 Book 10, part 2, of the Aeneid. Meantime Jeterna warns the Downian chief of Lausus danger, urging swift relief. With his driven chariot he divides the crowd, and making to his friends thus calls aloud, let none presume his needless aid to join. Retire and clear the field, the fight is mine. To this right hand is Pallas only due. Oh, were his father here, my just revenge to view. From the forbidden space his men retired. Pallas bear awe and his stern words admired, surveyed him awe and awe with wondering sight, struck with his haughty mean and towering height. Then to the king, your empty vaunts for bear, success I hope, and fate I cannot fear. Alive or dead I shall deserve a name, Jove is impartial, and to both the same. He said, and to the void advanced his pace. Pale horror sat on each Arcadian face. Then Ternus, from his chariot leaping light, addressed himself on foot to single fight, and as a lion, when he spies from far a bull that seems to meditate the war, bending his neck and spurning back the sand, runs roaring downward from his hilly stand. Imagine eager Ternus, 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, resolved to try if fortune would his want of force supply, and thus to heaven and Hercules addressed. Alcides, once unearthed Vanda's guest, his son adures you by those holy rites, that hospitable board those genial knights, assist my great attempt to gain this prize, and let proud Ternus view with dying eyes his ravished spoils. T'was heard the vain request. Alcides mourned and stifled sighs within his breast. Then Jove to soothe his sorrow thus began. Short bounds of life are set to mortal man. It is virtue's work alone to stretch the narrow span, so many sons of gods in bloody fight around the walls of Troy have lost the light. My own Sarpidon fell beneath his foe, nor I, his mighty sire, could ward the blow. Even Ternus shortly shall resign his breath, and stands already on the verge of death. This said, the god permits the fatal fight, but from the Latian fields avert's his sight. Now with full force his spear young Pallas threw, and having thrown his shining fortune drew. The steel just grazed along the shoulder joint, and marked it slightly with the glancing point. Fierce Ternus first to near a distance drew, and poised his pointed spear before he threw. Then as the winged weapon whizzed along, See now, said he, whose arm is better strong. The spear kept on the fatal course, unstayed by plates of iron which o'er the shield were laid, through folded brass and tough bull hides it passed, his coarslet pierced, and reached 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. Ternus bestrode the corpse. Arcadians here, said he, my message to your master bear, such as the sire deserved the sun I send. It costs him dear to be the Phrygian's friend. The lifeless body tell him I bestow unasked to rest his wandering ghost below. He said, and trampled down with all the force of his left foot, and spurned the wretched course. Then snatched the shining belt with gold inlaid, the belt Eurytians' artful hands had made, where fifty fatal brides expressed to sight, all in the compass of one mournful night, deprived their bridegrooms of returning light. In an ill hour insulting Ternus 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 Ternus, but in vain, shall wish untouched the trophy of the slain, shall wish the fatal belt were far away, and cursed the dire remembrance of the day. The sad Arcadians from the unhappy field bear back the breathless body on a shield. O grace and grief of war, at once restored with praises to thy sire, at once deplored. One day first sent thee to the fighting field, beheld whole heaps of foes in battle killed. One day beheld thee dead, and born 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 relieved by his victorious hand. He whirls his sword around without delay, and hues through adverse foes an ample way to find fierce Ternus of his conquest proud. Evander, Pallas, all that friendship owed to large deserts are present to his eyes, his plighted hand, and hospitable ties. Four sons of Sulmo, for whom Uthen's bread he took in fight, and living victims led to please the ghost of Pallas, and expire in sacrifice before his funeral fire. At Margus next he threw, he stooped below the flying spear, and shunned the promised blow. Then, creeping, clasped the hero's knees and prayed, By young Aeolus, by thy father's shade of spare my life, and send me back to see my longing sire and tender progeny. A lofty house I have, and wealth untold in silver ingots and in bars of gold. All these and sums besides which see no day the ransom of this one poor life shall pay. If I survive, will Troy the less prevail? A single soul's too light to turn the scale. He said. The hero's sternly thus replied, Thy bars and ingots and the sums beside leave for thy children's lot. Thy turners broke all rules of war by one relentless stroke when Pallas fell, so deems, nor deems alone, my father's shadow, but my living son. Thus having said, of kind remorse bereft, he seized his helm and dragged him with his left, then with his right hand, while his neck he wreathed, up to