|
Explorers, Scientists &
Inventors
Musicians, Painters &
Artists
Poets, Writers &
Philosophers
Native Americans & The Wild
West
First Ladies
Popes
Troublemakers
Historians
Archaeologists
Royal
Families
Tribes & Peoples
Assassinations in History
Who
got slain, almost slain, when, how,
why, and by whom?
Go to the
Assassination Archive
Online History Dictionary A - Z
Voyages in History
When did what
vessel arrive with whom onboard and where
did it sink if it didn't?
Go to the
Passage-Chart
The Divine Almanac
Who all roamed the heavens in
olden times? The Who's Who of
ancient gods.
Check out
the Divine Almanac
|
|
The Aeneid of Virgil
Book Eleven
|
|
ARGUMENT
AEneas erects a trophy of Mezentius' arms, and sends the body of
Pallas with tears and lamentations to Evander (1-108). A truce for
the burial of the dead is asked by the Latins, and sympathy with the
Trojan cause finds a spokesman in Drances (109-144). The sorrow of
Evander and the funeral rites of Trojans and Latins (145-262). The
ambassadors return from the city of Diomedes and report that he
praises AEneas and counsels submission (263-336). An anxious debate
follows: Latinus suggests terms of peace: Drances inveighs against
Turnus, who replies, protesting his readiness to meet AEneas in
single combat, and presently seizes the opportunity afforded by a
false alarm of impending attack to break up the council. The Latin
mothers and maidens offer gifts and litanies to Pallas. Turnus arms
for battle (337-576). Camilla and Messapus command the Latin horse;
Turnus prepares an ambuscade (577-612). Diana tells the story of
Camilla and charges Opis, one of her nymphs, to avenge her should
she fall (613-684). Opis watches the battle before the city of
Latinus (685-738). The deeds and death of Camilla are recounted:
Aruns, her slayer, is slain by Opis (739-972). The Latins are routed,
and Turnus, learning the news, abandons the ambush and hurries to
the city, closely followed by AEneas (973-1026).
I. Meanwhile from Ocean peeps the dawning day.
The Dardan chief, though fain his friends to mourn,
And pressed with thoughts of burial, hastes to pay
His vows, as victor, with the rising morn.
A towering oak-tree, of its branches shorn,
He plants upon a mound. Aloft, in sight,
The glittering armour from Mezentius torn,
His spoils, he hangs,--a trophy to thy might,
Great Mars, the Lord of war, the Ruler of the fight.
|
II. Thereon he sets the helmet and the crest,
Bedewed with gore, the javelins snapt in twain,
And fits the corslet on the warrior's breast,
Pierced in twelve places through the twisted chain.
The left arm, as for battle, bears again
The brazen shield, and from the neck depends
The ivory-hilted falchion of the slain.
Around, with shouts of triumph, crowd his friends,
Whom thus the Dardan chief with gladdening words commends:
III. "Comrades, great deeds have been achieved to-day;
Let not the morrow trouble you. See there
The tyrant's spoils, the first-fruits of the fray.
And this my work, Mezentius. Now prepare
To king Latinus and his walls to fare.
Let hope forestall, and courage hail the fray,
So, when the gods shall summon us to bear
The standards forth, and muster our array,
No fears shall breed dull sloth, nor ignorance delay.
IV. "Our co-mates now commit we to the ground,
Sole honour that in Acheron below
Awaits them. Go ye, on these souls renowned,
Who poured their blood, to purchase from the foe
This country for our fatherland, bestow
The last, sad gift, the tribute of a tomb.
First to Evander's city, whelmed in woe,
Send Pallas back, whom Death's relentless doom
Hath reft ere manhood's prime, and plunged in early gloom."
V. He spake, and sought the threshold, weeping sore,
Where by dead Pallas watched with pious care
Acoetes; once Evander's arms he bore,
His squire; since then, with auspices less fair,
The trusted guardian of his dear-loved heir.
A crowd of sorrowing menials stand around,
And Troy's sad matrons, with their streaming hair.
These, when AEneas at the door is found,
Shriek out, and beat their breasts, and bitter wails resound.
VI. He marked the pillowed head, the snow-white face,
The smooth breast, gaping with the wound, and cried
In anguish, while the tears burst forth apace,
"Poor boy; hath Fortune, in her hour of pride,
To me thy triumph and return denied?
Not such my promise to thy sire; not so
My pledge to him, who, ere I left his side
In quest of empire, clasped me, boding woe,
And warned the race was fierce, and terrible the foe.
VII. "He haply now, by empty hope betrayed,
With prayer and presents doth the gods constrain.
We to the dead, whose debt to Heaven is paid,
The rites of mourners render, but in vain.
Unhappy! doomed to see thy darling slain.
Is this the triumph? this the promise sworn?
This the return? Yet never thine the pain
A coward's flight, a coward's scars to mourn;
Not thine to long for death, thy loved one saved with scorn.
VIII. "Ah, weep, Ausonia! thou hast lost to-day
Thy champion. Weep, Iulus; he is ta'en,
Thy heart's delight, the bulwark of the fray!"
Thus he with tears, and bids them lift the slain.
A thousand men, the choicest of his train,
He sends as mourners, with the corpse to go,
And stand between the parent and his pain,
A scanty solace for so huge a woe,
But such as pity claims, and piety doth owe.
IX. Of oaken twigs and arbutus they wove
A wattled bier. Soft leaves beneath him made
His pillow, and with leafy boughs above
They twined a verdurous canopy of shade.
There, on his rustic couch the youth is laid,
Fair as the hyacinth, with drooping head,
Cropped by the careless fingers of a maid,
Or tender violet, when life has fled,
That, torn from earth, still blooms, unfaded but unfed.
X. Two purple mantles, stiff with golden braid,
AEneas brings, which erst, in loving care,
Sidonian Dido with her hands had made,
And pranked with golden tissue, for his wear.
One, wound in sorrow round the corpse so fair,
The last, sad honour, shrouds the senseless clay;
One, ere the burning, veils the warrior's hair.
Rich spoils, the trophies of Laurentum's fray,
Stript arms and steeds he brings, and bids them pile the prey.
XI. Here march the captives, doomed to feed the flames;
There, staff in hand, each Dardan chief uprears
The spoil-decked ensigns, marked with foemen's names.
