Aeneid

Virgil

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

When Turnus marks how much the Latins quail
in adverse war, how on himself they call
to keep his pledge, and with indignant eyes
gaze all his way, fierce rage implacable
swells his high heart. As when on Libyan plain
a lion, gashed along his tawny breast
by the huntsman's grievous thrust, awakens him
unto his last grim fight, and gloriously
shaking the great thews of his maned neck,
shrinks not, but crushes the despoiler's spear
with blood-sprent, roaring mouth,—not less than so
burns the wild soul of Turnus and his ire.
Thus to the King he spoke with stormful brow:
“The war lags not for Turnus' sake. No cause
constrains the Teucrian cowards and their King
to eat their words and what they pledged refuse.
On his own terms I come. Bring forward, sire,
the sacrifice, and seal the pact I swear:
either to deepest hell this hand shall fling
yon Trojan runaway—the Latins all
may sit at ease and see!—and my sole sword
efface the general shame; or let him claim
the conquest, and Lavinia be his bride.”

To him Latinus with unruffled mind
thus made reply: “O youth surpassing brave!
The more thy sanguinary valor burns
beyond its wont, the more with toilsome care
I ponder with just fear what chance may fall,
weighing it well. Thy father Daunus' throne,
and many a city by thy sword subdued,
are still thy own. Latinus also boasts
much golden treasure and a liberal hand.
Other unwedded maids of noble stem
in Latium and Laurentine land are found.
Permit me, then, to tell thee without guile
things hard to utter; let them deeply fill
thy listening soul. My sacred duty 'twas
to plight my daughter's hand to nonesoe'er
of all her earlier wooers—so declared
the gods and oracles; but overcome
by love of thee, by thy dear, kindred blood,
and by the sad eyes of my mournful Queen,
I shattered every bond; I snatched away
the plighted maiden from her destined lord,
and took up impious arms. What evil case
upon that deed ensued, what hapless wars,
thou knowest, since thyself dost chiefly bear
the cruel burden. In wide-ranging fight
twice-conquered, our own city scarce upholds
the hope of Italy. Yon Tiber's wave
still runs warm with my people's blood; the plains
far round us glisten with their bleaching bones.
Why tell it o'er and o'er? What maddening dream
perverts my mind? If after Turnus slain
I must for friendship of the Trojan sue,
were it not better to suspend the fray
while Turnus lives? For what will be the word
of thy Rutulian kindred—yea, of all
Italia, if to death I give thee o'er—
(Which Heaven avert!) because thou fain wouldst win
my daughter and be sworn my friend and son?
Bethink thee what a dubious work is war;
have pity on thy father's reverend years,
who even now thy absence daily mourns
in Ardea, his native land and thine.”
But to this pleading Turnus' frenzied soul
yields not at all, but rather blazes forth
more wildly, and his fever fiercer burns
beneath the healer's hand. In answer he,
soon as his passion gathered voice, began:
“This keen solicitude for love of me,
I pray, good sire, for love of me put by!
And let me traffic in the just exchange
of death for glory. This right hand, O King,
can scatter shafts not few, nor do I wield
untempered steel. Whene'er I make a wound
blood follows. For my foeman when we meet
will find no goddess-mother near, with hand
to hide him in her woman's skirt of cloud,
herself in dim, deluding shade concealed.”

But now the Queen, whose whole heart shrank in fear
from these new terms of duel, wept aloud,
and like one dying clasped her fiery son:
“O Turnus, by these tears-if in thy heart
thou honorest Amata still—O thou
who art of our distressful, dark old age
the only hope and peace, the kingly name
and glory of Latinus rests in thee;
thou art the mighty prop whereon is stayed
our falling house. One favor I implore:
give o'er this fight with Trojans. In such strife
thy destined doom is destined to be mine
by the same fatal stroke. For in that hour
this hated life shall cease, nor will I look
with slave's eyes on Aeneas as my son.”
Lavinia heard her mother's voice, and tears
o'erflowed her scarlet cheek, where blushes spread
like flame along her warm, young face and brow:
as when the Indian ivory must wear
ensanguined crimson stain, or lilies pale
mingled with roses seem to blush, such hues
her virgin features bore; and love's desire
disturbed his breast, as, gazing on the maid,
his martial passion fiercer flamed; whereon
in brief speech he addressed the Queen: “No tears!
No evil omen, mother, I implore!
Make me no sad farewells, as I depart
to the grim war-god's game! Can Turnus' hand
delay death's necessary coming? Go,
Idmon, my herald, to the Phrygian King,
and tell him this—a word not framed to please:
soon as Aurora from her crimson car
flushes to-morrow's sky, let him no more
against the Rutule lead the Teucrian line;
let Teucrian swords and Rutule take repose,
while with our own spilt blood we twain will make
an end of war; on yonder mortal field
let each man woo Lavinia for his bride.”

So saying, he hied him to his lordly halls,
summoned his steeds, and with pleased eye surveyed
their action proud: them Orithyia, bride
of Boreas, to Sire Pilumnus gave,
which in their whiteness did surpass the snow
in speed the wind. The nimble charioteers
stood by and smote with hollowed hand and palm
the sounding chests, or combed the necks and manes.
But he upon his kingly shoulders clasped
his corselet, thick o'erlaid with blazoned gold
and silvery orichalch; he fitted him
with falchion, shield, and helm of purple plume,
that falchion which the Lord of Fire had made
for Daunus, tempering in the Stygian wave
when white it glowed; next grasped he the good spear
which leaned its weight against a column tall
in the mid-court, Auruncan Actor's spoil,
and waved it wide in air with mighty cry:
“O spear, that ne'er did fail me when I called,
the hour is come! Once mighty Actor's hand,
but now the hand of Turnus is thy lord.
Grant me to strike that carcase to the ground,
and with strong hand the corselet rip and rend
from off that Phrygian eunuch: let the dust
befoul those tresses, tricked to curl so fine
with singeing steel and sleeked with odorous oil.”
Such frenzy goads him: his impassioned brow
is all on flame, the wild eyes flash with fire.
Thus, bellowing loud before the fearful fray,
some huge bull proves the fury of his horns,
pushing against a tree-trunk; his swift thrusts
would tear the winds in pieces; while his hoofs
toss up the turf and sand, rehearsing war.

That self-same day with aspect terrible
Aeneas girt him in the wondrous arms
his mother gave; made sharp his martial steel,
and roused his heart to ire; though glad was he
to seal such truce and end the general war.
Then he spoke comfort to his friends; and soothed
Iulus' fear, unfolding Heaven's intent;
but on Latinus bade his heralds lay
unyielding terms and laws of peace impose.