Scarce had the rosy Morning rais'd her head\nAbove the waves, and left her wat'ry bed;\nThe pious chief, whom double cares attend\nFor his unburied soldiers and his friend,\nYet first to Heav'n perform'd a victor's vows:\nHe bar'd an ancient oak of all her boughs;\nThen on a rising ground the trunk he plac'd,\nWhich with the spoils of his dead foe he grac'd.\nThe coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn,\nNow on a naked snag in triumph borne,\nWas hung on high, and glitter'd from afar,\nA trophy sacred to the God of War.\nAbove his arms, fix'd on the leafless wood,\nAppear'd his plumy crest, besmear'd with blood:\nHis brazen buckler on the left was seen;\nTruncheons of shiver'd lances hung between;\nAnd on the right was placed his corslet, bor'd;\nAnd to the neck was tied his unavailing sword.<\/p>\n
A crowd of chiefs inclose the godlike man,\nWho thus, conspicuous in the midst, began:\n\"Our toils, my friends, are crown'd with sure success;\nThe greater part perform'd, achieve the less.\nNow follow cheerful to the trembling town;\nPress but an entrance, and presume it won.\nFear is no more, for fierce Mezentius lies,\nAs the first fruits of war, a sacrifice.\nTurnus shall fall extended on the plain,\nAnd, in this omen, is already slain.\nPrepar'd in arms, pursue your happy chance;\nThat none unwarn'd may plead his ignorance,\nAnd I, at Heav'n's appointed hour, may find\nYour warlike ensigns waving in the wind.\nMeantime the rites and fun'ral pomps prepare,\nDue to your dead companions of the war:\nThe last respect the living can bestow,\nTo shield their shadows from contempt below.\nThat conquer'd earth be theirs, for which they fought,\nAnd which for us with their own blood they bought;\nBut first the corpse of our unhappy friend\nTo the sad city of Evander send,\nWho, not inglorious, in his age's bloom,\nWas hurried hence by too severe a doom.\"<\/p>\n
Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way,\nWhere, new in death, lamented Pallas lay.\nAcoetes watch'd the corpse; whose youth deserv'd\nThe father's trust; and now the son he serv'd\nWith equal faith, but less auspicious care.\nTh' attendants of the slain his sorrow share.\nA troop of Trojans mix'd with these appear,\nAnd mourning matrons with dishevel'd hair.\nSoon as the prince appears, they raise a cry;\nAll beat their breasts, and echoes rend the sky.\nThey rear his drooping forehead from the ground;\nBut, when Aeneas view'd the grisly wound\nWhich Pallas in his manly bosom bore,\nAnd the fair flesh distain'd with purple gore;\nFirst, melting into tears, the pious man\nDeplor'd so sad a sight, then thus began:\n\"Unhappy youth! when Fortune gave the rest\nOf my full wishes, she refus'd the best!\nShe came; but brought not thee along, to bless\nMy longing eyes, and share in my success:\nShe grudg'd thy safe return, the triumphs due\nTo prosp'rous valor, in the public view.\nNot thus I promis'd, when thy father lent\nThy needless succor with a sad consent;\nEmbrac'd me, parting for th' Etrurian land,\nAnd sent me to possess a large command.\nHe warn'd, and from his own experience told,\nOur foes were warlike, disciplin'd, and bold.\nAnd now perhaps, in hopes of thy return,\nRich odors on his loaded altars burn,\nWhile we, with vain officious pomp, prepare\nTo send him back his portion of the war,\nA bloody breathless body, which can owe\nNo farther debt, but to the pow'rs below.\nThe wretched father, ere his race is run,\nShall view the fun'ral honors of his son.\nThese are my triumphs of the Latian war,\nFruits of my plighted faith and boasted care!\nAnd yet, unhappy sire, thou shalt not see\nA son whose death disgrac'd his ancestry;\nThou shalt not blush, old man, however griev'd:\nThy Pallas no dishonest wound receiv'd.\nHe died no death to make thee wish, too late,\nThou hadst not liv'd to see his shameful fate:\nBut what a champion has th' Ausonian coast,\nAnd what a friend hast thou, Ascanius, lost!\"<\/p>\n
Thus having mourn'd, he gave the word around,\nTo raise the breathless body from the ground;\nAnd chose a thousand horse, the flow'r of all\nHis warlike troops, to wait the funeral,\nTo bear him back and share Evander's grief:\nA well-becoming, but a weak relief.\nOf oaken twigs they twist an easy bier,\nThen on their shoulders the sad burden rear.\nThe body on this rural hearse is borne:\nStrew'd leaves and funeral greens the bier adorn.\nAll pale he lies, and looks a lovely flow'r,\nNew cropp'd by virgin hands, to dress the bow'r:\nUnfaded yet, but yet unfed below,\nNo more to mother earth or the green stern shall owe.\nThen two fair vests, of wondrous work and cost,\nOf purple woven, and with gold emboss'd,\nFor ornament the Trojan hero brought,\nWhich with her hands Sidonian Dido wrought.\nOne vest array'd the corpse; and one they spread\nO'er his clos'd eyes, and wrapp'd around his head,\nThat, when the yellow hair in flame should fall,\nThe catching fire might burn the golden caul.\nBesides, the spoils of foes in battle slain,\nWhen he descended on the Latian plain;\nArms, trappings, horses, by the hearse are led\nIn long array- th' achievements of the dead.\nThen, pinion'd with their hands behind, appear\nTh' unhappy captives, marching in the rear,\nAppointed off'rings in the victor's name,\nTo sprinkle with their blood the fun'ral flame.\nInferior trophies by the chiefs are borne;\nGauntlets and helms their loaded hands adorn;\nAnd fair inscriptions fix'd, and titles read\nOf Latian leaders conquer'd by the dead.<\/p>\n
Acoetes on his pupil's corpse attends,\nWith feeble steps, supported by his friends.\nPausing at ev'ry pace, in sorrow drown'd,\nBetwixt their arms he sinks upon the ground;\nWhere grov'ling while he lies in deep despair,\nHe beats his breast, and rends his hoary hair.\nThe champion's chariot next is seen to roll,\nBesmear'd with hostile blood, and honorably foul.\nTo close the pomp, Aethon, the steed of state,\nIs led, the fun'rals of his lord to wait.\nStripp'd of his trappings, with a sullen pace\nHe walks; and the big tears run rolling down his face.\nThe lance of Pallas, and the crimson crest,\nAre borne behind: the victor seiz'd the rest.\nThe march begins: the trumpets hoarsely sound;\nThe pikes and lances trail along the ground.\nThus while the Trojan and Arcadian horse\nTo Pallantean tow'rs direct their course,\nIn long procession rank'd, the pious chief\nStopp'd in the rear, and gave a vent to grief:\n\"The public care,\" he said, \"which war attends,\nDiverts our present woes, at least suspends.\nPeace with the manes of great Pallas dwell!\nHail, holy relics! and a last farewell!\"\nHe said no more, but, inly thro' he mourn'd,\nRestrained his tears, and to the camp return'd.<\/p>\n
Now suppliants, from Laurentum sent, demand\nA truce, with olive branches in their hand;\nObtest his clemency, and from the plain\nBeg leave to draw the bodies of their slain.\nThey plead, that none those common rites deny\nTo conquer'd foes that in fair battle die.\nAll cause of hate was ended in their death;\nNor could he war with bodies void of breath.\nA king, they hop'd, would hear a king's request,\nWhose son he once was call'd, and once his guest.<\/p>\n
Their suit, which was too just to be denied,\nThe hero grants, and farther thus replied:\n\"O Latian princes, how severe a fate\nIn causeless quarrels has involv'd your state,\nAnd arm'd against an unoffending man,\nWho sought your friendship ere the war began!\nYou beg a truce, which I would gladly give,\nNot only for the slain, but those who live.\nI came not hither but by Heav'n's command,\nAnd sent by fate to share the Latian land.\nNor wage I wars unjust: your king denied\nMy proffer'd friendship, and my promis'd bride;\nLeft me for Turnus. Turnus then should try\nHis cause in arms, to conquer or to die.\nMy right and his are in dispute: the slain\nFell without fault, our quarrel to maintain.\nIn equal arms let us alone contend;\nAnd let him vanquish, whom his fates befriend.\nThis is the way (so tell him) to possess\nThe royal virgin, and restore the peace.\nBear this message back, with ample leave,\nThat your slain friends may fun'ral rites receive.\"<\/p>\n
Thus having said- th' embassadors, amaz'd,\nStood mute a while, and on each other gaz'd.\nDrances, their chief, who harbor'd in his breast\nLong hate to Turnus, as his foe profess'd,\nBroke silence first, and to the godlike man,\nWith graceful action bowing, thus began:\n\"Auspicious prince, in arms a mighty name,\nBut yet whose actions far transcend your fame;\nWould I your justice or your force express,\nThought can but equal; and all words are less.\nYour answer we shall thankfully relate,\nAnd favors granted to the Latian state.\nIf wish'd success our labor shall attend,\nThink peace concluded, and the king your friend:\nLet Turnus leave the realm to your command,\nAnd seek alliance in some other land:\nBuild you the city which your fates assign;\nWe shall be proud in the great work to join.\"<\/p>\n
Thus Drances; and his words so well persuade\nThe rest impower'd, that soon a truce is made.\nTwelve days the term allow'd: and, during those,\nLatians and Trojans, now no longer foes,\nMix'd in the woods, for fun'ral piles prepare\nTo fell the timber, and forget the war.\nLoud axes thro' the groaning groves resound;\nOak, mountain ash, and poplar spread the ground;\nFirst fall from high; and some the trunks receive\nIn loaden wains; with wedges some they cleave.<\/p>\n
And now the fatal news by Fame is blown\nThro' the short circuit of th' Arcadian town,\nOf Pallas slain- by Fame, which just before\nHis triumphs on distended pinions bore.\nRushing from out the gate, the people stand,\nEach with a fun'ral flambeau in his hand.\nWildly they stare, distracted with amaze:\nThe fields are lighten'd with a fiery blaze,\nThat cast a sullen splendor on their friends,\nThe marching troop which their dead prince attends.\nBoth parties meet: they raise a doleful cry;\nThe matrons from the walls with shrieks reply,\nAnd their mix'd mourning rends the vaulted sky.\nThe town is fill'd with tumult and with tears,\nTill the loud clamors reach Evander's ears:\nForgetful of his state, he runs along,\nWith a disorder'd pace, and cleaves the throng;\nFalls on the corpse; and groaning there he lies,\nWith silent grief, that speaks but at his eyes.\nShort sighs and sobs succeed; till sorrow breaks\nA passage, and at once he weeps and speaks:<\/p>\n
\"O Pallas! thou hast fail'd thy plighted word,\nTo fight with caution, not to tempt the sword!\nI warn'd thee, but in vain; for well I knew\nWhat perils youthful ardor would pursue,\nThat boiling blood would carry thee too far,\nYoung as thou wert in dangers, raw to war!\nO curst essay of arms, disastrous doom,\nPrelude of bloody fields, and fights to come!\nHard elements of unauspicious war,\nVain vows to Heav'n, and unavailing care!\nThrice happy thou, dear partner of my bed,\nWhose holy soul the stroke of Fortune fled,\nPraescious of ills, and leaving me behind,\nTo drink the dregs of life by fate assign'd!\nBeyond the goal of nature I have gone:\nMy Pallas late set out, but reach'd too soon.\nIf, for my league against th' Ausonian state,\nAmidst their weapons I had found my fate,\n(Deserv'd from them,) then I had been return'd\nA breathless victor, and my son had mourn'd.\nYet will I not my Trojan friend upbraid,\nNor grudge th' alliance I so gladly made.\n'T was not his fault, my Pallas fell so young,\nBut my own crime, for having liv'd too long.\nYet, since the gods had destin'd him to die,\nAt least he led the way to victory:\nFirst for his friends he won the fatal shore,\nAnd sent whole herds of slaughter'd foes before;\nA death too great, too glorious to deplore.\nNor will I add new honors to thy grave,\nContent with those the Trojan hero gave:\nThat funeral pomp thy Phrygian friends design'd,\nIn which the Tuscan chiefs and army join'd.\nGreat spoils and trophies, gain'd by thee, they bear:\nThen let thy own achievements be thy share.\nEven thou, O Turnus, hadst a trophy stood,\nWhose mighty trunk had better grac'd the wood,\nIf Pallas had arriv'd, with equal length\nOf years, to match thy bulk with equal strength.\nBut why, unhappy man, dost thou detain\nThese troops, to view the tears thou shedd'st in vain?\nGo, friends, this message to your lord relate:\nTell him, that, if I bear my bitter fate,\nAnd, after Pallas' death, live ling'ring on,\n'T is to behold his vengeance for my son.\nI stay for Turnus, whose devoted head\nIs owing to the living and the dead.\nMy son and I expect it from his hand;\n'T is all that he can give, or we demand.\nJoy is no more; but I would gladly go,\nTo greet my Pallas with such news below.\"<\/p>\n
The morn had now dispell'd the shades of night,\nRestoring toils, when she restor'd the light.\nThe Trojan king and Tuscan chief command\nTo raise the piles along the winding strand.\nTheir friends convey the dead fun'ral fires;\nBlack smold'ring smoke from the green wood expires;\nThe light of heav'n is chok'd, and the new day retires.\nThen thrice around the kindled piles they go\n(For ancient custom had ordain'd it so)\nThrice horse and foot about the fires are led;\nAnd thrice, with loud laments, they hail the dead.\nTears, trickling down their breasts, bedew the ground,\nAnd drums and trumpets mix their mournful sound.\nAmid the blaze, their pious brethren throw\nThe spoils, in battle taken from the foe:\nHelms, bits emboss'd, and swords of shining steel;\nOne casts a target, one a chariot wheel;\nSome to their fellows their own arms restore:\nThe fauchions which in luckless fight they bore,\nTheir bucklers pierc'd, their darts bestow'd in vain,\nAnd shiver'd lances gather'd from the plain.\nWhole herds of offer'd bulls, about the fire,\nAnd bristled boars, and woolly sheep expire.\nAround the piles a careful troop attends,\nTo watch the wasting flames, and weep their burning friends;\nLing'ring along the shore, till dewy night\nNew decks the face of heav'n with starry light.<\/p>\n
The conquer'd Latians, with like pious care,\nPiles without number for their dead prepare.\nPart in the places where they fell are laid;\nAnd part are to the neighb'ring fields convey'd.\nThe corps of kings, and captains of renown,\nBorne off in state, are buried in the town;\nThe rest, unhonor'd, and without a name,\nAre cast a common heap to feed the flame.\nTrojans and Latians vie with like desires\nTo make the field of battle shine with fires,\nAnd the promiscuous blaze to heav'n aspires.<\/p>\n
Now had the morning thrice renew'd the light,\nAnd thrice dispell'd the shadows of the night,\nWhen those who round the wasted fires remain,\nPerform the last sad office to the slain.\nThey rake the yet warm ashes from below;\nThese, and the bones unburn'd, in earth bestow;\nThese relics with their country rites they grace,\nAnd raise a mount of turf to mark the place.<\/p>\n
But, in the palace of the king, appears\nA scene more solemn, and a pomp of tears.\nMaids, matrons, widows, mix their common moans;\nOrphans their sires, and sires lament their sons.\nAll in that universal sorrow share,\nAnd curse the cause of this unhappy war:\nA broken league, a bride unjustly sought,\nA crown usurp'd, which with their blood is bought!\nThese are the crimes with which they load the name\nOf Turnus, and on him alone exclaim:\n\"Let him who lords it o'er th' Ausonian land\nEngage the Trojan hero hand to hand:\nHis is the gain; our lot is but to serve;\n'T is just, the sway he seeks, he should deserve.\"\nThis Drances aggravates; and adds, with spite:\n\"His foe expects, and dares him to the fight.\"\nNor Turnus wants a party, to support\nHis cause and credit in the Latian court.\nHis former acts secure his present fame,\nAnd the queen shades him with her mighty name.<\/p>\n
