Aeneid

Virgil

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

Then good Aeneas, his sword drawn, put forth
this votive prayer: “O Sun in heaven; and thou,
Italia, for whom such toils I bear,
be witness of my orison. On thee,
Father omnipotent, I call; on thee,
his Queen Saturnia,—now may she be
more gracious to my prayer! O glorious Mars,
beneath whose godhead and paternity
all wars begin and end, on thee I call;
hail, all ye river-gods and haunted springs;
hail, whatsoever gods have seat of awe
in yonder distant sky, and ye whose power
is in the keeping of the deep, blue sea:
if victory to Ausonian Turnus fall,
then let my vanquished people take its way
unto Evander's city! From these plains
Iulus shall retire—so stands the bond;
nor shall the Trojans with rebellious sword
bring after-trouble on this land and King.
But if on arms of ours success shall shine,
as I doubt not it shall (may gods on high
their will confirm!), I purpose not to chain
Italian captive unto Teucrian lord,
nor seek I kingly power. Let equal laws
unite in federation without end
the two unconquered nations; both shall share
my worshipped gods. Latinus, as my sire,
shall keep his sword, and as my sire receive
inviolable power. The Teucrians
shall build my stronghold, but our citadel
shall bear forevermore Lavinia's name.”

Aeneas thus: then with uplifted eyes
Latinus swore, his right hand raised to heaven:
“I too, Aeneas, take the sacred vow.
By earth and sea and stars in heaven I swear,
by fair Latona's radiant children twain,
and two-browed Janus; by the shadowy powers
of Hades and th' inexorable shrines
of the Infernal King; and may Jove hear,
who by his lightnings hallows what is sworn!
I touch these altars, and my lips invoke
the sacred altar-fires that 'twixt us burn:
we men of Italy will make this peace
inviolate, and its bond forever keep,
let come what will; there is no power can change
my purpose, not if ocean's waves o'erwhelm
the world in billowy deluge and obscure
the bounds of heaven and hell. We shall remain
immutable as my smooth sceptre is“
(By chance a sceptre in his hand he bore),
“which wears no more light leaf or branching shade;
for long since in the grove 't was plucked away
from parent stem, and yielded to sharp steel
its leaves and limbs; erewhile 't was but a tree,
till the wise craftsman with fair sheath of bronze
encircled it and laid it in the hands
of Latium's royal sires.” With words like these
they swore the bond, in the beholding eyes
of gathered princes. Then they slit the throats
of hallowed victims o'er the altar's blaze,
drew forth the quivering vitals, and with flesh
on loaded chargers heaped the sacrifice.

But to Rutulian eyes th' approaching joust
seemed all ill-matched; and shifting hopes and fears
disturbed their hearts the closer they surveyed
th' unequal risks: still worse it was to see
how Turnus, silent and with downcast eyes,
dejectedly drew near the place of prayer,
worn, pale, and wasted in his youthful bloom.
The nymph Juturna, with a sister's fear,
noted the growing murmur, and perceived
how all the people's will did shift and change;
she went from rank to rank, feigning the shape
of Camers, scion of illustrious line,
with heritage of valor, and himself
dauntless in war; unceasingly she ran
from rank to rank, spreading with skilful tongue
opinions manifold, and thus she spoke:
“Will ye not blush, Rutulians, so to stake
one life for many heroes? Are we not
their match in might and numbers? O, behold
those Trojan sons of Heaven making league
with exiled Arcady; see Tuscan hordes
storming at Turnus. Yet we scarce could find
one foe apiece, forsooth, if we should dare
fight them with half our warriors. Of a truth
your champion brave shall to those gods ascend
before whose altars his great heart he vows;
and lips of men while yet on earth he stays
will spread his glory far. Ourselves, instead,
must crouch to haughty masters, and resign
this fatherland upon whose fruitful fields
we dwell at ease.” So speaking, she inflamed
the warriors' minds, and through the legions ran
increasing whisper; the Laurentine host
and even Latium wavered. Those who late
prayed but for rest and safety, clamored loud
for arms, desired annulment of the league,
and pitied Turnus' miserable doom.
Whereon Juturna tried a mightier stroke,
a sign from heaven, which more than all beside
confused the Latins and deceived their hearts
with prodigy. For through the flaming skies
Jove's golden eagle swooped, and scattered far
a clamorous tribe of river-haunting birds;
then, swiftly to the waters falling, seized
one noble swan, which with keen, curving claws
he ruthless bore away: th' Italians all
watched eagerly, while the loud-screaming flock
wheeled upward (wondrous sight!), with host of wings
shadowed the sky, and in a legion-cloud
chased through the air the foe; till, overborne
by heavier odds, the eagle from his claws
flung back his victim to the waves, and fled
to the dim, distant heaven. The Rutules then
hailed the good omen with consenting cry,
and grasped the sword and shield. Tolumnius
the augur spake first: “Lo, the sign I sought
with many a prayer! I welcome and obey
the powers divine. Take me for captain, me!
And draw your swords, ye wretches, whom th' assault
of yonder foreign scoundrel puts in fear
like feeble birds, and with his violence
lays waste your shore. He too shall fly away,
spreading his ships' wings on the distant seas.
Close up your ranks—one soul in all our breasts!
Defend in open war your stolen King.”
So saying, he hurled upon th' opposing foe
his javelin, running forward. The strong shaft
of corner whistled shrill, and clove the air
unerring. Instantly vast clamor rose,
and all th' onlookers at the spectacle
leaped up amazed, and every heart beat high.
The spear sped flying to the foeman's line,
where stood nine goodly brethren, pledges all
of one true Tuscan mother to her lord,
Gylippus of Arcadia; it struck full
on one of these at his gold-belted waist,
and where the clasp clung, pierced the rib clean through.
And stretched the fair youth in his glittering arms
full length and lifeless on the yellow sand.
His brothers then, bold band to wrath aroused
by sorrow, seize the sword or snatch the spear
and blindly charge. Opposing them, the host
Laurentine makes advance, and close-arrayed
the Trojans like a torrent pour, enforced
by Tuscans and the gay-accoutred clans
of Arcady. One passion moved in all
to try the judgment of the sword. They tore
the altars down: a very storm of spears
rose angrily to heaven, in iron rain
down-pouring: while the priests bore far away
the sacrificial bowls and sacred fires.
Even Latinus fled; his stricken gods
far from his violated oath he bore.