There, too, they lead Acoetes, bowed with years,
He smites his breast, his haggard cheeks he tears,
Then flings his full length prostrate. There, again,
The blood-stained chariot, and with big, round tears,
Stript of his trappings, in the mournful train,
AEthon, the warrior's steed, comes sorrowing for the slain.
XII. These bear the dead man's helmet and his spear;
All else the victor for his spoils hath ta'en.
A melancholy phalanx close the rear,
Teucrians, and Tuscans, and Arcadia's train,
With arms reversed, and mourning for the slain.
So passed the pomp, and, while the tear-drops fell,
AEneas stopped, and, groaning, cried again,
"Hail, mighty Pallas! us the fates compel
Yet other tears to shed. Farewell! a long farewell!"
XIII. He spake, then, turning, to the camp doth fare.
Thither Laurentum's envoys found their way.
Branches of olive in their hands they bear,
And beg a truce,--a respite from the fray,
Their slaughtered comrades in the ground to lay,
And glean the war's sad harvest. Brave men ne'er
Warred with the dead and vanquished. Once were they
His hosts and kinsmen; he would surely spare.
Their plea AEneas owns, and thus accosts them fair:
XIV. "What mischief, Latins, hath your minds misled,
To shun our friendship in the hour of need,
And rush to arms? Peace ask ye for the dead,
The War-God's prey, whom folly doomed to bleed?
Peace to the living would I fain concede.
I came not hither, but with Heaven to guide.
Fate chose this country, and this home decreed;
Nor war I with the race. Your king denied
Our proffered league; 'twas he on Turnus' arms relied.
XV. "'Twere juster then that Turnus hand to hand
His life had ventured. Dreams he in his pride
To end the war, and drive us from the land?
_He_ should have met me; he or I had died,
As Fate or prowess might the day decide.
Go, take your dead, and let the bale-fires blaze:
Ye have your answer." Thus the prince replied,
And each on each the wondering heralds gaze,
Mute with admiring awe, and wildered with amaze.
XVI. Then Drances, ever fain with gibes and hate
To vex young Turnus, takes the word and cries,
"O Trojan, great in fame, in arms more great,
What praise of mine shall match thee with the skies?
What most--thy deeds or justice--shall I prize?
Grateful, this answer to our friends we bear,
And thee (let Turnus seek his own allies),
Thee King Latinus shall his friend declare,
And Latium's sons with joy Troy's destined walls prepare."
XVII. He spake; as one, all murmur their assent.
For twice six days a solemn truce they plight,
And Teucrians, now, with Latins, freely blent
In peaceful fellowship, as friends unite,
And roam the wooded hills. Sharp axes smite
The sounding ash; these with keen wedges cleave
Tall oak and scented cedar; those with might
The pine-tree, soaring to the stars, upheave,
And wains, with groaning wheels, the giant elms receive.
XVIII. Now Rumour, harbinger of woe so great,
That told of Pallas victor, fills again
Evander's town. All hurry to the gate,
With torches snatched, as ancient rites ordain.
A line of fire, that parts the dusky plain,
The long road gleams before them, as they go
To meet the mourners. Soon the wailing train
The Phrygians join. With shrieks the matrons know
Far off the funeral throng, and fill the town with woe.
XIX. Naught stays Evander; through the midst he springs,
And falling on the bier, as down they lay
Dead Pallas, groaning to his child he clings,
And hangs with tears upon the senseless clay,
Till speech, half-choked with sorrow, finds a way.
"Pallas, not such thy promise to thy sire,
Warely to trust the War-God in the fray.
I knew what ardour would thy soul inspire,
The charms of new-won fame, and battle's fierce desire.
XX. "O bitter first-fruits of a youth so fair!
O war's stern prelude! promise dashed to scorn!
Unheeded vows, and unavailing prayer!
O happy spouse! not left, like me, to mourn
A son thus slaughtered, and a life outworn.
I have o'erlived my destiny; life fled
When Pallas left me childless and forlorn.
O, had I fall'n with Trojans in his stead,
And me this pomp brought home, and not my Pallas, dead!
XXI. "Yet, Trojans, you I blame not, nor the hands
We joined in friendship, nor the league we swore.
Old age--too old--this cruel lot demands.
Ah, sweet to think, though falling in his flower,
He fell, where thousand Volscians fell before,
Leading Troy's sons to Latium. Thou shalt have
A Trojan's funeral--can I wish thee more?--
What rites AEneas offers to the brave,
And all Etruria's hosts shall bear thee to the grave.
XXII. "Proud trophies those who perish by thy hand
Bear thee, and slaughtered foemen speak thy fame.
Thou, Turnus, too, an effigy should'st stand,
Hung round with arms, and Pallas' praise proclaim,
Had but thine age and Pallas' been the same,
Like thine the vigour of his years. But O!
Why, Teucrians, do I keep you? wherefore claim
An old man's privilege of empty woe?
This message bear your king, and con it as ye go.
XXIII. "If yet I linger on, with Pallas slain,
Loathing the light, and longing to expire,
'Tis thy right hand that tempts me to remain,
That hand from which--thou see'st it--son and sire
The penalty of Turnus' blood require.
This niche of fame,--'tis all the Fates bestow--
Awaits thee still. For me, all life's desire--
'Twere vain--hath fled; but gladly would I go,
And bear the welcome news to Pallas' shade below."
XXIV. Meanwhile to weary mortals fresh and fair
Upsprings the Dawn, and reawakes the land
To toil and labour. Reared with pious care
By Tarchon and the good AEneas, stand
The funeral pyres along the winding strand.
Here brings each warrior, as in days gone by,
His comrade's corpse, and holds the lighted brand.
The dusk flames burn beneath them, and on high
The clouds of smoke roll up, and shroud the lofty sky.
XXV. Three times the Trojans, sheathed in shining mail,
Pace round the piles; three times they ride around
The funeral fire, and raise the warrior's wail.
Tears bathe their arms, and tears bedew the ground,
And, mixt with clamour, comes the clarion's sound.
Spoils of dead Latins on the flames are thrown,
Bits, bridles, glowing wheels and helmets crown'd
With glittering plumes, and, last, the gifts well-known,
The luckless spear and shield, the weapons of their own.
