The Aeneid

“And I, whose welfare in my father lies,” Ascanius adds, “by the great deities, By my dear country, by my household gods, By hoary Vesta’s rites and dark abodes, Adjure you both, (on you my fortune stands; That and my faith I plight into your hands,) Make me but happy in his safe return, Whose wanted presence I can only mourn; Your common gift shall two large goblets be Of silver, wrought with curious imagery, And high emboss’d, which, when old Priam reign’d, My conqu’ring sire at sack’d Arisba gain’d; And more, two tripods cast in antique mould, With two great talents of the finest gold; Beside a costly bowl, ingrav’d with art, Which Dido gave, when first she gave her heart. But, if in conquer’d Italy we reign, When spoils by lot the victor shall obtain— Thou saw’st the courser by proud Turnus press’d: That, Nisus, and his arms, and nodding crest, And shield, from chance exempt, shall be thy share: Twelve lab’ring slaves, twelve handmaids young and fair All clad in rich attire, and train’d with care; And, last, a Latian field with fruitful plains, And a large portion of the king’s domains. But thou, whose years are more to mine allied, No fate my vow’d affection shall divide From thee, heroic youth! Be wholly mine; Take full possession; all my soul is thine. One faith, one fame, one fate, shall both attend; My life’s companion, and my bosom friend: My peace shall be committed to thy care, And to thy conduct my concerns in war.”

Then thus the young Euryalus replied: “Whatever fortune, good or bad, betide, The same shall be my age, as now my youth; No time shall find me wanting to my truth. This only from your goodness let me gain (And, this ungranted, all rewards are vain) Of Priam’s royal race my mother came— And sure the best that ever bore the name— Whom neither Troy nor Sicily could hold From me departing, but, o’erspent and old, My fate she follow’d. Ignorant of this (Whatever) danger, neither parting kiss, Nor pious blessing taken, her I leave, And in this only act of all my life deceive. By this right hand and conscious night I swear, My soul so sad a farewell could not bear. Be you her comfort; fill my vacant place (Permit me to presume so great a grace) Support her age, forsaken and distress’d. That hope alone will fortify my breast Against the worst of fortunes, and of fears.” He said. The mov’d assistants melt in tears.

Then thus Ascanius, wonderstruck to see That image of his filial piety: “So great beginnings, in so green an age, Exact the faith which I again engage. Thy mother all the dues shall justly claim, Creusa had, and only want the name. Whate’er event thy bold attempt shall have, ’Tis merit to have borne a son so brave. Now by my head, a sacred oath, I swear, (My father us’d it,) what, returning here Crown’d with success, I for thyself prepare, That, if thou fail, shall thy lov’d mother share.” He said, and weeping, while he spoke the word, From his broad belt he drew a shining sword, Magnificent with gold. Lycaon made, And in an ivory scabbard sheath’d the blade. This was his gift. Great Mnestheus gave his friend A lion’s hide, his body to defend; And good Alethes furnish’d him, beside, With his own trusty helm, of temper tried. Thus arm’d they went. The noble Trojans wait Their issuing forth, and follow to the gate With prayers and vows. Above the rest appears Ascanius, manly far beyond his years, And messages committed to their care, Which all in winds were lost, and flitting air.

The trenches first they pass’d; then took their way Where their proud foes in pitch’d pavilions lay; To many fatal, ere themselves were slain. They found the careless host dispers’d upon the plain, Who, gorg’d, and drunk with wine, supinely snore. Unharness’d chariots stand along the shore: Amidst the wheels and reins, the goblet by, A medley of debauch and war, they lie. Observing Nisus shew’d his friend the sight: “Behold a conquest gain’d without a fight. Occasion offers, and I stand prepar’d; There lies our way; be thou upon the guard, And look around, while I securely go, And hew a passage thro’ the sleeping foe.” Softly he spoke; then striding took his way, With his drawn sword, where haughty Rhamnes lay; His head rais’d high on tapestry beneath, And heaving from his breast, he drew his breath; A king and prophet, by King Turnus lov’d: But fate by prescience cannot be remov’d. Him and his sleeping slaves he slew; then spies Where Remus, with his rich retinue, lies. His armour-bearer first, and next he kills His charioteer, intrench’d betwixt the wheels And his lov’d horses; last invades their lord; Full on his neck he drives the fatal sword: The gasping head flies off; a purple flood Flows from the trunk, that welters in the blood, Which, by the spurning heels dispers’d around, The bed besprinkles and bedews the ground. Lamus the bold, and Lamyrus the strong, He slew, and then Serranus fair and young. From dice and wine the youth retir’d to rest, And puff’d the fumy god from out his breast: Ev’n then he dreamt of drink and lucky play— More lucky, had it lasted till the day. The famish’d lion thus, with hunger bold, O’erleaps the fences of the nightly fold, And tears the peaceful flocks: with silent awe Trembling they lie, and pant beneath his paw.

Nor with less rage Euryalus employs The wrathful sword, or fewer foes destroys; But on th’ ignoble crowd his fury flew; He Fadus, Hebesus, and Rhoetus slew. Oppress’d with heavy sleep the former fell, But Rhoetus wakeful, and observing all: Behind a spacious jar he slink’d for fear; The fatal iron found and reach’d him there; For, as he rose, it pierc’d his naked side, And, reeking, thence return’d in crimson dyed. The wound pours out a stream of wine and blood; The purple soul comes floating in the flood.

Now, where Messapus quarter’d, they arrive. The fires were fainting there, and just alive; The warrior-horses, tied in order, fed. Nisus observ’d the discipline, and said: “Our eager thirst of blood may both betray; And see the scatter’d streaks of dawning day, Foe to nocturnal thefts. No more, my friend; Here let our glutted execution end. A lane thro’ slaughter’d bodies we have made.” The bold Euryalus, tho’ loth, obey’d. Of arms, and arras, and of plate, they find A precious load; but these they leave behind. Yet, fond of gaudy spoils, the boy would stay To make the rich caparison his prey, Which on the steed of conquer’d Rhamnes lay. Nor did his eyes less longingly behold The girdle-belt, with nails of burnish’d gold. This present Caedicus the rich bestow’d On Remulus, when friendship first they vow’d, And, absent, join’d in hospitable ties: He, dying, to his heir bequeath’d the prize; Till, by the conqu’ring Ardean troops oppress’d, He fell; and they the glorious gift possess’d. These glitt’ring spoils (now made the victor’s gain) He to his body suits, but suits in vain: Messapus’ helm he finds among the rest, And laces on, and wears the waving crest. Proud of their conquest, prouder of their prey, They leave the camp, and take the ready way.

But far they had not pass’d, before they spied Three hundred horse, with Volscens for their guide. The queen a legion to King Turnus sent; But the swift horse the slower foot prevent, And now, advancing, sought the leader’s tent. They saw the pair; for, thro’ the doubtful shade, His shining helm Euryalus betray’d, On which the moon with full reflection play’d. “’Tis not for naught,” cried Volscens from the crowd, “These men go there;” then rais’d his voice aloud: “Stand! stand! why thus in arms? And whither bent? From whence, to whom, and on what errand sent?” Silent they scud away, and haste their flight To neighb’ring woods, and trust themselves to night. The speedy horse all passages belay, And spur their smoking steeds to cross their way, And watch each entrance of the winding wood. Black was the forest: thick with beech it stood, Horrid with fern, and intricate with thorn; Few paths of human feet, or tracks of beasts, were worn. The darkness of the shades, his heavy prey, And fear, misled the younger from his way. But Nisus hit the turns with happier haste, And, thoughtless of his friend, the forest pass’d, And Alban plains, from Alba’s name so call’d, Where King Latinus then his oxen stall’d; Till, turning at the length, he stood his ground, And miss’d his friend, and cast his eyes around: “Ah wretch!” he cried, “where have I left behind Th’ unhappy youth?

where shall I hope to find? Or what way take?” Again he ventures back, And treads the mazes of his former track. He winds the wood, and, list’ning, hears the noise Of tramping coursers, and the riders’ voice. The sound approach’d; and suddenly he view’d The foes inclosing, and his friend pursued, Forelaid and taken, while he strove in vain The shelter of the friendly shades to gain. What should he next attempt? what arms employ, What fruitless force, to free the captive boy? Or desperate should he rush and lose his life, With odds oppress’d, in such unequal strife?

Resolv’d at length, his pointed spear he shook; And, casting on the moon a mournful look: “Guardian of groves, and goddess of the night, Fair queen,” he said, “direct my dart aright. If e’er my pious father, for my sake, Did grateful off’rings on thy altars make, Or I increas’d them with my sylvan toils, And hung thy holy roofs with savage spoils, Give me to scatter these.” Then from his ear He pois’d, and aim’d, and launch’d the trembling spear. The deadly weapon, hissing from the grove, Impetuous on the back of Sulmo drove; Pierc’d his thin armour, drank his vital blood, And in his body left the broken wood. He staggers round; his eyeballs roll in death, And with short sobs he gasps away his breath. All stand amaz’d—a second jav’lin flies With equal strength, and quivers thro’ the skies. This thro’ thy temples, Tagus, forc’d the way, And in the brainpan warmly buried lay. Fierce Volscens foams with rage, and, gazing round, Descried not him who gave the fatal wound, Nor knew to fix revenge: “But thou,” he cries, “Shalt pay for both,” and at the pris’ner flies With his drawn sword. Then, struck with deep despair,

That cruel sight the lover could not bear; But from his covert rush’d in open view, And sent his voice before him as he flew: “Me! me!” he cried—“turn all your swords alone On me—the fact confess’d, the fault my own. He neither could nor durst, the guiltless youth: Ye moon and stars, bear witness to the truth! His only crime (if friendship can offend) Is too much love to his unhappy friend.” Too late he speaks: the sword, which fury guides, Driv’n with full force, had pierc’d his tender sides. Down fell the beauteous youth: the yawning wound Gush’d out a purple stream, and stain’d the ground. His snowy neck reclines upon his breast, Like a fair flow’r by the keen share oppress’d; Like a white poppy sinking on the plain, Whose heavy head is overcharg’d with rain. Despair, and rage, and vengeance justly vow’d, Drove Nisus headlong on the hostile crowd. Volscens he seeks; on him alone he bends: Borne back and bor’d by his surrounding friends, Onward he press’d, and kept him still in sight; Then whirl’d aloft his sword with all his might: Th’ unerring steel descended while he spoke, Pierc’d his wide mouth, and thro’

his weazon broke. Dying, he slew; and, stagg’ring on the plain, With swimming eyes he sought his lover slain; Then quiet on his bleeding bosom fell, Content, in death, to be reveng’d so well.

O happy friends! for, if my verse can give Immortal life, your fame shall ever live, Fix’d as the Capitol’s foundation lies, And spread, where’er the Roman eagle flies! The conqu’ring party first divide the prey, Then their slain leader to the camp convey. With wonder, as they went, the troops were fill’d, To see such numbers whom so few had kill’d. Serranus, Rhamnes, and the rest, they found: Vast crowds the dying and the dead surround; And the yet reeking blood o’erflows the ground. All knew the helmet which Messapus lost, But mourn’d a purchase that so dear had cost. Now rose the ruddy morn from Tithon’s bed, And with the dawn of day the skies o’erspread; Nor long the sun his daily course withheld, But added colours to the world reveal’d: When early Turnus, wak’ning with the light, All clad in armour, calls his troops to fight. His martial men with fierce harangue he fir’d, And his own ardour in their souls inspir’d. This done—to give new terror to his foes, The heads of Nisus and his friend he shows, Rais’d high on pointed spears—a ghastly sight: Loud peals of shouts ensue, and barbarous delight.

