chose to be
her glory, each a faithful servitress
in days of peace or war. The maids of Thrace
ride thus along Thermodon's frozen flood,
and fight with blazoned Amazonian arms
around Hippolyta; or when returns
Penthesilea in triumphal car
'mid acclamations shrill, and all her host
of women clash in air the moon-shaped shield.

What warrior first, whom last, did thy strong spear,
fierce virgin, earthward fling? Or what thy tale
of prostrate foes laid gasping on the ground?
Eunaeus first, the child of Clytius' Ioins,
whose bared breast, as he faced his foe, she pierced
with fir-tree javelin; from his lips outpoured
the blood-stream as he fell; and as he bit
the gory dust, he clutched his mortal wound.
Then Liris, and upon him Pagasus
she slew: the one clung closer to the reins
of his stabbed horse, and rolled off on the ground;
the other, flying to his fallen friend,
reached out a helpless hand; so both of these
fell on swift death together. Next in line
she smote Amastrus, son of Hippotas;
then, swift-pursuing, pierced with far-flung spear
Tereus, Harpalycus, Demophoon,
and Chromis; every shaft the virgin threw
laid low its Phrygian warrior. From afar
rode Ornytus on his Apulian steed,
bearing a hunter's uncouth arms; for cloak
he wore upon his shoulders broad a hide
from some wild bull stripped off; his helmet was
a wolf's great, gaping mouth, with either jaw
full 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 seized
and clove him through (his panic-stricken troop
gave her advantage), and with wrathful heart
she taunted thus the fallen: “Didst thou deem
this was a merry hunting in the wood
in chase of game? Behold, thy fatal day
befalls thee at a woman's hand, and thus
thy boasting answers. No small glory thou
unto the ghosts of thy dead sires wilt tell,
that 't was Camilla's javelin struck thee down.”

The turn of Butes and Orsilochus
came next, who were the Trojans, hugest twain:
yet Butes with her javelin-point she clove
from rearward, 'twixt the hauberk and the helm,
just where the horseman's neck showed white, and where
from shoulder leftward slung the light-weight shield.
From swift Orsilochus she feigned to fly,
through a wide circle sweeping, craftily
taking the inside track, pursuing so
her own pursuer; then she raised herself
to her full height, and through the warrior's helm
drove to his very skull with doubling blows
of her strong battle-axe,—while he implored
her mercy with loud prayers: his cloven brain
spilt o'er his face. Next in her pathway came—
but shrank in startled fear—the warrior son
of Aunus, haunter of the Apennine,
not least of the Ligurians ere his doom
cut short a life of lies. He, knowing well
no flight could save him from the shock of arms
nor turn the royal maid's attack, began
with 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 see
which one of us by windy boast achieves
a false renown.” He spoke; but she, to pangs
of keenest fury stung, gave o'er her steed
in charge of a companion, and opposed
her 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 off
full speed, with reins reversed,—his iron heel
goading his charger's flight. Camilla cried:
“Ligurian cheat! In vain thy boastful heart
puffs thee so large; in vain thou hast essayed
thy father's slippery ways; nor shall thy trick
bring thee to guileful Aunus safely home.”
Herewith on winged feet that virgin bold
flew past the war-horse, seized the streaming rein,
and, fronting him, took vengeance on her foe
in bloody strokes: with not less ease a hawk,
dark bird of omen, from his mountain crag
pursues on pinions strong a soaring dove
to distant cloud, and, clutching with hooked claws,
holds tight and rips,—while through celestial air
the torn, ensanguined plumage floats along.

But now not blindly from Olympian throne
the Sire of gods and men observant saw
how sped the day. Then to the conflict dire
the god thrust Tarchon forth, the Tyrrhene King,
goading the warrior's rage. So Tarchon rode
through slaughter wide and legions in retreat,
and roused the ranks with many a wrathful cry:
he called each man by name, and toward the foe
drove back the routed lines. “What terrors now,
Tuscan cowards, dead to noble rage,
have seized ye? or what laggard sloth and vile
unmans your hearts, that now a woman's arm
pursues ye and this scattered host confounds?
Why dressed in steel, or to what purpose wear
your futile swords? Not slackly do ye join
the ranks of Venus in a midnight war;
or when fantastic pipes of Bacchus call
your dancing feet, right venturesome ye fly
to banquets and the flowing wine—what zeal,
what ardor then! Or if your flattering priest
begins the revel, and to Iofty groves
fat flesh of victims bids ye haste away!”
So saying, his steed he spurred, and scorning death
dashed into the mid-fray, where, frenzy-driven,
he sought out Venulus, and, grappling him
with one hand, from the saddle snatched his foe,
and, clasping strongly to his giant breast,
exultant bore away. The shouting rose
to heaven, and all the Latins gazed his way,
as o'er the plain the fiery Tarchon flew
bearing the full-armed man; then, breaking off
the point of his own spear, he pried a way
through the seam'd armor for the mortal wound;
the other, struggling, thrust back from his throat
the griping hand, full force to force opposing.
As when a golden eagle high in air
knits to a victim—snake his clinging feet
and deeply-thrusting claws; but, coiling back,
the wounded serpent roughens his stiff scales
and stretches high his hissing head; whereat
the eagle with hooked beak the more doth rend
her writhing foe, and with swift stroke of wing
lashes the air: so Tarchon, from the ranks
of Tibur's sons, triumphant snatched his prey.
The Tuscans rallied now, well pleased to view
their king's example and successful war.
Then Arruns, marked for doom, made circling line
around Camilla's path, his crafty spear
seeking its lucky chance. Where'er the maid
sped furious to the battle, Arruns there
in silence dogged her footsteps and pursued;
or where triumphant from her fallen foes
she backward drew, the warrior stealthily
turned his swift reins that way: from every side
he circled her, and scanned his vantage here
or vantage there, his skilful javelin
stubbornly shaking. But it soon befell
that Chloreus, once a priest of Cybele,
shone forth in far-resplendent Phrygian arms,
and urged a foaming steed, which wore a robe
o'erwrought with feathery scales of bronze and gold;
while he, in purples of fine foreign stain,
bore light Gortynian shafts and Lycian bow;
his bow was gold; a golden casque he wore
upon his priestly brow; the saffron cloak,
all folds of rustling cambric, was enclasped
in glittering gold; his skirts and tunics gay
were broidered, and the oriental garb
swathed his whole leg. Him when the maiden spied,
(Perchance she fain on temple walls would hang
the Trojan prize, or in such captured gold
her own fair shape array), she gave mad chase,
and reckless through the ranks her prey pursued,
desiring, woman-like, the splendid spoil.
Then from his ambush Arruns seized at last
the fatal moment and let speed his shaft,
thus uttering his vow to heavenly powers:
“Chief of the gods, Apollo, who dost guard
Soracte's hallowed steep, whom we revere
first of thy worshippers, for thee is fed
the heap of burning pine; for thee we pass
through the mid-blaze in sacred zeal secure,
and deep in glowing embers plant our feet.
O Sire Omnipotent, may this my spear
our foul disgrace put by. I do not ask
for plunder, spoils, or trophies in my name,
when yonder virgin falls; let honor's crown
be mine for other deeds. But if my stroke
that curse and plague destroy, may I unpraised
safe to the cities of my sires return.”