XXVI. Oxen in numbers round the pyres are slain
To Death's dread power, and herds of bristly swine;
And cattle, snatched from all the neighbouring plain,
And sheep they slaughter for the flames divine.
Far down the sea-coast, where the bale-fires shine,
They guard and gaze upon the pyres, where lie
Their burning comrades, nor their watch resign,
Nor leave the spot, till dewy night on high
Rolls round the circling heavens, and starlight gilds the sky.
XXVII. Nor less the sorrowing Latins build elsewhere
Their countless piles. These burying they bemoan;
Those to the town or neighbouring fields they bear.
The rest, untold, unhonoured and unknown,
A mass of carnage, on the flames are thrown.
Thick blaze the fires, and light the plains around,
And on the third dawn, when the mists have flown,
The bones and dust, still smouldering on the ground,
Mourning, they rake in heaps, and cover with a mound.
XXVIII. But loudest in Laurentum rose the noise
Of woe and wailing for their friends who died.
Here, mothers, wives, sad sisters, orphaned boys
Curse the dire war, and Turnus and his bride.
"Let him, let Turnus fight it out," they cried;
"Who claims chief honours and Italia's throne,
And caused the quarrel, let his sword decide";
And spiteful Drances: "Ay, 'tis he alone
Whom Latium's foes demand; the challenge is his own."
XXIX. And voices, too, with various reasons, plead
For Turnus, sheltered by the queen's great name,
And spoils that speak for many a glorious deed.
Lo, in the midst, the tumult still aflame,
With doleful news from Diomede, back came
The envoys. All was useless,--gifts, and prayer,
And proffered gold; his answer was the same:
Let Latins look for other arms elsewhere,
Or beg the Trojan king in clemency to spare.
XXX. Grief bowed Latinus, and his heart sank low.
The wrath of Heaven, the recent funerals,
The graves before them--all AEneas show
The god's true choice. A council straight he calls,
And Latium's chiefs convenes within his walls.
All meet; along the crowded ways the peers
Stream at the summons. In his palace-halls
Amidst them sits Latinus, first in years,
And first in sceptred state, but filled with anxious fears.
XXXI. Forthwith the envoys he invites, each man
To tell his message, and the terms expound,
Then, silence made, thus Venulus began:
"Friends, we have seen great Diomede, and found
The Argive camp, and, safe from peril, crowned
Our journey's end, and pressed the mighty hand
That razed old Troy. On Iapygian ground
By Garganus the conqueror hath planned
Argyripa's new town, named from his native land.
XXXII. "There, audience gained and liberty to speak,
The gifts we tender, and our names declare
And country, who our foemen, what we seek,
And why to Arpi and his court we fare.
He hears, and gently thus bespeaks us fair:
'O happy nations, once by Saturn blest,
Time-old Ausonians, what sad misfare,
What evil fortune mars your ancient rest
And tempts to wage strange wars, and dare the doubtful test?
XXXIII. "'All we, whoever with the steel profaned
Troy's fields (I leave the wasting siege alone,
The dead, who lie in Simois), all have drained
Evils past utterance, o'er the wide world blown,
And, suffering, learned our trespass to atone,
A hapless band! E'en Priam's self might weep
For woes like ours, as Pallas well hath known,
Whose baleful star once wrecked us on the deep,
And grim Euboea's rocks, Caphareus' vengeful steep.
XXXIV. "'Freed from that war, to distant shores we stray.
To Proteus' Pillars, far remote from men
An exile, Menelaus wends his way;
Ulysses shudders at the Cyclops' den;
Why speak of Pyrrhus, by Orestes slain?
Or poor Idomeneus, expelled his state?
Of Locrians, cast upon the Libyan plain?
Of Agamemnon, greatest of the great,
Mycenae's valiant lord, slain by his faithless mate,
XXXV. "'E'en on his threshold, when the adulterer lay
In wait for Asia's conqueror? Me, too,
Hath envious Heaven in exile doomed to stay,
Nor home, nor wife, nor Calydon to view.
Nay, ghastly prodigies my flight pursue.
Transformed to birds, my comrades wing the skies,--
Ah! cruel punishment for friends so true!--
Or skim the streams; from all the shores arise
Their piteous shrieks, the cliffs re-echo with their cries.
XXXVI. "'Such woes had I to look for, from the day
I dared a goddess, and my javelin tore
The hand of Venus. To such fights, I pray,
Persuade me not. Troy fall'n, I fight no more
With Trojans, nor those evil days of yore
Now care to dwell on. To AEneas go,
And take these gifts. Once, hand to hand, we bore
The shock of battle; to my cost I know
How to his shield he towers, the whirlwind of his throw.
XXXVII. "'Had Ida's land two others borne as great,
To Argos Dardanus had found his way,
And Greece were mourning now a different fate.
The stubborn siege, the conquerors kept at bay,
For ten whole years, the triumph's long delay
Were his and Hector's doing, each in might
Renowned, and each the foremost in the fray,
AEneas first in piety. Go, plight
What peace ye may, but shun to meet him in the fight.'
XXXVIII. "Thou hast, great king, the answer of the king,
And this, his sentence on the war." So they,
And diverse murmurs in the crowd upspring;
As when big rocks a rushing torrent stay,
The prisoned waters, chafing with delay,
Boil, and the banks in many a foaming crest
Fling back with echoes the tumultuous spray.
Now from his throne, their murmurs laid to rest,
The King, first offering prayer, his listening folk addressed:
XXXIX. "I would, ye peers, and better it had been
An earlier hour had called us to debate,
Than thus in haste a council to convene,
And meet, while foemen battle at the gate.
A war ill-omened, with disastrous fate,
We wage with men unconquered in the field,
A race of gods, whose force nor toils abate,
Nor wounds can tire; who, driven back, still wield
The sword and shake the spear, and, beaten, scorn to yield.
XL. "What hope ye had in Diomede, give o'er;
Each for himself must be his hope and stay.
This hope how slender, and our straits how sore,
Ye see; the general ruin and decay
Is open, palpable and clear as day.
Yet blame I none; what valour could, was done.
Our country's strength, our souls were in the fray.
Hear then in brief, and ponder every one,
What wavering thoughts have shaped, our present fate to shun.