Meantime the Trojans run, where danger calls; They line their trenches, and they man their walls. In front extended to the left they stood; Safe was the right, surrounded by the flood. But, casting from their tow’rs a frightful view, They saw the faces, which too well they knew, Tho’ then disguis’d in death, and smear’d all o’er With filth obscene, and dropping putrid gore. Soon hasty fame thro’ the sad city bears The mournful message to the mother’s ears. An icy cold benumbs her limbs; she shakes; Her cheeks the blood, her hand the web forsakes. She runs the rampires round amidst the war, Nor fears the flying darts; she rends her hair, And fills with loud laments the liquid air. “Thus, then, my lov’d Euryalus appears! Thus looks the prop of my declining years! Was’t on this face my famish’d eyes I fed? Ah! how unlike the living is the dead! And could’st thou leave me, cruel, thus alone? Not one kind kiss from a departing son! No look, no last adieu before he went, In an ill-boding hour to slaughter sent! Cold on the ground, and pressing foreign clay, To Latian dogs and fowls he lies a prey! Nor was I near to close his dying eyes, To wash his wounds, to weep his obsequies, To call about his corpse his crying friends, Or spread the mantle (made for other ends) On his dear body, which I wove with care, Nor did my daily pains or nightly labour spare.

Where shall I find his corpse? what earth sustains His trunk dismember’d, and his cold remains? For this, alas! I left my needful ease, Expos’d my life to winds and winter seas! If any pity touch Rutulian hearts, Here empty all your quivers, all your darts; Or, if they fail, thou, Jove, conclude my woe, And send me thunderstruck to shades below!” Her shrieks and clamours pierce the Trojans’ ears, Unman their courage, and augment their fears; Nor young Ascanius could the sight sustain, Nor old Ilioneus his tears restrain, But Actor and Idaeus jointly sent, To bear the madding mother to her tent.

And now the trumpets terribly, from far, With rattling clangour, rouse the sleepy war. The soldiers’ shouts succeed the brazen sounds; And heav’n, from pole to pole, the noise rebounds. The Volscians bear their shields upon their head, And, rushing forward, form a moving shed. These fill the ditch; those pull the bulwarks down: Some raise the ladders; others scale the town. But, where void spaces on the walls appear, Or thin defence, they pour their forces there. With poles and missive weapons, from afar, The Trojans keep aloof the rising war. Taught, by their ten years’ siege, defensive fight, They roll down ribs of rocks, an unresisted weight, To break the penthouse with the pond’rous blow, Which yet the patient Volscians undergo: But could not bear th’ unequal combat long; For, where the Trojans find the thickest throng, The ruin falls: their shatter’d shields give way, And their crush’d heads become an easy prey. They shrink for fear, abated of their rage, Nor longer dare in a blind fight engage; Contented now to gall them from below With darts and slings, and with the distant bow.

Elsewhere Mezentius, terrible to view, A blazing pine within the trenches threw. But brave Messapus, Neptune’s warlike son, Broke down the palisades, the trenches won, And loud for ladders calls, to scale the town. Calliope, begin! Ye sacred Nine, Inspire your poet in his high design, To sing what slaughter manly Turnus made, What souls he sent below the Stygian shade, What fame the soldiers with their captain share, And the vast circuit of the fatal war; For you in singing martial facts excel; You best remember, and alone can tell.

There stood a tow’r, amazing to the sight, Built up of beams, and of stupendous height: Art, and the nature of the place, conspir’d To furnish all the strength that war requir’d. To level this, the bold Italians join; The wary Trojans obviate their design; With weighty stones o’erwhelm their troops below, Shoot thro’ the loopholes, and sharp jav’lins throw. Turnus, the chief, toss’d from his thund’ring hand Against the wooden walls, a flaming brand: It stuck, the fiery plague; the winds were high; The planks were season’d, and the timber dry. Contagion caught the posts; it spread along, Scorch’d, and to distance drove the scatter’d throng. The Trojans fled; the fire pursued amain, Still gath’ring fast upon the trembling train; Till, crowding to the corners of the wall, Down the defence and the defenders fall. The mighty flaw makes heav’n itself resound: The dead and dying Trojans strew the ground. The tow’r, that follow’d on the fallen crew, Whelm’d o’er their heads, and buried whom it slew: Some stuck upon the darts themselves had sent; All the same equal ruin underwent.

Young Lycus and Helenor only scape; Sav’d—how, they know not—from the steepy leap. Helenor, elder of the two: by birth, On one side royal, one a son of earth, Whom to the Lydian king Licymnia bare, And sent her boasted bastard to the war (A privilege which none but freemen share). Slight were his arms, a sword and silver shield: No marks of honour charg’d its empty field. Light as he fell, so light the youth arose, And rising, found himself amidst his foes; Nor flight was left, nor hopes to force his way. Embolden’d by despair, he stood at bay; And, like a stag, whom all the troop surrounds Of eager huntsmen and invading hounds Resolv’d on death, he dissipates his fears, And bounds aloft against the pointed spears: So dares the youth, secure of death; and throws His dying body on his thickest foes. But Lycus, swifter of his feet by far, Runs, doubles, winds and turns, amidst the war; Springs to the walls, and leaves his foes behind, And snatches at the beam he first can find; Looks up, and leaps aloft at all the stretch, In hopes the helping hand of some kind friend to reach. But Turnus follow’d hard his hunted prey (His spear had almost reach’d him in the way, Short of his reins, and scarce a span behind) “Fool!” said the chief, “tho’ fleeter than the wind, Couldst thou presume to scape, when I pursue?” He said, and downward by the feet he drew The trembling dastard; at the tug he falls; Vast ruins come along, rent from the smoking walls. Thus on some silver swan, or tim’rous hare, Jove’s bird comes sousing down from upper air; Her crooked talons truss the fearful prey: Then out of sight she soars, and wings her way. So seizes the grim wolf the tender lamb, In vain lamented by the bleating dam.

Then rushing onward with a barb’rous cry, The troops of Turnus to the combat fly. The ditch with fagots fill’d, the daring foe Toss’d firebrands to the steepy turrets throw. Ilioneus, as bold Lucetius came To force the gate, and feed the kindling flame, Roll’d down the fragment of a rock so right, It crush’d him double underneath the weight. Two more young Liger and Asylas slew: To bend the bow young Liger better knew; Asylas best the pointed jav’lin threw. Brave Caeneus laid Ortygius on the plain; The victor Caeneus was by Turnus slain. By the same hand, Clonius and Itys fall, Sagar, and Ida, standing on the wall. From Capys’ arms his fate Privernus found: Hurt by Themilla first—but slight the wound— His shield thrown by, to mitigate the smart, He clapp’d his hand upon the wounded part: The second shaft came swift and unespied, And pierc’d his hand, and nail’d it to his side, Transfix’d his breathing lungs and beating heart: The soul came issuing out, and hiss’d against the dart.

The son of Arcens shone amid the rest, In glitt’ring armour and a purple vest, (Fair was his face, his eyes inspiring love,) Bred by his father in the Martian grove, Where the fat altars of Palicus flame, And send in arms to purchase early fame. Him when he spied from far, the Tuscan king Laid by the lance, and took him to the sling, Thrice whirl’d the thong around his head, and threw: The heated lead half melted as it flew; It pierc’d his hollow temples and his brain; The youth came tumbling down, and spurn’d the plain. Then young Ascanius, who, before this day, Was wont in woods to shoot the savage prey, First bent in martial strife the twanging bow, And exercis’d against a human foe— With this bereft Numanus of his life, Who Turnus’ younger sister took to wife. Proud of his realm, and of his royal bride, Vaunting before his troops, and lengthen’d with a stride, In these insulting terms the Trojans he defied:

“Twice-conquer’d cowards, now your shame is shown— Coop’d up a second time within your town! Who dare not issue forth in open field, But hold your walls before you for a shield. Thus treat you war? thus our alliance force? What gods, what madness, hither steer’d your course? You shall not find the sons of Atreus here, Nor need the frauds of sly Ulysses fear. Strong from the cradle, of a sturdy brood, We bear our newborn infants to the flood; There bath’d amid the stream, our boys we hold, With winter harden’d, and inur’d to cold. They wake before the day to range the wood, Kill ere they eat, nor taste unconquer’d food. No sports, but what belong to war, they know: To break the stubborn colt, to bend the bow. Our youth, of labour patient, earn their bread; Hardly they work, with frugal diet fed. From plows and harrows sent to seek renown, They fight in fields, and storm the shaken town. No part of life from toils of war is free, No change in age, or diff’rence in degree. We plow and till in arms; our oxen feel, Instead of goads, the spur and pointed steel; Th’ inverted lance makes furrows in the plain. Ev’n time, that changes all, yet changes us in vain: The body, not the mind; nor can control Th’ immortal vigour, or abate the soul. Our helms defend the young, disguise the gray: We live by plunder, and delight in prey. Your vests embroider’d with rich purple shine; In sloth you glory, and in dances join. Your vests have sweeping sleeves; with female pride Your turbans underneath your chins are tied. Go, Phrygians, to your Dindymus again! Go, less than women, in the shapes of men! Go, mix’d with eunuchs, in the Mother’s rites, Where with unequal sound the flute invites; Sing, dance, and howl, by turns, in Ida’s shade: Resign the war to men, who know the martial trade!”

This foul reproach Ascanius could not hear With patience, or a vow’d revenge forbear. At the full stretch of both his hands he drew, And almost join’d the horns of the tough yew. But, first, before the throne of Jove he stood, And thus with lifted hands invok’d the god: “My first attempt, great Jupiter, succeed! An annual off’ring in thy grove shall bleed; A snow-white steer, before thy altar led, Who, like his mother, bears aloft his head, Butts with his threat’ning brows, and bellowing stands, And dares the fight, and spurns the yellow sands.” Jove bow’d the heav’ns, and lent a gracious ear, And thunder’d on the left, amidst the clear. Sounded at once the bow; and swiftly flies The feather’d death, and hisses thro’ the skies. The steel thro’ both his temples forc’d the way: Extended on the ground, Numanus lay. “Go now, vain boaster, and true valour scorn! The Phrygians, twice subdued, yet make this third return.” Ascanius said no more. The Trojans shake The heav’ns with shouting, and new vigour take.

Apollo then bestrode a golden cloud, To view the feats of arms, and fighting crowd; And thus the beardless victor he bespoke aloud: “Advance, illustrious youth, increase in fame, And wide from east to west extend thy name; Offspring of gods thyself; and Rome shall owe To thee a race of demigods below. This is the way to heav’n: the pow’rs divine From this beginning date the Julian line. To thee, to them, and their victorious heirs, The conquer’d war is due, and the vast world is theirs. Troy is too narrow for thy name.” He said, And plunging downward shot his radiant head; Dispell’d the breathing air, that broke his flight: Shorn of his beams, a man to mortal sight. Old Butes’ form he took, Anchises’ squire, Now left, to rule Ascanius, by his sire: His wrinkled visage, and his hoary hairs, His mien, his habit, and his arms, he wears, And thus salutes the boy, too forward for his years: “Suffice it thee, thy father’s worthy son, The warlike prize thou hast already won. The god of archers gives thy youth a part Of his own praise, nor envies equal art. Now tempt the war no more.” He said, and flew Obscure in air, and vanish’d from their view. The Trojans, by his arms, their patron know, And hear the twanging of his heav’nly bow. Then duteous force they use, and Phoebus’ name, To keep from fight the youth too fond of fame.

