| |
| 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, | 5 |
| 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; | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| 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, | 20 |
| 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. | 25 |
| 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: | 30 |
| “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: | 35 |
| 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, | 40 |
| 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: | 45 |
| 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, | 50 |
| 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; | 55 |
| 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. | 60 |
| 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, | 65 |
| 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; | 70 |
| 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: | 75 |
| “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; | 80 |
| 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, | 85 |
| 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, | 90 |
| 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. | 95 |
| 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; | 100 |
| 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, | 105 |
| 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, | 110 |
| 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. | 115 |
| 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 | 120 |
| 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.” | 125 |
| 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, | 130 |
| 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, | 135 |
| 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. | 140 |
| In his Ætnæan 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, | 145 |
| 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, | 150 |
| 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, | 155 |
| 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; | 160 |
| 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, | 165 |
| 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. | 170 |
| 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, | 175 |
| 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, | 180 |
| 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, | 185 |
| 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; | 190 |
| 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. | 195 |
| 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 | 200 |
| 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 | 205 |
| (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, | 210 |
| 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. | 215 |
| “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 | 220 |
| 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. | 225 |
| 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, | 230 |
| 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, | 235 |
| 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? | 240 |
| ’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: | 245 |
| 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: | 250 |
| Then issued from the camp, in arms divine, | |
| Æneas, 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, | 255 |
| 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 | 260 |
| 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. | |
| Æneas then unsheath’d his shining sword, | |
| And thus with pious pray’rs the gods ador’d: | 265 |
| “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 | 270 |
| 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, | 275 |
| 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, | 280 |
| (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. | 285 |
| 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, | 290 |
| 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; | 295 |
| 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, | 300 |
| 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; | 305 |
| 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 | 310 |
| 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.” | 315 |
| 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, | 320 |
| 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. | 325 |
| 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 | 330 |
| 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. | 335 |
| 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 | 340 |
| 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: | 345 |
| “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, | 350 |
| 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, | 355 |
| 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, | 360 |
| 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: | 365 |
| 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, | 370 |
| 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; | 375 |
| 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, | 380 |
| 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; | 385 |
| 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, | 390 |
| 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. | 395 |
| 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, | 400 |
| 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. | 405 |
| 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, | 410 |
| 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 | 415 |
| 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. | 420 |
| 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, | 425 |
| 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. | 430 |
| 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, | 435 |
| 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, | 440 |
| 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. | 445 |
| 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 Corynæus, arm’d his better hand, | 450 |
| 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. | 455 |
| 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 | 460 |
| 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; | 465 |
| 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 Æneas rush’d amid the bands; | |
| Bare was his head, and naked were his hands, | 470 |
| 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, | 475 |
| 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.” | 480 |
| 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, | 485 |
| 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; | 490 |
| 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 | 495 |
| 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, | 500 |
| 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 | 505 |
| (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, | 510 |
| 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: | 515 |
| 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, | 520 |
| 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: | 525 |
| Hard enterprise! and well he might require | |
| Achilles’ car and horses, for his hire: | |
| But, met upon the scout, th’ Ætolian prince | |
| In death bestow’d a juster recompense. | |
| Fierce Turnus view’d the Trojan from afar, | 530 |
| 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. | 535 |
| “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, | 540 |
| 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’ Ægæan shore: | 545 |
| 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, | 550 |
| 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, | 555 |
| 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. | 560 |
| 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, | 565 |
| 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. | 570 |
| 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, | 575 |
| 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. | 580 |
| 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 Phœbean bays. | |
| Propp’d on his lance the pensive hero stood, | 585 |
| 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, | 590 |
| 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. | 595 |
| 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; | 600 |
| 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, | 605 |
| 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: | 610 |
| 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 | 615 |
| 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. | 620 |
| 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, | 625 |
| 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, | 630 |
| 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.” | 635 |
| 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, | 640 |
| 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; | 645 |
| 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; | 650 |
| Assert thy birthright, and in arms be known, | |
| For Hector’s nephew, and Æneas’ 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, | 655 |
| 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: | 660 |
| 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. | |
| Æneas leads; and draws a sweeping train, | 665 |
| 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; | 670 |
| 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 Thymbræus kill’d. | |
| Archetius, Ufens, Epulon, are slain | 675 |
| (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. | 680 |
| 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, | 685 |
| 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. | 690 |
| 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; | 695 |
| 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. | 700 |
| Æneas, 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, | 705 |
| 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: | 710 |
| Encount’ring on the prince, one dart he drew, | |
| And with unerring aim and utmost vigor threw. | |
| Æneas saw it come, and, stooping low | |
| Beneath his buckler, shunn’d the threat’ning blow. | |
| The weapon hiss’d above his head, and tore | 715 |
| 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; | 720 |
| 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, | 725 |
| 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! | 730 |
| 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! | |
| Æneas first Rutulian Sucro found, | |
| Whose valor made the Trojans quit their ground; | 735 |
| 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 | 740 |
| 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: | 745 |
| 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, | 750 |
| O’erthrew; nor Phœbus 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; | 755 |
| 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 | 760 |
| 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; | 765 |
| 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; | 770 |
| 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. | 775 |
| 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 | 780 |
| 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: | 785 |
| 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, | 790 |
| In vain the strongest of th’ Arcadian band: | |
| Nor to Cupentus could his gods afford | |
| Availing aid against th’ Ænean sword, | |
| Which to his naked heart pursued the course; | |
| Nor could his plated shield sustain the force. | 795 |
| 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 | 800 |
| 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. | 805 |
| 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, | 810 |
| 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 | 815 |
| 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. | 820 |
| 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, | 825 |
| 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. | 830 |
| 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: | 835 |
| 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.” | 840 |
| 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, | 845 |
| 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, | 850 |
| 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; | 855 |
| 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. | 860 |
| 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; | 865 |
| 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, | 870 |
| 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 | 875 |
| 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: | 880 |
| 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 | 885 |
| 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. | 890 |
| 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, | 895 |
| 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, | 900 |
| 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, | 905 |
| 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. | 910 |
| 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, | 915 |
| 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; | 920 |
| 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? | 925 |
| 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, | 930 |
| 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. | 935 |
| 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, | 940 |
| (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: | 945 |
| 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 Æneas, rolling on, | 950 |
| 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; | 955 |
| 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, | 960 |
| 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, | 965 |
| 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; | 970 |
| 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, | 975 |
| 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. | 980 |
| “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 | 985 |
| 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. | 990 |
| 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; | 995 |
| 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. | 1000 |
| 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: | 1005 |
| “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, | 1010 |
| 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, | 1015 |
| 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, | 1020 |
| 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. | 1025 |
| 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, | 1030 |
| 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. | |