Aeneid
Virgil
Vergil. The Aeneid of Virgil. Williams, Theodore, C, translator. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1910.
- 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.”
- Apollo heard and granted half the prayer,
- but half upon the passing breeze he threw:
- granting his votary he should confound
- Camilla by swift death; but 't was denied
- the mountain-fatherland once more to see,
- or safe return,—that prayer th' impetuous winds
- swept stormfully away. Soon as the spear
- whizzed from his hand, straight-speeding on the air,
- the Volscians all turned eager thought and eyes
- toward their Queen. She only did not heed
- that windy roar, nor weapon dropped from heaven,
- till in her bare, protruded breast the spear
- drank, deeply driven, of her virgin blood.
- Her terror-struck companians swiftly throng
- around her, and uplift their sinking Queen.
- But Arruns, panic-stricken more than all,
- makes off, half terror and half joy, nor dares
- hazard his lance again, nor dares oppose
- a virgin's arms. As creeps back to the hills
- in pathless covert ere his foes pursue,
- from shepherd slain or mighty bull laid low,
- some wolf, who, now of his bold trespass ware,
- curls close against his paunch a quivering tail
- and to the forest tries: so Arruns speeds
- from sight of men in terror, glad to fly,
- and hides him in the crowd. But his keen spear
- dying Camilla from her bosom drew,
- though the fixed barb of deeply-wounding steel
- clung to the rib. She sank to earth undone,
- her cold eyes closed in death, and from her cheeks
- the roses fled. With failing breath she called
- on Acca—who of all her maiden peers
- was chiefly dear and shared her heart's whole pain—
- and thus she spoke: “O Acca, sister mine,
- I have been strong till now. The cruel wound
- consumes me, and my world is growing dark.
- Haste thee to Turnus! Tell my dying words!
- 'T is he must bear the battle and hold back
- the Trojan from our city wall. Farewell!”
- So saying, her fingers from the bridle-rein
- unclasped, and helpless to the earth she fell;
- then, colder grown, she loosed her more and more
- out of the body's coil; she gave to death
- her neck, her drooping head, and ceased to heed
- her war-array. So fled her spirit forth
- with wrath and moaning to the world below.
- Then clamor infinite uprose and smote
- the golden stars, as round Camilla slain
- the battle newly raged. To swifter charge
- the gathered Trojans ran, with Tuscan lords
- and King Evander's troops of Arcady.
- Fair Opis, keeping guard for Trivia
- in patient sentry on a lofty hill, beheld
- unterrified the conflict's rage. Yet when,
- amid the frenzied shouts of soldiery,
- she saw from far Camilla pay the doom
- of piteous death, with deep-drawn voice of sight
- she thus complained: “O virgin, woe is me!
- Too much, too much, this agony of thine,
- to expiate that thou didst lift thy spear
- for wounding Troy. It was no shield in war,
- nor any vantage to have kept thy vow
- to chaste Diana in the thorny wild.
- Our maiden arrows at thy shoulder slung
- availed thee not! Yet will our Queen divine
- not leave unhonored this thy dying day,
- nor shall thy people let thy death remain
- a thing forgot, nor thy bright name appear
- a glory unavenged. Whoe'er he be
- that marred thy body with the mortal wound
- shall die as he deserves.” Beneath that hill
- an earth-built mound uprose, the tomb
- of King Dercennus, a Laurentine old,
- by sombre ilex shaded: thither hied
- the fair nymph at full speed, and from the mound
- looked round for Arruns. When his shape she saw
- in glittering armor vainly insolent,
- “Whither so fast?” she cried. “This way, thy path!
- This fatal way approach, and here receive
- thy reward for Camilla! Thou shalt fall,
- vile though thou art, by Dian's shaft divine.”
- She said; and one swift-coursing arrow took
- from golden quiver, like a maid of Thrace,
- and stretched it on her bow with hostile aim,
- withdrawing far, till both the tips of horn
- together bent, and, both hands poising well,
- the left outreached to touch the barb of steel,
- the right to her soft breast the bowstring drew:
- the hissing of the shaft, the sounding air,
- Arruns one moment heard, as to his flesh
- the iron point clung fast. But his last groan
- his comrades heeded not, and let him lie,
- scorned and forgotten, on the dusty field,
- while Opis soared to bright Olympian air.
- Camilla's light-armed troop, its virgin chief
- now fallen, were the first to fly; in flight
- the panic-stricken Rutule host is seen
- and Acer bold; his captains in dismay
- with shattered legions from the peril fly,
- and goad their horses to the city wall.
- Not one sustains the Trojan charge, or stands
- in arms against the swift approach of death.
- Their bows unstrung from drooping shoulder fall,
- and clatter of hoof-beats shakes the crumbling ground.
- On to the city in a blinding cloud
- the dust uprolls. From watch-towers Iooking forth,
- the women smite their breasts and raise to heaven
- shrill shouts of fear. Those fliers who first passed
- the open gates were followed by the foe,
- routed and overwhelmed. They could not fly
- a miserable death, but were struck down
- in their own ancient city, or expired
- before the peaceful shrines of hearth and home.
- Then some one barred the gates. They dared not now
- give their own people entrance, and were deaf
- to all entreaty. Woeful deaths ensued,
- both of the armed defenders of the gate,
- and of the foe in arms. The desperate band,
- barred from the city in the face and eyes
- of their own weeping parents, either dropped
- with headlong and inevitable plunge
- into the moat below; or, frantic, blind,
- battered with beams against the stubborn door
- and columns strong. Above in conflict wild
- even the women (who for faithful love
- of home and country schooled them to be brave
- Camilla's way) rained weapons from the walls,
- and used oak-staves and truncheons shaped in flame,
- as if, well-armed in steel, each bosom bold
- would fain in such defence be first to die.
- Meanwhile th' unpitying messenger had flown
- to Turnus in the wood; the warrior heard
- from Acca of the wide confusion spread,
- the Volscian troop destroyed, Camilla slain,
- the furious foe increasing, and, with Mars
- to help him, grasping all, till in that hour
- far as the city-gates the panic reigned.
- Then he in desperate rage (Jove's cruel power
- decreed it) from the ambushed hills withdrew
- and pathless wild. He scarce had passed beyond
- to the bare plain, when forth Aeneas marched
- along the wide ravine, climbed up the ridge,
- and from the dark, deceiving grove stood clear.
- Then swiftly each with following ranks of war
- moved to the city-wall, nor wide the space
- that measured 'twixt the twain. Aeneas saw
- the plain with dust o'erclouded, and the lines
- of the Laurentian host extending far;
- Turnus, as clearly, saw the war array
- of dread Aeneas, and his ear perceived
- loud tramp of mail-clad men and snorting steeds.
- Soon had they sped to dreadful shock of arms,
- hazard of war to try; but Phoebus now,
- glowing rose-red, had dipped his wearied wheel
- deep in Iberian seas, and brought back night
- above the fading day. So near the town
- both pitch their camps and make their ramparts strong.