Undaunted, they themselves no danger shun; From wall to wall the shouts and clamours run. They bend their bows; they whirl their slings around; Heaps of spent arrows fall, and strew the ground; And helms, and shields, and rattling arms resound. The combat thickens, like the storm that flies From westward, when the show’ry Kids arise; Or patt’ring hail comes pouring on the main, When Jupiter descends in harden’d rain, Or bellowing clouds burst with a stormy sound, And with an armed winter strew the ground.

Pand’rus and Bitias, thunderbolts of war, Whom Hiera to bold Alcanor bare On Ida’s top, two youths of height and size Like firs that on their mother mountain rise, Presuming on their force, the gates unbar, And of their own accord invite the war. With fates averse, against their king’s command, Arm’d, on the right and on the left they stand, And flank the passage: shining steel they wear, And waving crests above their heads appear. Thus two tall oaks, that Padus’ banks adorn, Lift up to heav’n their leafy heads unshorn, And, overpress’d with nature’s heavy load, Dance to the whistling winds, and at each other nod. In flows a tide of Latians, when they see The gate set open, and the passage free; Bold Quercens, with rash Tmarus, rushing on, Equicolus, that in bright armour shone, And Haemon first; but soon repuls’d they fly, Or in the well-defended pass they die. These with success are fir’d, and those with rage, And each on equal terms at length engage. Drawn from their lines, and issuing on the plain, The Trojans hand to hand the fight maintain.

Fierce Turnus in another quarter fought, When suddenly th’ unhop’d-for news was brought, The foes had left the fastness of their place, Prevail’d in fight, and had his men in chase. He quits th’ attack, and, to prevent their fate, Runs where the giant brothers guard the gate. The first he met, Antiphates the brave, But base-begotten on a Theban slave, Sarpedon’s son, he slew: the deadly dart Found passage thro’ his breast, and pierc’d his heart. Fix’d in the wound th’ Italian cornel stood, Warm’d in his lungs, and in his vital blood. Aphidnus next, and Erymanthus dies, And Meropes, and the gigantic size Of Bitias, threat’ning with his ardent eyes. Not by the feeble dart he fell oppress’d (A dart were lost within that roomy breast), But from a knotted lance, large, heavy, strong, Which roar’d like thunder as it whirl’d along: Not two bull hides th’ impetuous force withhold, Nor coat of double mail, with scales of gold. Down sunk the monster bulk and press’d the ground; His arms and clatt’ring shield on the vast body sound, Not with less ruin than the Bajan mole, Rais’d on the seas, the surges to control— At once comes tumbling down the rocky wall; Prone to the deep, the stones disjointed fall Of the vast pile; the scatter’d ocean flies; Black sands, discolour’d froth, and mingled mud arise: The frighted billows roll, and seek the shores; Then trembles Prochyta, then Ischia roars: Typhoeus, thrown beneath, by Jove’s command, Astonish’d at the flaw that shakes the land, Soon shifts his weary side, and, scarce awake, With wonder feels the weight press lighter on his back.

The warrior god the Latian troops inspir’d, New strung their sinews, and their courage fir’d, But chills the Trojan hearts with cold affright: Then black despair precipitates their flight. When Pandarus beheld his brother kill’d, The town with fear and wild confusion fill’d, He turns the hinges of the heavy gate With both his hands, and adds his shoulders to the weight Some happier friends within the walls inclos’d; The rest shut out, to certain death expos’d: Fool as he was, and frantic in his care, T’ admit young Turnus, and include the war! He thrust amid the crowd, securely bold, Like a fierce tiger pent amid the fold. Too late his blazing buckler they descry, And sparkling fires that shot from either eye, His mighty members, and his ample breast, His rattling armour, and his crimson crest.

Far from that hated face the Trojans fly, All but the fool who sought his destiny. Mad Pandarus steps forth, with vengeance vow’d For Bitias’ death, and threatens thus aloud: “These are not Ardea’s walls, nor this the town Amata proffers with Lavinia’s crown: ’Tis hostile earth you tread. Of hope bereft, No means of safe return by flight are left.” To whom, with count’nance calm, and soul sedate, Thus Turnus: “Then begin, and try thy fate: My message to the ghost of Priam bear; Tell him a new Achilles sent thee there.” A lance of tough ground ash the Trojan threw, Rough in the rind, and knotted as it grew: With his full force he whirl’d it first around; But the soft yielding air receiv’d the wound: Imperial Juno turn’d the course before, And fix’d the wand’ring weapon in the door.

“But hope not thou,” said Turnus, “when I strike, To shun thy fate: our force is not alike, Nor thy steel temper’d by the Lemnian god.” Then rising, on his utmost stretch he stood, And aim’d from high: the full descending blow Cleaves the broad front and beardless cheeks in two. Down sinks the giant with a thund’ring sound: His pond’rous limbs oppress the trembling ground; Blood, brains, and foam gush from the gaping wound: Scalp, face, and shoulders the keen steel divides, And the shar’d visage hangs on equal sides. The Trojans fly from their approaching fate; And, had the victor then secur’d the gate, And to his troops without unclos’d the bars, One lucky day had ended all his wars. But boiling youth, and blind desire of blood, Push’d on his fury, to pursue the crowd. Hamstring’d behind, unhappy Gyges died; Then Phalaris is added to his side. The pointed jav’lins from the dead he drew, And their friends’ arms against their fellows threw. Strong Halys stands in vain; weak Phlegys flies; Saturnia, still at hand, new force and fire supplies. Then Halius, Prytanis, Alcander fall— Engag’d against the foes who scal’d the wall: But, whom they fear’d without, they found within. At last, tho’ late, by Lynceus he was seen. He calls new succours, and assaults the prince: But weak his force, and vain is their defence. Turn’d to the right, his sword the hero drew, And at one blow the bold aggressor slew. He joints the neck; and, with a stroke so strong, The helm flies off, and bears the head along. Next him, the huntsman Amycus he kill’d, In darts envenom’d and in poison skill’d. Then Clytius fell beneath his fatal spear, And Creteus, whom the Muses held so dear: He fought with courage, and he sung the fight; Arms were his bus’ness, verses his delight.

The Trojan chiefs behold, with rage and grief, Their slaughter’d friends, and hasten their relief. Bold Mnestheus rallies first the broken train, Whom brave Seresthus and his troop sustain. To save the living, and revenge the dead, Against one warrior’s arms all Troy they led. “O, void of sense and courage!” Mnestheus cried, “Where can you hope your coward heads to hide? Ah! where beyond these rampires can you run? One man, and in your camp inclos’d, you shun! Shall then a single sword such slaughter boast, And pass unpunish’d from a num’rous host? Forsaking honour, and renouncing fame, Your gods, your country, and your king you shame!” This just reproach their virtue does excite: They stand, they join, they thicken to the fight. Now Turnus doubts, and yet disdains to yield, But with slow paces measures back the field, And inches to the walls, where Tiber’s tide, Washing the camp, defends the weaker side. The more he loses, they advance the more, And tread in ev’ry step he trod before. They shout: they bear him back; and, whom by might They cannot conquer, they oppress with weight.

As, compass’d with a wood of spears around, The lordly lion still maintains his ground; Grins horrible, retires, and turns again; Threats his distended paws, and shakes his mane; He loses while in vain he presses on, Nor will his courage let him dare to run: So Turnus fares, and, unresolved of flight, Moves tardy back, and just recedes from fight. Yet twice, enrag’d, the combat he renews, Twice breaks, and twice his broken foes pursues. But now they swarm, and, with fresh troops supplied, Come rolling on, and rush from ev’ry side: Nor Juno, who sustain’d his arms before, Dares with new strength suffice th’ exhausted store; For Jove, with sour commands, sent Iris down, To force th’ invader from the frighted town. With labour spent, no longer can he wield The heavy falchion, or sustain the shield, O’erwhelm’d with darts, which from afar they fling: The weapons round his hollow temples ring; His golden helm gives way, with stony blows Batter’d, and flat, and beaten to his brows. His crest is rash’d away; his ample shield Is falsified, and round with jav’lins fill’d.

The foe, now faint, the Trojans overwhelm; And Mnestheus lays hard load upon his helm. Sick sweat succeeds; he drops at ev’ry pore; With driving dust his cheeks are pasted o’er; Shorter and shorter ev’ry gasp he takes; And vain efforts and hurtless blows he makes. Plung’d in the flood, and made the waters fly. The yellow god the welcome burthen bore, And wip’d the sweat, and wash’d away the gore; Then gently wafts him to the farther coast, And sends him safe to cheer his anxious host.

THE ARGUMENT. Jupiter, calling a council of the gods, forbids them to engage in either party. At Aeneas’ return there is a bloody battle: Turnus killing Pallas; Aeneas, Lausus, and Mezentius. Mezentius is described as an atheist; Lausus as a pious and virtuous youth. The different actions and death of these two are the subject of a noble episode. The gates of heav’n unfold: Jove summons all The gods to council in the common hall. Sublimely seated, he surveys from far The fields, the camp, the fortune of the war, And all th’ inferior world. From first to last, The sov’reign senate in degrees are plac’d.

Then thus th’ almighty sire began: “Ye gods, Natives or denizens of blest abodes, From whence these murmurs, and this change of mind, This backward fate from what was first design’d? Why this protracted war, when my commands Pronounc’d a peace, and gave the Latian lands? What fear or hope on either part divides Our heav’ns, and arms our powers on diff’rent sides? A lawful time of war at length will come, (Nor need your haste anticipate the doom), When Carthage shall contend the world with Rome, Shall force the rigid rocks and Alpine chains, And, like a flood, come pouring on the plains. Then is your time for faction and debate, For partial favour, and permitted hate. Let now your immature dissension cease; Sit quiet, and compose your souls to peace.”

Thus Jupiter in few unfolds the charge; But lovely Venus thus replies at large: “O pow’r immense, eternal energy, (For to what else protection can we fly?) Seest thou the proud Rutulians, how they dare In fields, unpunish’d, and insult my care? How lofty Turnus vaunts amidst his train, In shining arms, triumphant on the plain? Ev’n in their lines and trenches they contend, And scarce their walls the Trojan troops defend: The town is fill’d with slaughter, and o’erfloats, With a red deluge, their increasing moats. Aeneas, ignorant, and far from thence, Has left a camp expos’d, without defence. This endless outrage shall they still sustain? Shall Troy renew’d be forc’d and fir’d again? A second siege my banish’d issue fears, And a new Diomede in arms appears. One more audacious mortal will be found; And I, thy daughter, wait another wound. Yet, if with fates averse, without thy leave, The Latian lands my progeny receive, Bear they the pains of violated law, And thy protection from their aid withdraw. But, if the gods their sure success foretell; If those of heav’n consent with those of hell, To promise Italy; who dare debate The pow’r of Jove, or fix

another fate? What should I tell of tempests on the main, Of Aeolus usurping Neptune’s reign? Of Iris sent, with Bacchanalian heat T’ inspire the matrons, and destroy the fleet? Now Juno to the Stygian sky descends, Solicits hell for aid, and arms the fiends. That new example wanted yet above: An act that well became the wife of Jove! Alecto, rais’d by her, with rage inflames The peaceful bosoms of the Latian dames. Imperial sway no more exalts my mind; (Such hopes I had indeed, while Heav’n was kind;) Now let my happier foes possess my place, Whom Jove prefers before the Trojan race; And conquer they, whom you with conquest grace. Since you can spare, from all your wide command, No spot of earth, no hospitable land, Which may my wand’ring fugitives receive; (Since haughty Juno will not give you leave;) Then, father, (if I still may use that name,) By ruin’d Troy, yet smoking from the flame, I beg you, let Ascanius, by my care, Be freed from danger, and dismiss’d the war: Inglorious let him live, without a crown. The father may be cast on coasts unknown, Struggling with fate; but let me save the son.