While thus their factious minds with fury burn,\nThe legates from th' Aetolian prince return:\nSad news they bring, that, after all the cost\nAnd care employ'd, their embassy is lost;\nThat Diomedes refus'd his aid in war,\nUnmov'd with presents, and as deaf to pray'r.\nSome new alliance must elsewhere be sought,\nOr peace with Troy on hard conditions bought.<\/p>\n
Latinus, sunk in sorrow, finds too late,\nA foreign son is pointed out by fate;\nAnd, till Aeneas shall Lavinia wed,\nThe wrath of Heav'n is hov'ring o'er his head.\nThe gods, he saw, espous'd the juster side,\nWhen late their titles in the field were tried:\nWitness the fresh laments, and fun'ral tears undried.\nThus, full of anxious thought, he summons all\nThe Latian senate to the council hall.\nThe princes come, commanded by their head,\nAnd crowd the paths that to the palace lead.\nSupreme in pow'r, and reverenc'd for his years,\nHe takes the throne, and in the midst appears.\nMajestically sad, he sits in state,\nAnd bids his envoys their success relate.<\/p>\n
When Venulus began, the murmuring sound\nWas hush'd, and sacred silence reign'd around.\n\"We have,\" said he, \"perform'd your high command,\nAnd pass'd with peril a long tract of land:\nWe reach'd the place desir'd; with wonder fill'd,\nThe Grecian tents and rising tow'rs beheld.\nGreat Diomede has compass'd round with walls\nThe city, which Argyripa he calls,\nFrom his own Argos nam'd. We touch'd, with joy,\nThe royal hand that raz'd unhappy Troy.\nWhen introduc'd, our presents first we bring,\nThen crave an instant audience from the king.\nHis leave obtain'd, our native soil we name,\nAnd tell th' important cause for which we came.\nAttentively he heard us, while we spoke;\nThen, with soft accents, and a pleasing look,\nMade this return: 'Ausonian race, of old\nRenown'd for peace, and for an age of gold,\nWhat madness has your alter'd minds possess'd,\nTo change for war hereditary rest,\nSolicit arms unknown, and tempt the sword,\nA needless ill your ancestors abhorr'd?\nWe- for myself I speak, and all the name\nOf Grecians, who to Troy's destruction came,\nOmitting those who were in battle slain,\nOr borne by rolling Simois to the main-\nNot one but suffer'd, and too dearly bought\nThe prize of honor which in arms he sought;\nSome doom'd to death, and some in exile driv'n.\nOutcasts, abandon'd by the care of Heav'n;\nSo worn, so wretched, so despis'd a crew,\nAs ev'n old Priam might with pity view.\nWitness the vessels by Minerva toss'd\nIn storms; the vengeful Capharean coast;\nTh' Euboean rocks! the prince, whose brother led\nOur armies to revenge his injur'd bed,\nIn Egypt lost! Ulysses with his men\nHave seen Charybdis and the Cyclops' den.\nWhy should I name Idomeneus, in vain\nRestor'd to scepters, and expell'd again?\nOr young Achilles, by his rival slain?\nEv'n he, the King of Men, the foremost name\nOf all the Greeks, and most renown'd by fame,\nThe proud revenger of another's wife,\nYet by his own adult'ress lost his life;\nFell at his threshold; and the spoils of Troy\nThe foul polluters of his bed enjoy.\nThe gods have envied me the sweets of life,\nMy much lov'd country, and my more lov'd wife:\nBanish'd from both, I mourn; while in the sky,\nTransform'd to birds, my lost companions fly:\nHov'ring about the coasts, they make their moan,\nAnd cuff the cliffs with pinions not their own.\nWhat squalid specters, in the dead of night,\nBreak my short sleep, and skim before my sight!\nI might have promis'd to myself those harms,\nMad as I was, when I, with mortal arms,\nPresum'd against immortal pow'rs to move,\nAnd violate with wounds the Queen of Love.\nSuch arms this hand shall never more employ;\nNo hate remains with me to ruin'd Troy.\nI war not with its dust; nor am I glad\nTo think of past events, or good or bad.\nYour presents I return: whate'er you bring\nTo buy my friendship, send the Trojan king.\nWe met in fight; I know him, to my cost:\nWith what a whirling force his lance he toss'd!\nHeav'ns! what a spring was in his arm, to throw!\nHow high he held his shield, and rose at ev'ry blow!\nHad Troy produc'd two more his match in might,\nThey would have chang'd the fortune of the fight:\nTh' invasion of the Greeks had been return'd,\nOur empire wasted, and our cities burn'd.\nThe long defense the Trojan people made,\nThe war protracted, and the siege delay'd,\nWere due to Hector's and this hero's hand:\nBoth brave alike, and equal in command;\nAeneas, not inferior in the field,\nIn pious reverence to the gods excell'd.\nMake peace, ye Latians, and avoid with care\nTh' impending dangers of a fatal war.'\nHe said no more; but, with this cold excuse,\nRefus'd th' alliance, and advis'd a truce.\"<\/p>\n
Thus Venulus concluded his report.\nA jarring murmur fill'd the factious court:\nAs, when a torrent rolls with rapid force,\nAnd dashes o'er the stones that stop the course,\nThe flood, constrain'd within a scanty space,\nRoars horrible along th' uneasy race;\nWhite foam in gath'ring eddies floats around;\nThe rocky shores rebellow to the sound.<\/p>\n
The murmur ceas'd: then from his lofty throne\nThe king invok'd the gods, and thus begun:\n\"I wish, ye Latins, what we now debate\nHad been resolv'd before it was too late.\nMuch better had it been for you and me,\nUnforc'd by this our last necessity,\nTo have been earlier wise, than now to call\nA council, when the foe surrounds the wall.\nO citizens, we wage unequal war,\nWith men not only Heav'n's peculiar care,\nBut Heav'n's own race; unconquer'd in the field,\nOr, conquer'd, yet unknowing how to yield.\nWhat hopes you had in Diomedes, lay down:\nOur hopes must center on ourselves alone.\nYet those how feeble, and, indeed, how vain,\nYou see too well; nor need my words explain.\nVanquish'd without resource; laid flat by fate;\nFactions within, a foe without the gate!\nNot but I grant that all perform'd their parts\nWith manly force, and with undaunted hearts:\nWith our united strength the war we wag'd;\nWith equal numbers, equal arms, engag'd.\nYou see th' event.- Now hear what I propose,\nTo save our friends, and satisfy our foes.\nA tract of land the Latins have possess'd\nAlong the Tiber, stretching to the west,\nWhich now Rutulians and Auruncans till,\nAnd their mix'd cattle graze the fruitful hill.\nThose mountains fill'd with firs, that lower land,\nIf you consent, the Trojan shall command,\nCall'd into part of what is ours; and there,\nOn terms agreed, the common country share.\nThere let'em build and settle, if they please;\nUnless they choose once more to cross the seas,\nIn search of seats remote from Italy,\nAnd from unwelcome inmates set us free.\nThen twice ten galleys let us build with speed,\nOr twice as many more, if more they need.\nMaterials are at hand; a well-grown wood\nRuns equal with the margin of the flood:\nLet them the number and the form assign;\nThe care and cost of all the stores be mine.\nTo treat the peace, a hundred senators\nShall be commission'd hence with ample pow'rs,\nWith olive the presents they shall bear,\nA purple robe, a royal iv'ry chair,\nAnd all the marks of sway that Latian monarchs wear,\nAnd sums of gold. Among yourselves debate\nThis great affair, and save the sinking state.\"<\/p>\n
Then Drances took the word, who grudg'd, long since,\nThe rising glories of the Daunian prince.\nFactious and rich, bold at the council board,\nBut cautious in the field, he shunn'd the sword;\nA close caballer, and tongue-valiant lord.\nNoble his mother was, and near the throne;\nBut, what his father's parentage, unknown.\nHe rose, and took th' advantage of the times,\nTo load young Turnus with invidious crimes.\n\"Such truths, O king,\" said he, \"your words contain,\nAs strike the sense, and all replies are vain;\nNor are your loyal subjects now to seek\nWhat common needs require, but fear to speak.\nLet him give leave of speech, that haughty man,\nWhose pride this unauspicious war began;\nFor whose ambition (let me dare to say,\nFear set apart, tho' death is in my way)\nThe plains of Latium run with blood around.\nSo many valiant heroes bite the ground;\nDejected grief in ev'ry face appears;\nA town in mourning, and a land in tears;\nWhile he, th' undoubted author of our harms,\nThe man who menaces the gods with arms,\nYet, after all his boasts, forsook the fight,\nAnd sought his safety in ignoble flight.\nNow, best of kings, since you propose to send\nSuch bounteous presents to your Trojan friend;\nAdd yet a greater at our joint request,\nOne which he values more than all the rest:\nGive him the fair Lavinia for his bride;\nWith that alliance let the league be tied,\nAnd for the bleeding land a lasting peace provide.\nLet insolence no longer awe the throne;\nBut, with a father's right, bestow your own.\nFor this maligner of the general good,\nIf still we fear his force, he must be woo'd;\nHis haughty godhead we with pray'rs implore,\nYour scepter to release, and our just rights restore.\nO cursed cause of all our ills, must we\nWage wars unjust, and fall in fight, for thee!\nWhat right hast thou to rule the Latian state,\nAnd send us out to meet our certain fate?\n'T is a destructive war: from Turnus' hand\nOur peace and public safety we demand.\nLet the fair bride to the brave chief remain;\nIf not, the peace, without the pledge, is vain.\nTurnus, I know you think me not your friend,\nNor will I much with your belief contend:\nI beg your greatness not to give the law\nIn others' realms, but, beaten, to withdraw.\nPity your own, or pity our estate;\nNor twist our fortunes with your sinking fate.\nYour interest is, the war should never cease;\nBut we have felt enough to wish the peace:\nA land exhausted to the last remains,\nDepopulated towns, and driven plains.\nYet, if desire of fame, and thirst of pow'r,\nA beauteous princess, with a crown in dow'r,\nSo fire your mind, in arms assert your right,\nAnd meet your foe, who dares you to the fight.\nMankind, it seems, is made for you alone;\nWe, but the slaves who mount you to the throne:\nA base ignoble crowd, without a name,\nUnwept, unworthy, of the fun'ral flame,\nBy duty bound to forfeit each his life,\nThat Turnus may possess a royal wife.\nPermit not, mighty man, so mean a crew\nShould share such triumphs, and detain from you\nThe post of honor, your undoubted due.\nRather alone your matchless force employ,\nTo merit what alone you must enjoy.\"<\/p>\n
These words, so full of malice mix'd with art,\nInflam'd with rage the youthful hero's heart.\nThen, groaning from the bottom of his breast,\nHe heav'd for wind, and thus his wrath express'd:\n\"You, Drances, never want a stream of words,\nThen, when the public need requires our swords.\nFirst in the council hall to steer the state,\nAnd ever foremost in a tongue-debate,\nWhile our strong walls secure us from the foe,\nEre yet with blood our ditches overflow:\nBut let the potent orator declaim,\nAnd with the brand of coward blot my name;\nFree leave is giv'n him, when his fatal hand\nHas cover'd with more corps the sanguine strand,\nAnd high as mine his tow'ring trophies stand.\nIf any doubt remains, who dares the most,\nLet us decide it at the Trojan's cost,\nAnd issue both abreast, where honor calls-\nFoes are not far to seek without the walls-\nUnless his noisy tongue can only fight,\nAnd feet were giv'n him but to speed his flight.\nI beaten from the field? I forc'd away?\nWho, but so known a dastard, dares to say?\nHad he but ev'n beheld the fight, his eyes\nHad witness'd for me what his tongue denies:\nWhat heaps of Trojans by this hand were slain,\nAnd how the bloody Tiber swell'd the main.\nAll saw, but he, th' Arcadian troops retire\nIn scatter'd squadrons, and their prince expire.\nThe giant brothers, in their camp, have found,\nI was not forc'd with ease to quit my ground.\nNot such the Trojans tried me, when, inclos'd,\nI singly their united arms oppos'd:\nFirst forc'd an entrance thro' their thick array;\nThen, glutted with their slaughter, freed my way.\n'T is a destructive war? So let it be,\nBut to the Phrygian pirate, and to thee!\nMeantime proceed to fill the people's ears\nWith false reports, their minds with panic fears:\nExtol the strength of a twice-conquer'd race;\nOur foes encourage, and our friends debase.\nBelieve thy fables, and the Trojan town\nTriumphant stands; the Grecians are o'erthrown;\nSuppliant at Hector's feet Achilles lies,\nAnd Diomede from fierce Aeneas flies.\nSay rapid Aufidus with awful dread\nRuns backward from the sea, and hides his head,\nWhen the great Trojan on his bank appears;\nFor that's as true as thy dissembled fears\nOf my revenge. Dismiss that vanity:\nThou, Drances, art below a death from me.\nLet that vile soul in that vile body rest;\nThe lodging is well worthy of the guest.<\/p>\n
\"Now, royal father, to the present state\nOf our affairs, and of this high debate:\nIf in your arms thus early you diffide,\nAnd think your fortune is already tried;\nIf one defeat has brought us down so low,\nAs never more in fields to meet the foe;\nThen I conclude for peace: 't is time to treat,\nAnd lie like vassals at the victor's feet.\nBut, O! if any ancient blood remains,\nOne drop of all our fathers', in our veins,\nThat man would I prefer before the rest,\nWho dar'd his death with an undaunted breast;\nWho comely fell, by no dishonest wound,\nTo shun that sight, and, dying, gnaw'd the ground.\nBut, if we still have fresh recruits in store,\nIf our confederates can afford us more;\nIf the contended field we bravely fought,\nAnd not a bloodless victory was bought;\nTheir losses equal'd ours; and, for their slain,\nWith equal fires they fill'd the shining plain;\nWhy thus, unforc'd, should we so tamely yield,\nAnd, ere the trumpet sounds, resign the field?\nGood unexpected, evils unforeseen,\nAppear by turns, as fortune shifts the scene:\nSome, rais'd aloft, come tumbling down amain;\nThen fall so hard, they bound and rise again.\nIf Diomede refuse his aid to lend,\nThe great Messapus yet remains our friend:\nTolumnius, who foretells events, is ours;\nTh' Italian chiefs and princes join their pow'rs:\nNor least in number, nor in name the last,\nYour own brave subjects have your cause embrac'd\nAbove the rest, the Volscian Amazon\nContains an army in herself alone,\nAnd heads a squadron, terrible to sight,\nWith glitt'ring shields, in brazen armor bright.\nYet, if the foe a single fight demand,\nAnd I alone the public peace withstand;\nIf you consent, he shall not be refus'd,\nNor find a hand to victory unus'd.\nThis new Achilles, let him take the field,\nWith fated armor, and Vulcanian shield!\nFor you, my royal father, and my fame,\nI, Turnus, not the least of all my name,\nDevote my soul. He calls me hand to hand,\nAnd I alone will answer his demand.\nDrances shall rest secure, and neither share\nThe danger, nor divide the prize of war.\"<\/p>\n
While they debate, nor these nor those will yield,\nAeneas draws his forces to the field,\nAnd moves his camp. The scouts with flying speed\nReturn, and thro' the frighted city spread\nTh' unpleasing news, the Trojans are descried,\nIn battle marching by the river side,\nAnd bending to the town. They take th' alarm:\nSome tremble, some are bold; all in confusion arm.\nTh' impetuous youth press forward to the field;\nThey clash the sword, and clatter on the shield:\nThe fearful matrons raise a screaming cry;\nOld feeble men with fainter groans reply;\nA jarring sound results, and mingles in the sky,\nLike that of swans remurm'ring to the floods,\nOr birds of diff'ring kinds in hollow woods.<\/p>\n