XLI. "Far-stretching westward, past Sicania's bound,
By Tiber's stream, an ancient tract is mine.
Auruncans and Rutulians till the ground;
Their ploughshares cleave the stubborn slopes, their kine
Graze on the rocks. This tract, these hills of pine
Let Latins yield the Trojans for their own,
And both, as friends, in equal league combine
And share the realm. Here let them settle down,
If so they love the land, and build the wished-for town.
XLII. "But if new frontiers, and another folk,
They fain would look for, and can leave our shore,
Then twice ten ships of tough Italian oak
Build we, nor only let us build a score
Can they but man them (by the stream good store
Of timber is at hand); let them decide
The form, the number, and the size. What more
Is wanting, we will grudge not to provide,
Gold, labour, brass, and docks, and naval gear beside.
XLIII. "Nay more, to strike the proffered league, 'twere good
That chosen envoys to their camp should fare,
A hundred Latins of the noblest blood,
The peaceful olive in their hands to bear,
With gifts, the choicest that the realm can spare,
Talents of gold and ivory, just in weight,
The royal mantle, and the curule chair,
The marks of rule. With freedom now debate,
Consult the common weal, and help the sickly state."
XLIV. Up rose then Drances, with indignant mien,
Whom, spiteful still, the fame of Turnus stung
With carping envy, and malignant spleen;
Lavish of wealth, and fluent with his tongue,
No mean adviser in debate, and strong
In faction, but in battle cold and tame.
From royal seed his mother's race was sprung,
His sire's unknown. He thus with words of blame
Piles up the general wrath, and fans resentment's flame.
XLV. "Good king, the matter--it is plain, for each
Knows well our needs, but hesitates to say.
Let _him_ cease blustering, and allow free speech,
Him, for whose pride and sullen temper, yea,
I say it, let him threaten as he may--
Quenched is the light of many a chief, that lies
In earth's cold lap, and mourning and dismay
Have filled the town, while, sure of flight, he tries
To storm the Trojan camp, and idly flouts the skies.
XLVI. "One gift, O best of monarchs, add, to crown
Thy bounty to the Dardans,--one, beside
These many, nor let bluster bear thee down.
A worthy husband for thy child provide,
And peace shall with the lasting pact abide.
Else, if such terror doth our souls enslave,
Him now, in hope to turn away his pride,
Him let us pray his proper right to waive,
And, pitying, deign to yield what king and country crave.
XLVII. "O Turnus, cause of all our ills to-day,
Why make the land these miseries endure?
The war is desperate; for peace we pray,
And that one pledge, inviolably sure,
Naught else but which can make the peace secure.
Thy foeman, I--nor be the fact concealed,
For so thou deem'st--entreat thee and adjure.
Blood flows enough on many a wasted field.
Relent, and spare thine own, and, beaten, learn to yield.
XLVIII. "Or, if fame tempt, and in thy bosom glow
Such fire, and so thou hankerest to gain
A kingdom's dower, take heart and face the foe.
Must we, poor souls, that Turnus may obtain
A royal bride, like carrion strew the plain,
Unwept, unburied? If thine arm hath might,
If but a spark of native worth remain,
Go forth this hour; in arms assert thy right,
And meet him, face to face, who calls thee to the fight."
XLIX. Fierce blazed the wrath of Turnus, and he wrung
Speech from his breast, deep groaning in his gall.
"Glib art thou, Drances, voluble of tongue,
When hands are needed, and the trumpets call.
The council summoned, thou art first of all.
Not this the hour thy vapouring to outpour,
Though big thy talk, and brave the words, that fall
From craven lips, while ramparts stand before,
To guard thee safe from foes, nor trenches swim with gore.
L. "Rave on, and thunder in thy wonted strain,
And brand me coward, thou whose hands can slay
Such Trojan hosts, whose trophies grace the plain.
What worth can do, and manhood can essay,
We twain may venture. Sooth, not far away
Need foes be sought; around the walls they throng.
March we to meet them! Dotard, why delay?
Still dwells thy War-God in a windy tongue,
And flying feet, and knees all feeble and unstrung?
LI. "I beaten? Who, foul spawn of earth, shall call
Me beaten? who, that saw swoln Tiber flow
Red with the blood of Trojans, ay, and all
Evander's house and progeny laid low,
And fierce Arcadians vanquished at a blow?
Not such dead Pandarus and Bitias found
This right hand, nor those thousands hurled below
In one short day, when battlement and mound
Hemmed me in hostile walls, and foemen swarmed around.
LII. "No hope from war?--Go, fool, to Dardan ears
These bodings whisper, to thy new ally.
Go, swell the panic, spread the coward's fears.
Puff up the foemen's prowess to the sky,--
Twice-conquered churls,--and Latin arms decry.
See now, forsooth, the Myrmidons afraid
Of Phrygian arms, Tydides fain to fly,
Achilles trembling, Aufidus in dread
Shrunk from the Hadrian deep, and cowering in his bed.
LIII. "Or mark the trickster's cunning when he feigns
To fear my vengeance, whom his taunts revile!
Nay, Drances, be at ease; this hand disdains
To take the forfeit of a soul so vile.
Keep it, fit inmate of that breast of guile,
And now, good Sire, if, beaten, we despair,
If never Fate on Latin arms shall smile,
And naught our ruined fortunes can repair,
Stretch we our craven hands, and beg the foe to spare.
LIV. "Yet oh! if aught of ancient worth remain,
Him deem I noblest, and his end renowned,
Brave soul! who sooner than behold such stain,
Fell once for all, and, dying, bit the ground.
But, if fit men and martial means abound,
And towns and tribes, to muster at our call,
Hath Italy; if Trojans, too, have found
Fame dearly bought with many a brave man's fall
(For they have, too, their deaths; the storm hath swept o'er all),
LV. "Why fail we on the threshold, faint with fears,
And sick knees tremble ere the trumpets bray?
Time--healing Time--and long, laborious years
Oft raise the humble; Fortune in her play
Lifts those to-morrow, whom she lowers to-day.
What though no aid AEtolian Arpi lends,
Ours is Messapus, ours Tolumnius, yea,
And all whom Latium or Laurentum sends,
Nor scanty fame, nor slow Italia's hosts attends.
