THE AENEID BY VIRGIL. TRANSLATED BY JOHN DRYDEN. Edited, Annotated, and Compiled by Rhonda L. All pictures are from Wikimedia Commons, unless otherwise annotated. FIGURE 1 VIRGIL READING THE AENEID TO AUGUSTUS AND OCTAVIA, JEAN- JOSEPH TAILLASSON, 1787. The Aeneid This book list for those who looking for to read and enjoy the The Aeneid, you can read or download Pdf/ePub books and don't forget to give credit to the trailblazing authors.
by VirgilTranslated by John Dryden
And in the Aeneid, Virgilâs poem about the origins of Rome, though his hero, Aeneas, and the Trojan invaders of Italy are to build the city from which Rome will eventually be founded, there is a constant and vibrant undertone of sympathy for and identification with the Italians, which becomes a major. DESCRIPTION: Introduction, text and translation, detailed commentary and indices to 'Aeneid' 2 are here offered on a scale not previously attempted and in keeping with the author's previous Virgil commentaries ('Aeneid' 3, 7 and 11); the volume is aimed primarily at scholars, rather than undergraduates.
These are the books for those you who looking for to read the The Aeneid, try to read or download Pdf/ePub books and some of authors may have disable the live reading. Check the book if it available for your country and user who already subscribe will have full access all free books from the library source. THE AENEID BY VIRGIL. TRANSLATED BY JOHN DRYDEN. Edited, Annotated, and Compiled by Rhonda L. All pictures are from Wikimedia Commons, unless otherwise annotated.
ContentsConcept paper pdf. We could have city hall in pristine form mere days from the acceptance of this proposal.First, weâll hit the big, public areasâparks, city hall, the courthouseâand then move on to the lesser-used areas like the municipal water facility.
The nurse moves onward, with officious care,
And all the speed her aged limbs can bear. But furious Dido, with dark thoughts involvâd, Shook at the mighty mischief she resolvâd. With livid spots distinguishâd was her face; Red were her rolling eyes, and discomposâd her pace; Ghastly she gazâd, with pain she drew her breath, And nature shiverâd at approaching death.
Then swiftly to the fatal place she passâd,
And mounts the funâral pile with furious haste; Unsheathes the sword the Trojan left behind (Not for so dire an enterprise designâd). But when she viewâd the garments loosely spread, Which once he wore, and saw the conscious bed, She pausâd, and with a sigh the robes embracâd; Then on the couch her trembling body cast, Repressâd the ready tears, and spoke her last: âDear pledges of my love, while Heavân so pleasâd, Receive a soul, of mortal anguish easâd: My fatal course is finishâd; and I go, A glorious name, among the ghosts below. A lofty city by my hands is raisâd, Pygmalion punishâd, and my lord appeasâd. What could my fortune have afforded more, Had the false Trojan never touchâd my shore!â Then kissâd the couch; and, âMust I die,â she said, âAnd unrevengâd? âTis doubly to be dead! Yet evân this death with pleasure I receive: On any terms, âtis better than to live. These flames, from far, may the false Trojan view; These boding omens his base flight pursue!â
She said, and struck; deep enterâd in her side
The piercing steel, with reeking purple dyed: Cloggâd in the wound the cruel weapon stands; The spouting blood came streaming on her hands. Her sad attendants saw the deadly stroke, And with loud cries the sounding palace shook. Distracted, from the fatal sight they fled, And throâ the town the dismal rumour spread. First from the frighted court the yell began; Redoubled, thence from house to house it ran: The groans of men, with shrieks, laments, and cries Of mixing women, mount the vaulted skies. Not less the clamour, than if ancient Tyre, Or the new Carthage, set by foes on fire, The rolling ruin, with their lovâd abodes, Involvâd the blazing temples of their gods.
Her sister hears; and, furious with despair,
She beats her breast, and rends her yellow hair, And, calling on Elizaâs name aloud, Runs breathless to the place, and breaks the crowd. âWas all that pomp of woe for this preparâd; These fires, this funâral pile, these altars rearâd? Was all this train of plots contrivâd,â said she, âAll only to deceive unhappy me? Which is the worst? Didst thou in death pretend To scorn thy sister, or delude thy friend? Thy summonâd sister, and thy friend, had come; One sword had servâd us both, one common tomb: Was I to raise the pile, the powârs invoke, Not to be present at the fatal stroke? At once thou hast destroyâd thyself and me, Thy town, thy senate, and thy colony! Bring water; bathe the wound; while I in death Lay close my lips to hers, and catch the flying breath.â This said, she mounts the pile with eager haste, And in her arms the gasping queen embracâd; Her temples chafâd; and her own garments tore, To stanch the streaming blood, and cleanse the gore. Thrice Dido tried to raise her drooping head, And, fainting thrice, fell grovâling on the bed; Thrice opâd her heavy eyes, and sought the light, But, having found it, sickenâd at the sight, And closâd her lids at last in endless night.
Then Juno, grieving that she should sustain
A death so lingâring, and so full of pain, Sent Iris down, to free her from the strife Of labâring nature, and dissolve her life. For since she died, not doomâd by Heavânâs decree, Or her own crime, but human casualty, And rage of love, that plungâd her in despair, The Sisters had not cut the topmost hair, Which Proserpine and they can only know; Nor made her sacred to the shades below. Downward the various goddess took her flight, And drew a thousand colours from the light; Then stood above the dying loverâs head, And said: âI thus devote thee to the dead. This offâring to thâ infernal gods I bear.â Thus while she spoke, she cut the fatal hair: The struggling soul was loosâd, and life dissolvâd in air. BOOK VTHE ARGUMENT.
Aeneas, setting sail from Afric, is driven by a storm on the coast of Sicily, where he is hospitably received by his friend Acestes, king of part of the island, and born of Trojan parentage. He applies himself to celebrate the memory of his father with divine honours, and accordingly institues funeral games, and appoints prizes for those who should conquer in them. While the ceremonies are performing, Juno sends Iris to persuade the Trojan woman to burn the ships, who, upon her instigation, set fire to them: which burned four, and would have consumed the rest, had not Jupiter, by a miraculous shower extinguished it. Upon this, Aeneas, by the advice of one of his generals, and a vision of his father, builds a city for the women, old men, and others, who were either unfit for war, or weary of the voyage, and sails for Italy. Venus procures of Neptune a safe voyage for him and all his men, excepting only his pilot Palinurus, who was unfortunately lost.
Meantime the Trojan cuts his watâry way,
Fixâd on his voyage, throâ the curling sea; Then, casting back his eyes, with dire amaze, Sees on the Punic shore the mounting blaze. The cause unknown; yet his presaging mind The fate of Dido from the fire divinâd; He knew the stormy souls of womankind, What secret springs their eager passions move, How capable of death for injurâd love. Dire auguries from hence the Trojans draw; Till neither fires nor shining shores they saw. Now seas and skies their prospect only bound; An empty space above, a floating field around. But soon the heavâns with shadows were oâerspread; A swelling cloud hung hovâring oâer their head: Livid it lookâd, the threatâning of a storm: Then night and horror oceanâs face deform. The pilot, Palinurus, cried aloud: âWhat gusts of weather from that gathâring cloud My thoughts presage! Ere yet the tempest roars, Stand to your tackle, mates, and stretch your oars; Contract your swelling sails, and luff to wind.â The frighted crew perform the task assignâd. Then, to his fearless chief: âNot Heavân,â said he, âThoâ Jove himself should promise Italy, Can stem the torrent of this raging sea. Mark how the shifting winds from west arise, And what collected night involves the skies! Nor can our shaken vessels live at sea, Much less against the tempest force their way. âTis fate diverts our course, and fate we must obey. Not far from hence, if I observâd aright The southing of the stars, and polar light, Sicilia lies, whose hospitable shores In safety we may reach with struggling oars.â Aeneas then replied: âToo sure I find We strive in vain against the seas and wind: Now shift your sails; what place can please me more Than what you promise, the Sicilian shore, Whose hallowâd earth Anchisesâ bones contains, And where a prince of Trojan lineage reigns?â The course resolvâd, before the western wind They scud amain, and make the port assignâd. Meantime Acestes, from a lofty stand, Beheld the fleet descending on the land; And, not unmindful of his ancient race, Down from the cliff he ran with eager pace, And held the hero in a strict embrace. Of a rough Libyan bear the spoils he wore, And either hand a pointed javâlin bore. His mother was a dame of Dardan blood; His sire Crinisus, a Sicilian flood. He welcomes his returning friends ashore With plenteous country cates and homely store.
Now, when the following morn had chasâd away
The flying stars, and light restorâd the day, Aeneas callâd the Trojan troops around, And thus bespoke them from a rising ground: âOffspring of heavân, divine Dardanian race! The sun, revolving throâ thâ ethereal space, The shining circle of the year has fillâd, Since first this isle my fatherâs ashes held: And now the rising day renews the year; A day for ever sad, for ever dear. This would I celebrate with annual games, With gifts on altars pilâd, and holy flames, Thoâ banishâd to Gaetuliaâs barren sands, Caught on the Grecian seas, or hostile lands: But since this happy storm our fleet has drivân (Not, as I deem, without the will of Heavân) Upon these friendly shores and flowâry plains, Which hide Anchises and his blest remains, Let us with joy perform his honours due, And pray for prospârous winds, our voyage to renew; Pray, that in towns and temples of our own, The name of great Anchises may be known, And yearly games may spread the godsâ renown. Our sports Acestes, of the Trojan race, With royal gifts ordainâd, is pleasâd to grace: Two steers on evâry ship the king bestows; His gods and ours shall share your equal vows. Besides, if, nine days hence, the rosy morn Shall with unclouded light the skies adorn, That day with solemn sports I mean to grace: Light galleys on the seas shall run a watâry race; Some shall in swiftness for the goal contend, And others try the twanging bow to bend; The strong, with iron gauntlets armâd, shall stand Opposâd in combat on the yellow sand. Let all be present at the games preparâd, And joyful victors wait the just reward. But now assist the rites, with garlands crownâd.â He said, and first his brows with myrtle bound. Then Helymus, by his example led, And old Acestes, each adornâd his head; Thus young Ascanius, with a sprightly grace, His temples tied, and all the Trojan race.
Aeneas then advancâd amidst the train,
By thousands followâd throâ the flowâry plain, To great Anchisesâ tomb; which when he found, He pourâd to Bacchus, on the hallowâd ground, Two bowls of sparkling wine, of milk two more, And two from offerâd bulls of purple gore, With roses then the sepulcher he strowâd And thus his fatherâs ghost bespoke aloud: âHail, O ye holy manes! hail again, Paternal ashes, now reviewâd in vain! The gods permitted not, that you, with me, Should reach the promisâd shores of Italy, Or Tiberâs flood, what flood soeâer it be.â Scarce had he finishâd, when, with speckled pride, A serpent from the tomb began to glide; His hugy bulk on sevân high volumes rollâd; Blue was his breadth of back, but streakâd with scaly gold: Thus riding on his curls, he seemâd to pass A rolling fire along, and singe the grass. More various colours throâ his body run, Than Iris when her bow imbibes the sun. Betwixt the rising altars, and around, The sacred monster shot along the ground; With harmless play amidst the bowls he passâd, And with his lolling tongue assayâd the taste: Thus fed with holy food, the wondrous guest Within the hollow tomb retirâd to rest. The pious prince, surprisâd at what he viewâd, The funâral honours with more zeal renewâd, Doubtful if this placeâs genius were, Or guardian of his fatherâs sepulcher. Five sheep, according to the rites, he slew; As many swine, and steers of sable hue; New genârous wine he from the goblets pourâd. And callâd his fatherâs ghost, from hell restorâd. The glad attendants in long order come, Offâring their gifts at great Anchisesâ tomb: Some add more oxen: some divide the spoil; Some place the chargers on the grassy soil; Some blow the fires, and offered entrails broil.
Now came the day desirâd. The skies were bright
With rosy luster of the rising light: The bordâring people, rousâd by sounding fame Of Trojan feasts and great Acestesâ name, The crowded shore with acclamations fill, Part to behold, and part to prove their skill. And first the gifts in public view they place, Green laurel wreaths, and palm, the victorsâ grace: Within the circle, arms and tripods lie, Ingots of gold and silver, heapâd on high, And vests embroiderâd, of the Tyrian dye. The trumpetâs clangour then the feast proclaims, And all prepare for their appointed games. Four galleys first, which equal rowers bear, Advancing, in the watâry lists appear. The speedy Dolphin, that outstrips the wind, Bore Mnestheus, author of the Memmian kind: Gyas the vast Chimaeraâs bulk commands, Which rising, like a towâring city stands; Three Trojans tug at evâry labâring oar; Three banks in three degrees the sailors bore; Beneath their sturdy strokes the billows roar. Sergesthus, who began the Sergian race, In the great Centaur took the leading place; Cloanthus on the sea-green Scylla stood, From whom Cluentius draws his Trojan blood.
Far in the sea, against the foaming shore,
There stands a rock: the raging billows roar Above his head in storms; but, when âtis clear, Uncurl their ridgy backs, and at his foot appear. In peace below the gentle waters run; The cormorants above lie basking in the sun. On this the hero fixâd an oak in sight, The mark to guide the mariners aright. To bear with this, the seamen stretch their oars; Then round the rock they steer, and seek the former shores. The lots decide their place. Above the rest, Each leader shining in his Tyrian vest; The common crew with wreaths of poplar boughs Their temples crown, and shade their sweaty brows: Besmearâd with oil, their naked shoulders shine. All take their seats, and wait the sounding sign: They gripe their oars; and evâry panting breast Is raisâd by turns with hope, by turns with fear depressâd. The clangour of the trumpet gives the sign; At once they start, advancing in a line: With shouts the sailors rend the starry skies; Lashâd with their oars, the smoky billows rise; Sparkles the briny main, and the vexâd ocean fries. Exact in time, with equal strokes they row: At once the brushing oars and brazen prow Dash up the sandy waves, and ope the depths below. Not fiery coursers, in a chariot race, Invade the field with half so swift a pace; Not the fierce driver with more fury lends The sounding lash, and, ere the stroke descends, Low to the wheels his pliant body bends. The partial crowd their hopes and fears divide, And aid with eager shouts the favourâd side. Cries, murmurs, clamours, with a mixing sound, From woods to woods, from hills to hills rebound.
Amidst the loud applauses of the shore,
Gyas outstrippâd the rest, and sprung before: Cloanthus, better mannâd, pursued him fast, But his oâer-masted galley checkâd his haste. The Centaur and the Dolphin brush the brine With equal oars, advancing in a line; And now the mighty Centaur seems to lead, And now the speedy Dolphin gets ahead; Now board to board the rival vessels row, The billows lave the skies, and ocean groans below. They reachâd the mark; proud Gyas and his train In triumph rode, the victors of the main; But, steering round, he chargâd his pilot stand More close to shore, and skim along the sand. âLet others bear to sea!â Menoetes heard; But secret shelves too cautiously he fearâd, And, fearing, sought the deep; and still aloof he steerâd. With louder cries the captain callâd again: âBear to the rocky shore, and shun the main.â He spoke, and, speaking, at his stern he saw The bold Cloanthus near the shelvings draw. Betwixt the mark and him the Scylla stood, And in a closer compass plowâd the flood. He passâd the mark; and, wheeling, got before: Gyas blasphemâd the gods, devoutly swore, Cried out for anger, and his hair he tore. Mindless of othersâ lives (so high was grown His rising rage) and careless of his own, The trembling dotard to the deck he drew; Then hoisted up, and overboard he threw: This done, he seizâd the helm; his fellows cheerâd, Turnâd short upon the shelfs, and madly steerâd.
Hardly his head the plunging pilot rears,
Cloggâd with his clothes, and cumberâd with his years: Now dropping wet, he climbs the cliff with pain. The crowd, that saw him fall and float again, Shout from the distant shore; and loudly laughâd, To see his heaving breast disgorge the briny draught. The following Centaur, and the Dolphinâs crew, Their vanishâd hopes of victory renew; While Gyas lags, they kindle in the race, To reach the mark. Sergesthus takes the place; Mnestheus pursues; and while around they wind, Comes up, not half his galleyâs length behind; Then, on the deck, amidst his mates appearâd, And thus their drooping courages he cheerâd: âMy friends, and Hectorâs followers heretofore, Exert your vigour; tug the labâring oar; Stretch to your strokes, my still unconquerâd crew, Whom from the flaming walls of Troy I drew. In this, our common intârest, let me find That strength of hand, that courage of the mind, As when you stemmâd the strong Malean flood, And oâer the Syrtesâ broken billows rowâd. I seek not now the foremost palm to gain; Thoâ yetââBut, ah! that haughty wish is vain! Let those enjoy it whom the gods ordain. But to be last, the lags of all the race! Redeem yourselves and me from that disgrace.â Now, one and all, they tug amain; they row At the full stretch, and shake the brazen prow. The sea beneath âem sinks; their labâring sides Are swellâd, and sweat runs guttâring down in tides. Chance aids their daring with unhopâd success; Sergesthus, eager with his beak to press Betwixt the rival galley and the rock, Shuts up thâ unwieldly Centaur in the lock. The vessel struck; and, with the dreadful shock, Her oars she shiverâd, and her head she broke. The trembling rowers from their banks arise, And, anxious for themselves, renounce the prize. With iron poles they heave her off the shores, And gather from the sea their floating oars. The crew of Mnestheus, with elated minds, Urge their success, and call the willing winds; Then ply their oars, and cut their liquid way In larger compass on the roomy sea. As, when the dove her rocky hold forsakes, Rousâd in a fright, her sounding wings she shakes; The cavern rings with clattâring; out she flies, And leaves her callow care, and cleaves the skies: At first she flutters; but at length she springs To smoother flight, and shoots upon her wings: So Mnestheus in the Dolphin cuts the sea; And, flying with a force, that force assists his way. Sergesthus in the Centaur soon he passâd, Wedgâd in the rocky shoals, and sticking fast. In vain the victor he with cries implores, And practices to row with shatterâd oars. Then Mnestheus bears with Gyas, and outflies: The ship, without a pilot, yields the prize. Unvanquishâd Scylla now alone remains; Her he pursues, and all his vigour strains. Shouts from the favâring multitude arise; Applauding Echo to the shouts replies; Shouts, wishes, and applause run rattling throâ the skies. These clamours with disdain the Scylla heard, Much grudgâd the praise, but more the robbâd reward: Resolvâd to hold their own, they mend their pace, All obstinate to die, or gain the race. Raisâd with success, the Dolphin swiftly ran; For they can conquer, who believe they can. Both urge their oars, and fortune both supplies, And both perhaps had sharâd an equal prize; When to the seas Cloanthus holds his hands, And succour from the watâry powârs demands: âGods of the liquid realms, on which I row! If, givân by you, the laurel bind my brow, Assist to make me guilty of my vow! A snow-white bull shall on your shore be slain; His offerâd entrails cast into the main, And ruddy wine, from golden goblets thrown, Your grateful gift and my return shall own.â The choir of nymphs, and Phorcus, from below, With virgin Panopea, heard his vow; And old Portunus, with his breadth of hand, Pushâd on, and sped the galley to the land. Swift as a shaft, or winged wind, she flies, And, darting to the port, obtains the prize.
The herald summons all, and then proclaims
Cloanthus conquâror of the naval games. The prince with laurel crowns the victorâs head, And three fat steers are to his vessel led, The shipâs reward; with genârous wine beside, And sums of silver, which the crew divide. The leaders are distinguishâd from the rest; The victor honourâd with a nobler vest, Where gold and purple strive in equal rows, And needlework its happy cost bestows. There Ganymede is wrought with living art, Chasing throâ Idaâs groves the trembling hart: Breathless he seems, yet eager to pursue; When from aloft descends, in open view, The bird of Jove, and, sousing on his prey, With crooked talons bears the boy away. In vain, with lifted hands and gazing eyes, His guards behold him soaring throâ the skies, And dogs pursue his flight with imitated cries.
Mnestheus the second victor was declarâd;
And, summonâd there, the second prize he sharâd. A coat of mail, brave Demoleus bore, More brave Aeneas from his shoulders tore, In single combat on the Trojan shore: This was ordainâd for Mnestheus to possess; In war for his defence, for ornament in peace. Rich was the gift, and glorious to behold, But yet so pondârous with its plates of gold, That scarce two servants could the weight sustain; Yet, loaded thus, Demoleus oâer the plain Pursued and lightly seizâd the Trojan train. The third, succeeding to the last reward, Two goodly bowls of massy silver sharâd, With figures prominent, and richly wrought, And two brass caldrons from Dodona brought.
Thus all, rewarded by the heroâs hands,
Their conquâring temples bound with purple bands; And now Sergesthus, clearing from the rock, Brought back his galley shatterâd with the shock. Forlorn she lookâd, without an aiding oar, And, houted by the vulgar, made to shore. As when a snake, surprisâd upon the road, Is crushâd athwart her body by the load Of heavy wheels; or with a mortal wound Her belly bruisâd, and trodden to the ground: In vain, with loosenâd curls, she crawls along; Yet, fierce above, she brandishes her tongue; Glares with her eyes, and bristles with her scales; But, groveling in the dust, her parts unsound she trails: So slowly to the port the Centaur tends, But, what she wants in oars, with sails amends. Yet, for his galley savâd, the grateful prince Is pleasâd thâ unhappy chief to recompense. Pholoe, the Cretan slave, rewards his care, Beauteous herself, with lovely twins as fair.
From thence his way the Trojan hero bent
Into the neighbâring plain, with mountains pent, Whose sides were shaded with surrounding wood. Full in the midst of this fair valley stood A native theatre, which, rising slow By just degrees, oâerlookâd the ground below. High on a sylvan throne the leader sate; A numârous train attend in solemn state. Here those that in the rapid course delight, Desire of honour and the prize invite. The rival runners without order stand; The Trojans mixâd with the Sicilian band. First Nisus, with Euryalus, appears; Euryalus a boy of blooming years, With sprightly grace and equal beauty crownâd; Nisus, for friendship to the youth renownâd. Diores next, of Priamâs royal race, Then Salius joined with Patron, took their place; But Patron in Arcadia had his birth, And Salius his from Arcananian earth; Then two Sicilian youths, the names of these, Swift Helymus, and lovely Panopes: Both jolly huntsmen, both in forest bred, And owning old Acestes for their head; With sevâral others of ignobler name, Whom time has not deliverâd oâer to fame.
To these the hero thus his thoughts explainâd,
In words which genâral approbation gainâd: âOne common largess is for all designâd, The vanquishâd and the victor shall be joinâd, Two darts of polishâd steel and Gnosian wood, A silver-studded ax alike bestowâd. The foremost three have olive wreaths decreed: The first of these obtains a stately steed, Adornâd with trappings; and the next in fame, The quiver of an Amazonian dame, With featherâd Thracian arrows well supplied: A golden belt shall gird his manly side, Which with a sparkling diamond shall be tied. The third this Grecian helmet shall content.â He said. To their appointed base they went; With beating hearts thâ expected sign receive, And, starting all at once, the barrier leave. Spread out, as on the winged winds, they flew, And seizâd the distant goal with greedy view. Shot from the crowd, swift Nisus all oâerpassâd; Nor storms, nor thunder, equal half his haste. The next, but thoâ the next, yet far disjoinâd, Came Salius, and Euryalus behind; Then Helymus, whom young Diores plied, Step after step, and almost side by side, His shoulders pressing; and, in longer space, Had won, or left at least a dubious race.
Now, spent, the goal they almost reach at last,
When eager Nisus, hapless in his haste, Slippâd first, and, slipping, fell upon the plain, Soakâd with the blood of oxen newly slain. The careless victor had not markâd his way; But, treading where the treachârous puddle lay, His heels flew up; and on the grassy floor He fell, besmearâd with filth and holy gore. Not mindless then, Euryalus, of thee, Nor of the sacred bonds of amity, He strove thâ immediate rivalâs hope to cross, And caught the foot of Salius as he rose. So Salius lay extended on the plain; Euryalus springs out, the prize to gain, And leaves the crowd: applauding peals attend The victor to the goal, who vanquishâd by his friend. Next Helymus; and then Diores came, By two misfortunes made the third in fame.
But Salius enters, and, exclaiming loud
For justice, deafens and disturbs the crowd; Urges his cause may in the court be heard; And pleads the prize is wrongfully conferrâd. But favour for Euryalus appears; His blooming beauty, with his tender tears, Had bribâd the judges for the promisâd prize. Besides, Diores fills the court with cries, Who vainly reaches at the last reward, If the first palm on Salius be conferrâd. Then thus the prince: âLet no disputes arise: Where fortune placâd it, I award the prize. But fortuneâs errors give me leave to mend, At least to pity my deserving friend.â He said, and, from among the spoils, he draws (Pondârous with shaggy mane and golden paws) A lionâs hide: to Salius this he gives. Nisus with envy sees the gift, and grieves. âIf such rewards to vanquishâd men are due.â He said, âand falling is to rise by you, What prize may Nisus from your bounty claim, Who merited the first rewards and fame? In falling, both an equal fortune tried; Would fortune for my fall so well provide!â With this he pointed to his face, and showâd His hand and all his habit smearâd with blood. Thâ indulgent father of the people smilâd, And causâd to be producâd an ample shield, Of wondrous art, by Didymaon wrought, Long since from Neptuneâs bars in triumph brought. This givân to Nisus, he divides the rest, And equal justice in his gifts expressâd.
The race thus ended, and rewards bestowâd,
Once more the prince bespeaks thâ attentive crowd: âIf there be here, whose dauntless courage dare In gauntlet fight, with limbs and body bare, His opposite sustain in open view, Stand forth the champion, and the games renew. Two prizes I propose, and thus divide: A bull with gilded horns, and fillets tied, Shall be the portion of the conquâring chief; A sword and helm shall cheer the loserâs grief.â
Then haughty Dares in the lists appears;
Stalking he strides, his head erected bears: His nervous arms the weighty gauntlet wield, And loud applauses echo throâ the field. Dares alone in combat usâd to stand The match of mighty Paris, hand to hand; The same, at Hectorâs funârals, undertook Gigantic Butes, of thâ Amycian stock, And, by the stroke of his resistless hand, Stretchâd the vast bulk upon the yellow sand. Such Dares was; and such he strode along, And drew the wonder of the gazing throng. His brawny back and ample breast he shows, His lifted arms around his head he throws, And deals in whistling air his empty blows. His match is sought; but, throâ the trembling band, Not one dares answer to the proud demand. Presuming of his force, with sparkling eyes Already he devours the promisâd prize. He claims the bull with awless insolence, And having seizâd his horns, accosts the prince: âIf none my matchless valour dares oppose, How long shall Dares wait his dastard foes? Permit me, chief, permit without delay, To lead this uncontended gift away.â The crowd assents, and with redoubled cries For the proud challenger demands the prize.
Acestes, firâd with just disdain, to see
The palm usurpâd without a victory, Reproachâd Entellus thus, who sate beside, And heard and saw, unmovâd, the Trojanâs pride: âOnce, but in vain, a champion of renown, So tamely can you bear the ravishâd crown, A prize in triumph borne before your sight, And shun, for fear, the danger of the fight? Where is our Eryx now, the boasted name, The god who taught your thundâring arm the game? Where now your baffled honour? Where the spoil That fillâd your house, and fame that fillâd our isle?â Entellus, thus: âMy soul is still the same, Unmovâd with fear, and movâd with martial fame; But my chill blood is curdled in my veins, And scarce the shadow of a man remains. O could I turn to that fair prime again, That prime of which this boaster is so vain, The brave, who this decrepid age defies, Should feel my force, without the promisâd prize.â
He said; and, rising at the word, he threw
Two pondârous gauntlets down in open view; Gauntlets which Eryx wont in fight to wield, And sheathe his hands with in the listed field. With fear and wonder seizâd, the crowd beholds The gloves of death, with sevân distinguishâd folds Of tough bull hides; the space within is spread With iron, or with loads of heavy lead: Dares himself was daunted at the sight, Renouncâd his challenge, and refusâd to fight. Astonishâd at their weight, the hero stands, And poisâd the pondârous engines in his hands. âWhat had your wonder,â said Entellus, âbeen, Had you the gauntlets of Alcides seen, Or viewâd the stern debate on this unhappy green! These which I bear your brother Eryx bore, Still markâd with batterâd brains and mingled gore. With these he long sustainâd thâ Herculean arm; And these I wielded while my blood was warm, This languishâd frame while better spirits fed, Ere age unstrung my nerves, or time oâersnowâd my head. But if the challenger these arms refuse, And cannot wield their weight, or dare not use; If great Aeneas and Acestes join In his request, these gauntlets I resign; Let us with equal arms perform the fight, And let him leave to fear, since I resign my right.â
This said, Entellus for the strife prepares;
Strippâd of his quilted coat, his body bares; Composâd of mighty bones and brawn he stands, A goodly towâring object on the sands. Then just Aeneas equal arms supplied, Which round their shoulders to their wrists they tied. Both on the tiptoe stand, at full extent, Their arms aloft, their bodies inly bent; Their heads from aiming blows they bear afar; With clashing gauntlets then provoke the war. One on his youth and pliant limbs relies; One on his sinews and his giant size. The last is stiff with age, his motion slow; He heaves for breath, he staggers to and fro, And clouds of issuing smoke his nostrils loudly blow. Yet equal in success, they ward, they strike; Their ways are diffârent, but their art alike. Before, behind, the blows are dealt; around Their hollow sides the rattling thumps resound. A storm of strokes, well meant, with fury flies, And errs about their temples, ears, and eyes. Nor always errs; for oft the gauntlet draws A sweeping stroke along the crackling jaws. Heavy with age, Entellus stands his ground, But with his warping body wards the wound. His hand and watchful eye keep even pace; While Dares traverses and shifts his place, And, like a captain who beleaguers round Some strong-built castle on a rising ground, Views all thâ approaches with observing eyes: This and that other part in vain he tries, And more on industry than force relies. With hands on high, Entellus threats the foe; But Dares watchâd the motion from below, And slippâd aside, and shunnâd the long descending blow. Entellus wastes his forces on the wind, And, thus deluded of the stroke designâd, Headlong and heavy fell; his ample breast And weighty limbs his ancient mother pressâd. So falls a hollow pine, that long had stood On Idaâs height, or Erymanthusâ wood, Torn from the roots. The diffâring nations rise, And shouts and mingled murmurs rend the skies, Acestus runs with eager haste, to raise The fallân companion of his youthful days. Dauntless he rose, and to the fight returnâd; With shame his glowing cheeks, his eyes with fury burnâd. Disdain and conscious virtue firâd his breast, And with redoubled force his foe he pressâd. He lays on load with either hand, amain, And headlong drives the Trojan oâer the plain; Nor stops, nor stays; nor rest nor breath allows; But storms of strokes descend about his brows, A rattling tempest, and a hail of blows. But now the prince, who saw the wild increase Of wounds, commands the combatants to cease, And bounds Entellusâ wrath, and bids the peace. First to the Trojan, spent with toil, he came, And soothâd his sorrow for the sufferâd shame. âWhat fury seizâd my friend? The gods,â said he, âTo him propitious, and averse to thee, Have givân his arm superior force to thine. âTis madness to contend with strength divine.â The gauntlet fight thus ended, from the shore His faithful friends unhappy Dares bore: His mouth and nostrils pourâd a purple flood, And pounded teeth came rushing with his blood. Faintly he staggerâd throâ the hissing throng, And hung his head, and trailâd his legs along. The sword and casque are carried by his train; But with his foe the palm and ox remain.
The champion, then, before Aeneas came,
Proud of his prize, but prouder of his fame: âO goddess-born, and you, Dardanian host, Mark with attention, and forgive my boast; Learn what I was, by what remains; and know From what impending fate you savâd my foe.â Sternly he spoke, and then confronts the bull; And, on his ample forehead aiming full, The deadly stroke, descending, piercâd the skull. Down drops the beast, nor needs a second wound, But sprawls in pangs of death, and spurns the ground. Then, thus: âIn Daresâ stead I offer this. Eryx, accept a nobler sacrifice; Take the last gift my witherâd arms can yield: Thy gauntlets I resign, and here renounce the field.â
This done, Aeneas orders, for the close,
The strife of archers with contending bows. The mast Sergesthusâ shatterâd galley bore With his own hands he raises on the shore. A fluttâring dove upon the top they tie, The living mark at which their arrows fly. The rival archers in a line advance, Their turn of shooting to receive from chance. A helmet holds their names; the lots are drawn: On the first scroll was read Hippocoon. The people shout. Upon the next was found Young Mnestheus, late with naval honours crownâd. The third containâd Eurytionâs noble name, Thy brother, Pandarus, and next in fame, Whom Pallas urgâd the treaty to confound, And send among the Greeks a featherâd wound. Acestes in the bottom last remainâd, Whom not his age from youthful sports restrainâd. Soon all with vigour bend their trusty bows, And from the quiver each his arrow chose. Hippocoonâs was the first: with forceful sway It flew, and, whizzing, cut the liquid way. Fixâd in the mast the featherâd weapon stands: The fearful pigeon flutters in her bands, And the tree trembled, and the shouting cries Of the pleasâd people rend the vaulted skies. Then Mnestheus to the head his arrow drove, With lifted eyes, and took his aim above, But made a glancing shot, and missed the dove; Yet missâd so narrow, that he cut the cord Which fastenâd by the foot the flitting bird. The captive thus releasâd, away she flies, And beats with clapping wings the yielding skies. His bow already bent, Eurytion stood; And, having first invokâd his brother god, His winged shaft with eager haste he sped. The fatal message reachâd her as she fled: She leaves her life aloft; she strikes the ground, And renders back the weapon in the wound. Acestes, grudging at his lot, remains, Without a prize to gratify his pains. Yet, shooting upward, sends his shaft, to show An archerâs art, and boast his twanging bow. The featherâd arrow gave a dire portent, And latter augurs judge from this event. Chafâd by the speed, it firâd; and, as it flew, A trail of following flames ascending drew: Kindling they mount, and mark the shiny way; Across the skies as falling meteors play, And vanish into wind, or in a blaze decay. The Trojans and Sicilians wildly stare, And, trembling, turn their wonder into prayâr. The Dardan prince put on a smiling face, And strainâd Acestes with a close embrace; Then, honâring him with gifts above the rest, Turnâd the bad omen, nor his fears confessâd. âThe gods,â said he, âthis miracle have wrought, And orderâd you the prize without the lot. Accept this goblet, rough with figurâd gold, Which Thracian Cisseus gave my sire of old: This pledge of ancient amity receive, Which to my second sire I justly give.â He said, and, with the trumpetsâ cheerful sound, Proclaimâd him victor, and with laurel-crownâd. Nor good Eurytion envied him the prize, Thoâ he transfixâd the pigeon in the skies. Who cut the line, with second gifts was gracâd; The third was his whose arrow piercâd the mast.
The chief, before the games were wholly done,
Callâd Periphantes, tutor to his son, And whisperâd thus: âWith speed Ascanius find; And, if his childish troop be ready joinâd, On horseback let him grace his grandsireâs day, And lead his equals armâd in just array.â He said; and, calling out, the cirque he clears. The crowd withdrawn, an open plain appears. And now the noble youths, of form divine, Advance before their fathers, in a line; The riders grace the steeds; the steeds with glory shine.
Thus marching on in military pride,
Shouts of applause resound from side to side. Their casques adornâd with laurel wreaths they wear, Each brandishing aloft a cornel spear. Some at their backs their gilded quivers bore; Their chains of burnishâd gold hung down before. Three graceful troops they formâd upon the green; Three graceful leaders at their head were seen; Twelve followâd evâry chief, and left a space between. The first young Priam led; a lovely boy, Whose grandsire was thâ unhappy king of Troy; His race in after times was known to fame, New honours adding to the Latian name; And well the royal boy his Thracian steed became. White were the fetlocks of his feet before, And on his front a snowy star he bore. Then beauteous Atys, with Iulus bred, Of equal age, the second squadron led. The last in order, but the first in place, First in the lovely features of his face, Rode fair Ascanius on a fiery steed, Queen Didoâs gift, and of the Tyrian breed. Sure coursers for the rest the king ordains, With golden bits adornâd, and purple reins.
The pleasâd spectators peals of shouts renew,
And all the parents in the children view; Their make, their motions, and their sprightly grace, And hopes and fears alternate in their face.