Some leaped to horse or chariot and rode
with naked swords in air. Messapus, wild
to break the truce, assailed the Tuscan King,
Aulestes, dressed in kingly blazon fair,
with fearful shock of steeds; the Tuscan dropped
helplessly backward, striking as he fell
his head and shoulders on the altar-stone
that lay behind him. But Messapus flew,
infuriate, a javelin in his hand,
and, towering o'er the suppliant, smote him strong
with the great beam-like spear, and loudly cried:
“Down with him! Ah! no common victim he
to give the mighty gods!” Italia's men
despoiled the dead man ere his limbs were cold.
Then Corynaeus snatched a burning brand
out of the altar, and as Ebysus
came toward him for to strike, he hurled the flame
full in his face: the big beard quickly blazed
with smell of singeing; while the warrior bold
strode over him, and seized with firm left hand
his quailing foe's Iong hair; then with one knee
he pushed and strained, compelled him to the `ground—
and struck straight at his heart with naked steel.
The shepherd Alsus in the foremost line
came leaping through the spears; when o'er him towered
huge Podalirius with a flashing sword
in close pursuit; the mighty battle-axe
clove him with swinging stroke from brow to chin,
and spilt along his mail the streaming gore:
so stern repose and iron slumber fell
upon that shepherd's eyes, and sealed their gaze
in endless night. But good Aeneas now
stretched forth his unarmed hand, and all unhelmed
thus Ioudly to his people called: “What means
this frantic stir, this quarrel rashly bold?
Recall your martial rage! The pledge is given
and all its terms agreed. 'T is only I
do lawful battle here. So let me forth,
and tremble not. My own hand shall confirm
the solemn treaty. For these rites consign
Turnus to none but me.” Yet while he spoke,
behold, a winged arrow, hissing loud,
the hero pierced; but what bold hand impelled
its whirling speed, none knew; nor if it were
chance or some power divine that brought this fame
upon Rutulia; for the glorious deed
was covered o'er with silence: none would boast
an arrow guilty of Aeneas' wound.
When Turnus saw Aeneas from the line
retreating, and the captains in dismay,
with sudden hope he burned: he called for steeds,
for arms, and, leaping to his chariot,
rode insolently forth, the reins in hand.
Many strong heroes he dispatched to die,
as on he flew, and many stretched half-dead,
or from his chariot striking, or from far
raining his javelins on the recreant foe.
As Mars, forth-speeding by the wintry stream
of Hebrus, smites his sanguinary shield
and whips the swift steeds to the front of war,
who, flying past the winds of eve and morn,
scour the wide champaign; the bounds of Thrace
beneath their hoof-beats thunder; the dark shapes
of Terror, Wrath, and Treachery move on
in escort of the god: in such grim guise
bold Turnus lashed into the fiercest fray
his streaming steeds, that pitiful to see
trod down the slaughtered foe; each flying hoof
scattered a bloody dew; their path was laid
in mingled blood and sand. To death he flung
Pholus and Sthenelus and Thamyris:
two smitten in close fight and one from far:
also from far he smote with fatal spear
Glaucus and Lades, the Imbrasidae,
whom Imbrasus himself in Lycia bred,
and honored them with arms of equal skill
when grappling with a foe, or o'er the field
speeding a war-horse faster than the wind.

