When Turnus saw the Latins leave the field,\nTheir armies broken, and their courage quell'd,\nHimself become the mark of public spite,\nHis honor question'd for the promis'd fight;\nThe more he was with vulgar hate oppress'd,\nThe more his fury boil'd within his breast:\nHe rous'd his vigor for the last debate,\nAnd rais'd his haughty soul to meet his fate.<\/p>\n
As, when the swains the Libyan lion chase,\nHe makes a sour retreat, nor mends his pace;\nBut, if the pointed jav'lin pierce his side,\nThe lordly beast returns with double pride:\nHe wrenches out the steel, he roars for pain;\nHis sides he lashes, and erects his mane:\nSo Turnus fares; his eyeballs flash with fire,\nThro' his wide nostrils clouds of smoke expire.<\/p>\n
Trembling with rage, around the court he ran,\nAt length approach'd the king, and thus began:\n\"No more excuses or delays: I stand\nIn arms prepar'd to combat, hand to hand,\nThis base deserter of his native land.\nThe Trojan, by his word, is bound to take\nThe same conditions which himself did make.\nRenew the truce; the solemn rites prepare,\nAnd to my single virtue trust the war.\nThe Latians unconcern'd shall see the fight;\nThis arm unaided shall assert your right:\nThen, if my prostrate body press the plain,\nTo him the crown and beauteous bride remain.\"<\/p>\n
To whom the king sedately thus replied:\n\"Brave youth, the more your valor has been tried,\nThe more becomes it us, with due respect,\nTo weigh the chance of war, which you neglect.\nYou want not wealth, or a successive throne,\nOr cities which your arms have made your own:\nMy towns and treasures are at your command,\nAnd stor'd with blooming beauties is my land;\nLaurentum more than one Lavinia sees,\nUnmarried, fair, of noble families.\nNow let me speak, and you with patience hear,\nThings which perhaps may grate a lover's ear,\nBut sound advice, proceeding from a heart\nSincerely yours, and free from fraudful art.\nThe gods, by signs, have manifestly shown,\nNo prince Italian born should heir my throne:\nOft have our augurs, in prediction skill'd,\nAnd oft our priests, foreign son reveal'd.\nYet, won by worth that cannot be withstood,\nBrib'd by my kindness to my kindred blood,\nUrg'd by my wife, who would not be denied,\nI promis'd my Lavinia for your bride:\nHer from her plighted lord by force I took;\nAll ties of treaties, and of honor, broke:\nOn your account I wag'd an impious war-\nWith what success, 't is needless to declare;\nI and my subjects feel, and you have had your share.\nTwice vanquish'd while in bloody fields we strive,\nScarce in our walls we keep our hopes alive:\nThe rolling flood runs warm with human gore;\nThe bones of Latians blanch the neighb'ring shore.\nWhy put I not an end to this debate,\nStill unresolv'd, and still a slave to fate?\nIf Turnus' death a lasting peace can give,\nWhy should I not procure it whilst you live?\nShould I to doubtful arms your youth betray,\nWhat would my kinsmen the Rutulians say?\nAnd, should you fall in fight, (which Heav'n defend!)\nHow curse the cause which hasten'd to his end\nThe daughter's lover and the father's friend?\nWeigh in your mind the various chance of war;\nPity your parent's age, and ease his care.\"<\/p>\n
Such balmy words he pour'd, but all in vain:\nThe proffer'd med'cine but provok'd the pain.\nThe wrathful youth, disdaining the relief,\nWith intermitting sobs thus vents his grief:\n\"The care, O best of fathers, which you take\nFor my concerns, at my desire forsake.\nPermit me not to languish out my days,\nBut make the best exchange of life for praise.\nThis arm, this lance, can well dispute the prize;\nAnd the blood follows, where the weapon flies.\nHis goddess mother is not near, to shroud\nThe flying coward with an empty cloud.\"<\/p>\n
But now the queen, who fear'd for Turnus' life,\nAnd loath'd the hard conditions of the strife,\nHeld him by force; and, dying in his death,\nIn these sad accents gave her sorrow breath:\n\"O Turnus, I adjure thee by these tears,\nAnd whate'er price Amata's honor bears\nWithin thy breast, since thou art all my hope,\nMy sickly mind's repose, my sinking age's prop;\nSince on the safety of thy life alone\nDepends Latinus, and the Latian throne:\nRefuse me not this one, this only pray'r,\nTo waive the combat, and pursue the war.\nWhatever chance attends this fatal strife,\nThink it includes, in thine, Amata's life.\nI cannot live a slave, or see my throne\nUsurp'd by strangers or a Trojan son.\"<\/p>\n
At this, a flood of tears Lavinia shed;\nA crimson blush her beauteous face o'erspread,\nVarying her cheeks by turns with white and red.\nThe driving colors, never at a stay,\nRun here and there, and flush, and fade away.\nDelightful change! Thus Indian iv'ry shows,\nWhich with the bord'ring paint of purple glows;\nOr lilies damask'd by the neighb'ring rose.<\/p>\n
The lover gaz'd, and, burning with desire,\nThe more he look'd, the more he fed the fire:\nRevenge, and jealous rage, and secret spite,\nRoll in his breast, and rouse him to the fight.\nThen fixing on the queen his ardent eyes,\nFirm to his first intent, he thus replies:\n\"O mother, do not by your tears prepare\nSuch boding omens, and prejudge the war.\nResolv'd on fight, I am no longer free\nTo shun my death, if Heav'n my death decree.\"\nThen turning to the herald, thus pursues:\n\"Go, greet the Trojan with ungrateful news;\nDenounce from me, that, when to-morrow's light\nShall gild the heav'ns, he need not urge the fight;\nThe Trojan and Rutulian troops no more\nShall dye, with mutual blood, the Latian shore:\nOur single swords the quarrel shall decide,\nAnd to the victor be the beauteous bride.\"<\/p>\n
He said, and striding on, with speedy pace,\nHe sought his coursers of the Thracian race.\nAt his approach they toss their heads on high,\nAnd, proudly neighing, promise victory.\nThe sires of these Orythia sent from far,\nTo grace Pilumnus, when he went to war.\nThe drifts of Thracian snows were scarce so white,\nNor northern winds in fleetness match'd their flight.\nOfficious grooms stand ready by his side;\nAnd some with combs their flowing manes divide,\nAnd others stroke their chests and gently soothe their pride.<\/p>\n
He sheath'd his limbs in arms; a temper'd mass\nOf golden metal those, and mountain brass.\nThen to his head his glitt'ring helm he tied,\nAnd girt his faithful fauchion to his side.\nIn his Aetnaean forge, the God of Fire\nThat fauchion labor'd for the hero's sire;\nImmortal keenness on the blade bestow'd,\nAnd plung'd it hissing in the Stygian flood.\nPropp'd on a pillar, which the ceiling bore,\nWas plac'd the lance Auruncan Actor wore;\nWhich with such force he brandish'd in his hand,\nThe tough ash trembled like an osier wand:\nThen cried: \"O pond'rous spoil of Actor slain,\nAnd never yet by Turnus toss'd in vain,\nFail not this day thy wonted force; but go,\nSent by this hand, to pierce the Trojan foe!\nGive me to tear his corslet from his breast,\nAnd from that eunuch head to rend the crest;\nDragg'd in the dust, his frizzled hair to soil,\nHot from the vexing ir'n, and smear'd with fragrant oil!\"<\/p>\n
Thus while he raves, from his wide nostrils flies\nA fiery steam, and sparkles from his eyes.\nSo fares the bull in his lov'd female's sight:\nProudly he bellows, and preludes the fight;\nHe tries his goring horns against a tree,\nAnd meditates his absent enemy;\nHe pushes at the winds; he digs the strand\nWith his black hoofs, and spurns the yellow sand.<\/p>\n
Nor less the Trojan, in his Lemnian arms,\nTo future fight his manly courage warms:\nHe whets his fury, and with joy prepares\nTo terminate at once the ling'ring wars;\nTo cheer his chiefs and tender son, relates\nWhat Heav'n had promis'd, and expounds the fates.\nThen to the Latian king he sends, to cease\nThe rage of arms, and ratify the peace.<\/p>\n
The morn ensuing, from the mountain's height,\nHad scarcely spread the skies with rosy light;\nTh' ethereal coursers, bounding from the sea,\nFrom out their flaming nostrils breath'd the day;\nWhen now the Trojan and Rutulian guard,\nIn friendly labor join'd, the list prepar'd.\nBeneath the walls they measure out the space;\nThen sacred altars rear, on sods of grass,\nWhere, with religious their common gods they place.\nIn purest white the priests their heads attire;\nAnd living waters bear, and holy fire;\nAnd, o'er their linen hoods and shaded hair,\nLong twisted wreaths of sacred veryain wear.<\/p>\n
In order issuing from the town appears\nThe Latin legion, arm'd with pointed spears;\nAnd from the fields, advancing on a line,\nThe Trojan and the Tuscan forces join:\nTheir various arms afford a pleasing sight;\nA peaceful train they seem, in peace prepar'd for fight.\nBetwixt the ranks the proud commanders ride,\nGlitt'ring with gold, and vests in purple dyed;\nHere Mnestheus, author of the Memmian line,\nAnd there Messapus, born of seed divine.\nThe sign is giv'n; and, round the listed space,\nEach man in order fills his proper place.\nReclining on their ample shields, they stand,\nAnd fix their pointed lances in the sand.\nNow, studious of the sight, a num'rous throng\nOf either sex promiscuous, old and young,\nSwarm the town: by those who rest behind,\nThe gates and walls and houses' tops are lin'd.\nMeantime the Queen of Heav'n beheld the sight,\nWith eyes unpleas'd, from Mount Albano's height\n(Since call'd Albano by succeeding fame,\nBut then an empty hill, without a name).\nShe thence survey'd the field, the Trojan pow'rs,\nThe Latian squadrons, and Laurentine tow'rs.\nThen thus the goddess of the skies bespoke,\nWith sighs and tears, the goddess of the lake,\nKing Turnus' sister, once a lovely maid,\nEre to the lust of lawless Jove betray'd:\nCompress'd by force, but, by the grateful god,\nNow made the Nais of the neighb'ring flood.\n\"O nymph, the pride of living lakes,\" said she,\n\"O most renown'd, and most belov'd by me,\nLong hast thou known, nor need I to record,\nThe wanton sallies of my wand'ring lord.\nOf ev'ry Latian fair whom Jove misled\nTo mount by stealth my violated bed,\nTo thee alone I grudg'd not his embrace,\nBut gave a part of heav'n, and an unenvied place.\nNow learn from me thy near approaching grief,\nNor think my wishes want to thy relief.\nWhile fortune favor'd, nor Heav'n's King denied\nTo lend my succor to the Latian side,\nI sav'd thy brother, and the sinking state:\nBut now he struggles with unequal fate,\nAnd goes, with gods averse, o'ermatch'd in might,\nTo meet inevitable death in fight;\nNor must I break the truce, nor can sustain the sight.\nThou, if thou dar'st thy present aid supply;\nIt well becomes a sister's care to try.\"<\/p>\n
At this the lovely nymph, with grief oppress'd,\nThrice tore her hair, and beat her comely breast.\nTo whom Saturnia thus: \"Thy tears are late:\nHaste, snatch him, if he can be snatch'd from fate:\nNew tumults kindle; violate the truce:\nWho knows what changeful fortune may produce?\n'T is not a crime t' attempt what I decree;\nOr, if it were, discharge the crime on me.\"\nShe said, and, sailing on the winged wind,\nLeft the sad nymph suspended in her mind.<\/p>\n
And now pomp the peaceful kings appear:\nFour steeds the chariot of Latinus bear;\nTwelve golden beams around his temples play,\nTo mark his lineage from the God of Day.\nTwo snowy coursers Turnus' chariot yoke,\nAnd in his hand two massy spears he shook:\nThen issued from the camp, in arms divine,\nAeneas, author of the Roman line;\nAnd by his side Ascanius took his place,\nThe second hope of Rome's immortal race.\nAdorn'd in white, a rev'rend priest appears,\nAnd off'rings to the flaming altars bears;\nA porket, and a lamb that never suffer'd shears.\nThen to the rising sun he turns his eyes,\nAnd strews the beasts, design'd for sacrifice,\nWith salt and meal: with like officious care\nHe marks their foreheads, and he clips their hair.\nBetwixt their horns the purple wine he sheds;\nWith the same gen'rous juice the flame he feeds.<\/p>\n
Aeneas then unsheath'd his shining sword,\nAnd thus with pious pray'rs the gods ador'd:\n\"All-seeing sun, and thou, Ausonian soil,\nFor which I have sustain'd so long a toil,\nThou, King of Heav'n, and thou, the Queen of Air,\nPropitious now, and reconcil'd by pray'r;\nThou, God of War, whose unresisted sway\nThe labors and events of arms obey;\nYe living fountains, and ye running floods,\nAll pow'rs of ocean, all ethereal gods,\nHear, and bear record: if I fall in field,\nOr, recreant in the fight, to Turnus yield,\nMy Trojans shall encrease Evander's town;\nAscanius shall renounce th' Ausonian crown:\nAll claims, all questions of debate, shall cease;\nNor he, nor they, with force infringe the peace.\nBut, if my juster arms prevail in fight,\n(As sure they shall, if I divine aright,)\nMy Trojans shall not o'er th' Italians reign:\nBoth equal, both unconquer'd shall remain,\nJoin'd in their laws, their lands, and their abodes;\nI ask but altars for my weary gods.\nThe care of those religious rites be mine;\nThe crown to King Latinus I resign:\nHis be the sov'reign sway. Nor will I share\nHis pow'r in peace, or his command in war.\nFor me, my friends another town shall frame,\nAnd bless the rising tow'rs with fair Lavinia's name.\"<\/p>\n
Thus he. Then, with erected eyes and hands,\nThe Latian king before his altar stands.\n\"By the same heav'n,\" said he, \"and earth, and main,\nAnd all the pow'rs that all the three contain;\nBy hell below, and by that upper god\nWhose thunder signs the peace, who seals it with his nod;\nSo let Latona's double offspring hear,\nAnd double-fronted Janus, what I swear:\nI touch the sacred altars, touch the flames,\nAnd all those pow'rs attest, and all their names;\nWhatever chance befall on either side,\nNo term of time this union shall divide:\nNo force, no fortune, shall my vows unbind,\nOr shake the steadfast tenor of my mind;\nNot tho' the circling seas should break their bound,\nO'erflow the shores, or sap the solid ground;\nNot tho' the lamps of heav'n their spheres forsake,\nHurl'd down, and hissing in the nether lake:\nEv'n as this royal scepter\" (for he bore\nA scepter in his hand) \"shall never more\nShoot out in branches, or renew the birth:\nAn orphan now, cut from the mother earth\nBy the keen ax, dishonor'd of its hair,\nAnd cas'd in brass, for Latian kings to bear.\"<\/p>\n
When thus in public view the peace was tied\nWith solemn vows, and sworn on either side,\nAll dues perform'd which holy rites require;\nThe victim beasts are slain before the fire,\nThe trembling entrails from their bodies torn,\nAnd to the fatten'd flames in chargers borne.<\/p>\n
Already the Rutulians deem their man\nO'ermatch'd in arms, before the fight began.\nFirst rising fears are whisper'd thro' the crowd;\nThen, gath'ring sound, they murmur more aloud.\nNow, side to side, they measure with their eyes\nThe champions' bulk, their sinews, and their size:\nThe nearer they approach, the more is known\nTh' apparent disadvantage of their own.\nTurnus himself appears in public sight\nConscious of fate, desponding of the fight.\nSlowly he moves, and at his altar stands\nWith eyes dejected, and with trembling hands;\nAnd, while he mutters undistinguish'd pray'rs,\nA livid deadness in his cheeks appears.<\/p>\n
With anxious pleasure when Juturna view'd\nTh' increasing fright of the mad multitude,\nWhen their short sighs and thick'ning sobs she heard,\nAnd found their ready minds for change prepar'd;\nDissembling her immortal form, she took\nCamertus' mien, his habit, and his look;\nA chief of ancient blood; in arms well known\nWas his great sire, and he his greater son.\nHis shape assum'd, amid the ranks she ran,\nAnd humoring their first motions, thus began:\n\"For shame, Rutulians, can you bear the sight\nOf one expos'd for all, in single fight?\nCan we, before the face of heav'n, confess\nOur courage colder, or our numbers less?\nView all the Trojan host, th' Arcadian band,\nAnd Tuscan army; count 'em as they stand:\nUndaunted to the battle if we go,\nScarce ev'ry second man will share a foe.\nTurnus, 't is true, in this unequal strife,\nShall lose, with honor, his devoted life,\nOr change it rather for immortal fame,\nSucceeding to the gods, from whence he came:\nBut you, a servile and inglorious band,\nFor foreign lords shall sow your native land,\nThose fruitful fields your fighting fathers gain'd,\nWhich have so long their lazy sons sustain'd.\"\nWith words like these, she carried her design:\nA rising murmur runs along the line.\nThen ev'n the city troops, and Latians, tir'd\nWith tedious war, seem with new souls inspir'd:\nTheir champion's fate with pity they lament,\nAnd of the league, so lately sworn, repent.<\/p>\n