the hilts his shining fortune sheathed. Apollo's priest Emonides was near. His holy fillets on his front appear, glittering in arms he shone amidst the crowd. Much of his god, more of his purple, proud. Him the fierce Trojan followed through the field. The holy coward fell and forced to yield. The prince stood o'er the priest, and at one blow sent him an offering to the shades below. His arms, surresteous on his shoulders' bears, designed a trophy to the god of wars. Volcanian Caiculus renews the fight, and Umbro, born upon the mountain's height. The champion cheers his troops to encounter those and seeks revenge himself on other foes. At Anxia's shield he drove, and at the blow both shield and arm to ground together go. Anxia had boasted much of magic charms and thought he wore impenetrable arms, so made by muttered spells, and from the spheres had life secured in vain for length of years. Then Tarquitus the field in triumph trod, a nymph his mother, his sire, a god, exulting in bright arms he braves the prince. With his protended lance he makes defence, bears back his feeble foe, then, pressing on, arrests his better hand, and drags him down. Stands o'er the prostrate wretch, and as he lay vain tales inventing and prepared to pray, mows off his head. The trunk a moment stood, then sunk, and rolled along the sand in blood. The vengeful victor thus upbraids the slain. Lie there, proud man, unpitted 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. Unlike us and Anteus next he ran, two chiefs of Ternus, and who led his van. They fled for fear. With these he chased along Camus the yellow-locked and Numa strong, both great in arms, and both were fair and young. Camus was son to Volskens lately slain, in wealth surpassing all the Latian train, and in amicola fixed his silent, easy reign. And as Aegean, when with heaven he strove, stood opposite in arms to mighty Jove, moved all his hundred hands, provoked 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 corpse were strode, when once his fortune found the taste of blood. With fury scarce to be conceived he flew against Niferous whom four courses drew. They, when they see the fiery chief advance, and pushing at their chests his pointed lance, wield with so swift emotion 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 Lukagus and Liga scour the plains with two white steeds, but Liga holds the reins, and Lukagus the lofty seat maintains, bold brethren both. The former waved in air his flaming sword, Aeneas couched his spear unused to threats and more unused to fear. Then Liga thus, thy confidence is vain to escape from hence as from the Trojan plain, nor these the steeds which Diamid bestrode, nor this the chariot where Achilles rode, nor Venus Vale is here near Neptune's shield. Thy fatal hour is come and this the field. Thus Liga vainly vaunts. The Trojan peer returned his answer with his flying spear. As Lukagus to lash his horse's bends, prone to the wheels, and his left foot pretends prepared for fight, the fatal dart arrives, and through the borders of his buckler drives. Passed through and pierced his groin, the deadly wound cast from his chariot, rolled him on the ground, whom thus the chief upbraids with scornful spite. Blame not the slowness of your steeds in flight, vain shadows did not force their swift retreat, but you yourself forsake your empty seat. He said, and seized at once the loosened rain, for Liga lay already on the plain, by the same shock, then stretching out his hands, the requerient thus his wretched life demands. Now by thyself, oh more than mortal man, by her and him from whom thy breath began, who formed thee, thus divine, I beg thee, spare this forfeit life, and hear thy suppliance prayer. Thus much he spoke, and more he would have said, but the stern hero turned aside his head and cut him short. I hear another man, you talk not thus before the fight began. Now take your turn, and as a brother should attend your brother to the Stygian flood. Then through 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 raged the prince, and scattered deaths around. At length Ascanius and the Trojan train broke from the camp so long besieged in vain. Meantime the king of gods and mortal man held conference with his queen, and thus began. My sister goddess and well-pleasing wife, still think you Venus aid supports the strife, sustains her Trojans, or themselves alone with inborn valour force their fortune on. How fierce in fight with courage undecayed, judge if such warriors want immortal aid. To whom the goddess with the charming eyes soft in her tone submissively replies, Why, oh my sovereign lord, whose frown I fear, and cannot unconcerned your anger bear, why, urged you thus my grief, when if I still, as once I was, were mistress of your will, from your almighty power your pleasing wife might gain the grace of lengthening turner's life. Securely snatch him from the fatal fight, and give him to his aged father's sight. Now let him perish since you hold it good, and glut the Trojans with his pious blood, yet from our lineage he derives his name, and in the fourth degree from God Pulumnis came, yet he devoutly pays you