Elsewhere Eumedes through a throng of foes
to battle rode, the high-born Dolon's child,
famous in war, who bore his grandsire's name,
but seemed in might and courage like his sire:
that prince, who reconnoitring crept so near
the Argive camp, he dared to claim for spoil
the chariot of Achilles; but that day
great Diomed for such audacious deed
paid wages otherwise,—and he no more
dreamed to possess the steeds of Peleus' son.
When Turnus recognized in open field
this warrior, though far, he aimed and flung
his javelin through the spacious air; then stayed
his coursers twain, and, leaping from his car,
found the wretch helpless fallen; so planted he
his foot upon his neck, and from his hand
wrested the sword and thrust it glittering
deep in the throat, thus taunting as he slew:
“There's land for thee, thou Trojan! Measure there
th' Hesperian provinces thy sword would find.
Such reward will I give to all who dare
draw steel on me; such cities they shall build.”
To bear him company his spear laid low
Asbutes, Sybaris, Thersilochus,
Chloreus and Dares, and Thymoetes thrown
sheer off the shoulders of his balking steed.
As when from Thrace the north wind thunders down
the vast Aegean, flinging the swift flood
against the shore, and where his blasts assail
the cloudy cohorts vanish out of heaven:
so before Turnus, where his path he clove,
the lines fell back, the wheeling legions fled.
The warrior's own wild impulse swept him on,
and every wind that o'er his chariot blew
shook out his plume in air. But such advance
so bold, so furious, Phegeus could not brook,
but, fronting the swift chariot's path, he seized
the foam-flecked bridles of its coursers wild,
while from the yoke his body trailed and swung;
the broad lance found his naked side, and tore
his double corselet, pricking lightly through
the outer flesh; but he with lifted shield
still fought his foe and thrust with falchion bare;
but the fierce pace of whirling wheel and pole
flung him down prone, and stretched him on the plain.
Then Turnus, aiming with relentless sword
between the corselet's edge and helmet's rim
struck off his whole head, leaving on the sands
the mutilated corpse. While thus afield
victorious Turnus dealt out death and doom,
Mnestheus, Achates true, and by their side
Ascanius, have carried to the camp
Aeneas, gashed and bleeding, whose long lance
sustained his limping step. With fruitless rage
he struggled with the spear-head's splintered barb,
and bade them help him by the swiftest way
to carve the wound out with a sword, to rip
the clinging weapon forth, and send him back
to meet the battle. Quickly to his side
came Iapyx, dear favorite and friend
of Phoebus, upon whom the god bestowed
his own wise craft and power, Iove-impelled.
The gifts of augury were given, and song,
with arrows of swift wing: he when his sire
was carried forth to die, deferred the doom
for many a day, by herbs of virtue known
to leechcraft; and without reward or praise
his silent art he plied. Aeneas stood,
bitterly grieving, propped upon his spear;
a throng of warriors were near him, and
Iulus, sorrowing. The aged man
gathered his garments up as leeches do,
and with skilled hand and Phoebus' herbs of power
bustled in vain; in vain his surgery
pried at the shaft, and with a forceps strong
seized on the buried barb. But Fortune gave
no remedy, nor did Apollo aid
his votary. So more and more grim fear
stalks o'er the field of war, and nearer hies
the fatal hour; the very heavens are dust;
the horsemen charge, and in the midmost camp
a rain of javelins pours. The dismal cry
of men in fierce fight, and of men who fall
beneath relentless Mars, rends all the air.