Nor fails the goddess to foment the rage\nWith lying wonders, and a false presage;\nBut adds a sign, which, present to their eyes,\nInspires new courage, and a glad surprise.\nFor, sudden, in the fiery tracts above,\nAppears in pomp th' imperial bird of Jove:\nA plump of fowl he spies, that swim the lakes,\nAnd o'er their heads his sounding pinions shakes;\nThen, stooping on the fairest of the train,\nIn his strong talons truss'd a silver swan.\nTh' Italians wonder at th' unusual sight;\nBut, while he lags, and labors in his flight,\nBehold, the dastard fowl return anew,\nAnd with united force the foe pursue:\nClam'rous around the royal hawk they fly,\nAnd, thick'ning in a cloud, o'ershade the sky.\nThey cuff, they scratch, they cross his airy course;\nNor can th' incumber'd bird sustain their force;\nBut vex'd, not vanquish'd, drops the pond'rous prey,\nAnd, lighten'd of his burthen, wings his way.<\/p>\n
Th' Ausonian bands with shouts salute the sight,\nEager of action, and demand the fight.\nThen King Tolumnius, vers'd in augurs' arts,\nCries out, and thus his boasted skill imparts:\n\"At length 't is granted, what I long desir'd!\nThis, this is what my frequent vows requir'd.\nYe gods, I take your omen, and obey.\nAdvance, my friends, and charge! I lead the way.\nThese are the foreign foes, whose impious band,\nLike that rapacious bird, infest our land:\nBut soon, like him, they shall be forc'd to sea\nBy strength united, and forego the prey.\nYour timely succor to your country bring,\nHaste to the rescue, and redeem your king.\"<\/p>\n
He said; and, pressing onward thro' the crew,\nPois'd in his lifted arm, his lance he threw.\nThe winged weapon, whistling in the wind,\nCame driving on, nor miss'd the mark design'd.\nAt once the cornel rattled in the skies;\nAt once tumultuous shouts and clamors rise.\nNine brothers in a goodly band there stood,\nBorn of Arcadian mix'd with Tuscan blood,\nGylippus' sons: the fatal jav'lin flew,\nAim'd at the midmost of the friendly crew.\nA passage thro' the jointed arms it found,\nJust where the belt was to the body bound,\nAnd struck the gentle youth extended on the ground.\nThen, fir'd with pious rage, the gen'rous train\nRun madly forward to revenge the slain.\nAnd some with eager haste their jav'lins throw;\nAnd some with sword in hand assault the foe.<\/p>\n
The wish'd insult the Latine troops embrace,\nAnd meet their ardor in the middle space.\nThe Trojans, Tuscans, and Arcadian line,\nWith equal courage obviate their design.\nPeace leaves the violated fields, and hate\nBoth armies urges to their mutual fate.\nWith impious haste their altars are o'erturn'd,\nThe sacrifice half-broil'd, and half-unburn'd.\nThick storms of steel from either army fly,\nAnd clouds of clashing darts obscure the sky;\nBrands from the fire are missive weapons made,\nWith chargers, bowls, and all the priestly trade.\nLatinus, frighted, hastens from the fray,\nAnd bears his unregarded gods away.\nThese on their horses vault; those yoke the car;\nThe rest, with swords on high, run headlong to the war.<\/p>\n
Messapus, eager to confound the peace,\nSpurr'd his hot courser thro' the fighting prease,\nAt King Aulestes, by his purple known\nA Tuscan prince, and by his regal crown;\nAnd, with a shock encount'ring, bore him down.\nBackward he fell; and, as his fate design'd,\nThe ruins of an altar were behind:\nThere, pitching on his shoulders and his head,\nAmid the scatt'ring fires he lay supinely spread.\nThe beamy spear, descending from above,\nHis cuirass pierc'd, and thro' his body drove.\nThen, with a scornful smile, the victor cries:\n\"The gods have found a fitter sacrifice.\"\nGreedy of spoils, th' Italians strip the dead\nOf his rich armor, and uncrown his head.<\/p>\n
Priest Corynaeus, arm'd his better hand,\nFrom his own altar, with a blazing brand;\nAnd, as Ebusus with a thund'ring pace\nAdvanc'd to battle, dash'd it on his face:\nHis bristly beard shines out with sudden fires;\nThe crackling crop a noisome scent expires.\nFollowing the blow, he seiz'd his curling crown\nWith his left hand; his other cast him down.\nThe prostrate body with his knees he press'd,\nAnd plung'd his holy poniard in his breast.<\/p>\n
While Podalirius, with his sword, pursued\nThe shepherd Alsus thro' the flying crowd,\nSwiftly he turns, and aims a deadly blow\nFull on the front of his unwary foe.\nThe broad ax enters with a crashing sound,\nAnd cleaves the chin with one continued wound;\nWarm blood, and mingled brains, besmear his arms around\nAn iron sleep his stupid eyes oppress'd,\nAnd seal'd their heavy lids in endless rest.<\/p>\n
But good Aeneas rush'd amid the bands;\nBare was his head, and naked were his hands,\nIn sign of truce: then thus he cries aloud:\n\"What sudden rage, what new desire of blood,\nInflames your alter'd minds? O Trojans, cease\nFrom impious arms, nor violate the peace!\nBy human sanctions, and by laws divine,\nThe terms are all agreed; the war is mine.\nDismiss your fears, and let the fight ensue;\nThis hand alone shall right the gods and you:\nOur injur'd altars, and their broken vow,\nTo this avenging sword the faithless Turnus owe.\"<\/p>\n
Thus while he spoke, unmindful of defense,\nA winged arrow struck the pious prince.\nBut, whether from some human hand it came,\nOr hostile god, is left unknown by fame:\nNo human hand or hostile god was found,\nTo boast the triumph of so base a wound.<\/p>\n
When Turnus saw the Trojan quit the plain,\nHis chiefs dismay'd, his troops a fainting train,\nTh' unhop'd event his heighten'd soul inspires:\nAt once his arms and coursers he requires;\nThen, with a leap, his lofty chariot gains,\nAnd with a ready hand assumes the reins.\nHe drives impetuous, and, where'er he goes,\nHe leaves behind a lane of slaughter'd foes.\nThese his lance reaches; over those he rolls\nHis rapid car, and crushes out their souls:\nIn vain the vanquish'd fly; the victor sends\nThe dead men's weapons at their living friends.\nThus, on the banks of Hebrus' freezing flood,\nThe God of Battles, in his angry mood,\nClashing his sword against his brazen shield,\nLet loose the reins, and scours along the field:\nBefore the wind his fiery coursers fly;\nGroans the sad earth, resounds the rattling sky.\nWrath, Terror, Treason, Tumult, and Despair\n(Dire faces, and deform'd) surround the car;\nFriends of the god, and followers of the war.\nWith fury not unlike, nor less disdain,\nExulting Turnus flies along the plain:\nHis smoking horses, at their utmost speed,\nHe lashes on, and urges o'er the dead.\nTheir fetlocks run with blood; and, when they bound,\nThe gore and gath'ring dust are dash'd around.\nThamyris and Pholus, masters of the war,\nHe kill'd at hand, but Sthenelus afar:\nFrom far the sons of Imbracus he slew,\nGlaucus and Lades, of the Lycian crew;\nBoth taught to fight on foot, in battle join'd,\nOr mount the courser that outstrips the wind.<\/p>\n
Meantime Eumedes, vaunting in the field,\nNew fir'd the Trojans, and their foes repell'd.\nThis son of Dolon bore his grandsire's name,\nBut emulated more his father's fame;\nHis guileful father, sent a nightly spy,\nThe Grecian camp and order to descry:\nHard enterprise! and well he might require\nAchilles' car and horses, for his hire:\nBut, met upon the scout, th' Aetolian prince\nIn death bestow'd a juster recompense.\nFierce Turnus view'd the Trojan from afar,\nAnd launch'd his jav'lin from his lofty car;\nThen lightly leaping down, pursued the blow,\nAnd, pressing with his foot his prostrate foe,\nWrench'd from his feeble hold the shining sword,\nAnd plung'd it in the bosom of its lord.\n\"Possess,\" said he, \"the fruit of all thy pains,\nAnd measure, at thy length, our Latian plains.\nThus are my foes rewarded by my hand;\nThus may they build their town, and thus enjoy the land!\"<\/p>\n
Then Dares, Butes, Sybaris he slew,\nWhom o'er his neck his flound'ring courser threw.\nAs when loud Boreas, with his blust'ring train,\nStoops from above, incumbent on the main;\nWhere'er he flies, he drives the rack before,\nAnd rolls the billows on th' Aegaean shore:\nSo, where resistless Turnus takes his course,\nThe scatter'd squadrons bend before his force;\nHis crest of horses' hair is blown behind\nBy adverse air, and rustles in the wind.<\/p>\n
This haughty Phegeus saw with high disdain,\nAnd, as the chariot roll'd along the plain,\nLight from the ground he leapt, and seiz'd the rein.\nThus hung in air, he still retain'd his hold,\nThe coursers frighted, and their course controll'd.\nThe lance of Turnus reach'd him as he hung,\nAnd pierc'd his plated arms, but pass'd along,\nAnd only raz'd the skin. He turn'd, and held\nAgainst his threat'ning foe his ample shield;\nThen call'd for aid: but, while he cried in vain,\nThe chariot bore him backward on the plain.\nHe lies revers'd; the victor king descends,\nAnd strikes so justly where his helmet ends,\nHe lops the head. The Latian fields are drunk\nWith streams that issue from the bleeding trunk.<\/p>\n
While he triumphs, and while the Trojans yield,\nThe wounded prince is forc'd to leave the field:\nStrong Mnestheus, and Achates often tried,\nAnd young Ascanius, weeping by his side,\nConduct him to his tent. Scarce can he rear\nHis limbs from earth, supported on his spear.\nResolv'd in mind, regardless of the smart,\nHe tugs with both his hands, and breaks the dart.\nThe steel remains. No readier way he found\nTo draw the weapon, than t' inlarge the wound.\nEager of fight, impatient of delay,\nHe begs; and his unwilling friends obey.<\/p>\n
Iapis was at hand to prove his art,\nWhose blooming youth so fir'd Apollo's heart,\nThat, for his love, he proffer'd to bestow\nHis tuneful harp and his unerring bow.\nThe pious youth, more studious how to save\nHis aged sire, now sinking to the grave,\nPreferr'd the pow'r of plants, and silent praise\nOf healing arts, before Phoebean bays.<\/p>\n
Propp'd on his lance the pensive hero stood,\nAnd heard and saw, unmov'd, the mourning crowd.\nThe fam'd physician tucks his robes around\nWith ready hands, and hastens to the wound.\nWith gentle touches he performs his part,\nThis way and that, soliciting the dart,\nAnd exercises all his heav'nly art.\nAll soft'ning simples, known of sov'reign use,\nHe presses out, and pours their noble juice.\nThese first infus'd, to lenify the pain,\nHe tugs with pincers, but he tugs in vain.\nThen to the patron of his art he pray'd:\nThe patron of his art refus'd his aid.<\/p>\n
Meantime the war approaches to the tents;\nTh' alarm grows hotter, and the noise augments:\nThe driving dust proclaims the danger near;\nAnd first their friends, and then their foes appear:\nTheir friends retreat; their foes pursue the rear.\nThe camp is fill'd with terror and affright:\nThe hissing shafts within the trench alight;\nAn undistinguish'd noise ascends the sky,\nThe shouts of those who kill, and groans of those who die.<\/p>\n
But now the goddess mother, mov'd with grief,\nAnd pierc'd with pity, hastens her relief.\nA branch of healing dittany she brought,\nWhich in the Cretan fields with care she sought:\nRough is the stern, which woolly leafs surround;\nThe leafs with flow'rs, the flow'rs with purple crown'd,\nWell known to wounded goats; a sure relief\nTo draw the pointed steel, and ease the grief.\nThis Venus brings, in clouds involv'd, and brews\nTh' extracted liquor with ambrosian dews,\nAnd odorous panacee. Unseen she stands,\nTemp'ring the mixture with her heav'nly hands,\nAnd pours it in a bowl, already crown'd\nWith juice of med'c'nal herbs prepar'd to bathe the wound.\nThe leech, unknowing of superior art\nWhich aids the cure, with this foments the part;\nAnd in a moment ceas'd the raging smart.\nStanch'd is the blood, and in the bottom stands:\nThe steel, but scarcely touch'd with tender hands,\nMoves up, and follows of its own accord,\nAnd health and vigor are at once restor'd.\nIapis first perceiv'd the closing wound,\nAnd first the footsteps of a god he found.\n\"Arms! arms!\" he cries; \"the sword and shield prepare,\nAnd send the willing chief, renew'd, to war.\nThis is no mortal work, no cure of mine,\nNor art's effect, but done by hands divine.\nSome god our general to the battle sends;\nSome god preserves his life for greater ends.\"<\/p>\n
The hero arms in haste; his hands infold\nHis thighs with cuishes of refulgent gold:\nInflam'd to fight, and rushing to the field,\nThat hand sustaining the celestial shield,\nThis gripes the lance, and with such vigor shakes,\nThat to the rest the beamy weapon quakes.\nThen with a close embrace he strain'd his son,\nAnd, kissing thro' his helmet, thus begun:\n\"My son, from my example learn the war,\nIn camps to suffer, and in fields to dare;\nBut happier chance than mine attend thy care!\nThis day my hand thy tender age shall shield,\nAnd crown with honors of the conquer'd field:\nThou, when thy riper years shall send thee forth\nTo toils of war, be mindful of my worth;\nAssert thy birthright, and in arms be known,\nFor Hector's nephew, and Aeneas' son.\"\nHe said; and, striding, issued on the plain.\nAnteus and Mnestheus, and a num'rous train,\nAttend his steps; the rest their weapons take,\nAnd, crowding to the field, the camp forsake.\nA cloud of blinding dust is rais'd around,\nLabors beneath their feet the trembling ground.<\/p>\n
Now Turnus, posted on a hill, from far\nBeheld the progress of the moving war:\nWith him the Latins view'd the cover'd plains,\nAnd the chill blood ran backward in their veins.\nJuturna saw th' advancing troops appear,\nAnd heard the hostile sound, and fled for fear.\nAeneas leads; and draws a sweeping train,\nClos'd in their ranks, and pouring on the plain.\nAs when a whirlwind, rushing to the shore\nFrom the mid ocean, drives the waves before;\nThe painful hind with heavy heart foresees\nThe flatted fields, and slaughter of the trees;\nWith like impetuous rage the prince appears\nBefore his doubled front, nor less destruction bears.\nAnd now both armies shock in open field;\nOsiris is by strong Thymbraeus kill'd.\nArchetius, Ufens, Epulon, are slain\n(All fam'd in arms, and of the Latian train)\nBy Gyas', Mnestheus', and Achates' hand.\nThe fatal augur falls, by whose command\nThe truce was broken, and whose lance, embrued\nWith Trojan blood, th' unhappy fight renew'd.\nLoud shouts and clamors rend the liquid sky,\nAnd o'er the field the frighted Latins fly.\nThe prince disdains the dastards to pursue,\nNor moves to meet in arms the fighting few;\nTurnus alone, amid the dusky plain,\nHe seeks, and to the combat calls in vain.\nJuturna heard, and, seiz'd with mortal fear,\nForc'd from the beam her brother's charioteer;\nAssumes his shape, his armor, and his mien,\nAnd, like Metiscus, in his seat is seen.<\/p>\n
As the black swallow near the palace plies;\nO'er empty courts, and under arches, flies;\nNow hawks aloft, now skims along the flood,\nTo furnish her loquacious nest with food:\nSo drives the rapid goddess o'er the plains;\nThe smoking horses run with loosen'd reins.\nShe steers a various course among the foes;\nNow here, now there, her conqu'ring brother shows;\nNow with a straight, now with a wheeling flight,\nShe turns, and bends, but shuns the single fight.\nAeneas, fir'd with fury, breaks the crowd,\nAnd seeks his foe, and calls by name aloud:\nHe runs within a narrower ring, and tries\nTo stop the chariot; but the chariot flies.\nIf he but gain a glimpse, Juturna fears,\nAnd far away the Daunian hero bears.<\/p>\n