rights divine, and offers daily incense at your shrine. Then shortly thus the sovereign God replied, Since in my power and goodness you confide, if for a little space a lengthened span you beg reprieve for this expiring man, I grant you leave to take your turner's hence from instant fate, and can so far dispense. But if some secret meaning lies beneath to save the short-lived youth from destined death, or if a father thought you entertained to change the fates, you feed your hopes in vain. To whom the goddess, thus with weeping eyes, and what if that request your tongue denies your heart should grant, and not a short reprieve, but length of certain life to turner's give. Now speedy death attends the guiltless youth, if my presaging soul devines with truth, which, oh, I wish, might err through causeless fears, and you, for you have power, prolong his years. Thus, having said, involved in clouds she flies, and drives a storm before her through the skies, swift she descends a lighting on the plain, where the fierce foes a dubious fight to maintain. Of air condensed a spectre soon she made, and what enneas was such seemed the shade, adorned with dart and arms, the phantom bore his head aloft a plumy crest he wore. This hand appeared a shining sword to wield, and that sustained an imitated shield. With manly mean he stalked 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 Downian chief to dare, and flourishes his empty sword in air. At this advancing turner's hurled his spear, the phantom wheeled, and seemed to fly for fear. Deluded turner's thought the Trojan fled, and with vain hopes his haughty fancy fed. With a oak-coward, thus he calls aloud, nor found he spoke to wind and chased a cloud. Why thus forsake your bride? Receive from me the fated land you sought so long by sea. He said, and brandishing at once his blade, with eager pace pursued the flying shade. By chance a ship was fastened to the shore, which from old Clusium King of Sinus bore. The plank was ready-laid for safer scent, for shelter there the trembling shadow bent, and skipped and sculked and under hatches went. Exalting turner's with regardless haste ascends the plank and to the galley past. Scarce had he reached the prow, Saturnia's hand the holster's 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 slaughtered troops to shades below. The guileful phantom now forsook the shroud, and flew sublime and vanished in a cloud. Too late, young turner's, the delusion found, far on the sea, still making from the ground. Then, thankless for a life redeemed by shame, with sense of honour, stung, and forfeit fame, fearful besides of what in fight had passed, his hands and haggard eyes to heaven he cast. Oh, Jove! he cried! For what offence have I deserved to bear this endless infamy? Whence am I forced, and whither am I born? How, and with what reproach shall I return? Shall ever I behold the Latian plain, or see La Rentum's lofty towers 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 even from hence their dying groans receive. Here, overmatched in fight, in heaps they lie, their scattered or the field ignobly fly. Gap wide, O earth, and draw me down alive. Or, O ye pitting winds, a wretch relief. On sands or shelves the splitting vessel-drive, Or set me shipwrecked on some desert shore, Where no Ratulian eyes may see me more. Unknown to friends or foes, Or conscious fame, lest she should follow, And my flight proclaim. Thus Ternus raved, and various fates revolved, The choice was doubtful, but the death resolved. 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 assayed, And thrice the flood. But, you know, moved with pity both would stood, And thrice repressed his rage, Strong gales supplied, and pushed The vessel or the swelling tide. At length she lands him on his native shores, And to his father's longing arms restores. Mezentius, armed, succeeding Ternus, With his ardour warmed his fainting friends, Reproached their shameful flight, repelled the victors, and renewed the fight. Against their king the Tuscan troops conspire, Such is their hate, and such their fierce desire of wished revenge. On him and him alone All hands employed, and all their darts are thrown. He, like a solid rock by seas Enclosed, to raging winds and roaring waves Opposed, from his proud summit Looking down, disdains their empty menace, And unmoved 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 flattered, and his helmet rung. But palmus from behind receives his wound, Ham-stringed he falls, and grovels on the ground. His crest and armour from his body torn, Thy shoulders lousis, and thy head adorn. Avas and Mimas both of Troy he slew, Mimas his birth from Fertiano drew. Born on that fatal night, when big with fire, The queen produced 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 fattening marshes fed, When once he sees himself in toils enclosed By huntsmen and their eager hounds opposed, He wets his tusks and turns and dares the war. The invaders dart their javelins 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 inspired, And just revenge against the tyrant fired, Their darts with clamour at a distance drive, And only keep the