Virgil's Æneid.
Book XII
translated by John
Dryden.
Return to Table
of Contents
THE TWELFTH BOOK OF THE
AENEIS
THE ARGUMENT.-- Turnus
challenges
AEneas to a single combat: articles are agreed on, but broken by the
Rutili,
who wound AEneas. He is miraculously cur'd by Venus, forces Turnus to a
duel, and concludes the poem with his death.
WHEN
Turnus saw the Latins leave the field,
Their armies broken, and
their courage
quell'd,
Himself become the mark of
public
spite,
His honor question'd for
the promis'd
fight;
The more he was with
vulgar hate
oppress'd,
The more his fury boil'd
within
his breast:
He rous'd his vigor for
the last
debate,
And rais'd his haughty
soul to meet
his fate.
As, when the swains
the Libyan
lion chase,
He makes a sour retreat,
nor mends
his pace;
But, if the pointed
jav'lin pierce
his side,
The lordly beast returns
with double
pride:
He wrenches out the steel,
he roars
for pain;
His sides he lashes, and
erects
his mane:
So Turnus fares; his
eyeballs flash
with fire,
Thro' his wide nostrils
clouds of
smoke expire.
Trembling with
rage, around
the court he ran,
At length approach'd the
king, and
thus began:
"No more excuses or
delays: I stand
In arms prepar'd to
combat, hand
to hand,
This base deserter of his
native
land.
The Trojan, by his word,
is bound
to take
The same conditions which
himself
did make.
Renew the truce; the
solemn rites
prepare,
And to my single virtue
trust the
war.
The Latians unconcern'd
shall see
the fight;
This arm unaided shall
assert your
right:
Then, if my prostrate body
press
the plain,
To him the crown and
beauteous bride
remain."
To whom the king
sedately
thus replied:
"Brave youth, the more
your valor
has been tried,
The more becomes it us,
with due
respect,
To weigh the chance of
war, which
you neglect.
You want not wealth, or a
successive
throne,
Or cities which your arms
have made
your own:
My towns and treasures are
at your
command,
And stor'd with blooming
beauties
is my land;
Laurentum more than one
Lavinia
sees,
Unmarried, fair, of noble
families.
Now let me speak, and you
with patience
hear,
Things which perhaps may
grate a
lover's ear,
But sound advice,
proceeding from
a heart
Sincerely yours, and free
from fraudful
art.
The gods, by signs, have
manifestly
shown,
No prince Italian born
should heir
my throne:
Oft have our augurs, in
prediction
skill'd,
And oft our priests, a
foreign son
reveal'd.
Yet, won by worth that
cannot be
withstood,
Brib'd by my kindness to
my kindred
blood,
Urg'd by my wife, who
would not
be denied,
I promis'd my Lavinia for
your bride:
Her from her plighted lord
by force
I took;
All ties of treaties, and
of honor,
broke:
On your account I wag'd an
impious
war--
With what success, 't is
needless
to declare;
I and my subjects feel,
and you
have had your share.
Twice vanquish'd while in
bloody
fields we strive,
Scarce in our walls we
keep our
hopes alive:
The rolling flood runs
warm with
human gore;
The bones of Latians
blanch the
neighb'ring shore.
Why put I not an end to
this debate,
Still unresolv'd, and
still a slave
to fate?
If Turnus' death a lasting
peace
can give,
Why should I not procure
it whilst
you live?
Should I to doubtful arms
your youth
betray,
What would my kinsmen the
Rutulians
say?
And, should you fall in
fight, (which
Heav'n defend!)
How curse the cause which
hasten'd
to his end
The daughter's lover and
the father's
friend?
Weigh in your mind the
various chance
of war;
Pity your parent's age,
and ease
his care."
Such balmy words he
pour'd,
but all in vain:
The proffer'd med'cine but
provok'd
the pain.
The wrathful youth,
disdaining the
relief,
With intermitting sobs
thus vents
his grief:
"The care, O best of
fathers, which
you take
For my concerns, at my
desire forsake.
Permit me not to languish
out my
days,
But make the best exchange
of life
for praise.
This arm, this lance, can
well dispute
the prize;
And the blood follows,
where the
weapon flies.
His goddess mother is not
near,
to shroud
The flying coward with an
empty
cloud."
But now the queen,
who fear'd
for Turnus' life,
And loath'd the hard
conditions
of the strife,
Held him by force; and,
dying in
his death,
In these sad accents gave
her sorrow
breath:
"O Turnus, I adjure thee
by these
tears,
And whate'er price Amata's
honor
bears
Within thy breast, since
thou art
all my hope,
My sickly mind's repose,
my sinking
age's prop;
Since on the safety of thy
life
alone
Depends Latinus, and the
Latian
throne:
Refuse me not this one,
this only
pray'r,
To waive the combat, and
pursue
the war.
Whatever chance attends
this fatal
strife,
Think it includes, in
thine, Amata's
life.
I cannot live a slave, or
see my
throne
Usurp'd by strangers or a
Trojan
son."
At this, a flood of
tears
Lavinia shed;
A crimson blush her
beauteous face
o'erspread,
Varying her cheeks by
turns with
white and red.
The driving colors, never
at a stay,
Run here and there, and
flush, and
fade away.
Delightful change! Thus
Indian iv'ry
shows,
Which with the bord'ring
paint of
purple glows;
Or lilies damask'd by the
neighb'ring
rose.
The lover gaz'd,
and, burning
with desire,
The more he look'd, the
more he
fed the fire:
Revenge, and jealous rage,
and secret
spite,
Roll in his breast, and
rouse him
to the fight.
Then fixing on the queen
his ardent
eyes,
Firm to his first intent,
he thus
replies:
"O mother, do not by your
tears
prepare
Such boding omens, and
prejudge
the war.
Resolv'd on fight, I am no
longer
free
To shun my death, if
Heav'n my death
decree."
Then turning to the
herald, thus
pursues:
"Go, greet the Trojan with
ungrateful
news;
Denounce from me, that,
when to-morrow's
light
Shall gild the heav'ns, he
need
not urge the fight;
The Trojan and Rutulian
troops no
more
Shall dye, with mutual
blood, the
Latian shore:
Our single swords the
quarrel shall
decide,
And to the victor be the
beauteous
bride."
He said, and
striding on,
with speedy pace,
He sought his coursers of
the Thracian
race.
At his approach they toss
their
heads on high,
And, proudly neighing,
promise victory.
The sires of these Orythia
sent
from far,
To grace Pilumnus, when he
went
to war.
The drifts of Thracian
snows were
scarce so white,
Nor northern winds in
fleetness
match'd their flight.
Officious grooms stand
ready by
his side;
And some with combs their
flowing
manes divide,
And others stroke their
chests and
gently soothe their pride.
He sheath'd his
limbs in
arms; a temper'd mass
Of golden metal those, and
mountain
brass.
Then to his head his
glitt'ring
helm he tied,
And girt his faithful
fauchion to
his side.
In his AEtnaean forge, the
God of
Fire
That fauchion labor'd for
the hero's
sire;
Immortal keenness on the
blade bestow'd,
And plung'd it hissing in
the Stygian
flood.
Propp'd on a pillar, which
the ceiling
bore,
Was plac'd the lance
Auruncan Actor
wore;
Which with such force he
brandish'd
in his hand,
The tough ash trembled
like an osier
wand:
Then cried: "O pond'rous
spoil of
Actor slain,
And never yet by Turnus
toss'd in
vain,
Fail not this day thy
wonted force;
but go,
Sent by this hand, to
pierce the
Trojan foe!
Give me to tear his
corslet from
his breast,
And from that eunuch head
to rend
the crest;
Dragg'd in the dust, his
frizzled
hair to soil,
Hot from the vexing ir'n,
and smear'd
with fragrant oil!"
Thus while he
raves, from
his wide nostrils flies
A fiery steam, and
sparkles from
his eyes.
So fares the bull in his
lov'd female's
sight:
Proudly he bellows, and
preludes
the fight;
He tries his goring horns
against
a tree,
And meditates his absent
enemy;
He pushes at the winds; he
digs
the strand
With his black hoofs, and
spurns
the yellow sand.
Nor less the
Trojan, in his
Lemnian arms,
To future fight his manly
courage
warms:
He whets his fury, and
with joy
prepares
To terminate at once the
ling'ring
wars;
To cheer his chiefs and
tender son,
relates
What Heav'n had promis'd,
and expounds
the fates.