What should he do! Nor arts nor arms avail;\nAnd various cares in vain his mind assail.\nThe great Messapus, thund'ring thro' the field,\nIn his left hand two pointed jav'lins held:\nEncount'ring on the prince, one dart he drew,\nAnd with unerring aim and utmost vigor threw.\nAeneas saw it come, and, stooping low\nBeneath his buckler, shunn'd the threat'ning blow.\nThe weapon hiss'd above his head, and tore\nThe waving plume which on his helm he wore.\nForced by this hostile act, and fir'd with spite,\nThat flying Turnus still declin'd the fight,\nThe Prince, whose piety had long repell'd\nHis inborn ardor, now invades the field;\nInvokes the pow'rs of violated peace,\nTheir rites and injur'd altars to redress;\nThen, to his rage abandoning the rein,\nWith blood and slaughter'd bodies fills the plain.<\/p>\n
What god can tell, what numbers can display,\nThe various labors of that fatal day;\nWhat chiefs and champions fell on either side,\nIn combat slain, or by what deaths they died;\nWhom Turnus, whom the Trojan hero kill'd;\nWho shar'd the fame and fortune of the field!\nJove, could'st thou view, and not avert thy sight,\nTwo jarring nations join'd in cruel fight,\nWhom leagues of lasting love so shortly shall unite!<\/p>\n
Aeneas first Rutulian Sucro found,\nWhose valor made the Trojans quit their ground;\nBetwixt his ribs the jav'lin drove so just,\nIt reach'd his heart, nor needs a second thrust.\nNow Turnus, at two blows, two brethren slew;\nFirst from his horse fierce Amycus he threw:\nThen, leaping on the ground, on foot assail'd\nDiores, and in equal fight prevail'd.\nTheir lifeless trunks he leaves upon the place;\nTheir heads, distilling gore, his chariot grace.<\/p>\n
Three cold on earth the Trojan hero threw,\nWhom without respite at one charge he slew:\nCethegus, Tanais, Tagus, fell oppress'd,\nAnd sad Onythes, added to the rest,\nOf Theban blood, whom Peridia bore.<\/p>\n
Turnus two brothers from the Lycian shore,\nAnd from Apollo's fane to battle sent,\nO'erthrew; nor Phoebus could their fate prevent.\nPeaceful Menoetes after these he kill'd,\nWho long had shunn'd the dangers of the field:\nOn Lerna's lake a silent life he led,\nAnd with his nets and angle earn'd his bread;\nNor pompous cares, nor palaces, he knew,\nBut wisely from th' infectious world withdrew:\nPoor was his house; his father's painful hand\nDischarg'd his rent, and plow'd another's land.<\/p>\n
As flames among the lofty woods are thrown\nOn diff'rent sides, and both by winds are blown;\nThe laurels crackle in the sputt'ring fire;\nThe frighted sylvans from their shades retire:\nOr as two neighb'ring torrents fall from high;\nRapid they run; the foamy waters fry;\nThey roll to sea with unresisted force,\nAnd down the rocks precipitate their course:\nNot with less rage the rival heroes take\nTheir diff'rent ways, nor less destruction make.\nWith spears afar, with swords at hand, they strike;\nAnd zeal of slaughter fires their souls alike.\nLike them, their dauntless men maintain the field;\nAnd hearts are pierc'd, unknowing how to yield:\nThey blow for blow return, and wound for wound;\nAnd heaps of bodies raise the level ground.<\/p>\n
Murranus, boasting of his blood, that springs\nFrom a long royal race of Latian kings,\nIs by the Trojan from his chariot thrown,\nCrush'd with the weight of an unwieldy stone:\nBetwixt the wheels he fell; the wheels, that bore\nHis living load, his dying body tore.\nHis starting steeds, to shun the glitt'ring sword,\nPaw down his trampled limbs, forgetful of their lord.<\/p>\n
Fierce Hyllus threaten'd high, and, face to face,\nAffronted Turnus in the middle space:\nThe prince encounter'd him in full career,\nAnd at his temples aim'd the deadly spear;\nSo fatally the flying weapon sped,\nThat thro' his helm it pierc'd his head.\nNor, Cisseus, couldst thou scape from Turnus' hand,\nIn vain the strongest of th' Arcadian band:\nNor to Cupentus could his gods afford\nAvailing aid against th' Aenean sword,\nWhich to his naked heart pursued the course;\nNor could his plated shield sustain the force.<\/p>\n
Iolas fell, whom not the Grecian pow'rs,\nNor great subverter of the Trojan tow'rs,\nWere doom'd to kill, while Heav'n prolong'd his date;\nBut who can pass the bounds, prefix'd by fate?\nIn high Lyrnessus, and in Troy, he held\nTwo palaces, and was from each expell'd:\nOf all the mighty man, the last remains\nA little spot of foreign earth contains.<\/p>\n
And now both hosts their broken troops unite\nIn equal ranks, and mix in mortal fight.\nSeresthus and undaunted Mnestheus join\nThe Trojan, Tuscan, and Arcadian line:\nSea-born Messapus, with Atinas, heads\nThe Latin squadrons, and to battle leads.\nThey strike, they push, they throng the scanty space,\nResolv'd on death, impatient of disgrace;\nAnd, where one falls, another fills his place.<\/p>\n
The Cyprian goddess now inspires her son\nTo leave th' unfinish'd fight, and storm the town:\nFor, while he rolls his eyes around the plain\nIn quest of Turnus, whom he seeks in vain,\nHe views th' unguarded city from afar,\nIn careless quiet, and secure of war.\nOccasion offers, and excites his mind\nTo dare beyond the task he first design'd.\nResolv'd, he calls his chiefs; they leave the fight:\nAttended thus, he takes a neighb'ring height;\nThe crowding troops about their gen'ral stand,\nAll under arms, and wait his high command.\nThen thus the lofty prince: \"Hear and obey,\nYe Trojan bands, without the least delay\nJove is with us; and what I have decreed\nRequires our utmost vigor, and our speed.\nYour instant arms against the town prepare,\nThe source of mischief, and the seat of war.\nThis day the Latian tow'rs, that mate the sky,\nShall level with the plain in ashes lie:\nThe people shall be slaves, unless in time\nThey kneel for pardon, and repent their crime.\nTwice have our foes been vanquish'd on the plain:\nThen shall I wait till Turnus will be slain?\nYour force against the perjur'd city bend.\nThere it began, and there the war shall end.\nThe peace profan'd our rightful arms requires;\nCleanse the polluted place with purging fires.\"<\/p>\n
He finish'd; and, one soul inspiring all,\nForm'd in a wedge, the foot approach the wall.\nWithout the town, an unprovided train\nOf gaping, gazing citizens are slain.\nSome firebrands, others scaling ladders bear,\nAnd those they toss aloft, and these they rear:\nThe flames now launch'd, the feather'd arrows fly,\nAnd clouds of missive arms obscure the sky.\nAdvancing to the front, the hero stands,\nAnd, stretching out to heav'n his pious hands,\nAttests the gods, asserts his innocence,\nUpbraids with breach of faith th' Ausonian prince;\nDeclares the royal honor doubly stain'd,\nAnd twice the rites of holy peace profan'd.<\/p>\n
Dissenting clamors in the town arise;\nEach will be heard, and all at once advise.\nOne part for peace, and one for war contends;\nSome would exclude their foes, and some admit their friends.\nThe helpless king is hurried in the throng,\nAnd, whate'er tide prevails, is borne along.\nThus, when the swain, within a hollow rock,\nInvades the bees with suffocating smoke,\nThey run around, or labor on their wings,\nDisus'd to flight, and shoot their sleepy stings;\nTo shun the bitter fumes in vain they try;\nBlack vapors, issuing from the vent, involve the sky.<\/p>\n
But fate and envious fortune now prepare\nTo plunge the Latins in the last despair.\nThe queen, who saw the foes invade the town,\nAnd brands on tops of burning houses thrown,\nCast round her eyes, distracted with her fear-\nNo troops of Turnus in the field appear.\nOnce more she stares abroad, but still in vain,\nAnd then concludes the royal youth is slain.\nMad with her anguish, impotent to bear\nThe mighty grief, she loathes the vital air.\nShe calls herself the cause of all this ill,\nAnd owns the dire effects of her ungovern'd will;\nShe raves against the gods; she beats her breast;\nShe tears with both her hands her purple vest:\nThen round a beam a running noose she tied,\nAnd, fasten'd by the neck, obscenely died.<\/p>\n
Soon as the fatal news by Fame was blown,\nAnd to her dames and to her daughter known,\nThe sad Lavinia rends her yellow hair\nAnd rosy cheeks; the rest her sorrow share:\nWith shrieks the palace rings, and madness of despair.\nThe spreading rumor fills the public place:\nConfusion, fear, distraction, and disgrace,\nAnd silent shame, are seen in ev'ry face.\nLatinus tears his garments as he goes,\nBoth for his public and his private woes;\nWith filth his venerable beard besmears,\nAnd sordid dust deforms his silver hairs.\nAnd much he blames the softness of his mind,\nObnoxious to the charms of womankind,\nAnd soon seduc'd to change what he so well design'd;\nTo break the solemn league so long desir'd,\nNor finish what his fates, and those of Troy, requir'd.<\/p>\n
Now Turnus rolls aloof o'er empty plains,\nAnd here and there some straggling foes he gleans.\nHis flying coursers please him less and less,\nAsham'd of easy fight and cheap success.\nThus half-contented, anxious in his mind,\nThe distant cries come driving in the wind,\nShouts from the walls, but shouts in murmurs drown'd;\nA jarring mixture, and a boding sound.\n\"Alas!\" said he, \"what mean these dismal cries?\nWhat doleful clamors from the town arise?\"\nConfus'd, he stops, and backward pulls the reins.\nShe who the driver's office now sustains,\nReplies: \"Neglect, my lord, these new alarms;\nHere fight, and urge the fortune of your arms:\nThere want not others to defend the wall.\nIf by your rival's hand th' Italians fall,\nSo shall your fatal sword his friends oppress,\nIn honor equal, equal in success.\"<\/p>\n
To this, the prince: \"O sister- for I knew\nThe peace infring'd proceeded first from you;\nI knew you, when you mingled first in fight;\nAnd now in vain you would deceive my sight-\nWhy, goddess, this unprofitable care?\nWho sent you down from heav'n, involv'd in air,\nYour share of mortal sorrows to sustain,\nAnd see your brother bleeding on the plain?\nFor to what pow'r can Turnus have recourse,\nOr how resist his fate's prevailing force?\nThese eyes beheld Murranus bite the ground:\nMighty the man, and mighty was the wound.\nI heard my dearest friend, with dying breath,\nMy name invoking to revenge his death.\nBrave Ufens fell with honor on the place,\nTo shun the shameful sight of my disgrace.\nOn earth supine, a manly corpse he lies;\nHis vest and armor are the victor's prize.\nThen, shall I see Laurentum in a flame,\nWhich only wanted, to complete my shame?\nHow will the Latins hoot their champion's flight!\nHow Drances will insult and point them to the sight!\nIs death so hard to bear? Ye gods below,\n(Since those above so small compassion show,)\nReceive a soul unsullied yet with shame,\nWhich not belies my great forefather's name!\"<\/p>\n
He said; and while he spoke, with flying speed\nCame Sages urging on his foamy steed:\nFix'd on his wounded face a shaft he bore,\nAnd, seeking Turnus, sent his voice before:\n\"Turnus, on you, on you alone, depends\nOur last relief: compassionate your friends!\nLike lightning, fierce Aeneas, rolling on,\nWith arms invests, with flames invades the town:\nThe brands are toss'd on high; the winds conspire\nTo drive along the deluge of the fire.\nAll eyes are fix'd on you: your foes rejoice;\nEv'n the king staggers, and suspends his choice;\nDoubts to deliver or defend the town,\nWhom to reject, or whom to call his son.\nThe queen, on whom your utmost hopes were plac'd,\nHerself suborning death, has breath'd her last.\n'T is true, Messapus, fearless of his fate,\nWith fierce Atinas' aid, defends the gate:\nOn ev'ry side surrounded by the foe,\nThe more they kill, the greater numbers grow;\nAn iron harvest mounts, and still remains to mow.\nYou, far aloof from your forsaken bands,\nYour rolling chariot drive o'er empty sands.<\/p>\n
Stupid he sate, his eyes on earth declin'd,\nAnd various cares revolving in his mind:\nRage, boiling from the bottom of his breast,\nAnd sorrow mix'd with shame, his soul oppress'd;\nAnd conscious worth lay lab'ring in his thought,\nAnd love by jealousy to madness wrought.\nBy slow degrees his reason drove away\nThe mists of passion, and resum'd her sway.\nThen, rising on his car, he turn'd his look,\nAnd saw the town involv'd in fire and smoke.\nA wooden tow'r with flames already blaz'd,\nWhich his own hands on beams and rafters rais'd;\nAnd bridges laid above to join the space,\nAnd wheels below to roll from place to place.\n\"Sister, the Fates have vanquish'd: let us go\nThe way which Heav'n and my hard fortune show.\nThe fight is fix'd; nor shall the branded name\nOf a base coward blot your brother's fame.\nDeath is my choice; but suffer me to try\nMy force, and vent my rage before I die.\"\nHe said; and, leaping down without delay,\nThro' crowds of scatter'd foes he freed his way.\nStriding he pass'd, impetuous as the wind,\nAnd left the grieving goddess far behind.\nAs when a fragment, from a mountain torn\nBy raging tempests, or by torrents borne,\nOr sapp'd by time, or loosen'd from the roots-\nProne thro' the void the rocky ruin shoots,\nRolling from crag to crag, from steep to steep;\nDown sink, at once, the shepherds and their sheep:\nInvolv'd alike, they rush to nether ground;\nStunn'd with the shock they fall, and stunn'd from earth rebound:\nSo Turnus, hasting headlong to the town,\nShould'ring and shoving, bore the squadrons down.\nStill pressing onward, to the walls he drew,\nWhere shafts, and spears, and darts promiscuous flew,\nAnd sanguine streams the slipp'ry ground embrue.\nFirst stretching out his arm, in sign of peace,\nHe cries aloud, to make the combat cease:\n\"Rutulians, hold; and Latin troops, retire!\nThe fight is mine; and me the gods require.\n'T is just that I should vindicate alone\nThe broken truce, or for the breach atone.\nThis day shall free from wars th' Ausonian state,\nOr finish my misfortunes in my fate.\"<\/p>\n
Both armies from their bloody work desist,\nAnd, bearing backward, form a spacious list.\nThe Trojan hero, who receiv'd from fame\nThe welcome sound, and heard the champion's name,\nSoon leaves the taken works and mounted walls,\nGreedy of war where greater glory calls.\nHe springs to fight, exulting in his force\nHis jointed armor rattles in the course.\nLike Eryx, or like Athos, great he shows,\nOr Father Apennine, when, white with snows,\nHis head divine obscure in clouds he hides,\nAnd shakes the sounding forest on his sides.\nThe nations, overaw'd, surcease the fight;\nImmovable their bodies, fix'd their sight.\nEv'n death stands still; nor from above they throw\nTheir darts, nor drive their batt'ring-rams below.\nIn silent order either army stands,\nAnd drop their swords, unknowing, from their hands.\nTh' Ausonian king beholds, with wond'ring sight,\nTwo mighty champions match'd in single fight,\nBorn under climes remote, and brought by fate,\nWith swords to try their titles to the state.<\/p>\n
Now, in clos'd field, each other from afar\nThey view; and, rushing on, begin the war.\nThey launch their spears; then hand to hand they meet;\nThe trembling soil resounds beneath their feet:\nTheir bucklers clash; thick blows descend from high,\nAnd flakes of fire from their hard helmets fly.\nCourage conspires with chance, and both ingage\nWith equal fortune yet, and mutual rage.\nAs when two bulls for their fair female fight\nIn Sila's shades, or on Taburnus' height;\nWith horns adverse they meet; the keeper flies;\nMute stands the herd; the heifers roll their eyes,\nAnd wait th' event; which victor they shall bear,\nAnd who shall be the lord, to rule the lusty year:\nWith rage of love the jealous rivals burn,\nAnd push for push, and wound for wound return;\nTheir dewlaps gor'd, their sides are lav'd in blood;\nLoud cries and roaring sounds rebellow thro' the wood:\nSuch was the combat in the listed ground;\nSo clash their swords, and so their shields resound.<\/p>\n