Then Venus, by her offspring's guiltless woe
sore moved, did cull from Cretan Ida's crest
some dittany, with downy leaf and stem
and flowers of purple bloom—a simple known
to mountain goats, when to their haunches clings
an arrow gone astray. This Venus brought,
mantling her shape in cloud; and this she steeped
in bowls of glass, infusing secretly
ambrosia's healing essence and sweet drops
of fragrant panacea. Such a balm
aged Iapyx poured upon the wound,
though unaware; and sudden from the flesh
all pain departed and the blood was staunched,
while from the gash the arrow uncompelled
followed the hand and dropped: his wonted strength
flowed freshly through the hero's frame. “Make haste!
Bring forth his arms! Why tarry any more?”
Iapyx shouted, being first to fire
their courage 'gainst the foe. “This thing is done
not of man's knowledge, nor by sovereign skill;
nor has my hand, Aeneas, set thee free.
Some mighty god thy vigor gives again
for mighty deeds.” Aeneas now put on,
all fever for the fight, his golden greaves,
and, brooking not delay, waved wide his spear.
Soon as the corselet and the shield were bound
on back and side, he clasped Ascanius
to his mailed breast, and through his helmet grim
tenderly kissed his son. “My boy", he cried,
“What valor is and patient, genuine toil
learn thou of me; let others guide thy feet
to prosperous fortune. Let this hand and sword
defend thee through the war and lead thee on
to high rewards. Thou also play the man!
And when thy riper vigor soon shall bloom,
forget not in thy heart to ponder well
the story of our line. Heed honor's call,
like Sire Aeneas and Hector thy close kin.”

After such farewell word, he from the gates
in mighty stature strode, and swung on high
his giant spear. With him in serried line
Antheus and Mnestheus moved, and all the host
from the forsaken fortress poured. The plain
was darkened with their dust; the startled earth
shook where their footing fell. From distant hill
Turnus beheld them coming, and the eyes
of all Ausonia saw: a chill of fear
shot through each soldier's marrow; in their van
Juturna knew full well the dreadful sound,
and fled before it, shuddering. But he
hurried his murky cohorts o'er the plain.
As when a tempest from the riven sky
drives landward o'er mid-ocean, and from far
the hearts of husbandmen, foreboding woe,
quake ruefully,—for this will come and rend
their trees asunder, kill the harvests all,
and sow destruction broadcast; in its path
fly roaring winds, swift heralds of the storm:
such dire approach the Trojan chieftain showed
before his gathered foes. In close array
they wedge their ranks about him. With a sword
Thymbraeus cuts huge-limbed Osiris down;
Mnestheus, Arcetius; from Epulo
Achates shears the head; from Ufens, Gyas;
Tolumnius the augur falls, the same
who flung the first spear to the foeman's line.
Uprose to heaven the cries. In panic now
the Rutules in retreating clouds of dust
scattered across the plain. Aeneas scorned
either the recreant or resisting foe
to slaughter, or the men who shoot from far:
for through the war-cloud he but seeks the arms
of Turnus, and to single combat calls.

The warrior-maid Juturna, seeing this,
distraught with terror, strikes down from his place
Metiscus, Turnus' charioteer, who dropped
forward among the reins and off the pole.
Him leaving on the field, her own hand grasped
the loosely waving reins, while she took on
Metiscus' shape, his voice, and blazoned arms.
As when through some rich master's spacious halls
speeds the black swallow on her lightsome wing,
exploring the high roof, or harvesting
some scanty morsel for her twittering brood,
round empty corridors or garden-pools
noisily flitting: so Juturna roams
among the hostile ranks, and wings her way
behind the swift steeds of the whirling car.
At divers points she lets the people see
her brother's glory, but not yet allows
the final tug of war; her pathless flight
keeps far away. Aeneas too must take
a course circuitous, and follows close
his foeman's track; Ioud o'er the scattered lines
he shouts his challenge. But whene'er his eyes
discern the foe, and fain he would confront
the flying-footed steeds, Juturna veers
the chariot round and flies. What can he do?
Aeneas' wrath storms vainly to and fro,
and wavering purposes his heart divide.
Against him lightly leaped Messapus forth,
bearing two pliant javelins tipped with steel;
and, whirling one in air, he aimed it well,
with stroke unfailing. Great Aeneas paused
in cover of his shield and crouched low down
upon his haunches. But the driven spear
battered his helmet's peak and plucked away
the margin of his plume. Then burst his rage:
his cunning foes had forced him; so at last,
while steeds and chariot in the distance fly,
he plunged him in the fray, and called on Jove
the altars of that broken oath to see.
Now by the war-god's favor he began
grim, never-pitying slaughter, and flung free
the bridle of his rage.