Turnus th' occasion takes, and cries aloud:\n\"Talk on, ye quaint haranguers of the crowd:\nDeclaim in praise of peace, when danger calls,\nAnd the fierce foes in arms approach the walls.\"\nHe said, and, turning short, with speedy pace,\nCasts back a scornful glance, and quits the place:\n\"Thou, Volusus, the Volscian troops command\nTo mount; and lead thyself our Ardean band.\nMessapus and Catillus, post your force\nAlong the fields, to charge the Trojan horse.\nSome guard the passes, others man the wall;\nDrawn up in arms, the rest attend my call.\"<\/p>\n
They swarm from ev'ry quarter of the town,\nAnd with disorder'd haste the rampires crown.\nGood old Latinus, when he saw, too late,\nThe gath'ring storm just breaking on the state,\nDismiss'd the council till a fitter time,\nAnd own'd his easy temper as his crime,\nWho, forc'd against his reason, had complied\nTo break the treaty for the promis'd bride.<\/p>\n
Some help to sink new trenches; others aid\nTo ram the stones, or raise the palisade.\nHoarse trumpets sound th' alarm; around the walls\nRuns a distracted crew, whom their last labor calls.\nA sad procession in the streets is seen,\nOf matrons, that attend the mother queen:\nHigh in her chair she sits, and, at her side,\nWith downcast eyes, appears the fatal bride.\nThey mount the cliff, where Pallas' temple stands;\nPray'rs in their mouths, and presents in their hands,\nWith censers first they fume the sacred shrine,\nThen in this common supplication join:\n\"O patroness of arms, unspotted maid,\nPropitious hear, and lend thy Latins aid!\nBreak short the pirate's lance; pronounce his fate,\nAnd lay the Phrygian low before the gate.\"<\/p>\n
Now Turnus arms for fight. His back and breast\nWell-temper'd steel and scaly brass invest:\nThe cuishes which his brawny thighs infold\nAre mingled metal damask'd o'er with gold.\nHis faithful fauchion sits upon his side;\nNor casque, nor crest, his manly features hide:\nBut, bare to view, amid surrounding friends,\nWith godlike grace, he from the tow'r descends.\nExulting in his strength, he seems to dare\nHis absent rival, and to promise war.\nFreed from his keepers, thus, with broken reins,\nThe wanton courser prances o'er the plains,\nOr in the pride of youth o'erleaps the mounds,\nAnd snuffs the females in forbidden grounds.\nOr seeks his wat'ring in the well-known flood,\nTo quench his thirst, and cool his fiery blood:\nHe swims luxuriant in the liquid plain,\nAnd o'er his shoulder flows his waving mane:\nHe neighs, he snorts, he bears his head on high;\nBefore his ample chest the frothy waters fly.<\/p>\n
Soon as the prince appears without the gate,\nThe Volscians, with their virgin leader, wait\nHis last commands. Then, with a graceful mien,\nLights from her lofty steed the warrior queen:\nHer squadron imitates, and each descends;\nWhose common suit Camilla thus commends:\n\"If sense of honor, if a soul secure\nOf inborn worth, that can all tests endure,\nCan promise aught, or on itself rely\nGreatly to dare, to conquer or to die;\nThen, I alone, sustain'd by these, will meet\nThe Tyrrhene troops, and promise their defeat.\nOurs be the danger, ours the sole renown:\nYou, gen'ral, stay behind, and guard the town:\"<\/p>\n
Turnus a while stood mute, with glad surprise,\nAnd on the fierce virago fix'd his eyes;\nThen thus return'd: \"O grace of Italy,\nWith what becoming thanks can I reply?\nNot only words lie lab'ring in my breast,\nBut thought itself is by thy praise oppress'd.\nYet rob me not of all; but let me join\nMy toils, my hazard, and my fame, with thine.\nThe Trojan, not in stratagem unskill'd,\nSends his light horse before to scour the field:\nHimself, thro' steep ascents and thorny brakes,\nA larger compass to the city takes.\nThis news my scouts confirm, and I prepare\nTo foil his cunning, and his force to dare;\nWith chosen foot his passage to forelay,\nAnd place an ambush in the winding way.\nThou, with thy Volscians, face the Tuscan horse;\nThe brave Messapus shall thy troops inforce\nWith those of Tibur, and the Latian band,\nSubjected all to thy supreme command.\"\nThis said, he warns Messapus to the war,\nThen ev'ry chief exhorts with equal care.\nAll thus encourag'd, his own troops he joins,\nAnd hastes to prosecute his deep designs.<\/p>\n
Inclos'd with hills, a winding valley lies,\nBy nature form'd for fraud, and fitted for surprise.\nA narrow track, by human steps untrode,\nLeads, thro' perplexing thorns, to this obscure abode.\nHigh o'er the vale a steepy mountain stands,\nWhence the surveying sight the nether ground commands.\nThe top is level, an offensive seat\nOf war; and from the war a safe retreat:\nFor, on the right and left, is room to press\nThe foes at hand, or from afar distress;\nTo drive 'em headlong downward, and to pour\nOn their descending backs a stony show'r.\nThither young Turnus took the well-known way,\nPossess'd the pass, and in blind ambush lay.<\/p>\n
Meantime Latonian Phoebe, from the skies,\nBeheld th' approaching war with hateful eyes,\nAnd call'd the light-foot Opis to her aid,\nHer most belov'd and ever-trusty maid;\nThen with a sigh began: \"Camilla goes\nTo meet her death amidst her fatal foes:\nThe nymphs I lov'd of all my mortal train,\nInvested with Diana's arms, in vain.\nNor is my kindness for the virgin new:\n'T was born with her; and with her years it grew.\nHer father Metabus, when forc'd away\nFrom old Privernum, for tyrannic sway,\nSnatch'd up, and sav'd from his prevailing foes,\nThis tender babe, companion of his woes.\nCasmilla was her mother; but he drown'd\nOne hissing letter in a softer sound,\nAnd call'd Camilla. Thro' the woods he flies;\nWrapp'd in his robe the royal infant lies.\nHis foes in sight, he mends his weary pace;\nWith shout and clamors they pursue the chase.\nThe banks of Amasene at length he gains:<\/p>\n
The raging flood his farther flight restrains,\nRais'd o'er the borders with unusual rains.\nPrepar'd to plunge into the stream, he fears,\nNot for himself, but for the charge he bears.\nAnxious, he stops a while, and thinks in haste;\nThen, desp'rate in distress, resolves at last.\nA knotty lance of well-boil'd oak he bore;\nThe middle part with cork he cover'd o'er:\nHe clos'd the child within the hollow space;\nWith twigs of bending osier bound the case;\nThen pois'd the spear, heavy with human weight,\nAnd thus invok'd my favor for the freight:\n'Accept, great goddess of the woods,' he said,\n'Sent by her sire, this dedicated maid!\nThro' air she flies a suppliant to thy shrine;\nAnd the first weapons that she knows, are thine.'\nHe said; and with full force the spear he threw:\nAbove the sounding waves Camilla flew.\nThen, press'd by foes, he stemm'd the stormy tide,\nAnd gain'd, by stress of arms, the farther side.\nHis fasten'd spear he pull'd from out the ground,\nAnd, victor of his vows, his infant nymph unbound;\nNor, after that, in towns which walls inclose,\nWould trust his hunted life amidst his foes;\nBut, rough, in open air he chose to lie;\nEarth was his couch, his cov'ring was the sky.\nOn hills unshorn, or in a desart den,\nHe shunn'd the dire society of men.\nA shepherd's solitary life he led;\nHis daughter with the milk of mares he fed.\nThe dugs of bears, and ev'ry salvage beast,\nHe drew, and thro' her lips the liquor press'd.\nThe little Amazon could scarcely go:\nHe loads her with a quiver and a bow;\nAnd, that she might her stagg'ring steps command,\nHe with a slender jav'lin fills her hand.\nHer flowing hair no golden fillet bound;\nNor swept her trailing robe the dusty ground.\nInstead of these, a tiger's hide o'erspread\nHer back and shoulders, fasten'd to her head.\nThe flying dart she first attempts to fling,\nAnd round her tender temples toss'd the sling;\nThen, as her strength with years increas'd, began\nTo pierce aloft in air the soaring swan,\nAnd from the clouds to fetch the heron and the crane.\nThe Tuscan matrons with each other vied,\nTo bless their rival sons with such a bride;\nBut she disdains their love, to share with me\nThe sylvan shades and vow'd virginity.\nAnd, O! I wish, contented with my cares\nOf salvage spoils, she had not sought the wars!\nThen had she been of my celestial train,\nAnd shunn'd the fate that dooms her to be slain.\nBut since, opposing Heav'n's decree, she goes\nTo find her death among forbidden foes,\nHaste with these arms, and take thy steepy flight.\nWhere, with the gods, averse, the Latins fight.\nThis bow to thee, this quiver I bequeath,\nThis chosen arrow, to revenge her death:\nBy whate'er hand Camilla shall be slain,\nOr of the Trojan or Italian train,\nLet him not pass unpunish'd from the plain.\nThen, in a hollow cloud, myself will aid\nTo bear the breathless body of my maid:\nUnspoil'd shall be her arms, and unprofan'd\nHer holy limbs with any human hand,\nAnd in a marble tomb laid in her native land.\"<\/p>\n
She said. The faithful nymph descends from high\nWith rapid flight, and cuts the sounding sky:\nBlack clouds and stormy winds around her body fly.<\/p>\n
By this, the Trojan and the Tuscan horse,\nDrawn up in squadrons, with united force,\nApproach the walls: the sprightly coursers bound,\nPress forward on their bits, and shift their ground.\nShields, arms, and spears flash horribly from far;\nAnd the fields glitter with a waving war.\nOppos'd to these, come on with furious force\nMessapus, Coras, and the Latian horse;\nThese in the body plac'd, on either hand\nSustain'd and clos'd by fair Camilla's band.\nAdvancing in a line, they couch their spears;\nAnd less and less the middle space appears.\nThick smoke obscures the field; and scarce are seen\nThe neighing coursers, and the shouting men.\nIn distance of their darts they stop their course;\nThen man to man they rush, and horse to horse.\nThe face of heav'n their flying jav'lins hide,\nAnd deaths unseen are dealt on either side.\nTyrrhenus, and Aconteus, void of fear,\nBy mettled coursers borne in full career,\nMeet first oppos'd; and, with a mighty shock,\nTheir horses' heads against each other knock.\nFar from his steed is fierce Aconteus cast,\nAs with an engine's force, or lightning's blast:\nHe rolls along in blood, and breathes his last.\nThe Latin squadrons take a sudden fright,\nAnd sling their shields behind, to save their backs in flight\nSpurring at speed to their own walls they drew;\nClose in the rear the Tuscan troops pursue,\nAnd urge their flight: Asylas leads the chase;\nTill, seiz'd, with shame, they wheel about and face,\nReceive their foes, and raise a threat'ning cry.\nThe Tuscans take their turn to fear and fly.\nSo swelling surges, with a thund'ring roar,\nDriv'n on each other's backs, insult the shore,\nBound o'er the rocks, incroach upon the land,\nAnd far upon the beach eject the sand;\nThen backward, with a swing, they take their way,\nRepuls'd from upper ground, and seek their mother sea;\nWith equal hurry quit th' invaded shore,\nAnd swallow back the sand and stones they spew'd before.<\/p>\n
Twice were the Tuscans masters of the field,\nTwice by the Latins, in their turn, repell'd.\nAsham'd at length, to the third charge they ran;\nBoth hosts resolv'd, and mingled man to man.\nNow dying groans are heard; the fields are strow'd\nWith falling bodies, and are drunk with blood.\nArms, horses, men, on heaps together lie:\nConfus'd the fight, and more confus'd the cry.\nOrsilochus, who durst not press too near\nStrong Remulus, at distance drove his spear,\nAnd stuck the steel beneath his horse's ear.\nThe fiery steed, impatient of the wound,\nCurvets, and, springing upward with a bound,\nHis helpless lord cast backward on the ground.\nCatillus pierc'd Iolas first; then drew\nHis reeking lance, and at Herminius threw,\nThe mighty champion of the Tuscan crew.\nHis neck and throat unarm'd, his head was bare,\nBut shaded with a length of yellow hair:\nSecure, he fought, expos'd on ev'ry part,\nA spacious mark for swords, and for the flying dart.\nAcross the shoulders came the feather'd wound;\nTransfix'd he fell, and doubled to the ground.\nThe sands with streaming blood are sanguine dyed,\nAnd death with honor sought on either side.<\/p>\n
Resistless thro' the war Camilla rode,\nIn danger unappall'd, and pleas'd with blood.\nOne side was bare for her exerted breast;\nOne shoulder with her painted quiver press'd.\nNow from afar her fatal jav'lins play;\nNow with her ax's edge she hews her way:\nDiana's arms upon her shoulder sound;\nAnd when, too closely press'd, she quits the ground,\nFrom her bent bow she sends a backward wound.\nHer maids, in martial pomp, on either side,\nLarina, Tulla, fierce Tarpeia, ride:\nItalians all; in peace, their queen's delight;\nIn war, the bold companions of the fight.\nSo march'd the Tracian Amazons of old,\nWhen Thermodon with bloody billows roll'd:\nSuch troops as these in shining arms were seen,\nWhen Theseus met in fight their maiden queen:\nSuch to the field Penthisilea led,\nFrom the fierce virgin when the Grecians fled;\nWith such, return'd triumphant from the war,\nHer maids with cries attend the lofty car;\nThey clash with manly force their moony shields;\nWith female shouts resound the Phrygian fields.<\/p>\n
Who foremost, and who last, heroic maid,\nOn the cold earth were by thy courage laid?\nThy spear, of mountain ash, Eumenius first,\nWith fury driv'n, from side to side transpierc'd:\nA purple stream came spouting from the wound;\nBath'd in his blood he lies, and bites the ground.\nLiris and Pegasus at once she slew:\nThe former, as the slacken'd reins he drew\nOf his faint steed; the latter, as he stretch'd\nHis arm to prop his friend, the jav'lin reach'd.\nBy the same weapon, sent from the same hand,\nBoth fall together, and both spurn the sand.\nAmastrus next is added to the slain:\nThe rest in rout she follows o'er the plain:\nTereus, Harpalycus, Demophoon,\nAnd Chromis, at full speed her fury shun.\nOf all her deadly darts, not one she lost;\nEach was attended with a Trojan ghost.\nYoung Ornithus bestrode a hunter steed,\nSwift for the chase, and of Apulian breed.\nHim from afar she spied, in arms unknown:\nO'er his broad back an ox's hide was thrown;\nHis helm a wolf, whose gaping jaws were spread\nA cov'ring for his cheeks, and grinn'd around his head,\nHe clench'd within his hand an iron prong,\nAnd tower'd above the rest, conspicuous in the throng.\nHim soon she singled from the flying train,\nAnd slew with ease; then thus insults the slain:\n\"Vain hunter, didst thou think thro' woods to chase\nThe savage herd, a vile and trembling race?\nHere cease thy vaunts, and own my victory:\nA woman warrior was too strong for thee.\nYet, if the ghosts demand the conqu'ror's name,\nConfessing great Camilla, save thy shame.\"\nThen Butes and Orsilochus she slew,\nThe bulkiest bodies of the Trojan crew;\nBut Butes breast to breast: the spear descends\nAbove the gorget, where his helmet ends,\nAnd o'er the shield which his left side defends.\nOrsilochus and she their courses ply:\nHe seems to follow, and she seems to fly;\nBut in a narrower ring she makes the race;\nAnd then he flies, and she pursues the chase.\nGath'ring at length on her deluded foe,\nShe swings her ax, and rises to the blow\nFull on the helm behind, with such a sway\nThe weapon falls, the riven steel gives way:\nHe groans, he roars, he sues in vain for grace;\nBrains, mingled with his blood, besmear his face.<\/p>\n