Thâ unfledgâd commanders and their martial train
First make the circuit of the sandy plain Around their sires, and, at thâ appointed sign, Drawn up in beauteous order, form a line. The second signal sounds, the troop divides In three distinguishâd parts, with three distinguishâd guides Again they close, and once again disjoin; In troop to troop opposâd, and line to line. They meet; they wheel; they throw their darts afar With harmless rage and well-dissembled war. Then in a round the mingled bodies run: Flying they follow, and pursuing shun; Broken, they break; and, rallying, they renew In other forms the military shew. At last, in order, undiscernâd they join, And march together in a friendly line. And, as the Cretan labyrinth of old, With wandâring ways and many a winding fold, Involvâd the weary feet, without redress, In a round error, which denied recess; So fought the Trojan boys in warlike play, Turnâd and returnâd, and still a diffârent way. Thus dolphins in the deep each other chase In circles, when they swim around the watâry race. This game, these carousels, Ascanius taught; And, building Alba, to the Latins brought; Shewâd what he learnâd: the Latin sires impart To their succeeding sons the graceful art; From these imperial Rome receivâd the game, Which Troy, the youths the Trojan troop, they name.
Thus far the sacred sports they celebrate:
But Fortune soon resumâd her ancient hate; For, while they pay the dead his annual dues, Those envied rites Saturnian Juno views; And sends the goddess of the various bow, To try new methods of revenge below; Supplies the winds to wing her airy way, Where in the port secure the navy lay. Swiftly fair Iris down her arch descends, And, undiscernâd, her fatal voyage ends. She saw the gathâring crowd; and, gliding thence, The desert shore, and fleet without defence. The Trojan matrons, on the sands alone, With sighs and tears Anchisesâ death bemoan; Then, turning to the sea their weeping eyes, Their pity to themselves renews their cries. âAlas!â said one, âwhat oceans yet remain For us to sail! what labours to sustain!â All take the word, and, with a genâral groan, Implore the gods for peace, and places of their own.
The goddess, great in mischief, views their pains,
And in a womanâs form her heavânly limbs restrains. In face and shape old Beroe she became, Doryclusâ wife, a venerable dame, Once blest with riches, and a motherâs name. Thus changâd, amidst the crying crowd she ran, Mixâd with the matrons, and these words began: âO wretched we, whom not the Grecian powâr, Nor flames, destroyâd, in Troyâs unhappy hour! O wretched we, reservâd by cruel fate, Beyond the ruins of the sinking state! Now sevân revolving years are wholly run, Since this improspârous voyage we begun; Since, tossâd from shores to shores, from lands to lands, Inhospitable rocks and barren sands, Wandâring in exile throâ the stormy sea, We search in vain for flying Italy. Now cast by fortune on this kindred land, What should our rest and rising walls withstand, Or hinder here to fix our banishâd band? O country lost, and gods redeemâd in vain, If still in endless exile we remain! Shall we no more the Trojan walls renew, Or streams of some dissembled Simois view! Haste, join with me, thâ unhappy fleet consume! Cassandra bids; and I declare her doom. In sleep I saw her; she supplied my hands (For this I more than dreamt) with flaming brands: âWith these,â said she, âthese wandâring ships destroy: These are your fatal seats, and this your Troy.â Time calls you now; the precious hour employ: Slack not the good presage, while Heavân inspires Our minds to dare, and gives the ready fires. See! Neptuneâs altars minister their brands: The god is pleasâd; the god supplies our hands.â Then from the pile a flaming fire she drew, And, tossâd in air, amidst the galleys threw.
Wrappâd in amaze, the matrons wildly stare:
Then Pyrgo, reverencâd for her hoary hair, Pyrgo, the nurse of Priamâs numârous race: âNo Beroe this, thoâ she belies her face! What terrors from her frowning front arise! Behold a goddess in her ardent eyes! What rays around her heavânly face are seen! Mark her majestic voice, and more than mortal mien! Beroe but now I left, whom, pinâd with pain, Her age and anguish from these rites detain,â She said. The matrons, seizâd with new amaze, Roll their malignant eyes, and on the navy gaze. They fear, and hope, and neither part obey: They hope the fated land, but fear the fatal way. The goddess, having done her task below, Mounts up on equal wings, and bends her painted bow. Struck with the sight, and seizâd with rage divine, The matrons prosecute their mad design: They shriek aloud; they snatch, with impious hands, The food of altars; fires and flaming brands. Green boughs and saplings, mingled in their haste, And smoking torches, on the ships they cast. The flame, unstoppâd at first, more fury gains, And Vulcan rides at large with loosenâd reins: Triumphant to the painted sterns he soars, And seizes, in this way, the banks and crackling oars. Eumelus was the first the news to bear, While yet they crowd the rural theatre. Then, what they hear, is witnessâd by their eyes: A storm of sparkles and of flames arise. Ascanius took thâ alarm, while yet he led His early warriors on his prancing steed, And, spurring on, his equals soon oâerpassâd; Nor could his frighted friends reclaim his haste. Soon as the royal youth appearâd in view, He sent his voice before him as he flew: âWhat madness moves you, matrons, to destroy The last remainders of unhappy Troy! Not hostile fleets, but your own hopes, you burn, And on your friends your fatal fury turn. Behold your own Ascanius!â While he said, He drew his glittâring helmet from his head, In which the youths to sportful arms he led. By this, Aeneas and his train appear; And now the women, seizâd with shame and fear, Dispersâd, to woods and caverns take their flight, Abhor their actions, and avoid the light; Their friends acknowledge, and their error find, And shake the goddess from their alterâd mind.
Not so the raging fires their fury cease,
But, lurking in the seams, with seeming peace, Work on their way amid the smouldâring tow, Sure in destruction, but in motion slow. The silent plague throâ the green timber eats, And vomits out a tardy flame by fits. Down to the keels, and upward to the sails, The fire descends, or mounts, but still prevails; Nor buckets pourâd, nor strength of human hand, Can the victorious element withstand.
The pious hero rends his robe, and throws
To heavân his hands, and with his hands his vows. âO Jove,â he cried, âif prayârs can yet have place; If thou abhorrâst not all the Dardan race; If any spark of pity still remain; If gods are gods, and not invokâd in vain; Yet spare the relics of the Trojan train! Yet from the flames our burning vessels free, Or let thy fury fall alone on me! At this devoted head thy thunder throw, And send the willing sacrifice below!â
Scarce had he said, when southern storms arise:
From pole to pole the forky lightning flies; Loud rattling shakes the mountains and the plain; Heavân bellies downward, and descends in rain. Whole sheets of water from the clouds are sent, Which, hissing throâ the planks, the flames prevent, And stop the fiery pest. Four ships alone Burn to the waist, and for the fleet atone.
But doubtful thoughts the heroâs heart divide;
If he should still in Sicily reside, Forgetful of his fates, or tempt the main, In hope the promisâd Italy to gain. Then Nautes, old and wise, to whom alone The will of Heavân by Pallas was foreshown; Versâd in portents, experiencâd, and inspirâd To tell events, and what the fates requirâd; Thus while he stood, to neither part inclinâd, With cheerful words relievâd his labâring mind: âO goddess-born, resignâd in evâry state, With patience bear, with prudence push your fate. By suffâring well, our Fortune we subdue; Fly when she frowns, and, when she calls, pursue. Your friend Acestes is of Trojan kind; To him disclose the secrets of your mind: Trust in his hands your old and useless train; Too numârous for the ships which yet remain: The feeble, old, indulgent of their ease, The dames who dread the dangers of the seas, With all the dastard crew, who dare not stand The shock of battle with your foes by land. Here you may build a common town for all, And, from Acestesâ name, Acesta call.â The reasons, with his friendâs experience joinâd, Encouragâd much, but more disturbâd his mind.
âTwas dead of night; when to his slumbâring eyes
His fatherâs shade descended from the skies, And thus he spoke: âO more than vital breath, Lovâd while I livâd, and dear evân after death; O son, in various toils and troubles tossâd, The King of Heavân employs my careful ghost On his commands: the god, who savâd from fire Your flaming fleet, and heard your just desire. The wholesome counsel of your friend receive, And here the coward train and woman leave: The chosen youth, and those who nobly dare, Transport, to tempt the dangers of the war. The stern Italians will their courage try; Rough are their manners, and their minds are high. But first to Plutoâs palace you shall go, And seek my shade among the blest below: For not with impious ghosts my soul remains, Nor suffers with the damnâd perpetual pains, But breathes the living air of soft Elysian plains. The chaste Sibylla shall your steps convey, And blood of offerâd victims free the way. There shall you know what realms the gods assign, And learn the fates and fortunes of your line. But now, farewell! I vanish with the night, And feel the blast of heavânâs approaching light.â He said, and mixâd with shades, and took his airy flight. âWhither so fast?â the filial duty cried; âAnd why, ah why, the wishâd embrace denied?â
He said, and rose; as holy zeal inspires,
He rakes hot embers, and renews the fires; His country gods and Vesta then adores With cakes and incense, and their aid implores. Next, for his friends and royal host he sent, Revealâd his vision, and the godsâ intent, With his own purpose. All, without delay, The will of Jove, and his desires obey. They list with women each degenerate name, Who dares not hazard life for future fame. These they cashier: the brave remaining few, Oars, banks, and cables, half consumâd, renew. The prince designs a city with the plow; The lots their sevâral tenements allow. This part is namâd from Ilium, that from Troy, And the new king ascends the throne with joy; A chosen senate from the people draws; Appoints the judges, and ordains the laws. Then, on the top of Eryx, they begin A rising temple to the Paphian queen. Anchises, last, is honourâd as a god; A priest is added, annual gifts bestowâd, And groves are planted round his blest abode. Nine days they pass in feasts, their temples crownâd; And fumes of incense in the fanes abound. Then from the south arose a gentle breeze That curlâd the smoothness of the glassy seas; The rising winds a ruffling gale afford, And call the merry mariners aboard.
Now loud laments along the shores resound,
Of parting friends in close embraces bound. The trembling women, the degenerate train, Who shunnâd the frightful dangers of the main, Evân those desire to sail, and take their share Of the rough passage and the promisâd war: Whom good Aeneas cheers, and recommends To their new masterâs care his fearful friends. On Eryxâs altars three fat calves he lays; A lamb new-fallen to the stormy seas; Then slips his haulsers, and his anchors weighs. High on the deck the godlike hero stands, With olive crownâd, a charger in his hands; Then cast the reeking entrails in the brine, And pourâd the sacrifice of purple wine. Fresh gales arise; with equal strokes they vie, And brush the buxom seas, and oâer the billows fly.
Meantime the mother goddess, full of fears,
To Neptune thus addressâd, with tender tears: âThe pride of Joveâs imperious queen, the rage, The malice which no suffârings can assuage, Compel me to these prayârs; since neither fate, Nor time, nor pity, can remove her hate: Evân Jove is thwarted by his haughty wife; Still vanquishâd, yet she still renews the strife. As if âtwere little to consume the town Which awâd the world, and wore thâ imperial crown, She prosecutes the ghost of Troy with pains, And gnaws, evân to the bones, the last remains. Let her the causes of her hatred tell; But you can witness its effects too well. You saw the storm she raisâd on Libyan floods, That mixâd the mounting billows with the clouds; When, bribing Aeolus, she shook the main, And movâd rebellion in your watâry reign. With fury she possessâd the Dardan dames, To burn their fleet with execrable flames, And forcâd Aeneas, when his ships were lost, To leave his follâwers on a foreign coast. For what remains, your godhead I implore, And trust my son to your protecting powâr. If neither Joveâs nor Fateâs decree withstand, Secure his passage to the Latian land.â
Then thus the mighty Ruler of the Main:
âWhat may not Venus hope from Neptuneâs reign? My kingdom claims your birth; my late defence Of your indangerâd fleet may claim your confidence. Nor less by land than sea my deeds declare How much your lovâd Aeneas is my care. Thee, Xanthus, and thee, Simois, I attest. Your Trojan troops when proud Achilles pressâd, And drove before him headlong on the plain, And dashâd against the walls the trembling train; When floods were fillâd with bodies of the slain; When crimson Xanthus, doubtful of his way, Stood up on ridges to behold the sea; New heaps came tumbling in, and chokâd his way; When your Aeneas fought, but fought with odds Of force unequal, and unequal gods; I spread a cloud before the victorâs sight, Sustainâd the vanquishâd, and securâd his flight; Evân then securâd him, when I sought with joy The vowâd destruction of ungrateful Troy. My willâs the same: fair goddess, fear no more, Your fleet shall safely gain the Latian shore; Their lives are givân; one destinâd head alone Shall perish, and for multitudes atone.â Thus having armâd with hopes her anxious mind, His finny team Saturnian Neptune joinâd, Then adds the foamy bridle to their jaws, And to the loosenâd reins permits the laws. High on the waves his azure car he guides; Its axles thunder, and the sea subsides, And the smooth ocean rolls her silent tides. The tempests fly before their fatherâs face, Trains of inferior gods his triumph grace, And monster whales before their master play, And choirs of Tritons crowd the watâry way. The marshalâd powârs in equal troops divide To right and left; the gods his better side Inclose, and on the worse the Nymphs and Nereids ride.
Now smiling hope, with sweet vicissitude,
Within the heroâs mind his joys renewâd. He calls to raise the masts, the sheets display; The cheerful crew with diligence obey; They scud before the wind, and sail in open sea. Ahead of all the master pilot steers; And, as he leads, the following navy veers. The steeds of Night had travelâd half the sky, The drowsy rowers on their benches lie, When the soft God of Sleep, with easy flight, Descends, and draws behind a trail of light. Thou, Palinurus, art his destinâd prey; To thee alone he takes his fatal way. Dire dreams to thee, and iron sleep, he bears; And, lighting on thy prow, the form of Phorbas wears. Then thus the traitor god began his tale: âThe winds, my friend, inspire a pleasing gale; The ships, without thy care, securely sail. Now steal an hour of sweet repose; and I Will take the rudder and thy room supply.â To whom the yawning pilot, half asleep: âMe dost thou bid to trust the treachârous deep, The harlot smiles of her dissembling face, And to her faith commit the Trojan race? Shall I believe the Siren South again, And, oft betrayâd, not know the monster main?â He said: his fastenâd hands the rudder keep, And, fixâd on heavân, his eyes repel invading sleep. The god was wroth, and at his temples threw A branch in Lethe dippâd, and drunk with Stygian dew: The pilot, vanquishâd by the powâr divine, Soon closâd his swimming eyes, and lay supine. Scarce were his limbs extended at their length, The god, insulting with superior strength, Fell heavy on him, plungâd him in the sea, And, with the stern, the rudder tore away. Headlong he fell, and, struggling in the main, Cried out for helping hands, but cried in vain. The victor daemon mounts obscure in air, While the ship sails without the pilotâs care. On Neptuneâs faith the floating fleet relies; But what the man forsook, the god supplies, And oâer the dangârous deep secure the navy flies; Glides by the Sirensâ cliffs, a shelfy coast, Long infamous for ships and sailors lost, And white with bones. Thâ impetuous ocean roars, And rocks rebellow from the sounding shores. The watchful hero felt the knocks, and found The tossing vessel sailâd on shoaly ground. Sure of his pilotâs loss, he takes himself The helm, and steers aloof, and shuns the shelf. Inly he grievâd, and, groaning from the breast, Deplorâd his death; and thus his pain expressâd: âFor faith reposâd on seas, and on the flattâring sky, Thy naked corpse is doomâd on shores unknown to lie.â BOOK VITHE ARGUMENT.
The Sibyl foretells Aeneas the adventures he should meet with in Italy. She attends him to hell; describing to him the various scenes of that place, and conducting him to his father Anchises, who instructs him in those sublime mysteries, of the soul of the world, and the transmigration; and shows him that glorious race of heroes, which was to descend from him and his posterity.
He said, and wept; then spread his sails before
The winds, and reachâd at length the Cumaean shore: Their anchors droppâd, his crew the vessels moor. They turn their heads to sea, their sterns to land, And greet with greedy joy thâ Italian strand. Some strike from clashing flints their fiery seed; Some gather sticks, the kindled flames to feed, Or search for hollow trees, and fell the woods, Or trace throâ valleys the discoverâd floods. Thus, while their sevâral charges they fulfil, The pious prince ascends the sacred hill Where Phoebus is adorâd; and seeks the shade Which hides from sight his venerable maid. Deep in a cave the Sibyl makes abode; Thence full of fate returns, and of the god. Throâ Triviaâs grove they walk; and now behold, And enter now, the temple roofâd with gold. When Daedalus, to fly the Cretan shore, His heavy limbs on jointed pinions bore, (The first who sailâd in air,) âtis sung by Fame, To the Cumaean coast at length he came, And here alighting, built this costly frame. Inscribâd to Phoebus, here he hung on high The steerage of his wings, that cut the sky: Then oâer the lofty gate his art embossâd Androgeosâ death, and offârings to his ghost; Sevân youths from Athens yearly sent, to meet The fate appointed by revengeful Crete. And next to those the dreadful urn was placâd, In which the destinâd names by lots were cast: The mournful parents stand around in tears, And rising Crete against their shore appears. There too, in living sculpture, might be seen The mad affection of the Cretan queen; Then how she cheats her bellowing loverâs eye; The rushing leap, the doubtful progeny, The lower part a beast, a man above, The monument of their polluted love. Not far from thence he gravâd the wondrous maze, A thousand doors, a thousand winding ways: Here dwells the monster, hid from human view, Not to be found, but by the faithful clue; Till the kind artist, movâd with pious grief, Lent to the loving maid this last relief, And all those erring paths describâd so well That Theseus conquerâd and the monster fell. Here hapless Icarus had found his part, Had not the fatherâs grief restrainâd his art. He twice assayâd to cast his son in gold; Twice from his hands he droppâd the forming mould.
All this with wondâring eyes Aeneas viewâd;
Each varying object his delight renewâd: Eager to read the rest, Achates came, And by his side the mad divining dame, The priestess of the god, Deiphobe her name. âTime suffers not,â she said, âto feed your eyes With empty pleasures; haste the sacrifice. Sevân bullocks, yet unyokâd, for Phoebus choose, And for Diana sevân unspotted ewes.â This said, the servants urge the sacred rites, While to the temple she the prince invites. A spacious cave, within its farmost part, Was hewâd and fashionâd by laborious art Throâ the hillâs hollow sides: before the place, A hundred doors a hundred entries grace; As many voices issue, and the sound Of Sybilâs words as many times rebound. Now to the mouth they come. Aloud she cries: âThis is the time; enquire your destinies. He comes; behold the god!â Thus while she said, (And shivâring at the sacred entry stayâd,) Her colour changâd; her face was not the same, And hollow groans from her deep spirit came. Her hair stood up; convulsive rage possessâd Her trembling limbs, and heavâd her labâring breast. Greater than humankind she seemâd to look, And with an accent more than mortal spoke. Her staring eyes with sparkling fury roll; When all the god came rushing on her soul. Swiftly she turnâd, and, foaming as she spoke: âWhy this delay?â she cried; âthe powârs invoke! Thy prayârs alone can open this abode; Else vain are my demands, and dumb the god.â
She said no more. The trembling Trojans hear,
Oâerspread with a damp sweat and holy fear. The prince himself, with awful dread possessâd, His vows to great Apollo thus addressâd: âIndulgent god, propitious powâr to Troy, Swift to relieve, unwilling to destroy, Directed by whose hand the Dardan dart Piercâd the proud Grecianâs only mortal part: Thus far, by fateâs decrees and thy commands, Throâ ambient seas and throâ devouring sands, Our exilâd crew has sought thâ Ausonian ground; And now, at length, the flying coast is found. Thus far the fate of Troy, from place to place, With fury has pursued her wandâring race. Here cease, ye powârs, and let your vengeance end: Troy is no more, and can no more offend. And thou, O sacred maid, inspirâd to see Thâ event of things in dark futurity; Give me what Heavân has promisâd to my fate, To conquer and command the Latian state; To fix my wandâring gods, and find a place For the long exiles of the Trojan race. Then shall my grateful hands a temple rear To the twin gods, with vows and solemn prayâr; And annual rites, and festivals, and games, Shall be performâd to their auspicious names. Nor shalt thou want thy honours in my land; For there thy faithful oracles shall stand, Preservâd in shrines; and evâry sacred lay, Which, by thy mouth, Apollo shall convey: All shall be treasurâd by a chosen train Of holy priests, and ever shall remain. But O! commit not thy prophetic mind To flitting leaves, the sport of evâry wind, Lest they disperse in air our empty fate; Write not, but, what the powârs ordain, relate.â
Struggling in vain, impatient of her load,
And labâring underneath the pondârous god, The more she strove to shake him from her breast, With more and far superior force he pressâd; Commands his entrance, and, without control, Usurps her organs and inspires her soul. Now, with a furious blast, the hundred doors Ope of themselves; a rushing whirlwind roars Within the cave, and Sibylâs voice restores: âEscapâd the dangers of the watâry reign, Yet more and greater ills by land remain. The coast, so long desirâd (nor doubt thâ event), Thy troops shall reach, but, having reachâd, repent. Wars, horrid wars, I view; a field of blood, And Tiber rolling with a purple flood. Simois nor Xanthus shall be wanting there: A new Achilles shall in arms appear, And he, too, goddess-born. Fierce Junoâs hate, Added to hostile force, shall urge thy fate. To what strange nations shalt not thou resort, Drivân to solicit aid at evâry court! The cause the same which Ilium once oppressâd; A foreign mistress, and a foreign guest. But thou, secure of soul, unbent with woes, The more thy fortune frowns, the more oppose. The dawnings of thy safety shall be shown From whence thou least shalt hope, a Grecian town.â
Thus, from the dark recess, the Sibyl spoke,
And the resisting air the thunder broke; The cave rebellowâd, and the temple shook. Thâ ambiguous god, who rulâd her labâring breast, In these mysterious words his mind expressâd; Some truths revealâd, in terms involvâd the rest. At length her fury fell, her foaming ceasâd, And, ebbing in her soul, the god decreasâd. Then thus the chief: âNo terror to my view, No frightful face of danger can be new. Inurâd to suffer, and resolvâd to dare, The Fates, without my powâr, shall be without my care. This let me crave, since near your grove the road To hell lies open, and the dark abode Which Acheron surrounds, thâ innavigable flood; Conduct me throâ the regions void of light, And lead me longing to my fatherâs sight. For him, a thousand dangers I have sought, And, rushing where the thickest Grecians fought, Safe on my back the sacred burthen brought. He, for my sake, the raging ocean tried, And wrath of Heavân, my still auspicious guide, And bore beyond the strength decrepid age supplied. Oft, since he breathâd his last, in dead of night His reverend image stood before my sight; Enjoinâd to seek, below, his holy shade; Conducted there by your unerring aid. But you, if pious minds by prayârs are won, Oblige the father, and protect the son. Yours is the powâr; nor Proserpine in vain Has made you priestess of her nightly reign. If Orpheus, armâd with his enchanting lyre, The ruthless king with pity could inspire, And from the shades below redeem his wife; If Pollux, offâring his alternate life, Could free his brother, and can daily go By turns aloft, by turns descend below: Why name I Theseus, or his greater friend, Who trod the downward path, and upward could ascend? Not less than theirs from Jove my lineage came; My mother greater, my descent the same.â So prayâd the Trojan prince, and, while he prayâd, His hand upon the holy altar laid.
Then thus replied the prophetess divine:
âO goddess-born of great Anchisesâ line, The gates of hell are open night and day; Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return, and view the cheerful skies, In this the task and mighty labour lies. To few great Jupiter imparts this grace, And those of shining worth and heavânly race. Betwixt those regions and our upper light, Deep forests and impenetrable night Possess the middle space: thâ infernal bounds Cocytus, with his sable waves, surrounds. But if so dire a love your soul invades, As twice below to view the trembling shades; If you so hard a toil will undertake, As twice to pass thâ innavigable lake; Receive my counsel. In the neighbâring grove There stands a tree; the queen of Stygian Jove Claims it her own; thick woods and gloomy night Conceal the happy plant from human sight. One bough it bears; but wondrous to behold! The ductile rind and leaves of radiant gold: This from the vulgar branches must be torn, And to fair Proserpine the present borne, Ere leave be givân to tempt the nether skies. The first thus rent a second will arise, And the same metal the same room supplies. Look round the wood, with lifted eyes, to see The lurking gold upon the fatal tree: Then rend it off, as holy rites command; The willing metal will obey thy hand, Following with ease, if favourâd by thy fate, Thou art foredoomâd to view the Stygian state: If not, no labour can the tree constrain; And strength of stubborn arms and steel are vain. Besides, you know not, while you here attend, Thâ unworthy fate of your unhappy friend: Breathless he lies; and his unburied ghost, Deprivâd of funâral rites, pollutes your host. Pay first his pious dues; and, for the dead, Two sable sheep around his hearse be led; Then, living turfs upon his body lay: This done, securely take the destinâd way, To find the regions destitute of day.â
She said, and held her peace. Aeneas went
Sad from the cave, and full of discontent, Unknowing whom the sacred Sibyl meant. Achates, the companion of his breast, Goes grieving by his side, with equal cares oppressâd. Walking, they talkâd, and fruitlessly divinâd What friend the priestess by those words designâd. But soon they found an object to deplore: Misenus lay extended on the shore; Son of the God of Winds: none so renownâd The warrior trumpet in the field to sound; With breathing brass to kindle fierce alarms, And rouse to dare their fate in honourable arms. He servâd great Hector, and was ever near, Not with his trumpet only, but his spear. But by Pelidesâ arms when Hector fell, He chose Aeneas; and he chose as well. Swoln with applause, and aiming still at more, He now provokes the sea gods from the shore; With envy Triton heard the martial sound, And the bold champion, for his challenge, drownâd; Then cast his mangled carcass on the strand: The gazing crowd around the body stand. All weep; but most Aeneas mourns his fate, And hastens to perform the funeral state. In altar-wise, a stately pile they rear; The basis broad below, and top advancâd in air. An ancient wood, fit for the work designâd, (The shady covert of the salvage kind,) The Trojans found: the sounding ax is plied; Firs, pines, and pitch trees, and the towâring pride Of forest ashes, feel the fatal stroke, And piercing wedges cleave the stubborn oak. Huge trunks of trees, fellâd from the steepy crown Of the bare mountains, roll with ruin down. Armâd like the rest the Trojan prince appears, And by his pious labour urges theirs.
Thus while he wrought, revolving in his mind
The ways to compass what his wish designâd, He cast his eyes upon the gloomy grove, And then with vows implorâd the Queen of Love: âO may thy powâr, propitious still to me, Conduct my steps to find the fatal tree, In this deep forest; since the Sibylâs breath Foretold, alas! too true, Misenusâ death.â Scarce had he said, when, full before his sight, Two doves, descending from their airy flight, Secure upon the grassy plain alight. He knew his motherâs birds; and thus he prayâd: âBe you my guides, with your auspicious aid, And lead my footsteps, till the branch be found, Whose glittâring shadow gilds the sacred ground. And thou, great parent, with celestial care, In this distress be present to my prayâr!â Thus having said, he stoppâd with watchful sight, Observing still the motions of their flight, What course they took, what happy signs they shew. They fed, and, fluttâring, by degrees withdrew Still farther from the place, but still in view: Hopping and flying, thus they led him on To the slow lake, whose baleful stench to shun They wingâd their flight aloft; then, stooping low, Perchâd on the double tree that bears the golden bough. Throâ the green leafs the glittâring shadows glow; As, on the sacred oak, the wintry mistletoe, Where the proud mother views her precious brood, And happier branches, which she never sowâd. Such was the glittâring; such the ruddy rind, And dancing leaves, that wantonâd in the wind. He seizâd the shining bough with griping hold, And rent away, with ease, the lingâring gold; Then to the Sibylâs palace bore the prize. Meantime the Trojan troops, with weeping eyes, To dead Misenus pay his obsequies. First, from the ground a lofty pile they rear, Of pitch trees, oaks, and pines, and unctuous fir: The fabricâs front with cypress twigs they strew, And stick the sides with boughs of baleful yew. The topmost part his glittâring arms adorn; Warm waters, then, in brazen caldrons borne, Are pourâd to wash his body, joint by joint, And fragrant oils the stiffenâd limbs anoint. With groans and cries Misenus they deplore: Then on a bier, with purple coverâd oâer, The breathless body, thus bewailâd, they lay, And fire the pile, their faces turnâd away: Such reverend rites their fathers usâd to pay. Pure oil and incense on the fire they throw, And fat of victims, which his friends bestow. These gifts the greedy flames to dust devour; Then on the living coals red wine they pour; And, last, the relics by themselves dispose, Which in a brazen urn the priests inclose. Old Corynaeus compassâd thrice the crew, And dippâd an olive branch in holy dew; Which thrice he sprinkled round, and thrice aloud Invokâd the dead, and then dismissed the crowd. But good Aeneas orderâd on the shore A stately tomb, whose top a trumpet bore, A soldierâs falchion, and a seamanâs oar. Thus was his friend interrâd; and deathless fame Still to the lofty cape consigns his name. These rites performâd, the prince, without delay, Hastes to the nether world his destinâd way. Deep was the cave; and, downward as it went From the wide mouth, a rocky rough descent; And here thâ access a gloomy grove defends, And there thâ unnavigable lake extends, Oâer whose unhappy waters, void of light, No bird presumes to steer his airy flight; Such deadly stenches from the depths arise, And steaming sulphur, that infects the skies. From hence the Grecian bards their legends make, And give the name Avernus to the lake. Four sable bullocks, in the yoke untaught, For sacrifice the pious hero brought. The priestess pours the wine betwixt their horns; Then cuts the curling hair; that first oblation burns, Invoking Hecate hither to repair: A powârful name in hell and upper air. The sacred priests with ready knives bereave The beasts of life, and in full bowls receive The streaming blood: a lamb to Hell and Night (The sable wool without a streak of white) Aeneas offers; and, by fateâs decree, A barren heifer, Proserpine, to thee, With holocausts he Plutoâs altar fills; Sevân brawny bulls with his own hand he kills; Then on the broiling entrails oil he pours; Which, ointed thus, the raging flame devours. Late the nocturnal sacrifice begun, Nor ended till the next returning sun. Then earth began to bellow, trees to dance, And howling dogs in glimmâring light advance, Ere Hecate came. âFar hence be souls profane!â The Sibyl cried, âand from the grove abstain! Now, Trojan, take the way thy fates afford; Assume thy courage, and unsheathe thy sword.â She said, and passâd along the gloomy space; The prince pursued her steps with equal pace.
Ye realms, yet unrevealâd to human sight,
Ye gods who rule the regions of the night, Ye gliding ghosts, permit me to relate The mystic wonders of your silent state!
Obscure they went throâ dreary shades, that led
Along the waste dominions of the dead. Thus wander travelers in woods by night, By the moonâs doubtful and malignant light, When Jove in dusky clouds involves the skies, And the faint crescent shoots by fits before their eyes.
Just in the gate and in the jaws of hell,
Revengeful Cares and sullen Sorrows dwell, And pale Diseases, and repining Age, Want, Fear, and Famineâs unresisted rage; Here Toils, and Death, and Deathâs half-brother, Sleep, Forms terrible to view, their sentry keep; With anxious Pleasures of a guilty mind, Deep Frauds before, and open Force behind; The Furiesâ iron beds; and Strife, that shakes Her hissing tresses and unfolds her snakes. Full in the midst of this infernal road, An elm displays her dusky arms abroad: The God of Sleep there hides his heavy head, And empty dreams on evâry leaf are spread. Of various forms unnumberâd spectres more, Centaurs, and double shapes, besiege the door. Before the passage, horrid Hydra stands, And Briareus with all his hundred hands; Gorgons, Geryon with his triple frame; And vain Chimaera vomits empty flame. The chief unsheathâd his shining steel, preparâd, Thoâ seizâd with sudden fear, to force the guard, Offâring his brandishâd weapon at their face; Had not the Sibyl stoppâd his eager pace, And told him what those empty phantoms were: Forms without bodies, and impassive air. Hence to deep Acheron they take their way, Whose troubled eddies, thick with ooze and clay, Are whirlâd aloft, and in Cocytus lost. There Charon stands, who rules the dreary coast: A sordid god: down from his hoary chin A length of beard descends, uncombâd, unclean; His eyes, like hollow furnaces on fire; A girdle, foul with grease, binds his obscene attire. He spreads his canvas; with his pole he steers; The freights of flitting ghosts in his thin bottom bears. He lookâd in years; yet in his years were seen A youthful vigour and autumnal green. An airy crowd came rushing where he stood, Which fillâd the margin of the fatal flood: Husbands and wives, boys and unmarried maids, And mighty heroesâ more majestic shades, And youths, intombâd before their fathersâ eyes, With hollow groans, and shrieks, and feeble cries. Thick as the leaves in autumn strow the woods, Or fowls, by winter forcâd, forsake the floods, And wing their hasty flight to happier lands; Such, and so thick, the shivâring army stands, And press for passage with extended hands. Now these, now those, the surly boatman bore: The rest he drove to distance from the shore. The hero, who beheld with wondâring eyes The tumult mixâd with shrieks, laments, and cries, Askâd of his guide, what the rude concourse meant; Why to the shore the thronging people bent; What forms of law among the ghosts were usâd; Why some were ferried oâer, and some refusâd.
âSon of Anchises, offspring of the gods,â
The Sibyl said, âyou see the Stygian floods, The sacred stream which heavânâs imperial state Attests in oaths, and fears to violate. The ghosts rejected are thâ unhappy crew Deprivâd of sepulchers and funâral due: The boatman, Charon; those, the buried host, He ferries over to the farther coast; Nor dares his transport vessel cross the waves With such whose bones are not composâd in graves. A hundred years they wander on the shore; At length, their penance done, are wafted oâer.â The Trojan chief his forward pace repressâd, Revolving anxious thoughts within his breast, He saw his friends, who, whelmâd beneath the waves, Their funâral honours claimâd, and askâd their quiet graves. The lost Leucaspis in the crowd he knew, And the brave leader of the Lycian crew, Whom, on the Tyrrhene seas, the tempests met; The sailors masterâd, and the ship oâerset.
Amidst the spirits, Palinurus pressâd,
Yet fresh from life, a new-admitted guest, Who, while he steering viewâd the stars, and bore His course from Afric to the Latian shore, Fell headlong down. The Trojan fixâd his view, And scarcely throâ the gloom the sullen shadow knew. Then thus the prince: âWhat envious powâr, O friend, Brought your lovâd life to this disastrous end? For Phoebus, ever true in all he said, Has in your fate alone my faith betrayâd. The god foretold you should not die, before You reachâd, secure from seas, thâ Italian shore. Is this thâ unerring powâr?â The ghost replied; âNor Phoebus flatterâd, nor his answers lied; Nor envious gods have sent me to the deep: But, while the stars and course of heavân I keep, My wearied eyes were seizâd with fatal sleep. I fell; and, with my weight, the helm constrainâd Was drawn along, which yet my gripe retainâd. Now by the winds and raging waves I swear, Your safety, more than mine, was then my care; Lest, of the guide bereft, the rudder lost, Your ship should run against the rocky coast. Three blustâring nights, borne by the southern blast, I floated, and discoverâd land at last: High on a mounting wave my head I bore, Forcing my strength, and gathâring to the shore. Panting, but past the danger, now I seizâd The craggy cliffs, and my tirâd members easâd. While, cumberâd with my dropping clothes, I lay, The cruel nation, covetous of prey, Stainâd with my blood thâ unhospitable coast; And now, by winds and waves, my lifeless limbs are tossâd: Which O avert, by yon ethereal light, Which I have lost for this eternal night! Or, if by dearer ties you may be won, By your dead sire, and by your living son, Redeem from this reproach my wandâring ghost; Or with your navy seek the Velin coast, And in a peaceful grave my corpse compose; Or, if a nearer way your mother shows, Without whose aid you durst not undertake This frightful passage oâer the Stygian lake, Lend to this wretch your hand, and waft him oâer To the sweet banks of yon forbidden shore.â Scarce had he said, the prophetess began: âWhat hopes delude thee, miserable man? Thinkâst thou, thus unintombâd, to cross the floods, To view the Furies and infernal gods, And visit, without leave, the dark abodes? Attend the term of long revolving years; Fate, and the dooming gods, are deaf to tears. This comfort of thy dire misfortune take: The wrath of Heavân, inflicted for thy sake, With vengeance shall pursue thâ inhuman coast, Till they propitiate thy offended ghost, And raise a tomb, with vows and solemn prayâr; And Palinurusâ name the place shall bear.â This calmâd his cares; soothâd with his future fame, And pleasâd to hear his propagated name.