Jove sets the beam; in either scale he lays\nThe champions' fate, and each exactly weighs.\nOn this side, life and lucky chance ascends;\nLoaded with death, that other scale descends.\nRais'd on the stretch, young Turnus aims a blow\nFull on the helm of his unguarded foe:\nShrill shouts and clamors ring on either side,\nAs hopes and fears their panting hearts divide.\nBut all in pieces flies the traitor sword,\nAnd, in the middle stroke, deserts his lord.\nNow is but death, or flight; disarm'd he flies,\nWhen in his hand an unknown hilt he spies.\nFame says that Turnus, when his steeds he join'd,\nHurrying to war, disorder'd in his mind,\nSnatch'd the first weapon which his haste could find.\n'T was not the fated sword his father bore,\nBut that his charioteer Metiscus wore.\nThis, while the Trojans fled, the toughness held;\nBut, vain against the great Vulcanian shield,\nThe mortal-temper'd steel deceiv'd his hand:\nThe shiver'd fragments shone amid the sand.<\/p>\n
Surpris'd with fear, he fled along the field,\nAnd now forthright, and now in orbits wheel'd;\nFor here the Trojan troops the list surround,\nAnd there the pass is clos'd with pools and marshy ground.\nAeneas hastens, tho' with heavier pace-\nHis wound, so newly knit, retards the chase,\nAnd oft his trembling knees their aid refuse-\nYet, pressing foot by foot, his foe pursues.<\/p>\n
Thus, when a fearful stag is clos'd around\nWith crimson toils, or in a river found,\nHigh on the bank the deep-mouth'd hound appears,\nStill opening, following still, where'er he steers;\nThe persecuted creature, to and fro,\nTurns here and there, to scape his Umbrian foe:\nSteep is th' ascent, and, if he gains the land,\nThe purple death is pitch'd along the strand.\nHis eager foe, determin'd to the chase,\nStretch'd at his length, gains ground at ev'ry pace;\nNow to his beamy head he makes his way,\nAnd now he holds, or thinks he holds, his prey:\nJust at the pinch, the stag springs out with fear;\nHe bites the wind, and fills his sounding jaws with air:\nThe rocks, the lakes, the meadows ring with cries;\nThe mortal tumult mounts, and thunders in the skies.\nThus flies the Daunian prince, and, flying, blames\nHis tardy troops, and, calling by their names,\nDemands his trusty sword. The Trojan threats\nThe realm with ruin, and their ancient seats\nTo lay in ashes, if they dare supply\nWith arms or aid his vanquish'd enemy:\nThus menacing, he still pursues the course,\nWith vigor, tho' diminish'd of his force.\nTen times already round the listed place\nOne chief had fled, and t' other giv'n the chase:\nNo trivial prize is play'd; for on the life\nOr death of Turnus now depends the strife.<\/p>\n
Within the space, an olive tree had stood,\nA sacred shade, a venerable wood,\nFor vows to Faunus paid, the Latins' guardian god.\nHere hung the vests, and tablets were ingrav'd,\nOf sinking mariners from shipwrack sav'd.\nWith heedless hands the Trojans fell'd the tree,\nTo make the ground inclos'd for combat free.\nDeep in the root, whether by fate, or chance,\nOr erring haste, the Trojan drove his lance;\nThen stoop'd, and tugg'd with force immense, to free\nTh' incumber'd spear from the tenacious tree;\nThat, whom his fainting limbs pursued in vain,\nHis flying weapon might from far attain.<\/p>\n
Confus'd with fear, bereft of human aid,\nThen Turnus to the gods, and first to Faunus pray'd:\n\"O Faunus, pity! and thou Mother Earth,\nWhere I thy foster son receiv'd my birth,\nHold fast the steel! If my religious hand\nYour plant has honor'd, which your foes profan'd,\nPropitious hear my pious pray'r!\" He said,\nNor with successless vows invok'd their aid.\nTh' incumbent hero wrench'd, and pull'd, and strain'd;\nBut still the stubborn earth the steel detain'd.\nJuturna took her time; and, while in vain\nHe strove, assum'd Meticus' form again,\nAnd, in that imitated shape, restor'd\nTo the despairing prince his Daunian sword.\nThe Queen of Love, who, with disdain and grief,\nSaw the bold nymph afford this prompt relief,\nT' assert her offspring with a greater deed,\nFrom the tough root the ling'ring weapon freed.<\/p>\n
Once more erect, the rival chiefs advance:\nOne trusts the sword, and one the pointed lance;\nAnd both resolv'd alike to try their fatal chance.<\/p>\n
Meantime imperial Jove to Juno spoke,\nWho from a shining cloud beheld the shock:\n\"What new arrest, O Queen of Heav'n, is sent\nTo stop the Fates now lab'ring in th' event?\nWhat farther hopes are left thee to pursue?\nDivine Aeneas, (and thou know'st it too,)\nForedoom'd, to these celestial seats are due.\nWhat more attempts for Turnus can be made,\nThat thus thou ling'rest in this lonely shade?\nIs it becoming of the due respect\nAnd awful honor of a god elect,\nA wound unworthy of our state to feel,\nPatient of human hands and earthly steel?\nOr seems it just, the sister should restore\nA second sword, when one was lost before,\nAnd arm a conquer'd wretch against his conqueror?\nFor what, without thy knowledge and avow,\nNay more, thy dictate, durst Juturna do?\nAt last, in deference to my love, forbear\nTo lodge within thy soul this anxious care;\nReclin'd upon my breast, thy grief unload:\nWho should relieve the goddess, but the god?\nNow all things to their utmost issue tend,\nPush'd by the Fates to their appointed\nWhile leave was giv'n thee, and a lawful hour\nFor vengeance, wrath, and unresisted pow'r,\nToss'd on the seas, thou couldst thy foes distress,\nAnd, driv'n ashore, with hostile arms oppress;\nDeform the royal house; and, from the side\nOf the just bridegroom, tear the plighted bride:\nNow cease at my command.\" The Thund'rer said;\nAnd, with dejected eyes, this answer Juno made:\n\"Because your dread decree too well I knew,\nFrom Turnus and from earth unwilling I withdrew.\nElse should you not behold me here, alone,\nInvolv'd in empty clouds, my friends bemoan,\nBut, girt with vengeful flames, in open sight\nEngag'd against my foes in mortal fight.\n'T is true, Juturna mingled in the strife\nBy my command, to save her brother's life-\nAt least to try; but, by the Stygian lake,\n(The most religious oath the gods can take,)\nWith this restriction, not to bend the bow,\nOr toss the spear, or trembling dart to throw.\nAnd now, resign'd to your superior might,\nAnd tir'd with fruitless toils, I loathe the fight.\nThis let me beg (and this no fates withstand)\nBoth for myself and for your father's land,\nThat, when the nuptial bed shall bind the peace,\n(Which I, since you ordain, consent to bless,)\nThe laws of either nation be the same;\nBut let the Latins still retain their name,\nSpeak the same language which they spoke before,\nWear the same habits which their grandsires wore.\nCall them not Trojans: perish the renown\nAnd name of Troy, with that detested town.\nLatium be Latium still; let Alba reign\nAnd Rome's immortal majesty remain.\"<\/p>\n
Then thus the founder of mankind replies\n(Unruffled was his front, serene his eyes)\n\"Can Saturn's issue, and heav'n's other heir,\nSuch endless anger in her bosom bear?\nBe mistress, and your full desires obtain;\nBut quench the choler you foment in vain.\nFrom ancient blood th' Ausonian people sprung,\nShall keep their name, their habit, and their tongue.\nThe Trojans to their customs shall be tied:\nI will, myself, their common rites provide;\nThe natives shall command, the foreigners subside.\nAll shall be Latium; Troy without a name;\nAnd her lost sons forget from whence they came.\nFrom blood so mix'd, a pious race shall flow,\nEqual to gods, excelling all below.\nNo nation more respect to you shall pay,\nOr greater off'rings on your altars lay.\"\nJuno consents, well pleas'd that her desires\nHad found success, and from the cloud retires.<\/p>\n
The peace thus made, the Thund'rer next prepares\nTo force the wat'ry goddess from the wars.\nDeep in the dismal regions void of light,\nThree daughters at a birth were born to Night:\nThese their brown mother, brooding on her care,\nIndued with windy wings to flit in air,\nWith serpents girt alike, and crown'd with hissing hair.\nIn heav'n the Dirae call'd, and still at hand,\nBefore the throne of angry Jove they stand,\nHis ministers of wrath, and ready still\nThe minds of mortal men with fears to fill,\nWhene'er the moody sire, to wreak his hate\nOn realms or towns deserving of their fate,\nHurls down diseases, death and deadly care,\nAnd terrifies the guilty world with war.\nOne sister plague if these from heav'n he sent,\nTo fright Juturna with a dire portent.\nThe pest comes whirling down: by far more slow\nSprings the swift arrow from the Parthian bow,\nOr Cydon yew, when, traversing the skies,\nAnd drench'd in pois'nous juice, the sure destruction flies.\nWith such a sudden and unseen a flight\nShot thro' the clouds the daughter of the night.\nSoon as the field inclos'd she had in view,\nAnd from afar her destin'd quarry knew,\nContracted, to the boding bird she turns,\nWhich haunts the ruin'd piles and hallow'd urns,\nAnd beats about the tombs with nightly wings,\nWhere songs obscene on sepulchers she sings.\nThus lessen'd in her form, with frightful cries\nThe Fury round unhappy Turnus flies,\nFlaps on his shield, and flutters o'er his eyes.<\/p>\n
A lazy chillness crept along his blood;\nChok'd was his voice; his hair with horror stood.\nJuturna from afar beheld her fly,\nAnd knew th' ill omen, by her screaming cry\nAnd stridor of her wings. Amaz'd with fear,\nHer beauteous breast she beat, and rent her flowing hair.<\/p>\n
\"Ah me!\" she cries, \"in this unequal strife\nWhat can thy sister more to save thy life?\nWeak as I am, can I, alas! contend\nIn arms with that inexorable fiend?\nNow, now, I quit the field! forbear to fright\nMy tender soul, ye baleful birds of night;\nThe lashing of your wings I know too well,\nThe sounding flight, and fun'ral screams of hell!\nThese are the gifts you bring from haughty Jove,\nThe worthy recompense of ravish'd love!\nDid he for this exempt my life from fate?\nO hard conditions of immortal state,\nTho' born to death, not privileg'd to die,\nBut forc'd to bear impos'd eternity!\nTake back your envious bribes, and let me go\nCompanion to my brother's ghost below!\nThe joys are vanish'd: nothing now remains,\nOf life immortal, but immortal pains.\nWhat earth will open her devouring womb,\nTo rest a weary goddess in the tomb!\"\nShe drew a length of sighs; nor more she said,\nBut in her azure mantle wrapp'd her head,\nThen plung'd into her stream, with deep despair,\nAnd her last sobs came bubbling up in air.<\/p>\n
Now stern Aeneas his weighty spear\nAgainst his foe, and thus upbraids his fear:\n\"What farther subterfuge can Turnus find?\nWhat empty hopes are harbor'd in his mind?\n'T is not thy swiftness can secure thy flight;\nNot with their feet, but hands, the valiant fight.\nVary thy shape in thousand forms, and dare\nWhat skill and courage can attempt in war;\nWish for the wings of winds, to mount the sky;\nOr hid, within the hollow earth to lie!\"\nThe champion shook his head, and made this short reply:\n\"No threats of thine my manly mind can move;\n'T is hostile heav'n I dread, and partial Jove.\"\nHe said no more, but, with a sigh, repress'd\nThe mighty sorrow in his swelling breast.<\/p>\n
Then, as he roll'd his troubled eyes around,\nAn antique stone he saw, the common bound\nOf neighb'ring fields, and barrier of the ground;\nSo vast, that twelve strong men of modern days\nTh' enormous weight from earth could hardly raise.\nHe heav'd it at a lift, and, pois'd on high,\nRan stagg'ring on against his enemy,\nBut so disorder'd, that he scarcely knew\nHis way, or what unwieldly weight he threw.\nHis knocking knees are bent beneath the load,\nAnd shiv'ring cold congeals his vital blood.\nThe stone drops from his arms, and, falling short\nFor want of vigor, mocks his vain effort.\nAnd as, when heavy sleep has clos'd the sight,\nThe sickly fancy labors in the night;\nWe seem to run; and, destitute of force,\nOur sinking limbs forsake us in the course:\nIn vain we heave for breath; in vain we cry;\nThe nerves, unbrac'd, their usual strength deny;\nAnd on the tongue the falt'ring accents die:\nSo Turnus far'd; whatever means he tried,\nAll force of arms and points of art employ'd,\nThe Fury flew athwart, and made th' endeavor void.<\/p>\n
A thousand various thoughts his soul confound;\nHe star'd about, nor aid nor issue found;\nHis own men stop the pass, and his own walls surround.\nOnce more he pauses, and looks out again,\nAnd seeks the goddess charioteer in vain.\nTrembling he views the thund'ring chief advance,\nAnd brandishing aloft the deadly lance:\nAmaz'd he cow'rs beneath his conqu'ring foe,\nForgets to ward, and waits the coming blow.\nAstonish'd while he stands, and fix'd with fear,\nAim'd at his shield he sees th' impending spear.<\/p>\n
The hero measur'd first, with narrow view,\nThe destin'd mark; and, rising as he threw,\nWith its full swing the fatal weapon flew.\nNot with less rage the rattling thunder falls,\nOr stones from batt'ring-engines break the walls:\nSwift as a whirlwind, from an arm so strong,\nThe lance drove on, and bore the death along.\nNaught could his sev'nfold shield the prince avail,\nNor aught, beneath his arms, the coat of mail:\nIt pierc'd thro' all, and with a grisly wound\nTransfix'd his thigh, and doubled him to ground.\nWith groans the Latins rend the vaulted sky:\nWoods, hills, and valleys, to the voice reply.<\/p>\n
Now low on earth the lofty chief is laid,\nWith eyes cast upward, and with arms display'd,\nAnd, recreant, thus to the proud victor pray'd:\n\"I know my death deserv'd, nor hope to live:\nUse what the gods and thy good fortune give.\nYet think, O think, if mercy may be shown-\nThou hadst a father once, and hast a son-\nPity my sire, now sinking to the grave;\nAnd for Anchises' sake old Daunus save!\nOr, if thy vow'd revenge pursue my death,\nGive to my friends my body void of breath!\nThe Latian chiefs have seen me beg my life;\nThine is the conquest, thine the royal wife:\nAgainst a yielded man, 't is mean ignoble strife.\"<\/p>\n
In deep suspense the Trojan seem'd to stand,\nAnd, just prepar'd to strike, repress'd his hand.\nHe roll'd his eyes, and ev'ry moment felt\nHis manly soul with more compassion melt;\nWhen, casting down a casual glance, he spied\nThe golden belt that glitter'd on his side,\nThe fatal spoils which haughty Turnus tore\nFrom dying Pallas, and in triumph wore.\nThen, rous'd anew to wrath, he loudly cries\n(Flames, while he spoke, came flashing from his eyes)\n\"Traitor, dost thou, dost thou to grace pretend,\nClad, as thou art, in trophies of my friend?\nTo his sad soul a grateful off'ring go!\n'T is Pallas, Pallas gives this deadly blow.\"\nHe rais'd his arm aloft, and, at the word,\nDeep in his bosom drove the shining sword.\nThe streaming blood distain'd his arms around.<\/p>","rendered":"
When Turnus saw the Latins leave the field,
\nTheir armies broken, and their courage quell’d,
\nHimself become the mark of public spite,
\nHis honor question’d for the promis’d fight;
\nThe more he was with vulgar hate oppress’d,
\nThe more his fury boil’d within his breast:
\nHe rous’d his vigor for the last debate,
\nAnd rais’d his haughty soul to meet his fate.<\/p>\n
As, when the swains the Libyan lion chase,
\nHe makes a sour retreat, nor mends his pace;
\nBut, if the pointed jav’lin pierce his side,
\nThe lordly beast returns with double pride:
\nHe wrenches out the steel, he roars for pain;
\nHis sides he lashes, and erects his mane:
\nSo Turnus fares; his eyeballs flash with fire,
\nThro’ his wide nostrils clouds of smoke expire.<\/p>\n
Trembling with rage, around the court he ran,
\nAt length approach’d the king, and thus began:
\n“No more excuses or delays: I stand
\nIn arms prepar’d to combat, hand to hand,
\nThis base deserter of his native land.
\nThe Trojan, by his word, is bound to take
\nThe same conditions which himself did make.
\nRenew the truce; the solemn rites prepare,
\nAnd to my single virtue trust the war.
\nThe Latians unconcern’d shall see the fight;
\nThis arm unaided shall assert your right:
\nThen, if my prostrate body press the plain,
\nTo him the crown and beauteous bride remain.”<\/p>\n
To whom the king sedately thus replied:
\n“Brave youth, the more your valor has been tried,
\nThe more becomes it us, with due respect,
\nTo weigh the chance of war, which you neglect.
\nYou want not wealth, or a successive throne,
\nOr cities which your arms have made your own:
\nMy towns and treasures are at your command,
\nAnd stor’d with blooming beauties is my land;
\nLaurentum more than one Lavinia sees,
\nUnmarried, fair, of noble families.