Astonish'd Aunus just arrives by chance,\nTo see his fall; nor farther dares advance;\nBut, fixing on the horrid maid his eye,\nHe stares, and shakes, and finds it vain to fly;\nYet, like a true Ligurian, born to cheat,\n(At least while fortune favor'd his deceit,)\nCries out aloud: \"What courage have you shown,\nWho trust your courser's strength, and not your own?\nForego the vantage of your horse, alight,\nAnd then on equal terms begin the fight:\nIt shall be seen, weak woman, what you can,\nWhen, foot to foot, you combat with a man,\"\nHe said. She glows with anger and disdain,\nDismounts with speed to dare him on the plain,\nAnd leaves her horse at large among her train;\nWith her drawn sword defies him to the field,\nAnd, marching, lifts aloft her maiden shield.\nThe youth, who thought his cunning did succeed,\nReins round his horse, and urges all his speed;\nAdds the remembrance of the spur, and hides\nThe goring rowels in his bleeding sides.\n\"Vain fool, and coward!\" cries the lofty maid,\n\"Caught in the train which thou thyself hast laid!\nOn others practice thy Ligurian arts;\nThin stratagems and tricks of little hearts\nAre lost on me: nor shalt thou safe retire,\nWith vaunting lies, to thy fallacious sire.\"\nAt this, so fast her flying feet she sped,\nThat soon she strain'd beyond his horse's head:\nThen turning short, at once she seiz'd the rein,\nAnd laid the boaster grov'ling on the plain.\nNot with more ease the falcon, from above,\nTrusses in middle air the trembling dove,\nThen plumes the prey, in her strong pounces bound:\nThe feathers, foul with blood, come tumbling to the ground.<\/p>\n
Now mighty Jove, from his superior height,\nWith his broad eye surveys th' unequal fight.\nHe fires the breast of Tarchon with disdain,\nAnd sends him to redeem th' abandon'd plain.\nBetwixt the broken ranks the Tuscan rides,\nAnd these encourages, and those he chides;\nRecalls each leader, by his name, from flight;\nRenews their ardor, and restores the fight.\n\"What panic fear has seiz'd your souls? O shame,\nO brand perpetual of th' Etrurian name!\nCowards incurable, a woman's hand\nDrives, breaks, and scatters your ignoble band!\nNow cast away the sword, and quit the shield!\nWhat use of weapons which you dare not wield?\nNot thus you fly your female foes by night,\nNor shun the feast, when the full bowls invite;\nWhen to fat off'rings the glad augur calls,\nAnd the shrill hornpipe sounds to bacchanals.\nThese are your studied cares, your lewd delight:\nSwift to debauch, but slow to manly fight.\"\nThus having said, he spurs amid the foes,\nNot managing the life he meant to lose.\nThe first he found he seiz'd with headlong haste,\nIn his strong gripe, and clasp'd around the waist;\n'T was Venulus, whom from his horse he tore,\nAnd, laid athwart his own, in triumph bore.\nLoud shouts ensue; the Latins turn their eyes,\nAnd view th' unusual sight with vast surprise.\nThe fiery Tarchon, flying o'er the plains,\nPress'd in his arms the pond'rous prey sustains;\nThen, with his shorten'd spear, explores around\nHis jointed arms, to fix a deadly wound.\nNor less the captive struggles for his life:\nHe writhes his body to prolong the strife,\nAnd, fencing for his naked throat, exerts\nHis utmost vigor, and the point averts.\nSo stoops the yellow eagle from on high,\nAnd bears a speckled serpent thro' the sky,\nFast'ning his crooked talons on the prey:\nThe pris'ner hisses thro' the liquid way;\nResists the royal hawk; and, tho' oppress'd,\nShe fights in volumes, and erects her crest:\nTurn'd to her foe, she stiffens ev'ry scale,\nAnd shoots her forky tongue, and whisks her threat'ning tail.\nAgainst the victor, all defense is weak:\nTh' imperial bird still plies her with his beak;\nHe tears her bowels, and her breast he gores;\nThen claps his pinions, and securely soars.\nThus, thro' the midst of circling enemies,\nStrong Tarchon snatch'd and bore away his prize.\nThe Tyrrhene troops, that shrunk before, now press\nThe Latins, and presume the like success.<\/p>\n
Then Aruns, doom'd to death, his arts assay'd,\nTo murther, unespied, the Volscian maid:\nThis way and that his winding course he bends,\nAnd, whereso'er she turns, her steps attends.\nWhen she retires victorious from the chase,\nHe wheels about with care, and shifts his place;\nWhen, rushing on, she seeks her foes flight,\nHe keeps aloof, but keeps her still in sight:\nHe threats, and trembles, trying ev'ry way,\nUnseen to kill, and safely to betray.\nChloreus, the priest of Cybele, from far,\nGlitt'ring in Phrygian arms amidst the war,\nWas by the virgin view'd. The steed he press'd\nWas proud with trappings, and his brawny chest\nWith scales of gilded brass was cover'd o'er;\nA robe of Tyrian dye the rider wore.\nWith deadly wounds he gall'd the distant foe;\nGnossian his shafts, and Lycian was his bow:\nA golden helm his front and head surrounds\nA gilded quiver from his shoulder sounds.\nGold, weav'd with linen, on his thighs he wore,\nWith flowers of needlework distinguish'd o'er,\nWith golden buckles bound, and gather'd up before.\nHim the fierce maid beheld with ardent eyes,\nFond and ambitious of so rich a prize,\nOr that the temple might his trophies hold,\nOr else to shine herself in Trojan gold.\nBlind in her haste, she chases him alone.\nAnd seeks his life, regardless of her own.<\/p>\n
This lucky moment the sly traitor chose:\nThen, starting from his ambush, up he rose,\nAnd threw, but first to Heav'n address'd his vows:\n\"O patron of Socrates' high abodes,\nPhoebus, the ruling pow'r among the gods,\nWhom first we serve, whole woods of unctuous pine\nAre fell'd for thee, and to thy glory shine;\nBy thee protected with our naked soles,\nThro' flames unsing'd we march, and tread the kindled coals\nGive me, propitious pow'r, to wash away\nThe stains of this dishonorable day:\nNor spoils, nor triumph, from the fact I claim,\nBut with my future actions trust my fame.\nLet me, by stealth, this female plague o'ercome,\nAnd from the field return inglorious home.\"\nApollo heard, and, granting half his pray'r,\nShuffled in winds the rest, and toss'd in empty air.\nHe gives the death desir'd; his safe return\nBy southern tempests to the seas is borne.<\/p>\n
Now, when the jav'lin whizz'd along the skies,\nBoth armies on Camilla turn'd their eyes,\nDirected by the sound. Of either host,\nTh' unhappy virgin, tho' concern'd the most,\nWas only deaf; so greedy was she bent\nOn golden spoils, and on her prey intent;\nTill in her pap the winged weapon stood\nInfix'd, and deeply drunk the purple blood.\nHer sad attendants hasten to sustain\nTheir dying lady, drooping on the plain.\nFar from their sight the trembling Aruns flies,\nWith beating heart, and fear confus'd with joys;\nNor dares he farther to pursue his blow,\nOr ev'n to bear the sight of his expiring foe.\nAs, when the wolf has torn a bullock's hide\nAt unawares, or ranch'd a shepherd's side,\nConscious of his audacious deed, he flies,\nAnd claps his quiv'ring tail between his thighs:\nSo, speeding once, the wretch no more attends,\nBut, spurring forward, herds among his friends.<\/p>\n
She wrench'd the jav'lin with her dying hands,\nBut wedg'd within her breast the weapon stands;\nThe wood she draws, the steely point remains;\nShe staggers in her seat with agonizing pains:\n(A gath'ring mist o'erclouds her cheerful eyes,\nAnd from her cheeks the rosy color flies:)\nThen turns to her, whom of her female train\nShe trusted most, and thus she speaks with pain:\n\"Acca, 't is past! he swims before my sight,\nInexorable Death; and claims his right.\nBear my last words to Turnus; fly with speed,\nAnd bid him timely to my charge succeed,\nRepel the Trojans, and the town relieve:\nFarewell! and in this kiss my parting breath receive.\"\nShe said, and, sliding, sunk upon the plain:\nDying, her open'd hand forsakes the rein;\nShort, and more short, she pants; by slow degrees\nHer mind the passage from her body frees.\nShe drops her sword; she nods her plumy crest,\nHer drooping head declining on her breast:\nIn the last sigh her struggling soul expires,\nAnd, murm'ring with disdain, to Stygian sounds retires.<\/p>\n
A shout, that struck the golden stars, ensued;\nDespair and rage the languish'd fight renew'd.\nThe Trojan troops and Tuscans, in a line,\nAdvance to charge; the mix'd Arcadians join.<\/p>\n
But Cynthia's maid, high seated, from afar\nSurveys the field, and fortune of the war,\nUnmov'd a while, till, prostrate on the plain,\nWelt'ring in blood, she sees Camilla slain,\nAnd, round her corpse, of friends and foes a fighting train.\nThen, from the bottom of her breast, she drew\nA mournful sigh, and these sad words ensue:\n\"Too dear a fine, ah much lamented maid,\nFor warring with the Trojans, thou hast paid!\nNor aught avail'd, in this unhappy strife,\nDiana's sacred arms, to save thy life.\nYet unreveng'd thy goddess will not leave\nHer vot'ry's death, nor; with vain sorrow grieve.\nBranded the wretch, and be his name abhorr'd;\nBut after ages shall thy praise record.\nTh' inglorious coward soon shall press the plain:\nThus vows thy queen, and thus the Fates ordain.\"<\/p>\n
High o'er the field there stood a hilly mound,\nSacred the place, and spread with oaks around,\nWhere, in a marble tomb, Dercennus lay,\nA king that once in Latium bore the sway.\nThe beauteous Opis thither bent her flight,\nTo mark the traitor Aruns from the height.\nHim in refulgent arms she soon espied,\nSwoln with success; and loudly thus she cried:\n\"Thy backward steps, vain boaster, are too late;\nTurn like a man, at length, and meet thy fate.\nCharg'd with my message, to Camilla go,\nAnd say I sent thee to the shades below,\nAn honor undeserv'd from Cynthia's bow.\"<\/p>\n
She said, and from her quiver chose with speed\nThe winged shaft, predestin'd for the deed;\nThen to the stubborn yew her strength applied,\nTill the far distant horns approach'd on either side.\nThe bowstring touch'd her breast, so strong she drew;\nWhizzing in air the fatal arrow flew.\nAt once the twanging bow and sounding dart\nThe traitor heard, and felt the point within his heart.\nHim, beating with his heels in pangs of death,\nHis flying friends to foreign fields bequeath.\nThe conqu'ring damsel, with expanded wings,\nThe welcome message to her mistress brings.<\/p>\n
Their leader lost, the Volscians quit the field,\nAnd, unsustain'd, the chiefs of Turnus yield.\nThe frighted soldiers, when their captains fly,\nMore on their speed than on their strength rely.\nConfus'd in flight, they bear each other down,\nAnd spur their horses headlong to the town.\nDriv'n by their foes, and to their fears resign'd,\nNot once they turn, but take their wounds behind.\nThese drop the shield, and those the lance forego,\nOr on their shoulders bear the slacken'd bow.\nThe hoofs of horses, with a rattling sound,\nBeat short and thick, and shake the rotten ground.\nBlack clouds of dust come rolling in the sky,\nAnd o'er the darken'd walls and rampires fly.\nThe trembling matrons, from their lofty stands,\nRend heav'n with female shrieks, and wring their hands.\nAll pressing on, pursuers and pursued,\nAre crush'd in crowds, a mingled multitude.\nSome happy few escape: the throng too late\nRush on for entrance, till they choke the gate.\nEv'n in the sight of home, the wretched sire\nLooks on, and sees his helpless son expire.\nThen, in a fright, the folding gates they close,\nBut leave their friends excluded with their foes.\nThe vanquish'd cry; the victors loudly shout;\n'T is terror all within, and slaughter all without.\nBlind in their fear, they bounce against the wall,\nOr, to the moats pursued, precipitate their fall.<\/p>\n
The Latian virgins, valiant with despair,\nArm'd on the tow'rs, the common danger share:\nSo much of zeal their country's cause inspir'd;\nSo much Camilla's great example fir'd.\nPoles, sharpen'd in the flames, from high they throw,\nWith imitated darts, to gall the foe.\nTheir lives for godlike freedom they bequeath,\nAnd crowd each other to be first in death.\nMeantime to Turnus, ambush'd in the shade,\nWith heavy tidings came th' unhappy maid:\n\"The Volscians overthrown, Camilla kill'd;\nThe foes, entirely masters of the field,\nLike a resistless flood, come rolling on:\nThe cry goes off the plain, and thickens to the town.\"<\/p>\n
Inflam'd with rage, (for so the Furies fire\nThe Daunian's breast, and so the Fates require,)\nHe leaves the hilly pass, the woods in vain\nPossess'd, and downward issues on the plain.\nScarce was he gone, when to the straits, now freed\nFrom secret foes, the Trojan troops succeed.\nThro' the black forest and the ferny brake,\nUnknowingly secure, their way they take;\nFrom the rough mountains to the plain descend,\nAnd there, in order drawn, their line extend.\nBoth armies now in open fields are seen;\nNor far the distance of the space between.\nBoth to the city bend. Aeneas sees,\nThro' smoking fields, his hast'ning enemies;\nAnd Turnus views the Trojans in array,\nAnd hears th' approaching horses proudly neigh.\nSoon had their hosts in bloody battle join'd;\nBut westward to the sea the sun declin'd.\nIntrench'd before the town both armies lie,\nWhile Night with sable wings involves the sky.<\/p>","rendered":"
Scarce had the rosy Morning rais’d her head
\nAbove the waves, and left her wat’ry bed;
\nThe pious chief, whom double cares attend
\nFor his unburied soldiers and his friend,
\nYet first to Heav’n perform’d a victor’s vows:
\nHe bar’d an ancient oak of all her boughs;
\nThen on a rising ground the trunk he plac’d,
\nWhich with the spoils of his dead foe he grac’d.
\nThe coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn,
\nNow on a naked snag in triumph borne,
\nWas hung on high, and glitter’d from afar,
\nA trophy sacred to the God of War.
\nAbove his arms, fix’d on the leafless wood,
\nAppear’d his plumy crest, besmear’d with blood:
\nHis brazen buckler on the left was seen;
\nTruncheons of shiver’d lances hung between;
\nAnd on the right was placed his corslet, bor’d;
\nAnd to the neck was tied his unavailing sword.<\/p>\n
A crowd of chiefs inclose the godlike man,
\nWho thus, conspicuous in the midst, began:
\n“Our toils, my friends, are crown’d with sure success;
\nThe greater part perform’d, achieve the less.
\nNow follow cheerful to the trembling town;
\nPress but an entrance, and presume it won.
\nFear is no more, for fierce Mezentius lies,
\nAs the first fruits of war, a sacrifice.
\nTurnus shall fall extended on the plain,
\nAnd, in this omen, is already slain.
\nPrepar’d in arms, pursue your happy chance;
\nThat none unwarn’d may plead his ignorance,
\nAnd I, at Heav’n’s appointed hour, may find
\nYour warlike ensigns waving in the wind.
\nMeantime the rites and fun’ral pomps prepare,
\nDue to your dead companions of the war:
\nThe last respect the living can bestow,
\nTo shield their shadows from contempt below.
\nThat conquer’d earth be theirs, for which they fought,
\nAnd which for us with their own blood they bought;
\nBut first the corpse of our unhappy friend
\nTo the sad city of Evander send,
\nWho, not inglorious, in his age’s bloom,
\nWas hurried hence by too severe a doom.”<\/p>\n
Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way,
\nWhere, new in death, lamented Pallas lay.
\nAcoetes watch’d the corpse; whose youth deserv’d
\nThe father’s trust; and now the son he serv’d
\nWith equal faith, but less auspicious care.
\nTh’ attendants of the slain his sorrow share.
\nA troop of Trojans mix’d with these appear,
\nAnd mourning matrons with dishevel’d hair.