Mine is Cythera, mine the Cyprian tow’rs: In those recesses, and those sacred bow’rs, Obscurely let him rest; his right resign To promis’d empire, and his Julian line. Then Carthage may th’ Ausonian towns destroy, Nor fear the race of a rejected boy. What profits it my son to scape the fire, Arm’d with his gods, and loaded with his sire; To pass the perils of the seas and wind; Evade the Greeks, and leave the war behind; To reach th’ Italian shores; if, after all, Our second Pergamus is doom’d to fall? Much better had he curb’d his high desires, And hover’d o’er his ill-extinguish’d fires. To Simois’ banks the fugitives restore, And give them back to war, and all the woes before.”

Deep indignation swell’d Saturnia’s heart: “And must I own,” she said, “my secret smart— What with more decence were in silence kept, And, but for this unjust reproach, had slept? Did god or man your fav’rite son advise, With war unhop’d the Latians to surprise? By fate, you boast, and by the gods’ decree, He left his native land for Italy! Confess the truth; by mad Cassandra, more Than Heav’n inspir’d, he sought a foreign shore! Did I persuade to trust his second Troy To the raw conduct of a beardless boy, With walls unfinish’d, which himself forsakes, And thro’ the waves a wand’ring voyage takes? When have I urg’d him meanly to demand The Tuscan aid, and arm a quiet land? Did I or Iris give this mad advice, Or made the fool himself the fatal choice? You think it hard, the Latians should destroy With swords your Trojans, and with fires your Troy! Hard and unjust indeed, for men to draw Their native air, nor take a foreign law! That Turnus is permitted still to live, To whom his birth a god and goddess give! But yet is just and lawful for your line To drive their fields,

and force with fraud to join; Realms, not your own, among your clans divide, And from the bridegroom tear the promis’d bride; Petition, while you public arms prepare; Pretend a peace, and yet provoke a war! ’Twas giv’n to you, your darling son to shroud, To draw the dastard from the fighting crowd, And, for a man, obtend an empty cloud. From flaming fleets you turn’d the fire away, And chang’d the ships to daughters of the sea. But is my crime—the Queen of Heav’n offends, If she presume to save her suff’ring friends! Your son, not knowing what his foes decree, You say, is absent: absent let him be. Yours is Cythera, yours the Cyprian tow’rs, The soft recesses, and the sacred bow’rs. Why do you then these needless arms prepare, And thus provoke a people prone to war? Did I with fire the Trojan town deface, Or hinder from return your exil’d race? Was I the cause of mischief, or the man Whose lawless lust the fatal war began? Think on whose faith th’ adult’rous youth relied; Who promis’d, who procur’d, the Spartan bride? When all th’ united states of Greece combin’d, To purge the world of the

perfidious kind, Then was your time to fear the Trojan fate: Your quarrels and complaints are now too late.”

Thus Juno. Murmurs rise, with mix’d applause, Just as they favour or dislike the cause. So winds, when yet unfledg’d in woods they lie, In whispers first their tender voices try, Then issue on the main with bellowing rage, And storms to trembling mariners presage.

Then thus to both replied th’ imperial god, Who shakes heav’n’s axles with his awful nod. (When he begins, the silent senate stand With rev’rence, list’ning to the dread command: The clouds dispel; the winds their breath restrain; And the hush’d waves lie flatted on the main.) “Celestials, your attentive ears incline! Since,” said the god, “the Trojans must not join In wish’d alliance with the Latian line; Since endless jarrings and immortal hate Tend but to discompose our happy state; The war henceforward be resign’d to fate: Each to his proper fortune stand or fall; Equal and unconcern’d I look on all. Rutulians, Trojans, are the same to me; And both shall draw the lots their fates decree. Let these assault, if Fortune be their friend; And, if she favours those, let those defend: The Fates will find their way.” The Thund’rer said, And shook the sacred honours of his head, Attesting Styx, th’ inviolable flood, And the black regions of his brother god. Trembled the poles of heav’n, and earth confess’d the nod. This end the sessions had: the senate rise, And to his palace wait their sov’reign thro’ the skies.

Meantime, intent upon their siege, the foes Within their walls the Trojan host inclose: They wound, they kill, they watch at ev’ry gate; Renew the fires, and urge their happy fate. Th’ Aeneans wish in vain their wanted chief, Hopeless of flight, more hopeless of relief. Thin on the tow’rs they stand; and ev’n those few A feeble, fainting, and dejected crew. Yet in the face of danger some there stood: The two bold brothers of Sarpedon’s blood, Asius and Acmon; both th’ Assaraci; Young Haemon, and tho’ young, resolv’d to die. With these were Clarus and Thymoetes join’d; Tibris and Castor, both of Lycian kind. From Acmon’s hands a rolling stone there came, So large, it half deserv’d a mountain’s name: Strong-sinew’d was the youth, and big of bone; His brother Mnestheus could not more have done, Or the great father of th’ intrepid son. Some firebrands throw, some flights of arrows send; And some with darts, and some with stones defend.

Amid the press appears the beauteous boy, The care of Venus, and the hope of Troy. His lovely face unarm’d, his head was bare; In ringlets o’er his shoulders hung his hair. His forehead circled with a diadem; Distinguish’d from the crowd, he shines a gem, Enchas’d in gold, or polish’d iv’ry set, Amidst the meaner foil of sable jet. Nor Ismarus was wanting to the war, Directing pointed arrows from afar, And death with poison arm’d—in Lydia born, Where plenteous harvests the fat fields adorn; Where proud Pactolus floats the fruitful lands, And leaves a rich manure of golden sands. There Capys, author of the Capuan name, And there was Mnestheus too, increas’d in fame, Since Turnus from the camp he cast with shame.

Thus mortal war was wag’d on either side. Meantime the hero cuts the nightly tide: For, anxious, from Evander when he went, He sought the Tyrrhene camp, and Tarchon’s tent; Expos’d the cause of coming to the chief; His name and country told, and ask’d relief; Propos’d the terms; his own small strength declar’d; What vengeance proud Mezentius had prepar’d: What Turnus, bold and violent, design’d; Then shew’d the slipp’ry state of humankind, And fickle fortune; warn’d him to beware, And to his wholesome counsel added pray’r. Tarchon, without delay, the treaty signs, And to the Trojan troops the Tuscan joins. They soon set sail; nor now the fates withstand; Their forces trusted with a foreign hand. Aeneas leads; upon his stern appear Two lions carv’d, which rising Ida bear— Ida, to wand’ring Trojans ever dear. Under their grateful shade Aeneas sate, Revolving war’s events, and various fate. His left young Pallas kept, fix’d to his side, And oft of winds enquir’d, and of the tide; Oft of the stars, and of their wat’ry way; And what he suffer’d both by land and sea.

Now, sacred sisters, open all your spring! The Tuscan leaders, and their army sing, Which follow’d great Aeneas to the war: Their arms, their numbers, and their names declare. A thousand youths brave Massicus obey, Borne in the Tiger thro’ the foaming sea; From Asium brought, and Cosa, by his care: For arms, light quivers, bows and shafts, they bear. Fierce Abas next: his men bright armour wore; His stern Apollo’s golden statue bore. Six hundred Populonia sent along, All skill’d in martial exercise, and strong. Three hundred more for battle Ilva joins, An isle renown’d for steel, and unexhausted mines. Asylas on his prow the third appears, Who heav’n interprets, and the wand’ring stars; From offer’d entrails prodigies expounds, And peals of thunder, with presaging sounds. A thousand spears in warlike order stand, Sent by the Pisans under his command. Fair Astur follows in the wat’ry field, Proud of his manag’d horse and painted shield. Gravisca, noisome from the neighb’ring fen, And his own Caere, sent three hundred men; With those which Minio’s fields and Pyrgi gave, All bred in arms, unanimous, and brave.

Thou, Muse, the name of Cinyras renew, And brave Cupavo follow’d but by few; Whose helm confess’d the lineage of the man, And bore, with wings display’d, a silver swan. Love was the fault of his fam’d ancestry, Whose forms and fortunes in his ensigns fly. For Cycnus lov’d unhappy Phaeton, And sung his loss in poplar groves, alone, Beneath the sister shades, to soothe his grief. Heav’n heard his song, and hasten’d his relief, And chang’d to snowy plumes his hoary hair, And wing’d his flight, to chant aloft in air. His son Cupavo brush’d the briny flood: Upon his stern a brawny Centaur stood, Who heav’d a rock, and, threat’ning still to throw, With lifted hands alarm’d the seas below: They seem’d to fear the formidable sight, And roll’d their billows on, to speed his flight. Ocnus was next, who led his native train Of hardy warriors thro’ the wat’ry plain: The son of Manto by the Tuscan stream, From whence the Mantuan town derives the name— An ancient city, but of mix’d descent: Three sev’ral tribes compose the government; Four towns are under each; but all obey The Mantuan laws, and own the Tuscan sway.

Hate to Mezentius arm’d five hundred more, Whom Mincius from his sire Benacus bore: Mincius, with wreaths of reeds his forehead cover’d o’er. These grave Auletes leads: a hundred sweep With stretching oars at once the glassy deep. Him and his martial train the Triton bears; High on his poop the sea-green god appears: Frowning he seems his crooked shell to sound, And at the blast the billows dance around. A hairy man above the waist he shows; A porpoise tail beneath his belly grows; And ends a fish: his breast the waves divides, And froth and foam augment the murm’ring tides. Full thirty ships transport the chosen train For Troy’s relief, and scour the briny main.

Now was the world forsaken by the sun, And Phoebe half her nightly race had run. The careful chief, who never clos’d his eyes, Himself the rudder holds, the sails supplies. A choir of Nereids meet him on the flood, Once his own galleys, hewn from Ida’s wood; But now, as many nymphs, the sea they sweep, As rode, before, tall vessels on the deep. They know him from afar; and in a ring Enclose the ship that bore the Trojan king. Cymodoce, whose voice excell’d the rest, Above the waves advanc’d her snowy breast; Her right hand stops the stern; her left divides The curling ocean, and corrects the tides. She spoke for all the choir, and thus began With pleasing words to warn th’ unknowing man: “Sleeps our lov’d lord? O goddess-born, awake! Spread ev’ry sail, pursue your wat’ry track, And haste your course. Your navy once were we, From Ida’s height descending to the sea; Till Turnus, as at anchor fix’d we stood, Presum’d to violate our holy wood. Then, loos’d from shore, we fled his fires profane (Unwillingly we broke our master’s chain), And since have sought you thro’ the Tuscan main. The mighty Mother chang’d our forms to these, And gave us life immortal in the seas. But young Ascanius, in his camp distress’d, By your insulting foes is hardly press’d. Th’ Arcadian horsemen, and Etrurian host, Advance in order on the Latian coast: To cut their way the Daunian chief designs, Before their troops can reach the Trojan lines.