Now nearer to the Stygian lake they draw:
Whom, from the shore, the surly boatman saw; Observâd their passage throâ the shady wood, And markâd their near approaches to the flood. Then thus he callâd aloud, inflamâd with wrath: âMortal, whateâer, who this forbidden path In arms presumâst to tread, I charge thee, stand, And tell thy name, and busâness in the land. Know this, the realm of night; the Stygian shore: My boat conveys no living bodies oâer; Nor was I pleasâd great Theseus once to bear, Who forcâd a passage with his pointed spear, Nor strong Alcides, men of mighty fame, And from thâ immortal gods their lineage came. In fetters one the barking porter tied, And took him trembling from his sovâreignâs side: Two sought by force to seize his beauteous bride.â To whom the Sibyl thus: âCompose thy mind; Nor frauds are here contrivâd, nor force designâd. Still may the dog the wandâring troops constrain Of airy ghosts, and vex the guilty train, And with her grisly lord his lovely queen remain. The Trojan chief, whose lineage is from Jove, Much famâd for arms, and more for filial love, Is sent to seek his sire in your Elysian grove. If neither piety, nor Heavânâs command, Can gain his passage to the Stygian strand, This fatal present shall prevail at least.â Then shewâd the shining bough, concealâd within her vest. No more was needful: for the gloomy god Stood mute with awe, to see the golden rod; Admirâd the destinâd offâring to his queen; A venerable gift, so rarely seen. His fury thus appeasâd, he puts to land; The ghosts forsake their seats at his command: He clears the deck, receives the mighty freight; The leaky vessel groans beneath the weight. Slowly she sails, and scarcely stems the tides; The pressing water pours within her sides. His passengers at length are wafted oâer, Exposâd, in muddy weeds, upon the miry shore.
No sooner landed, in his den they found
The triple porter of the Stygian sound, Grim Cerberus, who soon began to rear His crested snakes, and armâd his bristling hair. The prudent Sibyl had before preparâd A sop, in honey steepâd, to charm the guard; Which, mixâd with powârful drugs, she cast before His greedy grinning jaws, just opâd to roar. With three enormous mouths he gapes; and straight, With hunger pressâd, devours the pleasing bait. Long draughts of sleep his monstrous limbs enslave; He reels, and, falling, fills the spacious cave. The keeper charmâd, the chief without delay Passâd on, and took thâ irremeable way. Before the gates, the cries of babes new born, Whom fate had from their tender mothers torn, Assault his ears: then those, whom form of laws Condemnâd to die, when traitors judgâd their cause. Nor want they lots, nor judges to review The wrongful sentence, and award a new. Minos, the strict inquisitor, appears; And lives and crimes, with his assessors, hears. Round in his urn the blended balls he rolls, Absolves the just, and dooms the guilty souls. The next, in place and punishment, are they Who prodigally throw their souls away; Fools, who, repining at their wretched state, And loathing anxious life, subornâd their fate. With late repentance now they would retrieve The bodies they forsook, and wish to live; Their pains and poverty desire to bear, To view the light of heavân, and breathe the vital air: But fate forbids; the Stygian floods oppose, And with circling streams the captive souls inclose.
Not far from thence, the Mournful Fields appear
So callâd from lovers that inhabit there. The souls whom that unhappy flame invades, In secret solitude and myrtle shades Make endless moans, and, pining with desire, Lament too late their unextinguishâd fire. Here Procris, Eriphyle here he found, Baring her breast, yet bleeding with the wound Made by her son. He saw Pasiphae there, With Phaedraâs ghost, a foul incestuous pair. There Laodamia, with Evadne, moves, Unhappy both, but loyal in their loves: Caeneus, a woman once, and once a man, But ending in the sex she first began. Not far from these Phoenician Dido stood, Fresh from her wound, her bosom bathâd in blood; Whom when the Trojan hero hardly knew, Obscure in shades, and with a doubtful view, (Doubtful as he who sees, throâ dusky night, Or thinks he sees, the moonâs uncertain light,) With tears he first approachâd the sullen shade; And, as his love inspirâd him, thus he said: âUnhappy queen! then is the common breath Of rumour true, in your reported death, And I, alas! the cause? By Heavân, I vow, And all the powârs that rule the realms below, Unwilling I forsook your friendly state, Commanded by the gods, and forcâd by fate. Those gods, that fate, whose unresisted might Have sent me to these regions void of light, Throâ the vast empire of eternal night. Nor darâd I to presume, that, pressâd with grief, My flight should urge you to this dire relief. Stay, stay your steps, and listen to my vows: âTis the last interview that fate allows!â In vain he thus attempts her mind to move With tears, and prayârs, and late-repenting love. Disdainfully she lookâd; then turning round, But fixâd her eyes unmovâd upon the ground, And what he says and swears, regards no more Than the deaf rocks, when the loud billows roar; But whirlâd away, to shun his hateful sight, Hid in the forest and the shades of night; Then sought Sichaeus throâ the shady grove, Who answerâd all her cares, and equalâd all her love.
Some pious tears the pitying hero paid,
And followâd with his eyes the flitting shade, Then took the forward way, by fate ordainâd, And, with his guide, the farther fields attainâd, Where, severâd from the rest, the warrior souls remainâd. Tydeus he met, with Meleagerâs race, The pride of armies, and the soldiersâ grace; And pale Adrastus with his ghastly face. Of Trojan chiefs he viewâd a numârous train, All much lamented, all in battle slain; Glaucus and Medon, high above the rest, Antenorâs sons, and Ceresâ sacred priest. And proud Idaeus, Priamâs charioteer, Who shakes his empty reins, and aims his airy spear. The gladsome ghosts, in circling troops, attend And with unwearied eyes behold their friend; Delight to hover near, and long to know What busâness brought him to the realms below. But Argive chiefs, and Agamemnonâs train, When his refulgent arms flashâd throâ the shady plain, Fled from his well-known face, with wonted fear, As when his thundâring sword and pointed spear Drove headlong to their ships, and gleanâd the routed rear. They raisâd a feeble cry, with trembling notes; But the weak voice deceivâd their gasping throats.
Here Priamâs son, Deiphobus, he found,
Whose face and limbs were one continued wound: Dishonest, with loppâd arms, the youth appears, Spoilâd of his nose, and shortenâd of his ears. He scarcely knew him, striving to disown His blotted form, and blushing to be known; And therefore first began: âO Teucerâs race, Who durst thy faultless figure thus deface? What heart could wish, what hand inflict, this dire disgrace? âTwas famâd, that in our last and fatal night Your single prowess long sustainâd the fight, Till tirâd, not forcâd, a glorious fate you chose, And fell upon a heap of slaughterâd foes. But, in remembrance of so brave a deed, A tomb and funâral honours I decreed; Thrice callâd your manes on the Trojan plains: The place your armour and your name retains. Your body too I sought, and, had I found, Designâd for burial in your native ground.â
The ghost replied: âYour piety has paid
All needful rites, to rest my wandâring shade; But cruel fate, and my more cruel wife, To Grecian swords betrayâd my sleeping life. These are the monuments of Helenâs love: The shame I bear below, the marks I bore above. You know in what deluding joys we passâd The night that was by Heavân decreed our last: For, when the fatal horse, descending down, Pregnant with arms, oâerwhelmâd thâ unhappy town She feignâd nocturnal orgies; left my bed, And, mixâd with Trojan dames, the dances led Then, waving high her torch, the signal made, Which rousâd the Grecians from their ambuscade. With watching overworn, with cares oppressâd, Unhappy I had laid me down to rest, And heavy sleep my weary limbs possessâd. Meantime my worthy wife our arms mislaid, And from beneath my head my sword conveyâd; The door unlatchâd, and, with repeated calls, Invites her former lord within my walls. Thus in her crime her confidence she placâd, And with new treasons would redeem the past. What need I more? Into the room they ran, And meanly murderâd a defenceless man. Ulysses, basely born, first led the way. Avenging powârs! with justice if I pray, That fortune be their own another day! But answer you; and in your turn relate, What brought you, living, to the Stygian state: Drivân by the winds and errors of the sea, Or did you Heavânâs superior doom obey? Or tell what other chance conducts your way, To view with mortal eyes our dark retreats, Tumults and torments of thâ infernal seats.â
While thus in talk the flying hours they pass,
The sun had finishâd more than half his race: And they, perhaps, in words and tears had spent The little time of stay which Heavân had lent; But thus the Sibyl chides their long delay: âNight rushes down, and headlong drives the day: âTis here, in different paths, the way divides; The right to Plutoâs golden palace guides; The left to that unhappy region tends, Which to the depth of Tartarus descends; The seat of night profound, and punishâd fiends.â Then thus Deiphobus: âO sacred maid, Forbear to chide, and be your will obeyâd! Lo! to the secret shadows I retire, To pay my penance till my years expire. Proceed, auspicious prince, with glory crownâd, And born to better fates than I have found.â He said; and, while he said, his steps he turnâd To secret shadows, and in silence mournâd.
The hero, looking on the left, espied
A lofty towâr, and strong on evâry side With treble walls, which Phlegethon surrounds, Whose fiery flood the burning empire bounds; And, pressâd betwixt the rocks, the bellowing noise resounds Wide is the fronting gate, and, raisâd on high With adamantine columns, threats the sky. Vain is the force of man, and Heavânâs as vain, To crush the pillars which the pile sustain. Sublime on these a towâr of steel is rearâd; And dire Tisiphone there keeps the ward, Girt in her sanguine gown, by night and day, Observant of the souls that pass the downward way. From hence are heard the groans of ghosts, the pains Of sounding lashes and of dragging chains. The Trojan stood astonishâd at their cries, And askâd his guide from whence those yells arise; And what the crimes, and what the tortures were, And loud laments that rent the liquid air.
She thus replied: âThe chaste and holy race
Are all forbidden this polluted place. But Hecate, when she gave to rule the woods, Then led me trembling throâ these dire abodes, And taught the tortures of thâ avenging gods. These are the realms of unrelenting fate; And awful Rhadamanthus rules the state. He hears and judges each committed crime; Enquires into the manner, place, and time. The conscious wretch must all his acts reveal, Loth to confess, unable to conceal, From the first moment of his vital breath, To his last hour of unrepenting death. Straight, oâer the guilty ghost, the Fury shakes The sounding whip and brandishes her snakes, And the pale sinner, with her sisters, takes. Then, of itself, unfolds thâ eternal door; With dreadful sounds the brazen hinges roar. You see, before the gate, what stalking ghost Commands the guard, what sentries keep the post. More formidable Hydra stands within, Whose jaws with iron teeth severely grin. The gaping gulf low to the centre lies, And twice as deep as earth is distant from the skies. The rivals of the gods, the Titan race, Here, singâd with lightning, roll within thâ unfathomâd space. Here lie thâ Alaean twins, (I saw them both,) Enormous bodies, of gigantic growth, Who darâd in fight the Thundârer to defy, Affect his heavân, and force him from the sky. Salmoneus, suffâring cruel pains, I found, For emulating Jove; the rattling sound Of mimic thunder, and the glittâring blaze Of pointed lightnings, and their forky rays. Throâ Elis and the Grecian towns he flew; Thâ audacious wretch four fiery coursers drew: He wavâd a torch aloft, and, madly vain, Sought godlike worship from a servile train. Ambitious fool! with horny hoofs to pass Oâer hollow arches of resounding brass, To rival thunder in its rapid course, And imitate inimitable force! But he, the King of Heavân, obscure on high, Barâd his red arm, and, launching from the sky His writhen bolt, not shaking empty smoke, Down to the deep abyss the flaming felon strook. There Tityus was to see, who took his birth From heavân, his nursing from the foodful earth. Here his gigantic limbs, with large embrace, Infold nine acres of infernal space. A ravânous vulture, in his openâd side, Her crooked beak and cruel talons tried; Still for the growing liver diggâd his breast; The growing liver still supplied the feast; Still are his entrails fruitful to their pains: Thâ immortal hunger lasts, thâ immortal food remains. Ixion and Perithous I could name, And more Thessalian chiefs of mighty fame. High oâer their heads a mouldâring rock is placâd, That promises a fall, and shakes at evâry blast. They lie below, on golden beds displayâd; And genial feasts with regal pomp are made. The Queen of Furies by their sides is set, And snatches from their mouths thâ untasted meat, Which if they touch, her hissing snakes she rears, Tossing her torch, and thundâring in their ears. Then they, who brothersâ better claim disown, Expel their parents, and usurp the throne; Defraud their clients, and, to lucre sold, Sit brooding on unprofitable gold; Who dare not give, and evân refuse to lend To their poor kindred, or a wanting friend. Vast is the throng of these; nor less the train Of lustful youths, for foul adultâry slain: Hosts of deserters, who their honour sold, And basely broke their faith for bribes of gold. All these within the dungeonâs depth remain, Despairing pardon, and expecting pain. Ask not what pains; nor farther seek to know Their process, or the forms of law below. Some roll a weighty stone; some, laid along, And bound with burning wires, on spokes of wheels are hung Unhappy Theseus, doomâd for ever there, Is fixâd by fate on his eternal chair; And wretched Phlegyas warns the world with cries (Could warning make the world more just or wise): âLearn righteousness, and dread thâ avenging deities.â To tyrants others have their country sold, Imposing foreign lords, for foreign gold; Some have old laws repealâd, new statutes made, Not as the people pleasâd, but as they paid; With incest some their daughtersâ bed profanâd: All darâd the worst of ills, and, what they darâd, attainâd. Had I a hundred mouths, a hundred tongues, And throats of brass, inspirâd with iron lungs, I could not half those horrid crimes repeat, Nor half the punishments those crimes have met. But let us haste our voyage to pursue: The walls of Plutoâs palace are in view; The gate, and iron arch above it, stands On anvils labourâd by the Cyclopsâ hands. Before our farther way the Fates allow, Here must we fix on high the golden bough.â
She said, and throâ the gloomy shades they passâd,
And chose the middle path. Arrivâd at last, The prince with living water sprinkled oâer His limbs and body; then approachâd the door, Possessâd the porch, and on the front above He fixâd the fatal bough requirâd by Plutoâs love. These holy rites performâd, they took their way Where long extended plains of pleasure lay: The verdant fields with those of heavân may vie, With ether vested, and a purple sky; The blissful seats of happy souls below. Stars of their own, and their own suns, they know; Their airy limbs in sports they exercise, And on the green contend the wrestlerâs prize. Some in heroic verse divinely sing; Others in artful measures led the ring. The Thracian bard, surrounded by the rest, There stands conspicuous in his flowing vest; His flying fingers, and harmonious quill, Strikes sevân distinguishâd notes, and sevân at once they fill. Here found they Teucerâs old heroic race, Born better times and happier years to grace. Assaracus and Ilus here enjoy Perpetual fame, with him who founded Troy. The chief beheld their chariots from afar, Their shining arms, and coursers trainâd to war: Their lances fixâd in earth, their steeds around, Free from their harness, graze the flowâry ground. The love of horses which they had, alive, And care of chariots, after death survive. Some cheerful souls were feasting on the plain; Some did the song, and some the choir maintain, Beneath a laurel shade, where mighty Po Mounts up to woods above, and hides his head below. Here patriots live, who, for their countryâs good, In fighting fields, were prodigal of blood: Priests of unblemishâd lives here make abode, And poets worthy their inspiring god; And searching wits, of more mechanic parts, Who gracâd their age with new-invented arts: Those who to worth their bounty did extend, And those who knew that bounty to commend. The heads of these with holy fillets bound, And all their temples were with garlands crownâd.
To these the Sibyl thus her speech addressâd,
And first to him surrounded by the rest Towâring his height, and ample was his breast; âSay, happy souls, divine Musaeus, say, Where lives Anchises, and where lies our way To find the hero, for whose only sake We sought the dark abodes, and crossâd the bitter lake?â To this the sacred poet thus replied: âIn no fixâd place the happy souls reside. In groves we live, and lie on mossy beds, By crystal streams, that murmur throâ the meads: But pass yon easy hill, and thence descend; The path conducts you to your journeyâs end.â This said, he led them up the mountainâs brow, And shews them all the shining fields below. They wind the hill, and throâ the blissful meadows go.
But old Anchises, in a flowâry vale,
Reviewâd his musterâd race, and took the tale: Those happy spirits, which, ordainâd by fate, For future beings and new bodies wait. With studious thought observâd thâ illustrious throng, In natureâs order as they passâd along: Their names, their fates, their conduct, and their care, In peaceful senates and successful war. He, when Aeneas on the plain appears, Meets him with open arms, and falling tears. âWelcome,â he said, âthe godsâ undoubted race! O long expected to my dear embrace! Once more âtis givân me to behold your face! The love and pious duty which you pay Have passâd the perils of so hard a way. âTis true, computing times, I now believâd The happy day approachâd; nor are my hopes deceivâd. What length of lands, what oceans have you passâd; What storms sustainâd, and on what shores been cast? How have I fearâd your fate! but fearâd it most, When love assailâd you, on the Libyan coast.â To this, the filial duty thus replies: âYour sacred ghost before my sleeping eyes Appearâd, and often urgâd this painful enterprise. After long tossing on the Tyrrhene sea, My navy rides at anchor in the bay. But reach your hand, O parent shade, nor shun The dear embraces of your longing son!â He said; and falling tears his face bedew: Then thrice around his neck his arms he threw; And thrice the flitting shadow slippâd away, Like winds, or empty dreams that fly the day.
Now, in a secret vale, the Trojan sees
A sepârate grove, throâ which a gentle breeze Plays with a passing breath, and whispers throâ the trees; And, just before the confines of the wood, The gliding Lethe leads her silent flood. About the boughs an airy nation flew, Thick as the humming bees, that hunt the golden dew; In summerâs heat on tops of lilies feed, And creep within their bells, to suck the balmy seed: The winged army roams the fields around; The rivers and the rocks remurmur to the sound. Aeneas wondâring stood, then askâd the cause Which to the stream the crowding people draws. Then thus the sire: âThe souls that throng the flood Are those to whom, by fate, are other bodies owâd: In Letheâs lake they long oblivion taste, Of future life secure, forgetful of the past. Long has my soul desirâd this time and place, To set before your sight your glorious race, That this presaging joy may fire your mind To seek the shores by destiny designâd.â âO father, can it be, that souls sublime Return to visit our terrestrial clime, And that the genârous mind, releasâd by death, Can covet lazy limbs and mortal breath?â
Anchises then, in order, thus begun
To clear those wonders to his godlike son: âKnow, first, that heavân, and earthâs compacted frame, And flowing waters, and the starry flame, And both the radiant lights, one common soul Inspires and feeds, and animates the whole. This active mind, infusâd throâ all the space, Unites and mingles with the mighty mass. Hence men and beasts the breath of life obtain, And birds of air, and monsters of the main. Thâ ethereal vigour is in all the same, And every soul is fillâd with equal flame; As much as earthy limbs, and gross allay Of mortal members, subject to decay, Blunt not the beams of heavân and edge of day. From this coarse mixture of terrestrial parts, Desire and fear by turns possess their hearts, And grief, and joy; nor can the groveling mind, In the dark dungeon of the limbs confinâd, Assert the native skies, or own its heavânly kind: Nor death itself can wholly wash their stains; But long-contracted filth evân in the soul remains. The relics of inveterate vice they wear, And spots of sin obscene in evâry face appear. For this are various penances enjoinâd; And some are hung to bleach upon the wind, Some plungâd in waters, others purgâd in fires, Till all the dregs are drainâd, and all the rust expires. All have their manes, and those manes bear: The few, so cleansâd, to these abodes repair, And breathe, in ample fields, the soft Elysian air. Then are they happy, when by length of time The scurf is worn away of each committed crime; No speck is left of their habitual stains, But the pure ether of the soul remains. But, when a thousand rolling years are past, (So long their punishments and penance last,) Whole droves of minds are, by the driving god, Compellâd to drink the deep Lethaean flood, In large forgetful draughts to steep the cares Of their past labours, and their irksome years, That, unremembâring of its former pain, The soul may suffer mortal flesh again.â
Thus having said, the father spirit leads
The priestess and his son throâ swarms of shades, And takes a rising ground, from thence to see The long procession of his progeny. âSurvey,â pursued the sire, âthis airy throng, As, offerâd to thy view, they pass along. These are thâ Italian names, which fate will join With ours, and graff upon the Trojan line. Observe the youth who first appears in sight, And holds the nearest station to the light, Already seems to snuff the vital air, And leans just forward, on a shining spear: Silvius is he, thy last-begotten race, But first in order sent, to fill thy place; An Alban name, but mixâd with Dardan blood, Born in the covert of a shady wood: Him fair Lavinia, thy surviving wife, Shall breed in groves, to lead a solitary life. In Alba he shall fix his royal seat, And, born a king, a race of kings beget. Then Procas, honour of the Trojan name, Capys, and Numitor, of endless fame. A second Silvius after these appears; Silvius Aeneas, for thy name he bears; For arms and justice equally renownâd, Who, late restorâd, in Alba shall be crownâd. How great they look! how vigârously they wield Their weighty lances, and sustain the shield! But they, who crownâd with oaken wreaths appear, Shall Gabian walls and strong Fidena rear; Nomentum, Bola, with Pometia, found; And raise Collatian towârs on rocky ground. All these shall then be towns of mighty fame, Thoâ now they lie obscure, and lands without a name. See Romulus the great, born to restore The crown that once his injurâd grandsire wore. This prince a priestess of your blood shall bear, And like his sire in arms he shall appear. Two rising crests, his royal head adorn; Born from a god, himself to godhead born: His sire already signs him for the skies, And marks the seat amidst the deities. Auspicious chief! thy race, in times to come, Shall spread the conquests of imperial Rome. Rome, whose ascending towârs shall heavân invade, Involving earth and ocean in her shade; High as the Mother of the Gods in place, And proud, like her, of an immortal race. Then, when in pomp she makes the Phrygian round, With golden turrets on her temples crownâd; A hundred gods her sweeping train supply; Her offspring all, and all command the sky.
âNow fix your sight, and stand intent, to see
Your Roman race, and Julian progeny. The mighty Caesar waits his vital hour, Impatient for the world, and grasps his promisâd powâr. But next behold the youth of form divine, Caesar himself, exalted in his line; Augustus, promisâd oft, and long foretold, Sent to the realm that Saturn rulâd of old; Born to restore a better age of gold. Afric and India shall his powâr obey; He shall extend his propagated sway Beyond the solar year, without the starry way, Where Atlas turns the rolling heavâns around, And his broad shoulders with their lights are crownâd. At his foreseen approach, already quake The Caspian kingdoms and Maeotian lake: Their seers behold the tempest from afar, And threatâning oracles denounce the war. Nile hears him knocking at his sevânfold gates, And seeks his hidden spring, and fears his nephewâs fates. Nor Hercules more lands or labours knew, Not thoâ the brazen-footed hind he slew, Freed Erymanthus from the foaming boar, And dippâd his arrows in Lernaean gore; Nor Bacchus, turning from his Indian war, By tigers drawn triumphant in his car, From Nisusâ top descending on the plains, With curling vines around his purple reins. And doubt we yet throâ dangers to pursue The paths of honour, and a crown in view? But whatâs the man, who from afar appears? His head with olive crownâd, his hand a censer bears, His hoary beard and holy vestments bring His lost idea back: I know the Roman king. He shall to peaceful Rome new laws ordain, Callâd from his mean abode a scepter to sustain. Him Tullus next in dignity succeeds, An active prince, and prone to martial deeds. He shall his troops for fighting fields prepare, Disusâd to toils, and triumphs of the war. By dint of sword his crown he shall increase, And scour his armour from the rust of peace. Whom Ancus follows, with a fawning air, But vain within, and proudly popular. Next view the Tarquin kings, thâ avenging sword Of Brutus, justly drawn, and Rome restorâd. He first renews the rods and ax severe, And gives the consuls royal robes to wear. His sons, who seek the tyrant to sustain, And long for arbitrary lords again, With ignominy scourgâd, in open sight, He dooms to death deservâd, asserting public right. Unhappy man, to break the pious laws Of nature, pleading in his childrenâs cause! Howeâer the doubtful fact is understood, âTis love of honour, and his countryâs good: The consul, not the father, sheds the blood. Behold Torquatus the same track pursue; And, next, the two devoted Decii view: The Drusian line, Camillus loaded home With standards well redeemâd, and foreign foes oâercome The pair you see in equal armour shine, Now, friends below, in close embraces join; But, when they leave the shady realms of night, And, clothâd in bodies, breathe your upper light, With mortal hate each other shall pursue: What wars, what wounds, what slaughter shall ensue! From Alpine heights the father first descends; His daughterâs husband in the plain attends: His daughterâs husband arms his eastern friends. Embrace again, my sons, be foes no more; Nor stain your country with her childrenâs gore! And thou, the first, lay down thy lawless claim, Thou, of my blood, who bearâst the Julian name! Another comes, who shall in triumph ride, And to the Capitol his chariot guide, From conquerâd Corinth, rich with Grecian spoils. And yet another, famâd for warlike toils, On Argos shall impose the Roman laws, And on the Greeks revenge the Trojan cause; Shall drag in chains their Achillean race; Shall vindicate his ancestorsâ disgrace, And Pallas, for her violated place. Great Cato there, for gravity renownâd, And conquâring Cossus goes with laurels crownâd. Who can omit the Gracchi? who declare The Scipiosâ worth, those thunderbolts of war, The double bane of Carthage? Who can see Without esteem for virtuous poverty, Severe Fabricius, or can cease tâ admire The plowman consul in his coarse attire? Tirâd as I am, my praise the Fabii claim; And thou, great hero, greatest of thy name, Ordainâd in war to save the sinking state, And, by delays, to put a stop to fate! Let others better mould the running mass Of metals, and inform the breathing brass, And soften into flesh a marble face; Plead better at the bar; describe the skies, And when the stars descend, and when they rise. But, Rome, âtis thine alone, with awful sway, To rule mankind, and make the world obey, Disposing peace and war by thy own majestic way; To tame the proud, the fetterâd slave to free: These are imperial arts, and worthy thee.â
He pausâd; and, while with wondâring eyes they viewâd
The passing spirits, thus his speech renewâd: âSee great Marcellus! how, untirâd in toils, He moves with manly grace, how rich with regal spoils! He, when his country, threatenâd with alarms, Requires his courage and his conquâring arms, Shall more than once the Punic bands affright; Shall kill the Gaulish king in single fight; Then to the Capitol in triumph move, And the third spoils shall grace Feretrian Jove.â Aeneas here beheld, of form divine, A godlike youth in glittâring armour shine, With great Marcellus keeping equal pace; But gloomy were his eyes, dejected was his face. He saw, and, wondâring, askâd his airy guide, What and of whence was he, who pressâd the heroâs side: âHis son, or one of his illustrious name? How like the former, and almost the same! Observe the crowds that compass him around; All gaze, and all admire, and raise a shouting sound: But hovâring mists around his brows are spread, And night, with sable shades, involves his head.â âSeek not to know,â the ghost replied with tears, âThe sorrows of thy sons in future years. This youth (the blissful vision of a day) Shall just be shown on earth, and snatchâd away. The gods too high had raisâd the Roman state, Were but their gifts as permanent as great. What groans of men shall fill the Martian field! How fierce a blaze his flaming pile shall yield! What funâral pomp shall floating Tiber see, When, rising from his bed, he views the sad solemnity! No youth shall equal hopes of glory give, No youth afford so great a cause to grieve; The Trojan honour, and the Roman boast, Admirâd when living, and adorâd when lost! Mirror of ancient faith in early youth! Undaunted worth, inviolable truth! No foe, unpunishâd, in the fighting field Shall dare thee, foot to foot, with sword and shield; Much less in arms oppose thy matchless force, When thy sharp spurs shall urge thy foaming horse. Ah! couldst thou break throâ fateâs severe decree, A new Marcellus shall arise in thee! Full canisters of fragrant lilies bring, Mixâd with the purple roses of the spring; Let me with funâral flowârs his body strow; This gift which parents to their children owe, This unavailing gift, at least, I may bestow!â Thus having said, he led the hero round The confines of the blest Elysian ground; Which when Anchises to his son had shown, And firâd his mind to mount the promisâd throne, He tells the future wars, ordainâd by fate; The strength and customs of the Latian state; The prince, and people; and forearms his care With rules, to push his fortune, or to bear.
Two gates the silent house of Sleep adorn;
Of polishâd ivory this, that of transparent horn: True visions throâ transparent horn arise; Throâ polishâd ivory pass deluding lies. Of various things discoursing as he passâd, Anchises hither bends his steps at last. Then, throâ the gate of ivâry, he dismissâd His valiant offspring and divining guest. Straight to the ships Aeneas took his way, Embarkâd his men, and skimmâd along the sea, Still coasting, till he gainâd Cajetaâs bay. At length on oozy ground his galleys moor; Their heads are turnâd to sea, their sterns to shore. BOOK VIITHE ARGUMENT.
King Latinus entertains Aeneas, and promises him his only daughter, Lavinia, the heiress of his crown. Turnus, being in love with her, favoured by her mother, and by Juno and Alecto, breaks the treaty which was made, and engages in his quarrel Mezentius, Camilla, Messapus, and many other of the neighbouring princes; whose forces, and the names of their commanders are particularly related.
And thou, O matron of immortal fame,
Here dying, to the shore hast left thy name; Cajeta still the place is callâd from thee, The nurse of great Aeneasâ infancy. Here rest thy bones in rich Hesperiaâs plains; Thy name (âtis all a ghost can have) remains.
Now, when the prince her funâral rites had paid,
He plowâd the Tyrrhene seas with sails displayâd. From land a gentle breeze arose by night, Serenely shone the stars, the moon was bright, And the sea trembled with her silver light. Now near the shelves of Circeâs shores they run, (Circe the rich, the daughter of the Sun,) A dangârous coast: the goddess wastes her days In joyous songs; the rocks resound her lays: In spinning, or the loom, she spends the night, And cedar brands supply her fatherâs light. From hence were heard, rebellowing to the main, The roars of lions that refuse the chain, The grunts of bristled boars, and groans of bears, And herds of howling wolves that stun the sailorsâ ears. These from their caverns, at the close of night, Fill the sad isle with horror and affright. Darkling they mourn their fate, whom Circeâs powâr, (That watchâd the moon and planetary hour,) With words and wicked herbs from humankind Had alterâd, and in brutal shapes confinâd. Which monsters lest the Trojansâ pious host Should bear, or touch upon thâ inchanted coast, Propitious Neptune steerâd their course by night With rising gales that sped their happy flight. Supplied with these, they skim the sounding shore, And hear the swelling surges vainly roar. Now, when the rosy morn began to rise, And wavâd her saffron streamer throâ the skies; When Thetis blushâd in purple not her own, And from her face the breathing winds were blown, A sudden silence sate upon the sea, And sweeping oars, with struggling, urge their way. The Trojan, from the main, beheld a wood, Which thick with shades and a brown horror stood: Betwixt the trees the Tiber took his course, With whirlpools dimpled; and with downward force, That drove the sand along, he took his way, And rollâd his yellow billows to the sea. About him, and above, and round the wood, The birds that haunt the borders of his flood, That bathâd within, or basked upon his side, To tuneful songs their narrow throats applied. The captain gives command; the joyful train Glide throâ the gloomy shade, and leave the main.
Now, Erato, thy poetâs mind inspire,
And fill his soul with thy celestial fire! Relate what Latium was; her ancient kings; Declare the past and present state of things, When first the Trojan fleet Ausonia sought, And how the rivals lovâd, and how they fought. These are my theme, and how the war began, And how concluded by the godlike man: For I shall sing of battles, blood, and rage, Which princes and their people did engage; And haughty souls, that, movâd with mutual hate, In fighting fields pursued and found their fate; That rousâd the Tyrrhene realm with loud alarms, And peaceful Italy involvâd in arms. A larger scene of action is displayâd; And, rising hence, a greater work is weighâd.
Latinus, old and mild, had long possessâd
The Latin scepter, and his people blest: His father Faunus; a Laurentian dame His mother; fair Marica was her name. But Faunus came from Picus: Picus drew His birth from Saturn, if records be true. Thus King Latinus, in the third degree, Had Saturn author of his family. But this old peaceful prince, as Heavân decreed, Was blest with no male issue to succeed: His sons in blooming youth were snatchâd by fate; One only daughter heirâd the royal state. Firâd with her love, and with ambition led, The neighbâring princes court her nuptial bed. Among the crowd, but far above the rest, Young Turnus to the beauteous maid addressâd. Turnus, for high descent and graceful mien, Was first, and favourâd by the Latian queen; With him she strove to join Laviniaâs hand, But dire portents the purposâd match withstand.
Deep in the palace, of long growth, there stood
A laurelâs trunk, a venerable wood; Where rites divine were paid; whose holy hair Was kept and cut with superstitious care. This plant Latinus, when his town he wallâd, Then found, and from the tree Laurentum callâd; And last, in honour of his new abode, He vowâd the laurel to the laurelâs god. It happenâd once (a boding prodigy!) A swarm of bees, that cut the liquid sky, Unknown from whence they took their airy flight, Upon the topmost branch in clouds alight; There with their clasping feet together clung, And a long cluster from the laurel hung. An ancient augur prophesied from hence: âBehold on Latian shores a foreign prince! From the same parts of heavân his navy stands, To the same parts on earth; his army lands; The town he conquers, and the towâr commands.â
Yet more, when fair Lavinia fed the fire
Before the gods, and stood beside her sire, Strange to relate, the flames, involvâd in smoke Of incense, from the sacred altar broke, Caught her dishevelâd hair and rich attire; Her crown and jewels crackled in the fire: From thence the fuming trail began to spread And lambent glories dancâd about her head. This new portent the seer with wonder views, Then pausing, thus his prophecy renews: âThe nymph, who scatters flaming fires around, Shall shine with honour, shall herself be crownâd; But, causâd by her irrevocable fate, War shall the country waste, and change the state.â
Latinus, frighted with this dire ostent,
For counsel to his father Faunus went, And sought the shades renownâd for prophecy Which near Albuneaâs sulphârous fountain lie. To these the Latian and the Sabine land Fly, when distressâd, and thence relief demand. The priest on skins of offârings takes his ease, And nightly visions in his slumber sees; A swarm of thin aerial shapes appears, And, fluttâring round his temples, deafs his ears: These he consults, the future fates to know, From powârs above, and from the fiends below. Here, for the godsâ advice, Latinus flies, Offâring a hundred sheep for sacrifice: Their woolly fleeces, as the rites requirâd, He laid beneath him, and to rest retirâd. No sooner were his eyes in slumber bound, When, from above, a more than mortal sound Invades his ears; and thus the vision spoke: âSeek not, my seed, in Latian bands to yoke Our fair Lavinia, nor the gods provoke. A foreign son upon thy shore descends, Whose martial fame from pole to pole extends. His race, in arms and arts of peace renownâd, Not Latium shall contain, nor Europe bound: âTis theirs whateâer the sun surveys around.â These answers, in the silent night receivâd, The king himself divulgâd, the land believâd: The fame throâ all the neighbâring nations flew, When now the Trojan navy was in view.
Beneath a shady tree, the hero spread
His table on the turf, with cakes of bread; And, with his chiefs, on forest fruits he fed. They sate; and, (not without the godâs command,) Their homely fare dispatchâd, the hungry band Invade their trenchers next, and soon devour, To mend the scanty meal, their cakes of flour. Ascanius this observâd, and smiling said: âSee, we devour the plates on which we fed.â The speech had omen, that the Trojan race Should find repose, and this the time and place. Aeneas took the word, and thus replies, Confessing fate with wonder in his eyes: âAll hail, O earth! all hail, my household gods! Behold the destinâd place of your abodes! For thus Anchises prophesied of old, And this our fatal place of rest foretold: âWhen, on a foreign shore, instead of meat, By famine forcâd, your trenchers you shall eat, Then ease your weary Trojans will attend, And the long labours of your voyage end. Remember on that happy coast to build, And with a trench inclose the fruitful field.â This was that famine, this the fatal place Which ends the wandâring of our exilâd race. Then, on tomorrowâs dawn, your care employ, To search the land, and where the cities lie, And what the men; but give this day to joy. Now pour to Jove; and, after Jove is blest, Call great Anchises to the genial feast: Crown high the goblets with a cheerful draught; Enjoy the present hour; adjourn the future thought.â
Thus having said, the hero bound his brows
With leafy branches, then performâd his vows; Adoring first the genius of the place, Then Earth, the mother of the heavânly race, The nymphs, and native godheads yet unknown, And Night, and all the stars that gild her sable throne, And ancient Cybel, and Idaean Jove, And last his sire below, and mother queen above. Then heavânâs high monarch thunderâd thrice aloud, And thrice he shook aloft a golden cloud. Soon throâ the joyful camp a rumour flew, The time was come their city to renew. Then evâry brow with cheerful green is crownâd, The feasts are doubled, and the bowls go round.