\nSoon as the prince appears, they raise a cry;
\nAll beat their breasts, and echoes rend the sky.
\nThey rear his drooping forehead from the ground;
\nBut, when Aeneas view’d the grisly wound
\nWhich Pallas in his manly bosom bore,
\nAnd the fair flesh distain’d with purple gore;
\nFirst, melting into tears, the pious man
\nDeplor’d so sad a sight, then thus began:
\n“Unhappy youth! when Fortune gave the rest
\nOf my full wishes, she refus’d the best!
\nShe came; but brought not thee along, to bless
\nMy longing eyes, and share in my success:
\nShe grudg’d thy safe return, the triumphs due
\nTo prosp’rous valor, in the public view.
\nNot thus I promis’d, when thy father lent
\nThy needless succor with a sad consent;
\nEmbrac’d me, parting for th’ Etrurian land,
\nAnd sent me to possess a large command.
\nHe warn’d, and from his own experience told,
\nOur foes were warlike, disciplin’d, and bold.
\nAnd now perhaps, in hopes of thy return,
\nRich odors on his loaded altars burn,
\nWhile we, with vain officious pomp, prepare
\nTo send him back his portion of the war,
\nA bloody breathless body, which can owe
\nNo farther debt, but to the pow’rs below.
\nThe wretched father, ere his race is run,
\nShall view the fun’ral honors of his son.
\nThese are my triumphs of the Latian war,
\nFruits of my plighted faith and boasted care!
\nAnd yet, unhappy sire, thou shalt not see
\nA son whose death disgrac’d his ancestry;
\nThou shalt not blush, old man, however griev’d:
\nThy Pallas no dishonest wound receiv’d.
\nHe died no death to make thee wish, too late,
\nThou hadst not liv’d to see his shameful fate:
\nBut what a champion has th’ Ausonian coast,
\nAnd what a friend hast thou, Ascanius, lost!”<\/p>\n
Thus having mourn’d, he gave the word around,
\nTo raise the breathless body from the ground;
\nAnd chose a thousand horse, the flow’r of all
\nHis warlike troops, to wait the funeral,
\nTo bear him back and share Evander’s grief:
\nA well-becoming, but a weak relief.
\nOf oaken twigs they twist an easy bier,
\nThen on their shoulders the sad burden rear.
\nThe body on this rural hearse is borne:
\nStrew’d leaves and funeral greens the bier adorn.
\nAll pale he lies, and looks a lovely flow’r,
\nNew cropp’d by virgin hands, to dress the bow’r:
\nUnfaded yet, but yet unfed below,
\nNo more to mother earth or the green stern shall owe.
\nThen two fair vests, of wondrous work and cost,
\nOf purple woven, and with gold emboss’d,
\nFor ornament the Trojan hero brought,
\nWhich with her hands Sidonian Dido wrought.
\nOne vest array’d the corpse; and one they spread
\nO’er his clos’d eyes, and wrapp’d around his head,
\nThat, when the yellow hair in flame should fall,
\nThe catching fire might burn the golden caul.
\nBesides, the spoils of foes in battle slain,
\nWhen he descended on the Latian plain;
\nArms, trappings, horses, by the hearse are led
\nIn long array- th’ achievements of the dead.
\nThen, pinion’d with their hands behind, appear
\nTh’ unhappy captives, marching in the rear,
\nAppointed off’rings in the victor’s name,
\nTo sprinkle with their blood the fun’ral flame.
\nInferior trophies by the chiefs are borne;
\nGauntlets and helms their loaded hands adorn;
\nAnd fair inscriptions fix’d, and titles read
\nOf Latian leaders conquer’d by the dead.<\/p>\n
Acoetes on his pupil’s corpse attends,
\nWith feeble steps, supported by his friends.
\nPausing at ev’ry pace, in sorrow drown’d,
\nBetwixt their arms he sinks upon the ground;
\nWhere grov’ling while he lies in deep despair,
\nHe beats his breast, and rends his hoary hair.
\nThe champion’s chariot next is seen to roll,
\nBesmear’d with hostile blood, and honorably foul.
\nTo close the pomp, Aethon, the steed of state,
\nIs led, the fun’rals of his lord to wait.
\nStripp’d of his trappings, with a sullen pace
\nHe walks; and the big tears run rolling down his face.
\nThe lance of Pallas, and the crimson crest,
\nAre borne behind: the victor seiz’d the rest.
\nThe march begins: the trumpets hoarsely sound;
\nThe pikes and lances trail along the ground.
\nThus while the Trojan and Arcadian horse
\nTo Pallantean tow’rs direct their course,
\nIn long procession rank’d, the pious chief
\nStopp’d in the rear, and gave a vent to grief:
\n“The public care,” he said, “which war attends,
\nDiverts our present woes, at least suspends.
\nPeace with the manes of great Pallas dwell!
\nHail, holy relics! and a last farewell!”
\nHe said no more, but, inly thro’ he mourn’d,
\nRestrained his tears, and to the camp return’d.<\/p>\n
Now suppliants, from Laurentum sent, demand
\nA truce, with olive branches in their hand;
\nObtest his clemency, and from the plain
\nBeg leave to draw the bodies of their slain.
\nThey plead, that none those common rites deny
\nTo conquer’d foes that in fair battle die.
\nAll cause of hate was ended in their death;
\nNor could he war with bodies void of breath.
\nA king, they hop’d, would hear a king’s request,
\nWhose son he once was call’d, and once his guest.<\/p>\n
Their suit, which was too just to be denied,
\nThe hero grants, and farther thus replied:
\n“O Latian princes, how severe a fate
\nIn causeless quarrels has involv’d your state,
\nAnd arm’d against an unoffending man,
\nWho sought your friendship ere the war began!
\nYou beg a truce, which I would gladly give,
\nNot only for the slain, but those who live.
\nI came not hither but by Heav’n’s command,
\nAnd sent by fate to share the Latian land.
\nNor wage I wars unjust: your king denied
\nMy proffer’d friendship, and my promis’d bride;
\nLeft me for Turnus. Turnus then should try
\nHis cause in arms, to conquer or to die.
\nMy right and his are in dispute: the slain
\nFell without fault, our quarrel to maintain.
\nIn equal arms let us alone contend;
\nAnd let him vanquish, whom his fates befriend.
\nThis is the way (so tell him) to possess
\nThe royal virgin, and restore the peace.
\nBear this message back, with ample leave,
\nThat your slain friends may fun’ral rites receive.”<\/p>\n
Thus having said- th’ embassadors, amaz’d,
\nStood mute a while, and on each other gaz’d.
\nDrances, their chief, who harbor’d in his breast
\nLong hate to Turnus, as his foe profess’d,
\nBroke silence first, and to the godlike man,
\nWith graceful action bowing, thus began:
\n“Auspicious prince, in arms a mighty name,
\nBut yet whose actions far transcend your fame;
\nWould I your justice or your force express,
\nThought can but equal; and all words are less.
\nYour answer we shall thankfully relate,
\nAnd favors granted to the Latian state.
\nIf wish’d success our labor shall attend,
\nThink peace concluded, and the king your friend:
\nLet Turnus leave the realm to your command,
\nAnd seek alliance in some other land:
\nBuild you the city which your fates assign;
\nWe shall be proud in the great work to join.”<\/p>\n
Thus Drances; and his words so well persuade
\nThe rest impower’d, that soon a truce is made.
\nTwelve days the term allow’d: and, during those,
\nLatians and Trojans, now no longer foes,
\nMix’d in the woods, for fun’ral piles prepare
\nTo fell the timber, and forget the war.
\nLoud axes thro’ the groaning groves resound;
\nOak, mountain ash, and poplar spread the ground;
\nFirst fall from high; and some the trunks receive
\nIn loaden wains; with wedges some they cleave.<\/p>\n
And now the fatal news by Fame is blown
\nThro’ the short circuit of th’ Arcadian town,
\nOf Pallas slain- by Fame, which just before
\nHis triumphs on distended pinions bore.
\nRushing from out the gate, the people stand,
\nEach with a fun’ral flambeau in his hand.
\nWildly they stare, distracted with amaze:
\nThe fields are lighten’d with a fiery blaze,
\nThat cast a sullen splendor on their friends,
\nThe marching troop which their dead prince attends.
\nBoth parties meet: they raise a doleful cry;
\nThe matrons from the walls with shrieks reply,
\nAnd their mix’d mourning rends the vaulted sky.
\nThe town is fill’d with tumult and with tears,
\nTill the loud clamors reach Evander’s ears:
\nForgetful of his state, he runs along,
\nWith a disorder’d pace, and cleaves the throng;
\nFalls on the corpse; and groaning there he lies,
\nWith silent grief, that speaks but at his eyes.
\nShort sighs and sobs succeed; till sorrow breaks
\nA passage, and at once he weeps and speaks:<\/p>\n
“O Pallas! thou hast fail’d thy plighted word,
\nTo fight with caution, not to tempt the sword!
\nI warn’d thee, but in vain; for well I knew
\nWhat perils youthful ardor would pursue,
\nThat boiling blood would carry thee too far,
\nYoung as thou wert in dangers, raw to war!
\nO curst essay of arms, disastrous doom,
\nPrelude of bloody fields, and fights to come!
\nHard elements of unauspicious war,
\nVain vows to Heav’n, and unavailing care!
\nThrice happy thou, dear partner of my bed,
\nWhose holy soul the stroke of Fortune fled,
\nPraescious of ills, and leaving me behind,
\nTo drink the dregs of life by fate assign’d!
\nBeyond the goal of nature I have gone:
\nMy Pallas late set out, but reach’d too soon.
\nIf, for my league against th’ Ausonian state,
\nAmidst their weapons I had found my fate,
\n(Deserv’d from them,) then I had been return’d
\nA breathless victor, and my son had mourn’d.
\nYet will I not my Trojan friend upbraid,
\nNor grudge th’ alliance I so gladly made.
\n‘T was not his fault, my Pallas fell so young,
\nBut my own crime, for having liv’d too long.
\nYet, since the gods had destin’d him to die,
\nAt least he led the way to victory:
\nFirst for his friends he won the fatal shore,
\nAnd sent whole herds of slaughter’d foes before;
\nA death too great, too glorious to deplore.
\nNor will I add new honors to thy grave,
\nContent with those the Trojan hero gave:
\nThat funeral pomp thy Phrygian friends design’d,
\nIn which the Tuscan chiefs and army join’d.
\nGreat spoils and trophies, gain’d by thee, they bear:
\nThen let thy own achievements be thy share.
\nEven thou, O Turnus, hadst a trophy stood,
\nWhose mighty trunk had better grac’d the wood,
\nIf Pallas had arriv’d, with equal length
\nOf years, to match thy bulk with equal strength.
\nBut why, unhappy man, dost thou detain
\nThese troops, to view the tears thou shedd’st in vain?
\nGo, friends, this message to your lord relate:
\nTell him, that, if I bear my bitter fate,
\nAnd, after Pallas’ death, live ling’ring on,
\n‘T is to behold his vengeance for my son.
\nI stay for Turnus, whose devoted head
\nIs owing to the living and the dead.
\nMy son and I expect it from his hand;
\n‘T is all that he can give, or we demand.
\nJoy is no more; but I would gladly go,
\nTo greet my Pallas with such news below.”<\/p>\n
The morn had now dispell’d the shades of night,
\nRestoring toils, when she restor’d the light.
\nThe Trojan king and Tuscan chief command
\nTo raise the piles along the winding strand.
\nTheir friends convey the dead fun’ral fires;
\nBlack smold’ring smoke from the green wood expires;
\nThe light of heav’n is chok’d, and the new day retires.
\nThen thrice around the kindled piles they go
\n(For ancient custom had ordain’d it so)
\nThrice horse and foot about the fires are led;
\nAnd thrice, with loud laments, they hail the dead.
\nTears, trickling down their breasts, bedew the ground,
\nAnd drums and trumpets mix their mournful sound.
\nAmid the blaze, their pious brethren throw
\nThe spoils, in battle taken from the foe:
\nHelms, bits emboss’d, and swords of shining steel;
\nOne casts a target, one a chariot wheel;
\nSome to their fellows their own arms restore:
\nThe fauchions which in luckless fight they bore,
\nTheir bucklers pierc’d, their darts bestow’d in vain,
\nAnd shiver’d lances gather’d from the plain.
\nWhole herds of offer’d bulls, about the fire,
\nAnd bristled boars, and woolly sheep expire.
\nAround the piles a careful troop attends,
\nTo watch the wasting flames, and weep their burning friends;
\nLing’ring along the shore, till dewy night
\nNew decks the face of heav’n with starry light.<\/p>\n
The conquer’d Latians, with like pious care,
\nPiles without number for their dead prepare.
\nPart in the places where they fell are laid;
\nAnd part are to the neighb’ring fields convey’d.
\nThe corps of kings, and captains of renown,
\nBorne off in state, are buried in the town;
\nThe rest, unhonor’d, and without a name,
\nAre cast a common heap to feed the flame.
\nTrojans and Latians vie with like desires
\nTo make the field of battle shine with fires,
\nAnd the promiscuous blaze to heav’n aspires.<\/p>\n
Now had the morning thrice renew’d the light,
\nAnd thrice dispell’d the shadows of the night,
\nWhen those who round the wasted fires remain,
\nPerform the last sad office to the slain.
\nThey rake the yet warm ashes from below;
\nThese, and the bones unburn’d, in earth bestow;
\nThese relics with their country rites they grace,
\nAnd raise a mount of turf to mark the place.<\/p>\n
But, in the palace of the king, appears
\nA scene more solemn, and a pomp of tears.
\nMaids, matrons, widows, mix their common moans;
\nOrphans their sires, and sires lament their sons.
\nAll in that universal sorrow share,
\nAnd curse the cause of this unhappy war:
\nA broken league, a bride unjustly sought,
\nA crown usurp’d, which with their blood is bought!
\nThese are the crimes with which they load the name
\nOf Turnus, and on him alone exclaim:
\n“Let him who lords it o’er th’ Ausonian land
\nEngage the Trojan hero hand to hand:
\nHis is the gain; our lot is but to serve;
\n‘T is just, the sway he seeks, he should deserve.”
\nThis Drances aggravates; and adds, with spite:
\n“His foe expects, and dares him to the fight.”
\nNor Turnus wants a party, to support
\nHis cause and credit in the Latian court.
\nHis former acts secure his present fame,
\nAnd the queen shades him with her mighty name.<\/p>\n
While thus their factious minds with fury burn,
\nThe legates from th’ Aetolian prince return:
\nSad news they bring, that, after all the cost
\nAnd care employ’d, their embassy is lost;
\nThat Diomedes refus’d his aid in war,
\nUnmov’d with presents, and as deaf to pray’r.
\nSome new alliance must elsewhere be sought,
\nOr peace with Troy on hard conditions bought.<\/p>\n
Latinus, sunk in sorrow, finds too late,
\nA foreign son is pointed out by fate;
\nAnd, till Aeneas shall Lavinia wed,
\nThe wrath of Heav’n is hov’ring o’er his head.
\nThe gods, he saw, espous’d the juster side,
\nWhen late their titles in the field were tried:
\nWitness the fresh laments, and fun’ral tears undried.
\nThus, full of anxious thought, he summons all
\nThe Latian senate to the council hall.
\nThe princes come, commanded by their head,
\nAnd crowd the paths that to the palace lead.
\nSupreme in pow’r, and reverenc’d for his years,
\nHe takes the throne, and in the midst appears.
\nMajestically sad, he sits in state,
\nAnd bids his envoys their success relate.<\/p>\n
When Venulus began, the murmuring sound
\nWas hush’d, and sacred silence reign’d around.
\n“We have,” said he, “perform’d your high command,
\nAnd pass’d with peril a long tract of land:
\nWe reach’d the place desir’d; with wonder fill’d,
\nThe Grecian tents and rising tow’rs beheld.