Thou, when the rosy morn restores the light, First arm thy soldiers for th’ ensuing fight: Thyself the fated sword of Vulcan wield, And bear aloft th’ impenetrable shield. Tomorrow’s sun, unless my skill be vain, Shall see huge heaps of foes in battle slain.” Parting, she spoke; and with immortal force Push’d on the vessel in her wat’ry course; For well she knew the way. Impell’d behind, The ship flew forward, and outstripp’d the wind. The rest make up. Unknowing of the cause, The chief admires their speed, and happy omens draws.

Then thus he pray’d, and fix’d on heav’n his eyes: “Hear thou, great Mother of the deities. With turrets crown’d! (on Ida’s holy hill Fierce tigers, rein’d and curb’d, obey thy will.) Firm thy own omens; lead us on to fight; And let thy Phrygians conquer in thy right.” He said no more. And now renewing day Had chas’d the shadows of the night away. He charg’d the soldiers, with preventing care, Their flags to follow, and their arms prepare; Warn’d of th’ ensuing fight, and bade ’em hope the war. Now, his lofty poop, he view’d below His camp incompass’d, and th’ inclosing foe. His blazing shield, imbrac’d, he held on high; The camp receive the sign, and with loud shouts reply. Hope arms their courage: from their tow’rs they throw Their darts with double force, and drive the foe. Thus, at the signal giv’n, the cranes arise Before the stormy south, and blacken all the skies.

King Turnus wonder’d at the fight renew’d, Till, looking back, the Trojan fleet he view’d, The seas with swelling canvas cover’d o’er, And the swift ships descending on the shore. The Latians saw from far, with dazzled eyes, The radiant crest that seem’d in flames to rise, And dart diffusive fires around the field, And the keen glitt’ring of the golden shield. Thus threat’ning comets, when by night they rise, Shoot sanguine streams, and sadden all the skies: So Sirius, flashing forth sinister lights, Pale humankind with plagues and with dry famine fright:

Yet Turnus with undaunted mind is bent To man the shores, and hinder their descent, And thus awakes the courage of his friends: “What you so long have wish’d, kind Fortune sends; In ardent arms to meet th’ invading foe: You find, and find him at advantage now. Yours is the day: you need but only dare; Your swords will make you masters of the war. Your sires, your sons, your houses, and your lands, And dearest wifes, are all within your hands. Be mindful of the race from whence you came, And emulate in arms your fathers’ fame. Now take the time, while stagg’ring yet they stand With feet unfirm, and prepossess the strand: Fortune befriends the bold.” Nor more he said, But balanc’d whom to leave, and whom to lead; Then these elects, the landing to prevent; And those he leaves, to keep the city pent.

Meantime the Trojan sends his troops ashore: Some are by boats expos’d, by bridges more. With lab’ring oars they bear along the strand, Where the tide languishes, and leap a-land. Tarchon observes the coast with careful eyes, And, where no ford he finds, no water fries, Nor billows with unequal murmurs roar, But smoothly slide along, and swell the shore, That course he steer’d, and thus he gave command: “Here ply your oars, and at all hazard land: Force on the vessel, that her keel may wound This hated soil, and furrow hostile ground. Let me securely land—I ask no more; Then sink my ships, or shatter on the shore.” This fiery speech inflames his fearful friends: They tug at ev’ry oar, and ev’ry stretcher bends; They run their ships aground; the vessels knock, (Thus forc’d ashore,) and tremble with the shock. Tarchon’s alone was lost, that stranded stood, Stuck on a bank, and beaten by the flood: She breaks her back; the loosen’d sides give way, And plunge the Tuscan soldiers in the sea. Their broken oars and floating planks withstand Their passage, while they labour to the land, And ebbing tides bear back upon th’ uncertain sand.

Now Turnus leads his troops without delay, Advancing to the margin of the sea. The trumpets sound: Aeneas first assail’d The clowns new-rais’d and raw, and soon prevail’d. Great Theron fell, an omen of the fight; Great Theron, large of limbs, of giant height. He first in open field defied the prince: But armour scal’d with gold was no defence Against the fated sword, which open’d wide His plated shield, and pierc’d his naked side. Next, Lichas fell, who, not like others born, Was from his wretched mother ripp’d and torn; Sacred, O Phoebus, from his birth to thee; For his beginning life from biting steel was free. Not far from him was Gyas laid along, Of monstrous bulk; with Cisseus fierce and strong: Vain bulk and strength! for, when the chief assail’d, Nor valour nor Herculean arms avail’d, Nor their fam’d father, wont in war to go With great Alcides, while he toil’d below. The noisy Pharos next receiv’d his death: Aeneas writh’d his dart, and stopp’d his bawling breath. Then wretched Cydon had receiv’d his doom, Who courted Clytius in his beardless bloom, And sought with lust obscene polluted joys: The Trojan sword had curd his love of boys, Had not his sev’n bold brethren stopp’d the course Of the fierce champions, with united force. Sev’n darts were thrown at once; and some rebound From his bright shield, some on his helmet sound: The rest had reach’d him; but his mother’s care Prevented those, and turn’d aside in air.

The prince then call’d Achates, to supply The spears that knew the way to victory— “Those fatal weapons, which, inur’d to blood, In Grecian bodies under Ilium stood: Not one of those my hand shall toss in vain Against our foes, on this contended plain.” He said; then seiz’d a mighty spear, and threw; Which, wing’d with fate, thro’ Maeon’s buckler flew, Pierc’d all the brazen plates, and reach’d his heart: He stagger’d with intolerable smart. Alcanor saw; and reach’d, but reach’d in vain, His helping hand, his brother to sustain. A second spear, which kept the former course, From the same hand, and sent with equal force, His right arm pierc’d, and holding on, bereft His use of both, and pinion’d down his left. Then Numitor from his dead brother drew Th’ ill-omen’d spear, and at the Trojan threw: Preventing fate directs the lance awry, Which, glancing, only mark’d Achates’ thigh.

In pride of youth the Sabine Clausus came, And, from afar, at Dryops took his aim. The spear flew hissing thro’ the middle space, And pierc’d his throat, directed at his face; It stopp’d at once the passage of his wind, And the free soul to flitting air resign’d: His forehead was the first that struck the ground; Lifeblood and life rush’d mingled thro’ the wound. He slew three brothers of the Borean race, And three, whom Ismarus, their native place, Had sent to war, but all the sons of Thrace. Halesus, next, the bold Aurunci leads: The son of Neptune to his aid succeeds, Conspicuous on his horse. On either hand, These fight to keep, and those to win, the land. With mutual blood th’ Ausonian soil is dyed, While on its borders each their claim decide. As wintry winds, contending in the sky, With equal force of lungs their titles try: They rage, they roar; the doubtful rack of heav’n Stands without motion, and the tide undriv’n: Each bent to conquer, neither side to yield, They long suspend the fortune of the field. Both armies thus perform what courage can; Foot set to foot, and mingled man to man.

But, in another part, th’ Arcadian horse With ill success engage the Latin force: For, where th’ impetuous torrent, rushing down, Huge craggy stones and rooted trees had thrown, They left their coursers, and, unus’d to fight On foot, were scatter’d in a shameful flight. Pallas, who with disdain and grief had view’d His foes pursuing, and his friends pursued, Us’d threat’nings mix’d with pray’rs, his last resource, With these to move their minds, with those to fire their force “Which way, companions? whether would you run? By you yourselves, and mighty battles won, By my great sire, by his establish’d name, And early promise of my future fame; By my youth, emulous of equal right To share his honours—shun ignoble flight! Trust not your feet: your hands must hew way Thro’ yon black body, and that thick array: ’Tis thro’ that forward path that we must come; There lies our way, and that our passage home. Nor pow’rs above, nor destinies below Oppress our arms: with equal strength we go, With mortal hands to meet a mortal foe. See on what foot we stand: a scanty shore, The sea behind, our enemies before; No passage left, unless we swim the main; Or, forcing these, the Trojan trenches gain.” This said, he strode with eager haste along, And bore amidst the thickest of the throng. Lagus, the first he met, with fate to foe, Had heav’d a stone of mighty weight, to throw:

Stooping, the spear descended on his chine, Just where the bone distinguished either loin: It stuck so fast, so deeply buried lay, That scarce the victor forc’d the steel away. Hisbon came on: but, while he mov’d too slow To wish’d revenge, the prince prevents his blow; For, warding his at once, at once he press’d, And plung’d the fatal weapon in his breast. Then lewd Anchemolus he laid in dust, Who stain’d his stepdam’s bed with impious lust. And, after him, the Daucian twins were slain, Laris and Thymbrus, on the Latian plain; So wondrous like in feature, shape, and size, As caus’d an error in their parents’ eyes— Grateful mistake! but soon the sword decides The nice distinction, and their fate divides: For Thymbrus’ head was lopp’d; and Laris’ hand, Dismember’d, sought its owner on the strand: The trembling fingers yet the falchion strain, And threaten still th’ intended stroke in vain.

Now, to renew the charge, th’ Arcadians came: Sight of such acts, and sense of honest shame, And grief, with anger mix’d, their minds inflame. Then, with a casual blow was Rhoeteus slain, Who chanc’d, as Pallas threw, to cross the plain: The flying spear was after Ilus sent; But Rhoeteus happen’d on a death unmeant: From Teuthras and from Tyres while he fled, The lance, athwart his body, laid him dead: Roll’d from his chariot with a mortal wound, And intercepted fate, he spurn’d the ground. As when, in summer, welcome winds arise, The watchful shepherd to the forest flies, And fires the midmost plants; contagion spreads, And catching flames infect the neighb’ring heads; Around the forest flies the furious blast, And all the leafy nation sinks at last, And Vulcan rides in triumph o’er the waste; The pastor, pleas’d with his dire victory, Beholds the satiate flames in sheets ascend the sky: So Pallas’ troops their scatter’d strength unite, And, pouring on their foes, their prince delight.

Halesus came, fierce with desire of blood; But first collected in his arms he stood: Advancing then, he plied the spear so well, Ladon, Demodocus, and Pheres fell. Around his head he toss’d his glitt’ring brand, And from Strymonius hew’d his better hand, Held up to guard his throat; then hurl’d a stone At Thoas’ ample front, and pierc’d the bone: It struck beneath the space of either eye; And blood, and mingled brains, together fly. Deep skill’d in future fates, Halesus’ sire Did with the youth to lonely groves retire: But, when the father’s mortal race was run, Dire destiny laid hold upon the son, And haul’d him to the war, to find, beneath Th’ Evandrian spear, a memorable death. Pallas th’ encounter seeks, but, ere he throws, To Tuscan Tiber thus address’d his vows: “O sacred stream, direct my flying dart, And give to pass the proud Halesus’ heart! His arms and spoils thy holy oak shall bear.” Pleas’d with the bribe, the god receiv’d his pray’r: For, while his shield protects a friend distress’d, The dart came driving on, and pierc’d his breast.

But Lausus, no small portion of the war, Permits not panic fear to reign too far, Caus’d by the death of so renown’d a knight; But by his own example cheers the fight. Fierce Abas first he slew; Abas, the stay Of Trojan hopes, and hindrance of the day. The Phrygian troops escap’d the Greeks in vain: They, and their mix’d allies, now load the plain. To the rude shock of war both armies came; Their leaders equal, and their strength the same. The rear so press’d the front, they could not wield Their angry weapons, to dispute the field. Here Pallas urges on, and Lausus there: Of equal youth and beauty both appear, But both by fate forbid to breathe their native air. Their congress in the field great Jove withstands: Both doom’d to fall, but fall by greater hands.