Then to the Latian king he
sends,
to cease
The rage of arms, and
ratify the
peace.
The morn ensuing,
from the
mountain's height,
Had scarcely spread the
skies with
rosy light;
Th' ethereal coursers,
bounding
from the sea,
From out their flaming
nostrils
breath'd the day;
When now the Trojan and
Rutulian
guard,
In friendly labor join'd,
the list
prepar'd.
Beneath the walls they
measure out
the space;
Then sacred altars rear,
on sods
of grass,
Where, with religious
rites, their
common gods they place.
In purest white the
priests their
heads attire;
And living waters bear,
and holy
fire;
And, o'er their linen
hoods and
shaded hair,
Long twisted wreaths of
sacred vervain
wear,
In order issuing
from the
town appears
The Latin legion, arm'd
with pointed
spears;
And from the fields,
advancing on
a line,
The Trojan and the Tuscan
forces
join:
Their various arms afford
a pleasing
sight;
A peaceful train they
seem, in peace
prepar'd for fight.
Betwixt the ranks the
proud commanders
ride,
Glitt'ring with gold, and
vests
in purple dyed;
Here Mnestheus, author of
the Memmian
line,
And there Messapus, born
of seed
divine.
The sign is giv'n; and,
round the
listed space,
Each man in order fills
his proper
place.
Reclining on their ample
shields,
they stand,
And fix their pointed
lances in
the sand.
Now, studious of the
sight, a num'rous
throng
Of either sex promiscuous,
old and
young,
Swarm from the town: by
those who
rest behind,
The gates and walls and
houses'
tops are lin'd.
Meantime the Queen of
Heav'n beheld
the sight,
With eyes unpleas'd, from
Mount
Albano's height
(Since call'd Albano by
succeeding
fame,
But then an empty hill,
without
a name).
She thence survey'd the
field, the
Trojan pow'rs,
The Latian squadrons, and
Laurentine
tow'rs.
Then thus the goddess of
the skies
bespake,
With sighs and tears, the
goddess
of the lake,
King Turnus' sister, once
a lovely
maid,
Ere to the lust of lawless
Jove
betray'd:
Compress'd by force, but,
by the
grateful god,
Now made the Nais of the
neighb'ring
flood.
"O nymph, the pride of
living lakes,"
said she,
"O most renown'd, and most
belov'd
by me,
Long hast thou known, nor
need I
to record,
The wanton sallies of my
wand'ring
lord.
Of ev'ry Latian fair whom
Jove misled
To mount by stealth my
violated
bed,
To thee alone I grudg'd
not his
embrace,
But gave a part of heav'n,
and an
unenvied place.
Now learn from me thy near
approaching
grief,
Nor think my wishes want
to thy
relief.
While fortune favor'd, nor
Heav'n's
King denied
To lend my succor to the
Latian
side,
I sav'd thy brother, and
the sinking
state:
But now he struggles with
unequal
fate,
And goes, with gods
averse, o'ermatch'd
in might,
To meet inevitable death
in fight;
Nor must I break the
truce, nor
can sustain the sight.
Thou, if thou dar'st, thy
present
aid supply;
It well becomes a sister's
care
to try."
At this the lovely
nymph,
with grief oppress'd,
Thrice tore her hair, and
beat her
comely breast.
To whom Saturnia thus:
"Thy tears
are late:
Haste, snatch him, if he
can be
snatch'd from fate:
New tumults kindle;
violate the
truce:
Who knows what changeful
fortune
may produce?
'T is not a crime t'
attempt what
I decree;
Or, if it were, discharge
the crime
on me."
She said, and, sailing on
the winged
wind,
Left the sad nymph
suspended in
her mind.
And now in pomp the
peaceful
kings appear:
Four steeds the chariot of
Latinus
bear;
Twelve golden beams around
his temples
play,
To mark his lineage from
the God
of Day.
Two snowy coursers Turnus'
chariot
yoke,
And in his hand two massy
spears
he shook:
Then issued from the camp,
in arms
divine,
AEneas, author of the
Roman line;
And by his side Ascanius
took his
place,
The second hope of Rome's
immortal
race.
Adorn'd in white, a
rev'rend priest
appears,
And off'rings to the
flaming altars
bears;
A porket, and a lamb that
never
suffer'd shears.
Then to the rising sun he
turns
his eyes,
And strews the beasts,
design'd
for sacrifice,
With salt and meal: with
like officious
care
He marks their foreheads,
and he
clips their hair.
Betwixt their horns the
purple wine
he sheds;
With the same gen'rous
juice the
flame he feeds.
AEneas then
unsheath'd his
shining sword,
And thus with pious
pray'rs the
gods ador'd:
"All-seeing sun, and thou,
Ausonian
soil,
For which I have sustain'd
so long
a toil,
Thou, King of Heav'n, and
thou,
the Queen of Air,
Propitious now, and
reconcil'd by
pray'r;
Thou, God of War, whose
unresisted
sway
The labors and events of
arms obey;
Ye living fountains, and
ye running
floods,
All pow'rs of ocean, all
ethereal
gods,
Hear, and bear record: if
I fall
in field,
Or, recreant in the fight,
to Turnus
yield,
My Trojans shall encrease
Evander's
town;
Ascanius shall renounce
th' Ausonian
crown:
All claims, all questions
of debate,
shall cease;
Nor he, nor they, with
force infringe
the peace.
But, if my juster arms
prevail in
fight,
(As sure they shall, if I
divine
aright,)
My Trojans shall not o'er
th' Italians
reign:
Both equal, both
unconquer'd shall
remain,
Join'd in their laws,
their lands,
and their abodes;
I ask but altars for my
weary gods.
The care of those
religious rites
be mine;
The crown to King Latinus
I resign:
His be the sov'reign sway.
Nor will
I share
His pow'r in peace, or his
command
in war.
For me, my friends another
town
shall frame,
And bless the rising
tow'rs with
fair Lavinia's name."
Thus he. Then, with
erected
eyes and hands,
The Latian king before his
altar
stands.
"By the same heav'n," said
he, "and
earth, and main,
And all the pow'rs that
all the
three contain;
By hell below, and by that
upper
god
Whose thunder signs the
peace, who
seals it with his nod;
So let Latona's double
offspring
hear,
And double-fronted Janus,
what I
swear:
I touch the sacred altars,
touch
the flames,
And all those pow'rs
attest, and
all their names;
Whatever chance befall on
either
side,
No term of time this union
shall
divide:
No force, no fortune,
shall my vows
unbind,
Or shake the steadfast
tenor of
my mind;
Not tho' the circling seas
should
break their bound,
O'erflow the shores, or
sap the
solid ground;
Not tho' the lamps of
heav'n their
spheres forsake,
Hurl'd down, and hissing
in the
nether lake:
Ev'n as this royal
scepter" (for
he bore
A scepter in his hand)
"shall never
more
Shoot out in branches, or
renew
the birth:
An orphan now, cut from
the mother
earth
By the keen ax, dishonor'd
of its
hair,
And cas'd in brass, for
Latian kings
to bear."
When thus in public
view
the peace was tied
With solemn vows, and
sworn on either
side,
All dues perform'd which
holy rites
require;
The victim beasts are
slain before
the fire,
The trembling entrails
from their
bodies torn,
And to the fatten'd flames
in chargers
borne.
Already the
Rutulians deem
their man
O'ermatch'd in arms,
before the
fight began.
First rising fears are
whisper'd
thro' the crowd;
Then, gath'ring sound,
they murmur
more aloud.
Now, side to side, they
measure
with their eyes
The champions' bulk, their
sinews,
and their size:
The nearer they approach,
the more
is known
Th' apparent disadvantage
of their
own.
Turnus himself appears in
public
sight
Conscious of fate,
desponding of
the fight.
Slowly he moves, and at
his altar
stands
With eyes dejected, and
with trembling
hands;
And, while he mutters
undistinguish'd
pray'rs,
A livid deadness in his
cheeks appears.
With anxious
pleasure when
Juturna view'd
Th' increasing fright of
the mad
multitude,
When their short sighs and
thick'ning
sobs she heard,
And found their ready
minds for
change prepar'd;
Dissembling her immortal
form, she
took
Camertus' mien, his habit,
and his
look;
A chief of ancient blood;
in arms
well known
Was his great sire, and he
his greater
son.