\nGreat Diomede has compass’d round with walls
\nThe city, which Argyripa he calls,
\nFrom his own Argos nam’d. We touch’d, with joy,
\nThe royal hand that raz’d unhappy Troy.
\nWhen introduc’d, our presents first we bring,
\nThen crave an instant audience from the king.
\nHis leave obtain’d, our native soil we name,
\nAnd tell th’ important cause for which we came.
\nAttentively he heard us, while we spoke;
\nThen, with soft accents, and a pleasing look,
\nMade this return: ‘Ausonian race, of old
\nRenown’d for peace, and for an age of gold,
\nWhat madness has your alter’d minds possess’d,
\nTo change for war hereditary rest,
\nSolicit arms unknown, and tempt the sword,
\nA needless ill your ancestors abhorr’d?
\nWe- for myself I speak, and all the name
\nOf Grecians, who to Troy’s destruction came,
\nOmitting those who were in battle slain,
\nOr borne by rolling Simois to the main-
\nNot one but suffer’d, and too dearly bought
\nThe prize of honor which in arms he sought;
\nSome doom’d to death, and some in exile driv’n.
\nOutcasts, abandon’d by the care of Heav’n;
\nSo worn, so wretched, so despis’d a crew,
\nAs ev’n old Priam might with pity view.
\nWitness the vessels by Minerva toss’d
\nIn storms; the vengeful Capharean coast;
\nTh’ Euboean rocks! the prince, whose brother led
\nOur armies to revenge his injur’d bed,
\nIn Egypt lost! Ulysses with his men
\nHave seen Charybdis and the Cyclops’ den.
\nWhy should I name Idomeneus, in vain
\nRestor’d to scepters, and expell’d again?
\nOr young Achilles, by his rival slain?
\nEv’n he, the King of Men, the foremost name
\nOf all the Greeks, and most renown’d by fame,
\nThe proud revenger of another’s wife,
\nYet by his own adult’ress lost his life;
\nFell at his threshold; and the spoils of Troy
\nThe foul polluters of his bed enjoy.
\nThe gods have envied me the sweets of life,
\nMy much lov’d country, and my more lov’d wife:
\nBanish’d from both, I mourn; while in the sky,
\nTransform’d to birds, my lost companions fly:
\nHov’ring about the coasts, they make their moan,
\nAnd cuff the cliffs with pinions not their own.
\nWhat squalid specters, in the dead of night,
\nBreak my short sleep, and skim before my sight!
\nI might have promis’d to myself those harms,
\nMad as I was, when I, with mortal arms,
\nPresum’d against immortal pow’rs to move,
\nAnd violate with wounds the Queen of Love.
\nSuch arms this hand shall never more employ;
\nNo hate remains with me to ruin’d Troy.
\nI war not with its dust; nor am I glad
\nTo think of past events, or good or bad.
\nYour presents I return: whate’er you bring
\nTo buy my friendship, send the Trojan king.
\nWe met in fight; I know him, to my cost:
\nWith what a whirling force his lance he toss’d!
\nHeav’ns! what a spring was in his arm, to throw!
\nHow high he held his shield, and rose at ev’ry blow!
\nHad Troy produc’d two more his match in might,
\nThey would have chang’d the fortune of the fight:
\nTh’ invasion of the Greeks had been return’d,
\nOur empire wasted, and our cities burn’d.
\nThe long defense the Trojan people made,
\nThe war protracted, and the siege delay’d,
\nWere due to Hector’s and this hero’s hand:
\nBoth brave alike, and equal in command;
\nAeneas, not inferior in the field,
\nIn pious reverence to the gods excell’d.
\nMake peace, ye Latians, and avoid with care
\nTh’ impending dangers of a fatal war.’
\nHe said no more; but, with this cold excuse,
\nRefus’d th’ alliance, and advis’d a truce.”<\/p>\n
Thus Venulus concluded his report.
\nA jarring murmur fill’d the factious court:
\nAs, when a torrent rolls with rapid force,
\nAnd dashes o’er the stones that stop the course,
\nThe flood, constrain’d within a scanty space,
\nRoars horrible along th’ uneasy race;
\nWhite foam in gath’ring eddies floats around;
\nThe rocky shores rebellow to the sound.<\/p>\n
The murmur ceas’d: then from his lofty throne
\nThe king invok’d the gods, and thus begun:
\n“I wish, ye Latins, what we now debate
\nHad been resolv’d before it was too late.
\nMuch better had it been for you and me,
\nUnforc’d by this our last necessity,
\nTo have been earlier wise, than now to call
\nA council, when the foe surrounds the wall.
\nO citizens, we wage unequal war,
\nWith men not only Heav’n’s peculiar care,
\nBut Heav’n’s own race; unconquer’d in the field,
\nOr, conquer’d, yet unknowing how to yield.
\nWhat hopes you had in Diomedes, lay down:
\nOur hopes must center on ourselves alone.
\nYet those how feeble, and, indeed, how vain,
\nYou see too well; nor need my words explain.
\nVanquish’d without resource; laid flat by fate;
\nFactions within, a foe without the gate!
\nNot but I grant that all perform’d their parts
\nWith manly force, and with undaunted hearts:
\nWith our united strength the war we wag’d;
\nWith equal numbers, equal arms, engag’d.
\nYou see th’ event.- Now hear what I propose,
\nTo save our friends, and satisfy our foes.
\nA tract of land the Latins have possess’d
\nAlong the Tiber, stretching to the west,
\nWhich now Rutulians and Auruncans till,
\nAnd their mix’d cattle graze the fruitful hill.
\nThose mountains fill’d with firs, that lower land,
\nIf you consent, the Trojan shall command,
\nCall’d into part of what is ours; and there,
\nOn terms agreed, the common country share.
\nThere let’em build and settle, if they please;
\nUnless they choose once more to cross the seas,
\nIn search of seats remote from Italy,
\nAnd from unwelcome inmates set us free.
\nThen twice ten galleys let us build with speed,
\nOr twice as many more, if more they need.
\nMaterials are at hand; a well-grown wood
\nRuns equal with the margin of the flood:
\nLet them the number and the form assign;
\nThe care and cost of all the stores be mine.
\nTo treat the peace, a hundred senators
\nShall be commission’d hence with ample pow’rs,
\nWith olive the presents they shall bear,
\nA purple robe, a royal iv’ry chair,
\nAnd all the marks of sway that Latian monarchs wear,
\nAnd sums of gold. Among yourselves debate
\nThis great affair, and save the sinking state.”<\/p>\n
Then Drances took the word, who grudg’d, long since,
\nThe rising glories of the Daunian prince.
\nFactious and rich, bold at the council board,
\nBut cautious in the field, he shunn’d the sword;
\nA close caballer, and tongue-valiant lord.
\nNoble his mother was, and near the throne;
\nBut, what his father’s parentage, unknown.
\nHe rose, and took th’ advantage of the times,
\nTo load young Turnus with invidious crimes.
\n“Such truths, O king,” said he, “your words contain,
\nAs strike the sense, and all replies are vain;
\nNor are your loyal subjects now to seek
\nWhat common needs require, but fear to speak.
\nLet him give leave of speech, that haughty man,
\nWhose pride this unauspicious war began;
\nFor whose ambition (let me dare to say,
\nFear set apart, tho’ death is in my way)
\nThe plains of Latium run with blood around.
\nSo many valiant heroes bite the ground;
\nDejected grief in ev’ry face appears;
\nA town in mourning, and a land in tears;
\nWhile he, th’ undoubted author of our harms,
\nThe man who menaces the gods with arms,
\nYet, after all his boasts, forsook the fight,
\nAnd sought his safety in ignoble flight.
\nNow, best of kings, since you propose to send
\nSuch bounteous presents to your Trojan friend;
\nAdd yet a greater at our joint request,
\nOne which he values more than all the rest:
\nGive him the fair Lavinia for his bride;
\nWith that alliance let the league be tied,
\nAnd for the bleeding land a lasting peace provide.
\nLet insolence no longer awe the throne;
\nBut, with a father’s right, bestow your own.
\nFor this maligner of the general good,
\nIf still we fear his force, he must be woo’d;
\nHis haughty godhead we with pray’rs implore,
\nYour scepter to release, and our just rights restore.
\nO cursed cause of all our ills, must we
\nWage wars unjust, and fall in fight, for thee!
\nWhat right hast thou to rule the Latian state,
\nAnd send us out to meet our certain fate?
\n‘T is a destructive war: from Turnus’ hand
\nOur peace and public safety we demand.
\nLet the fair bride to the brave chief remain;
\nIf not, the peace, without the pledge, is vain.
\nTurnus, I know you think me not your friend,
\nNor will I much with your belief contend:
\nI beg your greatness not to give the law
\nIn others’ realms, but, beaten, to withdraw.
\nPity your own, or pity our estate;
\nNor twist our fortunes with your sinking fate.
\nYour interest is, the war should never cease;
\nBut we have felt enough to wish the peace:
\nA land exhausted to the last remains,
\nDepopulated towns, and driven plains.
\nYet, if desire of fame, and thirst of pow’r,
\nA beauteous princess, with a crown in dow’r,
\nSo fire your mind, in arms assert your right,
\nAnd meet your foe, who dares you to the fight.
\nMankind, it seems, is made for you alone;
\nWe, but the slaves who mount you to the throne:
\nA base ignoble crowd, without a name,
\nUnwept, unworthy, of the fun’ral flame,
\nBy duty bound to forfeit each his life,
\nThat Turnus may possess a royal wife.
\nPermit not, mighty man, so mean a crew
\nShould share such triumphs, and detain from you
\nThe post of honor, your undoubted due.
\nRather alone your matchless force employ,
\nTo merit what alone you must enjoy.”<\/p>\n
These words, so full of malice mix’d with art,
\nInflam’d with rage the youthful hero’s heart.
\nThen, groaning from the bottom of his breast,
\nHe heav’d for wind, and thus his wrath express’d:
\n“You, Drances, never want a stream of words,
\nThen, when the public need requires our swords.
\nFirst in the council hall to steer the state,
\nAnd ever foremost in a tongue-debate,
\nWhile our strong walls secure us from the foe,
\nEre yet with blood our ditches overflow:
\nBut let the potent orator declaim,
\nAnd with the brand of coward blot my name;
\nFree leave is giv’n him, when his fatal hand
\nHas cover’d with more corps the sanguine strand,
\nAnd high as mine his tow’ring trophies stand.
\nIf any doubt remains, who dares the most,
\nLet us decide it at the Trojan’s cost,
\nAnd issue both abreast, where honor calls-
\nFoes are not far to seek without the walls-
\nUnless his noisy tongue can only fight,
\nAnd feet were giv’n him but to speed his flight.
\nI beaten from the field? I forc’d away?
\nWho, but so known a dastard, dares to say?
\nHad he but ev’n beheld the fight, his eyes
\nHad witness’d for me what his tongue denies:
\nWhat heaps of Trojans by this hand were slain,
\nAnd how the bloody Tiber swell’d the main.
\nAll saw, but he, th’ Arcadian troops retire
\nIn scatter’d squadrons, and their prince expire.
\nThe giant brothers, in their camp, have found,
\nI was not forc’d with ease to quit my ground.
\nNot such the Trojans tried me, when, inclos’d,
\nI singly their united arms oppos’d:
\nFirst forc’d an entrance thro’ their thick array;
\nThen, glutted with their slaughter, freed my way.
\n‘T is a destructive war? So let it be,
\nBut to the Phrygian pirate, and to thee!
\nMeantime proceed to fill the people’s ears
\nWith false reports, their minds with panic fears:
\nExtol the strength of a twice-conquer’d race;
\nOur foes encourage, and our friends debase.
\nBelieve thy fables, and the Trojan town
\nTriumphant stands; the Grecians are o’erthrown;
\nSuppliant at Hector’s feet Achilles lies,
\nAnd Diomede from fierce Aeneas flies.
\nSay rapid Aufidus with awful dread
\nRuns backward from the sea, and hides his head,
\nWhen the great Trojan on his bank appears;
\nFor that’s as true as thy dissembled fears
\nOf my revenge. Dismiss that vanity:
\nThou, Drances, art below a death from me.
\nLet that vile soul in that vile body rest;
\nThe lodging is well worthy of the guest.<\/p>\n
“Now, royal father, to the present state
\nOf our affairs, and of this high debate:
\nIf in your arms thus early you diffide,
\nAnd think your fortune is already tried;
\nIf one defeat has brought us down so low,
\nAs never more in fields to meet the foe;
\nThen I conclude for peace: ‘t is time to treat,
\nAnd lie like vassals at the victor’s feet.
\nBut, O! if any ancient blood remains,
\nOne drop of all our fathers’, in our veins,
\nThat man would I prefer before the rest,
\nWho dar’d his death with an undaunted breast;
\nWho comely fell, by no dishonest wound,
\nTo shun that sight, and, dying, gnaw’d the ground.
\nBut, if we still have fresh recruits in store,
\nIf our confederates can afford us more;
\nIf the contended field we bravely fought,
\nAnd not a bloodless victory was bought;
\nTheir losses equal’d ours; and, for their slain,
\nWith equal fires they fill’d the shining plain;
\nWhy thus, unforc’d, should we so tamely yield,
\nAnd, ere the trumpet sounds, resign the field?
\nGood unexpected, evils unforeseen,
\nAppear by turns, as fortune shifts the scene:
\nSome, rais’d aloft, come tumbling down amain;
\nThen fall so hard, they bound and rise again.
\nIf Diomede refuse his aid to lend,
\nThe great Messapus yet remains our friend:
\nTolumnius, who foretells events, is ours;
\nTh’ Italian chiefs and princes join their pow’rs:
\nNor least in number, nor in name the last,
\nYour own brave subjects have your cause embrac’d
\nAbove the rest, the Volscian Amazon
\nContains an army in herself alone,
\nAnd heads a squadron, terrible to sight,
\nWith glitt’ring shields, in brazen armor bright.
\nYet, if the foe a single fight demand,
\nAnd I alone the public peace withstand;
\nIf you consent, he shall not be refus’d,
\nNor find a hand to victory unus’d.
\nThis new Achilles, let him take the field,
\nWith fated armor, and Vulcanian shield!
\nFor you, my royal father, and my fame,
\nI, Turnus, not the least of all my name,
\nDevote my soul. He calls me hand to hand,
\nAnd I alone will answer his demand.
\nDrances shall rest secure, and neither share
\nThe danger, nor divide the prize of war.”<\/p>\n
While they debate, nor these nor those will yield,
\nAeneas draws his forces to the field,
\nAnd moves his camp. The scouts with flying speed
\nReturn, and thro’ the frighted city spread
\nTh’ unpleasing news, the Trojans are descried,
\nIn battle marching by the river side,
\nAnd bending to the town. They take th’ alarm:
\nSome tremble, some are bold; all in confusion arm.
\nTh’ impetuous youth press forward to the field;
\nThey clash the sword, and clatter on the shield:
\nThe fearful matrons raise a screaming cry;
\nOld feeble men with fainter groans reply;
\nA jarring sound results, and mingles in the sky,
\nLike that of swans remurm’ring to the floods,
\nOr birds of diff’ring kinds in hollow woods.<\/p>\n
Turnus th’ occasion takes, and cries aloud:
\n“Talk on, ye quaint haranguers of the crowd:
\nDeclaim in praise of peace, when danger calls,
\nAnd the fierce foes in arms approach the walls.”
\nHe said, and, turning short, with speedy pace,
\nCasts back a scornful glance, and quits the place:
\n“Thou, Volusus, the Volscian troops command
\nTo mount; and lead thyself our Ardean band.
\nMessapus and Catillus, post your force
\nAlong the fields, to charge the Trojan horse.
\nSome guard the passes, others man the wall;
\nDrawn up in arms, the rest attend my call.”<\/p>\n
They swarm from ev’ry quarter of the town,
\nAnd with disorder’d haste the rampires crown.