When next the rosy morn disclosâd the day,
The scouts to sevâral parts divide their way, To learn the nativesâ names, their towns explore, The coasts and trendings of the crooked shore: Here Tiber flows, and here Numicus stands; Here warlike Latins hold the happy lands. The pious chief, who sought by peaceful ways To found his empire, and his town to raise, A hundred youths from all his train selects, And to the Latian court their course directs, (The spacious palace where their prince resides,) And all their heads with wreaths of olive hides. They go commissionâd to require a peace, And carry presents to procure access. Thus while they speed their pace, the prince designs His new-elected seat, and draws the lines. The Trojans round the place a rampire cast, And palisades about the trenches placâd.
Meantime the train, proceeding on their way,
From far the town and lofty towârs survey; At length approach the walls. Without the gate, They see the boys and Latian youth debate The martial prizes on the dusty plain: Some drive the cars, and some the coursers rein; Some bend the stubborn bow for victory, And some with darts their active sinews try. A posting messenger, dispatchâd from hence, Of this fair troop advisâd their aged prince, That foreign men of mighty stature came; Uncouth their habit, and unknown their name. The king ordains their entrance, and ascends His regal seat, surrounded by his friends.
The palace built by Picus, vast and proud,
Supported by a hundred pillars stood, And round incompassâd with a rising wood. The pile oâerlookâd the town, and drew the sight; Surprisâd at once with reverence and delight. There kings receivâd the marks of sovâreign powâr; In state the monarchs marchâd; the lictors bore Their awful axes and the rods before. Here the tribunal stood, the house of prayâr, And here the sacred senators repair; All at large tables, in long order set, A ram their offâring, and a ram their meat. Above the portal, carvâd in cedar wood, Placâd in their ranks, their godlike grandsires stood; Old Saturn, with his crooked scythe, on high; And Italus, that led the colony; And ancient Janus, with his double face, And bunch of keys, the porter of the place. There good Sabinus, planter of the vines, On a short pruning hook his head reclines, And studiously surveys his genârous wines; Then warlike kings, who for their country fought, And honourable wounds from battle brought. Around the posts hung helmets, darts, and spears, And captive chariots, axes, shields, and bars, And broken beaks of ships, the trophies of their wars. Above the rest, as chief of all the band, Was Picus placâd, a buckler in his hand; His other wavâd a long divining wand. Girt in his Gabin gown the hero sate, Yet could not with his art avoid his fate: For Circe long had lovâd the youth in vain, Till love, refusâd, converted to disdain: Then, mixing powârful herbs, with magic art, She changâd his form, who could not change his heart; Constrainâd him in a bird, and made him fly, With party-colourâd plumes, a chattâring pie.
In this high temple, on a chair of state,
The seat of audience, old Latinus sate; Then gave admission to the Trojan train; And thus with pleasing accents he began: âTell me, ye Trojans, for that name you own, Nor is your course upon our coasts unknown; Say what you seek, and whither were you bound: Were you by stress of weather cast aground? Such dangers as on seas are often seen, And oft befall to miserable men, Or come, your shipping in our ports to lay, Spent and disabled in so long a way? Say what you want: the Latians you shall find Not forcâd to goodness, but by will inclinâd; For, since the time of Saturnâs holy reign, His hospitable customs we retain. I call to mind (but time the tale has worn) Thâ Arunci told, that Dardanus, thoâ born On Latian plains, yet sought the Phrygian shore, And Samothracia, Samos callâd before. From Tuscan Coritum he claimâd his birth; But after, when exempt from mortal earth, From thence ascended to his kindred skies, A god, and, as a god, augments their sacrifice.â
He said. Ilioneus made this reply:
âO king, of Faunusâ royal family! Nor wintry winds to Latium forcâd our way, Nor did the stars our wandâring course betray. Willing we sought your shores; and, hither bound, The port, so long desirâd, at length we found; From our sweet homes and ancient realms expellâd; Great as the greatest that the sun beheld. The god began our line, who rules above; And, as our race, our king descends from Jove: And hither are we come, by his command, To crave admission in your happy land. How dire a tempest, from Mycenae pourâd, Our plains, our temples, and our town devourâd; What was the waste of war, what fierce alarms Shook Asiaâs crown with European arms; Evân such have heard, if any such there be, Whose earth is bounded by the frozen sea; And such as, born beneath the burning sky And sultry sun, betwixt the tropics lie. From that dire deluge, throâ the watâry waste, Such length of years, such various perils past, At last escapâd, to Latium we repair, To beg what you without your want may spare: The common water, and the common air; Sheds which ourselves will build, and mean abodes, Fit to receive and serve our banishâd gods. Nor our admission shall your realm disgrace, Nor length of time our gratitude efface. Besides, what endless honour you shall gain, To save and shelter Troyâs unhappy train! Now, by my sovâreign, and his fate, I swear, Renownâd for faith in peace, for force in war; Oft our alliance other lands desirâd, And, what we seek of you, of us requirâd. Despite not then, that in our hands we bear These holy boughs, and sue with words of prayâr. Fate and the gods, by their supreme command, Have doomâd our ships to seek the Latian land. To these abodes our fleet Apollo sends; Here Dardanus was born, and hither tends; Where Tuscan Tiber rolls with rapid force, And where Numicus opes his holy source. Besides, our prince presents, with his request, Some small remains of what his sire possessâd. This golden charger, snatchâd from burning Troy, Anchises did in sacrifice employ; This royal robe and this tiara wore Old Priam, and this golden scepter bore In full assemblies, and in solemn games; These purple vests were weavâd by Dardan dames.â
Thus while he spoke, Latinus rollâd around
His eyes, and fixâd a while upon the ground. Intent he seemâd, and anxious in his breast; Not by the scepter movâd, or kingly vest, But pondâring future things of wondrous weight; Succession, empire, and his daughterâs fate. On these he musâd within his thoughtful mind, And then revolvâd what Faunus had divinâd. This was the foreign prince, by fate decreed To share his scepter, and Laviniaâs bed; This was the race that sure portents foreshew To sway the world, and land and sea subdue. At length he raisâd his cheerful head, and spoke: âThe powârs,â said he, âthe powârs we both invoke, To you, and yours, and mine, propitious be, And firm our purpose with their augury! Have what you ask; your presents I receive; Land, where and when you please, with ample leave; Partake and use my kingdom as your own; All shall be yours, while I command the crown: And, if my wishâd alliance please your king, Tell him he should not send the peace, but bring. Then let him not a friendâs embraces fear; The peace is made when I behold him here. Besides this answer, tell my royal guest, I add to his commands my own request: One only daughter heirs my crown and state, Whom not our oracles, nor Heavân, nor fate, Nor frequent prodigies, permit to join With any native of thâ Ausonian line. A foreign son-in-law shall come from far (Such is our doom), a chief renownâd in war, Whose race shall bear aloft the Latian name, And throâ the conquerâd world diffuse our fame. Himself to be the man the fates require, I firmly judge, and, what I judge, desire.â
He said, and then on each bestowâd a steed.
Three hundred horses, in high stables fed, Stood ready, shining all, and smoothly dressâd: Of these he chose the fairest and the best, To mount the Trojan troop. At his command The steeds caparisonâd with purple stand, With golden trappings, glorious to behold, And champ betwixt their teeth the foaming gold. Then to his absent guest the king decreed A pair of coursers born of heavânly breed, Who from their nostrils breathâd ethereal fire; Whom Circe stole from her celestial sire, By substituting mares producâd on earth, Whose wombs conceivâd a more than mortal birth. These draw the chariot which Latinus sends, And the rich present to the prince commends. Sublime on stately steeds the Trojans borne, To their expecting lord with peace return.
But jealous Juno, from Pachynusâ height,
As she from Argos took her airy flight, Beheld with envious eyes this hateful sight. She saw the Trojan and his joyful train Descend upon the shore, desert the main, Design a town, and, with unhopâd success, Thâ embassadors return with promisâd peace. Then, piercâd with pain, she shook her haughty head, Sighâd from her inward soul, and thus she said: âO hated offspring of my Phrygian foes! O fates of Troy, which Junoâs fates oppose! Could they not fall unpitied on the plain, But slain revive, and, taken, scape again? When execrable Troy in ashes lay, Throâ fires and swords and seas they forcâd their way. Then vanquishâd Juno must in vain contend, Her rage disarmâd, her empire at an end. Breathless and tirâd, is all my fury spent? Or does my glutted spleen at length relent? As if âtwere little from their town to chase, I throâ the seas pursued their exilâd race; Ingagâd the heavâns, opposâd the stormy main; But billows roarâd, and tempests ragâd in vain. What have my Scyllas and my Syrtes done, When these they overpass, and those they shun? On Tiberâs shores they land, secure of fate, Triumphant oâer the storms and Junoâs hate. Mars could in mutual blood the Centaurs bathe, And Jove himself gave way to Cynthiaâs wrath, Who sent the tusky boar to Calydon; What great offence had either people done? But I, the consort of the Thunderer, Have wagâd a long and unsuccessful war, With various arts and arms in vain have toilâd, And by a mortal man at length am foilâd. If native powâr prevail not, shall I doubt To seek for needful succour from without? If Jove and Heavân my just desires deny, Hell shall the powâr of Heavân and Jove supply. Grant that the Fates have firmâd, by their decree, The Trojan race to reign in Italy; At least I can defer the nuptial day, And with protracted wars the peace delay: With blood the dear alliance shall be bought, And both the people near destruction brought; So shall the son-in-law and father join, With ruin, war, and waste of either line. O fatal maid, thy marriage is endowâd With Phrygian, Latian, and Rutulian blood! Bellona leads thee to thy loverâs hand; Another queen brings forth another brand, To burn with foreign fires another land! A second Paris, diffâring but in name, Shall fire his country with a second flame.â
Thus having said, she sinks beneath the ground,
With furious haste, and shoots the Stygian sound, To rouse Alecto from thâ infernal seat Of her dire sisters, and their dark retreat. This Fury, fit for her intent, she chose; One who delights in wars and human woes. Evân Pluto hates his own misshapen race; Her sister Furies fly her hideous face; So frightful are the forms the monster takes, So fierce the hissings of her speckled snakes. Her Juno finds, and thus inflames her spite: âO virgin daughter of eternal Night, Give me this once thy labour, to sustain My right, and execute my just disdain. Let not the Trojans, with a feignâd pretence Of profferâd peace, delude the Latian prince. Expel from Italy that odious name, And let not Juno suffer in her fame. âTis thine to ruin realms, oâerturn a state, Betwixt the dearest friends to raise debate, And kindle kindred blood to mutual hate. Thy hand oâer towns the funâral torch displays, And forms a thousand ills ten thousand ways. Now shake, out thy fruitful breast, the seeds Of envy, discord, and of cruel deeds: Confound the peace establishâd, and prepare Their souls to hatred, and their hands to war.â
Smearâd as she was with black Gorgonian blood,
The Fury sprang above the Stygian flood; And on her wicker wings, sublime throâ night, She to the Latian palace took her flight: There sought the queenâs apartment, stood before The peaceful threshold, and besiegâd the door. Restless Amata lay, her swelling breast Firâd with disdain for Turnus dispossessâd, And the new nuptials of the Trojan guest. From her black bloody locks the Fury shakes Her darling plague, the favârite of her snakes; With her full force she threw the poisonous dart, And fixâd it deep within Amataâs heart, That, thus envenomâd, she might kindle rage, And sacrifice to strife her house and husbandâs age. Unseen, unfelt, the fiery serpent skims Betwixt her linen and her naked limbs; His baleful breath inspiring, as he glides, Now like a chain around her neck he rides, Now like a fillet to her head repairs, And with his circling volumes folds her hairs. At first the silent venom slid with ease, And seizâd her cooler senses by degrees; Then, ere thâ infected mass was firâd too far, In plaintive accents she began the war, And thus bespoke her husband: âShall,â she said, âA wandâring prince enjoy Laviniaâs bed? If nature plead not in a parentâs heart, Pity my tears, and pity her desert. I know, my dearest lord, the time will come, Youâd in vain, reverse your cruel doom; The faithless pirate soon will set to sea, And bear the royal virgin far away! A guest like him, a Trojan guest before, In shew of friendship sought the Spartan shore, And ravishâd Helen from her husband bore. Think on a kingâs inviolable word; And think on Turnus, her once plighted lord: To this false foreigner you give your throne, And wrong a friend, a kinsman, and a son. Resume your ancient care; and, if the god Your sire, and you, resolve on foreign blood, Know all are foreign, in a larger sense, Not born your subjects, or derivâd from hence. Then, if the line of Turnus you retrace, He springs from Inachus of Argive race.â
But when she saw her reasons idly spent,
And could not move him from his fixâd intent, She flew to rage; for now the snake possessâd Her vital parts, and poisonâd all her breast; She raves, she runs with a distracted pace, And fills with horrid howls the public place. And, as young striplings whip the top for sport, On the smooth pavement of an empty court; The wooden engine flies and whirls about, Admirâd, with clamours, of the beardless rout; They lash aloud; each other they provoke, And lend their little souls at evâry stroke: Thus fares the queen; and thus her fury blows Amidst the crowd, and kindles as she goes. Nor yet content, she strains her malice more, And adds new ills to those contrivâd before: She flies the town, and, mixing with a throng Of madding matrons, bears the bride along, Wandâring throâ woods and wilds, and devious ways, And with these arts the Trojan match delays. She feignâd the rites of Bacchus; cried aloud, And to the buxom god the virgin vowâd. âEvoe! O Bacchus!â thus began the song; And âEvoe!â answerâd all the female throng. âO virgin! worthy thee alone!â she cried; âO worthy thee alone!â the crew replied. âFor thee she feeds her hair, she leads thy dance, And with thy winding ivy wreathes her lance.â Like fury seizâd the rest; the progress known, All seek the mountains, and forsake the town: All, clad in skins of beasts, the javâlin bear, Give to the wanton winds their flowing hair, And shrieks and shoutings rend the suffâring air. The queen herself, inspirâd with rage divine, Shook high above her head a flaming pine; Then rollâd her haggard eyes around the throng, And sung, in Turnusâ name, the nuptial song: âIo, ye Latian dames! if any here Hold your unhappy queen, Amata, dear; If there be here,â she said, âwho dare maintain My right, nor think the name of mother vain; Unbind your fillets, loose your flowing hair, And orgies and nocturnal rites prepare.â
Amataâs breast the Fury thus invades,
And fires with rage, amid the sylvan shades; Then, when she found her venom spread so far, The royal house embroilâd in civil war, Raisâd on her dusky wings, she cleaves the skies, And seeks the palace where young Turnus lies. His town, as fame reports, was built of old By Danae, pregnant with almighty gold, Who fled her fatherâs rage, and, with a train Of following Argives, throâ the stormy main, Drivân by the southern blasts, was fated here to reign. âTwas Ardua once; now Ardeaâs name it bears; Once a fair city, now consumâd with years. Here, in his lofty palace, Turnus lay, Betwixt the confines of the night and day, Secure in sleep. The Fury laid aside Her looks and limbs, and with new methods tried The foulness of thâ infernal form to hide. Proppâd on a staff, she takes a trembling mien: Her face is furrowâd, and her front obscene; Deep-dinted wrinkles on her cheek she draws; Sunk are her eyes, and toothless are her jaws; Her hoary hair with holy fillets bound, Her temples with an olive wreath are crownâd. Old Chalybe, who kept the sacred fane Of Juno, now she seemâd, and thus began, Appearing in a dream, to rouse the careless man: âShall Turnus then such endless toil sustain In fighting fields, and conquer towns in vain? Win, for a Trojan head to wear the prize, Usurp thy crown, enjoy thy victories? The bride and scepter which thy blood has bought, The king transfers; and foreign heirs are sought. Go now, deluded man, and seek again New toils, new dangers, on the dusty plain. Repel the Tuscan foes; their city seize; Protect the Latians in luxurious ease. This dream all-powârful Juno sends; I bear Her mighty mandates, and her words you hear. Haste; arm your Ardeans; issue to the plain; With fate to friend, assault the Trojan train: Their thoughtless chiefs, their painted ships, that lie In Tiberâs mouth, with fire and sword destroy. The Latian king, unless he shall submit, Own his old promise, and his new forget; Let him, in arms, the powâr of Turnus prove, And learn to fear whom he disdains to love. For such is Heavânâs command.â The youthful prince With scorn replied, and made this bold defence: âYou tell me, mother, what I knew before: The Phrygian fleet is landed on the shore. I neither fear nor will provoke the war; My fate is Junoâs most peculiar care. But time has made you dote, and vainly tell Of arms imaginâd in your lonely cell. Go; be the temple and the gods your care; Permit to men the thought of peace and war.â
These haughty words Alectoâs rage provoke,
And frighted Turnus trembled as she spoke. Her eyes grow stiffenâd, and with sulphur burn; Her hideous looks and hellish form return; Her curling snakes with hissings fill the place, And open all the furies of her face: Then, darting fire from her malignant eyes, She cast him backward as he strove to rise, And, lingâring, sought to frame some new replies. High on her head she rears two twisted snakes, Her chains she rattles, and her whip she shakes; And, churning bloody foam, thus loudly speaks: âBehold whom time has made to dote, and tell Of arms imaginâd in her lonely cell! Behold the Fatesâ infernal minister! War, death, destruction, in my hand I bear.â
Thus having said, her smouldâring torch, impressâd
With her full force, she plungâd into his breast. Aghast he wakâd; and, starting from his bed, Cold sweat, in clammy drops, his limbs oâerspread. âArms! arms!â he cries: âmy sword and shield prepare!â He breathes defiance, blood, and mortal war. So, when with crackling flames a caldron fries, The bubbling waters from the bottom rise: Above the brims they force their fiery way; Black vapours climb aloft, and cloud the day.
The peace polluted thus, a chosen band
He first commissions to the Latian land, In threatâning embassy; then raisâd the rest, To meet in arms thâ intruding Trojan guest, To force the foes from the Lavinian shore, And Italyâs indangerâd peace restore. Himself alone an equal match he boasts, To fight the Phrygian and Ausonian hosts. The gods invokâd, the Rutuli prepare Their arms, and warn each other to the war. His beauty these, and those his blooming age, The rest his house and his own fame engage.
While Turnus urges thus his enterprise,
The Stygian Fury to the Trojans flies; New frauds invents, and takes a steepy stand, Which overlooks the vale with wide command; Where fair Ascanius and his youthful train, With horns and hounds, a hunting match ordain, And pitch their toils around the shady plain. The Fury fires the pack; they snuff, they vent, And feed their hungry nostrils with the scent. âTwas of a well-grown stag, whose antlers rise High oâer his front; his beams invade the skies. From this light cause thâ infernal maid prepares The country churls to mischief, hate, and wars.
The stately beast the two Tyrrhidae bred,
Snatchâd from his dams, and the tame youngling fed. Their father Tyrrheus did his fodder bring, Tyrrheus, chief ranger to the Latian king: Their sister Silvia cherishâd with her care The little wanton, and did wreaths prepare To hang his budding horns, with ribbons tied His tender neck, and combâd his silken hide, And bathed his body. Patient of command In time he grew, and, growing usâd to hand, He waited at his masterâs board for food; Then sought his salvage kindred in the wood, Where grazing all the day, at night he came To his known lodgings, and his country dame.
This household beast, that usâd the woodland grounds,
Was viewâd at first by the young heroâs hounds, As down the stream he swam, to seek retreat In the cool waters, and to quench his heat. Ascanius young, and eager of his game, Soon bent his bow, uncertain in his aim; But the dire fiend the fatal arrow guides, Which piercâd his bowels throâ his panting sides. The bleeding creature issues from the floods, Possessâd with fear, and seeks his known abodes, His old familiar hearth and household gods. He falls; he fills the house with heavy groans, Implores their pity, and his pain bemoans. Young Silvia beats her breast, and cries aloud For succour from the clownish neighbourhood: The churls assemble; for the fiend, who lay In the close woody covert, urgâd their way. One with a brand yet burning from the flame, Armâd with a knotty club another came: Whateâer they catch or find, without their care, Their fury makes an instrument of war. Tyrrheus, the foster father of the beast, Then clenchâd a hatchet in his horny fist, But held his hand from the descending stroke, And left his wedge within the cloven oak, To whet their courage and their rage provoke. And now the goddess, exercisâd in ill, Who watchâd an hour to work her impious will, Ascends the roof, and to her crooked horn, Such as was then by Latian shepherds borne, Adds all her breath: the rocks and woods around, And mountains, tremble at thâ infernal sound. The sacred lake of Trivia from afar, The Veline fountains, and sulphureous Nar, Shake at the baleful blast, the signal of the war. Young mothers wildly stare, with fear possessâd, And strain their helpless infants to their breast.
The clowns, a boistârous, rude, ungovernâd crew,
With furious haste to the loud summons flew. The powârs of Troy, then issuing on the plain, With fresh recruits their youthful chief sustain: Not theirs a raw and unexperiencâd train, But a firm body of embattled men. At first, while fortune favourâd neither side, The fight with clubs and burning brands was tried; But now, both parties reinforcâd, the fields Are bright with flaming swords and brazen shields. A shining harvest either host displays, And shoots against the sun with equal rays. Thus, when a black-browâd gust begins to rise, White foam at first on the curlâd ocean fries; Then roars the main, the billows mount the skies; Till, by the fury of the storm full blown, The muddy bottom oâer the clouds is thrown. First Almon falls, old Tyrrheusâ eldest care, Piercâd with an arrow from the distant war: Fixâd in his throat the flying weapon stood, And stoppâd his breath, and drank his vital blood Huge heaps of slain around the body rise: Among the rest, the rich Galesus lies; A good old man, while peace he preachâd in vain, Amidst the madness of thâ unruly train: Five herds, five bleating flocks, his pastures fillâd; His lands a hundred yoke of oxen tillâd.
Thus, while in equal scales their fortune stood
The Fury bathâd them in each otherâs blood; Then, having fixâd the fight, exulting flies, And bears fulfillâd her promise to the skies. To Juno thus she speaks: âBehold! It is done, The blood already drawn, the war begun; The discord is complete; nor can they cease The dire debate, nor you command the peace. Now, since the Latian and the Trojan brood Have tasted vengeance and the sweets of blood; Speak, and my powâr shall add this office more: The neighbrâing nations of thâ Ausonian shore Shall hear the dreadful rumour, from afar, Of armâd invasion, and embrace the war.â Then Juno thus: âThe grateful work is done, The seeds of discord sowâd, the war begun; Frauds, fears, and fury have possessâd the state, And fixâd the causes of a lasting hate. A bloody Hymen shall thâ alliance join Betwixt the Trojan and Ausonian line: But thou with speed to night and hell repair; For not the gods, nor angry Jove, will bear Thy lawless wandâring walks in upper air. Leave what remains to me.â Saturnia said: The sullen fiend her sounding wings displayâd, Unwilling left the light, and sought the nether shade.
In midst of Italy, well known to fame,
There lies a lake, Amsanctus is the name, Below the lofty mounts: on either side Thick forests the forbidden entrance hide. Full in the centre of the sacred wood An arm arises of the Stygian flood, Which, breaking from beneath with bellowing sound, Whirls the black waves and rattling stones around. Here Pluto pants for breath from out his cell, And opens wide the grinning jaws of hell. To this infernal lake the Fury flies; Here hides her hated head, and frees the labâring skies.
Saturnian Juno now, with double care,
Attends the fatal process of the war. The clowns, returnâd, from battle bear the slain, Implore the gods, and to their king complain. The corps of Almon and the rest are shown; Shrieks, clamours, murmurs, fill the frighted town. Ambitious Turnus in the press appears, And, aggravating crimes, augments their fears; Proclaims his private injuries aloud, A solemn promise made, and disavowâd; A foreign son is sought, and a mixâd mungril brood. Then they, whose mothers, frantic with their fear, In woods and wilds the flags of Bacchus bear, And lead his dances with dishevelâd hair, Increase the clamour, and the war demand, (Such was Amataâs intârest in the land,) Against the public sanctions of the peace, Against all omens of their ill success. With fates averse, the rout in arms resort, To force their monarch, and insult the court. But, like a rock unmovâd, a rock that braves The raging tempest and the rising waves, Proppâd on himself he stands; his solid sides Wash off the seaweeds, and the sounding tides: So stood the pious prince, unmovâd, and long Sustainâd the madness of the noisy throng. But, when he found that Junoâs powâr prevailâd, And all the methods of cool counsel failâd, He calls the gods to witness their offence, Disclaims the war, asserts his innocence. âHurried by fate,â he cries, âand borne before A furious wind, we have the faithful shore. O more than madmen! you yourselves shall bear The guilt of blood and sacrilegious war: Thou, Turnus, shalt atone it by thy fate, And pray to Heavân for peace, but pray too late. For me, my stormy voyage at an end, I to the port of death securely tend. The funâral pomp which to your kings you pay, Is all I want, and all you take away.â He said no more, but, in his walls confinâd, Shut out the woes which he too well divinâd Nor with the rising storm would vainly strive, But left the helm, and let the vessel drive.
A solemn custom was observâd of old,
Which Latium held, and now the Romans hold, Their standard when in fighting fields they rear Against the fierce Hyrcanians, or declare The Scythian, Indian, or Arabian war; Or from the boasting Parthians would regain Their eagles, lost in Carrhaeâs bloody plain. Two gates of steel (the name of Mars they bear, And still are worshipâd with religious fear) Before his temple stand: the dire abode, And the fearâd issues of the furious god, Are fencâd with brazen bolts; without the gates, The wary guardian Janus doubly waits. Then, when the sacred senate votes the wars, The Roman consul their decree declares, And in his robes the sounding gates unbars. The youth in military shouts arise, And the loud trumpets break the yielding skies. These rites, of old by sovâreign princes usâd, Were the kingâs office; but the king refusâd, Deaf to their cries, nor would the gates unbar Of sacred peace, or loose thâ imprisonâd war; But hid his head, and, safe from loud alarms, Abhorrâd the wicked ministry of arms. Then heavânâs imperious queen shot down from high: At her approach the brazen hinges fly; The gates are forcâd, and evâry falling bar; And, like a tempest, issues out the war.
The peaceful cities of thâ Ausonian shore,
Lullâd in their ease, and undisturbâd before, Are all on fire; and some, with studious care, Their restiff steeds in sandy plains prepare; Some their soft limbs in painful marches try, And war is all their wish, and arms the genâral cry. Part scour the rusty shields with seam; and part New grind the blunted ax, and point the dart: With joy they view the waving ensigns fly, And hear the trumpetâs clangour pierce the sky. Five cities forge their arms: thâ Atinian powârs, Antemnae, Tibur with her lofty towârs, Ardea the proud, the Crustumerian town: All these of old were places of renown. Some hammer helmets for the fighting field; Some twine young sallows to support the shield; The croslet some, and some the cuishes mould, With silver plated, and with ductile gold. The rustic honours of the scythe and share Give place to swords and plumes, the pride of war. Old falchions are new temperâd in the fires; The sounding trumpet evâry soul inspires. The word is givân; with eager speed they lace The shining headpiece, and the shield embrace. The neighing steeds are to the chariot tied; The trusty weapon sits on evâry side.
And now the mighty labour is begun
Ye Muses, open all your Helicon. Sing you the chiefs that swayâd thâ Ausonian land, Their arms, and armies under their command; What warriors in our ancient clime were bred; What soldiers followâd, and what heroes led. For well you know, and can record alone, What fame to future times conveys but darkly down. Mezentius first appearâd upon the plain: Scorn sate upon his brows, and sour disdain, Defying earth and heavân. Etruria lost, He brings to Turnusâ aid his baffled host. The charming Lausus, full of youthful fire, Rode in the rank, and next his sullen sire; To Turnus only second in the grace Of manly mien, and features of the face. A skilful horseman, and a huntsman bred, With fates averse a thousand men he led: His sire unworthy of so brave a son; Himself well worthy of a happier throne.
Next Aventinus drives his chariot round
The Latian plains, with palms and laurels crownâd. Proud of his steeds, he smokes along the field; His fatherâs hydra fills his ample shield: A hundred serpents hiss about the brims; The son of Hercules he justly seems By his broad shoulders and gigantic limbs; Of heavânly part, and part of earthly blood, A mortal woman mixing with a god. For strong Alcides, after he had slain The triple Geryon, drove from conquerâd Spain His captive herds; and, thence in triumph led, On Tuscan Tiberâs flowâry banks they fed. Then on Mount Aventine the son of Jove The priestess Rhea found, and forcâd to love. For arms, his men long piles and javâlins bore; And poles with pointed steel their foes in battle gore. Like Hercules himself his son appears, In salvage pomp; a lionâs hide he wears; About his shoulders hangs the shaggy skin; The teeth and gaping jaws severely grin. Thus, like the god his father, homely dressâd, He strides into the hall, a horrid guest.
Then two twin brothers from fair Tibur came,
(Which from their brother Tiburs took the name,) Fierce Coras and Catillus, void of fear: Armâd Argive horse they led, and in the front appear. Like cloud-born Centaurs, from the mountainâs height With rapid course descending to the fight; They rush along; the rattling woods give way; The branches bend before their sweepy sway.
Nor was Praenesteâs founder wanting there,
Whom fame reports the son of Mulciber: Found in the fire, and fosterâd in the plains, A shepherd and a king at once he reigns, And leads to Turnusâ aid his country swains. His own Praeneste sends a chosen band, With those who plow Saturniaâs Gabine land; Besides the succour which cold Anien yields, The rocks of Hernicus, and dewy fields, Anagnia fat, and Father Amaseneâ A numârous rout, but all of naked men: Nor arms they wear, nor swords and bucklers wield, Nor drive the chariot throâ the dusty field, But whirl from leathern slings huge balls of lead, And spoils of yellow wolves adorn their head; The left foot naked, when they march to fight, But in a bullâs raw hide they sheathe the right. Messapus next, (great Neptune was his sire,) Secure of steel, and fated from the fire, In pomp appears, and with his ardour warms A heartless train, unexercisâd in arms: The just Faliscans he to battle brings, And those who live where Lake Ciminius springs; And where Feroniaâs grove and temple stands, Who till Fescennian or Flavinian lands. All these in order march, and marching sing The warlike actions of their sea-born king; Like a long team of snowy swans on high, Which clap their wings, and cleave the liquid sky, When, homeward from their watâry pastures borne, They sing, and Asiaâs lakes their notes return. Not one who heard their music from afar, Would think these troops an army trainâd to war, But flocks of fowl, that, when the tempests roar, With their hoarse gabbling seek the silent shore.
Then Clausus came, who led a numârous band
Of troops embodied from the Sabine land, And, in himself alone, an army brought. âTwas he, the noble Claudian race begot, The Claudian race, ordainâd, in times to come, To share the greatness of imperial Rome. He led the Cures forth, of old renown, Mutuscans from their olive-bearing town, And all thâ Eretian powârs; besides a band That followâd from Velinumâs dewy land, And Amiternian troops, of mighty fame, And mountaineers, that from Severus came, And from the craggy cliffs of Tetrica, And those where yellow Tiber takes his way, And where Himellaâs wanton waters play. Casperia sends her arms, with those that lie By Fabaris, and fruitful Foruli: The warlike aids of Horta next appear, And the cold Nursians come to close the rear, Mixâd with the natives born of Latine blood, Whom Allia washes with her fatal flood. Not thicker billows beat the Libyan main, When pale Orion sets in wintry rain; Nor thicker harvests on rich Hermus rise, Or Lycian fields, when Phoebus burns the skies, Than stand these troops: their bucklers ring around; Their trampling turns the turf, and shakes the solid ground.
High in his chariot then Halesus came,
A foe by birth to Troyâs unhappy name: From Agamemnon bornâto Turnusâ aid A thousand men the youthful hero led, Who till the Massic soil, for wine renownâd, And fierce Auruncans from their hilly ground, And those who live by Sidicinian shores, And where with shoaly fords Vulturnus roars, Calesâ and Oscaâs old inhabitants, And rough Saticulans, inurâd to wants: Light demi-lances from afar they throw, Fastenâd with leathern thongs, to gall the foe. Short crooked swords in closer fight they wear; And on their warding arm light bucklers bear.
Nor Oebalus, shalt thou be left unsung,
From nymph Semethis and old Telon sprung, Who then in Teleboan Capri reignâd; But that short isle thâ ambitious youth disdainâd, And oâer Campania stretchâd his ample sway, Where swelling Sarnus seeks the Tyrrhene sea; Oâer Batulum, and where Abella sees, From her high towârs, the harvest of her trees. And these (as was the Teuton use of old) Wield brazen swords, and brazen bucklers hold; Sling weighty stones, when from afar they fight; Their casques are cork, a covering thick and light.
Next these in rank, the warlike Ufens went,
And led the mountain troops that Nursia sent. The rude Equicolae his rule obeyâd; Hunting their sport, and plundâring was their trade. In arms they plowâd, to battle still preparâd: Their soil was barren, and their hearts were hard.
Umbro the priest the proud Marrubians led,
By King Archippus sent to Turnusâ aid, And peaceful olives crownâd his hoary head. His wand and holy words, the viperâs rage, And venomâd wounds of serpents could assuage. He, when he pleasâd with powerful juice to steep Their temples, shut their eyes in pleasing sleep. But vain were Marsian herbs, and magic art, To cure the wound givân by the Dardan dart: Yet his untimely fate thâ Angitian woods In sighs remurmurâd to the Fucine floods.
The son of famâd Hippolytus was there,
Famâd as his sire, and, as his mother, fair; Whom in Egerian groves Aricia bore, And nursâd his youth along the marshy shore, Where great Dianaâs peaceful altars flame, In fruitful fields; and Virbius was his name. Hippolytus, as old records have said, Was by his stepdam sought to share her bed; But, when no female arts his mind could move, She turnâd to furious hate her impious love. Torn by wild horses on the sandy shore, Anotherâs crimes thâ unhappy hunter bore, Glutting his fatherâs eyes with guiltless gore. But chaste Diana, who his death deplorâd, With Aesculapian herbs his life restorâd. Then Jove, who saw from high, with just disdain, The dead inspirâd with vital breath again, Struck to the centre, with his flaming dart, Thâ unhappy founder of the godlike art. But Trivia kept in secret shades alone Her care, Hippolytus, to fate unknown; And callâd him Virbius in thâ Egerian grove, Where then he livâd obscure, but safe from Jove. For this, from Triviaâs temple and her wood Are coursers drivân, who shed their masterâs blood, Affrighted by the monsters of the flood. His son, the second Virbius, yet retainâd His fatherâs art, and warrior steeds he reinâd.
Amid the troops, and like the leading god,
High oâer the rest in arms the graceful Turnus rode: A triple of plumes his crest adornâd, On which with belching flames Chimaera burnâd: The more the kindled combat rises highâr, The more with fury burns the blazing fire. Fair Io gracâd his shield; but Io now With horns exalted stands, and seems to lowâ A noble charge! Her keeper by her side, To watch her walks, his hundred eyes applied; And on the brims her sire, the watâry god, Rollâd from a silver urn his crystal flood. A cloud of foot succeeds, and fills the fields With swords, and pointed spears, and clattâring shields; Of Argives, and of old Sicanian bands, And those who plow the rich Rutulian lands; Auruncan youth, and those Sacrana yields, And the proud Labicans, with painted shields, And those who near Numician streams reside, And those whom Tiberâs holy forests hide, Or Circeâs hills from the main land divide; Where Ufens glides along the lowly lands, Or the black water of Pomptina stands.