His shape assum'd, amid
the ranks
she ran,
And humoring their first
motions,
thus began:
"For shame, Rutulians, can
you bear
the sight
Of one expos'd for all, in
single
fight?
Can we, before the face of
heav'n,
confess
Our courage colder, or our
numbers
less?
View all the Trojan host,
th' Arcadian
band,
And Tuscan army; count 'em
as they
stand:
Undaunted to the battle if
we go,
Scarce ev'ry second man
will share
a foe.
Turnus, 't is true, in
this unequal
strife,
Shall lose, with honor,
his devoted
life,
Or change it rather for
immortal
fame,
Succeeding to the gods,
from whence
he came:
But you, a servile and
inglorious
band,
For foreign lords shall
sow your
native land,
Those fruitful fields your
fighting
fathers gain'd,
Which have so long their
lazy sons
sustain'd."
With words like these, she
carried
her design:
A rising murmur runs along
the line.
Then ev'n the city troops,
and Latians,
tir'd
With tedious war, seem
with new
souls inspir'd:
Their champion's fate with
pity
they lament,
And of the league, so
lately sworn,
repent.
Nor fails the
goddess to
foment the rage
With lying wonders, and a
false
presage;
But adds a sign, which,
present
to their eyes,
Inspires new courage, and
a glad
surprise.
For, sudden, in the fiery
tracts
above,
Appears in pomp th'
imperial bird
of Jove:
A plump of fowl he spies,
that swim
the lakes,
And o'er their heads his
sounding
pinions shakes;
Then, stooping on the
fairest of
the train,
In his strong talons
truss'd a silver
swan.
Th' Italians wonder at th'
unusual
sight;
But, while he lags, and
labors in
his flight,
Behold, the dastard fowl
return
anew,
And with united force the
foe pursue:
Clam'rous around the royal
hawk
they fly,
And, thick'ning in a
cloud, o'ershade
the sky.
They cuff, they scratch,
they cross
his airy course;
Nor can th' incumber'd
bird sustain
their force;
But vex'd, not vanquish'd,
drops
the pond'rous prey,
And, lighten'd of his
burthen, wings
his way.
Th' Ausonian bands
with shouts
salute the sight,
Eager of action, and
demand the
fight.
Then King Tolumnius,
vers'd in augurs'
arts,
Cries out, and thus his
boasted
skill imparts:
"At length 't is granted,
what I
long desir'd!
This, this is what my
frequent vows
requir'd.
Ye gods, I take your omen,
and obey.
Advance, my friends, and
charge!
I lead the way.
These are the foreign
foes, whose
impious band,
Like that rapacious bird,
infest
our land:
But soon, like him, they
shall be
forc'd to sea
By strength united, and
forego the
prey.
Your timely succor to your
country
bring,
Haste to the rescue, and
redeem
your king."
He said; and,
pressing onward
thro' the crew,
Pois'd in his lifted arm,
his lance
he threw.
The winged weapon,
whistling in
the wind,
Came driving on, nor
miss'd the
mark design'd.
At once the cornel rattled
in the
skies;
At once tumultuous shouts
and clamors
rise.
Nine brothers in a goodly
band there
stood,
Born of Arcadian mix'd
with Tuscan
blood,
Gylippus' sons: the fatal
jav'lin
flew,
Aim'd at the midmost of
the friendly
crew.
A passage thro' the
jointed arms
it found,
Just where the belt was to
the body
bound,
And struck the gentle
youth extended
on the ground.
Then, fir'd with pious
rage, the
gen'rous train
Run madly forward to
revenge the
slain.
And some with eager haste
their
jav'lins throw;
And some with sword in
hand assault
the foe.
The wish'd insult
the Latine
troops embrace,
And meet their ardor in
the middle
space.
The Trojans, Tuscans, and
Arcadian
line,
With equal courage obviate
their
design.
Peace leaves the violated
fields,
and hate
Both armies urges to their
mutual
fate.
With impious haste their
altars
are o'erturn'd,
The sacrifice
half-broil'd, and
half-unburn'd.
Thick storms of steel from
either
army fly,
And clouds of clashing
darts obscure
the sky;
Brands from the fire are
missive
weapons made,
With chargers, bowls, and
all the
priestly trade.
Latinus, frighted, hastens
from
the fray,
And bears his unregarded
gods away.
These on their horses
vault; those
yoke the car;
The rest, with swords on
high, run
headlong to the war.
Messapus, eager to
confound
the peace,
Spurr'd his hot courser
thro' the
fighting prease,
At King Aulestes, by his
purple
known
A Tuscan prince, and by
his regal
crown;
And, with a shock
encount'ring,
bore him down.
Backward he fell; and, as
his fate
design'd,
The ruins of an altar were
behind:
There, pitching on his
shoulders
and his head,
Amid the scatt'ring fires
he lay
supinely spread.
The beamy spear,
descending from
above,
His cuirass pierc'd, and
thro' his
body drove.
Then, with a scornful
smile, the
victor cries:
"The gods have found a
fitter sacrifice."
Greedy of spoils, th'
Italians strip
the dead
Of his rich armor, and
uncrown his
head.
Priest Corynaeus,
arm'd his
better hand,
From his own altar, with a
blazing
brand;
And, as Ebusus with a
thund'ring
pace
Advanc'd to battle, dash'd
it on
his face:
His bristly beard shines
out with
sudden fires;
The crackling crop a
noisome scent
expires.
Following the blow, he
seiz'd his
curling crown
With his left hand; his
other cast
him down.
The prostrate body with
his knees
he press'd,
And plung'd his holy
poniard in
his breast.
While Podalirius,
with his
sword, pursued
The shepherd Alsus thro'
the flying
crowd,
Swiftly he turns, and aims
a deadly
blow
Full on the front of his
unwary
foe.
The broad ax enters with a
crashing
sound,
And cleaves the chin with
one continued
wound;
Warm blood, and mingled
brains,
besmear his arms around.
An iron sleep his stupid
eyes oppress'd,
And seal'd their heavy
lids in endless
rest.
But good AEneas
rush'd amid
the bands;
Bare was his head, and
naked were
his hands,
In sign of truce: then
thus he cries
aloud:
"What sudden rage, what
new desire
of blood,
Inflames your alter'd
minds? O Trojans,
cease
From impious arms, nor
violate the
peace!
By human sanctions, and by
laws
divine,
The terms are all agreed;
the war
is mine.
Dismiss your fears, and
let the
fight ensue;
This hand alone shall
right the
gods and you:
Our injur'd altars, and
their broken
vow,
To this avenging sword the
faithless
Turnus owe."
Thus while he
spoke, unmindful
of defense,
A winged arrow struck the
pious
prince.
But, whether from some
human hand
it came,
Or hostile god, is left
unknown
by fame:
No human hand or hostile
god was
found,
To boast the triumph of so
base
a wound.
When Turnus saw the
Trojan
quit the plain,
His chiefs dismay'd, his
troops
a fainting train,
Th' unhop'd event his
heighten'd
soul inspires:
At once his arms and
coursers he
requires;
Then, with a leap, his
lofty chariot
gains,
And with a ready hand
assumes the
reins.
He drives impetuous, and,
where'er
he goes,
He leaves behind a lane of
slaughter'd
foes.
These his lance reaches;
over those
he rolls
His rapid car, and crushes
out their
souls:
In vain the vanquish'd
fly; the
victor sends
The dead men's weapons at
their
living friends.
Thus, on the banks of
Hebrus' freezing
flood,
The God of Battles, in his
angry
mood,
Clashing his sword against
his brazen
shield,
Let loose the reins, and
scours
along the field:
Before the wind his fiery
coursers
fly;
Groans the sad earth,
resounds the
rattling sky.
Wrath, Terror, Treason,
Tumult,
and Despair
(Dire faces, and deform'd)
surround
the car;
Friends of the god, and
followers
of the war.
With fury not unlike, nor
less disdain,
Exulting Turnus flies
along the
plain:
His smoking horses, at
their utmost
speed,
He lashes on, and urges
o'er the
dead.
Their fetlocks run with
blood; and,
when they bound,
The gore and gath'ring
dust are
dash'd around.