\nGood old Latinus, when he saw, too late,
\nThe gath’ring storm just breaking on the state,
\nDismiss’d the council till a fitter time,
\nAnd own’d his easy temper as his crime,
\nWho, forc’d against his reason, had complied
\nTo break the treaty for the promis’d bride.<\/p>\n
Some help to sink new trenches; others aid
\nTo ram the stones, or raise the palisade.
\nHoarse trumpets sound th’ alarm; around the walls
\nRuns a distracted crew, whom their last labor calls.
\nA sad procession in the streets is seen,
\nOf matrons, that attend the mother queen:
\nHigh in her chair she sits, and, at her side,
\nWith downcast eyes, appears the fatal bride.
\nThey mount the cliff, where Pallas’ temple stands;
\nPray’rs in their mouths, and presents in their hands,
\nWith censers first they fume the sacred shrine,
\nThen in this common supplication join:
\n“O patroness of arms, unspotted maid,
\nPropitious hear, and lend thy Latins aid!
\nBreak short the pirate’s lance; pronounce his fate,
\nAnd lay the Phrygian low before the gate.”<\/p>\n
Now Turnus arms for fight. His back and breast
\nWell-temper’d steel and scaly brass invest:
\nThe cuishes which his brawny thighs infold
\nAre mingled metal damask’d o’er with gold.
\nHis faithful fauchion sits upon his side;
\nNor casque, nor crest, his manly features hide:
\nBut, bare to view, amid surrounding friends,
\nWith godlike grace, he from the tow’r descends.
\nExulting in his strength, he seems to dare
\nHis absent rival, and to promise war.
\nFreed from his keepers, thus, with broken reins,
\nThe wanton courser prances o’er the plains,
\nOr in the pride of youth o’erleaps the mounds,
\nAnd snuffs the females in forbidden grounds.
\nOr seeks his wat’ring in the well-known flood,
\nTo quench his thirst, and cool his fiery blood:
\nHe swims luxuriant in the liquid plain,
\nAnd o’er his shoulder flows his waving mane:
\nHe neighs, he snorts, he bears his head on high;
\nBefore his ample chest the frothy waters fly.<\/p>\n
Soon as the prince appears without the gate,
\nThe Volscians, with their virgin leader, wait
\nHis last commands. Then, with a graceful mien,
\nLights from her lofty steed the warrior queen:
\nHer squadron imitates, and each descends;
\nWhose common suit Camilla thus commends:
\n“If sense of honor, if a soul secure
\nOf inborn worth, that can all tests endure,
\nCan promise aught, or on itself rely
\nGreatly to dare, to conquer or to die;
\nThen, I alone, sustain’d by these, will meet
\nThe Tyrrhene troops, and promise their defeat.
\nOurs be the danger, ours the sole renown:
\nYou, gen’ral, stay behind, and guard the town:”<\/p>\n
Turnus a while stood mute, with glad surprise,
\nAnd on the fierce virago fix’d his eyes;
\nThen thus return’d: “O grace of Italy,
\nWith what becoming thanks can I reply?
\nNot only words lie lab’ring in my breast,
\nBut thought itself is by thy praise oppress’d.
\nYet rob me not of all; but let me join
\nMy toils, my hazard, and my fame, with thine.
\nThe Trojan, not in stratagem unskill’d,
\nSends his light horse before to scour the field:
\nHimself, thro’ steep ascents and thorny brakes,
\nA larger compass to the city takes.
\nThis news my scouts confirm, and I prepare
\nTo foil his cunning, and his force to dare;
\nWith chosen foot his passage to forelay,
\nAnd place an ambush in the winding way.
\nThou, with thy Volscians, face the Tuscan horse;
\nThe brave Messapus shall thy troops inforce
\nWith those of Tibur, and the Latian band,
\nSubjected all to thy supreme command.”
\nThis said, he warns Messapus to the war,
\nThen ev’ry chief exhorts with equal care.
\nAll thus encourag’d, his own troops he joins,
\nAnd hastes to prosecute his deep designs.<\/p>\n
Inclos’d with hills, a winding valley lies,
\nBy nature form’d for fraud, and fitted for surprise.
\nA narrow track, by human steps untrode,
\nLeads, thro’ perplexing thorns, to this obscure abode.
\nHigh o’er the vale a steepy mountain stands,
\nWhence the surveying sight the nether ground commands.
\nThe top is level, an offensive seat
\nOf war; and from the war a safe retreat:
\nFor, on the right and left, is room to press
\nThe foes at hand, or from afar distress;
\nTo drive ’em headlong downward, and to pour
\nOn their descending backs a stony show’r.
\nThither young Turnus took the well-known way,
\nPossess’d the pass, and in blind ambush lay.<\/p>\n
Meantime Latonian Phoebe, from the skies,
\nBeheld th’ approaching war with hateful eyes,
\nAnd call’d the light-foot Opis to her aid,
\nHer most belov’d and ever-trusty maid;
\nThen with a sigh began: “Camilla goes
\nTo meet her death amidst her fatal foes:
\nThe nymphs I lov’d of all my mortal train,
\nInvested with Diana’s arms, in vain.
\nNor is my kindness for the virgin new:
\n‘T was born with her; and with her years it grew.
\nHer father Metabus, when forc’d away
\nFrom old Privernum, for tyrannic sway,
\nSnatch’d up, and sav’d from his prevailing foes,
\nThis tender babe, companion of his woes.
\nCasmilla was her mother; but he drown’d
\nOne hissing letter in a softer sound,
\nAnd call’d Camilla. Thro’ the woods he flies;
\nWrapp’d in his robe the royal infant lies.
\nHis foes in sight, he mends his weary pace;
\nWith shout and clamors they pursue the chase.
\nThe banks of Amasene at length he gains:<\/p>\n
The raging flood his farther flight restrains,
\nRais’d o’er the borders with unusual rains.
\nPrepar’d to plunge into the stream, he fears,
\nNot for himself, but for the charge he bears.
\nAnxious, he stops a while, and thinks in haste;
\nThen, desp’rate in distress, resolves at last.
\nA knotty lance of well-boil’d oak he bore;
\nThe middle part with cork he cover’d o’er:
\nHe clos’d the child within the hollow space;
\nWith twigs of bending osier bound the case;
\nThen pois’d the spear, heavy with human weight,
\nAnd thus invok’d my favor for the freight:
\n‘Accept, great goddess of the woods,’ he said,
\n‘Sent by her sire, this dedicated maid!
\nThro’ air she flies a suppliant to thy shrine;
\nAnd the first weapons that she knows, are thine.’
\nHe said; and with full force the spear he threw:
\nAbove the sounding waves Camilla flew.
\nThen, press’d by foes, he stemm’d the stormy tide,
\nAnd gain’d, by stress of arms, the farther side.
\nHis fasten’d spear he pull’d from out the ground,
\nAnd, victor of his vows, his infant nymph unbound;
\nNor, after that, in towns which walls inclose,
\nWould trust his hunted life amidst his foes;
\nBut, rough, in open air he chose to lie;
\nEarth was his couch, his cov’ring was the sky.
\nOn hills unshorn, or in a desart den,
\nHe shunn’d the dire society of men.
\nA shepherd’s solitary life he led;
\nHis daughter with the milk of mares he fed.
\nThe dugs of bears, and ev’ry salvage beast,
\nHe drew, and thro’ her lips the liquor press’d.
\nThe little Amazon could scarcely go:
\nHe loads her with a quiver and a bow;
\nAnd, that she might her stagg’ring steps command,
\nHe with a slender jav’lin fills her hand.
\nHer flowing hair no golden fillet bound;
\nNor swept her trailing robe the dusty ground.
\nInstead of these, a tiger’s hide o’erspread
\nHer back and shoulders, fasten’d to her head.
\nThe flying dart she first attempts to fling,
\nAnd round her tender temples toss’d the sling;
\nThen, as her strength with years increas’d, began
\nTo pierce aloft in air the soaring swan,
\nAnd from the clouds to fetch the heron and the crane.
\nThe Tuscan matrons with each other vied,
\nTo bless their rival sons with such a bride;
\nBut she disdains their love, to share with me
\nThe sylvan shades and vow’d virginity.
\nAnd, O! I wish, contented with my cares
\nOf salvage spoils, she had not sought the wars!
\nThen had she been of my celestial train,
\nAnd shunn’d the fate that dooms her to be slain.
\nBut since, opposing Heav’n’s decree, she goes
\nTo find her death among forbidden foes,
\nHaste with these arms, and take thy steepy flight.
\nWhere, with the gods, averse, the Latins fight.
\nThis bow to thee, this quiver I bequeath,
\nThis chosen arrow, to revenge her death:
\nBy whate’er hand Camilla shall be slain,
\nOr of the Trojan or Italian train,
\nLet him not pass unpunish’d from the plain.
\nThen, in a hollow cloud, myself will aid
\nTo bear the breathless body of my maid:
\nUnspoil’d shall be her arms, and unprofan’d
\nHer holy limbs with any human hand,
\nAnd in a marble tomb laid in her native land.”<\/p>\n
She said. The faithful nymph descends from high
\nWith rapid flight, and cuts the sounding sky:
\nBlack clouds and stormy winds around her body fly.<\/p>\n
By this, the Trojan and the Tuscan horse,
\nDrawn up in squadrons, with united force,
\nApproach the walls: the sprightly coursers bound,
\nPress forward on their bits, and shift their ground.
\nShields, arms, and spears flash horribly from far;
\nAnd the fields glitter with a waving war.
\nOppos’d to these, come on with furious force
\nMessapus, Coras, and the Latian horse;
\nThese in the body plac’d, on either hand
\nSustain’d and clos’d by fair Camilla’s band.
\nAdvancing in a line, they couch their spears;
\nAnd less and less the middle space appears.
\nThick smoke obscures the field; and scarce are seen
\nThe neighing coursers, and the shouting men.
\nIn distance of their darts they stop their course;
\nThen man to man they rush, and horse to horse.
\nThe face of heav’n their flying jav’lins hide,
\nAnd deaths unseen are dealt on either side.
\nTyrrhenus, and Aconteus, void of fear,
\nBy mettled coursers borne in full career,
\nMeet first oppos’d; and, with a mighty shock,
\nTheir horses’ heads against each other knock.
\nFar from his steed is fierce Aconteus cast,
\nAs with an engine’s force, or lightning’s blast:
\nHe rolls along in blood, and breathes his last.
\nThe Latin squadrons take a sudden fright,
\nAnd sling their shields behind, to save their backs in flight
\nSpurring at speed to their own walls they drew;
\nClose in the rear the Tuscan troops pursue,
\nAnd urge their flight: Asylas leads the chase;
\nTill, seiz’d, with shame, they wheel about and face,
\nReceive their foes, and raise a threat’ning cry.
\nThe Tuscans take their turn to fear and fly.
\nSo swelling surges, with a thund’ring roar,
\nDriv’n on each other’s backs, insult the shore,
\nBound o’er the rocks, incroach upon the land,
\nAnd far upon the beach eject the sand;
\nThen backward, with a swing, they take their way,
\nRepuls’d from upper ground, and seek their mother sea;
\nWith equal hurry quit th’ invaded shore,
\nAnd swallow back the sand and stones they spew’d before.<\/p>\n
Twice were the Tuscans masters of the field,
\nTwice by the Latins, in their turn, repell’d.
\nAsham’d at length, to the third charge they ran;
\nBoth hosts resolv’d, and mingled man to man.
\nNow dying groans are heard; the fields are strow’d
\nWith falling bodies, and are drunk with blood.
\nArms, horses, men, on heaps together lie:
\nConfus’d the fight, and more confus’d the cry.
\nOrsilochus, who durst not press too near
\nStrong Remulus, at distance drove his spear,
\nAnd stuck the steel beneath his horse’s ear.
\nThe fiery steed, impatient of the wound,
\nCurvets, and, springing upward with a bound,
\nHis helpless lord cast backward on the ground.
\nCatillus pierc’d Iolas first; then drew
\nHis reeking lance, and at Herminius threw,
\nThe mighty champion of the Tuscan crew.
\nHis neck and throat unarm’d, his head was bare,
\nBut shaded with a length of yellow hair:
\nSecure, he fought, expos’d on ev’ry part,
\nA spacious mark for swords, and for the flying dart.
\nAcross the shoulders came the feather’d wound;
\nTransfix’d he fell, and doubled to the ground.
\nThe sands with streaming blood are sanguine dyed,
\nAnd death with honor sought on either side.<\/p>\n
Resistless thro’ the war Camilla rode,
\nIn danger unappall’d, and pleas’d with blood.
\nOne side was bare for her exerted breast;
\nOne shoulder with her painted quiver press’d.
\nNow from afar her fatal jav’lins play;
\nNow with her ax’s edge she hews her way:
\nDiana’s arms upon her shoulder sound;
\nAnd when, too closely press’d, she quits the ground,
\nFrom her bent bow she sends a backward wound.
\nHer maids, in martial pomp, on either side,
\nLarina, Tulla, fierce Tarpeia, ride:
\nItalians all; in peace, their queen’s delight;
\nIn war, the bold companions of the fight.
\nSo march’d the Tracian Amazons of old,
\nWhen Thermodon with bloody billows roll’d:
\nSuch troops as these in shining arms were seen,
\nWhen Theseus met in fight their maiden queen:
\nSuch to the field Penthisilea led,
\nFrom the fierce virgin when the Grecians fled;
\nWith such, return’d triumphant from the war,
\nHer maids with cries attend the lofty car;
\nThey clash with manly force their moony shields;
\nWith female shouts resound the Phrygian fields.<\/p>\n
Who foremost, and who last, heroic maid,
\nOn the cold earth were by thy courage laid?
\nThy spear, of mountain ash, Eumenius first,
\nWith fury driv’n, from side to side transpierc’d:
\nA purple stream came spouting from the wound;
\nBath’d in his blood he lies, and bites the ground.
\nLiris and Pegasus at once she slew:
\nThe former, as the slacken’d reins he drew
\nOf his faint steed; the latter, as he stretch’d
\nHis arm to prop his friend, the jav’lin reach’d.
\nBy the same weapon, sent from the same hand,
\nBoth fall together, and both spurn the sand.
\nAmastrus next is added to the slain:
\nThe rest in rout she follows o’er the plain:
\nTereus, Harpalycus, Demophoon,
\nAnd Chromis, at full speed her fury shun.
\nOf all her deadly darts, not one she lost;
\nEach was attended with a Trojan ghost.
\nYoung Ornithus bestrode a hunter steed,
\nSwift for the chase, and of Apulian breed.
\nHim from afar she spied, in arms unknown:
\nO’er his broad back an ox’s hide was thrown;
\nHis helm a wolf, whose gaping jaws were spread
\nA cov’ring for his cheeks, and grinn’d around his head,
\nHe clench’d within his hand an iron prong,
\nAnd tower’d above the rest, conspicuous in the throng.
\nHim soon she singled from the flying train,
\nAnd slew with ease; then thus insults the slain:
\n“Vain hunter, didst thou think thro’ woods to chase
\nThe savage herd, a vile and trembling race?
\nHere cease thy vaunts, and own my victory:
\nA woman warrior was too strong for thee.
\nYet, if the ghosts demand the conqu’ror’s name,
\nConfessing great Camilla, save thy shame.”
\nThen Butes and Orsilochus she slew,
\nThe bulkiest bodies of the Trojan crew;
\nBut Butes breast to breast: the spear descends
\nAbove the gorget, where his helmet ends,
\nAnd o’er the shield which his left side defends.
\nOrsilochus and she their courses ply:
\nHe seems to follow, and she seems to fly;
\nBut in a narrower ring she makes the race;
\nAnd then he flies, and she pursues the chase.