Last, from the Volscians fair Camilla came,
And led her warlike troops, a warrior dame; Unbred to spinning, in the loom unskillâd, She chose the nobler Pallas of the field. Mixâd with the first, the fierce Virago fought, Sustainâd the toils of arms, the danger sought, Outstrippâd the winds in speed upon the plain, Flew oâer the fields, nor hurt the bearded grain: She swept the seas, and, as she skimmâd along, Her flying feet unbathâd on billows hung. Men, boys, and women, stupid with surprise, Whereâer she passes, fix their wondâring eyes: Longing they look, and, gaping at the sight, Devour her oâer and oâer with vast delight; Her purple habit sits with such a grace On her smooth shoulders, and so suits her face; Her head with ringlets of her hair is crownâd, And in a golden caul the curls are bound. She shakes her myrtle javâlin; and, behind, Her Lycian quiver dances in the wind. BOOK VIIITHE ARGUMENT.
The war being now begun, both the generals make all possible preparations. Turnus sends to Diomedes. Aeneas goes in person to beg succours from Evander and the Tuscans. Evander receives him kindly, furnishes him with men, and sends his son Pallas with him. Vulcan, at the request of Venus, makes arms for her son Aeneas, and draws on his shield the most memorable actions of his posterity.
When Turnus had assembled all his powârs,
His standard planted on Laurentumâs towârs; When now the sprightly trumpet, from afar, Had givân the signal of approaching war, Had rousâd the neighing steeds to scour the fields, While the fierce riders clatterâd on their shields; Trembling with rage, the Latian youth prepare To join thâ allies, and headlong rush to war. Fierce Ufens, and Messapus, led the crowd, With bold Mezentius, who blasphemâd aloud. These throâ the country took their wasteful course, The fields to forage, and to gather force. Then Venulus to Diomede they send, To beg his aid Ausonia to defend, Declare the common danger, and inform The Grecian leader of the growing storm: âAeneas, landed on the Latian coast, With banishâd gods, and with a baffled host, Yet now aspirâd to conquest of the state, And claimâd a title from the gods and fate; What numârous nations in his quarrel came, And how they spread his formidable name. What he designâd, what mischief might arise, If fortune favourâd his first enterprise, Was left for him to weigh, whose equal fears, And common interest, was involvâd in theirs.â
While Turnus and thâ allies thus urge the war,
The Trojan, floating in a flood of care, Beholds the tempest which his foes prepare. This way and that he turns his anxious mind; Thinks, and rejects the counsels he designâd; Explores himself in vain, in evâry part, And gives no rest to his distracted heart. So, when the sun by day, or moon by night, Strike on the polishâd brass their trembling light, The glittâring species here and there divide, And cast their dubious beams from side to side; Now on the walls, now on the pavement play, And to the ceiling flash the glaring day.
âTwas night; and weary nature lullâd asleep
The birds of air, and fishes of the deep, And beasts, and mortal men. The Trojan chief Was laid on Tiberâs banks, oppressâd with grief, And found in silent slumber late relief. Then, throâ the shadows of the poplar wood, Arose the father of the Roman flood; An azure robe was oâer his body spread, A wreath of shady reeds adornâd his head: Thus, manifest to sight, the god appearâd, And with these pleasing words his sorrow cheerâd: âUndoubted offspring of ethereal race, O long expected in this promisâd place! Who throâ the foes hast borne thy banishâd gods, Restorâd them to their hearths, and old abodes; This is thy happy home, the clime where fate Ordains thee to restore the Trojan state. Fear not! The war shall end in lasting peace, And all the rage of haughty Juno cease. And that this nightly vision may not seem Thâ effect of fancy, or an idle dream, A sow beneath an oak shall lie along, All white herself, and white her thirty young. When thirty rolling years have run their race, Thy son Ascanius, on this empty space, Shall build a royal town, of lasting fame, Which from this omen shall receive the name. Time shall approve the truth. For what remains, And how with sure success to crown thy pains, With patience next attend. A banishâd band, Drivân with Evander from thâ Arcadian land, Have planted here, and placâd on high their walls; Their town the founder Pallanteum calls, Derivâd from Pallas, his great-grandsireâs name: But the fierce Latians old possession claim, With war infesting the new colony. These make thy friends, and on their aid rely. To thy free passage I submit my streams. Wake, son of Venus, from thy pleasing dreams; And, when the setting stars are lost in day, To Junoâs powâr thy just devotion pay; With sacrifice the wrathful queen appease: Her pride at length shall fall, her fury cease. When thou returnâst victorious from the war, Perform thy vows to me with grateful care. The god am I, whose yellow water flows Around these fields, and fattens as it goes: Tiber my name; among the rolling floods Renownâd on earth, esteemâd among the gods. This is my certain seat. In times to come, My waves shall wash the walls of mighty Rome.â
He said, and plungâd below. While yet he spoke,
His dream Aeneas and his sleep forsook. He rose, and looking up, beheld the skies With purple blushing, and the day arise. Then water in his hollow palm he took From Tiberâs flood, and thus the powârs bespoke: âLaurentian nymphs, by whom the streams are fed, And Father Tiber, in thy sacred bed Receive Aeneas, and from danger keep. Whatever fount, whatever holy deep, Conceals thy watâry stores; whereâer they rise, And, bubbling from below, salute the skies; Thou, king of horned floods, whose plenteous urn Suffices fatness to the fruitful corn, For this thy kind compassion of our woes, Shalt share my morning song and evâning vows. But, O be present to thy peopleâs aid, And firm the gracious promise thou hast made!â Thus having said, two galleys from his stores, With care he chooses, mans, and fits with oars. Now on the shore the fatal swine is found. Wondârous to tell!âShe lay along the ground: Her well-fed offspring at her udders hung; She white herself, and white her thirty young. Aeneas takes the mother and her brood, And all on Junoâs altar are bestowâd.
The follâwing night, and the succeeding day,
Propitious Tiber smoothâd his watâry way: He rollâd his river back, and poisâd he stood, A gentle swelling, and a peaceful flood. The Trojans mount their ships; they put from shore, Borne on the waves, and scarcely dip an oar. Shouts from the land give omen to their course, And the pitchâd vessels glide with easy force. The woods and waters wonder at the gleam Of shields, and painted ships that stem the stream. One summerâs night and one whole day they pass Betwixt the greenwood shades, and cut the liquid glass. The fiery sun had finishâd half his race, Lookâd back, and doubted in the middle space, When they from far beheld the rising towârs, The tops of sheds, and shepherdsâ lowly bowârs, Thin as they stood, which, then of homely clay, Now rise in marble, from the Roman sway. These cots (Evanderâs kingdom, mean and poor) The Trojan saw, and turnâd his ships to shore. âTwas on a solemn day: thâ Arcadian states, The king and prince, without the city gates, Then paid their offârings in a sacred grove To Hercules, the warrior son of Jove. Thick clouds of rolling smoke involve the skies, And fat of entrails on his altar fries.
But, when they saw the ships that stemmâd the flood,
And glitterâd throâ the covert of the wood, They rose with fear, and left thâ unfinishâd feast, Till dauntless Pallas reassurâd the rest To pay the rites. Himself without delay A javâlin seizâd, and singly took his way; Then gainâd a rising ground, and callâd from far: âResolve me, strangers, whence, and what you are; Your busâness here; and bring you peace or war?â High on the stern Aeneas took his stand, And held a branch of olive in his hand, While thus he spoke: âThe Phrygiansâ arms you see, Expellâd from Troy, provokâd in Italy By Latian foes, with war unjustly made; At first affiancâd, and at last betrayâd. This message bear: âThe Trojans and their chief Bring holy peace, and beg the kingâs relief.â Struck with so great a name, and all on fire, The youth replies: âWhatever you require, Your fame exacts. Upon our shores descend. A welcome guest, and, what you wish, a friend.â He said, and, downward hasting to the strand, Embracâd the stranger prince, and joinâd his hand.
Conducted to the grove, Aeneas broke
The silence first, and thus the king bespoke: âBest of the Greeks, to whom, by fateâs command, I bear these peaceful branches in my hand, Undaunted I approach you, thoâ I know Your birth is Grecian, and your land my foe; From Atreus thoâ your ancient lineage came, And both the brother kings your kindred claim; Yet, my self-conscious worth, your high renown, Your virtue, throâ the neighbâring nations blown, Our fathersâ mingled blood, Apolloâs voice, Have led me hither, less by need than choice. Our founder Dardanus, as fame has sung, And Greeks acknowledge, from Electra sprung: Electra from the loins of Atlas came; Atlas, whose head sustains the starry frame. Your sire is Mercury, whom long before On cold Cylleneâs top fair Maia bore. Maia the fair, on fame if we rely, Was Atlasâ daughter, who sustains the sky. Thus from one common source our streams divide; Ours is the Trojan, yours thâ Arcadian side. Raisâd by these hopes, I sent no news before, Nor askâd your leave, nor did your faith implore; But come, without a pledge, my own ambassador. The same Rutulians, who with arms pursue The Trojan race, are equal foes to you. Our host expellâd, what farther force can stay The victor troops from universal sway? Then will they stretch their powâr athwart the land, And either sea from side to side command. Receive our offerâd faith, and give us thine; Ours is a genârous and experiencâd line: We want not hearts nor bodies for the war; In council cautious, and in fields we dare.â
He said; and while spoke, with piercing eyes
Evander viewâd the man with vast surprise, Pleasâd with his action, ravishâd with his face: Then answerâd briefly, with a royal grace: âO valiant leader of the Trojan line, In whom the features of thy father shine, How I recall Anchises! how I see His motions, mien, and all my friend, in thee! Long thoâ it be, âtis fresh within my mind, When Priam to his sisterâs court designâd A welcome visit, with a friendly stay, And throâ thâ Arcadian kingdom took his way. Then, past a boy, the callow down began To shade my chin, and call me first a man. I saw the shining train with vast delight, And Priamâs goodly person pleasâd my sight: But great Anchises, far above the rest, With awful wonder firâd my youthful breast. I longâd to join in friendshipâs holy bands Our mutual hearts, and plight our mutual hands. I first accosted him: I sued, I sought, And, with a loving force, to Pheneus brought. He gave me, when at length constrainâd to go, A Lycian quiver and a Gnossian bow, A vest embroiderâd, glorious to behold, And two rich bridles, with their bits of gold, Which my sonâs coursers in obedience hold. The league you ask, I offer, as your right; And, when tomorrowâs sun reveals the light, With swift supplies you shall be sent away. Now celebrate with us this solemn day, Whose holy rites admit no long delay. Honour our annual feast; and take your seat, With friendly welcome, at a homely treat.â Thus having said, the bowls removâd (for fear) The youths replacâd, and soon restorâd the cheer. On sods of turf he set the soldiers round: A maple throne, raisâd higher from the ground, Receivâd the Trojan chief; and, oâer the bed, A lionâs shaggy hide for ornament they spread. The loaves were servâd in canisters; the wine In bowls; the priest renewâd the rites divine: Broilâd entrails are their food, and beefâs continued chine.
But when the rage of hunger was repressâd,
Thus spoke Evander to his royal guest: âThese rites, these altars, and this feast, O king, From no vain fears or superstition spring, Or blind devotion, or from blinder chance, Or heady zeal, or brutal ignorance; But, savâd from danger, with a grateful sense, The labours of a god we recompense. See, from afar, yon rock that mates the sky, About whose feet such heaps of rubbish lie; Such indigested ruin; bleak and bare, How desert now it stands, exposâd in air! âTwas once a robberâs den, inclosâd around With living stone, and deep beneath the ground. The monster Cacus, more than half a beast, This hold, impervious to the sun, possessâd. The pavement ever foul with human gore; Heads, and their mangled members, hung the door. Vulcan this plague begot; and, like his sire, Black clouds he belchâd, and flakes of livid fire. Time, long expected, easâd us of our load, And brought the needful presence of a god. Thâ avenging force of Hercules, from Spain, Arrivâd in triumph, from Geryon slain: Thrice livâd the giant, and thrice livâd in vain. His prize, the lowing herds, Alcides drove Near Tiberâs bank, to graze the shady grove. Allurâd with hope of plunder, and intent By force to rob, by fraud to circumvent, The brutal Cacus, as by chance they strayâd, Four oxen thence, and four fair kine conveyâd; And, lest the printed footsteps might be seen, He draggâd âem backwards to his rocky den. The tracks averse a lying notice gave, And led the searcher backward from the cave.
âMeantime the herdsman hero shifts his place,
To find fresh pasture and untrodden grass. The beasts, who missâd their mates, fillâd all around With bellowings, and the rocks restorâd the sound. One heifer, who had heard her love complain, Roarâd from the cave, and made the project vain. Alcides found the fraud; with rage he shook, And tossâd about his head his knotted oak. Swift as the winds, or Scythian arrowsâ flight, He clomb, with eager haste, thâ aerial height. Then first we saw the monster mend his pace; Fear in his eyes, and paleness in his face, Confessâd the godâs approach. Trembling he springs, As terror had increasâd his feet with wings; Nor stayâd for stairs; but down the depth he threw His body, on his back the door he drew (The door, a rib of living rock; with pains His father hewâd it out, and bound with iron chains): He broke the heavy links, the mountain closâd, And bars and levers to his foe opposâd. The wretch had hardly made his dungeon fast; The fierce avenger came with bounding haste; Surveyâd the mouth of the forbidden hold, And here and there his raging eyes he rollâd. He gnashâd his teeth; and thrice he compassâd round With winged speed the circuit of the ground. Thrice at the cavernâs mouth he pullâd in vain, And, panting, thrice desisted from his pain. A pointed flinty rock, all bare and black, Grew gibbous from behind the mountainâs back; Owls, ravens, all ill omens of the night, Here built their nests, and hither wingâd their flight. The leaning head hung threatâning oâer the flood, And nodded to the left. The hero stood Adverse, with planted feet, and, from the right, Tuggâd at the solid stone with all his might. Thus heavâd, the fixâd foundations of the rock Gave way; heavân echoâd at the rattling shock. Tumbling, it chokâd the flood: on either side The banks leap backward, and the streams divide; The sky shrunk upward with unusual dread, And trembling Tiber divâd beneath his bed. The court of Cacus stands revealâd to sight; The cavern glares with new-admitted light. So the pent vapours, with a rumbling sound, Heave from below, and rend the hollow ground; A sounding flaw succeeds; and, from on high, The gods with hate beheld the nether sky: The ghosts repine at violated night, And curse thâ invading sun, and sicken at the sight. The graceless monster, caught in open day, Inclosâd, and in despair to fly away, Howls horrible from underneath, and fills His hollow palace with unmanly yells. The hero stands above, and from afar Plies him with darts, and stones, and distant war. He, from his nostrils huge mouth, expires Black clouds of smoke, amidst his fatherâs fires, Gathâring, with each repeated blast, the night, To make uncertain aim, and erring sight. The wrathful god then plunges from above, And, where in thickest waves the sparkles drove, There lights; and wades throâ fumes, and gropes his way, Half singâd, half stifled, till he grasps his prey. The monster, spewing fruitless flames, he found; He squeezâd his throat; he writhâd his neck around, And in a knot his crippled members bound; Then from their sockets tore his burning eyes: Rollâd on a heap, the breathless robber lies. The doors, unbarrâd, receive the rushing day, And thoroâ lights disclose the ravishâd prey. The bulls, redeemâd, breathe open air again. Next, by the feet, they drag him from his den. The wondâring neighbourhood, with glad surprise, Behold his shagged breast, his giant size, His mouth that flames no more, and his extinguishâd eyes. From that auspicious day, with rites divine, We worship at the heroâs holy shrine. Potitius first ordainâd these annual vows: As priests, were added the Pinarian house, Who raisâd this altar in the sacred shade, Where honours, ever due, for ever shall be paid. For these deserts, and this high virtue shown, Ye warlike youths, your heads with garlands crown: Fill high the goblets with a sparkling flood, And with deep draughts invoke our common god.â
This said, a double wreath Evander twinâd,
And poplars black and white his temples bind. Then brims his ample bowl. With like design The rest invoke the gods, with sprinkled wine. Meantime the sun descended from the skies, And the bright evening star began to rise. And now the priests, Potitius at their head, In skins of beasts involvâd, the long procession led; Held high the flaming tapers in their hands, As custom had prescribâd their holy bands; Then with a second course the tables load, And with full chargers offer to the god. The Salii sing, and cense his altars round With Saban smoke, their heads with poplar bound One choir of old, another of the young, To dance, and bear the burthen of the song. The lay records the labours, and the praise, And all thâ immortal acts of Hercules: First, how the mighty babe, when swathâd in bands, The serpents strangled with his infant hands; Then, as in years and matchless force he grew, Thâ Oechalian walls, and Trojan, overthrew. Besides, a thousand hazards they relate, Procurâd by Junoâs and Eurystheusâ hate: âThy hands, unconquerâd hero, could subdue The cloud-born Centaurs, and the monster crew: Nor thy resistless arm the bull withstood, Nor he, the roaring terror of the wood. The triple porter of the Stygian seat, With lolling tongue, lay fawning at thy feet, And, seizâd with fear, forgot his mangled meat. Thâ infernal waters trembled at thy sight; Thee, god, no face of danger could affright; Not huge Typhoeus, nor thâ unnumberâd snake, Increasâd with hissing heads, in Lernaâs lake. Hail, Joveâs undoubted son! an added grace To heavân and the great author of thy race! Receive the grateful offârings which we pay, And smile propitious on thy solemn day!â In numbers thus they sung; above the rest, The den and death of Cacus crown the feast. The woods to hollow vales convey the sound, The vales to hills, and hills the notes rebound. The rites performâd, the cheerful train retire.
Betwixt young Pallas and his aged sire,
The Trojan passâd, the city to survey, And pleasing talk beguilâd the tedious way. The stranger cast around his curious eyes, New objects viewing still, with new surprise; With greedy joy enquires of various things, And acts and monuments of ancient kings. Then thus the founder of the Roman towârs: âThese woods were first the seat of sylvan powârs, Of Nymphs and Fauns, and salvage men, who took Their birth from trunks of trees and stubborn oak. Nor laws they knew, nor manners, nor the care Of labâring oxen, or the shining share, Nor arts of gain, nor what they gainâd to spare. Their exercise the chase; the running flood Supplied their thirst, the trees supplied their food. Then Saturn came, who fled the powâr of Jove, Robbâd of his realms, and banishâd from above. The men, dispersâd on hills, to towns he brought, And laws ordainâd, and civil customs taught, And Latium callâd the land where safe he lay From his unduteous son, and his usurping sway. With his mild empire, peace and plenty came; And hence the golden times derivâd their name. A more degenerate and discolourâd age Succeeded this, with avarice and rage. Thâ Ausonians then, and bold Sicanians came; And Saturnâs empire often changâd the name. Then kings, gigantic Tybris, and the rest, With arbitrary sway the land oppressâd: For Tiberâs flood was Albula before, Till, from the tyrantâs fate, his name it bore. I last arrivâd, drivân from my native home By fortuneâs powâr, and fateâs resistless doom. Long tossâd on seas, I sought this happy land, Warnâd by my mother nymph, and callâd by Heavânâs command.â
Thus, walking on, he spoke, and shewâd the gate,
Since callâd Carmental by the Roman state; Where stood an altar, sacred to the name Of old Carmenta, the prophetic dame, Who to her son foretold thâ Aenean race, Sublime in fame, and Romeâs imperial place: Then shews the forest, which, in after times, Fierce Romulus for perpetrated crimes A sacred refuge made; with this, the shrine Where Pan below the rock had rites divine: Then tells of Argusâ death, his murderâd guest, Whose grave and tomb his innocence attest. Thence, to the steep Tarpeian rock he leads; Now roofâd with gold, then thatchâd with homely reeds. A reverent fear (such superstition reigns Among the rude) evân then possessâd the swains. Some god, they knewâwhat god, they could not tellâ Did there amidst the sacred horror dwell. Thâ Arcadians thought him Jove; and said they saw The mighty Thundârer with majestic awe, Who took his shield, and dealt his bolts around, And scatterâd tempests on the teeming ground. Then saw two heaps of ruins, (once they stood Two stately towns, on either side the flood,) Saturniaâs and Janiculumâs remains; And either place the founderâs name retains. Discoursing thus together, they resort Where poor Evander kept his country court. They viewâd the ground of Romeâs litigious hall; (Once oxen lowâd, where now the lawyers bawl;) Then, stooping, throâ the narrow gate they pressâd, When thus the king bespoke his Trojan guest: âMean as it is, this palace, and this door, Receivâd Alcides, then a conqueror. Dare to be poor; accept our homely food, Which feasted him, and emulate a god.â Then underneath a lowly roof he led The weary prince, and laid him on a bed; The stuffing leaves, with hides of bears oâerspread. Now night had shed her silver dews around, And with her sable wings embracâd the ground, When loveâs fair goddess, anxious for her son, (New tumults rising, and new wars begun,) Couchâd with her husband in his golden bed, With these alluring words invokes his aid; And, that her pleasing speech his mind may move, Inspires each accent with the charms of love: âWhile cruel fate conspirâd with Grecian powârs, To level with the ground the Trojan towârs, I askâd not aid thâ unhappy to restore, Nor did the succour of thy skill implore; Nor urgâd the labours of my lord in vain, A sinking empire longer to sustain, Thoâ much I owâd to Priamâs house, and more The dangers of Aeneas did deplore. But now, by Joveâs command, and fateâs decree, His race is doomâd to reign in Italy: With humble suit I beg thy needful art, O still propitious powâr, that rules my heart! A mother kneels a suppliant for her son. By Thetis and Aurora thou wert won To forge impenetrable shields, and grace With fated arms a less illustrious race. Behold, what haughty nations are combinâd Against the relics of the Phrygian kind, With fire and sword my people to destroy, And conquer Venus twice, in conquâring Troy.â She said; and straight her arms, of snowy hue, About her unresolving husband threw. Her soft embraces soon infuse desire; His bones and marrow sudden warmth inspire; And all the godhead feels the wonted fire. Not half so swift the rattling thunder flies, Or forky lightnings flash along the skies. The goddess, proud of her successful wiles, And conscious of her form, in secret smiles.
Then thus the powâr, obnoxious to her charms,
Panting, and half dissolving in her arms: âWhy seek you reasons for a cause so just, Or your own beauties or my love distrust? Long since, had you requirâd my helpful hand, Thâ artificer and art you might command, To labour arms for Troy: nor Jove, nor fate, Confinâd their empire to so short a date. And, if you now desire new wars to wage, My skill I promise, and my pains engage. Whatever melting metals can conspire, Or breathing bellows, or the forming fire, Is freely yours: your anxious fears remove, And think no task is difficult to love.â Trembling he spoke; and, eager of her charms, He snatchâd the willing goddess to his arms; Till in her lap infusâd, he lay possessâd Of full desire, and sunk to pleasing rest. Now when the night her middle race had rode, And his first slumber had refreshâd the godâ The time when early housewives leave the bed; When living embers on the hearth they spread, Supply the lamp, and call the maids to rise;â With yawning mouths, and with half-openâd eyes, They ply the distaff by the winking light, And to their daily labour add the night: Thus frugally they earn their childrenâs bread, And uncorrupted keep the nuptial bedâ Not less concernâd, nor at a later hour, Rose from his downy couch the forging powâr.
Sacred to Vulcanâs name, an isle there lay,
Betwixt Siciliaâs coasts and Lipare, Raisâd high on smoking rocks; and, deep below, In hollow caves the fires of Aetna glow. The Cyclops here their heavy hammers deal; Loud strokes, and hissings of tormented steel, Are heard around; the boiling waters roar, And smoky flames throâ fuming tunnels soar. Hither the Father of the Fire, by night, Throâ the brown air precipitates his flight. On their eternal anvils here he found The brethren beating, and the blows go round. A load of pointless thunder now there lies Before their hands, to ripen for the skies: These darts, for angry Jove, they daily cast; Consumâd on mortals with prodigious waste. Three rays of writhen rain, of fire three more, Of winged southern winds and cloudy store As many parts, the dreadful mixture frame; And fears are added, and avenging flame. Inferior ministers, for Mars, repair His broken axletrees and blunted war, And send him forth again with furbishâd arms, To wake the lazy war with trumpetsâ loud alarms. The rest refresh the scaly snakes that fold The shield of Pallas, and renew their gold. Full on the crest the Gorgonâs head they place, With eyes that roll in death, and with distorted face.
âMy sons,â said Vulcan, âset your tasks aside;
Your strength and master-skill must now be tried. Arms for a hero forge; arms that require Your force, your speed, and all your forming fire.â He said. They set their former work aside, And their new toils with eager haste divide. A flood of molten silver, brass, and gold, And deadly steel, in the large furnace rollâd; Of this, their artful hands a shield prepare, Alone sufficient to sustain the war. Sevân orbs within a spacious round they close: One stirs the fire, and one the bellows blows. The hissing steel is in the smithy drownâd; The grot with beaten anvils groans around. By turns their arms advance, in equal time; By turns their hands descend, and hammers chime. They turn the glowing mass with crooked tongs; The fiery work proceeds, with rustic songs.
While, at the Lemnian godâs command, they urge
Their labours thus, and ply thâ Aeolian forge, The cheerful morn salutes Evanderâs eyes, And songs of chirping birds invite to rise. He leaves his lowly bed: his buskins meet Above his ankles; sandals sheathe his feet: He sets his trusty sword upon his side, And oâer his shoulder throws a pantherâs hide. Two menial dogs before their master pressâd. Thus clad, and guarded thus, he seeks his kingly guest. Mindful of promisâd aid, he mends his pace, But meets Aeneas in the middle space. Young Pallas did his fatherâs steps attend, And true Achates waited on his friend. They join their hands; a secret seat they choose; Thâ Arcadian first their former talk renews: âUndaunted prince, I never can believe The Trojan empire lost, while you survive. Command thâ assistance of a faithful friend; But feeble are the succours I can send. Our narrow kingdom here the Tiber bounds; That other side the Latian state surrounds, Insults our walls, and wastes our fruitful grounds. But mighty nations I prepare, to join Their arms with yours, and aid your just design. You come, as by your better genius sent, And fortune seems to favour your intent. Not far from hence there stands a hilly town, Of ancient building, and of high renown, Torn from the Tuscans by the Lydian race, Who gave the name of Caere to the place, Once Agyllina callâd. It flourishâd long, In pride of wealth and warlike people strong, Till cursâd Mezentius, in a fatal hour, Assumâd the crown, with arbitrary powâr. What words can paint those execrable times, The subjectsâ suffârings, and the tyrantâs crimes! That blood, those murders, O ye gods, replace On his own head, and on his impious race! The living and the dead at his command Were coupled, face to face, and hand to hand, Till, chokâd with stench, in loathâd embraces tied, The lingâring wretches pinâd away and died. Thus plungâd in ills, and meditating moreâ The peopleâs patience, tirâd, no longer bore The raging monster; but with arms beset His house, and vengeance and destruction threat. They fire his palace: while the flame ascends, They force his guards, and execute his friends. He cleaves the crowd, and, favourâd by the night, To Turnusâ friendly court directs his flight. By just revenge the Tuscans set on fire, With arms, their king to punishment require: Their numârous troops, now musterâd on the strand, My counsel shall submit to your command. Their navy swarms upon the coasts; they cry To hoist their anchors, but the gods deny. An ancient augur, skillâd in future fate, With these foreboding words restrains their hate: âYe brave in arms, ye Lydian blood, the flowâr Of Tuscan youth, and choice of all their powâr, Whom just revenge against Mezentius arms, To seek your tyrantâs death by lawful arms; Know this: no native of our land may lead This powârful people; seek a foreign head.â Awâd with these words, in camps they still abide, And wait with longing looks their promisâd guide. Tarchon, the Tuscan chief, to me has sent Their crown, and evâry regal ornament: The people join their own with his desire; And all my conduct, as their king, require. But the chill blood that creeps within my veins, And age, and listless limbs unfit for pains, And a soul conscious of its own decay, Have forcâd me to refuse imperial sway. My Pallas were more fit to mount the throne, And should, but heâs a Sabine motherâs son, And half a native; but, in you, combine A manly vigour, and a foreign line. Where Fate and smiling Fortune shew the way, Pursue the ready path to sovâreign sway. The staff of my declining days, my son, Shall make your good or ill success his own; In fighting fields from you shall learn to dare, And serve the hard apprenticeship of war; Your matchless courage and your conduct view, And early shall begin tâ admire and copy you. Besides, two hundred horse he shall command; Thoâ few, a warlike and well-chosen band. These in my name are listed; and my son As many more has added in his own.â
Scarce had he said; Achates and his guest,
With downcast eyes, their silent grief expressâd; Who, short of succours, and in deep despair, Shook at the dismal prospect of the war. But his bright mother, from a breaking cloud, To cheer her issue, thunderâd thrice aloud; Thrice forky lightning flashâd along the sky, And Tyrrhene trumpets thrice were heard on high. Then, gazing up, repeated peals they hear; And, in a heavân serene, refulgent arms appear: Reddâning the skies, and glittâring all around, The temperâd metals clash, and yield a silver sound. The rest stood trembling, struck with awe divine; Aeneas only, conscious to the sign, Presagâd thâ event, and joyful viewâd, above, Thâ accomplishâd promise of the Queen of Love. Then, to thâ Arcadian king: âThis prodigy (Dismiss your fear) belongs alone to me. Heavân calls me to the war: thâ expected sign Is givân of promisâd aid, and arms divine. My goddess mother, whose indulgent care Foresaw the dangers of the growing war, This omen gave, when bright Vulcanian arms, Fated from force of steel by Stygian charms, Suspended, shone on high: she then foreshowâd Approaching fights, and fields to float in blood. Turnus shall dearly pay for faith forsworn; And corps, and swords, and shields, on Tiber borne, Shall choke his flood: now sound the loud alarms; And, Latian troops, prepare your perjurâd arms.â
He said, and, rising from his homely throne,
The solemn rites of Hercules begun, And on his altars wakâd the sleeping fires; Then cheerful to his household gods retires; There offers chosen sheep. Thâ Arcadian king And Trojan youth the same oblations bring. Next, of his men and ships he makes review; Draws out the best and ablest of the crew. Down with the falling stream the refuse run, To raise with joyful news his drooping son. Steeds are preparâd to mount the Trojan band, Who wait their leader to the Tyrrhene land. A sprightly courser, fairer than the rest, The king himself presents his royal guest: A lionâs hide his back and limbs infold, Precious with studded work, and paws of gold. Fame throâ the little city spreads aloud Thâ intended march, amid the fearful crowd: The matrons beat their breasts, dissolve in tears, And double their devotion in their fears. The war at hand appears with more affright, And rises evâry moment to the sight.
Then old Evander, with a close embrace,
Strainâd his departing friend; and tears oâerflow his face. âWould Heavân,â said he, âmy strength and youth recall, Such as I was beneath Praenesteâs wall; Then when I made the foremost foes retire, And set whole heaps of conquerâd shields on fire; When Herilus in single fight I slew, Whom with three lives Feronia did endue; And thrice I sent him to the Stygian shore, Till the last ebbing soul returnâd no moreâ Such if I stood renewâd, not these alarms, Nor death, should rend me from my Pallasâ arms; Nor proud Mezentius, thus unpunishâd, boast His rapes and murders on the Tuscan coast. Ye gods, and mighty Jove, in pity bring Relief, and hear a father and a king! If fate and you reserve these eyes, to see My son return with peace and victory; If the lovâd boy shall bless his fatherâs sight; If we shall meet again with more delight; Then draw my life in length; let me sustain, In hopes of his embrace, the worst of pain. But if your hard decreesâwhich, O! I dreadâ Have doomâd to death his undeserving head; This, O this very moment, let me die! While hopes and fears in equal balance lie; While, yet possessâd of all his youthful charms, I strain him close within these aged arms; Before that fatal news my soul shall wound!â He said, and, swooning, sunk upon the ground. His servants bore him off, and softly laid His languishâd limbs upon his homely bed.
The horsemen march; the gates are openâd wide;
Aeneas at their head, Achates by his side. Next these, the Trojan leaders rode along; Last follows in the rear thâ Arcadian throng. Young Pallas shone conspicuous oâer the rest; Gilded his arms, embroiderâd was his vest. So, from the seas, exerts his radiant head The star by whom the lights of heavân are led; Shakes from his rosy locks the pearly dews, Dispels the darkness, and the day renews. The trembling wives the walls and turrets crowd, And follow, with their eyes, the dusty cloud, Which winds disperse by fits, and shew from far The blaze of arms, and shields, and shining war. The troops, drawn up in beautiful array, Oâer heathy plains pursue the ready way. Repeated peals of shouts are heard around; The neighing coursers answer to the sound, And shake with horny hoofs the solid ground.
A greenwood shade, for long religion known,
Stands by the streams that wash the Tuscan town, Incompassâd round with gloomy hills above, Which add a holy horror to the grove. The first inhabitants of Grecian blood, That sacred forest to Silvanus vowâd, The guardian of their flocks and fields; and pay Their due devotions on his annual day. Not far from hence, along the riverâs side, In tents secure, the Tuscan troops abide, By Tarchon led. Now, from a rising ground, Aeneas cast his wondâring eyes around, And all the Tyrrhene army had in sight, Stretchâd on the spacious plain from left to right. Thither his warlike train the Trojan led, Refreshâd his men, and wearied horses fed.
Meantime the mother goddess, crownâd with charms,
Breaks throâ the clouds, and brings the fated arms. Within a winding vale she finds her son, On the cool riverâs banks, retirâd alone. She shews her heavânly form without disguise, And gives herself to his desiring eyes. âBehold,â she said, âperformâd in evâry part, My promise made, and Vulcanâs labourâd art. Now seek, secure, the Latian enemy, And haughty Turnus to the field defy.â She said; and, having first her son embracâd, The radiant arms beneath an oak she placâd, Proud of the gift, he rollâd his greedy sight Around the work, and gazâd with vast delight. He lifts, he turns, he poises, and admires The crested helm, that vomits radiant fires: His hands the fatal sword and corslet hold, One keen with temperâd steel, one stiff with gold: Both ample, flaming both, and beamy bright; So shines a cloud, when edgâd with adverse light. He shakes the pointed spear, and longs to try The plated cuishes on his manly thigh; But most admires the shieldâs mysterious mould, And Roman triumphs rising on the gold: For these, embossâd, the heavânly smith had wrought (Not in the rolls of future fate untaught) The wars in order, and the race divine Of warriors issuing from the Julian line. The cave of Mars was dressâd with mossy greens: There, by the wolf, were laid the martial twins. Intrepid on her swelling dugs they hung; The foster dam lollâd out her fawning tongue: They suckâd secure, while, bending back her head, She lickâd their tender limbs, and formâd them as they fed. Not far from thence new Rome appears, with games Projected for the rape of Sabine dames. The pit resounds with shrieks; a war succeeds, For breach of public faith, and unexampled deeds. Here for revenge the Sabine troops contend; The Romans there with arms the prey defend. Wearied with tedious war, at length they cease; And both the kings and kingdoms plight the peace. The friendly chiefs before Joveâs altar stand, Both armâd, with each a charger in his hand: A fatted sow for sacrifice is led, With imprecations on the perjurâd head. Near this, the traitor Metius, stretchâd between Four fiery steeds, is draggâd along the green, By Tullusâ doom: the brambles drink his blood, And his torn limbs are left the vultureâs food. There, Porsena to Rome proud Tarquin brings, And would by force restore the banishâd kings. One tyrant for his fellow-tyrant fights; The Roman youth assert their native rights. Before the town the Tuscan army lies, To win by famine, or by fraud surprise. Their king, half-threatâning, half-disdaining stood, While Cocles broke the bridge, and stemmâd the flood. The captive maids there tempt the raging tide, Scapâd from their chains, with Cloelia for their guide. High on a rock heroic Manlius stood, To guard the temple, and the templeâs god. Then Rome was poor; and there you might behold The palace thatchâd with straw, now roofâd with gold. The silver goose before the shining gate There flew, and, by her cackle, savâd the state. She told the Gaulsâ approach; thâ approaching Gauls, Obscure in night, ascend, and seize the walls. The gold dissembled well their yellow hair, And golden chains on their white necks they wear. Gold are their vests; long Alpine spears they wield, And their left arm sustains a length of shield. Hard by, the leaping Salian priests advance; And naked throâ the streets the mad Luperci dance, In caps of wool; the targets droppâd from heavân. Here modest matrons, in soft litters drivân, To pay their vows in solemn pomp appear, And odorous gums in their chaste hands they bear. Far hence removâd, the Stygian seats are seen; Pains of the damnâd, and punishâd Catiline Hung on a rockâthe traitor; and, around, The Furies hissing from the nether ground. Apart from these, the happy souls he draws, And Catoâs holy ghost dispensing laws.