\nNow let me speak, and you with patience hear,
\nThings which perhaps may grate a lover’s ear,
\nBut sound advice, proceeding from a heart
\nSincerely yours, and free from fraudful art.
\nThe gods, by signs, have manifestly shown,
\nNo prince Italian born should heir my throne:
\nOft have our augurs, in prediction skill’d,
\nAnd oft our priests, foreign son reveal’d.
\nYet, won by worth that cannot be withstood,
\nBrib’d by my kindness to my kindred blood,
\nUrg’d by my wife, who would not be denied,
\nI promis’d my Lavinia for your bride:
\nHer from her plighted lord by force I took;
\nAll ties of treaties, and of honor, broke:
\nOn your account I wag’d an impious war-
\nWith what success, ‘t is needless to declare;
\nI and my subjects feel, and you have had your share.
\nTwice vanquish’d while in bloody fields we strive,
\nScarce in our walls we keep our hopes alive:
\nThe rolling flood runs warm with human gore;
\nThe bones of Latians blanch the neighb’ring shore.
\nWhy put I not an end to this debate,
\nStill unresolv’d, and still a slave to fate?
\nIf Turnus’ death a lasting peace can give,
\nWhy should I not procure it whilst you live?
\nShould I to doubtful arms your youth betray,
\nWhat would my kinsmen the Rutulians say?
\nAnd, should you fall in fight, (which Heav’n defend!)
\nHow curse the cause which hasten’d to his end
\nThe daughter’s lover and the father’s friend?
\nWeigh in your mind the various chance of war;
\nPity your parent’s age, and ease his care.”<\/p>\n
Such balmy words he pour’d, but all in vain:
\nThe proffer’d med’cine but provok’d the pain.
\nThe wrathful youth, disdaining the relief,
\nWith intermitting sobs thus vents his grief:
\n“The care, O best of fathers, which you take
\nFor my concerns, at my desire forsake.
\nPermit me not to languish out my days,
\nBut make the best exchange of life for praise.
\nThis arm, this lance, can well dispute the prize;
\nAnd the blood follows, where the weapon flies.
\nHis goddess mother is not near, to shroud
\nThe flying coward with an empty cloud.”<\/p>\n
But now the queen, who fear’d for Turnus’ life,
\nAnd loath’d the hard conditions of the strife,
\nHeld him by force; and, dying in his death,
\nIn these sad accents gave her sorrow breath:
\n“O Turnus, I adjure thee by these tears,
\nAnd whate’er price Amata’s honor bears
\nWithin thy breast, since thou art all my hope,
\nMy sickly mind’s repose, my sinking age’s prop;
\nSince on the safety of thy life alone
\nDepends Latinus, and the Latian throne:
\nRefuse me not this one, this only pray’r,
\nTo waive the combat, and pursue the war.
\nWhatever chance attends this fatal strife,
\nThink it includes, in thine, Amata’s life.
\nI cannot live a slave, or see my throne
\nUsurp’d by strangers or a Trojan son.”<\/p>\n
At this, a flood of tears Lavinia shed;
\nA crimson blush her beauteous face o’erspread,
\nVarying her cheeks by turns with white and red.
\nThe driving colors, never at a stay,
\nRun here and there, and flush, and fade away.
\nDelightful change! Thus Indian iv’ry shows,
\nWhich with the bord’ring paint of purple glows;
\nOr lilies damask’d by the neighb’ring rose.<\/p>\n
The lover gaz’d, and, burning with desire,
\nThe more he look’d, the more he fed the fire:
\nRevenge, and jealous rage, and secret spite,
\nRoll in his breast, and rouse him to the fight.
\nThen fixing on the queen his ardent eyes,
\nFirm to his first intent, he thus replies:
\n“O mother, do not by your tears prepare
\nSuch boding omens, and prejudge the war.
\nResolv’d on fight, I am no longer free
\nTo shun my death, if Heav’n my death decree.”
\nThen turning to the herald, thus pursues:
\n“Go, greet the Trojan with ungrateful news;
\nDenounce from me, that, when to-morrow’s light
\nShall gild the heav’ns, he need not urge the fight;
\nThe Trojan and Rutulian troops no more
\nShall dye, with mutual blood, the Latian shore:
\nOur single swords the quarrel shall decide,
\nAnd to the victor be the beauteous bride.”<\/p>\n
He said, and striding on, with speedy pace,
\nHe sought his coursers of the Thracian race.
\nAt his approach they toss their heads on high,
\nAnd, proudly neighing, promise victory.
\nThe sires of these Orythia sent from far,
\nTo grace Pilumnus, when he went to war.
\nThe drifts of Thracian snows were scarce so white,
\nNor northern winds in fleetness match’d their flight.
\nOfficious grooms stand ready by his side;
\nAnd some with combs their flowing manes divide,
\nAnd others stroke their chests and gently soothe their pride.<\/p>\n
He sheath’d his limbs in arms; a temper’d mass
\nOf golden metal those, and mountain brass.
\nThen to his head his glitt’ring helm he tied,
\nAnd girt his faithful fauchion to his side.
\nIn his Aetnaean forge, the God of Fire
\nThat fauchion labor’d for the hero’s sire;
\nImmortal keenness on the blade bestow’d,
\nAnd plung’d it hissing in the Stygian flood.
\nPropp’d on a pillar, which the ceiling bore,
\nWas plac’d the lance Auruncan Actor wore;
\nWhich with such force he brandish’d in his hand,
\nThe tough ash trembled like an osier wand:
\nThen cried: “O pond’rous spoil of Actor slain,
\nAnd never yet by Turnus toss’d in vain,
\nFail not this day thy wonted force; but go,
\nSent by this hand, to pierce the Trojan foe!
\nGive me to tear his corslet from his breast,
\nAnd from that eunuch head to rend the crest;
\nDragg’d in the dust, his frizzled hair to soil,
\nHot from the vexing ir’n, and smear’d with fragrant oil!”<\/p>\n
Thus while he raves, from his wide nostrils flies
\nA fiery steam, and sparkles from his eyes.
\nSo fares the bull in his lov’d female’s sight:
\nProudly he bellows, and preludes the fight;
\nHe tries his goring horns against a tree,
\nAnd meditates his absent enemy;
\nHe pushes at the winds; he digs the strand
\nWith his black hoofs, and spurns the yellow sand.<\/p>\n
Nor less the Trojan, in his Lemnian arms,
\nTo future fight his manly courage warms:
\nHe whets his fury, and with joy prepares
\nTo terminate at once the ling’ring wars;
\nTo cheer his chiefs and tender son, relates
\nWhat Heav’n had promis’d, and expounds the fates.
\nThen to the Latian king he sends, to cease
\nThe rage of arms, and ratify the peace.<\/p>\n
The morn ensuing, from the mountain’s height,
\nHad scarcely spread the skies with rosy light;
\nTh’ ethereal coursers, bounding from the sea,
\nFrom out their flaming nostrils breath’d the day;
\nWhen now the Trojan and Rutulian guard,
\nIn friendly labor join’d, the list prepar’d.
\nBeneath the walls they measure out the space;
\nThen sacred altars rear, on sods of grass,
\nWhere, with religious their common gods they place.
\nIn purest white the priests their heads attire;
\nAnd living waters bear, and holy fire;
\nAnd, o’er their linen hoods and shaded hair,
\nLong twisted wreaths of sacred veryain wear.<\/p>\n
In order issuing from the town appears
\nThe Latin legion, arm’d with pointed spears;
\nAnd from the fields, advancing on a line,
\nThe Trojan and the Tuscan forces join:
\nTheir various arms afford a pleasing sight;
\nA peaceful train they seem, in peace prepar’d for fight.
\nBetwixt the ranks the proud commanders ride,
\nGlitt’ring with gold, and vests in purple dyed;
\nHere Mnestheus, author of the Memmian line,
\nAnd there Messapus, born of seed divine.
\nThe sign is giv’n; and, round the listed space,
\nEach man in order fills his proper place.
\nReclining on their ample shields, they stand,
\nAnd fix their pointed lances in the sand.
\nNow, studious of the sight, a num’rous throng
\nOf either sex promiscuous, old and young,
\nSwarm the town: by those who rest behind,
\nThe gates and walls and houses’ tops are lin’d.
\nMeantime the Queen of Heav’n beheld the sight,
\nWith eyes unpleas’d, from Mount Albano’s height
\n(Since call’d Albano by succeeding fame,
\nBut then an empty hill, without a name).
\nShe thence survey’d the field, the Trojan pow’rs,
\nThe Latian squadrons, and Laurentine tow’rs.
\nThen thus the goddess of the skies bespoke,
\nWith sighs and tears, the goddess of the lake,
\nKing Turnus’ sister, once a lovely maid,
\nEre to the lust of lawless Jove betray’d:
\nCompress’d by force, but, by the grateful god,
\nNow made the Nais of the neighb’ring flood.
\n“O nymph, the pride of living lakes,” said she,
\n“O most renown’d, and most belov’d by me,
\nLong hast thou known, nor need I to record,
\nThe wanton sallies of my wand’ring lord.
\nOf ev’ry Latian fair whom Jove misled
\nTo mount by stealth my violated bed,
\nTo thee alone I grudg’d not his embrace,
\nBut gave a part of heav’n, and an unenvied place.
\nNow learn from me thy near approaching grief,
\nNor think my wishes want to thy relief.
\nWhile fortune favor’d, nor Heav’n’s King denied
\nTo lend my succor to the Latian side,
\nI sav’d thy brother, and the sinking state:
\nBut now he struggles with unequal fate,
\nAnd goes, with gods averse, o’ermatch’d in might,
\nTo meet inevitable death in fight;
\nNor must I break the truce, nor can sustain the sight.
\nThou, if thou dar’st thy present aid supply;
\nIt well becomes a sister’s care to try.”<\/p>\n
At this the lovely nymph, with grief oppress’d,
\nThrice tore her hair, and beat her comely breast.
\nTo whom Saturnia thus: “Thy tears are late:
\nHaste, snatch him, if he can be snatch’d from fate:
\nNew tumults kindle; violate the truce:
\nWho knows what changeful fortune may produce?
\n‘T is not a crime t’ attempt what I decree;
\nOr, if it were, discharge the crime on me.”
\nShe said, and, sailing on the winged wind,
\nLeft the sad nymph suspended in her mind.<\/p>\n
And now pomp the peaceful kings appear:
\nFour steeds the chariot of Latinus bear;
\nTwelve golden beams around his temples play,
\nTo mark his lineage from the God of Day.
\nTwo snowy coursers Turnus’ chariot yoke,
\nAnd in his hand two massy spears he shook:
\nThen issued from the camp, in arms divine,
\nAeneas, author of the Roman line;
\nAnd by his side Ascanius took his place,
\nThe second hope of Rome’s immortal race.
\nAdorn’d in white, a rev’rend priest appears,
\nAnd off’rings to the flaming altars bears;
\nA porket, and a lamb that never suffer’d shears.
\nThen to the rising sun he turns his eyes,
\nAnd strews the beasts, design’d for sacrifice,
\nWith salt and meal: with like officious care
\nHe marks their foreheads, and he clips their hair.
\nBetwixt their horns the purple wine he sheds;
\nWith the same gen’rous juice the flame he feeds.<\/p>\n
Aeneas then unsheath’d his shining sword,
\nAnd thus with pious pray’rs the gods ador’d:
\n“All-seeing sun, and thou, Ausonian soil,
\nFor which I have sustain’d so long a toil,
\nThou, King of Heav’n, and thou, the Queen of Air,
\nPropitious now, and reconcil’d by pray’r;
\nThou, God of War, whose unresisted sway
\nThe labors and events of arms obey;
\nYe living fountains, and ye running floods,
\nAll pow’rs of ocean, all ethereal gods,
\nHear, and bear record: if I fall in field,
\nOr, recreant in the fight, to Turnus yield,
\nMy Trojans shall encrease Evander’s town;
\nAscanius shall renounce th’ Ausonian crown:
\nAll claims, all questions of debate, shall cease;
\nNor he, nor they, with force infringe the peace.
\nBut, if my juster arms prevail in fight,
\n(As sure they shall, if I divine aright,)
\nMy Trojans shall not o’er th’ Italians reign:
\nBoth equal, both unconquer’d shall remain,
\nJoin’d in their laws, their lands, and their abodes;
\nI ask but altars for my weary gods.
\nThe care of those religious rites be mine;
\nThe crown to King Latinus I resign:
\nHis be the sov’reign sway. Nor will I share
\nHis pow’r in peace, or his command in war.
\nFor me, my friends another town shall frame,
\nAnd bless the rising tow’rs with fair Lavinia’s name.”<\/p>\n
Thus he. Then, with erected eyes and hands,
\nThe Latian king before his altar stands.
\n“By the same heav’n,” said he, “and earth, and main,
\nAnd all the pow’rs that all the three contain;
\nBy hell below, and by that upper god
\nWhose thunder signs the peace, who seals it with his nod;
\nSo let Latona’s double offspring hear,
\nAnd double-fronted Janus, what I swear:
\nI touch the sacred altars, touch the flames,
\nAnd all those pow’rs attest, and all their names;
\nWhatever chance befall on either side,
\nNo term of time this union shall divide:
\nNo force, no fortune, shall my vows unbind,
\nOr shake the steadfast tenor of my mind;
\nNot tho’ the circling seas should break their bound,
\nO’erflow the shores, or sap the solid ground;
\nNot tho’ the lamps of heav’n their spheres forsake,
\nHurl’d down, and hissing in the nether lake:
\nEv’n as this royal scepter” (for he bore
\nA scepter in his hand) “shall never more
\nShoot out in branches, or renew the birth:
\nAn orphan now, cut from the mother earth
\nBy the keen ax, dishonor’d of its hair,
\nAnd cas’d in brass, for Latian kings to bear.”<\/p>\n
When thus in public view the peace was tied
\nWith solemn vows, and sworn on either side,
\nAll dues perform’d which holy rites require;
\nThe victim beasts are slain before the fire,
\nThe trembling entrails from their bodies torn,
\nAnd to the fatten’d flames in chargers borne.<\/p>\n
Already the Rutulians deem their man
\nO’ermatch’d in arms, before the fight began.
\nFirst rising fears are whisper’d thro’ the crowd;
\nThen, gath’ring sound, they murmur more aloud.
\nNow, side to side, they measure with their eyes
\nThe champions’ bulk, their sinews, and their size:
\nThe nearer they approach, the more is known
\nTh’ apparent disadvantage of their own.
\nTurnus himself appears in public sight
\nConscious of fate, desponding of the fight.
\nSlowly he moves, and at his altar stands
\nWith eyes dejected, and with trembling hands;
\nAnd, while he mutters undistinguish’d pray’rs,
\nA livid deadness in his cheeks appears.<\/p>\n
With anxious pleasure when Juturna view’d
\nTh’ increasing fright of the mad multitude,
\nWhen their short sighs and thick’ning sobs she heard,
\nAnd found their ready minds for change prepar’d;
\nDissembling her immortal form, she took
\nCamertus’ mien, his habit, and his look;
\nA chief of ancient blood; in arms well known
\nWas his great sire, and he his greater son.
\nHis shape assum’d, amid the ranks she ran,
\nAnd humoring their first motions, thus began:
\n“For shame, Rutulians, can you bear the sight
\nOf one expos’d for all, in single fight?
\nCan we, before the face of heav’n, confess
\nOur courage colder, or our numbers less?
\nView all the Trojan host, th’ Arcadian band,
\nAnd Tuscan army; count ’em as they stand:
\nUndaunted to the battle if we go,
\nScarce ev’ry second man will share a foe.
\nTurnus, ‘t is true, in this unequal strife,
\nShall lose, with honor, his devoted life,
\nOr change it rather for immortal fame,
\nSucceeding to the gods, from whence he came:
\nBut you, a servile and inglorious band,
\nFor foreign lords shall sow your native land,
\nThose fruitful fields your fighting fathers gain’d,
\nWhich have so long their lazy sons sustain’d.”
\nWith words like these, she carried her design:
\nA rising murmur runs along the line.
\nThen ev’n the city troops, and Latians, tir’d
\nWith tedious war, seem with new souls inspir’d:
\nTheir champion’s fate with pity they lament,
\nAnd of the league, so lately sworn, repent.<\/p>\n
Nor fails the goddess to foment the rage
\nWith lying wonders, and a false presage;
\nBut adds a sign, which, present to their eyes,
\nInspires new courage, and a glad surprise.
\nFor, sudden, in the fiery tracts above,
\nAppears in pomp th’ imperial bird of Jove:
\nA plump of fowl he spies, that swim the lakes,
\nAnd o’er their heads his sounding pinions shakes;
\nThen, stooping on the fairest of the train,
\nIn his strong talons truss’d a silver swan.