Meantime Juturna warns the Daunian chief Of Lausus’ danger, urging swift relief. With his driv’n chariot he divides the crowd, And, making to his friends, thus calls aloud: “Let none presume his needless aid to join; Retire, and clear the field; the fight is mine: To this right hand is Pallas only due; O were his father here, my just revenge to view!” From the forbidden space his men retir’d. Pallas their awe, and his stern words, admir’d; Survey’d him o’er and o’er with wond’ring sight, Struck with his haughty mien, and tow’ring height. Then to the king: “Your empty vaunts forbear; Success I hope, and fate I cannot fear; Alive or dead, I shall deserve a name; Jove is impartial, and to both the same.” He said, and to the void advanc’d his pace: Pale horror sate on each Arcadian face. Then Turnus, from his chariot leaping light, Address’d himself on foot to single fight. And, as a lion—when he spies from far A bull that seems to meditate the war, Bending his neck, and spurning back the sand— Runs roaring downward from his hilly stand: Imagine eager Turnus not more slow, To rush from high on his unequal foe.

Young Pallas, when he saw the chief advance Within due distance of his flying lance, Prepares to charge him first, resolv’d to try If fortune would his want of force supply; And thus to Heav’n and Hercules address’d: “Alcides, once on earth Evander’s guest, His son adjures you by those holy rites, That hospitable board, those genial nights; Assist my great attempt to gain this prize, And let proud Turnus view, with dying eyes, His ravish’d spoils.” ’Twas heard, the vain request; Alcides mourn’d, and stifled sighs within his breast. Then Jove, to soothe his sorrow, thus began: “Short bounds of life are set to mortal man. ’Tis virtue’s work alone to stretch the narrow span. So many sons of gods, in bloody fight, Around the walls of Troy, have lost the light: My own Sarpedon fell beneath his foe; Nor I, his mighty sire, could ward the blow. Ev’n Turnus shortly shall resign his breath, And stands already on the verge of death.” This said, the god permits the fatal fight, But from the Latian fields averts his sight.

Now with full force his spear young Pallas threw, And, having thrown, his shining falchion drew The steel just graz’d along the shoulder joint, And mark’d it slightly with the glancing point, Fierce Turnus first to nearer distance drew, And pois’d his pointed spear, before he threw: Then, as the winged weapon whizz’d along, “See now,” said he, “whose arm is better strung.” The spear kept on the fatal course, unstay’d By plates of ir’n, which o’er the shield were laid: Thro’ folded brass and tough bull hides it pass’d, His corslet pierc’d, and reach’d his heart at last. In vain the youth tugs at the broken wood; The soul comes issuing with the vital blood: He falls; his arms upon his body sound; And with his bloody teeth he bites the ground.

Turnus bestrode the corpse: “Arcadians, hear,” Said he; “my message to your master bear: Such as the sire deserv’d, the son I send; It costs him dear to be the Phrygians’ friend. The lifeless body, tell him, I bestow, Unask’d, to rest his wand’ring ghost below.” He said, and trampled down with all the force Of his left foot, and spurn’d the wretched corse; Then snatch’d the shining belt, with gold inlaid; The belt Eurytion’s artful hands had made, Where fifty fatal brides, express’d to sight, All in the compass of one mournful night, Depriv’d their bridegrooms of returning light. In an ill hour insulting Turnus tore Those golden spoils, and in a worse he wore. O mortals, blind in fate, who never know To bear high fortune, or endure the low! The time shall come, when Turnus, but in vain, Shall wish untouch’d the trophies of the slain; Shall wish the fatal belt were far away, And curse the dire remembrance of the day.

The sad Arcadians, from th’ unhappy field, Bear back the breathless body on a shield. O grace and grief of war! at once restor’d, With praises, to thy sire, at once deplor’d! One day first sent thee to the fighting field, Beheld whole heaps of foes in battle kill’d; One day beheld thee dead, and borne upon thy shield. This dismal news, not from uncertain fame, But sad spectators, to the hero came: His friends upon the brink of ruin stand, Unless reliev’d by his victorious hand. He whirls his sword around, without delay, And hews thro’ adverse foes an ample way, To find fierce Turnus, of his conquest proud: Evander, Pallas, all that friendship ow’d To large deserts, are present to his eyes; His plighted hand, and hospitable ties.

Four sons of Sulmo, four whom Ufens bred, He took in fight, and living victims led, To please the ghost of Pallas, and expire, In sacrifice, before his fun’ral fire. At Magus next he threw: he stoop’d below The flying spear, and shunn’d the promis’d blow; Then, creeping, clasp’d the hero’s knees, and pray’d: “By young Iulus, by thy father’s shade, O spare my life, and send me back to see My longing sire, and tender progeny! A lofty house I have, and wealth untold, In silver ingots, and in bars of gold: All these, and sums besides, which see no day, The ransom of this one poor life shall pay. If I survive, will Troy the less prevail? A single soul’s too light to turn the scale.” He said. The hero sternly thus replied: “Thy bars and ingots, and the sums beside, Leave for thy children’s lot. Thy Turnus broke All rules of war by one relentless stroke, When Pallas fell: so deems, nor deems alone My father’s shadow, but my living son.” Thus having said, of kind remorse bereft, He seiz’d his helm, and dragg’d him with his left; Then with his right hand, while his neck he wreath’d, Up to the hilts his shining falchion sheath’d.

Apollo’s priest, Emonides, was near; His holy fillets on his front appear; Glitt’ring in arms, he shone amidst the crowd; Much of his god, more of his purple, proud. Him the fierce Trojan follow’d thro’ the field: The holy coward fell; and, forc’d to yield, The prince stood o’er the priest, and, at one blow, Sent him an off’ring to the shades below. His arms Seresthus on his shoulders bears, Design’d a trophy to the God of Wars.

Vulcanian Caeculus renews the fight, And Umbro, born upon the mountains’ height. The champion cheers his troops t’ encounter those, And seeks revenge himself on other foes. At Anxur’s shield he drove; and, at the blow, Both shield and arm to ground together go. Anxur had boasted much of magic charms, And thought he wore impenetrable arms, So made by mutter’d spells; and, from the spheres, Had life secur’d, in vain, for length of years. Then Tarquitus the field in triumph trod; A nymph his mother, his sire a god. Exulting in bright arms, he braves the prince: With his protended lance he makes defence; Bears back his feeble foe; then, pressing on, Arrests his better hand, and drags him down; Stands o’er the prostrate wretch, and, as he lay, Vain tales inventing, and prepar’d to pray, Mows off his head: the trunk a moment stood, Then sunk, and roll’d along the sand in blood. The vengeful victor thus upbraids the slain: “Lie there, proud man, unpitied, on the plain; Lie there, inglorious, and without a tomb, Far from thy mother and thy native home, Exposed to savage beasts, and birds of prey, Or thrown for food to monsters of the sea.”

On Lycas and Antaeus next he ran, Two chiefs of Turnus, and who led his van. They fled for fear; with these, he chas’d along Camers the yellow-lock’d, and Numa strong; Both great in arms, and both were fair and young. Camers was son to Volscens lately slain, In wealth surpassing all the Latian train, And in Amycla fix’d his silent easy reign. And, as Aegaeon, when with heav’n he strove, Stood opposite in arms to mighty Jove; Mov’d all his hundred hands, provok’d the war, Defied the forky lightning from afar; At fifty mouths his flaming breath expires, And flash for flash returns, and fires for fires; In his right hand as many swords he wields, And takes the thunder on as many shields: With strength like his, the Trojan hero stood; And soon the fields with falling corps were strow’d, When once his falchion found the taste of blood. With fury scarce to be conceiv’d, he flew Against Niphaeus, whom four coursers drew. They, when they see the fiery chief advance, And pushing at their chests his pointed lance, Wheel’d with so swift a motion, mad with fear, They threw their master headlong from the chair. They stare, they start, nor stop their course, before They bear the bounding chariot to the shore.

Now Lucagus and Liger scour the plains, With two white steeds; but Liger holds the reins, And Lucagus the lofty seat maintains: Bold brethren both. The former wav’d in air His flaming sword: Aeneas couch’d his spear, Unus’d to threats, and more unus’d to fear. Then Liger thus: “Thy confidence is vain To scape from hence, as from the Trojan plain: Nor these the steeds which Diomede bestrode, Nor this the chariot where Achilles rode; Nor Venus’ veil is here, near Neptune’s shield; Thy fatal hour is come, and this the field.” Thus Liger vainly vaunts: the Trojan peer Return’d his answer with his flying spear. As Lucagus, to lash his horses, bends, Prone to the wheels, and his left foot protends, Prepar’d for fight; the fatal dart arrives, And thro’ the borders of his buckler drives; Pass’d thro’ and pierc’d his groin: the deadly wound, Cast from his chariot, roll’d him on the ground. Whom thus the chief upbraids with scornful spite: “Blame not the slowness of your steeds in flight; Vain shadows did not force their swift retreat; But you yourself forsake your empty seat.” He said, and seiz’d at once the loosen’d rein; For Liger lay already on the plain, By the same shock: then, stretching out his hands, The recreant thus his wretched life demands: “Now, by thyself, O more than mortal man! By her and him from whom thy breath began, Who form’d thee thus divine, I beg thee, spare This forfeit life, and hear thy suppliant’s pray’r.” Thus much he spoke, and more he would have said; But the stern hero turn’d aside his head, And cut him short: “I hear another man; You talk’d not thus before the fight began. Now take your turn; and, as a brother should, Attend your brother to the Stygian flood.” Then thro’ his breast his fatal sword he sent, And the soul issued at the gaping vent.

As storms the skies, and torrents tear the ground, Thus rag’d the prince, and scatter’d deaths around. At length Ascanius and the Trojan train Broke from the camp, so long besieg’d in vain.

Meantime the King of Gods and Mortal Man Held conference with his queen, and thus began: “My sister goddess, and well-pleasing wife, Still think you Venus’ aid supports the strife— Sustains her Trojans—or themselves, alone, With inborn valour force their fortune on? How fierce in fight, with courage undecay’d! Judge if such warriors want immortal aid.” To whom the goddess with the charming eyes, Soft in her tone, submissively replies: “Why, O my sov’reign lord, whose frown I fear, And cannot, unconcern’d, your anger bear; Why urge you thus my grief? when, if I still (As once I was) were mistress of your will, From your almighty pow’r your pleasing wife Might gain the grace of length’ning Turnus’ life, Securely snatch him from the fatal fight, And give him to his aged father’s sight. Now let him perish, since you hold it good, And glut the Trojans with his pious blood. Yet from our lineage he derives his name, And, in the fourth degree, from god Pilumnus came; Yet he devoutly pays you rites divine, And offers daily incense at your shrine.”

Then shortly thus the sov’reign god replied: “Since in my pow’r and goodness you confide, If for a little space, a lengthen’d span, You beg reprieve for this expiring man, I grant you leave to take your Turnus hence From instant fate, and can so far dispense. But, if some secret meaning lies beneath, To save the short-liv’d youth from destin’d death, Or if a farther thought you entertain, To change the fates; you feed your hopes in vain.” To whom the goddess thus, with weeping eyes: “And what if that request, your tongue denies, Your heart should grant; and not a short reprieve, But length of certain life, to Turnus give? Now speedy death attends the guiltless youth, If my presaging soul divines with truth; Which, O! I wish, might err thro’ causeless fears, And you (for you have pow’r) prolong his years!”