Betwixt the quarters flows a golden sea;
But foaming surges there in silver play. The dancing dolphins with their tails divide The glittâring waves, and cut the precious tide. Amid the main, two mighty fleets engage Their brazen beaks, opposâd with equal rage. Actium surveys the well-disputed prize; Leucateâs watâry plain with foamy billows fries. Young Caesar, on the stern, in armour bright, Here leads the Romans and their gods to fight: His beamy temples shoot their flames afar, And oâer his head is hung the Julian star. Agrippa seconds him, with prospârous gales, And, with propitious gods, his foes assails: A naval crown, that binds his manly brows, The happy fortune of the fight foreshows. Rangâd on the line opposâd, Antonius brings Barbarian aids, and troops of Eastern kings; Thâ Arabians near, and Bactrians from afar, Of tongues discordant, and a mingled war: And, rich in gaudy robes, amidst the strife, His ill fate follows himâthâ Egyptian wife. Moving they fight; with oars and forky prows The froth is gatherâd, and the water glows. It seems, as if the Cyclades again Were rooted up, and justled in the main; Or floating mountains floating mountains meet; Such is the fierce encounter of the fleet. Fireballs are thrown, and pointed javâlins fly; The fields of Neptune take a purple dye. The queen herself, amidst the loud alarms, With cymbals tossâd her fainting soldiers warmsâ Fool as she was! who had not yet divinâd Her cruel fate, nor saw the snakes behind. Her country gods, the monsters of the sky, Great Neptune, Pallas, and Loveâs Queen defy: The dog Anubis barks, but barks in vain, Nor longer dares oppose thâ ethereal train. Mars in the middle of the shining shield Is gravâd, and strides along the liquid field. The Dirae souse from heavân with swift descent; And Discord, dyed in blood, with garments rent, Divides the prease: her steps Bellona treads, And shakes her iron rod above their heads. This seen, Apollo, from his Actian height, Pours down his arrows; at whose winged flight The trembling Indians and Egyptians yield, And soft Sabaeans quit the watâry field. The fatal mistress hoists her silken sails, And, shrinking from the fight, invokes the gales. Aghast she looks, and heaves her breast for breath, Panting, and pale with fear of future death. The god had figurâd her as drivân along By winds and waves, and scudding throâ the throng. Just opposite, sad Nilus opens wide His arms and ample bosom to the tide, And spreads his mantle oâer the winding coast, In which he wraps his queen, and hides the flying host. The victor to the gods his thanks expressâd, And Rome, triumphant, with his presence blessâd. Three hundred temples in the town he placâd; With spoils and altars evâry temple gracâd. Three shining nights, and three succeeding days, The fields resound with shouts, the streets with praise, The domes with songs, the theatres with plays. All altars flame: before each altar lies, Drenchâd in his gore, the destinâd sacrifice. Great Caesar sits sublime upon his throne, Before Apolloâs porch of Parian stone; Accepts the presents vowâd for victory, And hangs the monumental crowns on high. Vast crowds of vanquishâd nations march along, Various in arms, in habit, and in tongue. Here, Mulciber assigns the proper place For Carians, and thâ ungirt Numidian race; Then ranks the Thracians in the second row, With Scythians, expert in the dart and bow. And here the tamâd Euphrates humbly glides, And there the Rhine submits her swelling tides, And proud Araxes, whom no bridge could bind; The Danesâ unconquerâd offspring march behind, And Morini, the last of humankind.
These figures, on the shield divinely wrought,
By Vulcan labourâd, and by Venus brought, With joy and wonder fill the heroâs thought. Unknown the names, he yet admires the grace, And bears aloft the fame and fortune of his race. BOOK IXTHE ARGUMENT.
Turnus takes advantage of Aeneasâs absence, fires some of his ships (which are transformed into sea nymphs,) and assaults his camp. The Trojans, reduced to the last extremities, send Ninus and Euryalus to recall Aeneas; which furnishes the poet with that admirable episode of their friendship, generosity, and the conclusion of their adventure.
While these affairs in distant places passâd,
The various Iris Juno sends with haste, To find bold Turnus, who, with anxious thought, The secret shade of his great grandsire sought. Retirâd alone she found the daring man, And opâd her rosy lips, and thus began: âWhat none of all the gods could grant thy vows, That, Turnus, this auspicious day bestows. Aeneas, gone to seek thâ Arcadian prince, Has left the Trojan camp without defence; And, short of succours there, employs his pains In parts remote to raise the Tuscan swains. Now snatch an hour that favours thy designs; Unite thy forces, and attack their lines.â This said, on equal wings she poisâd her weight, And formâd a radiant rainbow in her flight.
The Daunian hero lifts his hands and eyes,
And thus invokes the goddess as she flies: âIris, the grace of heavân, what powâr divine Has sent thee down, throâ dusky clouds to shine? See, they divide; immortal day appears, And glittâring planets dancing in their spheres! With joy, these happy omens I obey, And follow to the war the god that leads the way.â Thus having said, as by the brook he stood, He scoopâd the water from the crystal flood; Then with his hands the drops to heavân he throws, And loads the powârs above with offerâd vows.
Now march the bold confedârates throâ the plain,
Well horsâd, well clad; a rich and shining train. Messapus leads the van; and, in the rear, The sons of Tyrrheus in bright arms appear. In the main battle, with his flaming crest, The mighty Turnus towârs above the rest. Silent they move, majestically slow, Like ebbing Nile, or Ganges in his flow. The Trojans view the dusty cloud from far, And the dark menace of the distant war. Caicus from the rampire saw it rise, Blackâning the fields, and thickâning throâ the skies. Then to his fellows thus aloud he calls: âWhat rolling clouds, my friends, approach the walls? Arm! arm! and man the works! prepare your spears And pointed darts! the Latian host appears.â
Thus warnâd, they shut their gates; with shouts ascend
The bulwarks, and, secure, their foes attend: For their wise genâral, with foreseeing care, Had chargâd them not to tempt the doubtful war, Nor, thoâ provokâd, in open fields advance, But close within their lines attend their chance. Unwilling, yet they keep the strict command, And sourly wait in arms the hostile band. The fiery Turnus flew before the rest: A piebald steed of Thracian strain he pressâd; His helm of massy gold, and crimson was his crest. With twenty horse to second his designs, An unexpected foe, he facâd the lines. âIs there,â he said, âin arms, who bravely dare His leaderâs honour and his danger share?â Then spurring on, his brandishâd dart he threw, In sign of war: applauding shouts ensue.
Amazâd to find a dastard race, that run
Behind the rampires and the battle shun, He rides around the camp, with rolling eyes, And stops at evâry post, and evâry passage tries. So roams the nightly wolf about the fold: Wet with descending showârs, and stiff with cold, He howls for hunger, and he grins for pain, (His gnashing teeth are exercisâd in vain,) And, impotent of anger, finds no way In his distended paws to grasp the prey. The mothers listen; but the bleating lambs Securely swig the dug, beneath the dams. Thus ranges eager Turnus oâer the plain. Sharp with desire, and furious with disdain; Surveys each passage with a piercing sight, To force his foes in equal field to fight. Thus while he gazes round, at length he spies, Where, fencâd with strong redoubts, their navy lies, Close underneath the walls; the washing tide Secures from all approach this weaker side. He takes the wishâd occasion, fills his hand With ready fires, and shakes a flaming brand. Urgâd by his presence, evâry soul is warmâd, And evâry hand with kindled fires is armâd. From the firâd pines the scattâring sparkles fly; Fat vapours, mixâd with flames, involve the sky. What powâr, O Muses, could avert the flame Which threatenâd, in the fleet, the Trojan name? Tell: for the fact, throâ length of time obscure, Is hard to faith; yet shall the fame endure.
âTis said that, when the chief preparâd his flight,
And fellâd his timber from Mount Idaâs height, The grandam goddess then approachâd her son, And with a motherâs majesty begun: âGrant me,â she said, âthe sole request I bring, Since conquerâd heavân has ownâd you for its king. On Idaâs brows, for ages past, there stood, With firs and maples fillâd, a shady wood; And on the summit rose a sacred grove, Where I was worshipâd with religious love. Those woods, that holy grove, my long delight, I gave the Trojan prince, to speed his flight. Now, fillâd with fear, on their behalf I come; Let neither winds oâerset, nor waves intomb The floating forests of the sacred pine; But let it be their safety to be mine.â Then thus replied her awful son, who rolls The radiant stars, and heavân and earth controls: âHow dare you, mother, endless date demand For vessels moulded by a mortal hand? What then is fate? Shall bold Aeneas ride, Of safety certain, on thâ uncertain tide? Yet, what I can, I grant; when, wafted oâer, The chief is landed on the Latian shore, Whatever ships escape the raging storms, At my command shall change their fading forms To nymphs divine, and plow the watâry way, Like Dotis and the daughters of the sea.â To seal his sacred vow, by Styx he swore, The lake of liquid pitch, the dreary shore, And Phlegethonâs innavigable flood, And the black regions of his brother god. He said; and shook the skies with his imperial nod.
And now at length the numberâd hours were come,
Prefixâd by fateâs irrevocable doom, When the great Mother of the Gods was free To save her ships, and finish Joveâs decree. First, from the quarter of the morn, there sprung A light that signâd the heavâns, and shot along; Then from a cloud, fringâd round with golden fires, Were timbrels heard, and Berecynthian choirs; And, last, a voice, with more than mortal sounds, Both hosts, in arms opposâd, with equal horror wounds: âO Trojan race, your needless aid forbear, And know, my ships are my peculiar care. With greater ease the bold Rutulian may, With hissing brands, attempt to burn the sea, Than singe my sacred pines. But you, my charge, Loosâd from your crooked anchors, launch at large, Exalted each a nymph: forsake the sand, And swim the seas, at Cybeleâs command.â No sooner had the goddess ceasâd to speak, When, lo! thâ obedient ships their haulsers break; And, strange to tell, like dolphins, in the main They plunge their prows, and dive, and spring again: As many beauteous maids the billows sweep, As rode before tall vessels on the deep.
The foes, surprisâd with wonder, stood aghast;
Messapus curbâd his fiery courserâs haste; Old Tiber roarâd, and, raising up his head, Callâd back his waters to their oozy bed. Turnus alone, undaunted, bore the shock, And with these words his trembling troops bespoke: âThese monsters for the Trojansâ fate are meant, And are by Jove for black presages sent. He takes the cowardsâ last relief away; For fly they cannot, and, constrainâd to stay, Must yield unfought, a base inglorious prey. The liquid half of all the globe is lost; Heavân shuts the seas, and we secure the coast. Theirs is no more than that small spot of ground Which myriads of our martial men surround. Their fates I fear not, or vain oracles. âTwas givân to Venus they should cross the seas, And land secure upon the Latian plains: Their promisâd hour is passâd, and mine remains. âTis in the fate of Turnus to destroy, With sword and fire, the faithless race of Troy. Shall such affronts as these alone inflame The Grecian brothers, and the Grecian name? My cause and theirs is one; a fatal strife, And final ruin, for a ravishâd wife. Was ât not enough, that, punishâd for the crime, They fell; but will they fall a second time? One would have thought they paid enough before, To curse the costly sex, and durst offend no more. Can they securely trust their feeble wall, A slight partition, a thin interval, Betwixt their fate and them; when Troy, thoâ built By hands divine, yet perishâd by their guilt? Lend me, for once, my friends, your valiant hands, To force from out their lines these dastard bands. Less than a thousand ships will end this war, Nor Vulcan needs his fated arms prepare. Let all the Tuscans, all thâ Arcadians, join! Nor these, nor those, shall frustrate my design. Let them not fear the treasons of the night, The robbâd Palladium, the pretended flight: Our onset shall be made in open light. No wooden engine shall their town betray; Fires they shall have around, but fires by day. No Grecian babes before their camp appear, Whom Hectorâs arms detainâd to the tenth tardy year. Now, since the sun is rolling to the west, Give we the silent night to needful rest: Refresh your bodies, and your arms prepare; The morn shall end the small remains of war.â
The post of honour to Messapus falls,
To keep the nightly guard, to watch the walls, To pitch the fires at distances around, And close the Trojans in their scanty ground. Twice seven Rutulian captains ready stand, And twice seven hundred horse these chiefs command; All clad in shining arms the works invest, Each with a radiant helm and waving crest. Stretchâd at their length, they press the grassy ground; They laugh, they sing, (the jolly bowls go round,) With lights and cheerful fires renew the day, And pass the wakeful night in feasts and play.
The Trojans, from above, their foes beheld,
And with armâd legions all the rampires fillâd. Seizâd with affright, their gates they first explore; Join works to works with bridges, towâr to towâr: Thus all things needful for defence abound. Mnestheus and brave Seresthus walk the round, Commissionâd by their absent prince to share The common danger, and divide the care. The soldiers draw their lots, and, as they fall, By turns relieve each other on the wall.
Nigh where the foes their utmost guards advance,
To watch the gate was warlike Nisusâ chance. His father Hyrtacus of noble blood; His mother was a huntress of the wood, And sent him to the wars. Well could he bear His lance in fight, and dart the flying spear, But better skillâd unerring shafts to send. Beside him stood Euryalus, his friend: Euryalus, than whom the Trojan host No fairer face, or sweeter air, could boast. Scarce had the down to shade his cheeks begun. One was their care, and their delight was one: One common hazard in the war they sharâd, And now were both by choice upon the guard.
Then Nisus thus: âOr do the gods inspire
This warmth, or make we gods of our desire? A genârous ardour boils within my breast, Eager of action, enemy to rest: This urges me to fight, and fires my mind To leave a memorable name behind. Thou seeâst the foe secure; how faintly shine Their scatterâd fires! the most, in sleep supine Along the ground, an easy conquest lie: The wakeful few the fuming flagon ply; All hushâd around. Now hear what I revolveâ A thought unripeâand scarcely yet resolve. Our absent prince both camp and council mourn; By message both would hasten his return: If they confer what I demand on thee, (For fame is recompense enough for me,) Methinks, beneath yon hill, I have espied A way that safely will my passage guide.â
Euryalus stood listâning while he spoke,
With love of praise and noble envy struck; Then to his ardent friend exposâd his mind: âAll this, alone, and leaving me behind! Am I unworthy, Nisus, to be joinâd? Thinkâst thou I can my share of glory yield, Or send thee unassisted to the field? Not so my father taught my childhood arms; Born in a siege, and bred among alarms! Nor is my youth unworthy of my friend, Nor of the heavân-born hero I attend. The thing callâd life, with ease I can disclaim, And think it over-sold to purchase fame.â
Then Nisus thus: âAlas! thy tender years
Would minister new matter to my fears. So may the gods, who view this friendly strife, Restore me to thy lovâd embrace with life, Condemnâd to pay my vows, (as sure I trust,) This thy request is cruel and unjust. But if some chanceâas many chances are, And doubtful hazards, in the deeds of warâ If one should reach my head, there let it fall, And spare thy life; I would not perish all. Thy bloomy youth deserves a longer date: Live thou to mourn thy loveâs unhappy fate; To bear my mangled body from the foe, Or buy it back, and funâral rites bestow. Or, if hard fortune shall those dues deny, Thou canst at least an empty tomb supply. O let not me the widowâs tears renew! Nor let a motherâs curse my name pursue: Thy pious parent, who, for love of thee, Forsook the coasts of friendly Sicily, Her age committing to the seas and wind, When evâry weary matron stayâd behind.â To this, Euryalus: âYou plead in vain, And but protract the cause you cannot gain. No more delays, but haste!â With that, he wakes The nodding watch; each to his office takes. The guard relievâd, the genârous couple went To find the council at the royal tent.
All creatures else forgot their daily care,
And sleep, the common gift of nature, share; Except the Trojan peers, who wakeful sate In nightly council for thâ indangerâd state. They vote a message to their absent chief, Shew their distress, and beg a swift relief. Amid the camp a silent seat they chose, Remote from clamour, and secure from foes. On their left arms their ample shields they bear, The right reclinâd upon the bending spear. Now Nisus and his friend approach the guard, And beg admission, eager to be heard: Thâ affair important, not to be deferrâd. Ascanius bids âem be conducted in, Ordâring the more experiencâd to begin. Then Nisus thus: âYe fathers, lend your ears; Nor judge our bold attempt beyond our years. The foe, securely drenchâd in sleep and wine, Neglect their watch; the fires but thinly shine; And where the smoke in cloudy vapours flies, Covâring the plain, and curling to the skies, Betwixt two paths, which at the gate divide, Close by the sea, a passage we have spied, Which will our way to great Aeneas guide. Expect each hour to see him safe again, Loaded with spoils of foes in battle slain. Snatch we the lucky minute while we may; Nor can we be mistaken in the way; For, hunting in the vale, we both have seen The rising turrets, and the stream between, And know the winding course, with evâry ford.â
He ceasâd; and old Alethes took the word:
âOur country gods, in whom our trust we place, Will yet from ruin save the Trojan race, While we behold such dauntless worth appear In dawning youth, and souls so void of fear.â Then into tears of joy the father broke; Each in his longing arms by turns he took; Panted and pausâd; and thus again he spoke: âYe brave young men, what equal gifts can we, In recompense of such desert, decree? The greatest, sure, and best you can receive, The gods and your own conscious worth will give. The rest our grateful genâral will bestow, And young Ascanius till his manhood owe.â
âAnd I, whose welfare in my father lies,â
Ascanius adds, âby the great deities, By my dear country, by my household gods, By hoary Vestaâs 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 embossâd, which, when old Priam reignâd, My conquâring sire at sackâd Arisba gainâd; And more, two tripods cast in antique mould, With two great talents of the finest gold; Beside a costly bowl, ingravâd with art, Which Dido gave, when first she gave her heart. But, if in conquerâd Italy we reign, When spoils by lot the victor shall obtainâ Thou sawâst the courser by proud Turnus pressâd: That, Nisus, and his arms, and nodding crest, And shield, from chance exempt, shall be thy share: Twelve labâring slaves, twelve handmaids young and fair All clad in rich attire, and trainâd with care; And, last, a Latian field with fruitful plains, And a large portion of the kingâs domains. But thou, whose years are more to mine allied, No fate my vowâd 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 lifeâs companion, and my bosom friend: My peace shall be committed to thy care, And to thy conduct my concerns in war.â
Then thus the young Euryalus replied:
âWhatever 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 Priamâs royal race my mother cameâ And sure the best that ever bore the nameâ Whom neither Troy nor Sicily could hold From me departing, but, oâerspent and old, My fate she followâd. 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 distressâd. That hope alone will fortify my breast Against the worst of fortunes, and of fears.â He said. The movâd assistants melt in tears.
Then thus Ascanius, wonderstruck to see
That image of his filial piety: âSo 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. Whateâer event thy bold attempt shall have, âTis merit to have borne a son so brave. Now by my head, a sacred oath, I swear, (My father usâd it,) what, returning here Crownâd with success, I for thyself prepare, That, if thou fail, shall thy lovâd mother share.â
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 sheathâd the blade. This was his gift. Great Mnestheus gave his friend A lionâs hide, his body to defend; And good Alethes furnishâd him, beside, With his own trusty helm, of temper tried.
Thus armâd 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 passâd; then took their way
Where their proud foes in pitchâd pavilions lay; To many fatal, ere themselves were slain. They found the careless host dispersâd upon the plain, Who, gorgâd, and drunk with wine, supinely snore. Unharnessâd chariots stand along the shore: Amidst the wheels and reins, the goblet by, A medley of debauch and war, they lie. Observing Nisus shewâd his friend the sight: âBehold a conquest gainâd without a fight. Occasion offers, and I stand preparâd; There lies our way; be thou upon the guard, And look around, while I securely go, And hew a passage throâ the sleeping foe.â Softly he spoke; then striding took his way, With his drawn sword, where haughty Rhamnes lay; His head raisâd high on tapestry beneath, And heaving from his breast, he drew his breath; A king and prophet, by King Turnus lovâd: But fate by prescience cannot be removâd. 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, intrenchâd betwixt the wheels And his lovâd 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 dispersâd 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 retirâd to rest, And puffâd the fumy god from out his breast: Evân then he dreamt of drink and lucky playâ More lucky, had it lasted till the day. The famishâd lion thus, with hunger bold, Oâerleaps 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 thâ ignoble crowd his fury flew; He Fadus, Hebesus, and Rhoetus slew. Oppressâd with heavy sleep the former fell, But Rhoetus wakeful, and observing all: Behind a spacious jar he slinkâd for fear; The fatal iron found and reachâd him there; For, as he rose, it piercâd his naked side, And, reeking, thence returnâd in crimson dyed. The wound pours out a stream of wine and blood; The purple soul comes floating in the flood.
Now, where Messapus quarterâd, they arrive.
The fires were fainting there, and just alive; The warrior-horses, tied in order, fed. Nisus observâd the discipline, and said: âOur eager thirst of blood may both betray; And see the scatterâd streaks of dawning day, Foe to nocturnal thefts. No more, my friend; Here let our glutted execution end. A lane throâ slaughterâd bodies we have made.â The bold Euryalus, thoâ loth, obeyâd. 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 conquerâd Rhamnes lay. Nor did his eyes less longingly behold The girdle-belt, with nails of burnishâd gold. This present Caedicus the rich bestowâd On Remulus, when friendship first they vowâd, And, absent, joinâd in hospitable ties: He, dying, to his heir bequeathâd the prize; Till, by the conquâring Ardean troops oppressâd, He fell; and they the glorious gift possessâd. These glittâring spoils (now made the victorâs gain) He to his body suits, but suits in vain: Messapusâ 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 passâd, 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 leaderâs tent. They saw the pair; for, throâ the doubtful shade, His shining helm Euryalus betrayâd, On which the moon with full reflection playâd. ââTis not for naught,â cried Volscens from the crowd, âThese men go there;â then raisâd his voice aloud: âStand! stand! why thus in arms? And whither bent? From whence, to whom, and on what errand sent?â Silent they scud away, and haste their flight To neighbâring 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 passâd, And Alban plains, from Albaâs name so callâd, Where King Latinus then his oxen stallâd; Till, turning at the length, he stood his ground, And missâd his friend, and cast his eyes around: âAh wretch!â he cried, âwhere have I left behind Thâ unhappy youth? where shall I hope to find? Or what way take?â Again he ventures back, And treads the mazes of his former track. He winds the wood, and, listâning, hears the noise Of tramping coursers, and the ridersâ voice. The sound approachâd; and suddenly he viewâd 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 oppressâd, in such unequal strife?
Resolvâd at length, his pointed spear he shook;
And, casting on the moon a mournful look: âGuardian of groves, and goddess of the night, Fair queen,â he said, âdirect my dart aright. If eâer my pious father, for my sake, Did grateful offârings on thy altars make, Or I increasâd them with my sylvan toils, And hung thy holy roofs with savage spoils, Give me to scatter these.â Then from his ear He poisâd, and aimâd, and launchâd the trembling spear. The deadly weapon, hissing from the grove, Impetuous on the back of Sulmo drove; Piercâd 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 amazâdâa second javâlin flies With equal strength, and quivers throâ the skies. This throâ thy temples, Tagus, forcâd 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: âBut thou,â he cries, âShalt pay for both,â and at the prisâner flies With his drawn sword. Then, struck with deep despair, That cruel sight the lover could not bear; But from his covert rushâd in open view, And sent his voice before him as he flew: âMe! me!â he criedââturn all your swords alone On meâthe fact confessâd, 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.â Too late he speaks: the sword, which fury guides, Drivân with full force, had piercâd his tender sides. Down fell the beauteous youth: the yawning wound Gushâd out a purple stream, and stainâd the ground. His snowy neck reclines upon his breast, Like a fair flowâr by the keen share oppressâd; Like a white poppy sinking on the plain, Whose heavy head is overchargâd with rain. Despair, and rage, and vengeance justly vowâd, Drove Nisus headlong on the hostile crowd. Volscens he seeks; on him alone he bends: Borne back and borâd by his surrounding friends, Onward he pressâd, and kept him still in sight; Then whirlâd aloft his sword with all his might: Thâ unerring steel descended while he spoke, Piercâd his wide mouth, and throâ his weazon broke. Dying, he slew; and, staggâring on the plain, With swimming eyes he sought his lover slain; Then quiet on his bleeding bosom fell, Content, in death, to be revengâd so well.
O happy friends! for, if my verse can give
Immortal life, your fame shall ever live, Fixâd as the Capitolâs foundation lies, And spread, whereâer the Roman eagle flies!
The conquâring party first divide the prey,
Then their slain leader to the camp convey. With wonder, as they went, the troops were fillâd, To see such numbers whom so few had killâd. Serranus, Rhamnes, and the rest, they found: Vast crowds the dying and the dead surround; And the yet reeking blood oâerflows the ground. All knew the helmet which Messapus lost, But mournâd a purchase that so dear had cost. Now rose the ruddy morn from Tithonâs bed, And with the dawn of day the skies oâerspread; Nor long the sun his daily course withheld, But added colours to the world revealâd: When early Turnus, wakâning with the light, All clad in armour, calls his troops to fight. His martial men with fierce harangue he firâd, And his own ardour in their souls inspirâd. This doneâto give new terror to his foes, The heads of Nisus and his friend he shows, Raisâd high on pointed spearsâa 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 towârs a frightful view, They saw the faces, which too well they knew, Thoâ then disguisâd in death, and smearâd all oâer With filth obscene, and dropping putrid gore. Soon hasty fame throâ the sad city bears The mournful message to the motherâs 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. âThus, then, my lovâd Euryalus appears! Thus looks the prop my declining years! Wasât on this face my famishâd eyes I fed? Ah! how unlike the living is the dead! And couldâst 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 dismemberâd, and his cold remains? For this, alas! I left my needful ease, Exposâd 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!â Her shrieks and clamours pierce the Trojansâ 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 soldiersâ shouts succeed the brazen sounds; And heavân, 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 yearsâ siege, defensive fight, They roll down ribs of rocks, an unresisted weight, To break the penthouse with the pondârous blow, Which yet the patient Volscians undergo: But could not bear thâ unequal combat long; For, where the Trojans find the thickest throng, The ruin falls: their shatterâd shields give way, And their crushâd 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, Neptuneâs 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 towâr, amazing to the sight,
Built up of beams, and of stupendous height: Art, and the nature of the place, conspirâd To furnish all the strength that war requirâd. To level this, the bold Italians join; The wary Trojans obviate their design; With weighty stones oâerwhelm their troops below, Shoot throâ the loopholes, and sharp javâlins throw. Turnus, the chief, tossâd from his thundâring hand Against the wooden walls, a flaming brand: It stuck, the fiery plague; the winds were high; The planks were seasonâd, and the timber dry. Contagion caught the posts; it spread along, Scorchâd, and to distance drove the scatterâd throng. The Trojans fled; the fire pursued amain, Still gathâring fast upon the trembling train; Till, crowding to the corners of the wall, Down the defence and the defenders fall. The mighty flaw makes heavân itself resound: The dead and dying Trojans strew the ground. The towâr, that followâd on the fallen crew, Whelmâd oâer 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;
Savâdâhow, they know notâfrom 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 chargâd 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. Emboldenâd by despair, he stood at bay; And, like a stag, whom all the troop surrounds Of eager huntsmen and invading hounds Resolvâd 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 followâd hard his hunted prey (His spear had almost reachâd him in the way, Short of his reins, and scarce a span behind) âFool!â said the chief, âthoâ fleeter than the wind, Couldst thou presume to scape, when I pursue?â 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 timârous hare, Joveâs 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 barbârous cry,
The troops of Turnus to the combat fly. The ditch with fagots fillâd, the daring foe Tossâd firebrands to the steepy turrets throw.
Ilioneus, as bold Lucetius came
To force the gate, and feed the kindling flame, Rollâd down the fragment of a rock so right, It crushâd him double underneath the weight. Two more young Liger and Asylas slew: To bend the bow young Liger better knew; Asylas best the pointed javâlin 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 Capysâ arms his fate Privernus found: Hurt by Themilla firstâbut slight the woundâ His shield thrown by, to mitigate the smart, He clappâd his hand upon the wounded part: The second shaft came swift and unespied, And piercâd his hand, and nailâd it to his side, Transfixâd his breathing lungs and beating heart: The soul came issuing out, and hissâd against the dart.
The son of Arcens shone amid the rest,
In glittâring 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 whirlâd the thong around his head, and threw: The heated lead half melted as it flew; It piercâd his hollow temples and his brain; The youth came tumbling down, and spurnâd 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 exercisâd against a human foeâ With this bereft Numanus of his life, Who Turnusâ younger sister took to wife. Proud of his realm, and of his royal bride, Vaunting before his troops, and lengthenâd with a stride, In these insulting terms the Trojans he defied:
âTwice-conquerâd cowards, now your shame is shownâ
Coopâd 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 steerâd 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 bathâd amid the stream, our boys we hold, With winter hardenâd, and inurâd to cold. They wake before the day to range the wood, Kill ere they eat, nor taste unconquerâd 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 diffârence in degree. We plow and till in arms; our oxen feel, Instead of goads, the spur and pointed steel; Thâ inverted lance makes furrows in the plain. Evân time, that changes all, yet changes us in vain: The body, not the mind; nor can control Thâ immortal vigour, or abate the soul. Our helms defend the young, disguise the gray: We live by plunder, and delight in prey. Your vests embroiderâd 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, mixâd with eunuchs, in the Motherâs rites, Where with unequal sound the flute invites; Sing, dance, and howl, by turns, in Idaâs shade: Resign the war to men, who know the martial trade!â
This foul reproach Ascanius could not hear
With patience, or a vowâd revenge forbear. At the full stretch of both his hands he drew, And almost joinâd the horns of the tough yew. But, first, before the throne of Jove he stood, And thus with lifted hands invokâd the god: âMy first attempt, great Jupiter, succeed! An annual offâring in thy grove shall bleed; A snow-white steer, before thy altar led, Who, like his mother, bears aloft his head, Butts with his threatâning brows, and bellowing stands, And dares the fight, and spurns the yellow sands.â
Jove bowâd the heavâns, and lent a gracious ear,
And thunderâd on the left, amidst the clear. Sounded at once the bow; and swiftly flies The featherâd death, and hisses throâ the skies. The steel throâ both his temples forcâd the way: Extended on the ground, Numanus lay. âGo now, vain boaster, and true valour scorn! The Phrygians, twice subdued, yet make this third return.â Ascanius said no more. The Trojans shake The heavâns 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: âAdvance, 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 heavân: the powârs divine From this beginning date the Julian line. To thee, to them, and their victorious heirs, The conquerâd war is due, and the vast world is theirs. Troy is too narrow for thy name.â He said, And plunging downward shot his radiant head; Dispellâd the breathing air, that broke his flight: Shorn of his beams, a man to mortal sight. Old Butesâ form he took, Anchisesâ 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: âSuffice it thee, thy fatherâs 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.â He said, and flew Obscure in air, and vanishâd from their view. The Trojans, by his arms, their patron know, And hear the twanging of his heavânly bow. Then duteous force they use, and Phoebusâ 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 showâry Kids arise; Or pattâring hail comes pouring on the main, When Jupiter descends in hardenâd rain, Or bellowing clouds burst with a stormy sound, And with an armed winter strew the ground.
Pandârus and Bitias, thunderbolts of war,
Whom Hiera to bold Alcanor bare On Idaâs 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 kingâs command, Armâd, 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 Padusâ banks adorn, Lift up to heavân their leafy heads unshorn, And, overpressâd with natureâs 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 repulsâd they fly, Or in the well-defended pass they die. These with success are firâd, 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 thâ unhopâd-for news was brought, The foes had left the fastness of their place, Prevailâd in fight, and had his men in chase. He quits thâ 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, Sarpedonâs son, he slew: the deadly dart Found passage throâ his breast, and piercâd his heart. Fixâd in the wound thâ Italian cornel stood, Warmâd in his lungs, and in his vital blood. Aphidnus next, and Erymanthus dies, And Meropes, and the gigantic size Of Bitias, threatâning with his ardent eyes. Not by the feeble dart he fell oppressâd (A dart were lost within that roomy breast), But from a knotted lance, large, heavy, strong, Which roarâd like thunder as it whirlâd along: Not two bull hides thâ impetuous force withhold, Nor coat of double mail, with scales of gold. Down sunk the monster bulk and pressâd the ground; His arms and clattâring shield on the vast body sound, Not with less ruin than the Bajan mole, Raisâd on the seas, the surges to controlâ At once comes tumbling down the rocky wall; Prone to the deep, the stones disjointed fall Of the vast pile; the scatterâd ocean flies; Black sands, discolourâd froth, and mingled mud arise: The frighted billows roll, and seek the shores; Then trembles Prochyta, then Ischia roars: Typhoeus, thrown beneath, by Joveâs command, Astonishâd 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 inspirâd,
New strung their sinews, and their courage firâd, But chills the Trojan hearts with cold affright: Then black despair precipitates their flight.
When Pandarus beheld his brother killâd,
The town with fear and wild confusion fillâd, 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 inclosâd; The rest shut out, to certain death exposâd: Fool as he was, and frantic in his care, Tâ 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 vowâd For Bitiasâ death, and threatens thus aloud: âThese are not Ardeaâs walls, nor this the town Amata proffers with Laviniaâs crown: âTis hostile earth you tread. Of hope bereft, No means of safe return by flight are left.â To whom, with countânance calm, and soul sedate, Thus Turnus: âThen begin, and try thy fate: My message to the ghost of Priam bear; Tell him a new Achilles sent thee there.â
A lance of tough ground ash the Trojan threw,
Rough in the rind, and knotted as it grew: With his full force he whirlâd it first around; But the soft yielding air receivâd the wound: Imperial Juno turnâd the course before, And fixâd the wandâring weapon in the door.
âBut hope not thou,â said Turnus, âwhen I strike,
To shun thy fate: our force is not alike, Nor thy steel temperâd by the Lemnian god.â Then rising, on his utmost stretch he stood, And aimâd from high: the full descending blow Cleaves the broad front and beardless cheeks in two. Down sinks the giant with a thundâring sound: His pondârous limbs oppress the trembling ground; Blood, brains, and foam gush from the gaping wound: Scalp, face, and shoulders the keen steel divides, And the sharâd visage hangs on equal sides. The Trojans fly from their approaching fate; And, had the victor then securâd the gate, And to his troops without unclosâd the bars, One lucky day had ended all his wars. But boiling youth, and blind desire of blood, Pushâd on his fury, to pursue the crowd. Hamstringâd behind, unhappy Gyges died; Then Phalaris is added to his side. The pointed javâlins from the dead he drew, And their friendsâ 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 fallâ Engagâd against the foes who scalâd the wall: But, whom they fearâd without, they found within. At last, thoâ late, by Lynceus he was seen. He calls new succours, and assaults the prince: But weak his force, and vain is their defence. Turnâd 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 killâd, In darts envenomâd and in poison skillâd. 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 busâness, verses his delight.
The Trojan chiefs behold, with rage and grief,
Their slaughterâd 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 warriorâs arms all Troy they led. âO, void of sense and courage!â Mnestheus cried, âWhere can you hope your coward heads to hide? Ah! where beyond these rampires can you run? One man, and in your camp inclosâd, you shun! Shall then a single sword such slaughter boast, And pass unpunishâd from a numârous host? Forsaking honour, and renouncing fame, Your gods, your country, and your king you shame!â 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 Tiberâs tide, Washing the camp, defends the weaker side. The more he loses, they advance the more, And tread in evâry step he trod before. They shout: they bear him back; and, whom by might They cannot conquer, they oppress with weight.
As, compassâd 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, enragâd, 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 evâry side: Nor Juno, who sustainâd his arms before, Dares with new strength suffice thâ exhausted store; For Jove, with sour commands, sent Iris down, To force thâ invader from the frighted town.
With labour spent, no longer can he wield
The heavy falchion, or sustain the shield, Oâerwhelmâd with darts, which from afar they fling: The weapons round his hollow temples ring; His golden helm gives way, with stony blows Batterâd, and flat, and beaten to his brows. His crest is rashâd away; his ample shield Is falsified, and round with javâlins fillâd.
The foe, now faint, the Trojans overwhelm;
And Mnestheus lays hard load upon his helm. Sick sweat succeeds; he drops at evâry pore; With driving dust his cheeks are pasted oâer; Shorter and shorter evâry gasp he takes; And vain efforts and hurtless blows he makes. Plungâd in the flood, and made the waters fly. The yellow god the welcome burthen bore, And wipâd the sweat, and washâd away the gore; Then gently wafts him to the farther coast, And sends him safe to cheer his anxious host. BOOK XTHE ARGUMENT.