\nTh’ Italians wonder at th’ unusual sight;
\nBut, while he lags, and labors in his flight,
\nBehold, the dastard fowl return anew,
\nAnd with united force the foe pursue:
\nClam’rous around the royal hawk they fly,
\nAnd, thick’ning in a cloud, o’ershade the sky.
\nThey cuff, they scratch, they cross his airy course;
\nNor can th’ incumber’d bird sustain their force;
\nBut vex’d, not vanquish’d, drops the pond’rous prey,
\nAnd, lighten’d of his burthen, wings his way.<\/p>\n
Th’ Ausonian bands with shouts salute the sight,
\nEager of action, and demand the fight.
\nThen King Tolumnius, vers’d in augurs’ arts,
\nCries out, and thus his boasted skill imparts:
\n“At length ‘t is granted, what I long desir’d!
\nThis, this is what my frequent vows requir’d.
\nYe gods, I take your omen, and obey.
\nAdvance, my friends, and charge! I lead the way.
\nThese are the foreign foes, whose impious band,
\nLike that rapacious bird, infest our land:
\nBut soon, like him, they shall be forc’d to sea
\nBy strength united, and forego the prey.
\nYour timely succor to your country bring,
\nHaste to the rescue, and redeem your king.”<\/p>\n
He said; and, pressing onward thro’ the crew,
\nPois’d in his lifted arm, his lance he threw.
\nThe winged weapon, whistling in the wind,
\nCame driving on, nor miss’d the mark design’d.
\nAt once the cornel rattled in the skies;
\nAt once tumultuous shouts and clamors rise.
\nNine brothers in a goodly band there stood,
\nBorn of Arcadian mix’d with Tuscan blood,
\nGylippus’ sons: the fatal jav’lin flew,
\nAim’d at the midmost of the friendly crew.
\nA passage thro’ the jointed arms it found,
\nJust where the belt was to the body bound,
\nAnd struck the gentle youth extended on the ground.
\nThen, fir’d with pious rage, the gen’rous train
\nRun madly forward to revenge the slain.
\nAnd some with eager haste their jav’lins throw;
\nAnd some with sword in hand assault the foe.<\/p>\n
The wish’d insult the Latine troops embrace,
\nAnd meet their ardor in the middle space.
\nThe Trojans, Tuscans, and Arcadian line,
\nWith equal courage obviate their design.
\nPeace leaves the violated fields, and hate
\nBoth armies urges to their mutual fate.
\nWith impious haste their altars are o’erturn’d,
\nThe sacrifice half-broil’d, and half-unburn’d.
\nThick storms of steel from either army fly,
\nAnd clouds of clashing darts obscure the sky;
\nBrands from the fire are missive weapons made,
\nWith chargers, bowls, and all the priestly trade.
\nLatinus, frighted, hastens from the fray,
\nAnd bears his unregarded gods away.
\nThese on their horses vault; those yoke the car;
\nThe rest, with swords on high, run headlong to the war.<\/p>\n
Messapus, eager to confound the peace,
\nSpurr’d his hot courser thro’ the fighting prease,
\nAt King Aulestes, by his purple known
\nA Tuscan prince, and by his regal crown;
\nAnd, with a shock encount’ring, bore him down.
\nBackward he fell; and, as his fate design’d,
\nThe ruins of an altar were behind:
\nThere, pitching on his shoulders and his head,
\nAmid the scatt’ring fires he lay supinely spread.
\nThe beamy spear, descending from above,
\nHis cuirass pierc’d, and thro’ his body drove.
\nThen, with a scornful smile, the victor cries:
\n“The gods have found a fitter sacrifice.”
\nGreedy of spoils, th’ Italians strip the dead
\nOf his rich armor, and uncrown his head.<\/p>\n
Priest Corynaeus, arm’d his better hand,
\nFrom his own altar, with a blazing brand;
\nAnd, as Ebusus with a thund’ring pace
\nAdvanc’d to battle, dash’d it on his face:
\nHis bristly beard shines out with sudden fires;
\nThe crackling crop a noisome scent expires.
\nFollowing the blow, he seiz’d his curling crown
\nWith his left hand; his other cast him down.
\nThe prostrate body with his knees he press’d,
\nAnd plung’d his holy poniard in his breast.<\/p>\n
While Podalirius, with his sword, pursued
\nThe shepherd Alsus thro’ the flying crowd,
\nSwiftly he turns, and aims a deadly blow
\nFull on the front of his unwary foe.
\nThe broad ax enters with a crashing sound,
\nAnd cleaves the chin with one continued wound;
\nWarm blood, and mingled brains, besmear his arms around
\nAn iron sleep his stupid eyes oppress’d,
\nAnd seal’d their heavy lids in endless rest.<\/p>\n
But good Aeneas rush’d amid the bands;
\nBare was his head, and naked were his hands,
\nIn sign of truce: then thus he cries aloud:
\n“What sudden rage, what new desire of blood,
\nInflames your alter’d minds? O Trojans, cease
\nFrom impious arms, nor violate the peace!
\nBy human sanctions, and by laws divine,
\nThe terms are all agreed; the war is mine.
\nDismiss your fears, and let the fight ensue;
\nThis hand alone shall right the gods and you:
\nOur injur’d altars, and their broken vow,
\nTo this avenging sword the faithless Turnus owe.”<\/p>\n
Thus while he spoke, unmindful of defense,
\nA winged arrow struck the pious prince.
\nBut, whether from some human hand it came,
\nOr hostile god, is left unknown by fame:
\nNo human hand or hostile god was found,
\nTo boast the triumph of so base a wound.<\/p>\n
When Turnus saw the Trojan quit the plain,
\nHis chiefs dismay’d, his troops a fainting train,
\nTh’ unhop’d event his heighten’d soul inspires:
\nAt once his arms and coursers he requires;
\nThen, with a leap, his lofty chariot gains,
\nAnd with a ready hand assumes the reins.
\nHe drives impetuous, and, where’er he goes,
\nHe leaves behind a lane of slaughter’d foes.
\nThese his lance reaches; over those he rolls
\nHis rapid car, and crushes out their souls:
\nIn vain the vanquish’d fly; the victor sends
\nThe dead men’s weapons at their living friends.
\nThus, on the banks of Hebrus’ freezing flood,
\nThe God of Battles, in his angry mood,
\nClashing his sword against his brazen shield,
\nLet loose the reins, and scours along the field:
\nBefore the wind his fiery coursers fly;
\nGroans the sad earth, resounds the rattling sky.
\nWrath, Terror, Treason, Tumult, and Despair
\n(Dire faces, and deform’d) surround the car;
\nFriends of the god, and followers of the war.
\nWith fury not unlike, nor less disdain,
\nExulting Turnus flies along the plain:
\nHis smoking horses, at their utmost speed,
\nHe lashes on, and urges o’er the dead.
\nTheir fetlocks run with blood; and, when they bound,
\nThe gore and gath’ring dust are dash’d around.
\nThamyris and Pholus, masters of the war,
\nHe kill’d at hand, but Sthenelus afar:
\nFrom far the sons of Imbracus he slew,
\nGlaucus and Lades, of the Lycian crew;
\nBoth taught to fight on foot, in battle join’d,
\nOr mount the courser that outstrips the wind.<\/p>\n
Meantime Eumedes, vaunting in the field,
\nNew fir’d the Trojans, and their foes repell’d.
\nThis son of Dolon bore his grandsire’s name,
\nBut emulated more his father’s fame;
\nHis guileful father, sent a nightly spy,
\nThe Grecian camp and order to descry:
\nHard enterprise! and well he might require
\nAchilles’ car and horses, for his hire:
\nBut, met upon the scout, th’ Aetolian prince
\nIn death bestow’d a juster recompense.
\nFierce Turnus view’d the Trojan from afar,
\nAnd launch’d his jav’lin from his lofty car;
\nThen lightly leaping down, pursued the blow,
\nAnd, pressing with his foot his prostrate foe,
\nWrench’d from his feeble hold the shining sword,
\nAnd plung’d it in the bosom of its lord.
\n“Possess,” said he, “the fruit of all thy pains,
\nAnd measure, at thy length, our Latian plains.
\nThus are my foes rewarded by my hand;
\nThus may they build their town, and thus enjoy the land!”<\/p>\n
Then Dares, Butes, Sybaris he slew,
\nWhom o’er his neck his flound’ring courser threw.
\nAs when loud Boreas, with his blust’ring train,
\nStoops from above, incumbent on the main;
\nWhere’er he flies, he drives the rack before,
\nAnd rolls the billows on th’ Aegaean shore:
\nSo, where resistless Turnus takes his course,
\nThe scatter’d squadrons bend before his force;
\nHis crest of horses’ hair is blown behind
\nBy adverse air, and rustles in the wind.<\/p>\n
This haughty Phegeus saw with high disdain,
\nAnd, as the chariot roll’d along the plain,
\nLight from the ground he leapt, and seiz’d the rein.
\nThus hung in air, he still retain’d his hold,
\nThe coursers frighted, and their course controll’d.
\nThe lance of Turnus reach’d him as he hung,
\nAnd pierc’d his plated arms, but pass’d along,
\nAnd only raz’d the skin. He turn’d, and held
\nAgainst his threat’ning foe his ample shield;
\nThen call’d for aid: but, while he cried in vain,
\nThe chariot bore him backward on the plain.
\nHe lies revers’d; the victor king descends,
\nAnd strikes so justly where his helmet ends,
\nHe lops the head. The Latian fields are drunk
\nWith streams that issue from the bleeding trunk.<\/p>\n
While he triumphs, and while the Trojans yield,
\nThe wounded prince is forc’d to leave the field:
\nStrong Mnestheus, and Achates often tried,
\nAnd young Ascanius, weeping by his side,
\nConduct him to his tent. Scarce can he rear
\nHis limbs from earth, supported on his spear.
\nResolv’d in mind, regardless of the smart,
\nHe tugs with both his hands, and breaks the dart.
\nThe steel remains. No readier way he found
\nTo draw the weapon, than t’ inlarge the wound.
\nEager of fight, impatient of delay,
\nHe begs; and his unwilling friends obey.<\/p>\n
Iapis was at hand to prove his art,
\nWhose blooming youth so fir’d Apollo’s heart,
\nThat, for his love, he proffer’d to bestow
\nHis tuneful harp and his unerring bow.
\nThe pious youth, more studious how to save
\nHis aged sire, now sinking to the grave,
\nPreferr’d the pow’r of plants, and silent praise
\nOf healing arts, before Phoebean bays.<\/p>\n
Propp’d on his lance the pensive hero stood,
\nAnd heard and saw, unmov’d, the mourning crowd.
\nThe fam’d physician tucks his robes around
\nWith ready hands, and hastens to the wound.
\nWith gentle touches he performs his part,
\nThis way and that, soliciting the dart,
\nAnd exercises all his heav’nly art.
\nAll soft’ning simples, known of sov’reign use,
\nHe presses out, and pours their noble juice.
\nThese first infus’d, to lenify the pain,
\nHe tugs with pincers, but he tugs in vain.
\nThen to the patron of his art he pray’d:
\nThe patron of his art refus’d his aid.<\/p>\n
Meantime the war approaches to the tents;
\nTh’ alarm grows hotter, and the noise augments:
\nThe driving dust proclaims the danger near;
\nAnd first their friends, and then their foes appear:
\nTheir friends retreat; their foes pursue the rear.
\nThe camp is fill’d with terror and affright:
\nThe hissing shafts within the trench alight;
\nAn undistinguish’d noise ascends the sky,
\nThe shouts of those who kill, and groans of those who die.<\/p>\n
But now the goddess mother, mov’d with grief,
\nAnd pierc’d with pity, hastens her relief.
\nA branch of healing dittany she brought,
\nWhich in the Cretan fields with care she sought:
\nRough is the stern, which woolly leafs surround;
\nThe leafs with flow’rs, the flow’rs with purple crown’d,
\nWell known to wounded goats; a sure relief
\nTo draw the pointed steel, and ease the grief.
\nThis Venus brings, in clouds involv’d, and brews
\nTh’ extracted liquor with ambrosian dews,
\nAnd odorous panacee. Unseen she stands,
\nTemp’ring the mixture with her heav’nly hands,
\nAnd pours it in a bowl, already crown’d
\nWith juice of med’c’nal herbs prepar’d to bathe the wound.
\nThe leech, unknowing of superior art
\nWhich aids the cure, with this foments the part;
\nAnd in a moment ceas’d the raging smart.
\nStanch’d is the blood, and in the bottom stands:
\nThe steel, but scarcely touch’d with tender hands,
\nMoves up, and follows of its own accord,
\nAnd health and vigor are at once restor’d.
\nIapis first perceiv’d the closing wound,
\nAnd first the footsteps of a god he found.
\n“Arms! arms!” he cries; “the sword and shield prepare,
\nAnd send the willing chief, renew’d, to war.
\nThis is no mortal work, no cure of mine,
\nNor art’s effect, but done by hands divine.
\nSome god our general to the battle sends;
\nSome god preserves his life for greater ends.”<\/p>\n
The hero arms in haste; his hands infold
\nHis thighs with cuishes of refulgent gold:
\nInflam’d to fight, and rushing to the field,
\nThat hand sustaining the celestial shield,
\nThis gripes the lance, and with such vigor shakes,
\nThat to the rest the beamy weapon quakes.
\nThen with a close embrace he strain’d his son,
\nAnd, kissing thro’ his helmet, thus begun:
\n“My son, from my example learn the war,
\nIn camps to suffer, and in fields to dare;
\nBut happier chance than mine attend thy care!
\nThis day my hand thy tender age shall shield,
\nAnd crown with honors of the conquer’d field:
\nThou, when thy riper years shall send thee forth
\nTo toils of war, be mindful of my worth;
\nAssert thy birthright, and in arms be known,
\nFor Hector’s nephew, and Aeneas’ son.”
\nHe said; and, striding, issued on the plain.
\nAnteus and Mnestheus, and a num’rous train,
\nAttend his steps; the rest their weapons take,
\nAnd, crowding to the field, the camp forsake.
\nA cloud of blinding dust is rais’d around,
\nLabors beneath their feet the trembling ground.<\/p>\n
Now Turnus, posted on a hill, from far
\nBeheld the progress of the moving war:
\nWith him the Latins view’d the cover’d plains,
\nAnd the chill blood ran backward in their veins.
\nJuturna saw th’ advancing troops appear,
\nAnd heard the hostile sound, and fled for fear.
\nAeneas leads; and draws a sweeping train,
\nClos’d in their ranks, and pouring on the plain.
\nAs when a whirlwind, rushing to the shore
\nFrom the mid ocean, drives the waves before;
\nThe painful hind with heavy heart foresees
\nThe flatted fields, and slaughter of the trees;
\nWith like impetuous rage the prince appears
\nBefore his doubled front, nor less destruction bears.
\nAnd now both armies shock in open field;
\nOsiris is by strong Thymbraeus kill’d.
\nArchetius, Ufens, Epulon, are slain
\n(All fam’d in arms, and of the Latian train)
\nBy Gyas’, Mnestheus’, and Achates’ hand.
\nThe fatal augur falls, by whose command
\nThe truce was broken, and whose lance, embrued
\nWith Trojan blood, th’ unhappy fight renew’d.
\nLoud shouts and clamors rend the liquid sky,
\nAnd o’er the field the frighted Latins fly.
\nThe prince disdains the dastards to pursue,
\nNor moves to meet in arms the fighting few;
\nTurnus alone, amid the dusky plain,
\nHe seeks, and to the combat calls in vain.
\nJuturna heard, and, seiz’d with mortal fear,
\nForc’d from the beam her brother’s charioteer;
\nAssumes his shape, his armor, and his mien,
\nAnd, like Metiscus, in his seat is seen.<\/p>\n
As the black swallow near the palace plies;
\nO’er empty courts, and under arches, flies;
\nNow hawks aloft, now skims along the flood,
\nTo furnish her loquacious nest with food:
\nSo drives the rapid goddess o’er the plains;
\nThe smoking horses run with loosen’d reins.
\nShe steers a various course among the foes;
\nNow here, now there, her conqu’ring brother shows;
\nNow with a straight, now with a wheeling flight,
\nShe turns, and bends, but shuns the single fight.
\nAeneas, fir’d with fury, breaks the crowd,
\nAnd seeks his foe, and calls by name aloud:
\nHe runs within a narrower ring, and tries
\nTo stop the chariot; but the chariot flies.
\nIf he but gain a glimpse, Juturna fears,
\nAnd far away the Daunian hero bears.<\/p>\n
What should he do! Nor arts nor arms avail;
\nAnd various cares in vain his mind assail.
\nThe great Messapus, thund’ring thro’ the field,
\nIn his left hand two pointed jav’lins held:
\nEncount’ring on the prince, one dart he drew,
\nAnd with unerring aim and utmost vigor threw.
\nAeneas saw it come, and, stooping low
\nBeneath his buckler, shunn’d the threat’ning blow.