Thus having said, involv’d in clouds, she flies, And drives a storm before her thro’ the skies. Swift she descends, alighting on the plain, Where the fierce foes a dubious fight maintain. Of air condens’d a spectre soon she made; And, what Aeneas was, such seem’d the shade. Adorn’d with Dardan arms, the phantom bore His head aloft; a plumy crest he wore; This hand appear’d a shining sword to wield, And that sustain’d an imitated shield. With manly mien he stalk’d along the ground, Nor wanted voice belied, nor vaunting sound. (Thus haunting ghosts appear to waking sight, Or dreadful visions in our dreams by night.) The spectre seems the Daunian chief to dare, And flourishes his empty sword in air. At this, advancing, Turnus hurl’d his spear: The phantom wheel’d, and seem’d to fly for fear. Deluded Turnus thought the Trojan fled, And with vain hopes his haughty fancy fed. “Whether, O coward?” (thus he calls aloud, Nor found he spoke to wind, and chas’d a cloud,) “Why thus forsake your bride! Receive from me The fated land you sought so long by sea.” He said, and, brandishing at once his blade, With eager pace pursued the flying shade. By chance a ship was fasten’d to the shore, Which from old Clusium King Osinius bore: The plank was ready laid for safe ascent; For shelter there the trembling shadow bent, And skipp’t and skulk’d, and under hatches went. Exulting Turnus, with regardless haste, Ascends the plank, and to the galley pass’d. Scarce had he reach’d the prow: Saturnia’s hand The haulsers cuts, and shoots the ship from land. With wind in poop, the vessel plows the sea, And measures back with speed her former way. Meantime Aeneas seeks his absent foe, And sends his slaughter’d troops to shades below.

The guileful phantom now forsook the shroud, And flew sublime, and vanish’d in a cloud. Too late young Turnus the delusion found, Far on the sea, still making from the ground. Then, thankless for a life redeem’d by shame, With sense of honour stung, and forfeit fame, Fearful besides of what in fight had pass’d, His hands and haggard eyes to heav’n he cast; “O Jove!” he cried, “for what offence have I Deserv’d to bear this endless infamy? Whence am I forc’d, and whether am I borne? How, and with what reproach, shall I return? Shall ever I behold the Latian plain, Or see Laurentum’s lofty tow’rs again? What will they say of their deserting chief The war was mine: I fly from their relief; I led to slaughter, and in slaughter leave; And ev’n from hence their dying groans receive. Here, overmatch’d in fight, in heaps they lie; There, scatter’d o’er the fields, ignobly fly. Gape wide, O earth, and draw me down alive! Or, O ye pitying winds, a wretch relieve! On sands or shelves the splitting vessel drive; Or set me shipwreck’d on some desert shore, Where no Rutulian eyes may see me more, Unknown to friends, or foes, or conscious Fame, Lest she should follow, and my flight proclaim.”

Thus Turnus rav’d, and various fates revolv’d: The choice was doubtful, but the death resolv’d. And now the sword, and now the sea took place, That to revenge, and this to purge disgrace. Sometimes he thought to swim the stormy main, By stretch of arms the distant shore to gain. Thrice he the sword assay’d, and thrice the flood; But Juno, mov’d with pity, both withstood. And thrice repress’d his rage; strong gales supplied, And push’d the vessel o’er the swelling tide. At length she lands him on his native shores, And to his father’s longing arms restores. Meantime, by Jove’s impulse, Mezentius arm’d, Succeeding Turnus, with his ardour warm’d His fainting friends, reproach’d their shameful flight, Repell’d the victors, and renew’d the fight. Against their king the Tuscan troops conspire; Such is their hate, and such their fierce desire Of wish’d revenge: on him, and him alone, All hands employ’d, and all their darts are thrown. He, like a solid rock by seas inclos’d, To raging winds and roaring waves oppos’d, From his proud summit looking down, disdains Their empty menace, and unmov’d remains.

Beneath his feet fell haughty Hebrus dead, Then Latagus, and Palmus as he fled. At Latagus a weighty stone he flung: His face was flatted, and his helmet rung. But Palmus from behind receives his wound; Hamstring’d he falls, and grovels on the ground: His crest and armour, from his body torn, Thy shoulders, Lausus, and thy head adorn. Evas and Mimas, both of Troy, he slew. Mimas his birth from fair Theano drew, Born on that fatal night, when, big with fire, The queen produc’d young Paris to his sire: But Paris in the Phrygian fields was slain, Unthinking Mimas on the Latian plain.

And, as a savage boar, on mountains bred, With forest mast and fatt’ning marshes fed, When once he sees himself in toils inclos’d, By huntsmen and their eager hounds oppos’d, He whets his tusks, and turns, and dares the war; Th’ invaders dart their jav’lins from afar: All keep aloof, and safely shout around; But none presumes to give a nearer wound: He frets and froths, erects his bristled hide, And shakes a grove of lances from his side: Not otherwise the troops, with hate inspir’d, And just revenge against the tyrant fir’d, Their darts with clamour at a distance drive, And only keep the languish’d war alive.

From Coritus came Acron to the fight, Who left his spouse betroth’d, and unconsummate night. Mezentius sees him thro’ the squadrons ride, Proud of the purple favours of his bride. Then, as a hungry lion, who beholds A gamesome goat, who frisks about the folds, Or beamy stag, that grazes on the plain— He runs, he roars, he shakes his rising mane, He grins, and opens wide his greedy jaws; The prey lies panting underneath his paws: He fills his famish’d maw; his mouth runs o’er With unchew’d morsels, while he churns the gore: So proud Mezentius rushes on his foes, And first unhappy Acron overthrows: Stretch’d at his length, he spurns the swarthy ground; The lance, besmear’d with blood, lies broken in the wound. Then with disdain the haughty victor view’d Orodes flying, nor the wretch pursued, Nor thought the dastard’s back deserv’d a wound, But, running, gain’d th’ advantage of the ground: Then turning short, he met him face to face, To give his victory the better grace. Orodes falls, in equal fight oppress’d: Mezentius fix’d his foot upon his breast, And rested lance; and thus aloud he cries: “Lo! here the champion of my rebels lies!” The fields around with Io Paean! ring; And peals of shouts applaud the conqu’ring king. At this the vanquish’d, with his dying breath, Thus faintly spoke, and prophesied in death: “Nor thou, proud man, unpunish’d shalt remain: Like death attends thee on this fatal plain.” Then, sourly smiling, thus the king replied: “For what belongs to me, let Jove provide; But die thou first, whatever chance ensue.” He said, and from the wound the weapon drew. A hov’ring mist came swimming o’er his sight, And seal’d his eyes in everlasting night.

By Caedicus, Alcathous was slain; Sacrator laid Hydaspes on the plain; Orses the strong to greater strength must yield; He, with Parthenius, were by Rapo kill’d. Then brave Messapus Ericetes slew, Who from Lycaon’s blood his lineage drew. But from his headstrong horse his fate he found, Who threw his master, as he made a bound: The chief, alighting, stuck him to the ground; Then Clonius, hand to hand, on foot assails: The Trojan sinks, and Neptune’s son prevails. Agis the Lycian, stepping forth with pride, To single fight the boldest foe defied; Whom Tuscan Valerus by force o’ercame, And not belied his mighty father’s fame. Salius to death the great Antronius sent: But the same fate the victor underwent, Slain by Nealces’ hand, well-skill’d to throw The flying dart, and draw the far-deceiving bow.

Thus equal deaths are dealt with equal chance; By turns they quit their ground, by turns advance: Victors and vanquish’d, in the various field, Nor wholly overcome, nor wholly yield. The gods from heav’n survey the fatal strife, And mourn the miseries of human life. Above the rest, two goddesses appear Concern’d for each: here Venus, Juno there. Amidst the crowd, infernal Ate shakes Her scourge aloft, and crest of hissing snakes. Once more the proud Mezentius, with disdain, Brandish’d his spear, and rush’d into the plain, Where tow’ring in the midmost rank he stood, Like tall Orion stalking o’er the flood. (When with his brawny breast he cuts the waves, His shoulders scarce the topmost billow laves), Or like a mountain ash, whose roots are spread, Deep fix’d in earth; in clouds he hides his head.

The Trojan prince beheld him from afar, And dauntless undertook the doubtful war. Collected in his strength, and like a rock, Pois’d on his base, Mezentius stood the shock. He stood, and, measuring first with careful eyes The space his spear could reach, aloud he cries: “My strong right hand, and sword, assist my stroke! (Those only gods Mezentius will invoke.) His armour, from the Trojan pirate torn, By my triumphant Lausus shall be worn.” He said; and with his utmost force he threw The massy spear, which, hissing as it flew, Reach’d the celestial shield, that stopp’d the course; But, glancing thence, the yet unbroken force Took a new bent obliquely, and betwixt The side and bowels fam’d Anthores fix’d. Anthores had from Argos travel’d far, Alcides’ friend, and brother of the war; Till, tir’d with toils, fair Italy he chose, And in Evander’s palace sought repose. Now, falling by another’s wound, his eyes He cast to heav’n, on Argos thinks, and dies.

The pious Trojan then his jav’lin sent; The shield gave way; thro’ treble plates it went Of solid brass, of linen trebly roll’d, And three bull hides which round the buckler fold. All these it pass’d, resistless in the course, Transpierc’d his thigh, and spent its dying force. The gaping wound gush’d out a crimson flood. The Trojan, glad with sight of hostile blood, His falchion drew, to closer fight address’d, And with new force his fainting foe oppress’d.

His father’s peril Lausus view’d with grief; He sigh’d, he wept, he ran to his relief. And here, heroic youth, ’tis here I must To thy immortal memory be just, And sing an act so noble and so new, Posterity will scarce believe ’tis true. Pain’d with his wound, and useless for the fight, The father sought to save himself by flight: Encumber’d, slow he dragg’d the spear along, Which pierc’d his thigh, and in his buckler hung. The pious youth, resolv’d on death, below The lifted sword springs forth to face the foe; Protects his parent, and prevents the blow. Shouts of applause ran ringing thro’ the field, To see the son the vanquish’d father shield. All, fir’d with gen’rous indignation, strive, And with a storm of darts to distance drive The Trojan chief, who, held at bay from far, On his Vulcanian orb sustain’d the war.

As, when thick hail comes rattling in the wind, The plowman, passenger, and lab’ring hind For shelter to the neighb’ring covert fly, Or hous’d, or safe in hollow caverns lie; But, that o’erblown, when heav’n above ’em smiles, Return to travel, and renew their toils: Aeneas thus, o’erwhelmed on ev’ry side, The storm of darts, undaunted, did abide; And thus to Lausus loud with friendly threat’ning cried: “Why wilt thou rush to certain death, and rage In rash attempts, beyond thy tender age, Betray’d by pious love?” Nor, thus forborne, The youth desists, but with insulting scorn Provokes the ling’ring prince, whose patience, tir’d, Gave place; and all his breast with fury fir’d. For now the Fates prepar’d their sharpen’d shears; And lifted high the flaming sword appears, Which, full descending with a frightful sway, Thro’ shield and corslet forc’d th’ impetuous way, And buried deep in his fair bosom lay. The purple streams thro’ the thin armour strove, And drench’d th’ imbroider’d coat his mother wove; And life at length forsook his heaving heart, Loth from so sweet a mansion to depart.