Jupiter, calling a council of the gods, forbids them to engage in either party. At Aeneasâ 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 heavân 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 thâ inferior world. From first to last, The sovâreign senate in degrees are placâd.
Then thus thâ almighty sire began: âYe gods,
Natives or denizens of blest abodes, From whence these murmurs, and this change of mind, This backward fate from what was first designâd? Why this protracted war, when my commands Pronouncâd a peace, and gave the Latian lands? What fear or hope on either part divides Our heavâns, and arms our powers on diffârent 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.â
Thus Jupiter in few unfolds the charge;
But lovely Venus thus replies at large: âO powâr immense, eternal energy, (For to what else protection can we fly?) Seest thou the proud Rutulians, how they dare In fields, unpunishâd, and insult my care? How lofty Turnus vaunts amidst his train, In shining arms, triumphant on the plain? Evân in their lines and trenches they contend, And scarce their walls the Trojan troops defend: The town is fillâd with slaughter, and oâerfloats, With a red deluge, their increasing moats. Aeneas, ignorant, and far from thence, Has left a camp exposâd, without defence. This endless outrage shall they still sustain? Shall Troy renewâd be forcâd and firâd again? A second siege my banishâd 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 heavân consent with those of hell, To promise Italy; who dare debate The powâr of Jove, or fix another fate? What should I tell of tempests on the main, Of Aeolus usurping Neptuneâs reign? Of Iris sent, with Bacchanalian heat Tâ 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, raisâd 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 Heavân 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 wandâring fugitives receive; (Since haughty Juno will not give you leave;) Then, father, (if I still may use that name,) By ruinâd Troy, yet smoking from the flame, I beg you, let Ascanius, by my care, Be freed from danger, and dismissâd 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 towârs: In those recesses, and those sacred bowârs, Obscurely let him rest; his right resign To promisâd empire, and his Julian line. Then Carthage may thâ Ausonian towns destroy, Nor fear the race of a rejected boy. What profits it my son to scape the fire, Armâd 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 thâ Italian shores; if, after all, Our second Pergamus is doomâd to fall? Much better had he curbâd his high desires, And hoverâd oâer his ill-extinguishâd fires. To Simoisâ banks the fugitives restore, And give them back to war, and all the woes before.â
Deep indignation swellâd Saturniaâs heart:
âAnd must I own,â she said, âmy secret smartâ What with more decence were in silence kept, And, but for this unjust reproach, had slept? Did god or man your favârite son advise, With war unhopâd the Latians to surprise? By fate, you boast, and by the godsâ decree, He left his native land for Italy! Confess the truth; by mad Cassandra, more Than Heavân inspirâd, he sought a foreign shore! Did I persuade to trust his second Troy To the raw conduct of a beardless boy, With walls unfinishâd, which himself forsakes, And throâ the waves a wandâring voyage takes? When have I urgâd 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 promisâd bride; Petition, while you public arms prepare; Pretend a peace, and yet provoke a war! âTwas givân 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 turnâd the fire away, And changâd the ships to daughters of the sea. But is my crimeâthe Queen of Heavân offends, If she presume to save her suffâring friends! Your son, not knowing what his foes decree, You say, is absent: absent let him be. Yours is Cythera, yours the Cyprian towârs, The soft recesses, and the sacred bowârs. 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 exilâd race? Was I the cause of mischief, or the man Whose lawless lust the fatal war began? Think on whose faith thâ adultârous youth relied; Who promisâd, who procurâd, the Spartan bride? When all thâ united states of Greece combinâd, 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.â
Thus Juno. Murmurs rise, with mixâd applause,
Just as they favour or dislike the cause. So winds, when yet unfledgâd 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 thâ imperial god,
Who shakes heavânâs axles with his awful nod. (When he begins, the silent senate stand With revârence, listâning to the dread command: The clouds dispel; the winds their breath restrain; And the hushâd waves lie flatted on the main.) âCelestials, your attentive ears incline! Since,â said the god, âthe Trojans must not join In wishâd alliance with the Latian line; Since endless jarrings and immortal hate Tend but to discompose our happy state; The war henceforward be resignâd to fate: Each to his proper fortune stand or fall; Equal and unconcernâd 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.â The Thundârer said, And shook the sacred honours of his head, Attesting Styx, thâ inviolable flood, And the black regions of his brother god. Trembled the poles of heavân, and earth confessâd the nod. This end the sessions had: the senate rise, And to his palace wait their sovâreign throâ the skies.
Meantime, intent upon their siege, the foes
Within their walls the Trojan host inclose: They wound, they kill, they watch at evâry gate; Renew the fires, and urge their happy fate.
Thâ Aeneans wish in vain their wanted chief,
Hopeless of flight, more hopeless of relief. Thin on the towârs they stand; and evân those few A feeble, fainting, and dejected crew. Yet in the face of danger some there stood: The two bold brothers of Sarpedonâs blood, Asius and Acmon; both thâ Assaraci; Young Haemon, and thoâ young, resolvâd to die. With these were Clarus and Thymoetes joinâd; Tibris and Castor, both of Lycian kind. From Acmonâs hands a rolling stone there came, So large, it half deservâd a mountainâs name: Strong-sinewâd was the youth, and big of bone; His brother Mnestheus could not more have done, Or the great father of thâ 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 unarmâd, his head was bare; In ringlets oâer his shoulders hung his hair. His forehead circled with a diadem; Distinguishâd from the crowd, he shines a gem, Enchasâd in gold, or polishâd ivâry set, Amidst the meaner foil of sable jet.
Nor Ismarus was wanting to the war,
Directing pointed arrows from afar, And death with poison armâdâin 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, increasâd in fame, Since Turnus from the camp he cast with shame.
Thus mortal war was wagâd on either side.
Meantime the hero cuts the nightly tide: For, anxious, from Evander when he went, He sought the Tyrrhene camp, and Tarchonâs tent; Exposâd the cause of coming to the chief; His name and country told, and askâd relief; Proposâd the terms; his own small strength declarâd; What vengeance proud Mezentius had preparâd: What Turnus, bold and violent, designâd; Then shewâd the slippâry state of humankind, And fickle fortune; warnâd him to beware, And to his wholesome counsel added prayâr. 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 carvâd, which rising Ida bearâ Ida, to wandâring Trojans ever dear. Under their grateful shade Aeneas sate, Revolving warâs events, and various fate. His left young Pallas kept, fixâd to his side, And oft of winds enquirâd, and of the tide; Oft of the stars, and of their watâry way; And what he sufferâd both by land and sea.
Now, sacred sisters, open all your spring!
The Tuscan leaders, and their army sing, Which followâd great Aeneas to the war: Their arms, their numbers, and their names declare.
A thousand youths brave Massicus obey,
Borne in the Tiger throâ 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 Apolloâs golden statue bore. Six hundred Populonia sent along, All skillâd in martial exercise, and strong. Three hundred more for battle Ilva joins, An isle renownâd for steel, and unexhausted mines. Asylas on his prow the third appears, Who heavân interprets, and the wandâring stars; From offerâd 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 watâry field,
Proud of his managâd horse and painted shield. Gravisca, noisome from the neighbâring fen, And his own Caere, sent three hundred men; With those which Minioâs fields and Pyrgi gave, All bred in arms, unanimous, and brave.
Thou, Muse, the name of Cinyras renew,
And brave Cupavo followâd but by few; Whose helm confessâd the lineage of the man, And bore, with wings displayâd, a silver swan. Love was the fault of his famâd ancestry, Whose forms and fortunes in his ensigns fly. For Cycnus lovâd unhappy Phaeton, And sung his loss in poplar groves, alone, Beneath the sister shades, to soothe his grief. Heavân heard his song, and hastenâd his relief, And changâd to snowy plumes his hoary hair, And wingâd his flight, to chant aloft in air. His son Cupavo brushâd the briny flood: Upon his stern a brawny Centaur stood, Who heavâd a rock, and, threatâning still to throw, With lifted hands alarmâd the seas below: They seemâd to fear the formidable sight, And rollâd their billows on, to speed his flight.
Ocnus was next, who led his native train
Of hardy warriors throâ the watâry plain: The son of Manto by the Tuscan stream, From whence the Mantuan town derives the nameâ An ancient city, but of mixâd descent: Three sevâral tribes compose the government; Four towns are under each; but all obey The Mantuan laws, and own the Tuscan sway.
Hate to Mezentius armâd five hundred more,
Whom Mincius from his sire Benacus bore: Mincius, with wreaths of reeds his forehead coverâd oâer. 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 murmâring tides.
Full thirty ships transport the chosen train
For Troyâs 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 closâd his eyes, Himself the rudder holds, the sails supplies. A choir of Nereids meet him on the flood, Once his own galleys, hewn from Idaâs 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 excellâd the rest, Above the waves advancâd 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 thâ unknowing man: âSleeps our lovâd lord? O goddess-born, awake! Spread evâry sail, pursue your watâry track, And haste your course. Your navy once were we, From Idaâs height descending to the sea; Till Turnus, as at anchor fixâd we stood, Presumâd to violate our holy wood. Then, loosâd from shore, we fled his fires profane (Unwillingly we broke our masterâs chain), And since have sought you throâ the Tuscan main. The mighty Mother changâd our forms to these, And gave us life immortal in the seas. But young Ascanius, in his camp distressâd, By your insulting foes is hardly pressâd. Thâ 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 thâ ensuing fight: Thyself the fated sword of Vulcan wield, And bear aloft thâ impenetrable shield. Tomorrowâs sun, unless my skill be vain, Shall see huge heaps of foes in battle slain.â Parting, she spoke; and with immortal force Pushâd on the vessel in her watâry course; For well she knew the way. Impellâd behind, The ship flew forward, and outstrippâd the wind. The rest make up. Unknowing of the cause, The chief admires their speed, and happy omens draws.
Then thus he prayâd, and fixâd on heavân his eyes:
âHear thou, great Mother of the deities. With turrets crownâd! (on Idaâs holy hill Fierce tigers, reinâd and curbâd, obey thy will.) Firm thy own omens; lead us on to fight; And let thy Phrygians conquer in thy right.â
He said no more. And now renewing day
Had chasâd the shadows of the night away. He chargâd the soldiers, with preventing care, Their flags to follow, and their arms prepare; Warnâd of thâ ensuing fight, and bade âem hope the war. Now, his lofty poop, he viewâd below His camp incompassâd, and thâ inclosing foe. His blazing shield, imbracâd, he held on high; The camp receive the sign, and with loud shouts reply. Hope arms their courage: from their towârs they throw Their darts with double force, and drive the foe. Thus, at the signal givân, the cranes arise Before the stormy south, and blacken all the skies.
King Turnus wonderâd at the fight renewâd,
Till, looking back, the Trojan fleet he viewâd, The seas with swelling canvas coverâd oâer, And the swift ships descending on the shore. The Latians saw from far, with dazzled eyes, The radiant crest that seemâd in flames to rise, And dart diffusive fires around the field, And the keen glittâring of the golden shield. Thus threatâning 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: âWhat you so long have wishâd, kind Fortune sends; In ardent arms to meet thâ 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 fathersâ fame. Now take the time, while staggâring yet they stand With feet unfirm, and prepossess the strand: Fortune befriends the bold.â Nor more he said, But balancâd 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 exposâd, by bridges more. With labâring 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 steerâd, and thus he gave command: âHere 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 landâI ask no more; Then sink my ships, or shatter on the shore.â
This fiery speech inflames his fearful friends:
They tug at evâry oar, and evâry stretcher bends; They run their ships aground; the vessels knock, (Thus forcâd ashore,) and tremble with the shock. Tarchonâs alone was lost, that stranded stood, Stuck on a bank, and beaten by the flood: She breaks her back; the loosenâd 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 thâ uncertain sand.
Now Turnus leads his troops without delay,
Advancing to the margin of the sea. The trumpets sound: Aeneas first assailâd The clowns new-raisâd and raw, and soon prevailâd. 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 scalâd with gold was no defence Against the fated sword, which openâd wide His plated shield, and piercâd his naked side. Next, Lichas fell, who, not like others born, Was from his wretched mother rippâd 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 assailâd, Nor valour nor Herculean arms availâd, Nor their famâd father, wont in war to go With great Alcides, while he toilâd below. The noisy Pharos next receivâd his death: Aeneas writhâd his dart, and stoppâd his bawling breath. Then wretched Cydon had receivâd 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 sevân bold brethren stoppâd the course Of the fierce champions, with united force. Sevân darts were thrown at once; and some rebound From his bright shield, some on his helmet sound: The rest had reachâd him; but his motherâs care Prevented those, and turnâd aside in air.
The prince then callâd Achates, to supply
The spears that knew the way to victoryâ âThose fatal weapons, which, inurâd 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.â He said; then seizâd a mighty spear, and threw; Which, wingâd with fate, throâ Maeonâs buckler flew, Piercâd all the brazen plates, and reachâd his heart: He staggerâd with intolerable smart. Alcanor saw; and reachâd, but reachâd 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 piercâd, and holding on, bereft His use of both, and pinionâd down his left. Then Numitor from his dead brother drew Thâ ill-omenâd spear, and at the Trojan threw: Preventing fate directs the lance awry, Which, glancing, only markâd Achatesâ thigh.
In pride of youth the Sabine Clausus came,
And, from afar, at Dryops took his aim. The spear flew hissing throâ the middle space, And piercâd his throat, directed at his face; It stoppâd at once the passage of his wind, And the free soul to flitting air resignâd: His forehead was the first that struck the ground; Lifeblood and life rushâd mingled throâ 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 thâ 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 heavân Stands without motion, and the tide undrivân: 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, thâ Arcadian horse
With ill success engage the Latin force: For, where thâ impetuous torrent, rushing down, Huge craggy stones and rooted trees had thrown, They left their coursers, and, unusâd to fight On foot, were scatterâd in a shameful flight. Pallas, who with disdain and grief had viewâd His foes pursuing, and his friends pursued, Usâd threatânings mixâd with prayârs, his last resource, With these to move their minds, with those to fire their force âWhich way, companions? whether would you run? By you yourselves, and mighty battles won, By my great sire, by his establishâd name, And early promise of my future fame; By my youth, emulous of equal right To share his honoursâshun ignoble flight! Trust not your feet: your hands must hew way Throâ yon black body, and that thick array: âTis throâ that forward path that we must come; There lies our way, and that our passage home. Nor powârs 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.â 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 heavâd 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 forcâd the steel away. Hisbon came on: but, while he movâd too slow To wishâd revenge, the prince prevents his blow; For, warding his at once, at once he pressâd, And plungâd the fatal weapon in his breast. Then lewd Anchemolus he laid in dust, Who stainâd his stepdamâs 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 causâd an error in their parentsâ eyesâ Grateful mistake! but soon the sword decides The nice distinction, and their fate divides: For Thymbrusâ head was loppâd; and Larisâ hand, Dismemberâd, sought its owner on the strand: The trembling fingers yet the falchion strain, And threaten still thâ intended stroke in vain.
Now, to renew the charge, thâ Arcadians came:
Sight of such acts, and sense of honest shame, And grief, with anger mixâd, their minds inflame. Then, with a casual blow was Rhoeteus slain, Who chancâd, as Pallas threw, to cross the plain: The flying spear was after Ilus sent; But Rhoeteus happenâd on a death unmeant: From Teuthras and from Tyres while he fled, The lance, athwart his body, laid him dead: Rollâd from his chariot with a mortal wound, And intercepted fate, he spurnâd 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 neighbâring heads; Around the forest flies the furious blast, And all the leafy nation sinks at last, And Vulcan rides in triumph oâer the waste; The pastor, pleasâd with his dire victory, Beholds the satiate flames in sheets ascend the sky: So Pallasâ troops their scatterâd 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 tossâd his glittâring brand, And from Strymonius hewâd his better hand, Held up to guard his throat; then hurlâd a stone At Thoasâ ample front, and piercâd the bone: It struck beneath the space of either eye; And blood, and mingled brains, together fly. Deep skillâd in future fates, Halesusâ sire Did with the youth to lonely groves retire: But, when the fatherâs mortal race was run, Dire destiny laid hold upon the son, And haulâd him to the war, to find, beneath Thâ Evandrian spear, a memorable death. Pallas thâ encounter seeks, but, ere he throws, To Tuscan Tiber thus addressâd his vows: âO sacred stream, direct my flying dart, And give to pass the proud Halesusâ heart! His arms and spoils thy holy oak shall bear.â Pleasâd with the bribe, the god receivâd his prayâr: For, while his shield protects a friend distressâd, The dart came driving on, and piercâd his breast.
But Lausus, no small portion of the war,
Permits not panic fear to reign too far, Causâd by the death of so renownâd 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 escapâd the Greeks in vain: They, and their mixâd 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 pressâd 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 doomâd to fall, but fall by greater hands.
Meantime Juturna warns the Daunian chief
Of Laususâ danger, urging swift relief. With his drivân chariot he divides the crowd, And, making to his friends, thus calls aloud: âLet 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!â From the forbidden space his men retirâd. Pallas their awe, and his stern words, admirâd; Surveyâd him oâer and oâer with wondâring sight, Struck with his haughty mien, and towâring height. Then to the king: âYour 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.â He said, and to the void advancâd his pace: Pale horror sate on each Arcadian face. Then Turnus, from his chariot leaping light, Addressâd himself on foot to single fight. And, as a lionâwhen he spies from far A bull that seems to meditate the war, Bending his neck, and spurning back the sandâ 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, resolvâd to try If fortune would his want of force supply; And thus to Heavân and Hercules addressâd: âAlcides, once on earth Evanderâs 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 ravishâd spoils.â âTwas heard, the vain request; Alcides mournâd, and stifled sighs within his breast. Then Jove, to soothe his sorrow, thus began: âShort bounds of life are set to mortal man. âTis virtueâs 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. Evân Turnus shortly shall resign his breath, And stands already on the verge of death.â 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 grazâd along the shoulder joint, And markâd it slightly with the glancing point, Fierce Turnus first to nearer distance drew, And poisâd his pointed spear, before he threw: Then, as the winged weapon whizzâd along, âSee now,â said he, âwhose arm is better strung.â The spear kept on the fatal course, unstayâd By plates of irân, which oâer the shield were laid: Throâ folded brass and tough bull hides it passâd, His corslet piercâd, and reachâd 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: âArcadians, hear,â
Said he; âmy message to your master bear: Such as the sire deservâd, the son I send; It costs him dear to be the Phrygiansâ friend. The lifeless body, tell him, I bestow, Unaskâd, to rest his wandâring ghost below.â He said, and trampled down with all the force Of his left foot, and spurnâd the wretched corse; Then snatchâd the shining belt, with gold inlaid; The belt Eurytionâs artful hands had made, Where fifty fatal brides, expressâd to sight, All in the compass of one mournful night, Deprivâd 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 untouchâd 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 thâ unhappy field,
Bear back the breathless body on a shield. O grace and grief of war! at once restorâd, With praises, to thy sire, at once deplorâd! One day first sent thee to the fighting field, Beheld whole heaps of foes in battle killâd; 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 relievâd by his victorious hand. He whirls his sword around, without delay, And hews throâ adverse foes an ample way, To find fierce Turnus, of his conquest proud: Evander, Pallas, all that friendship owâd 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 funâral fire. At Magus next he threw: he stoopâd below The flying spear, and shunnâd the promisâd blow; Then, creeping, claspâd the heroâs knees, and prayâd: âBy young Iulus, by thy fatherâs 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 soulâs too light to turn the scale.â He said. The hero sternly thus replied: âThy bars and ingots, and the sums beside, Leave for thy childrenâs lot. Thy Turnus broke All rules of war by one relentless stroke, When Pallas fell: so deems, nor deems alone My fatherâs shadow, but my living son.â Thus having said, of kind remorse bereft, He seizâd his helm, and draggâd him with his left; Then with his right hand, while his neck he wreathâd, Up to the hilts his shining falchion sheathâd.
Apolloâs priest, Emonides, was near;
His holy fillets on his front appear; Glittâring in arms, he shone amidst the crowd; Much of his god, more of his purple, proud. Him the fierce Trojan followâd throâ the field: The holy coward fell; and, forcâd to yield, The prince stood oâer the priest, and, at one blow, Sent him an offâring to the shades below. His arms Seresthus on his shoulders bears, Designâd a trophy to the God of Wars.
Vulcanian Caeculus renews the fight,
And Umbro, born upon the mountainsâ height. The champion cheers his troops tâ encounter those, And seeks revenge himself on other foes. At Anxurâs 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 mutterâd spells; and, from the spheres, Had life securâd, 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 oâer the prostrate wretch, and, as he lay, Vain tales inventing, and preparâd to pray, Mows off his head: the trunk a moment stood, Then sunk, and rollâd along the sand in blood. The vengeful victor thus upbraids the slain: âLie 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.â
On Lycas and Antaeus next he ran,
Two chiefs of Turnus, and who led his van. They fled for fear; with these, he chasâd along Camers the yellow-lockâd, 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 fixâd his silent easy reign. And, as Aegaeon, when with heavân he strove, Stood opposite in arms to mighty Jove; Movâd all his hundred hands, provokâd 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 strowâd, When once his falchion found the taste of blood. With fury scarce to be conceivâd, he flew Against Niphaeus, whom four coursers drew. They, when they see the fiery chief advance, And pushing at their chests his pointed lance, Wheelâd 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 wavâd in air His flaming sword: Aeneas couchâd his spear, Unusâd to threats, and more unusâd to fear. Then Liger thus: âThy 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 Venusâ veil is here, near Neptuneâs shield; Thy fatal hour is come, and this the field.â Thus Liger vainly vaunts: the Trojan peer Returnâd his answer with his flying spear. As Lucagus, to lash his horses, bends, Prone to the wheels, and his left foot protends, Preparâd for fight; the fatal dart arrives, And throâ the borders of his buckler drives; Passâd throâ and piercâd his groin: the deadly wound, Cast from his chariot, rollâd him on the ground. Whom thus the chief upbraids with scornful spite: âBlame not the slowness of your steeds in flight; Vain shadows did not force their swift retreat; But you yourself forsake your empty seat.â He said, and seizâd at once the loosenâd rein; For Liger lay already on the plain, By the same shock: then, stretching out his hands, The recreant thus his wretched life demands: âNow, by thyself, O more than mortal man! By her and him from whom thy breath began, Who formâd thee thus divine, I beg thee, spare This forfeit life, and hear thy suppliantâs prayâr.â Thus much he spoke, and more he would have said; But the stern hero turnâd aside his head, And cut him short: âI hear another man; You talkâd not thus before the fight began. Now take your turn; and, as a brother should, Attend your brother to the Stygian flood.â Then throâ 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 ragâd the prince, and scatterâd deaths around. At length Ascanius and the Trojan train Broke from the camp, so long besiegâd in vain.
Meantime the King of Gods and Mortal Man
Held conference with his queen, and thus began: âMy sister goddess, and well-pleasing wife, Still think you Venusâ aid supports the strifeâ Sustains her Trojansâor themselves, alone, With inborn valour force their fortune on? How fierce in fight, with courage undecayâd! Judge if such warriors want immortal aid.â To whom the goddess with the charming eyes, Soft in her tone, submissively replies: âWhy, O my sovâreign lord, whose frown I fear, And cannot, unconcernâd, 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 powâr your pleasing wife Might gain the grace of lengthâning Turnusâ life, Securely snatch him from the fatal fight, And give him to his aged fatherâs 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.â
Then shortly thus the sovâreign god replied:
âSince in my powâr and goodness you confide, If for a little space, a lengthenâd 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-livâd youth from destinâd death, Or if a farther thought you entertain, To change the fates; you feed your hopes in vain.â To whom the goddess thus, with weeping eyes: âAnd 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 throâ causeless fears, And you (for you have powâr) prolong his years!â
Thus having said, involvâd in clouds, she flies,
And drives a storm before her throâ the skies. Swift she descends, alighting on the plain, Where the fierce foes a dubious fight maintain. Of air condensâd a spectre soon she made; And, what Aeneas was, such seemâd the shade. Adornâd with Dardan arms, the phantom bore His head aloft; a plumy crest he wore; This hand appearâd a shining sword to wield, And that sustainâd an imitated shield. With manly mien he stalkâd 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 hurlâd his spear: The phantom wheelâd, and seemâd to fly for fear. Deluded Turnus thought the Trojan fled, And with vain hopes his haughty fancy fed. âWhether, O coward?â (thus he calls aloud, Nor found he spoke to wind, and chasâd a cloud,) âWhy thus forsake your bride! Receive from me The fated land you sought so long by sea.â He said, and, brandishing at once his blade, With eager pace pursued the flying shade. By chance a ship was fastenâd 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 skippât and skulkâd, and under hatches went. Exulting Turnus, with regardless haste, Ascends the plank, and to the galley passâd. Scarce had he reachâd the prow: Saturniaâs 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 slaughterâd troops to shades below.
The guileful phantom now forsook the shroud,
And flew sublime, and vanishâd in a cloud. Too late young Turnus the delusion found, Far on the sea, still making from the ground. Then, thankless for a life redeemâd by shame, With sense of honour stung, and forfeit fame, Fearful besides of what in fight had passâd, His hands and haggard eyes to heavân he cast; âO Jove!â he cried, âfor what offence have I Deservâd to bear this endless infamy? Whence am I forcâd, and whether am I borne? How, and with what reproach, shall I return? Shall ever I behold the Latian plain, Or see Laurentumâs lofty towârs 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 evân from hence their dying groans receive. Here, overmatchâd in fight, in heaps they lie; There, scatterâd oâer 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 shipwreckâd 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.â
Thus Turnus ravâd, and various fates revolvâd:
The choice was doubtful, but the death resolvâd. 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 assayâd, and thrice the flood; But Juno, movâd with pity, both withstood. And thrice repressâd his rage; strong gales supplied, And pushâd the vessel oâer the swelling tide. At length she lands him on his native shores, And to his fatherâs longing arms restores.
Meantime, by Joveâs impulse, Mezentius armâd,
Succeeding Turnus, with his ardour warmâd His fainting friends, reproachâd their shameful flight, Repellâd the victors, and renewâd the fight. Against their king the Tuscan troops conspire; Such is their hate, and such their fierce desire Of wishâd revenge: on him, and him alone, All hands employâd, and all their darts are thrown. He, like a solid rock by seas inclosâd, To raging winds and roaring waves opposâd, From his proud summit looking down, disdains Their empty menace, and unmovâd 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; Hamstringâd 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 producâd 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 fattâning marshes fed, When once he sees himself in toils inclosâd, By huntsmen and their eager hounds opposâd, He whets his tusks, and turns, and dares the war; Thâ invaders dart their javâlins 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 inspirâd, And just revenge against the tyrant firâd, Their darts with clamour at a distance drive, And only keep the languishâd war alive.
From Coritus came Acron to the fight,
Who left his spouse betrothâd, and unconsummate night. Mezentius sees him throâ 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 plainâ 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 famishâd maw; his mouth runs oâer With unchewâd morsels, while he churns the gore: So proud Mezentius rushes on his foes, And first unhappy Acron overthrows: Stretchâd at his length, he spurns the swarthy ground; The lance, besmearâd with blood, lies broken in the wound. Then with disdain the haughty victor viewâd Orodes flying, nor the wretch pursued, Nor thought the dastardâs back deservâd a wound, But, running, gainâd thâ 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 oppressâd: Mezentius fixâd his foot upon his breast, And rested lance; and thus aloud he cries: âLo! here the champion of my rebels lies!â The fields around with Io Paean! ring; And peals of shouts applaud the conquâring king. At this the vanquishâd, with his dying breath, Thus faintly spoke, and prophesied in death: âNor thou, proud man, unpunishâd shalt remain: Like death attends thee on this fatal plain.â Then, sourly smiling, thus the king replied: âFor what belongs to me, let Jove provide; But die thou first, whatever chance ensue.â He said, and from the wound the weapon drew. A hovâring mist came swimming oâer his sight, And sealâd 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 killâd. Then brave Messapus Ericetes slew, Who from Lycaonâs 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 Neptuneâs son prevails. Agis the Lycian, stepping forth with pride, To single fight the boldest foe defied; Whom Tuscan Valerus by force oâercame, And not belied his mighty fatherâs fame. Salius to death the great Antronius sent: But the same fate the victor underwent, Slain by Nealcesâ hand, well-skillâd 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 vanquishâd, in the various field, Nor wholly overcome, nor wholly yield. The gods from heavân survey the fatal strife, And mourn the miseries of human life. Above the rest, two goddesses appear Concernâd 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,
Brandishâd his spear, and rushâd into the plain, Where towâring in the midmost rank she stood, Like tall Orion stalking oâer 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 fixâd 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, Poisâd on his base, Mezentius stood the shock. He stood, and, measuring first with careful eyes The space his spear could reach, aloud he cries: âMy 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.â He said; and with his utmost force he threw The massy spear, which, hissing as it flew, Reachâd the celestial shield, that stoppâd the course; But, glancing thence, the yet unbroken force Took a new bent obliquely, and betwixt The side and bowels famâd Anthores fixâd. Anthores had from Argos travelâd far, Alcidesâ friend, and brother of the war; Till, tirâd with toils, fair Italy he chose, And in Evanderâs palace sought repose. Now, falling by anotherâs wound, his eyes He cast to heavân, on Argos thinks, and dies.
The pious Trojan then his javâlin sent;
The shield gave way; throâ treble plates it went Of solid brass, of linen trebly rollâd, And three bull hides which round the buckler fold. All these it passâd, resistless in the course, Transpiercâd his thigh, and spent its dying force. The gaping wound gushâd out a crimson flood. The Trojan, glad with sight of hostile blood, His falchion drew, to closer fight addressâd, And with new force his fainting foe oppressâd.
His fatherâs peril Lausus viewâd with grief;
He sighâd, he wept, he ran to his relief. And here, heroic youth, âtis here I must To thy immortal memory be just, And sing an act so noble and so new, Posterity will scarce believe âtis true. Painâd with his wound, and useless for the fight, The father sought to save himself by flight: Encumberâd, slow he draggâd the spear along, Which piercâd his thigh, and in his buckler hung. The pious youth, resolvâd on death, below The lifted sword springs forth to face the foe; Protects his parent, and prevents the blow. Shouts of applause ran ringing throâ the field, To see the son the vanquishâd father shield. All, firâd with genârous indignation, strive, And with a storm of darts to distance drive The Trojan chief, who, held at bay from far, On his Vulcanian orb sustainâd the war.
As, when thick hail comes rattling in the wind,
The plowman, passenger, and labâring hind For shelter to the neighbâring covert fly, Or housâd, or safe in hollow caverns lie; But, that oâerblown, when heavân above âem smiles, Return to travel, and renew their toils: Aeneas thus, oâerwhelmed on evâry side, The storm of darts, undaunted, did abide; And thus to Lausus loud with friendly threatâning cried: âWhy wilt thou rush to certain death, and rage In rash attempts, beyond thy tender age, Betrayâd by pious love?â Nor, thus forborne, The youth desists, but with insulting scorn Provokes the lingâring prince, whose patience, tirâd, Gave place; and all his breast with fury firâd. For now the Fates preparâd their sharpenâd shears; And lifted high the flaming sword appears, Which, full descending with a frightful sway, Throâ shield and corslet forcâd thâ impetuous way, And buried deep in his fair bosom lay. The purple streams throâ the thin armour strove, And drenchâd thâ imbroiderâd 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 oâerspread,
The pious prince beheld young Lausus dead, He grievâd; he wept; the sight an image brought Of his own filial love, a sadly pleasing thought: Then stretchâd his hand to hold him up, and said: âPoor hapless youth! what praises can be paid To love so great, to such transcendent store Of early worth, and sure presage of more? Accept whateâer Aeneas can afford; Untouchâd thy arms, untaken be thy sword; And all that pleasâd 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: ââTwas by the great Aeneas hand I fell.ââ 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 wellâd from out the wound.
Meantime, his father, now no father, stood,
And washâd his wounds by Tiberâs yellow flood: Oppressâd with anguish, panting, and oâerspent, His fainting limbs against an oak he leant. A bough his brazen helmet did sustain; His heavier arms lay scatterâd 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, concernâd his danger to prevent, He much enquirâd, and many a message sent To warn him from the fieldâalas! in vain! Behold, his mournful followers bear him slain! Oâer his broad shield still gushâd the yawning wound, And drew a bloody trail along the ground. Far off he heard their cries, far off divinâd The dire event, with a foreboding mind. With dust he sprinkled first his hoary head; Then both his lifted hands to heavân he spread; Last, the dear corpse embracing, thus he said: âWhat 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 preservâd, and art thou lost? How much too dear has that redemption cost! âTis 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 unblemishâd name. Chasâd from a throne, abandonâd, and exilâd For foul misdeeds, were punishments too mild: I owâd 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.â With that he raisâd from ground His fainting limbs, that staggerâd with his wound; Yet, with a mind resolvâd, and unappallâd With pains or perils, for his courser callâd Well-mouthâd, well-managâd, 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 seemâd sensible, while thus he spoke: âO Rhoebus, we have livâd too long for meâ 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 murderâd Lausus, on his cruel foe; Or, if inexorable fate deny Our conquest, with thy conquerâd master die: For, after such a lord, I rest secure, Thou wilt no foreign reins, or Trojan load endure.â He said; and straight thâ officious courser kneels, To take his wonted weight. His hands he fills With pointed javâlins; on his head he lacâd His glittâring helm, which terribly was gracâd With waving horsehair, nodding from afar; Then spurrâd his thundâring steed amidst the war. Love, anguish, wrath, and grief, to madness wrought, Despair, and secret shame, and conscious thought Of inborn worth, his labâring soul oppressâd, Rollâd in his eyes, and ragâd within his breast. Then loud he callâd Aeneas thrice by name: The loud repeated voice to glad Aeneas came. âGreat Jove,â he said, âand the far-shooting god, Inspire thy mind to make thy challenge good!â He spoke no more; but hastenâd, void of fear, And threatenâd with his long protended spear.
To whom Mezentius thus: âThy vaunts are vain.
My Lausus lies extended on the plain: Heâs lost! thy conquest is already won; The wretched sire is murderâd in the son. Nor fate I fear, but all the gods defy. Forbear thy threats: my busâness is to die; But first receive this parting legacy.â 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 thâ impenetrable shield. Thrice rode he round; and thrice Aeneas wheelâd, Turnâd as he turnâd: 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, Urgâd and oâer-labourâd in unequal fight; At length resolvâd, he throws with all his force Full at the temples of the warrior horse. Just where the stroke was aimâd, thâ unerring spear Made way, and stood transfixâd throâ either ear. Seizâd with unwonted pain, surprisâd with fright, The wounded steed curvets, and, raisâd 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, floundâring forward, pitching on his head, His lordâs encumberâd shoulder overlaid.
From either host, the mingled shouts and cries
Of Trojans and Rutulians rend the skies. Aeneas, hastâning, wavâd his fatal sword High oâer his head, with this reproachful word: âNow; where are now thy vaunts, the fierce disdain Of proud Mezentius, and the lofty strain?â
Struggling, and wildly staring on the skies,
With scarce recoverâd sight he thus replies: âWhy these insulting words, this waste of breath, To souls undaunted, and secure of death? âTis no dishonour for the brave to die, Nor came I here with hope victory; Nor ask I life, nor fought with that design: As I had usâd my fortune, use thou thine. My dying son contracted no such band; The gift is hateful from his murdârerâs hand. For this, this only favour let me sue, If pity can to conquerâd foes be due: Refuse it not; but let my body have The last retreat of humankind, a grave. Too well I know thâ insulting peopleâs hate; Protect me from their vengeance after fate: This refuge for my poor remains provide, And lay my much-lovâd Lausus by my side.â He said, and to the sword his throat applied. The crimson stream distainâd his arms around, And the disdainful soul came rushing throâ the wound. BOOK XITHE 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 raisâd her head
Above the waves, and left her watâry bed; The pious chief, whom double cares attend For his unburied soldiers and his friend, Yet first to Heavân performâd a victorâs vows: He barâd an ancient oak of all her boughs; Then on a rising ground the trunk he placâd, Which with the spoils of his dead foe he gracâd. The coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn, Now on a naked snag in triumph borne, Was hung on high, and glitterâd from afar, A trophy sacred to the God of War. Above his arms, fixâd on the leafless wood, Appearâd his plumy crest, besmearâd with blood: His brazen buckler on the left was seen; Truncheons of shiverâd lances hung between; And on the right was placed his corslet, borâd; And to the neck was tied his unavailing sword.