LVI. "Ours, too, is brave Camilla, noble maid,
The pride of Volscians, and she leads a band
Of horsemen fierce, in brazen arms arrayed.
If me the foe to single fight demand,
And so ye will, and I alone withstand
The common good, come danger as it may,
Not so hath victory fled this hated hand,
Not yet so weak is Turnus, as to stay
With such a prize unsnatched, and falter from the fray.
LVII. "Though greater than the great Achilles he,
Though, like Achilles, Vulcan's arms he wear,
Fain will I meet him. Lo, to you, to thee,
Latinus, father of the bride so fair,
I, Turnus, I, in prowess past compare,
Devote this life. AEneas calls but me,
So let him, rather than that Drances bear
The smart, if death the wrathful gods decree,
Or, if 'tis glory's field, usurp the victor's fee."
LVIII. While thus, with wrangling and contentious doubt,
They urged debate, AEneas his array
Moved from the camp. Behold, a trusty scout
Back, through Latinus' palace, speeds his way,
And fills the town with tumult and dismay.
The Trojans--see!--the Trojans,--down they swarm
From Tiber. See the meadows far away
Alive with foes! Rage, turmoil and alarm
In turns distract the town. "Arm," cry the young men, "arm!"
LIX. The old men weep and mutter. Clamours rend
The startled skies, and discord reigns supreme,
E'en as when birds on lofty woods descend
In flocks, or in Padusa's fishful stream
The swans sing hoarsely, and the wild-fowl scream
Along the babbling waters. Turnus straight
The moment snatched. "Ah! townsmen, sooth, ye deem
This hour an hour to chatter and debate;
Sit on, and praise sweet peace, while foemen storm the gate."
LX. He spake, and from the council dashed with speed.
"Go, Volusus," he cries, "and arm amain
The Volscians; hither the Rutulians lead.
Messapus, go, with horsemen in thy train,
And Coras, with thy brother scour the plain.
Let these all entrance at the gate forestall,
And man the turrets; let the rest remain
In arms, and wait my bidding." One and all,
The townsmen throng the streets, and hurry to the wall.
LXI. Then, sore distrest, the aged king proclaims
The council closed, and for a happier tide
Puts off debate; and oft himself he blames,
Who welcomed not AEneas to his side,
Nor graced his city with a Dardan's bride.
But hark! to battle peals the clarion's call.
These by the gate dig trenches, those provide
Sharp stakes and stones. Along the girdling wall
Pale boys and matrons stand: the last hour cries for all.
LXII. To Pallas' rock-built temple rides the queen,
Bearing her gifts. The matrons march in line,
And by her side is fair Lavinia seen,
The war's sad authoress, with down-dropt eyne.
They, entering in, with incense fume the shrine,
And from the threshold pour the mournful strain:
"O strong in arms, Tritonian maid divine!
Break thou the Phrygian robber's spear in twain,
And 'neath the gates strike down and stretch him on the plain."
LXIII. Now in hot haste fierce Turnus dons the mail,
Eager for battle. On his breast he laced
The corselet, rough with many a brazen scale.
Around his legs the golden greaves he placed,
His brow yet bare, and at his side he braced,
The trusty sword. All golden is the glow
Of burnished arms, as down the height in haste
He flies exulting to the field below.
High leaps his heart, and hope anticipates the foe.
LXIV. So, free at length, his tether snapt in twain,
Swift from his stall, in eager joy, the steed
Bounds forth and, master of the open plain,
Now seeks the mares that in the pastures feed,
Now towards the well-known river scours the mead,
Wont there to cool his glowing sides, and neighs
With head erect and glories in his speed,
While o'er his collar and his shoulders plays
The waving mane, flung loose in many a wandering maze.
LXV. Him meets Camilla, with her Volscian train,
And by the gate dismounting then and there
(Down likewise leap her followers to the plain),
"Turnus," she cries, "if confidence can e'er
Befit the brave, I venture and I swear
Singly to face yon Trojans in the fray,
And stem the Tuscan cavalry. My care
Shall be the war's first hazards to essay;
Thou guard the walls afoot, and by the ramparts stay."
LXVI. Then he, with eyes fixt on the wondrous maid,
"O glory of Italia, virgin bright!
What praise can match thee? how shall thanks be paid?
But now, since naught can daunt thee nor affright,
Share thou my labour, and divide the fight.
Yonder AEneas, so the news hath flown,
So spies report, hath sent his horsemen light
To scour the fields, while o'er the mountains' crown
Himself through devious ways is marching to the town.
LXVII. "Deep in a hollow, where the wood's dark shade
Two cross-ways hides, an ambush I prepare,
And armed men shall the double pass blockade.
Thou take the shock of battle, and o'erbear
The Tuscan horse. Messapus shall be there,
Tiburtus' band, and Latins in array
To aid, and thine shall be the leader's care."
He spake, and cheered Messapus to the fray,
And Latium's federate chiefs, and spurred upon his way.
LXVIII. There lies a winding valley, fit for snares
And stratagems, shut in on either hand
By wooded slopes. A narrow pathway fares
Along the gorge, and on the hill-tops, planned
For safety, flat but hidden spreads the land.
Rightward or leftward there is room to bear
The shock of arms, or on the ridge to stand,
And roll down rocks upon the foe. 'Twas there
Young Turnus, screened by woods, lies crouching in his lair.
LXIX. Meanwhile Latonia in the realms of air
Fleet Opis, sister of her sacred train,
Addressed in sorrowing accents, "Maiden fair,
See how Camilla to the fatal plain
Goes forth, in quest of battle. See, in vain
Our arms she wears, the quiver and the bow.
Dearest is she of all that own my reign,
Nor new-born is Diana's love, I trow;
No fit of fondness this, or fancy known but now
LXX. "When tyrant Metabus his people's hate
Drove from Privernum, for his deeds of shame.
His babe he bore, the partner of his fate,
Through war and battle, and, her mother's name
Casmilla changed, Camilla she became.
To lonely woods and hill-tops fain to fly,
Fierce swords and Volscians all around, he came
Where Amasenus, with its waves bank-high,
Athwart him foamed; so vast a deluge rent the sky.
LXXI. "Prepared to plunge, he pauses, sore assailed
By love, and terror for a charge so dear.
All means revolving, this at last prevailed.