\nGath’ring at length on her deluded foe,
\nShe swings her ax, and rises to the blow
\nFull on the helm behind, with such a sway
\nThe weapon falls, the riven steel gives way:
\nHe groans, he roars, he sues in vain for grace;
\nBrains, mingled with his blood, besmear his face.<\/p>\n
Astonish’d Aunus just arrives by chance,
\nTo see his fall; nor farther dares advance;
\nBut, fixing on the horrid maid his eye,
\nHe stares, and shakes, and finds it vain to fly;
\nYet, like a true Ligurian, born to cheat,
\n(At least while fortune favor’d his deceit,)
\nCries out aloud: “What courage have you shown,
\nWho trust your courser’s strength, and not your own?
\nForego the vantage of your horse, alight,
\nAnd then on equal terms begin the fight:
\nIt shall be seen, weak woman, what you can,
\nWhen, foot to foot, you combat with a man,”
\nHe said. She glows with anger and disdain,
\nDismounts with speed to dare him on the plain,
\nAnd leaves her horse at large among her train;
\nWith her drawn sword defies him to the field,
\nAnd, marching, lifts aloft her maiden shield.
\nThe youth, who thought his cunning did succeed,
\nReins round his horse, and urges all his speed;
\nAdds the remembrance of the spur, and hides
\nThe goring rowels in his bleeding sides.
\n“Vain fool, and coward!” cries the lofty maid,
\n“Caught in the train which thou thyself hast laid!
\nOn others practice thy Ligurian arts;
\nThin stratagems and tricks of little hearts
\nAre lost on me: nor shalt thou safe retire,
\nWith vaunting lies, to thy fallacious sire.”
\nAt this, so fast her flying feet she sped,
\nThat soon she strain’d beyond his horse’s head:
\nThen turning short, at once she seiz’d the rein,
\nAnd laid the boaster grov’ling on the plain.
\nNot with more ease the falcon, from above,
\nTrusses in middle air the trembling dove,
\nThen plumes the prey, in her strong pounces bound:
\nThe feathers, foul with blood, come tumbling to the ground.<\/p>\n
Now mighty Jove, from his superior height,
\nWith his broad eye surveys th’ unequal fight.
\nHe fires the breast of Tarchon with disdain,
\nAnd sends him to redeem th’ abandon’d plain.
\nBetwixt the broken ranks the Tuscan rides,
\nAnd these encourages, and those he chides;
\nRecalls each leader, by his name, from flight;
\nRenews their ardor, and restores the fight.
\n“What panic fear has seiz’d your souls? O shame,
\nO brand perpetual of th’ Etrurian name!
\nCowards incurable, a woman’s hand
\nDrives, breaks, and scatters your ignoble band!
\nNow cast away the sword, and quit the shield!
\nWhat use of weapons which you dare not wield?
\nNot thus you fly your female foes by night,
\nNor shun the feast, when the full bowls invite;
\nWhen to fat off’rings the glad augur calls,
\nAnd the shrill hornpipe sounds to bacchanals.
\nThese are your studied cares, your lewd delight:
\nSwift to debauch, but slow to manly fight.”
\nThus having said, he spurs amid the foes,
\nNot managing the life he meant to lose.
\nThe first he found he seiz’d with headlong haste,
\nIn his strong gripe, and clasp’d around the waist;
\n‘T was Venulus, whom from his horse he tore,
\nAnd, laid athwart his own, in triumph bore.
\nLoud shouts ensue; the Latins turn their eyes,
\nAnd view th’ unusual sight with vast surprise.
\nThe fiery Tarchon, flying o’er the plains,
\nPress’d in his arms the pond’rous prey sustains;
\nThen, with his shorten’d spear, explores around
\nHis jointed arms, to fix a deadly wound.
\nNor less the captive struggles for his life:
\nHe writhes his body to prolong the strife,
\nAnd, fencing for his naked throat, exerts
\nHis utmost vigor, and the point averts.
\nSo stoops the yellow eagle from on high,
\nAnd bears a speckled serpent thro’ the sky,
\nFast’ning his crooked talons on the prey:
\nThe pris’ner hisses thro’ the liquid way;
\nResists the royal hawk; and, tho’ oppress’d,
\nShe fights in volumes, and erects her crest:
\nTurn’d to her foe, she stiffens ev’ry scale,
\nAnd shoots her forky tongue, and whisks her threat’ning tail.
\nAgainst the victor, all defense is weak:
\nTh’ imperial bird still plies her with his beak;
\nHe tears her bowels, and her breast he gores;
\nThen claps his pinions, and securely soars.
\nThus, thro’ the midst of circling enemies,
\nStrong Tarchon snatch’d and bore away his prize.
\nThe Tyrrhene troops, that shrunk before, now press
\nThe Latins, and presume the like success.<\/p>\n
Then Aruns, doom’d to death, his arts assay’d,
\nTo murther, unespied, the Volscian maid:
\nThis way and that his winding course he bends,
\nAnd, whereso’er she turns, her steps attends.
\nWhen she retires victorious from the chase,
\nHe wheels about with care, and shifts his place;
\nWhen, rushing on, she seeks her foes flight,
\nHe keeps aloof, but keeps her still in sight:
\nHe threats, and trembles, trying ev’ry way,
\nUnseen to kill, and safely to betray.
\nChloreus, the priest of Cybele, from far,
\nGlitt’ring in Phrygian arms amidst the war,
\nWas by the virgin view’d. The steed he press’d
\nWas proud with trappings, and his brawny chest
\nWith scales of gilded brass was cover’d o’er;
\nA robe of Tyrian dye the rider wore.
\nWith deadly wounds he gall’d the distant foe;
\nGnossian his shafts, and Lycian was his bow:
\nA golden helm his front and head surrounds
\nA gilded quiver from his shoulder sounds.
\nGold, weav’d with linen, on his thighs he wore,
\nWith flowers of needlework distinguish’d o’er,
\nWith golden buckles bound, and gather’d up before.
\nHim the fierce maid beheld with ardent eyes,
\nFond and ambitious of so rich a prize,
\nOr that the temple might his trophies hold,
\nOr else to shine herself in Trojan gold.
\nBlind in her haste, she chases him alone.
\nAnd seeks his life, regardless of her own.<\/p>\n
This lucky moment the sly traitor chose:
\nThen, starting from his ambush, up he rose,
\nAnd threw, but first to Heav’n address’d his vows:
\n“O patron of Socrates’ high abodes,
\nPhoebus, the ruling pow’r among the gods,
\nWhom first we serve, whole woods of unctuous pine
\nAre fell’d for thee, and to thy glory shine;
\nBy thee protected with our naked soles,
\nThro’ flames unsing’d we march, and tread the kindled coals
\nGive me, propitious pow’r, to wash away
\nThe stains of this dishonorable day:
\nNor spoils, nor triumph, from the fact I claim,
\nBut with my future actions trust my fame.
\nLet me, by stealth, this female plague o’ercome,
\nAnd from the field return inglorious home.”
\nApollo heard, and, granting half his pray’r,
\nShuffled in winds the rest, and toss’d in empty air.
\nHe gives the death desir’d; his safe return
\nBy southern tempests to the seas is borne.<\/p>\n
Now, when the jav’lin whizz’d along the skies,
\nBoth armies on Camilla turn’d their eyes,
\nDirected by the sound. Of either host,
\nTh’ unhappy virgin, tho’ concern’d the most,
\nWas only deaf; so greedy was she bent
\nOn golden spoils, and on her prey intent;
\nTill in her pap the winged weapon stood
\nInfix’d, and deeply drunk the purple blood.
\nHer sad attendants hasten to sustain
\nTheir dying lady, drooping on the plain.
\nFar from their sight the trembling Aruns flies,
\nWith beating heart, and fear confus’d with joys;
\nNor dares he farther to pursue his blow,
\nOr ev’n to bear the sight of his expiring foe.
\nAs, when the wolf has torn a bullock’s hide
\nAt unawares, or ranch’d a shepherd’s side,
\nConscious of his audacious deed, he flies,
\nAnd claps his quiv’ring tail between his thighs:
\nSo, speeding once, the wretch no more attends,
\nBut, spurring forward, herds among his friends.<\/p>\n
She wrench’d the jav’lin with her dying hands,
\nBut wedg’d within her breast the weapon stands;
\nThe wood she draws, the steely point remains;
\nShe staggers in her seat with agonizing pains:
\n(A gath’ring mist o’erclouds her cheerful eyes,
\nAnd from her cheeks the rosy color flies:)
\nThen turns to her, whom of her female train
\nShe trusted most, and thus she speaks with pain:
\n“Acca, ‘t is past! he swims before my sight,
\nInexorable Death; and claims his right.
\nBear my last words to Turnus; fly with speed,
\nAnd bid him timely to my charge succeed,
\nRepel the Trojans, and the town relieve:
\nFarewell! and in this kiss my parting breath receive.”
\nShe said, and, sliding, sunk upon the plain:
\nDying, her open’d hand forsakes the rein;
\nShort, and more short, she pants; by slow degrees
\nHer mind the passage from her body frees.
\nShe drops her sword; she nods her plumy crest,
\nHer drooping head declining on her breast:
\nIn the last sigh her struggling soul expires,
\nAnd, murm’ring with disdain, to Stygian sounds retires.<\/p>\n
A shout, that struck the golden stars, ensued;
\nDespair and rage the languish’d fight renew’d.
\nThe Trojan troops and Tuscans, in a line,
\nAdvance to charge; the mix’d Arcadians join.<\/p>\n
But Cynthia’s maid, high seated, from afar
\nSurveys the field, and fortune of the war,
\nUnmov’d a while, till, prostrate on the plain,
\nWelt’ring in blood, she sees Camilla slain,
\nAnd, round her corpse, of friends and foes a fighting train.
\nThen, from the bottom of her breast, she drew
\nA mournful sigh, and these sad words ensue:
\n“Too dear a fine, ah much lamented maid,
\nFor warring with the Trojans, thou hast paid!
\nNor aught avail’d, in this unhappy strife,
\nDiana’s sacred arms, to save thy life.
\nYet unreveng’d thy goddess will not leave
\nHer vot’ry’s death, nor; with vain sorrow grieve.
\nBranded the wretch, and be his name abhorr’d;
\nBut after ages shall thy praise record.
\nTh’ inglorious coward soon shall press the plain:
\nThus vows thy queen, and thus the Fates ordain.”<\/p>\n
High o’er the field there stood a hilly mound,
\nSacred the place, and spread with oaks around,
\nWhere, in a marble tomb, Dercennus lay,
\nA king that once in Latium bore the sway.
\nThe beauteous Opis thither bent her flight,
\nTo mark the traitor Aruns from the height.
\nHim in refulgent arms she soon espied,
\nSwoln with success; and loudly thus she cried:
\n“Thy backward steps, vain boaster, are too late;
\nTurn like a man, at length, and meet thy fate.
\nCharg’d with my message, to Camilla go,
\nAnd say I sent thee to the shades below,
\nAn honor undeserv’d from Cynthia’s bow.”<\/p>\n
She said, and from her quiver chose with speed
\nThe winged shaft, predestin’d for the deed;
\nThen to the stubborn yew her strength applied,
\nTill the far distant horns approach’d on either side.
\nThe bowstring touch’d her breast, so strong she drew;
\nWhizzing in air the fatal arrow flew.
\nAt once the twanging bow and sounding dart
\nThe traitor heard, and felt the point within his heart.
\nHim, beating with his heels in pangs of death,
\nHis flying friends to foreign fields bequeath.
\nThe conqu’ring damsel, with expanded wings,
\nThe welcome message to her mistress brings.<\/p>\n
Their leader lost, the Volscians quit the field,
\nAnd, unsustain’d, the chiefs of Turnus yield.
\nThe frighted soldiers, when their captains fly,
\nMore on their speed than on their strength rely.
\nConfus’d in flight, they bear each other down,
\nAnd spur their horses headlong to the town.
\nDriv’n by their foes, and to their fears resign’d,
\nNot once they turn, but take their wounds behind.
\nThese drop the shield, and those the lance forego,
\nOr on their shoulders bear the slacken’d bow.
\nThe hoofs of horses, with a rattling sound,
\nBeat short and thick, and shake the rotten ground.
\nBlack clouds of dust come rolling in the sky,
\nAnd o’er the darken’d walls and rampires fly.
\nThe trembling matrons, from their lofty stands,
\nRend heav’n with female shrieks, and wring their hands.
\nAll pressing on, pursuers and pursued,
\nAre crush’d in crowds, a mingled multitude.
\nSome happy few escape: the throng too late
\nRush on for entrance, till they choke the gate.
\nEv’n in the sight of home, the wretched sire
\nLooks on, and sees his helpless son expire.
\nThen, in a fright, the folding gates they close,
\nBut leave their friends excluded with their foes.
\nThe vanquish’d cry; the victors loudly shout;
\n‘T is terror all within, and slaughter all without.
\nBlind in their fear, they bounce against the wall,
\nOr, to the moats pursued, precipitate their fall.<\/p>\n
The Latian virgins, valiant with despair,
\nArm’d on the tow’rs, the common danger share:
\nSo much of zeal their country’s cause inspir’d;
\nSo much Camilla’s great example fir’d.
\nPoles, sharpen’d in the flames, from high they throw,
\nWith imitated darts, to gall the foe.
\nTheir lives for godlike freedom they bequeath,
\nAnd crowd each other to be first in death.
\nMeantime to Turnus, ambush’d in the shade,
\nWith heavy tidings came th’ unhappy maid:
\n“The Volscians overthrown, Camilla kill’d;
\nThe foes, entirely masters of the field,
\nLike a resistless flood, come rolling on:
\nThe cry goes off the plain, and thickens to the town.”<\/p>\n
Inflam’d with rage, (for so the Furies fire
\nThe Daunian’s breast, and so the Fates require,)
\nHe leaves the hilly pass, the woods in vain
\nPossess’d, and downward issues on the plain.
\nScarce was he gone, when to the straits, now freed
\nFrom secret foes, the Trojan troops succeed.
\nThro’ the black forest and the ferny brake,
\nUnknowingly secure, their way they take;
\nFrom the rough mountains to the plain descend,
\nAnd there, in order drawn, their line extend.
\nBoth armies now in open fields are seen;
\nNor far the distance of the space between.
\nBoth to the city bend. Aeneas sees,
\nThro’ smoking fields, his hast’ning enemies;
\nAnd Turnus views the Trojans in array,
\nAnd hears th’ approaching horses proudly neigh.
\nSoon had their hosts in bloody battle join’d;
\nBut westward to the sea the sun declin’d.
\nIntrench’d before the town both armies lie,
\nWhile Night with sable wings involves the sky.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":19,"menu_order":11,"template":"","meta":{"_candela_citation":"[]","CANDELA_OUTCOMES_GUID":"","pb_show_title":"on","pb_short_title":"","pb_subtitle":"","pb_authors":[],"pb_section_license":""},"chapter-type":[],"contributor":[],"license":[],"class_list":["post-121","chapter","type-chapter","status-web-only","hentry"],"part":110,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/courses.lumenlearning.com\/suny-geneseo-humanities1-1\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/121","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/courses.lumenlearning.com\/suny-geneseo-humanities1-1\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/courses.lumenlearning.com\/suny-geneseo-humanities1-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/chapter"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/courses.lumenlearning.com\/suny-geneseo-humanities1-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/19"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/courses.lumenlearning.com\/suny-geneseo-humanities1-1\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/121\/revisions"}],"part":[{"href":"https:\/\/courses.lumenlearning.com\/suny-geneseo-humanities1-1\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/parts\/110"}],"metadata":[{"href":"https:\/\/courses.lumenlearning.com\/suny-geneseo-humanities1-1\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/121\/metadata\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/courses.lumenlearning.com\/suny-geneseo-humanities1-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=121"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"chapter-type","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/courses.lumenlearning.com\/suny-geneseo-humanities1-1\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapter-type?post=121"},{"taxonomy":"contributor","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/courses.lumenlearning.com\/suny-geneseo-humanities1-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/contributor?post=121"},{"taxonomy":"license","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/courses.lumenlearning.com\/suny-geneseo-humanities1-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/license?post=121"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}