Thamyris and Pholus,
masters of
the war,
He kill'd at hand, but
Sthenelus
afar:
From far the sons of
Imbracus he
slew,
Glaucus and Lades, of the
Lycian
crew;
Both taught to fight on
foot, in
battle join'd,
Or mount the courser that
outstrips
the wind.
Meantime Eumedes,
vaunting
in the field,
New fir'd the Trojans, and
their
foes repell'd.
This son of Dolon bore his
grandsire's
name,
But emulated more his
father's fame;
His guileful father, sent
a nightly
spy,
The Grecian camp and order
to descry:
Hard enterprise! and well
he might
require
Achilles' car and horses,
for his
hire:
But, met upon the scout,
th' AEtolian
prince
In death bestow'd a juster
recompense.
Fierce Turnus view'd the
Trojan
from afar,
And launch'd his jav'lin
from his
lofty car;
Then lightly leaping down,
pursued
the blow,
And, pressing with his
foot his
prostrate foe,
Wrench'd from his feeble
hold the
shining sword,
And plung'd it in the
bosom of its
lord.
"Possess," said he, "the
fruit of
all thy pains,
And measure, at thy
length, our
Latian plains.
Thus are my foes rewarded
by my
hand;
Thus may they build their
town,
and thus enjoy the land!"
Then Dares, Butes,
Sybaris
he slew,
Whom o'er his neck his
flound'ring
courser threw.
As when loud Boreas, with
his blust'ring
train,
Stoops from above,
incumbent on
the main;
Where'er he flies, he
drives the
rack before,
And rolls the billows on
th' AEgaean
shore:
So, where resistless
Turnus takes
his course,
The scatter'd squadrons
bend before
his force;
His crest of horses' hair
is blown
behind
By adverse air, and
rustles in the
wind.
This haughty
Phegeus saw
with high disdain,
And, as the chariot roll'd
along
the plain,
Light from the ground he
leapt,
and seiz'd the rein.
Thus hung in air, he still
retain'd
his hold,
The coursers frighted, and
their
course controll'd.
The lance of Turnus
reach'd him
as he hung,
And pierc'd his plated
arms, but
pass'd along,
And only raz'd the skin.
He turn'd,
and held
Against his threat'ning
foe his
ample shield;
Then call'd for aid: but,
while
he cried in vain,
The chariot bore him
backward on
the plain.
He lies revers'd; the
victor king
descends,
And strikes so justly
where his
helmet ends,
He lops the head. The
Latian fields
are drunk
With streams that issue
from the
bleeding trunk.
While he triumphs,
and while
the Trojans yield,
The wounded prince is
forc'd to
leave the field:
Strong Mnestheus, and
Achates often
tried,
And young Ascanius,
weeping by his
side,
Conduct him to his tent.
Scarce
can he rear
His limbs from earth,
supported
on his spear.
Resolv'd in mind,
regardless of
the smart,
He tugs with both his
hands, and
breaks the dart.
The steel remains. No
readier way
he found
To draw the weapon, than
t' inlarge
the wound.
Eager of fight, impatient
of delay,
He begs; and his unwilling
friends
obey.
Iapis was at hand
to prove
his art,
Whose blooming youth so
fir'd Apollo's
heart,
That, for his love, he
proffer'd
to bestow
His tuneful harp and his
unerring
bow.
The pious youth, more
studious how
to save
His aged sire, now sinking
to the
grave,
Preferr'd the pow'r of
plants, and
silent praise
Of healing arts, before
Phoebean
bays.
Propp'd on his
lance the
pensive hero stood,
And heard and saw,
unmov'd, the
mourning crowd.
The fam'd physician tucks
his robes
around
With ready hands, and
hastens to
the wound.
With gentle touches he
performs
his part,
This way and that,
soliciting the
dart,
And exercises all his
heav'nly art.
All soft'ning simples,
known of
sov'reign use,
He presses out, and pours
their
noble juice.
These first infus'd, to
lenify the
pain,
He tugs with pincers, but
he tugs
in vain.
Then to the patron of his
art he
pray'd:
The patron of his art
refus'd his
aid.
Meantime the war
approaches
to the tents;
Th' alarm grows hotter,
and the
noise augments:
The driving dust proclaims
the danger
near;
And first their friends,
and then
their foes appear:
Their friends retreat;
their foes
pursue the rear.
The camp is fill'd with
terror and
affright:
The hissing shafts within
the trench
alight;
An undistinguish'd noise
ascends
the sky,
The shouts of those who
kill, and
groans of those who die.
But now the goddess
mother,
mov'd with grief,
And pierc'd with pity,
hastens her
relief.
A branch of healing
dittany she
brought,
Which in the Cretan fields
with
care she sought:
Rough is the stem, which
woolly
leafs surround;
The leafs with flow'rs,
the flow'rs
with purple crown'd,
Well known to wounded
goats; a sure
relief
To draw the pointed steel,
and ease
the grief.
This Venus brings, in
clouds involv'd,
and brews
Th' extracted liquor with
ambrosian
dews,
And od'rous panacee.
Unseen she
stands,
Temp'ring the mixture with
her heav'nly
hands,
And pours it in a bowl,
already
crown'd
With juice of med'c'nal
herbs prepar'd
to bathe the wound.
The leech, unknowing of
superior
art
Which aids the cure, with
this foments
the part;
And in a moment ceas'd the
raging
smart.
Stanch'd is the blood, and
in the
bottom stands:
The steel, but scarcely
touch'd
with tender hands,
Moves up, and follows of
its own
accord,
And health and vigor are
at once
restor'd.
Iapis first perceiv'd the
closing
wound,
And first the footsteps of
a god
he found.
"Arms! arms!" he cries;
"the sword
and shield prepare,
And send the willing
chief, renew'd,
to war.
This is no mortal work, no
cure
of mine,
Nor art's effect, but done
by hands
divine.
Some god our general to
the battle
sends;
Some god preserves his
life for
greater ends."
The hero arms in
haste; his
hands infold
His thighs with cuishes of
refulgent
gold:
Inflam'd to fight, and
rushing to
the field,
That hand sustaining the
celestial
shield,
This gripes the lance, and
with
such vigor shakes,
That to the rest the beamy
weapon
quakes.
Then with a close embrace
he strain'd
his son,
And, kissing thro' his
helmet, thus
begun:
"My son, from my example
learn the
war,
In camps to suffer, and in
fields
to dare;
But happier chance than
mine attend
thy care!
This day my hand thy
tender age
shall shield,
And crown with honors of
the conquer'd
field:
Thou, when thy riper years
shall
send thee forth
To toils of war, be
mindful of my
worth;
Assert thy birthright, and
in arms
be known,
For Hector's nephew, and
AEneas'
son."
He said; and, striding,
issued on
the plain.
Anteus and Mnestheus, and
a num'rous
train,
Attend his steps; the rest
their
weapons take,
And, crowding to the
field, the
camp forsake.
A cloud of blinding dust
is rais'd
around,
Labors beneath their feet
the trembling
ground.
Now Turnus, posted
on a hill,
from far
Beheld the progress of the
moving
war:
With him the Latins view'd
the cover'd
plains,
And the chill blood ran
backward
in their veins.
Juturna saw th' advancing
troops
appear,
And heard the hostile
sound, and
fled for fear.
AEneas leads; and draws a
sweeping
train,
Clos'd in their ranks, and
pouring
on the plain.
As when a whirlwind,
rushing to
the shore
From the mid ocean, drives
the waves
before;
The painful hind with
heavy heart
foresees
The flatted fields, and
slaughter
of the trees;
With like impetuous rage
the prince
appears
Before his doubled front,
nor less
destruction bears.
And now both armies shock
in open
field;
Osiris is by strong
Thymbraeus kill'd.
Archetius, Ufens, Epulon,
are slain
(All fam'd in arms, and of
the Latian
train)
By Gyas', Mnestheus', and
Achates'
hand.
The fatal augur falls, by
whose
command
The truce was broken, and
whose
lance, embrued
With Trojan blood, th'
unhappy fight
renew'd.
Loud shouts and clamors
rend the
liquid sky,
And o'er the field the
frighted
Latins fly.
The prince disdains the
dastards
to pursue,
Nor moves to meet in arms
the fighting
few;
Turnus alone, amid the
dusky plain,
He seeks, and to the
combat calls
in vain.