Fire-dried and knotted, an enormous spear
Of seasoned oak the warrior chanced to bear.
To the mid shaft the tender babe he ties,
Swathed in the covering of a cork-tree near,
Then lifts the load, and, poising, ere it flies,
The ponderous lance, looks up, and thus invokes the skies:
LXXII. "'O Queen of woods, Latonia, virgin fair!
To thee my daughter I devote this day,
Thy handmaid. See, thus early through the air
She bears thy weapons. Make her thine, I pray,
And safely through the doubtful air convey.'
So prayed the sire, and nerved him for the throw,
Then aimed, and launched the missile on its way.
The babe forlorn, while roars the stream below,
Link'd to the shaft, is borne across the current's flow.
LXXIII. "In plunges Metabus, the foemen near,
And Trivia's gift, safe landing from the wave,
Plucks from the grass,--the maiden and the spear.
No town is his, to shelter and to save,
His savage mood no shelter deigns to crave.
A shepherd's life on lonely hills he leads,
In tangled covert, or in woodland cave.
The milk of beasts supplies his daughter's needs,
And from the wild-mare's teats her tender lips he feeds.
LXXIV. "And when the tottering infant first essayed
To plant her footsteps, to her hands he strung
A lance, and o'er the shoulders of the maid
The light-wing'd arrows and the bow he slung.
For golden coif and trailing mantle, hung
A tiger's spoils. Her tiny hand e'en then
Hurled childish darts; e'en then the tough hide, swung
Around her temples, as she roamed the plain,
Brought down the snowy swan, or swift Strymonian crane.
LXXV. "Full many a Tuscan mother far and near
Has wooed Camilla for her son in vain.
Contented with Diana year by year,
She loves her silvan weapon, free and fain
To live a maiden-huntress, pure of stain.
And O! had battle, and the toils of fight
Not lured her thus to combat on the plain,
And match her prowess with the Teucrians' might,
Mine were the maiden still, my darling and delight.
LXXVI. "Now, since well-nigh the fatal threads are spun,
Go, Nymph, to Latin frontiers wing thy way,
Where evil omens mark the fight begun.
Take, too, this quiver; who the maid shall slay,--
Trojan or Latin--with his blood shall pay
Myself the armour and the corpse will bear,
Wrapt in a cloud, and in her country lay."
She spake, and, girt with whirlwind, and the blare
Of sounding arms, the Nymph glides down the yielding air.
LXXVII. Meanwhile, the Trojans and the Tuscan train,
In marshalled squadrons, to the walls draw near,
Steeds neigh, and chafe, and prance upon the plain,
And lances bristling o'er the field appear.
Messapus, too, and Latium's hosts are here,
Coras, Catillus, and Camilla leads
Her troops to aid. All couch the levelled spear,
And whirl the dart. Hot waxes on the meads
The tramp of hurrying hosts, the snorting of the steeds.
LXXVIII. Each halts within a spear-cast of the foe,
Then, spurring, forward with a shout they dash,
And, darkening heaven, shower the darts like snow.
In front, Tyrrhenus and Aconteus rash
Cross spears, the first to grapple. With a crash,
Steed against steed, went ruining. Breast and head
Shocked and were shattered. Like the lightning's flash,
And loud as missile from an engine sped,
Hurled far, Aconteus falls, and with a gasp lies dead.
LXXIX. This breaks the line; the Latins turn and fly,
Their shields behind them. On the Trojans go,
Asilas first. And now the gates are nigh;
Once more, with shouts, the Latins face the foe;
These, scared in turn, the slackened reins forego.
So shifts the fight, as on the winding strand
The swelling ocean, with alternate flow,
Foams on the rocks, and curls along the sand,
Now sucks the shingle back, and, ebbing, leaves the land.
LXXX. Twice the fierce Tuscans, spurring o'er the fields,
Drive the Rutulians to their walls in flight.
Twice, driven backward, from behind their shields
The victors see the rallying foes unite.
But when the third time, in the fangs of fight,
Man singling man, both armies met to close,
Loud were the groans, and fearful was the sight,
Arms splashed with gore, steeds, riders, friends and foes,
Blent in the deadly broil, and fierce the din uprose.
LXXXI. Lo, here, Orsilochus, too faint with fear
To meet fierce Remulus, a distant dart
Hurls at his steed. Beneath the charger's ear
The shaft stands fixt; the beast, with sudden start,
His breast erect, and maddened by the smart,
Rears up, and flings his rider to the ground.
Here brave Iolas, from his friends apart,
Catillus slew; Herminius next he found,
Large-hearted, large of limb, and eke in arms renowned.
LXXXII. Bare is his head, with auburn locks aglow,
And bare his shoulders. Wounds to him are vain;
Tower-like he stands, defenceless to the foe.
Through his broad chest the javelin, urged amain,
Pierced him, and quivered, and he writhed with pain,
His giant form bent double. Far and nigh
The dark blood pours in torrents on the plain,
As, dealing havoc with the sword, they vie,
And, courting wounds, rush on, a warrior's death to die.
LXXXIII. There, quiver-girt, the Amazonian maid,
One bosom bare, amidst the carnage wheeled,
Camilla, glorying in the war's grim trade.
Her limber darts she scatters o'er the field,
Her arms untired the ponderous axe can wield.
Diana's arrows and the golden bow
Sound at her back. She too, if forced to yield,
Fights as she flies, and well the maid doth know
With flying shafts hurled back to stay the following foe.
LXXXIV. Around her, Tulla and Larinia stand,
Tarpeia too, with brazen axe bedight,
Italians all, the choicest of her band,
In peace or war her glory and delight.
So, battling round Hippolyte, unite
Her Thracians, when Thermodon's banks afar
Ring with their arms. So rides the maid of might,
Penthesilea, in her conquering car,
And hosts, with moon-shaped shields, exulting hail the war.
LXXXV. Whom first, dread maiden, did thy javelin quell?
Whom last? how many in the dust lay low?
Eunaeus first, the son of Clytius, fell.
Sheer through his breast, left naked to the blow,
Ploughed the long fir-shaft, as he faced his foe.
Prone falls the warrior, and in deadly stound
Gasps out his life-blood, and the crimson flow
Spouts forth in torrents, as he bites the ground,
And, dying, grasps the spear, and writhes upon the wound.