A crowd of chiefs inclose the godlike man,
Who thus, conspicuous in the midst, began: âOur toils, my friends, are crownâd with sure success; The greater part performâd, 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. Preparâd in arms, pursue your happy chance; That none unwarnâd may plead his ignorance, And I, at Heavânâs appointed hour, may find Your warlike ensigns waving in the wind. Meantime the rites and funâral 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 conquerâd 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 ageâs bloom, Was hurried hence by too severe a doom.â
Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way,
Where, new in death, lamented Pallas lay. Acoetes watchâd the corpse; whose youth deservâd The fatherâs trust; and now the son he servâd With equal faith, but less auspicious care. Thâ attendants of the slain his sorrow share. A troop of Trojans mixâd with these appear, And mourning matrons with dishevelâd 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 viewâd the grisly wound Which Pallas in his manly bosom bore, And the fair flesh distainâd with purple gore; First, melting into tears, the pious man Deplorâd so sad a sight, then thus began: âUnhappy youth! when Fortune gave the rest Of my full wishes, she refusâd the best! She came; but brought not thee along, to bless My longing eyes, and share in my success: She grudgâd thy safe return, the triumphs due To prospârous valour, in the public view. Not thus I promisâd, when thy father lent Thy needless succour with a sad consent; Embracâd me, parting for thâ Etrurian land, And sent me to possess a large command. He warnâd, and from his own experience told, Our foes were warlike, disciplinâd, 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 powârs below. The wretched father, ere his race is run, Shall view the funâral 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 disgracâd his ancestry; Thou shalt not blush, old man, however grievâd: Thy Pallas no dishonest wound receivâd. He died no death to make thee wish, too late, Thou hadst not livâd to see his shameful fate: But what a champion has thâ Ausonian coast, And what a friend hast thou, Ascanius, lost!â
Thus having mournâd, he gave the word around,
To raise the breathless body from the ground; And chose a thousand horse, the flowâr of all His warlike troops, to wait the funeral, To bear him back and share Evanderâs 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: Strewâd leaves and funeral greens the bier adorn. All pale he lies, and looks a lovely flowâr, New croppâd by virgin hands, to dress the bowâr: 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 embossâd, For ornament the Trojan hero brought, Which with her hands Sidonian Dido wrought. One vest arrayâd the corpse; and one they spread Oâer his closâd eyes, and wrappâd 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 arrayâthâ achievements of the dead. Then, pinionâd with their hands behind, appear Thâ unhappy captives, marching in the rear, Appointed offârings in the victorâs name, To sprinkle with their blood the funâral flame. Inferior trophies by the chiefs are borne; Gauntlets and helms their loaded hands adorn; And fair inscriptions fixâd, and titles read Of Latian leaders conquerâd by the dead.
Acoetes on his pupilâs corpse attends,
With feeble steps, supported by his friends. Pausing at evâry pace, in sorrow drownâd, Betwixt their arms he sinks upon the ground; Where grovâling while he lies in deep despair, He beats his breast, and rends his hoary hair. The championâs chariot next is seen to roll, Besmearâd with hostile blood, and honourably foul. To close the pomp, Aethon, the steed of state, Is led, the funârals of his lord to wait. Strippâd of his trappings, with a sullen pace He walks; and the big tears run rolling down his face. The lance of Pallas, and the crimson crest, Are borne behind: the victor seizâd the rest. The march begins: the trumpets hoarsely sound; The pikes and lances trail along the ground. Thus while the Trojan and Arcadian horse To Pallantean towârs direct their course, In long procession rankâd, the pious chief Stoppâd in the rear, and gave a vent to grief: âThe public care,â he said, âwhich war attends, Diverts our present woes, at least suspends. Peace with the manes of great Pallas dwell! Hail, holy relics! and a last farewell!â He said no more, but, inly throâ he mournâd, Restrained his tears, and to the camp returnâd.
Now suppliants, from Laurentum sent, demand
A truce, with olive branches in their hand; Obtest his clemency, and from the plain Beg leave to draw the bodies of their slain. They plead, that none those common rites deny To conquerâd foes that in fair battle die. All cause of hate was ended in their death; Nor could he war with bodies void of breath. A king, they hopâd, would hear a kingâs request, Whose son he once was callâd, and once his guest.
Their suit, which was too just to be denied,
The hero grants, and farther thus replied: âO Latian princes, how severe a fate In causeless quarrels has involvâd your state, And armâd against an unoffending man, Who sought your friendship ere the war began! You beg a truce, which I would gladly give, Not only for the slain, but those who live. I came not hither but by Heavânâs command, And sent by fate to share the Latian land. Nor wage I wars unjust: your king denied My profferâd friendship, and my promisâd bride; Left me for Turnus. Turnus then should try His cause in arms, to conquer or to die. My right and his are in dispute: the slain Fell without fault, our quarrel to maintain. In equal arms let us alone contend; And let him vanquish, whom his fates befriend. This is the way (so tell him) to possess The royal virgin, and restore the peace. Bear this message back, with ample leave, That your slain friends may funâral rites receive.â
Thus having saidâthâ embassadors, amazâd,
Stood mute a while, and on each other gazâd. Drances, their chief, who harbourâd in his breast Long hate to Turnus, as his foe professâd, Broke silence first, and to the godlike man, With graceful action bowing, thus began: âAuspicious prince, in arms a mighty name, But yet whose actions far transcend your fame; Would I your justice or your force express, Thought can but equal; and all words are less. Your answer we shall thankfully relate, And favours granted to the Latian state. If wishâd success our labour shall attend, Think peace concluded, and the king your friend: Let Turnus leave the realm to your command, And seek alliance in some other land: Build you the city which your fates assign; We shall be proud in the great work to join.â
Thus Drances; and his words so well persuade
The rest impowerâd, that soon a truce is made. Twelve days the term allowâd: and, during those, Latians and Trojans, now no longer foes, Mixâd in the woods, for funâral piles prepare To fell the timber, and forget the war. Loud axes throâ the groaning groves resound; Oak, mountain ash, and poplar spread the ground; First fall from high; and some the trunks receive In loaden wains; with wedges some they cleave.
And now the fatal news by Fame is blown
Throâ the short circuit of thâ Arcadian town, Of Pallas slainâby Fame, which just before His triumphs on distended pinions bore. Rushing from out the gate, the people stand, Each with a funâral flambeau in his hand. Wildly they stare, distracted with amaze: The fields are lightenâd with a fiery blaze, That cast a sullen splendour on their friends, The marching troop which their dead prince attends. Both parties meet: they raise a doleful cry; The matrons from the walls with shrieks reply, And their mixâd mourning rends the vaulted sky. The town is fillâd with tumult and with tears, Till the loud clamours reach Evanderâs ears: Forgetful of his state, he runs along, With a disorderâd pace, and cleaves the throng; Falls on the corpse; and groaning there he lies, With silent grief, that speaks but at his eyes. Short sighs and sobs succeed; till sorrow breaks A passage, and at once he weeps and speaks:
âO Pallas! thou hast failâd thy plighted word,
To fight with caution, not to tempt the sword! I warnâd thee, but in vain; for well I knew What perils youthful ardour would pursue, That boiling blood would carry thee too far, Young as thou wert in dangers, raw to war! O curst essay of arms, disastrous doom, Prelude of bloody fields, and fights to come! Hard elements of unauspicious war, Vain vows to Heavân, and unavailing care! Thrice happy thou, dear partner of my bed, Whose holy soul the stroke of Fortune fled, Prescious of ills, and leaving me behind, To drink the dregs of life by fate assignâd! Beyond the goal of nature I have gone: My Pallas late set out, but reachâd too soon. If, for my league against thâ Ausonian state, Amidst their weapons I had found my fate, (Deservâd from them,) then I had been returnâd A breathless victor, and my son had mournâd. Yet will I not my Trojan friend upbraid, Nor grudge thâ alliance I so gladly made. âTwas not his fault, my Pallas fell so young, But my own crime, for having livâd too long. Yet, since the gods had destinâd him to die, At least he led the way to victory: First for his friends he won the fatal shore, And sent whole herds of slaughterâd foes before; A death too great, too glorious to deplore. Nor will I add new honours to thy grave, Content with those the Trojan hero gave: That funeral pomp thy Phrygian friends designâd, In which the Tuscan chiefs and army joinâd. Great spoils and trophies, gainâd by thee, they bear: Then let thy own achievements be thy share. Even thou, O Turnus, hadst a trophy stood, Whose mighty trunk had better gracâd the wood, If Pallas had arrivâd, with equal length Of years, to match thy bulk with equal strength. But why, unhappy man, dost thou detain These troops, to view the tears thou sheddâst in vain? Go, friends, this message to your lord relate: Tell him, that, if I bear my bitter fate, And, after Pallasâ death, live lingâring on, âTis to behold his vengeance for my son. I stay for Turnus, whose devoted head Is owing to the living and the dead. My son and I expect it from his hand; âTis all that he can give, or we demand. Joy is no more; but I would gladly go, To greet my Pallas with such news below.â
The morn had now dispellâd the shades of night,
Restoring toils, when she restorâd the light. The Trojan king and Tuscan chief command To raise the piles along the winding strand. Their friends convey the dead funâral fires; Black smouldâring smoke from the green wood expires; The light of heavân is chokâd, and the new day retires. Then thrice around the kindled piles they go (For ancient custom had ordainâd it so) Thrice horse and foot about the fires are led; And thrice, with loud laments, they hail the dead. Tears, trickling down their breasts, bedew the ground, And drums and trumpets mix their mournful sound. Amid the blaze, their pious brethren throw The spoils, in battle taken from the foe: Helms, bits embossâd, and swords of shining steel; One casts a target, one a chariot wheel; Some to their fellows their own arms restore: The falchions which in luckless fight they bore, Their bucklers piercâd, their darts bestowâd in vain, And shiverâd lances gatherâd from the plain. Whole herds of offerâd bulls, about the fire, And bristled boars, and woolly sheep expire. Around the piles a careful troop attends, To watch the wasting flames, and weep their burning friends; Lingâring along the shore, till dewy night New decks the face of heavân with starry light.
The conquerâd Latians, with like pious care,
Piles without number for their dead prepare. Part in the places where they fell are laid; And part are to the neighbâring fields conveyâd. The corps of kings, and captains of renown, Borne off in state, are buried in the town; The rest, unhonourâd, and without a name, Are cast a common heap to feed the flame. Trojans and Latians vie with like desires To make the field of battle shine with fires, And the promiscuous blaze to heavân aspires.
Now had the morning thrice renewâd the light,
And thrice dispellâd the shadows of the night, When those who round the wasted fires remain, Perform the last sad office to the slain. They rake the yet warm ashes from below; These, and the bones unburnâd, in earth bestow; These relics with their country rites they grace, And raise a mount of turf to mark the place.
But, in the palace of the king, appears
A scene more solemn, and a pomp of tears. Maids, matrons, widows, mix their common moans; Orphans their sires, and sires lament their sons. All in that universal sorrow share, And curse the cause of this unhappy war: A broken league, a bride unjustly sought, A crown usurpâd, which with their blood is bought! These are the crimes with which they load the name Of Turnus, and on him alone exclaim: âLet him who lords it oâer thâ Ausonian land Engage the Trojan hero hand to hand: His is the gain; our lot is but to serve; âTis just, the sway he seeks, he should deserve.â This Drances aggravates; and adds, with spite: âHis foe expects, and dares him to the fight.â Nor Turnus wants a party, to support His cause and credit in the Latian court. His former acts secure his present fame, And the queen shades him with her mighty name.
While thus their factious minds with fury burn,
The legates from thâ Aetolian prince return: Sad news they bring, that, after all the cost And care employâd, their embassy is lost; That Diomedes refusâd his aid in war, Unmovâd with presents, and as deaf to prayâr. Some new alliance must elsewhere be sought, Or peace with Troy on hard conditions bought.
Latinus, sunk in sorrow, finds too late,
A foreign son is pointed out by fate; And, till Aeneas shall Lavinia wed, The wrath of Heavân is hovâring oâer his head. The gods, he saw, espousâd the juster side, When late their titles in the field were tried: Witness the fresh laments, and funâral tears undried. Thus, full of anxious thought, he summons all The Latian senate to the council hall. The princes come, commanded by their head, And crowd the paths that to the palace lead. Supreme in powâr, and reverencâd for his years, He takes the throne, and in the midst appears. Majestically sad, he sits in state, And bids his envoys their success relate.
When Venulus began, the murmuring sound
Was hushâd, and sacred silence reignâd around. âWe have,â said he, âperformâd your high command, And passâd with peril a long tract of land: We reachâd the place desirâd; with wonder fillâd, The Grecian tents and rising towârs beheld. Great Diomede has compassâd round with walls The city, which Argyripa he calls, From his own Argos namâd. We touchâd, with joy, The royal hand that razâd unhappy Troy. When introducâd, our presents first we bring, Then crave an instant audience from the king. His leave obtainâd, our native soil we name, And tell thâ important cause for which we came. Attentively he heard us, while we spoke; Then, with soft accents, and a pleasing look, Made this return: âAusonian race, of old Renownâd for peace, and for an age of gold, What madness has your alterâd minds possessâd, To change for war hereditary rest, Solicit arms unknown, and tempt the sword, A needless ill your ancestors abhorrâd? Weâfor myself I speak, and all the name Of Grecians, who to Troyâs destruction came, (Omitting those who were in battle slain, Or borne by rolling Simois to the main) Not one but sufferâd, and too dearly bought The prize of honour which in arms he sought; Some doomâd to death, and some in exile drivân. Outcasts, abandonâd by the care of Heavân; So worn, so wretched, so despisâd a crew, As evân old Priam might with pity view. Witness the vessels by Minerva tossâd In storms; the vengeful Capharean coast; Thâ Euboean rocks! the prince, whose brother led Our armies to revenge his injurâd bed, In Egypt lost! Ulysses with his men Have seen Charybdis and the Cyclopsâ den. Why should I name Idomeneus, in vain Restorâd to scepters, and expellâd again? Or young Achilles, by his rival slain? Evân he, the King of Men, the foremost name Of all the Greeks, and most renownâd by fame, The proud revenger of anotherâs wife, Yet by his own adultâress lost his life; Fell at his threshold; and the spoils of Troy The foul polluters of his bed enjoy. The gods have envied me the sweets of life, My much lovâd country, and my more lovâd wife: Banishâd from both, I mourn; while in the sky, Transformâd to birds, my lost companions fly: Hovâring about the coasts, they make their moan, And cuff the cliffs with pinions not their own. What squalid spectres, in the dead of night, Break my short sleep, and skim before my sight! I might have promisâd to myself those harms, Mad as I was, when I, with mortal arms, Presumâd against immortal powârs to move, And violate with wounds the Queen of Love. Such arms this hand shall never more employ; No hate remains with me to ruinâd Troy. I war not with its dust; nor am I glad To think of past events, or good or bad. Your presents I return: whateâer you bring To buy my friendship, send the Trojan king. We met in fight; I know him, to my cost: With what a whirling force his lance he tossâd! Heavâns! what a spring was in his arm, to throw! How high he held his shield, and rose at evâry blow! Had Troy producâd two more his match in might, They would have changâd the fortune of the fight: Thâ invasion of the Greeks had been returnâd, Our empire wasted, and our cities burnâd. The long defence the Trojan people made, The war protracted, and the siege delayâd, Were due to Hectorâs and this heroâs hand: Both brave alike, and equal in command; Aeneas, not inferior in the field, In pious reverence to the gods excellâd. Make peace, ye Latians, and avoid with care Thâ impending dangers of a fatal war.â He said no more; but, with this cold excuse, Refusâd thâ alliance, and advisâd a truce.â
Thus Venulus concluded his report.
A jarring murmur fillâd the factious court: As, when a torrent rolls with rapid force, And dashes oâer the stones that stop the course, The flood, constrainâd within a scanty space, Roars horrible along thâ uneasy race; White foam in gathâring eddies floats around; The rocky shores rebellow to the sound.
The murmur ceasâd: then from his lofty throne
The king invokâd the gods, and thus begun: âI wish, ye Latins, what we now debate Had been resolvâd before it was too late. Much better had it been for you and me, Unforcâd by this our last necessity, To have been earlier wise, than now to call A council, when the foe surrounds the wall. O citizens, we wage unequal war, With men not only Heavânâs peculiar care, But Heavânâs own race; unconquerâd in the field, Or, conquerâd, yet unknowing how to yield. What hopes you had in Diomedes, lay down: Our hopes must centre on ourselves alone. Yet those how feeble, and, indeed, how vain, You see too well; nor need my words explain. Vanquishâd without resource; laid flat by fate; Factions within, a foe without the gate! Not but I grant that all performâd their parts With manly force, and with undaunted hearts: With our united strength the war we wagâd; With equal numbers, equal arms, engagâd. You see thâ event.âNow hear what I propose, To save our friends, and satisfy our foes. A tract of land the Latins have possessâd Along the Tiber, stretching to the west, Which now Rutulians and Auruncans till, And their mixâd cattle graze the fruitful hill. Those mountains fillâd with firs, that lower land, If you consent, the Trojan shall command, Callâd into part of what is ours; and there, On terms agreed, the common country share. There let them build and settle, if they please; Unless they choose once more to cross the seas, In search of seats remote from Italy, And from unwelcome inmates set us free. Then twice ten galleys let us build with speed, Or twice as many more, if more they need. Materials are at hand; a well-grown wood Runs equal with the margin of the flood: Let them the number and the form assign; The care and cost of all the stores be mine. To treat the peace, a hundred senators Shall be commissionâd hence with ample powârs, With olive the presents they shall bear, A purple robe, a royal ivâry chair, And all the marks of sway that Latian monarchs wear, And sums of gold. Among yourselves debate This great affair, and save the sinking state.â
Then Drances took the word, who grudgâd, long since,
The rising glories of the Daunian prince. Factious and rich, bold at the council board, But cautious in the field, he shunnâd the sword; A close caballer, and tongue-valiant lord. Noble his mother was, and near the throne; But, what his fatherâs parentage, unknown. He rose, and took thâ advantage of the times, To load young Turnus with invidious crimes. âSuch truths, O king,â said he, âyour words contain, As strike the sense, and all replies are vain; Nor are your loyal subjects now to seek What common needs require, but fear to speak. Let him give leave of speech, that haughty man, Whose pride this unauspicious war began; For whose ambition (let me dare to say, Fear set apart, thoâ death is in my way) The plains of Latium run with blood around. So many valiant heroes bite the ground; Dejected grief in evâry face appears; A town in mourning, and a land in tears; While he, thâ undoubted author of our harms, The man who menaces the gods with arms, Yet, after all his boasts, forsook the fight, And sought his safety in ignoble flight. Now, best of kings, since you propose to send Such bounteous presents to your Trojan friend; Add yet a greater at our joint request, One which he values more than all the rest: Give him the fair Lavinia for his bride; With that alliance let the league be tied, And for the bleeding land a lasting peace provide. Let insolence no longer awe the throne; But, with a fatherâs right, bestow your own. For this maligner of the general good, If still we fear his force, he must be wooâd; His haughty godhead we with prayârs implore, Your scepter to release, and our just rights restore. O cursed cause of all our ills, must we Wage wars unjust, and fall in fight, for thee! What right hast thou to rule the Latian state, And send us out to meet our certain fate? âTis a destructive war: from Turnusâ hand Our peace and public safety we demand. Let the fair bride to the brave chief remain; If not, the peace, without the pledge, is vain. Turnus, I know you think me not your friend, Nor will I much with your belief contend: I beg your greatness not to give the law In othersâ realms, but, beaten, to withdraw. Pity your own, or pity our estate; Nor twist our fortunes with your sinking fate. Your interest is, the war should never cease; But we have felt enough to wish the peace: A land exhausted to the last remains, Depopulated towns, and driven plains. Yet, if desire of fame, and thirst of powâr, A beauteous princess, with a crown in dowâr, So fire your mind, in arms assert your right, And meet your foe, who dares you to the fight. Mankind, it seems, is made for you alone; We, but the slaves who mount you to the throne: A base ignoble crowd, without a name, Unwept, unworthy, of the funâral flame, By duty bound to forfeit each his life, That Turnus may possess a royal wife. Permit not, mighty man, so mean a crew Should share such triumphs, and detain from you The post of honour, your undoubted due. Rather alone your matchless force employ, To merit what alone you must enjoy.â
These words, so full of malice mixâd with art,
Inflamâd with rage the youthful heroâs heart. Then, groaning from the bottom of his breast, He heavâd for wind, and thus his wrath expressâd: âYou, Drances, never want a stream of words, Then, when the public need requires our swords. First in the council hall to steer the state, And ever foremost in a tongue-debate, While our strong walls secure us from the foe, Ere yet with blood our ditches overflow: But let the potent orator declaim, And with the brand of coward blot my name; Free leave is givân him, when his fatal hand Has coverâd with more corps the sanguine strand, And high as mine his towâring trophies stand. If any doubt remains, who dares the most, Let us decide it at the Trojanâs cost, And issue both abreast, where honour callsâ (Foes are not far to seek without the walls) Unless his noisy tongue can only fight, And feet were givân him but to speed his flight. I beaten from the field? I forcâd away? Who, but so known a dastard, dares to say? Had he but evân beheld the fight, his eyes Had witnessâd for me what his tongue denies: What heaps of Trojans by this hand were slain, And how the bloody Tiber swellâd the main. All saw, but he, thâ Arcadian troops retire In scatterâd squadrons, and their prince expire. The giant brothers, in their camp, have found, I was not forcâd with ease to quit my ground. Not such the Trojans tried me, when, inclosâd, I singly their united arms opposâd: First forcâd an entrance throâ their thick array; Then, glutted with their slaughter, freed my way. âTis a destructive war? So let it be, But to the Phrygian pirate, and to thee! Meantime proceed to fill the peopleâs ears With false reports, their minds with panic fears: Extol the strength of a twice-conquerâd race; Our foes encourage, and our friends debase. Believe thy fables, and the Trojan town Triumphant stands; the Grecians are oâerthrown; Suppliant at Hectorâs feet Achilles lies, And Diomede from fierce Aeneas flies. Say rapid Aufidus with awful dread Runs backward from the sea, and hides his head, When the great Trojan on his bank appears; For thatâs as true as thy dissembled fears Of my revenge. Dismiss that vanity: Thou, Drances, art below a death from me. Let that vile soul in that vile body rest; The lodging is well worthy of the guest.
âNow, royal father, to the present state
Of our affairs, and of this high debate: If in your arms thus early you diffide, And think your fortune is already tried; If one defeat has brought us down so low, As never more in fields to meet the foe; Then I conclude for peace: âtis time to treat, And lie like vassals at the victorâs feet. But, O! if any ancient blood remains, One drop of all our fathersâ, in our veins, That man would I prefer before the rest, Who darâd his death with an undaunted breast; Who comely fell, by no dishonest wound, To shun that sight, and, dying, gnawâd the ground. But, if we still have fresh recruits in store, If our confederates can afford us more; If the contended field we bravely fought, And not a bloodless victory was bought; Their losses equalâd ours; and, for their slain, With equal fires they fillâd the shining plain; Why thus, unforcâd, should we so tamely yield, And, ere the trumpet sounds, resign the field? Good unexpected, evils unforeseen, Appear by turns, as fortune shifts the scene: Some, raisâd aloft, come tumbling down amain; Then fall so hard, they bound and rise again. If Diomede refuse his aid to lend, The great Messapus yet remains our friend: Tolumnius, who foretells events, is ours; Thâ Italian chiefs and princes join their powârs: Nor least in number, nor in name the last, Your own brave subjects have your cause embracâd Above the rest, the Volscian Amazon Contains an army in herself alone, And heads a squadron, terrible to sight, With glittâring shields, in brazen armour bright. Yet, if the foe a single fight demand, And I alone the public peace withstand; If you consent, he shall not be refusâd, Nor find a hand to victory unusâd. This new Achilles, let him take the field, With fated armour, and Vulcanian shield! For you, my royal father, and my fame, I, Turnus, not the least of all my name, Devote my soul. He calls me hand to hand, And I alone will answer his demand. Drances shall rest secure, and neither share The danger, nor divide the prize of war.â
While they debate, nor these nor those will yield,
Aeneas draws his forces to the field, And moves his camp. The scouts with flying speed Return, and throâ the frighted city spread Thâ unpleasing news, the Trojans are descried, In battle marching by the river side, And bending to the town. They take thâ alarm: Some tremble, some are bold; all in confusion arm. Thâ impetuous youth press forward to the field; They clash the sword, and clatter on the shield: The fearful matrons raise a screaming cry; Old feeble men with fainter groans reply; A jarring sound results, and mingles in the sky, Like that of swans remurmâring to the floods, Or birds of diffâring kinds in hollow woods.
Turnus thâ occasion takes, and cries aloud:
âTalk on, ye quaint haranguers of the crowd: Declaim in praise of peace, when danger calls, And the fierce foes in arms approach the walls.â He said, and, turning short, with speedy pace, Casts back a scornful glance, and quits the place: âThou, Volusus, the Volscian troops command To mount; and lead thyself our Ardean band. Messapus and Catillus, post your force Along the fields, to charge the Trojan horse. Some guard the passes, others man the wall; Drawn up in arms, the rest attend my call.â
They swarm from evâry quarter of the town,
And with disorderâd haste the rampires crown. Good old Latinus, when he saw, too late, The gathâring storm just breaking on the state, Dismissâd the council till a fitter time, And ownâd his easy temper as his crime, Who, forcâd against his reason, had complied To break the treaty for the promisâd bride.
Some help to sink new trenches; others aid
To ram the stones, or raise the palisade. Hoarse trumpets sound thâ alarm; around the walls Runs a distracted crew, whom their last labour calls. A sad procession in the streets is seen, Of matrons, that attend the mother queen: High in her chair she sits, and, at her side, With downcast eyes, appears the fatal bride. They mount the cliff, where Pallasâ temple stands; Prayârs in their mouths, and presents in their hands, With censers first they fume the sacred shrine, Then in this common supplication join: âO patroness of arms, unspotted maid, Propitious hear, and lend thy Latins aid! Break short the pirateâs lance; pronounce his fate, And lay the Phrygian low before the gate.â
Now Turnus arms for fight. His back and breast
Well-temperâd steel and scaly brass invest: The cuishes which his brawny thighs infold Are mingled metal damaskâd oâer with gold. His faithful falchion sits upon his side; Nor casque, nor crest, his manly features hide: But, bare to view, amid surrounding friends, With godlike grace, he from the towâr descends. Exulting in his strength, he seems to dare His absent rival, and to promise war. Freed from his keepers, thus, with broken reins, The wanton courser prances oâer the plains, Or in the pride of youth oâerleaps the mounds, And snuffs the females in forbidden grounds. Or seeks his watâring in the well-known flood, To quench his thirst, and cool his fiery blood: He swims luxuriant in the liquid plain, And oâer his shoulder flows his waving mane: He neighs, he snorts, he bears his head on high; Before his ample chest the frothy waters fly.
Soon as the prince appears without the gate,
The Volscians, with their virgin leader, wait His last commands. Then, with a graceful mien, Lights from her lofty steed the warrior queen: Her squadron imitates, and each descends; Whose common suit Camilla thus commends: âIf sense of honour, if a soul secure Of inborn worth, that can all tests endure, Can promise aught, or on itself rely Greatly to dare, to conquer or to die; Then, I alone, sustainâd by these, will meet The Tyrrhene troops, and promise their defeat. Ours be the danger, ours the sole renown: You, genâral, stay behind, and guard the town.â
Turnus a while stood mute, with glad surprise,
And on the fierce Virago fixâd his eyes; Then thus returnâd: âO grace of Italy, With what becoming thanks can I reply? Not only words lie labâring in my breast, But thought itself is by thy praise oppressâd. Yet rob me not of all; but let me join My toils, my hazard, and my fame, with thine. The Trojan, not in stratagem unskillâd, Sends his light horse before to scour the field: Himself, throâ steep ascents and thorny brakes, A larger compass to the city takes. This news my scouts confirm, and I prepare To foil his cunning, and his force to dare; With chosen foot his passage to forelay, And place an ambush in the winding way. Thou, with thy Volscians, face the Tuscan horse; The brave Messapus shall thy troops enforce With those of Tibur, and the Latian band, Subjected all to thy supreme command.â This said, he warns Messapus to the war, Then evâry chief exhorts with equal care. All thus encouragâd, his own troops he joins, And hastes to prosecute his deep designs.
Inclosâd with hills, a winding valley lies,
By nature formâd for fraud, and fitted for surprise. A narrow track, by human steps untrode, Leads, throâ perplexing thorns, to this obscure abode. High oâer the vale a steepy mountain stands, Whence the surveying sight the nether ground commands. The top is level, an offensive seat Of war; and from the war a safe retreat: For, on the right and left, is room to press The foes at hand, or from afar distress; To drive âem headlong downward, and to pour On their descending backs a stony showâr. Thither young Turnus took the well-known way, Possessâd the pass, and in blind ambush lay.
Meantime Latonian Phoebe, from the skies,
Beheld thâ approaching war with hateful eyes, And callâd the light-foot Opis to her aid, Her most belovâd and ever-trusty maid; Then with a sigh began: âCamilla goes To meet her death amidst her fatal foes: The nymphs I lovâd of all my mortal train, Invested with Dianaâs arms, in vain. Nor is my kindness for the virgin new: âTwas born with her; and with her years it grew. Her father Metabus, when forcâd away From old Privernum, for tyrannic sway, Snatchâd up, and savâd from his prevailing foes, This tender babe, companion of his woes. Casmilla was her mother; but he drownâd One hissing letter in a softer sound, And callâd Camilla. Throâ the woods he flies; Wrappâd in his robe the royal infant lies. His foes in sight, he mends his weary pace; With shout and clamours they pursue the chase. The banks of Amasene at length he gains:
The raging flood his farther flight restrains,
Raisâd oâer the borders with unusual rains. Preparâd to plunge into the stream, he fears, Not for himself, but for the charge he bears. Anxious, he stops a while, and thinks in haste; Then, despârate in distress, resolves at last. A knotty lance of well-boilâd oak he bore; The middle part with cork he coverâd oâer: He closâd the child within the hollow space; With twigs of bending osier bound the case; Then poisâd the spear, heavy with human weight, And thus invokâd my favour for the freight: âAccept, great goddess of the woods,â he said, âSent by her sire, this dedicated maid! Throâ air she flies a suppliant to thy shrine; And the first weapons that she knows, are thine.â He said; and with full force the spear he threw: Above the sounding waves Camilla flew. Then, pressâd by foes, he stemmâd the stormy tide, And gainâd, by stress of arms, the farther side. His fastenâd spear he pullâd from out the ground, And, victor of his vows, his infant nymph unbound; Nor, after that, in towns which walls inclose, Would trust his hunted life amidst his foes; But, rough, in open air he chose to lie; Earth was his couch, his covâring was the sky. On hills unshorn, or in a desert den, He shunnâd the dire society of men. A shepherdâs solitary life he led; His daughter with the milk of mares he fed. The dugs of bears, and evâry salvage beast, He drew, and throâ her lips the liquor pressâd. The little Amazon could scarcely go: He loads her with a quiver and a bow; And, that she might her staggâring steps command, He with a slender javâlin fills her hand. Her flowing hair no golden fillet bound; Nor swept her trailing robe the dusty ground. Instead of these, a tigerâs hide oâerspread Her back and shoulders, fastenâd to her head. The flying dart she first attempts to fling, And round her tender temples tossâd the sling; Then, as her strength with years increasâd, began To pierce aloft in air the soaring swan, And from the clouds to fetch the heron and the crane. The Tuscan matrons with each other vied, To bless their rival sons with such a bride; But she disdains their love, to share with me The sylvan shades and vowâd virginity. And, O! I wish, contented with my cares Of salvage spoils, she had not sought the wars! Then had she been of my celestial train, And shunnâd the fate that dooms her to be slain. But since, opposing Heavânâs decree, she goes To find her death among forbidden foes, Haste with these arms, and take thy steepy flight. Where, with the gods, averse, the Latins fight. This bow to thee, this quiver I bequeath, This chosen arrow, to revenge her death: By whateâer hand Camilla shall be slain, Or of the Trojan or Italian train, Let him not pass unpunishâd from the plain. Then, in a hollow cloud, myself will aid To bear the breathless body of my maid: Unspoilâd shall be her arms, and unprofanâd Her holy limbs with any human hand, And in a marble tomb laid in her native land.â
She said. The faithful nymph descends from high
With rapid flight, and cuts the sounding sky: Black clouds and stormy winds around her body fly.
By this, the Trojan and the Tuscan horse,
Drawn up in squadrons, with united force, Approach the walls: the sprightly coursers bound, Press forward on their bits, and shift their ground. Shields, arms, and spears flash horribly from far; And the fields glitter with a waving war. Opposâd to these, come on with furious force Messapus, Coras, and the Latian horse; These in the body placâd, on either hand Sustainâd and closâd by fair Camillaâs band. Advancing in a line, they couch their spears; And less and less the middle space appears. Thick smoke obscures the field; and scarce are seen The neighing coursers, and the shouting men. In distance of their darts they stop their course; Then man to man they rush, and horse to horse. The face of heavân their flying javâlins hide, And deaths unseen are dealt on either side. Tyrrhenus, and Aconteus, void of fear, By mettled coursers borne in full career, Meet first opposâd; and, with a mighty shock, Their horsesâ heads against each other knock. Far from his steed is fierce Aconteus cast, As with an engineâs force, or lightningâs blast: He rolls along in blood, and breathes his last. The Latin squadrons take a sudden fright, And sling their shields behind, to save their backs in flight Spurring at speed to their own walls they drew; Close in the rear the Tuscan troops pursue, And urge their flight: Asylas leads the chase; Till, seizâd, with shame, they wheel about and face, Receive their foes, and raise a threatâning cry. The Tuscans take their turn to fear and fly. So swelling surges, with a thundâring roar, Drivân on each otherâs backs, insult the shore, Bound oâer the rocks, incroach upon the land, And far upon the beach eject the sand; Then backward, with a swing, they take their way, Repulsâd from upper ground, and seek their mother sea; With equal hurry quit thâ invaded shore, And swallow back the sand and stones they spewâd before.
Twice were the Tuscans masters of the field,
Twice by the Latins, in their turn, repellâd. Ashamâd at length, to the third charge they ran; Both hosts resolvâd, and mingled man to man. Now dying groans are heard; the fields are strowâd With falling bodies, and are drunk with blood. Arms, horses, men, on heaps together lie: Confusâd the fight, and more confusâd the cry. Orsilochus, who durst not press too near Strong Remulus, at distance drove his spear, And stuck the steel beneath his horseâs ear. The fiery steed, impatient of the wound, Curvets, and, springing upward with a bound, His helpless lord cast backward on the ground. Catillus piercâd Iolas first; then drew His reeking lance, and at Herminius threw, The mighty champion of the Tuscan crew. His neck and throat unarmâd, his head was bare, But shaded with a length of yellow hair: Secure, he fought, exposâd on evâry part, A spacious mark for swords, and for the flying dart. Across the shoulders came the featherâd wound; Transfixâd he fell, and doubled to the ground. The sands with streaming blood are sanguine dyed, And death with honour sought on either side.
Resistless throâ the war Camilla rode,
In danger unappallâd, and pleasâd with blood. One side was bare for her exerted breast; One shoulder with her painted quiver pressâd. Now from afar her fatal javâlins play; Now with her axâs edge she hews her way: Dianaâs arms upon her shoulder sound; And when, too closely pressâd, she quits the ground, From her bent bow she sends a backward wound. Her maids, in martial pomp, on either side, Larina, Tulla, fierce Tarpeia, ride: Italians all; in peace, their queenâs delight; In war, the bold companions of the fight. So marchâd the Tracian Amazons of old, When Thermodon with bloody billows rollâd: Such troops as these in shining arms were seen, When Theseus met in fight their maiden queen: Such to the field Penthisilea led, From the fierce virgin when the Grecians fled; With such, returnâd triumphant from the war, Her maids with cries attend the lofty car; They clash with manly force their moony shields; With female shouts resound the Phrygian fields. The Aeneid Full BookWho foremost, and who last, heroic maid,
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