Juturna heard, and, seiz'd
with
mortal fear,
Forc'd from the beam her
brother's
charioteer;
Assumes his shape, his
armor, and
his mien,
And, like Metiscus, in his
seat
is seen.
As the black
swallow near
the palace plies;
O'er empty courts, and
under arches,
flies;
Now hawks aloft, now skims
along
the flood,
To furnish her loquacious
nest with
food:
So drives the rapid
goddess o'er
the plains;
The smoking horses run
with loosen'd
reins.
She steers a various
course among
the foes;
Now here, now there, her
conqu'ring
brother shows;
Now with a straight, now
with a
wheeling flight,
She turns, and bends, but
shuns
the single fight.
AEneas, fir'd with fury,
breaks
the crowd,
And seeks his foe, and
calls by
name aloud:
He runs within a narrower
ring,
and tries
To stop the chariot; but
the chariot
flies.
If he but gain a glimpse,
Juturna
fears,
And far away the Daunian
hero bears.
What should he do!
Nor arts
nor arms avail;
And various cares in vain
his mind
assail.
The great Messapus,
thund'ring thro'
the field,
In his left hand two
pointed jav'lins
held:
Encount'ring on the
prince, one
dart he drew,
And with unerring aim and
utmost
vigor threw.
AEneas saw it come, and,
stooping
low
Beneath his buckler,
shunn'd the
threat'ning blow.
The weapon hiss'd above
his head,
and tore
The waving plume which on
his helm
he wore.
Forced by this hostile
act, and
fir'd with spite,
That flying Turnus still
declin'd
the fight,
The Prince, whose piety
had long
repell'd
His inborn ardor, now
invades the
field;
Invokes the pow'rs of
violated peace,
Their rites and injur'd
altars to
redress;
Then, to his rage
abandoning the
rein,
With blood and slaughter'd
bodies
fills the plain.
What god can tell,
what numbers
can display,
The various labors of that
fatal
day;
What chiefs and champions
fell on
either side,
In combat slain, or by
what deaths
they died;
Whom Turnus, whom the
Trojan hero
kill'd;
Who shar'd the fame and
fortune
of the field!
Jove, could'st thou view,
and not
avert thy sight,
Two jarring nations join'd
in cruel
fight,
Whom leagues of lasting
love so
shortly shall unite!
AEneas first
Rutulian Sucro
found,
Whose valor made the
Trojans quit
their ground;
Betwixt his ribs the
jav'lin drove
so just,
It reach'd his heart, nor
needs
a second thrust.
Now Turnus, at two blows,
two brethren
slew;
First from his horse
fierce Amycus
he threw:
Then, leaping on the
ground, on
foot assail'd
Diores, and in equal fight
prevail'd.
Their lifeless trunks he
leaves
upon the place;
Their heads, distilling
gore, his
chariot grace.
Three cold on earth
the Trojan
hero threw,
Whom without respite at
one charge
he slew:
Cethegus, Tanais, Tagus,
fell oppress'd,
And sad Onythes, added to
the rest,
Of Theban blood, whom
Peridia bore.
Turnus two brothers
from
the Lycian shore,
And from Apollo's fane to
battle
sent,
O'erthrew; nor Phoebus
could their
fate prevent.
Peaceful Menoetes after
these he
kill'd,
Who long had shunn'd the
dangers
of the field:
On Lerna's lake a silent
life he
led,
And with his nets and
angle earn'd
his bread;
Nor pompous cares, nor
palaces,
he knew,
But wisely from th'
infectious world
withdrew:
Poor was his house; his
father's
painful hand
Discharg'd his rent, and
plow'd
another's land.
As flames among the
lofty
woods are thrown
On diff'rent sides, and
both by
winds are blown;
The laurels crackle in the
sputt'ring
fire;
The frighted sylvans from
their
shades retire:
Or as two neighb'ring
torrents fall
from high;
Rapid they run; the foamy
waters
fry;
They roll to sea with
unresisted
force,
And down the rocks
precipitate their
course:
Not with less rage the
rival heroes
take
Their diff'rent ways, nor
less destruction
make.
With spears afar, with
swords at
hand, they strike;
And zeal of slaughter
fires their
souls alike.
Like them, their dauntless
men maintain
the field;
And hearts are pierc'd,
unknowing
how to yield:
They blow for blow return,
and wound
for wound;
And heaps of bodies raise
the level
ground.
Murranus, boasting
of his
blood, that springs
From a long royal race of
Latian
kings,
Is by the Trojan from his
chariot
thrown,
Crush'd with the weight of
an unwieldy
stone:
Betwixt the wheels he
fell; the
wheels, that bore
His living load, his dying
body
tore.
His starting steeds, to
shun the
glitt'ring sword,
Paw down his trampled
limbs, forgetful
of their lord.
Fierce Hyllus
threaten'd
high, and, face to face,
Affronted Turnus in the
middle space:
The prince encounter'd him
in full
career,
And at his temples aim'd
the deadly
spear;
So fatally the flying
weapon sped,
That thro' his brazen helm
it pierc'd
his head.
Nor, Cisseus, couldst thou
scape
from Turnus' hand,
In vain the strongest of
th' Arcadian
band:
Nor to Cupentus could his
gods afford
Availing aid against th'
AEnean
sword,
Which to his naked heart
pursued
the course;
Nor could his plated
shield sustain
the force.
Iolas fell, whom
not the
Grecian pow'rs,
Nor great subverter of the
Trojan
tow'rs,
Were doom'd to kill, while
Heav'n
prolong'd his date;
But who can pass the
bounds prefix'd
by fate?
In high Lyrnessus, and in
Troy,
he held
Two palaces, and was from
each expell'd:
Of all the mighty man, the
last
remains
A little spot of foreign
earth contains.
And now both hosts
their
broken troops unite
In equal ranks, and mix in
mortal
fight.
Seresthus and undaunted
Mnestheus
join
The Trojan, Tuscan, and
Arcadian
line:
Sea-born Messapus, with
Atinas,
heads
The Latin squadrons, and
to battle
leads.
They strike, they push,
they throng
the scanty space,
Resolv'd on death,
impatient of
disgrace;
And, where one falls,
another fills
his place.
The Cyprian goddess
now inspires
her son
To leave th' unfinish'd
fight, and
storm the town:
For, while he rolls his
eyes around
the plain
In quest of Turnus, whom
he seeks
in vain,
He views th' unguarded
city from
afar,
In careless quiet, and
secure of
war.
Occasion offers, and
excites his
mind
To dare beyond the task he
first
design'd.
Resolv'd, he calls his
chiefs; they
leave the fight:
Attended thus, he takes a
neighb'ring
height;
The crowding troops about
their
gen'ral stand,
All under arms, and wait
his high
command.
Then thus the lofty
prince: "Hear
and obey,
Ye Trojan bands, without
the least
delay
Jove is with us; and what
I have
decreed
Requires our utmost vigor,
and our
speed.
Your instant arms against
the town
prepare,
The source of mischief,
and the
seat of war.
This day the Latian
tow'rs, that
mate the sky,
Shall level with the plain
in ashes
lie:
The people shall be
slaves, unless
in time
They kneel for pardon, and
repent
their crime.
Twice have our foes been
vanquish'd
on the plain:
Then shall I wait till
Turnus will
be slain?
Your force against the
perjur'd
city bend.
There it began, and there
the war
shall end.
The peace profan'd our
rightful
arms requires;
Cleanse the polluted place
with
purging fires."
He finish'd; and,
one soul
inspiring all,
Form'd in a wedge, the
foot approach
the wall.
Without the town, an
unprovided
train
Of gaping, gazing citizens
are slain.
Some firebrands, others
scaling
ladders bear,
And those they toss aloft,
and these
they rear:
The flames now launch'd,
the feather'd
arrows fly,
And clouds of missive arms
obscure
the sky.
Advancing to the front,
the hero
stands,
And, stretching out to
heav'n his
pious hands,
Attests the gods, asserts
his innocence,
Upbraids with breach of
faith th'
Ausonian prince;
Declares the royal honor
doubly
stain'd,
And twice the rites of
holy peace
profan'd.
Dissenting clamors
in the
town arise;
Each will be heard, and
all at once
advise.
One part for peace, and
one for
war contends;
Some would exclude their
foes, and
some admit their friends.
The helpless king is
hurried in
the throng,
And, whate'er tide
prevails, is
borne along.