What voice divine
such horror can make known? What song declare
the bloodshed manifold, the princes slain,
or flying o'er the field from Turnus' blade,
or from the Trojan King? Did Jove ordain
so vast a shock of arms should interpose
'twixt nations destined to perpetual bond?
Aeneas met the Rutule Sucro—thus
staying the Trojan charge—and with swift blow
struck at him sidewise, where the way of death
is quickest, cleaving ribs and rounded side
with reeking sword. Turnus met Amycus,
unhorsed him, though himself afoot, and slew
Diores, his fair brother (one was pierced
fronting the spear, the other felled to earth
by strike of sword), and both their severed heads
he hung all dripping to his chariot's rim.
But Talon, Tanais, and Cethegus brave,
three in one onset, unto death went down
at great Aeneas' hand; and he dispatched
ill-starred Onites of Echion's line,
fair Peridia's child. Then Turnus slew
two Lycian brothers unto Phoebus dear,
and young Menoetes, an Arcadian,
who hated war (though vainly) when he plied
his native fisher-craft in Lerna's streams,
where from his mean abode he ne'er went forth
to wait at great men's doors, but with his sire
reaped the scant harvest of a rented glebe.
as from two sides two conflagrations sweep
dry woodlands or full copse of crackling bay,
or as, swift-leaping from the mountain-vales,
two flooded, foaming rivers seaward roar,
each on its path of death, not less uproused,
speed Turnus and Aeneas o'er the field;
now storms their martial rage; now fiercely swells
either indomitable heart; and now
each hero's full strength to the slaughter moves.

Behold Murranus, boasting his high birth
from far-descended sires of storied name,
the line of Latium's kings! Aeneas now
with mountain-boulder lays him low in dust,
smitten with whirlwind of the monster stone;
and o'er him fallen under yoke and rein
roll his own chariot wheels, while with swift tread
the mad hoofs of his horses stamp him down,
not knowing him their lord. But Turnus found
proud Hyllus fronting him with frantic rage,
and at his golden helmet launched the shaft
that pierced it; in his cloven brain it clung.
Nor could thy sword, O Cretheus, save thee then
from Turnus, though of bravest Greeks the peer;
nor did Cupencus' gods their priest defend
against Aeneas, but his breast he gave
unto the hostile blade; his brazen shield
delayed no whit his miserable doom.
Thee also, Aeolus, Laurentum saw
spread thy huge body dying on the ground;
yea, dying, thou whom Greeks in serried arms
subdued not, nor Achilles' hand that hurled
the throne of Priam down: here didst thou touch
thy goal of death; one stately house was thine
on Ida's mountain, at Lyrnessus, one;
Laurentum's hallowed earth was but thy grave.
Now the whole host contends; all Latium meets
all Ilium; Mnestheus and Serestus bold;
Messapus, the steed-breaker, and high-soured
Asilas; Tuscans in a phalanx proud;
Arcadian riders of Evander's train:
each warrior lifts him to his height supreme
of might and skill; no sloth nor lingering now,
but in one far-spread conflict all contend.

His goddess-mother in Aeneas' mind
now stirred the purpose to make sudden way
against the city-wall, in swift advance
of all his line, confounding Latium so
with slaughter and surprise. His roving glance,
seeking for Turnus through the scattered lines
this way and that, beholds in distant view
the city yet unscathed and calmly free
from the wide-raging fight. Then on his soul
rushed the swift vision of a mightier war.
Mnestheus, Sergestus, and Serestus brave,
his chosen chiefs, he summons to his side,
and stands upon a hillock, whither throng
the Teucrian legions, each man holding fast
his shield and spear. He, towering high,
thus from the rampart to his people calls:
“Perform my bidding swiftly: Jove's own hand
sustains our power. Be ye not slack, because
the thing I do is sudden. For this day
I will pluck out th' offending root of war,—
yon city where Latinus reigns. Unless
it bear our yoke and heed a conqueror's will,
will lay low in dust its blazing towers.
Must I wait Turnus' pleasure, till he deign
to meet my stroke, and have a mind once more,
though vanquished, to show fight? My countrymen,
see yonder stronghold of their impious war!
Bring flames; avenge the broken oath with fire!”
Scarce had he said, when with consenting souls,
they speed them to the walls in dense array,
forming a wedge. Ladders now leap in air,
and sudden-blazing fires. In various war
some troops run charging at the city-gates,
and slay the guards; some fling the whirling spear
and darken heaven with arrows. In their van,
his right hand lifted to the wails and towers,
Aeneas, calling on the gods to hear,
loudly upbraids Latinus that once more
conflict is thrust upon him; that once more
Italians are his foes and violate
their second pledge of peace. So blazes forth
dissension 'twixt the frighted citizens:
some would give o'er the city and fling wide
its portals to the Trojan, or drag forth
the King himself to parley; others fly
to arms, and at the rampart make a stand.
'T is thus some shepherd from a caverned crag
stirs up the nested bees with plenteous fume
of bitter smoke; they, posting to and fro,
fly desperate round the waxen citadel,
and whet their buzzing fury; through their halls
the stench and blackness rolls; within the caves
noise and confusion ring; the fatal cloud
pours forth incessant on the vacant air.