LXXXVI. Liris anon and Pagasus she slew,
One, flung to earth, and gathering up the rein,
His charger stabbed, the other, as he flew
To aid, and reached his helpless hands in vain,
Amastrus, son of Hippotas, was slain;
Harpalycus, Demophoon, as they fled,
The dread spear caught, and stretched upon the plain,
Tereus and Chromis. For each shaft that sped,
Launched from her maiden hand, a Phrygian foe lay dead.
LXXXVII. On Iapygian steed, in arms unknown,
Rode Ornytus, the huntsman. A rough hide,
Stript from a bullock, o'er his back was thrown.
A wolf's huge jaws, with glittering teeth, supplied
His helmet, and a rustic pike he plied.
Him, as he towered, the tallest in the fray,
Wheeling his steed, Camilla unespied
Caught--in the rout 'twas easy--and her prey
Pinned, with unpitying spear, and jeered him as he lay.
LXXXVIII. "Ha, Tuscan! thought'st thou 'twas the chase? Thy day
Hath come; a woman shall thy vaunts belie.
Yet take this glory to the grave, and say
'Twas I, the great Camilla, made thee die."
She spake, and smote Orsilochus close by,
And Butes, hugest of the Trojan crew.
First Butes falls; just where the neck doth lie,
'Twixt casque and corslet, naked to the view,
And leftward droops the shield, the fatal barb goes through.
LXXXIX. Chased by Orsilochus, afar she wheels
Her seeming flight, wide-circling to and fro,
Till, doubling in a narrower ring, she steals
Inside, and follows on the following foe.
Then, rising steep, while vainly in his woe
He pleads for pity, and entreats her grace,
She swings the battle-axe, and blow on blow
On head and riven helmet heaps apace,
And the hot brains and blood are spattered o'er his face.
XC. Next crossed her path, but stood aghast to see,
The son of Aunus, from the mountain-seat
Of Apennine. No mean Ligurian he,
While Fate was kind, and prospered his deceit.
Fearful of death, and hopeless to retreat,
He tries if cunning can avail his need,
And cries aloud, "Good sooth, a wondrous feat!
A woman trusts for glory to her steed.
Come down; fight fair afoot, and take the braggart's meed!"
XCI. Down leaps the maid in fury, and her steed
Hands to a comrade, and with arms matched fair,
And dauntless heart, confronts him on the mead,
Her shield unblazoned, and her falchion bare.
He, vainly glorying in his fancied snare,
Reins round in haste, and, spurring, strives to flee.
"Fool," cries Camilla, "let thy pride beware.
Think not to palm thy father's tricks on me,
Nor hope with craft like this thy lying sire to see."
XCII. So spake she, and on flying feet afire
Outruns his steed, and stands athwart the way,
Then grasps the reins, and deals the wretch his hire,
Doomed with his life-blood for his craft to pay.
So on a dove, amid the clouds astray,
Down swoops the sacred falcon through the sky
From some tall cliff, and fastens on his prey,
And grips, and rends, and sucks the life-blood dry;
The feathers, foul with blood, come, fluttering down from high.
XCIII. Nor Jove meanwhile with unregarding ken,
Throned on Olympus, doth the scene survey.
Watchful of all, the Sire of gods and men
Stirs up the Tuscan Tarchon to the fray,
And plies the war-goad with no gentle sway.
He through the squadrons on his steed aflame
Rides 'mid the carnage, where the ranks give way;
Now chides, now cheers, and calling each by name,
Re-forms the broken lines, and reinspires the tame.
XCIV. "Cowards, why faint ye, Tuscans but in name?
Fie! shall a woman scatter you in flight?
O, slack! O, never to be stung to shame!
What use of weapons, if ye fear to fight?
No laggards ye for amorous jousts at night,
Or Bacchic revels, when the fife ye hear.
The feast and wine-cup--these are your delight;
For these ye linger, till the approving seer
Calls to the grove's deep shade, where bleeds the fattened steer."
XCV. Then, spurring forth, himself prepared to die,
He dashed at Venulus, unhorsed his prize,
And bore him on his saddle-bow. A cry
Goes up, and all the Latins turn their eyes.
Swift with his prey the fiery Tarchon flies,
And, while the steel-head from his spear he rends,
Each chink and crevice in his armour tries,
To deal the death-blow. He, as fierce, contends,
And, countering force with force, his naked throat defends.
XCVI. As when a golden eagle, high in air,
Wreathed with a serpent, fastens, as she flies,
With feet that clutch, and taloned claws that tear.
Coil writhed in coil, the roughening scales uprise,
The crest points up, the hissing tongue defies.
She with sharp beak still rends the struggling prey,
And beats the air. So Tarchon with his prize
Through Tibur's host exulting speeds away.
With cheers the Tuscans charge, and hail their chief's essay.
XCVII. Now, due to fate, aloof with lifted lance,
The crafty Aruns round Camilla wheels,
And tries where fortune lends the readiest chance.
Oft as she charges, where the war-shout peals,
He slips unseen, and follows on her heels.
When back she runs, triumphant from the foe,
He shifts the rein, and from the conflict steals.
Now here, now there, he doubles to and fro,
And shakes his felon spear, but hesitates to throw.
XCVIII. Lo, Chloreus, priest of Cybele, aglow
In Phrygian armour, gorgeous to behold,
Urges his foaming charger at the foe,
All decked in feathered chain-work, linked with gold.
Cretan his shafts, his bow of Lycian mould.
Dark blue and foreign purple clothed his breast,
Golden his casque and bow; his mantle's fold
Of yellow saffron knots of gold compressed,
And buskins bound his knees, and broidered was his vest.
XCIX. Him the fierce huntress, whether fain the shrine
To deck with trophies, or with envious eyes
Wishful herself in Trojan arms to shine,
Marks in the strife; at him alone she flies,
Proud, like a woman, of her fancied prize.
Blindly she runs, uncautious of the snare,
When, darting from the ambush, where he lies,
The moment snatched, false Aruns shakes his spear,
And thus, with measured aim, invokes the Gods with prayer.
C. "O Phoebus, guardian of Soracte's steep,
Whom first we honour, to whose sacred name,
Thy votaries, we, the blazing pine-wood heap,
And, firm in faith, pass through the smouldering flame,
Grant that our arms may wipe away this shame.