Thus, when the swain,
within a hollow
rock,
Invades the bees with
suffocating
smoke,
They run around, or labor
on their
wings,
Disus'd to flight, and
shoot their
sleepy stings;
To shun the bitter fumes
in vain
they try;
Black vapors, issuing from
the vent,
involve the sky.
But fate and
envious fortune
now prepare
To plunge the Latins in
the last
despair.
The queen, who saw the
foes invade
the town,
And brands on tops of
burning houses
thrown,
Cast round her eyes,
distracted
with her fear--
No troops of Turnus in the
field
appear.
Once more she stares
abroad, but
still in vain,
And then concludes the
royal youth
is slain.
Mad with her anguish,
impotent to
bear
The mighty grief, she
loathes the
vital air.
She calls herself the
cause of all
this ill,
And owns the dire effects
of her
ungovern'd will;
She raves against the
gods; she
beats her breast;
She tears with both her
hands her
purple vest:
Then round a beam a
running noose
she tied,
And, fasten'd by the neck,
obscenely
died.
Soon as the fatal
news by
Fame was blown,
And to her dames and to
her daughter
known,
The sad Lavinia rends her
yellow
hair
And rosy cheeks; the rest
her sorrow
share:
With shrieks the palace
rings, and
madness of despair.
The spreading rumor fills
the public
place:
Confusion, fear,
distraction, and
disgrace,
And silent shame, are seen
in ev'ry
face.
Latinus tears his garments
as he
goes,
Both for his public and
his private
woes;
With filth his venerable
beard besmears,
And sordid dust deforms
his silver
hairs.
And much he blames the
softness
of his mind,
Obnoxious to the charms of
womankind,
And soon seduc'd to change
what
he so well design'd;
To break the solemn league
so long
desir'd,
Nor finish what his fates,
and those
of Troy, requir'd.
Now Turnus rolls
aloof o'er
empty plains,
And here and there some
straggling
foes he gleans.
His flying coursers please
him less
and less,
Asham'd of easy fight and
cheap
success.
Thus half-contented,
anxious in
his mind,
The distant cries come
driving in
the wind,
Shouts from the walls, but
shouts
in murmurs drown'd;
A jarring mixture, and a
boding
sound.
"Alas!" said he, "what
mean these
dismal cries?
What doleful clamors from
the town
arise?"
Confus'd, he stops, and
backward
pulls the reins.
She who the driver's
office now
sustains,
Replies: "Neglect, my
lord, these
new alarms;
Here fight, and urge the
fortune
of your arms:
There want not others to
defend
the wall.
If by your rival's hand
th' Italians
fall,
So shall your fatal sword
his friends
oppress,
In honor equal, equal in
success."
To this, the
prince: "O sister--for
I knew
The peace infring'd
proceeded first
from you;
I knew you, when you
mingled first
in fight;
And now in vain you would
deceive
my sight--
Why, goddess, this
unprofitable
care?
Who sent you down from
heav'n, involv'd
in air,
Your share of mortal
sorrows to
sustain,
And see your brother
bleeding on
the plain?
For to what pow'r can
Turnus have
recourse,
Or how resist his fate's
prevailing
force?
These eyes beheld Murranus
bite
the ground:
Mighty the man, and mighty
was the
wound.
I heard my dearest friend,
with
dying breath,
My name invoking to
revenge his
death.
Brave Ufens fell with
honor on the
place,
To shun the shameful sight
of my
disgrace.
On earth supine, a manly
corpse
he lies;
His vest and armor are the
victor's
prize.
Then, shall I see
Laurentum in a
flame,
Which only wanted, to
complete my
shame?
How will the Latins hoot
their champion's
flight!
How Drances will insult
and point
them to the sight!
Is death so hard to bear?
Ye gods
below,
(Since those above so
small compassion
show,)
Receive a soul unsullied
yet with
shame,
Which not belies my great
forefather's
name!"
He said; and while
he spoke,
with flying speed
Came Sages urging on his
foamy steed:
Fix'd on his wounded face
a shaft
he bore,
And, seeking Turnus, sent
his voice
before:
"Turnus, on you, on you
alone, depends
Our last relief:
compassionate your
friends!
Like lightning, fierce
AEneas, rolling
on,
With arms invests, with
flames invades
the town:
The brands are toss'd on
high; the
winds conspire
To drive along the deluge
of the
fire.
All eyes are fix'd on you:
your
foes rejoice;
Ev'n the king staggers,
and suspends
his choice;
Doubts to deliver or
defend the
town,
Whom to reject, or whom to
call
his son.
The queen, on whom your
utmost hopes
were plac'd,
Herself suborning death,
has breath'd
her last.
'T is true, Messapus,
fearless of
his fate,
With fierce Atinas' aid,
defends
the gate:
On ev'ry side surrounded
by the
foe,
The more they kill, the
greater
numbers grow;
An iron harvest mounts,
and still
remains to mow.
You, far aloof from your
forsaken
bands,
Your rolling chariot drive
o'er
empty sands."
Stupid he sate, his
eyes
on earth declin'd,
And various cares
revolving in his
mind:
Rage, boiling from the
bottom of
his breast,
And sorrow mix'd with
shame, his
soul oppress'd;
And conscious worth lay
lab'ring
in his thought,
And love by jealousy to
madness
wrought.
By slow degrees his reason
drove
away
The mists of passion, and
resum'd
her sway.
Then, rising on his car,
he turn'd
his look,
And saw the town involv'd
in fire
and smoke.
A wooden tow'r with flames
already
blaz'd,
Which his own hands on
beams and
rafters rais'd;
And bridges laid above to
join the
space,
And wheels below to roll
from place
to place.
"Sister, the Fates have
vanquish'd:
let us go
The way which Heav'n and
my hard
fortune show.
The fight is fix'd; nor
shall the
branded name
Of a base coward blot your
brother's
fame.
Death is my choice; but
suffer me
to try
My force, and vent my rage
before
I die."
He said; and, leaping down
without
delay,
Thro' crowds of scatter'd
foes he
freed his way.
Striding he pass'd,
impetuous as
the wind,
And left the grieving
goddess far
behind.
As when a fragment, from a
mountain
torn
By raging tempests, or by
torrents
borne,
Or sapp'd by time, or
loosen'd from
the roots--
Prone thro' the void the
rocky ruin
shoots,
Rolling from crag to crag,
from
steep to steep;
Down sink, at once, the
shepherds
and their sheep:
Involv'd alike, they rush
to nether
ground;
Stunn'd with the shock
they fall,
and stunn'd from earth rebound:
So Turnus, hasting
headlong to the
town,
Should'ring and shoving,
bore the
squadrons down.
Still pressing onward, to
the walls
he drew,
Where shafts, and spears,
and darts
promiscuous flew,
And sanguine streams the
slipp'ry
ground embrue.
First stretching out his
arm, in
sign of peace,
He cries aloud, to make
the combat
cease:
"Rutulians, hold; and
Latin troops,
retire!
The fight is mine; and me
the gods
require.
'T is just that I should
vindicate
alone
The broken truce, or for
the breach
atone.
This day shall free from
wars th'
Ausonian state,
Or finish my misfortunes
in my fate."
Both armies from
their bloody
work desist,
And, bearing backward,
form a spacious
list.
The Trojan hero, who
receiv'd from
fame
The welcome sound, and
heard the
champion's name,
Soon leaves the taken
works and
mounted walls,
Greedy of war where
greater glory
calls.
He springs to fight,
exulting in
his force;
His jointed armor rattles
in the
course.
Like Eryx, or like Athos,
great
he shows,
Or Father Apennine, when,
white
with snows,
His head divine obscure in
clouds
he hides,
And shakes the sounding
forest on
his sides.
The nations, overaw'd,
surcease
the fight;
Immovable their bodies,
fix'd their
sight.
Ev'n death stands still;
nor from
above they throw
Their darts, nor drive
their batt'ring-rams
below.
In silent order either
army stands,
And drop their swords,
unknowing,
from their hands.
Th' Ausonian king beholds,
with
wond'ring sight,
Two mighty champions
match'd in
single fight,
Born under climes remote,
and brought
by fate,
With swords to try their
titles
to the state.
Now, in clos'd
field, each
other from afar
They view; and, rushing
on, begin
the war.