But when, with blood and paleness all o’erspread, The pious prince beheld young Lausus dead, He griev’d; he wept; the sight an image brought Of his own filial love, a sadly pleasing thought: Then stretch’d his hand to hold him up, and said: “Poor hapless youth! what praises can be paid To love so great, to such transcendent store Of early worth, and sure presage of more? Accept whate’er Aeneas can afford; Untouch’d thy arms, untaken be thy sword; And all that pleas’d thee living, still remain Inviolate, and sacred to the slain. Thy body on thy parents I bestow, To rest thy soul, at least, if shadows know, Or have a sense of human things below. There to thy fellow ghosts with glory tell: ‘’Twas by the great Aeneas hand I fell.’” With this, his distant friends he beckons near, Provokes their duty, and prevents their fear: Himself assists to lift him from the ground, With clotted locks, and blood that well’d from out the wound.

Meantime, his father, now no father, stood, And wash’d his wounds by Tiber’s yellow flood: Oppress’d with anguish, panting, and o’erspent, His fainting limbs against an oak he leant. A bough his brazen helmet did sustain; His heavier arms lay scatter’d on the plain: A chosen train of youth around him stand; His drooping head was rested on his hand: His grisly beard his pensive bosom sought; And all on Lausus ran his restless thought. Careful, concern’d his danger to prevent, He much enquir’d, and many a message sent To warn him from the field—alas! in vain! Behold, his mournful followers bear him slain! O’er his broad shield still gush’d the yawning wound, And drew a bloody trail along the ground. Far off he heard their cries, far off divin’d The dire event, with a foreboding mind. With dust he sprinkled first his hoary head; Then both his lifted hands to heav’n he spread; Last, the dear corpse embracing, thus he said: “What joys, alas! could this frail being give, That I have been so covetous to live? To see my son, and such a son, resign His life, a ransom for preserving mine! And am I then preserv’d, and art thou lost? How much too dear has that redemption cost! ’Tis now my bitter banishment I feel: This is a wound too deep for time to heal. My guilt thy growing virtues did defame; My blackness blotted thy unblemish’d name.

Chas’d from a throne, abandon’d, and exil’d For foul misdeeds, were punishments too mild: I ow’d my people these, and, from their hate, With less resentment could have borne my fate. And yet I live, and yet sustain the sight Of hated men, and of more hated light: But will not long.” With that he rais’d from ground His fainting limbs, that stagger’d with his wound; Yet, with a mind resolv’d, and unappall’d With pains or perils, for his courser call’d Well-mouth’d, well-manag’d, whom himself did dress With daily care, and mounted with success; His aid in arms, his ornament in peace.

Soothing his courage with a gentle stroke, The steed seem’d sensible, while thus he spoke: “O Rhoebus, we have liv’d too long for me— If life and long were terms that could agree! This day thou either shalt bring back the head And bloody trophies of the Trojan dead; This day thou either shalt revenge my woe, For murder’d Lausus, on his cruel foe; Or, if inexorable fate deny Our conquest, with thy conquer’d master die: For, after such a lord, I rest secure, Thou wilt no foreign reins, or Trojan load endure.” He said; and straight th’ officious courser kneels, To take his wonted weight. His hands he fills With pointed jav’lins; on his head he lac’d His glitt’ring helm, which terribly was grac’d With waving horsehair, nodding from afar; Then spurr’d his thund’ring steed amidst the war. Love, anguish, wrath, and grief, to madness wrought, Despair, and secret shame, and conscious thought Of inborn worth, his lab’ring soul oppress’d, Roll’d in his eyes, and rag’d within his breast. Then loud he call’d Aeneas thrice by name: The loud repeated voice to glad Aeneas came. “Great Jove,” he said, “and the far-shooting god, Inspire thy mind to make thy challenge good!” He spoke no more; but hasten’d, void of fear, And threaten’d with his long protended spear.

To whom Mezentius thus: “Thy vaunts are vain. My Lausus lies extended on the plain: He’s lost! thy conquest is already won; The wretched sire is murder’d in the son. Nor fate I fear, but all the gods defy. Forbear thy threats: my bus’ness is to die; But first receive this parting legacy.” He said; and straight a whirling dart he sent; Another after, and another went. Round in a spacious ring he rides the field, And vainly plies th’ impenetrable shield. Thrice rode he round; and thrice Aeneas wheel’d, Turn’d as he turn’d: the golden orb withstood The strokes, and bore about an iron wood. Impatient of delay, and weary grown, Still to defend, and to defend alone, To wrench the darts which in his buckler light, Urg’d and o’er-labour’d in unequal fight; At length resolv’d, he throws with all his force Full at the temples of the warrior horse. Just where the stroke was aim’d, th’ unerring spear Made way, and stood transfix’d thro’ either ear. Seiz’d with unwonted pain, surpris’d with fright, The wounded steed curvets, and, rais’d upright, Lights on his feet before; his hoofs behind Spring up in air aloft, and lash the wind. Down comes the rider headlong from his height: His horse came after with unwieldy weight, And, flound’ring forward, pitching on his head, His lord’s encumber’d shoulder overlaid.

From either host, the mingled shouts and cries Of Trojans and Rutulians rend the skies. Aeneas, hast’ning, wav’d his fatal sword High o’er his head, with this reproachful word: “Now; where are now thy vaunts, the fierce disdain Of proud Mezentius, and the lofty strain?”

Struggling, and wildly staring on the skies, With scarce recover’d sight he thus replies: “Why these insulting words, this waste of breath, To souls undaunted, and secure of death? ’Tis no dishonour for the brave to die, Nor came I here with hope of victory; Nor ask I life, nor fought with that design: As I had us’d my fortune, use thou thine. My dying son contracted no such band; The gift is hateful from his murd’rer’s hand. For this, this only favour let me sue, If pity can to conquer’d foes be due: Refuse it not; but let my body have The last retreat of humankind, a grave. Too well I know th’ insulting people’s hate; Protect me from their vengeance after fate: This refuge for my poor remains provide, And lay my much-lov’d Lausus by my side.” He said, and to the sword his throat applied. The crimson stream distain’d his arms around, And the disdainful soul came rushing thro’ the wound.

THE ARGUMENT. Aeneas erects a trophy of the spoils of Mezentius, grants a truce for burying the dead, and sends home the body of Pallas with great solemnity. Latinus calls a council, to propose offers of peace to Aeneas; which occasions great animosity betwixt Turnus and Drances. In the mean time there is a sharp engagement of the horse; wherein Camilla signalizes herself, is killed, and the Latine troops are entirely defeated.

Scarce had the rosy Morning rais’d her head Above the waves, and left her wat’ry bed; The pious chief, whom double cares attend For his unburied soldiers and his friend, Yet first to Heav’n perform’d a victor’s vows: He bar’d an ancient oak of all her boughs; Then on a rising ground the trunk he plac’d, Which with the spoils of his dead foe he grac’d. The coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn, Now on a naked snag in triumph borne, Was hung on high, and glitter’d from afar, A trophy sacred to the God of War. Above his arms, fix’d on the leafless wood, Appear’d his plumy crest, besmear’d with blood: His brazen buckler on the left was seen; Truncheons of shiver’d lances hung between; And on the right was placed his corslet, bor’d; And to the neck was tied his unavailing sword.

A crowd of chiefs inclose the godlike man, Who thus, conspicuous in the midst, began: “Our toils, my friends, are crown’d with sure success; The greater part perform’d, achieve the less. Now follow cheerful to the trembling town; Press but an entrance, and presume it won. Fear is no more, for fierce Mezentius lies, As the first fruits of war, a sacrifice. Turnus shall fall extended on the plain, And, in this omen, is already slain. Prepar’d in arms, pursue your happy chance; That none unwarn’d may plead his ignorance, And I, at Heav’n’s appointed hour, may find Your warlike ensigns waving in the wind. Meantime the rites and fun’ral pomps prepare, Due to your dead companions of the war: The last respect the living can bestow, To shield their shadows from contempt below. That conquer’d earth be theirs, for which they fought, And which for us with their own blood they bought; But first the corpse of our unhappy friend To the sad city of Evander send, Who, not inglorious, in his age’s bloom, Was hurried hence by too severe a doom.”

Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way, Where, new in death, lamented Pallas lay. Acoetes watch’d the corpse; whose youth deserv’d The father’s trust; and now the son he serv’d With equal faith, but less auspicious care. Th’ attendants of the slain his sorrow share. A troop of Trojans mix’d with these appear, And mourning matrons with dishevel’d hair. Soon as the prince appears, they raise a cry; All beat their breasts, and echoes rend the sky. They rear his drooping forehead from the ground; But, when Aeneas view’d the grisly wound Which Pallas in his manly bosom bore, And the fair flesh distain’d with purple gore; First, melting into tears, the pious man Deplor’d so sad a sight, then thus began: “Unhappy youth! when Fortune gave the rest Of my full wishes, she refus’d the best! She came; but brought not thee along, to bless My longing eyes, and share in my success: She grudg’d thy safe return, the triumphs due To prosp’rous valour, in the public view. Not thus I promis’d, when thy father lent Thy needless succour with a sad consent; Embrac’d me, parting for th’ Etrurian land, And sent me to possess a large command. He warn’d, and from his own experience told, Our foes were warlike, disciplin’d, and bold. And now perhaps, in hopes of thy return, Rich odors on his loaded altars burn, While we, with vain officious pomp, prepare To send him back his portion of the war, A bloody breathless body, which can owe No farther debt, but to the pow’rs below.

The wretched father, ere his race is run, Shall view the fun’ral honours of his son. These are my triumphs of the Latian war, Fruits of my plighted faith and boasted care! And yet, unhappy sire, thou shalt not see A son whose death disgrac’d his ancestry; Thou shalt not blush, old man, however griev’d: Thy Pallas no dishonest wound receiv’d. He died no death to make thee wish, too late, Thou hadst not liv’d to see his shameful fate: But what a champion has th’ Ausonian coast, And what a friend hast thou, Ascanius, lost!”

Thus having mourn’d, he gave the word around, To raise the breathless body from the ground; And chose a thousand horse, the flow’r of all His warlike troops, to wait the funeral, To bear him back and share Evander’s grief: A well-becoming, but a weak relief. Of oaken twigs they twist an easy bier, Then on their shoulders the sad burden rear. The body on this rural hearse is borne: Strew’d leaves and funeral greens the bier adorn. All pale he lies, and looks a lovely flow’r, New cropp’d by virgin hands, to dress the bow’r: Unfaded yet, but yet unfed below, No more to mother earth or the green stern shall owe. Then two fair vests, of wondrous work and cost, Of purple woven, and with gold emboss’d, For ornament the Trojan hero brought, Which with her hands Sidonian Dido wrought. One vest array’d the corpse; and one they spread O’er his clos’d eyes, and wrapp’d around his head, That, when the yellow hair in flame should fall, The catching fire might burn the golden caul. Besides, the spoils of foes in battle slain, When he descended on the Latian plain; Arms, trappings, horses, by the hearse are led In long array—th’ achievements of the dead. Then, pinion’d with their hands behind, appear Th’ unhappy captives, marching in the rear, Appointed off’rings in the victor’s name, To sprinkle with their blood the fun’ral flame. Inferior trophies by the chiefs are borne; Gauntlets and helms their loaded hands adorn; And fair inscriptions fix’d, and titles read Of Latian leaders conquer’d by the dead.