\nThe weapon hiss’d above his head, and tore
\nThe waving plume which on his helm he wore.
\nForced by this hostile act, and fir’d with spite,
\nThat flying Turnus still declin’d the fight,
\nThe Prince, whose piety had long repell’d
\nHis inborn ardor, now invades the field;
\nInvokes the pow’rs of violated peace,
\nTheir rites and injur’d altars to redress;
\nThen, to his rage abandoning the rein,
\nWith blood and slaughter’d bodies fills the plain.<\/p>\n
What god can tell, what numbers can display,
\nThe various labors of that fatal day;
\nWhat chiefs and champions fell on either side,
\nIn combat slain, or by what deaths they died;
\nWhom Turnus, whom the Trojan hero kill’d;
\nWho shar’d the fame and fortune of the field!
\nJove, could’st thou view, and not avert thy sight,
\nTwo jarring nations join’d in cruel fight,
\nWhom leagues of lasting love so shortly shall unite!<\/p>\n
Aeneas first Rutulian Sucro found,
\nWhose valor made the Trojans quit their ground;
\nBetwixt his ribs the jav’lin drove so just,
\nIt reach’d his heart, nor needs a second thrust.
\nNow Turnus, at two blows, two brethren slew;
\nFirst from his horse fierce Amycus he threw:
\nThen, leaping on the ground, on foot assail’d
\nDiores, and in equal fight prevail’d.
\nTheir lifeless trunks he leaves upon the place;
\nTheir heads, distilling gore, his chariot grace.<\/p>\n
Three cold on earth the Trojan hero threw,
\nWhom without respite at one charge he slew:
\nCethegus, Tanais, Tagus, fell oppress’d,
\nAnd sad Onythes, added to the rest,
\nOf Theban blood, whom Peridia bore.<\/p>\n
Turnus two brothers from the Lycian shore,
\nAnd from Apollo’s fane to battle sent,
\nO’erthrew; nor Phoebus could their fate prevent.
\nPeaceful Menoetes after these he kill’d,
\nWho long had shunn’d the dangers of the field:
\nOn Lerna’s lake a silent life he led,
\nAnd with his nets and angle earn’d his bread;
\nNor pompous cares, nor palaces, he knew,
\nBut wisely from th’ infectious world withdrew:
\nPoor was his house; his father’s painful hand
\nDischarg’d his rent, and plow’d another’s land.<\/p>\n
As flames among the lofty woods are thrown
\nOn diff’rent sides, and both by winds are blown;
\nThe laurels crackle in the sputt’ring fire;
\nThe frighted sylvans from their shades retire:
\nOr as two neighb’ring torrents fall from high;
\nRapid they run; the foamy waters fry;
\nThey roll to sea with unresisted force,
\nAnd down the rocks precipitate their course:
\nNot with less rage the rival heroes take
\nTheir diff’rent ways, nor less destruction make.
\nWith spears afar, with swords at hand, they strike;
\nAnd zeal of slaughter fires their souls alike.
\nLike them, their dauntless men maintain the field;
\nAnd hearts are pierc’d, unknowing how to yield:
\nThey blow for blow return, and wound for wound;
\nAnd heaps of bodies raise the level ground.<\/p>\n
Murranus, boasting of his blood, that springs
\nFrom a long royal race of Latian kings,
\nIs by the Trojan from his chariot thrown,
\nCrush’d with the weight of an unwieldy stone:
\nBetwixt the wheels he fell; the wheels, that bore
\nHis living load, his dying body tore.
\nHis starting steeds, to shun the glitt’ring sword,
\nPaw down his trampled limbs, forgetful of their lord.<\/p>\n
Fierce Hyllus threaten’d high, and, face to face,
\nAffronted Turnus in the middle space:
\nThe prince encounter’d him in full career,
\nAnd at his temples aim’d the deadly spear;
\nSo fatally the flying weapon sped,
\nThat thro’ his helm it pierc’d his head.
\nNor, Cisseus, couldst thou scape from Turnus’ hand,
\nIn vain the strongest of th’ Arcadian band:
\nNor to Cupentus could his gods afford
\nAvailing aid against th’ Aenean sword,
\nWhich to his naked heart pursued the course;
\nNor could his plated shield sustain the force.<\/p>\n
Iolas fell, whom not the Grecian pow’rs,
\nNor great subverter of the Trojan tow’rs,
\nWere doom’d to kill, while Heav’n prolong’d his date;
\nBut who can pass the bounds, prefix’d by fate?
\nIn high Lyrnessus, and in Troy, he held
\nTwo palaces, and was from each expell’d:
\nOf all the mighty man, the last remains
\nA little spot of foreign earth contains.<\/p>\n
And now both hosts their broken troops unite
\nIn equal ranks, and mix in mortal fight.
\nSeresthus and undaunted Mnestheus join
\nThe Trojan, Tuscan, and Arcadian line:
\nSea-born Messapus, with Atinas, heads
\nThe Latin squadrons, and to battle leads.
\nThey strike, they push, they throng the scanty space,
\nResolv’d on death, impatient of disgrace;
\nAnd, where one falls, another fills his place.<\/p>\n
The Cyprian goddess now inspires her son
\nTo leave th’ unfinish’d fight, and storm the town:
\nFor, while he rolls his eyes around the plain
\nIn quest of Turnus, whom he seeks in vain,
\nHe views th’ unguarded city from afar,
\nIn careless quiet, and secure of war.
\nOccasion offers, and excites his mind
\nTo dare beyond the task he first design’d.
\nResolv’d, he calls his chiefs; they leave the fight:
\nAttended thus, he takes a neighb’ring height;
\nThe crowding troops about their gen’ral stand,
\nAll under arms, and wait his high command.
\nThen thus the lofty prince: “Hear and obey,
\nYe Trojan bands, without the least delay
\nJove is with us; and what I have decreed
\nRequires our utmost vigor, and our speed.
\nYour instant arms against the town prepare,
\nThe source of mischief, and the seat of war.
\nThis day the Latian tow’rs, that mate the sky,
\nShall level with the plain in ashes lie:
\nThe people shall be slaves, unless in time
\nThey kneel for pardon, and repent their crime.
\nTwice have our foes been vanquish’d on the plain:
\nThen shall I wait till Turnus will be slain?
\nYour force against the perjur’d city bend.
\nThere it began, and there the war shall end.
\nThe peace profan’d our rightful arms requires;
\nCleanse the polluted place with purging fires.”<\/p>\n
He finish’d; and, one soul inspiring all,
\nForm’d in a wedge, the foot approach the wall.
\nWithout the town, an unprovided train
\nOf gaping, gazing citizens are slain.
\nSome firebrands, others scaling ladders bear,
\nAnd those they toss aloft, and these they rear:
\nThe flames now launch’d, the feather’d arrows fly,
\nAnd clouds of missive arms obscure the sky.
\nAdvancing to the front, the hero stands,
\nAnd, stretching out to heav’n his pious hands,
\nAttests the gods, asserts his innocence,
\nUpbraids with breach of faith th’ Ausonian prince;
\nDeclares the royal honor doubly stain’d,
\nAnd twice the rites of holy peace profan’d.<\/p>\n
Dissenting clamors in the town arise;
\nEach will be heard, and all at once advise.
\nOne part for peace, and one for war contends;
\nSome would exclude their foes, and some admit their friends.
\nThe helpless king is hurried in the throng,
\nAnd, whate’er tide prevails, is borne along.
\nThus, when the swain, within a hollow rock,
\nInvades the bees with suffocating smoke,
\nThey run around, or labor on their wings,
\nDisus’d to flight, and shoot their sleepy stings;
\nTo shun the bitter fumes in vain they try;
\nBlack vapors, issuing from the vent, involve the sky.<\/p>\n
But fate and envious fortune now prepare
\nTo plunge the Latins in the last despair.
\nThe queen, who saw the foes invade the town,
\nAnd brands on tops of burning houses thrown,
\nCast round her eyes, distracted with her fear-
\nNo troops of Turnus in the field appear.
\nOnce more she stares abroad, but still in vain,
\nAnd then concludes the royal youth is slain.
\nMad with her anguish, impotent to bear
\nThe mighty grief, she loathes the vital air.
\nShe calls herself the cause of all this ill,
\nAnd owns the dire effects of her ungovern’d will;
\nShe raves against the gods; she beats her breast;
\nShe tears with both her hands her purple vest:
\nThen round a beam a running noose she tied,
\nAnd, fasten’d by the neck, obscenely died.<\/p>\n
Soon as the fatal news by Fame was blown,
\nAnd to her dames and to her daughter known,
\nThe sad Lavinia rends her yellow hair
\nAnd rosy cheeks; the rest her sorrow share:
\nWith shrieks the palace rings, and madness of despair.
\nThe spreading rumor fills the public place:
\nConfusion, fear, distraction, and disgrace,
\nAnd silent shame, are seen in ev’ry face.
\nLatinus tears his garments as he goes,
\nBoth for his public and his private woes;
\nWith filth his venerable beard besmears,
\nAnd sordid dust deforms his silver hairs.
\nAnd much he blames the softness of his mind,
\nObnoxious to the charms of womankind,
\nAnd soon seduc’d to change what he so well design’d;
\nTo break the solemn league so long desir’d,
\nNor finish what his fates, and those of Troy, requir’d.<\/p>\n
Now Turnus rolls aloof o’er empty plains,
\nAnd here and there some straggling foes he gleans.
\nHis flying coursers please him less and less,
\nAsham’d of easy fight and cheap success.
\nThus half-contented, anxious in his mind,
\nThe distant cries come driving in the wind,
\nShouts from the walls, but shouts in murmurs drown’d;
\nA jarring mixture, and a boding sound.
\n“Alas!” said he, “what mean these dismal cries?
\nWhat doleful clamors from the town arise?”
\nConfus’d, he stops, and backward pulls the reins.
\nShe who the driver’s office now sustains,
\nReplies: “Neglect, my lord, these new alarms;
\nHere fight, and urge the fortune of your arms:
\nThere want not others to defend the wall.
\nIf by your rival’s hand th’ Italians fall,
\nSo shall your fatal sword his friends oppress,
\nIn honor equal, equal in success.”<\/p>\n
To this, the prince: “O sister- for I knew
\nThe peace infring’d proceeded first from you;
\nI knew you, when you mingled first in fight;
\nAnd now in vain you would deceive my sight-
\nWhy, goddess, this unprofitable care?
\nWho sent you down from heav’n, involv’d in air,
\nYour share of mortal sorrows to sustain,
\nAnd see your brother bleeding on the plain?
\nFor to what pow’r can Turnus have recourse,
\nOr how resist his fate’s prevailing force?
\nThese eyes beheld Murranus bite the ground:
\nMighty the man, and mighty was the wound.
\nI heard my dearest friend, with dying breath,
\nMy name invoking to revenge his death.
\nBrave Ufens fell with honor on the place,
\nTo shun the shameful sight of my disgrace.
\nOn earth supine, a manly corpse he lies;
\nHis vest and armor are the victor’s prize.
\nThen, shall I see Laurentum in a flame,
\nWhich only wanted, to complete my shame?
\nHow will the Latins hoot their champion’s flight!
\nHow Drances will insult and point them to the sight!
\nIs death so hard to bear? Ye gods below,
\n(Since those above so small compassion show,)
\nReceive a soul unsullied yet with shame,
\nWhich not belies my great forefather’s name!”<\/p>\n
He said; and while he spoke, with flying speed
\nCame Sages urging on his foamy steed:
\nFix’d on his wounded face a shaft he bore,
\nAnd, seeking Turnus, sent his voice before:
\n“Turnus, on you, on you alone, depends
\nOur last relief: compassionate your friends!
\nLike lightning, fierce Aeneas, rolling on,
\nWith arms invests, with flames invades the town:
\nThe brands are toss’d on high; the winds conspire
\nTo drive along the deluge of the fire.
\nAll eyes are fix’d on you: your foes rejoice;
\nEv’n the king staggers, and suspends his choice;
\nDoubts to deliver or defend the town,
\nWhom to reject, or whom to call his son.
\nThe queen, on whom your utmost hopes were plac’d,
\nHerself suborning death, has breath’d her last.
\n‘T is true, Messapus, fearless of his fate,
\nWith fierce Atinas’ aid, defends the gate:
\nOn ev’ry side surrounded by the foe,
\nThe more they kill, the greater numbers grow;
\nAn iron harvest mounts, and still remains to mow.
\nYou, far aloof from your forsaken bands,
\nYour rolling chariot drive o’er empty sands.<\/p>\n
Stupid he sate, his eyes on earth declin’d,
\nAnd various cares revolving in his mind:
\nRage, boiling from the bottom of his breast,
\nAnd sorrow mix’d with shame, his soul oppress’d;
\nAnd conscious worth lay lab’ring in his thought,
\nAnd love by jealousy to madness wrought.
\nBy slow degrees his reason drove away
\nThe mists of passion, and resum’d her sway.
\nThen, rising on his car, he turn’d his look,
\nAnd saw the town involv’d in fire and smoke.
\nA wooden tow’r with flames already blaz’d,
\nWhich his own hands on beams and rafters rais’d;
\nAnd bridges laid above to join the space,
\nAnd wheels below to roll from place to place.
\n“Sister, the Fates have vanquish’d: let us go
\nThe way which Heav’n and my hard fortune show.
\nThe fight is fix’d; nor shall the branded name
\nOf a base coward blot your brother’s fame.
\nDeath is my choice; but suffer me to try
\nMy force, and vent my rage before I die.”
\nHe said; and, leaping down without delay,
\nThro’ crowds of scatter’d foes he freed his way.
\nStriding he pass’d, impetuous as the wind,
\nAnd left the grieving goddess far behind.
\nAs when a fragment, from a mountain torn
\nBy raging tempests, or by torrents borne,
\nOr sapp’d by time, or loosen’d from the roots-
\nProne thro’ the void the rocky ruin shoots,
\nRolling from crag to crag, from steep to steep;
\nDown sink, at once, the shepherds and their sheep:
\nInvolv’d alike, they rush to nether ground;
\nStunn’d with the shock they fall, and stunn’d from earth rebound:
\nSo Turnus, hasting headlong to the town,
\nShould’ring and shoving, bore the squadrons down.
\nStill pressing onward, to the walls he drew,
\nWhere shafts, and spears, and darts promiscuous flew,
\nAnd sanguine streams the slipp’ry ground embrue.
\nFirst stretching out his arm, in sign of peace,
\nHe cries aloud, to make the combat cease:
\n“Rutulians, hold; and Latin troops, retire!
\nThe fight is mine; and me the gods require.
\n‘T is just that I should vindicate alone
\nThe broken truce, or for the breach atone.
\nThis day shall free from wars th’ Ausonian state,
\nOr finish my misfortunes in my fate.”<\/p>\n
Both armies from their bloody work desist,
\nAnd, bearing backward, form a spacious list.
\nThe Trojan hero, who receiv’d from fame
\nThe welcome sound, and heard the champion’s name,
\nSoon leaves the taken works and mounted walls,
\nGreedy of war where greater glory calls.
\nHe springs to fight, exulting in his force
\nHis jointed armor rattles in the course.
\nLike Eryx, or like Athos, great he shows,
\nOr Father Apennine, when, white with snows,
\nHis head divine obscure in clouds he hides,
\nAnd shakes the sounding forest on his sides.
\nThe nations, overaw’d, surcease the fight;
\nImmovable their bodies, fix’d their sight.
\nEv’n death stands still; nor from above they throw
\nTheir darts, nor drive their batt’ring-rams below.
\nIn silent order either army stands,
\nAnd drop their swords, unknowing, from their hands.
\nTh’ Ausonian king beholds, with wond’ring sight,
\nTwo mighty champions match’d in single fight,
\nBorn under climes remote, and brought by fate,
\nWith swords to try their titles to the state.<\/p>\n
Now, in clos’d field, each other from afar
\nThey view; and, rushing on, begin the war.
\nThey launch their spears; then hand to hand they meet;
\nThe trembling soil resounds beneath their feet:
\nTheir bucklers clash; thick blows descend from high,
\nAnd flakes of fire from their hard helmets fly.
\nCourage conspires with chance, and both ingage
\nWith equal fortune yet, and mutual rage.
\nAs when two bulls for their fair female fight
\nIn Sila’s shades, or on Taburnus’ height;
\nWith horns adverse they meet; the keeper flies;
\nMute stands the herd; the heifers roll their eyes,
\nAnd wait th’ event; which victor they shall bear,
\nAnd who shall be the lord, to rule the lusty year:
\nWith rage of love the jealous rivals burn,
\nAnd push for push, and wound for wound return;
\nTheir dewlaps gor’d, their sides are lav’d in blood;
\nLoud cries and roaring sounds rebellow thro’ the wood:
\nSuch was the combat in the listed ground;
\nSo clash their swords, and so their shields resound.<\/p>\n
Jove sets the beam; in either scale he lays
\nThe champions’ fate, and each exactly weighs.