But now a new adversity befell
the weary Latins, which with common woe
shook the whole city to its heart. The Queen,
when at her hearth she saw the close assault
of enemies, the walls beset, and fire
spreading from roof to roof, but no defence
from the Rutulian arms, nor front of war
with Turnus leading,—she, poor soul, believed
her youthful champion in the conflict slain;
and, mad with sudden sorrow, shrieked aloud
against herself, the guilty chief and cause
of all this ill; and, babbling her wild woe
in endless words, she rent her purple pall,
and with her own hand from the rafter swung
a noose for her foul death. The tidings dire
among the moaning wives of Latium spread,
and young Lavinia's frantic fingers tore
her rose-red cheek and hyacinthine hair.
Then all her company of women shrieked
in anguish, and the wailing echoed far
along the royal seat; from whence the tale
of sorrow through the peopled city flew;
hearts sank; Latinus rent his robes, appalled
to see his consort's doom, his falling throne;
and heaped foul dust upon his hoary hair.

Meanwhile the warrior Turnus far afield
pursued a scattered few; but less his speed,
for less and less his worn steeds worked his will;
and now wind-wafted to his straining ear
a nameless horror came, a dull, wild roar,
the city's tumult and distressful cry.
“Alack,” he cried, “what stirs in yonder walls
such anguish? Or why rings from side to side
such wailing through the city?” Asking so,
he tightened frantic grasp upon the rein.
To him his sister, counterfeiting still
the charioteer Metiscus, while she swayed
rein, steeds, and chariot, this answer made:
“Hither, my Turnus, let our arms pursue
the sons of Troy. Here lies the nearest way
to speedy triumph. There be other swords
to keep yon city safe. Aeneas now
storms against Italy in active war;
we also on this Trojan host may hurl
grim havoc. Nor shalt thou the strife give o'er
in glory second, nor in tale of slain.”
Turnus replied, “O sister, Iong ago
I knew thee what thou wert, when guilefully
thou didst confound their treaty, and enlist
thy whole heart in this war. No Ionger now
thy craft divine deceives me. But what god
compelled thee, from Olympus fallen so far,
to bear these cruel burdens? Wouldst thou see
thy wretched brother slaughtered? For what else
is in my power? What flattering hazard still
holds forth deliverance? My own eyes have seen
Murranus (more than any now on earth
my chosen friend) who, calling on my name,
died like a hero by a hero's sword.
Ill-fated Ufens fell, enduring not
to Iook upon my shame; the Teucrians
divide his arms for spoil and keep his bones.
Shall I stand tamely, till my hearth and home
are levelled with the ground? For this would be
the only blow not fallen. Shall my sword
not give the lie to Drances' insolence?
Shall I take flight and let my country see
her Turnus renegade? Is death a thing
so much to weep for? O propitious dead,
O spirits of the dark, receive and bless
me whom yon gods of light have cast away!
Sacred and guiltless shall my soul descend
to join your company; I have not been
unworthy offspring of my kingly sires.”

Scarce had he said, when through the foeman's line
Saces dashed forth upon a foaming steed,
his face gashed by an arrow. He cried loud
on Turnus' name: “O Turnus, but in thee
our last hope lies. Have pity on the woe
of all thy friends and kin! Aeneas hurls
his thunderbolt of war, and menaces
to crush the strongholds of all Italy,
and lay them low; already where we dwell
his firebrands are raining. Unto thee
the Latins Iook, and for thy valor call.
The King sits dumb and helpless, even he,
in doubt which son-in-law, which cause to choose.
Yea, and the Queen, thy truest friend, is fallen
by her own hand; gone mad with grief and fear,
she fled the light of day. At yonder gates
Messapus only and Atinas bear
the brunt of battle; round us closely draw
the serried ranks; their naked blades of steel
are thick as ripening corn; wilt thou the while
speed in thy chariot o'er this empty plain?”
Dazed and bewildered by such host of ills,
Turnus stood dumb; in his pent bosom stirred
shame, frenzy, sorrow, a despairing love
goaded to fury, and a warrior's pride
of valor proven.