They launch their spears;
then hand
to hand they meet;
The trembling soil
resounds beneath
their feet:
Their bucklers clash;
thick blows
descend from high,
And flakes of fire from
their hard
helmets fly.
Courage conspires with
chance, and
both ingage
With equal fortune yet,
and mutual
rage.
As when two bulls for
their fair
female fight
In Sila's shades, or on
Taburnus'
height;
With horns adverse they
meet; the
keeper flies;
Mute stands the herd; the
heifers
roll their eyes,
And wait th' event; which
victor
they shall bear,
And who shall be the lord,
to rule
the lusty year:
With rage of love the
jealous rivals
burn,
And push for push, and
wound for
wound return;
Their dewlaps gor'd, their
sides
are lav'd in blood;
Loud cries and roaring
sounds rebellow
thro' the wood:
Such was the combat in the
listed
ground;
So clash their swords, and
so their
shields resound.
Jove sets the beam;
in either
scale he lays
The champions' fate, and
each exactly
weighs.
On this side, life and
lucky chance
ascends;
Loaded with death, that
other scale
descends.
Rais'd on the stretch,
young Turnus
aims a blow
Full on the helm of his
unguarded
foe:
Shrill shouts and clamors
ring on
either side,
As hopes and fears their
panting
hearts divide.
But all in pieces flies
the traitor
sword,
And, in the middle stroke,
deserts
his lord.
Now 't is but death, or
flight;
disarm'd he flies,
When in his hand an
unknown hilt
he spies.
Fame says that Turnus,
when his
steeds he join'd,
Hurrying to war,
disorder'd in his
mind,
Snatch'd the first weapon
which
his haste could find.
'T was not the fated sword
his father
bore,
But that his charioteer
Metiscus
wore.
This, while the Trojans
fled, the
toughness held;
But, vain against the
great Vulcanian
shield,
The mortal-temper'd steel
deceiv'd
his hand:
The shiver'd fragments
shone amid
the sand.
Surpris'd with
fear, he fled
along the field,
And now forthright, and
now in orbits
wheel'd;
For here the Trojan troops
the list
surround,
And there the pass is
clos'd with
pools and marshy ground.
AEneas hastens, tho' with
heavier
pace--
His wound, so newly knit,
retards
the chase,
And oft his trembling
knees their
aid refuse--
Yet, pressing foot by
foot, his
foe pursues.
Thus, when a
fearful stag
is clos'd around
With crimson toils, or in
a river
found,
High on the bank the
deep-mouth'd
hound appears,
Still opening, following
still,
where'er he steers;
The persecuted creature,
to and
fro,
Turns here and there, to
scape his
Umbrian foe:
Steep is th' ascent, and,
if he
gains the land,
The purple death is
pitch'd along
the strand.
His eager foe, determin'd
to the
chase,
Stretch'd at his length,
gains ground
at ev'ry pace;
Now to his beamy head he
makes his
way,
And now he holds, or
thinks he holds,
his prey:
Just at the pinch, the
stag springs
out with fear;
He bites the wind, and
fills his
sounding jaws with air:
The rocks, the lakes, the
meadows
ring with cries;
The mortal tumult mounts,
and thunders
in the skies.
Thus flies the Daunian
prince, and,
flying, blames
His tardy troops, and,
calling by
their names,
Demands his trusty sword.
The Trojan
threats
The realm with ruin, and
their ancient
seats
To lay in ashes, if they
dare supply
With arms or aid his
vanquish'd
enemy:
Thus menacing, he still
pursues
the course,
With vigor, tho'
diminish'd of his
force.
Ten times already round
the listed
place
One chief had fled, and
t'other
giv'n the chase:
No trivial prize is
play'd; for
on the life
Or death of Turnus now
depends the
strife.
Within the space,
an olive
tree had stood,
A sacred shade, a
venerable wood,
For vows to Faunus paid,
the Latins'
guardian god.
Here hung the vests, and
tablets
were ingrav'd,
Of sinking mariners from
shipwrack
sav'd.
With heedless hands the
Trojans
fell'd the tree,
To make the ground
inclos'd for
combat free.
Deep in the root, whether
by fate,
or chance,
Or erring haste, the
Trojan drove
his lance;
Then stoop'd, and tugg'd
with force
immense, to free
Th' incumber'd spear from
the tenacious
tree;
That, whom his fainting
limbs pursued
in vain,
His flying weapon might
from far
attain.
Confus'd with fear,
bereft
of human aid,
Then Turnus to the gods,
and first
to Faunus pray'd:
"O Faunus, pity! and thou
Mother
Earth,
Where I thy foster son
receiv'd
my birth,
Hold fast the steel! If my
religious
hand
Your plant has honor'd,
which your
foes profan'd,
Propitious hear my pious
pray'r!"
He said,
Nor with successless vows
invok'd
their aid.
Th' incumbent hero
wrench'd, and
pull'd, and strain'd;
But still the stubborn
earth the
steel detain'd.
Juturna took her time;
and, while
in vain
He strove, assum'd
Meticus' form
again,
And, in that imitated
shape, restor'd
To the despairing prince
his Daunian
sword.
The Queen of Love, who,
with disdain
and grief,
Saw the bold nymph afford
this prompt
relief,
T' assert her offspring
with a greater
deed,
From the tough root the
ling'ring
weapon freed.
Once more erect,
the rival
chiefs advance:
One trusts the sword, and
one the
pointed lance;
And both resolv'd alike to
try their
fatal chance.
Meantime imperial
Jove to
Juno spoke,
Who from a shining cloud
beheld
the shock:
"What new arrest, O Queen
of Heav'n,
is sent
To stop the Fates now
lab'ring in
th' event?
What farther hopes are
left thee
to pursue?
Divine AEneas, (and thou
know'st
it too,)
Foredoom'd, to these
celestial seats
are due.
What more attempts for
Turnus can
be made,
That thus thou ling'rest
in this
lonely shade?
Is it becoming of the due
respect
And awful honor of a god
elect,
A wound unworthy of our
state to
feel,
Patient of human hands and
earthly
steel?
Or seems it just, the
sister should
restore
A second sword, when one
was lost
before,
And arm a conquer'd wretch
against
his conqueror?
For what, without thy
knowledge
and avow,
Nay more, thy dictate,
durst Juturna
do?
At last, in deference to
my love,
forbear
To lodge within thy soul
this anxious
care;
Reclin'd upon my breast,
thy grief
unload:
Who should relieve the
goddess,
but the god?
Now all things to their
utmost issue
tend,
Push'd by the Fates to
their appointed
end.
While leave was giv'n
thee, and
a lawful hour
For vengeance, wrath, and
unresisted
pow'r,
Toss'd on the seas, thou
couldst
thy foes distress,
And, driv'n ashore, with
hostile
arms oppress;
Deform the royal house;
and, from
the side
Of the just bridegroom,
tear the
plighted bride:
Now cease at my command."
The Thund'rer
said;
And, with dejected eyes,
this answer
Juno made:
"Because your dread decree
too well
I knew,
From Turnus and from earth
unwilling
I withdrew.
Else should you not behold
me here,
alone,
Involv'd in empty clouds,
my friends
bemoan,
But, girt with vengeful
flames,
in open sight
Engag'd against my foes in
mortal
fight.
'T is true, Juturna
mingled in the
strife
By my command, to save her
brother's
life--
At least to try; but, by
the Stygian
lake,
(The most religious oath
the gods
can take,)
With this restriction, not
to bend
the bow,
Or toss the spear, or
trembling
dart to throw.
And now, resign'd to your
superior
might,
And tir'd with fruitless
toils,
I loathe the fight.
This let me beg (and this
no fates
withstand)
Both for myself and for
your father's
land,
That, when the nuptial bed
shall
bind the peace,
(Which I, since you
ordain, consent
to bless,)
The laws of either nation
be the
same;
But let the Latins still
retain
their name,
Speak the same language
which they
spoke before,
Wear the same habits which
their
grandsires wore.
Call them not Trojans:
perish the
renown
And name of Troy, with
that detested
town.
Latium be Latium still;
let Alba
reign
And Rome's immortal
majesty remain."
Then thus the
founder of
mankind replies
(Unruffled was his front,
serene
his eyes):
"Can Saturn's issue, and
heav'n's
other heir,
Such endless anger in her
bosom
bear?
Be mistress, and your full
desires
obtain;
But quench the choler you
foment
in vain.