\nOn this side, life and lucky chance ascends;
\nLoaded with death, that other scale descends.
\nRais’d on the stretch, young Turnus aims a blow
\nFull on the helm of his unguarded foe:
\nShrill shouts and clamors ring on either side,
\nAs hopes and fears their panting hearts divide.
\nBut all in pieces flies the traitor sword,
\nAnd, in the middle stroke, deserts his lord.
\nNow is but death, or flight; disarm’d he flies,
\nWhen in his hand an unknown hilt he spies.
\nFame says that Turnus, when his steeds he join’d,
\nHurrying to war, disorder’d in his mind,
\nSnatch’d the first weapon which his haste could find.
\n‘T was not the fated sword his father bore,
\nBut that his charioteer Metiscus wore.
\nThis, while the Trojans fled, the toughness held;
\nBut, vain against the great Vulcanian shield,
\nThe mortal-temper’d steel deceiv’d his hand:
\nThe shiver’d fragments shone amid the sand.<\/p>\n
Surpris’d with fear, he fled along the field,
\nAnd now forthright, and now in orbits wheel’d;
\nFor here the Trojan troops the list surround,
\nAnd there the pass is clos’d with pools and marshy ground.
\nAeneas hastens, tho’ with heavier pace-
\nHis wound, so newly knit, retards the chase,
\nAnd oft his trembling knees their aid refuse-
\nYet, pressing foot by foot, his foe pursues.<\/p>\n
Thus, when a fearful stag is clos’d around
\nWith crimson toils, or in a river found,
\nHigh on the bank the deep-mouth’d hound appears,
\nStill opening, following still, where’er he steers;
\nThe persecuted creature, to and fro,
\nTurns here and there, to scape his Umbrian foe:
\nSteep is th’ ascent, and, if he gains the land,
\nThe purple death is pitch’d along the strand.
\nHis eager foe, determin’d to the chase,
\nStretch’d at his length, gains ground at ev’ry pace;
\nNow to his beamy head he makes his way,
\nAnd now he holds, or thinks he holds, his prey:
\nJust at the pinch, the stag springs out with fear;
\nHe bites the wind, and fills his sounding jaws with air:
\nThe rocks, the lakes, the meadows ring with cries;
\nThe mortal tumult mounts, and thunders in the skies.
\nThus flies the Daunian prince, and, flying, blames
\nHis tardy troops, and, calling by their names,
\nDemands his trusty sword. The Trojan threats
\nThe realm with ruin, and their ancient seats
\nTo lay in ashes, if they dare supply
\nWith arms or aid his vanquish’d enemy:
\nThus menacing, he still pursues the course,
\nWith vigor, tho’ diminish’d of his force.
\nTen times already round the listed place
\nOne chief had fled, and t’ other giv’n the chase:
\nNo trivial prize is play’d; for on the life
\nOr death of Turnus now depends the strife.<\/p>\n
Within the space, an olive tree had stood,
\nA sacred shade, a venerable wood,
\nFor vows to Faunus paid, the Latins’ guardian god.
\nHere hung the vests, and tablets were ingrav’d,
\nOf sinking mariners from shipwrack sav’d.
\nWith heedless hands the Trojans fell’d the tree,
\nTo make the ground inclos’d for combat free.
\nDeep in the root, whether by fate, or chance,
\nOr erring haste, the Trojan drove his lance;
\nThen stoop’d, and tugg’d with force immense, to free
\nTh’ incumber’d spear from the tenacious tree;
\nThat, whom his fainting limbs pursued in vain,
\nHis flying weapon might from far attain.<\/p>\n
Confus’d with fear, bereft of human aid,
\nThen Turnus to the gods, and first to Faunus pray’d:
\n“O Faunus, pity! and thou Mother Earth,
\nWhere I thy foster son receiv’d my birth,
\nHold fast the steel! If my religious hand
\nYour plant has honor’d, which your foes profan’d,
\nPropitious hear my pious pray’r!” He said,
\nNor with successless vows invok’d their aid.
\nTh’ incumbent hero wrench’d, and pull’d, and strain’d;
\nBut still the stubborn earth the steel detain’d.
\nJuturna took her time; and, while in vain
\nHe strove, assum’d Meticus’ form again,
\nAnd, in that imitated shape, restor’d
\nTo the despairing prince his Daunian sword.
\nThe Queen of Love, who, with disdain and grief,
\nSaw the bold nymph afford this prompt relief,
\nT’ assert her offspring with a greater deed,
\nFrom the tough root the ling’ring weapon freed.<\/p>\n
Once more erect, the rival chiefs advance:
\nOne trusts the sword, and one the pointed lance;
\nAnd both resolv’d alike to try their fatal chance.<\/p>\n
Meantime imperial Jove to Juno spoke,
\nWho from a shining cloud beheld the shock:
\n“What new arrest, O Queen of Heav’n, is sent
\nTo stop the Fates now lab’ring in th’ event?
\nWhat farther hopes are left thee to pursue?
\nDivine Aeneas, (and thou know’st it too,)
\nForedoom’d, to these celestial seats are due.
\nWhat more attempts for Turnus can be made,
\nThat thus thou ling’rest in this lonely shade?
\nIs it becoming of the due respect
\nAnd awful honor of a god elect,
\nA wound unworthy of our state to feel,
\nPatient of human hands and earthly steel?
\nOr seems it just, the sister should restore
\nA second sword, when one was lost before,
\nAnd arm a conquer’d wretch against his conqueror?
\nFor what, without thy knowledge and avow,
\nNay more, thy dictate, durst Juturna do?
\nAt last, in deference to my love, forbear
\nTo lodge within thy soul this anxious care;
\nReclin’d upon my breast, thy grief unload:
\nWho should relieve the goddess, but the god?
\nNow all things to their utmost issue tend,
\nPush’d by the Fates to their appointed
\nWhile leave was giv’n thee, and a lawful hour
\nFor vengeance, wrath, and unresisted pow’r,
\nToss’d on the seas, thou couldst thy foes distress,
\nAnd, driv’n ashore, with hostile arms oppress;
\nDeform the royal house; and, from the side
\nOf the just bridegroom, tear the plighted bride:
\nNow cease at my command.” The Thund’rer said;
\nAnd, with dejected eyes, this answer Juno made:
\n“Because your dread decree too well I knew,
\nFrom Turnus and from earth unwilling I withdrew.
\nElse should you not behold me here, alone,
\nInvolv’d in empty clouds, my friends bemoan,
\nBut, girt with vengeful flames, in open sight
\nEngag’d against my foes in mortal fight.
\n‘T is true, Juturna mingled in the strife
\nBy my command, to save her brother’s life-
\nAt least to try; but, by the Stygian lake,
\n(The most religious oath the gods can take,)
\nWith this restriction, not to bend the bow,
\nOr toss the spear, or trembling dart to throw.
\nAnd now, resign’d to your superior might,
\nAnd tir’d with fruitless toils, I loathe the fight.
\nThis let me beg (and this no fates withstand)
\nBoth for myself and for your father’s land,
\nThat, when the nuptial bed shall bind the peace,
\n(Which I, since you ordain, consent to bless,)
\nThe laws of either nation be the same;
\nBut let the Latins still retain their name,
\nSpeak the same language which they spoke before,
\nWear the same habits which their grandsires wore.
\nCall them not Trojans: perish the renown
\nAnd name of Troy, with that detested town.
\nLatium be Latium still; let Alba reign
\nAnd Rome’s immortal majesty remain.”<\/p>\n
Then thus the founder of mankind replies
\n(Unruffled was his front, serene his eyes)
\n“Can Saturn’s issue, and heav’n’s other heir,
\nSuch endless anger in her bosom bear?
\nBe mistress, and your full desires obtain;
\nBut quench the choler you foment in vain.
\nFrom ancient blood th’ Ausonian people sprung,
\nShall keep their name, their habit, and their tongue.
\nThe Trojans to their customs shall be tied:
\nI will, myself, their common rites provide;
\nThe natives shall command, the foreigners subside.
\nAll shall be Latium; Troy without a name;
\nAnd her lost sons forget from whence they came.
\nFrom blood so mix’d, a pious race shall flow,
\nEqual to gods, excelling all below.
\nNo nation more respect to you shall pay,
\nOr greater off’rings on your altars lay.”
\nJuno consents, well pleas’d that her desires
\nHad found success, and from the cloud retires.<\/p>\n
The peace thus made, the Thund’rer next prepares
\nTo force the wat’ry goddess from the wars.
\nDeep in the dismal regions void of light,
\nThree daughters at a birth were born to Night:
\nThese their brown mother, brooding on her care,
\nIndued with windy wings to flit in air,
\nWith serpents girt alike, and crown’d with hissing hair.
\nIn heav’n the Dirae call’d, and still at hand,
\nBefore the throne of angry Jove they stand,
\nHis ministers of wrath, and ready still
\nThe minds of mortal men with fears to fill,
\nWhene’er the moody sire, to wreak his hate
\nOn realms or towns deserving of their fate,
\nHurls down diseases, death and deadly care,
\nAnd terrifies the guilty world with war.
\nOne sister plague if these from heav’n he sent,
\nTo fright Juturna with a dire portent.
\nThe pest comes whirling down: by far more slow
\nSprings the swift arrow from the Parthian bow,
\nOr Cydon yew, when, traversing the skies,
\nAnd drench’d in pois’nous juice, the sure destruction flies.
\nWith such a sudden and unseen a flight
\nShot thro’ the clouds the daughter of the night.
\nSoon as the field inclos’d she had in view,
\nAnd from afar her destin’d quarry knew,
\nContracted, to the boding bird she turns,
\nWhich haunts the ruin’d piles and hallow’d urns,
\nAnd beats about the tombs with nightly wings,
\nWhere songs obscene on sepulchers she sings.
\nThus lessen’d in her form, with frightful cries
\nThe Fury round unhappy Turnus flies,
\nFlaps on his shield, and flutters o’er his eyes.<\/p>\n
A lazy chillness crept along his blood;
\nChok’d was his voice; his hair with horror stood.
\nJuturna from afar beheld her fly,
\nAnd knew th’ ill omen, by her screaming cry
\nAnd stridor of her wings. Amaz’d with fear,
\nHer beauteous breast she beat, and rent her flowing hair.<\/p>\n
“Ah me!” she cries, “in this unequal strife
\nWhat can thy sister more to save thy life?
\nWeak as I am, can I, alas! contend
\nIn arms with that inexorable fiend?
\nNow, now, I quit the field! forbear to fright
\nMy tender soul, ye baleful birds of night;
\nThe lashing of your wings I know too well,
\nThe sounding flight, and fun’ral screams of hell!
\nThese are the gifts you bring from haughty Jove,
\nThe worthy recompense of ravish’d love!
\nDid he for this exempt my life from fate?
\nO hard conditions of immortal state,
\nTho’ born to death, not privileg’d to die,
\nBut forc’d to bear impos’d eternity!
\nTake back your envious bribes, and let me go
\nCompanion to my brother’s ghost below!
\nThe joys are vanish’d: nothing now remains,
\nOf life immortal, but immortal pains.
\nWhat earth will open her devouring womb,
\nTo rest a weary goddess in the tomb!”
\nShe drew a length of sighs; nor more she said,
\nBut in her azure mantle wrapp’d her head,
\nThen plung’d into her stream, with deep despair,
\nAnd her last sobs came bubbling up in air.<\/p>\n
Now stern Aeneas his weighty spear
\nAgainst his foe, and thus upbraids his fear:
\n“What farther subterfuge can Turnus find?
\nWhat empty hopes are harbor’d in his mind?
\n‘T is not thy swiftness can secure thy flight;
\nNot with their feet, but hands, the valiant fight.
\nVary thy shape in thousand forms, and dare
\nWhat skill and courage can attempt in war;
\nWish for the wings of winds, to mount the sky;
\nOr hid, within the hollow earth to lie!”
\nThe champion shook his head, and made this short reply:
\n“No threats of thine my manly mind can move;
\n‘T is hostile heav’n I dread, and partial Jove.”
\nHe said no more, but, with a sigh, repress’d
\nThe mighty sorrow in his swelling breast.<\/p>\n
Then, as he roll’d his troubled eyes around,
\nAn antique stone he saw, the common bound
\nOf neighb’ring fields, and barrier of the ground;
\nSo vast, that twelve strong men of modern days
\nTh’ enormous weight from earth could hardly raise.
\nHe heav’d it at a lift, and, pois’d on high,
\nRan stagg’ring on against his enemy,
\nBut so disorder’d, that he scarcely knew
\nHis way, or what unwieldly weight he threw.
\nHis knocking knees are bent beneath the load,
\nAnd shiv’ring cold congeals his vital blood.
\nThe stone drops from his arms, and, falling short
\nFor want of vigor, mocks his vain effort.
\nAnd as, when heavy sleep has clos’d the sight,
\nThe sickly fancy labors in the night;
\nWe seem to run; and, destitute of force,
\nOur sinking limbs forsake us in the course:
\nIn vain we heave for breath; in vain we cry;
\nThe nerves, unbrac’d, their usual strength deny;
\nAnd on the tongue the falt’ring accents die:
\nSo Turnus far’d; whatever means he tried,
\nAll force of arms and points of art employ’d,
\nThe Fury flew athwart, and made th’ endeavor void.<\/p>\n
A thousand various thoughts his soul confound;
\nHe star’d about, nor aid nor issue found;
\nHis own men stop the pass, and his own walls surround.
\nOnce more he pauses, and looks out again,
\nAnd seeks the goddess charioteer in vain.
\nTrembling he views the thund’ring chief advance,
\nAnd brandishing aloft the deadly lance:
\nAmaz’d he cow’rs beneath his conqu’ring foe,
\nForgets to ward, and waits the coming blow.
\nAstonish’d while he stands, and fix’d with fear,
\nAim’d at his shield he sees th’ impending spear.<\/p>\n
The hero measur’d first, with narrow view,
\nThe destin’d mark; and, rising as he threw,
\nWith its full swing the fatal weapon flew.
\nNot with less rage the rattling thunder falls,
\nOr stones from batt’ring-engines break the walls:
\nSwift as a whirlwind, from an arm so strong,
\nThe lance drove on, and bore the death along.
\nNaught could his sev’nfold shield the prince avail,
\nNor aught, beneath his arms, the coat of mail:
\nIt pierc’d thro’ all, and with a grisly wound
\nTransfix’d his thigh, and doubled him to ground.
\nWith groans the Latins rend the vaulted sky:
\nWoods, hills, and valleys, to the voice reply.<\/p>\n
Now low on earth the lofty chief is laid,
\nWith eyes cast upward, and with arms display’d,
\nAnd, recreant, thus to the proud victor pray’d:
\n“I know my death deserv’d, nor hope to live:
\nUse what the gods and thy good fortune give.
\nYet think, O think, if mercy may be shown-
\nThou hadst a father once, and hast a son-
\nPity my sire, now sinking to the grave;
\nAnd for Anchises’ sake old Daunus save!
\nOr, if thy vow’d revenge pursue my death,
\nGive to my friends my body void of breath!
\nThe Latian chiefs have seen me beg my life;
\nThine is the conquest, thine the royal wife:
\nAgainst a yielded man, ‘t is mean ignoble strife.”<\/p>\n
In deep suspense the Trojan seem’d to stand,
\nAnd, just prepar’d to strike, repress’d his hand.
\nHe roll’d his eyes, and ev’ry moment felt
\nHis manly soul with more compassion melt;
\nWhen, casting down a casual glance, he spied
\nThe golden belt that glitter’d on his side,
\nThe fatal spoils which haughty Turnus tore
\nFrom dying Pallas, and in triumph wore.
\nThen, rous’d anew to wrath, he loudly cries
\n(Flames, while he spoke, came flashing from his eyes)
\n“Traitor, dost thou, dost thou to grace pretend,
\nClad, as thou art, in trophies of my friend?
\nTo his sad soul a grateful off’ring go!
\n‘T is Pallas, Pallas gives this deadly blow.”
\nHe rais’d his arm aloft, and, at the word,
\nDeep in his bosom drove the shining sword.
\nThe streaming blood distain’d his arms around.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":19,"menu_order":12,"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-122","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\/122","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\/122\/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\/122\/metadata\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/courses.lumenlearning.com\/suny-geneseo-humanities1-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=122"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"chapter-type","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/courses.lumenlearning.com\/suny-geneseo-humanities1-1\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapter-type?post=122"},{"taxonomy":"contributor","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/courses.lumenlearning.com\/suny-geneseo-humanities1-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/contributor?post=122"},{"taxonomy":"license","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/courses.lumenlearning.com\/suny-geneseo-humanities1-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/license?post=122"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}