But when first the light
of reason to his blinded soul returned,
he strained his flaming eyeballs to behold
the distant wall, and from his chariot gazed
in wonder at the lordly citadel.
For, lo, a pointed peak of flame uprolled
from tier to tier, and surging skyward seized
a tower—the very tower his own proud hands
had built of firm-set beams and wheeled in place,
and slung its Iofty bridges high in air.
“Fate is too strong, my sister! Seek no more
to stay the stroke. But let me hence pursue
that path where Heaven and cruel Fortune call.
Aeneas I must meet; and I must bear
the bitterness of death, whate'er it be.
O sister, thou shalt look upon my shame
no longer. But first grant a madman's will!”
He spoke; and leaping from his chariot, sped
through foes and foemen's spears, not seeing now
his sister's sorrow, as in swift career
he burst from line to line. Thus headlong falls
a mountain-boulder by a whirlwind flung
from lofty peak, or loosened by much rain,
or by insidious lapse of seasons gone;
the huge, resistless crag goes plunging down
by leaps and bounds, o'erwhelming as it flies
tall forests, Bocks and herds, and mortal men:
so through the scattered legions Turnus ran
straight to the city walls, where all the ground
was drenched with blood, and every passing air
shrieked with the noise of spears. His lifted hand
made sign of silence as he loudly called:
“Refrain, Rutulians! O ye Latins all,
your spears withhold! The issue of the fray
is all my own. I only can repair
our broken truce by judgment of the sword.”
Back fell the hostile lines, and cleared the field.

But Sire Aeneas, hearing Turnus' name,
down the steep rampart from the citadel
unlingering tried, all lesser task laid by,
with joy exultant and dread-thundering arms.
Like Athos' crest he loomed, or soaring top
of Eryx, when the nodding oaks resound,
or sovereign Apennine that lifts in air
his forehead of triumphant snow. All eyes
of Troy, Rutulia, and Italy
were fixed his way; and all who kept a guard
on lofty rampart, or in siege below
were battering the foundations, now laid by
their implements and arms. Latinus too
stood awestruck to behold such champions, born
in lands far-sundered, met upon one field
for one decisive stroke of sword with sword.
Swift striding forth where spread the vacant plain,
they hurled their spears from far; then in close fight
the brazen shields rang. Beneath their tread
Earth groaned aloud, as with redoubling blows
their falchions fell; nor could a mortal eye
'twixt chance and courage the dread work divide.
As o'er Taburnus' top, or spacious hills
of Sila, in relentless shock of war,
two bulls rush brow to brow, while terror-pale
the herdsmen fly; the herd is hushed with fear;
the heifers dumbly marvel which shall be
true monarch of the grove, whom all the kine
obedient follow; but the rival twain,
commingling mightily wound after wound,
thrust with opposing horns, and bathe their necks
in streams of blood; the forest far and wide
repeats their bellowing rage: not otherwise
Trojan Aeneas and King Daunus' son
clashed shield on shield, till all the vaulted sky
felt the tremendous sound. The hand of Jove
held scales in equipoise, and threw thereon
th' unequal fortunes of the heroes twain:
one to vast labors doomed and one to die.

Soon Turnus, reckless of the risk, leaped forth,
upreached his whole height to his lifted sword,
and struck: the Trojans and the Latins pale
cried mightily, and all eyes turned one way
expectant. But the weak, perfidious sword
broke off, and as the blow descended, failed
its furious master, whose sole succor now
was flight; and swifter than the wind he flew.
But, lo! a hilt of form and fashion strange
lay in his helpless hand. For in his haste,
when to the battle-field his team he drove,
his father's sword forgotten (such the tale),
he snatched Metiscus' weapon. This endured
to strike at Trojan backs, as he pursued,
but when on Vulcan's armory divine
its earthly metal smote, the brittle blade
broke off like ice, and o'er the yellow sands
in flashing fragments scattered. Turnus now
takes mad flight o'er the distant plain, and winds
in wavering gyration round and round;
for Troy's close ring confines him, and one way
a wide swamp lies, one way a frowning wall.

But lo! Aeneas—though the arrow's wound
still slackens him and oft his knees refuse
their wonted step—pursues infuriate
his quailing foe, and dogs him stride for stride.
As when a stag-hound drives the baffled roe
to torrent's edge (or where the flaunting snare
of crimson feathers fearfully confines)
and with incessant barking swift pursues;
while through the snared copse or embankment high
the frightened creature by a thousand ways
doubles and turns; but that keen Umbrian hound
with wide jaws, undesisting, grasps his prey,
or, thinking that he grasps it, snaps his teeth
cracking together, and deludes his rage,
devouring empty air: then peal on peal
the cry of hunters bursts; the lake and shore
reecho, and confusion fills the sky:—
such was the flight of Turnus, who reviled
the Rutules as he fled, and loudly sued
of each by name to fetch his own lost sword.
Aeneas vowed destruction and swift death
to all who dared come near, and terrified
their trembling souls with menace that his power
would raze their city to the ground. Straightway,
though wounded, he gave chase, and five times round
in circles ran; then winding left and right
coursed the swift circles o'er. For, lo! the prize
is no light laurel or a youthful game:
for Turnus' doom and death their race is run.