From ancient blood th'
Ausonian
people sprung,
Shall keep their name,
their habit,
and their tongue.
The Trojans to their
customs shall
be tied:
I will, myself, their
common rites
provide;
The natives shall command,
the foreigners
subside.
All shall be Latium; Troy
without
a name;
And her lost sons forget
from whence
they came.
From blood so mix'd, a
pious race
shall flow,
Equal to gods, excelling
all below.
No nation more respect to
you shall
pay,
Or greater off'rings on
your altars
lay."
Juno consents, well
pleas'd that
her desires
Had found success, and
from the
cloud retires.
The peace thus
made, the
Thund'rer next prepares
To force the wat'ry
goddess from
the wars.
Deep in the dismal regions
void
of light,
Three daughters at a birth
were
born to Night:
These their brown mother,
brooding
on her care,
Indued with windy wings to
flit
in air,
With serpents girt alike,
and crown'd
with hissing hair.
In heav'n the Dirae
call'd, and
still at hand,
Before the throne of angry
Jove
they stand,
His ministers of wrath,
and ready
still
The minds of mortal men
with fears
to fill,
Whene'er the moody sire,
to wreak
his hate
On realms or towns
deserving of
their fate,
Hurls down diseases, death
and deadly
care,
And terrifies the guilty
world with
war.
One sister plague if these
from
heav'n he sent,
To fright Juturna with a
dire portent.
The pest comes whirling
down: by
far more slow
Springs the swift arrow
from the
Parthian bow,
Or Cydon yew, when,
traversing the
skies,
And drench'd in pois'nous
juice,
the sure destruction flies.
With such a sudden and
unseen a
flight
Shot thro' the clouds the
daughter
of the night.
Soon as the field inclos'd
she had
in view,
And from afar her destin'd
quarry
knew,
Contracted, to the boding
bird she
turns,
Which haunts the ruin'd
piles and
hallow'd urns,
And beats about the tombs
with nightly
wings,
Where songs obscene on
sepulchers
she sings.
Thus lessen'd in her form,
with
frightful cries
The Fury round unhappy
Turnus flies,
Flaps on his shield, and
flutters
o'er his eyes.
A lazy chillness
crept along
his blood;
Chok'd was his voice; his
hair with
horror stood.
Juturna from afar beheld
her fly,
And knew th' ill omen, by
her screaming
cry
And stridor of her wings.
Amaz'd
with fear,
Her beauteous breast she
beat, and
rent her flowing hair.
"Ah me!" she cries,
"in this
unequal strife
What can thy sister more
to save
thy life?
Weak as I am, can I, alas!
contend
In arms with that
inexorable fiend?
Now, now, I quit the
field! forbear
to fright
My tender soul, ye baleful
birds
of night;
The lashing of your wings
I know
too well,
The sounding flight, and
fun'ral
screams of hell!
These are the gifts you
bring from
haughty Jove,
The worthy recompense of
ravish'd
love!
Did he for this exempt my
life from
fate?
O hard conditions of
immortal state,
Tho' born to death, not
privileg'd
to die,
But forc'd to bear impos'd
eternity!
Take back your envious
bribes, and
let me go
Companion to my brother's
ghost
below!
The joys are vanish'd:
nothing now
remains,
Of life immortal, but
immortal pains.
What earth will open her
devouring
womb,
To rest a weary goddess in
the tomb!"
She drew a length of
sighs; nor
more she said,
But in her azure mantle
wrapp'd
her head,
Then plung'd into her
stream, with
deep despair,
And her last sobs came
bubbling
up in air.
Now stern AEneas
waves his
weighty spear
Against his foe, and thus
upbraids
his fear:
"What farther subterfuge
can Turnus
find?
What empty hopes are
harbor'd in
his mind?
'T is not thy swiftness
can secure
thy flight;
Not with their feet, but
hands,
the valiant fight.
Vary thy shape in thousand
forms,
and dare
What skill and courage can
attempt
in war;
Wish for the wings of
winds, to
mount the sky;
Or hid, within the hollow
earth
to lie!"
The champion shook his
head, and
made this short reply:
"No threats of thine my
manly mind
can move;
'T is hostile heav'n I
dread, and
partial Jove."
He said no more, but, with
a sigh,
repress'd
The mighty sorrow in his
swelling
breast.
Then, as he roll'd
his troubled
eyes around,
An antique stone he saw,
the common
bound
Of neighb'ring fields, and
barrier
of the ground;
So vast, that twelve
strong men
of modern days
Th' enormous weight from
earth could
hardly raise.
He heav'd it at a lift,
and, pois'd
on high,
Ran stagg'ring on against
his enemy,
But so disorder'd, that he
scarcely
knew
His way, or what unwieldly
weight
he threw.
His knocking knees are
bent beneath
the load,
And shiv'ring cold
congeals his
vital blood.
The stone drops from his
arms, and,
falling short
For want of vigor, mocks
his vain
effort.
And as, when heavy sleep
has clos'd
the sight,
The sickly fancy labors in
the night;
We seem to run; and,
destitute of
force,
Our sinking limbs forsake
us in
the course:
In vain we heave for
breath; in
vain we cry;
The nerves, unbrac'd,
their usual
strength deny;
And on the tongue the
falt'ring
accents die:
So Turnus far'd; whatever
means
he tried,
All force of arms and
points of
art employ'd,
The Fury flew athwart, and
made
th' endeavor void.
A thousand various
thoughts
his soul confound;
He star'd about, nor aid
nor issue
found;
His own men stop the pass,
and his
own walls surround.
Once more he pauses, and
looks out
again,
And seeks the goddess
charioteer
in vain.
Trembling he views the
thund'ring
chief advance,
And brandishing aloft the
deadly
lance:
Amaz'd he cow'rs beneath
his conqu'ring
foe,
Forgets to ward, and waits
the coming
blow.
Astonish'd while he
stands, and
fix'd with fear,
Aim'd at his shield he
sees th'
impending spear.
The hero measur'd
first,
with narrow view,
The destin'd mark; and,
rising as
he threw,
With its full swing the
fatal weapon
flew.
Not with less rage the
rattling
thunder falls,
Or stones from
batt'ring-engines
break the walls:
Swift as a whirlwind, from
an arm
so strong,
The lance drove on, and
bore the
death along.
Naught could his sev'nfold
shield
the prince avail,
Nor aught, beneath his
arms, the
coat of mail:
It pierc'd thro' all, and
with a
grisly wound
Transfix'd his thigh, and
doubled
him to ground.
With groans the Latins
rend the
vaulted sky:
Woods, hills, and valleys,
to the
voice reply.
Now low on earth
the lofty
chief is laid,
With eyes cast upward, and
with
arms display'd,
And, recreant, thus to the
proud
victor pray'd:
"I know my death deserv'd,
nor hope
to live:
Use what the gods and thy
good fortune
give.
Yet think, O think, if
mercy may
be shown--
Thou hadst a father once,
and hast
a son--
Pity my sire, now sinking
to the
grave;
And for Anchises' sake old
Daunus
save!
Or, if thy vow'd revenge
pursue
my death,
Give to my friends my body
void
of breath!
The Latian chiefs have
seen me beg
my life;
Thine is the conquest,
thine the
royal wife:
Against a yielded man, 't
is mean
ignoble strife."
In deep suspense
the Trojan
seem'd to stand,
And, just prepar'd to
strike, repress'd
his hand.
He roll'd his eyes, and
ev'ry moment
felt
His manly soul with more
compassion
melt;
When, casting down a
casual glance,
he spied
The golden belt that
glitter'd on
his side,
The fatal spoils which
haughty Turnus
tore
From dying Pallas, and in
triumph
wore.
Then, rous'd anew to
wrath, he loudly
cries
(Flames, while he spoke,
came flashing
from his eyes):
"Traitor, dost thou, dost
thou to
grace pretend,
Clad, as thou art, in
trophies of
my friend?
To his sad soul a grateful
off'ring
go!
'T is Pallas, Pallas gives
this
deadly blow."
He rais'd his arm aloft,
and, at
the word,
Deep in his bosom drove
the shining
sword.
The streaming blood
distain'd his
arms around,
And the disdainful soul
came rushing
thro' the wound.
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Note: this
text is
a 10th anniversary HTML rendering of The Internet Wiretap online
edition.
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