Trophies, nor spoils, nor plunder from the prey
Be mine; I look to other deeds for fame.
If wound of mine this hateful pest shall slay,
Home will I gladly go, and fameless quit the fray."
CI. Apollo heard, and granted half his prayer,
And half he scattered to the winds. To slay
With sudden stroke Camilla unaware
He gave, but gave not his returning day;
The breezes puffed the bootless wish away.
Shrill sang the lance; each Volscian eye and heart
Turned to the queen. The weapon on its way,--
The rush of air she heeds not, till the dart
Strikes home, and, staying, draws the life-blood from her heart.
CII. Up run her friends, the fainting queen to aid,
More scared than all, in fear and joy amain,
False Aruns flies, nor dares to face the maid,
Or trust the venture of his spear again.
As guilty wolf, some steer or shepherd slain,
Slinks to the hills, ere hostile darts pursue,
And clasps his tail between his thighs, full fain
To seek the woods, so Aruns shrank from view,
Sore scared and glad to fly, and in the crowd withdrew.
CIII. With dying hand she strives to pluck the spear:
Deep 'twixt the rib-bones in the wound it lies.
Bloodless she faints; her features, late so fair,
Fade, as the crimson from the pale cheeks flies,
And cold and misty wax the drooping eyes.
Then, with quick gasps, and groaning from her breast,
She calls to faithful Acca, ere she dies,--
Acca, her truest comrade and her best,
The partner of her cares,--and breathes a last request.
CIV. "Sister, 'tis past; the bitter shaft apace
Consumes me; all is growing dark. Go, tell
This news to Turnus; bid him take my place,
And keep these Trojans from the town. Farewell."
So saying, she dropped the bridle, as she fell.
Death's creeping chills the loosened limbs o'erspread.
Down dropped the weapons she had borne so well,
The neck drooped, slackened; and she bowed her head,
And the disdainful soul went groaning to the dead.
CV. Up rose a shout, Camilla fall'n, that beat
The golden stars, and fiercer waxed the fray.
On press the host, in serried ranks complete,
Trojans, Arcadians, Tuscans in array.
High on a hill, fair Opis watched the day,
Set there by Trivia, undisturbed till now,
When, lo, amid the tumult far away
She sees Camilla, in the dust laid low,
Deep from her breast she sighs, and thus in words of woe:
CVI. "Cruel, too cruel, is thy forfeit paid,
Poor maiden, who the Trojan arms would'st dare;
Nor aught availed thee, in the woodland glade
To serve Diana, and her arms to wear.
Yet not unhonoured in thy death, nor bare
Of fame she leaves thee; nor in after day
Shall vengeance fail thy prowess to declare.
Whoso hath dared thy sacred form to slay,
His blood shall rue the deed, and fit atonement pay."
CVII. Beneath the hill a barrow chanced to stand,
Heaped there of old, and holm-oaks frowned beside
Dercennus' tomb, who ruled Laurentum's land.
Here, lightning swift, the lovely Nymph espied,
In shining arms, and puffed with empty pride,
False Aruns. "Caitiff! dost thou think to flee?
Why keep aloof? Turn hitherward!" she cried,
"Come here, and die! Camilla claims her fee.
Must Cynthia waste her shafts on worthless knaves like thee?"
CVIII. Plucking the arrow from her case, she drew
The bow, full-stretched, till both the horns unite.
Both arms raised level, ere the missile flew,
Her left hand touched the iron point, the right,
Pressed to her nipple, strained the bow-string tight.
He hears the arrow whistle as it flies,
And feels the wound. Sweeping on amain, [word missing]
Forsakes him. Groaning, with a gasp, he dies.
Upsoars the gladdening Nymph, and seeks the Olympian skies.
CIX. First flies Camilla's troop, their mistress slain,
Then, routed, the Rutulian ranks give way,
And fierce Atinas gallops from the plain,
And scattered chiefs and squadrons in dismay
Spur towards the town for shelter from the fray.
None dares that murderous onset of the foe
To stem with javelins, nor their charge to stay.
Slack from their fainting shoulders hangs the bow,
The clattering horse-hoofs shake the crumbling ground below.
CX. Dark rolls the dust-cloud, to the town-walls driven,
And mothers on the watch-towers, pale with fear,
Smite on their breasts, and shriek aloud to heaven.
These, bursting in, their foemen in the rear
Crush in the crowd, and slaughter with the spear,
Slain in the gateway--miserably slain!--
Their walls in sight, their happy homes so near.
Those bar the gates, while comrades on the plain
Stretch their imploring hands, and call to them in vain.
CXI. Then piteous waxed the carnage by the gate,
Some storming, some defending. These without,
In sight of parents, weeping at their fate,
Roll down the moat, swept headlong by the rout,
Or charge the battered doorposts with a shout.
The very matrons, at their country's call,
Their javelins hurl. Charr'd stakes and oak-staves stout
Serve them for swords. Forth rush they, one and all,
Fir'd by Camilla's deeds, to save the town or fall.
CXII. Meanwhile to Turnus, in the woods afar,
Came Acca, and the bitter news made plain,
And told the chief the tumult of the war,--
The panic and the rout--the Volscian train
Swept from the battle, and Camilla slain.
The foemen, flushed with conquest, far and near
In hot pursuit, and sweeping on amain,
And all the city now aghast with fear:--
Such was the dolorous tale that filled the warrior's ear.
CXIII. Then, mad with fury, in revengeful mood
(For Jove is stern, and so the Fates ordain),
He quits his mountain-ambush and the wood.
Scarce, out of sight, had Turnus reached the plain,
When, issuing forth, AEneas hastes to gain
The pass, left open, climbs the neighbouring height,
And leaves the tangled forest. Thus the twain,
Each near to each,--the middle space is slight,--
Townward their troops lead on, and hail the proffered fight.
CXIV. At once AEneas on the dusty plain
Marks the Laurentine columns far away.
At once, in arms, fierce Turnus knows again
The dread AEneas, and he hears the neigh
Of steeds, and tramp of footmen in array.
Then each the fight had ventured, as they stood,
But rosy Phoebus, with declining day,
His steeds was bathing in the Iberian flood;
So by the walls they camp, and make the ramparts good.
More History
|