But haply in that place a sacred tree,
a bitter-leaved wild-olive, once had grown,
to Faunus dear, and venerated oft
by mariners safe-rescued from the waves,
who nailed their gifts thereon, or hung in air
their votive garments to Laurentum's god.
But, heeding not, the Teucrians had shorn
the stem away, to clear the field for war.
'T was here Aeneas' lance stuck fast; its speed
had driven it firmly inward, and it clave
to the hard, clinging root. Anchises' son
bent o'er it, and would wrench his weapon free,
and follow with a far-flung javelin
the swift out-speeding foe. But Turnus then,
bewildered and in terror, cried aloud:
“O Faunus, pity me and heed my prayer!
Hold fast his weapon, O benignant Earth!
If ere these hands have rendered offering due,
where yon polluting Teucrians fight and slay.”
He spoke; invoking succor of the god,
with no Iost prayer. For tugging valiantly
and laboring long against the stubborn stem,
Aeneas with his whole strength could but fail
to Ioose the clasping tree. While fiercely thus
he strove and strained, Juturna once again,
wearing the charioteer Metiscus' shape,
ran to her brother's aid, restoring him
his own true sword. But Venus, wroth to see
what license to the dauntless nymph was given,
herself came near, and plucked from that deep root
the javelin forth. So both with lofty mien
strode forth new-armed, new-hearted: one made bold
by his good sword, the other, spear in hand,
uptowered in wrath, and with confronting brows
they set them to the war-god's breathless game.

Meanwhile th' Olympian sovereign supreme
to Juno speaks, as from an amber cloud
the strife she views: “My Queen, what end shall be?
What yet remains? Thou seest Aeneas' name
numbered with tutelary gods of power;
and well thou know'st what station in the sky
his starward destiny intends. What scheme
vexes thy bosom still? What stubborn hope,
fostered in cloud and cold? O, was it well
to desecrate a god with mortal wound;
or well (what were a nymph unhelped by thee?)
to give back Turnus his lost sword, and lend
strength unavailing to the fallen brave?
Give o'er, and to our supplication yield;
let not such grief thy voiceless heart devour;
nor from thy sweet lips let thy mournful care
so oft assail my mind. For now is come
the last decisive day. Thy power availed
to vex the Trojans upon land and sea,
to wake abominable war, bring shame
upon a royal house, and mix the songs
of marriage and the grave: but further act
I thee refuse.” Such was the word of Jove.
Thus Saturn's daughter answered, drooping low
her brows divine: “Because, great Jove, I knew
thy pleasure, I from yonder earth retired
and Turnus' cause, tho, with unwilling mind.
Else shouldst thou not behold me at this hour
Upon my solitary throne of air
enduring fair and foul; I should be found
flame-girded on the battle's deadly verge,
tempting the Teucrians to a hated war.
Yea, 't was my motion thrust Juturna forth
to help her hapless brother. I approved—
to save his life—that she should be too bold;
but bade no whirl of spear nor bending bow:
I swear it by th' inexorable fount
whence flow the Stygian rivers, the sole seat
where gods of light bow down in awful prayer.
I yield me now; heart-sick I quit the war.
But ask one boon, which in the book of fate
is not denied; for Latium's good I sue,
and high prerogatives of men that be
thy kith and kin: when happy wedlock vows
(aye, be it so!) shall join them by strong laws
of chartered peace, let not the Latins Iose
their ancient, native name. Bid them not pass
for Trojans, nor be hailed as Teucer's sons;
no alien speech, no alien garb impose.
Let it be Latium ever; let the lords
of Alba unto distant ages reign;
let the strong, master blood of Rome receive
the manhood and the might of Italy.
Troy perished: let its name and glory die!”
The Author of mankind and all that is,
smiling benignant, answered thus her plea:
“Jove's sister true, and Saturn's second child,
what seas of anger vex thy heart divine!
But come, relinquish thy rash, fruitless rage:
I give thee this desire, and yield to thee
free submission. The Ausonian tribes
shall keep the speech and customs of their sires;
the name remains as now; the Teucrian race,
abiding in the land, shall but infuse
the mixture of its blood. I will bestow
a league of worship, and to Latins give
one language only. From the mingled breed
a people shall come forth whom thou shalt see
surpass all mortal men and even outvie
the faithfulness of gods; for none that live
shall render to thy name an equal praise.”
So Juno bowed consent, and let her will
be changed, as with much comfort in her breast
she left Olympus and her haunt of cloud.