languished war alive. From Coritus came Akron to the fight, Who left his spouse betrothed and unconsumed night. Mazzentius sees him through the squadron's ride, Proud of the purple favours of his bride. Then, as a hungry lion who beholds a gamesome goat Who frisks about the folds, Or beamy stag that grazes on the plain, He runs, he roars, he shakes his rising mane, He grins and opens wide his greedy jaws, The prey lies panting underneath his paws, He fills his famished moor, His mouth runs o'er with unchewed morsels, While he churns the gore. So Proud Mazzentius rushes on his foes, And first unhappy Akron overthrows, Stretched at his length he spurns the swalvy ground, The lance, besmeared with blood, Lies broken in the wound. Then, with disdain, the haughty victor viewed Orody's flying, Nor the wretch pursued, Nor thought the dastard's back deserved a wound, But, running, gained the advantage of the ground, Then turning short, He met him face to face, To give his victory the better grace. Orody's falls in equal fight oppressed, Mazzentius fixed his foot upon his breast And rested lance, And thus aloud he cries, Lo, hear the champion of my rebels' lies! The fields around with Eopean ring, And peals of shouts applaud the conquering king. At this, the vanquished with his dying breath, Thus faintly spoke, and prophesied in death, Nor thou, Proud Man, unpunished shall remain, Like death attend thee on this fatal plain. Then, sourly smiling, thus the king replied, For what belongs to me let Jove provide, But die thou first whatever chance ensue, He said, and from the wound the weapon drew. A hovering mist came swimming o'er his sight, And sealed his eyes in everlasting night. By Caedicus Alcathos was slain, Sacrata laid Hidaspis on the plain, Orces the strong, to greater strength must yield, He, with Parthenius, were by Rapo killed. Then brave Mesapus Ericitis slew, Who from Lycaon's blood his lineage drew, But from his headstrong horse his fate he found, Who through his master's he made abound, The chief alighting struck him to the ground. Then, clonious hand to hand on foot assails, The Trojan, Sinks, and Neptune's son prevails, Argus the Lycian stepping forth with pride, To single fight the boldest foe defied, Whom Tuscan valorous by force o'er came, And not belied his mighty father's fame, Salius to death the great Antronius sent, But the same fate the victor underwent, Slain by Nealcae's hand, Well skilled 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 vanquished in the various field, Nor wholly overcome, nor wholly yield, The gods from heaven survey the fatal strife, And mourn the miseries of human life. Above the rest two goddesses appear, Concerned for each, here Venus, do you know there? Amidst the crowd, Infernal Arte shakes her scourge, Loft, and crest of hissing snakes. Once more the proud mesentius with disdain Brandished his spear and rushed into the plain, Where towering in the midmost rank he stood, Like tall a ryan stalking o'er the flood, When with his brawny breast he cuts the waves, His shoulders scarce the topmost billow laves, Or like a mountain ash whose roots are spread Deep fixed 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, Poised on his base, mesentius stood the shock. He stood, and measuring first with careful eyes The space his spear could reach, allowed, he cries. My strong right hand and sword assist my stroke. Those only gods mesentius will invoke. His armour from the Trojan pirate torn By my triumphant lousus shall be worn. He said, and with his utmost force he threw the massy spear, Which hissing as it flew reached the celestial shield, That stopped the course, but glancing thence The yet unbroken force took a new bent obliquely, And betwixt the side and bowels famed Anthores fixed. Anthores had from Argos travelled far, Alcides friend and brother of the war, till, tired with toils, Fair Italy he chose, and in Evander's palace sought repose. Now, falling by another's wound, his eyes he cast to heaven, On Argos thinks and dies. The pious Trojan then his javelin sent, The shield gave way through treble-plates it went Of solid brass, of linen trebly rolled, And three bull hides which round the buckler fold. All these it passed resistless in the course, Transpierced his thigh, and spent its dying force. The gaping wound gushed out a crimson flood. The Trojan glad with sight of hostile blood, His fortune drew to closer fight addressed, And with new force his fainting foe oppressed. His father's peril, Lausus viewed with grief. He sighed, he wept, he ran to his relief. And here, heroic youth, it is here I must, To thy immortal memory be just, and sing and act so noble, And so new, posterity will scarce believed is true. Pained with his wound, and useless for the fight, The father sought to save himself by flight. In Cumbered, slow he dragged the spear along Which pierced his thigh, and in his buckler hung. The pious youth resolved on death, Below the lifted sword springs forth to face the foe, Protects his parent and prevents the blow. Shouts of applause ran ringing through the field, To see the sun the vanquished father shield. All fired with generous indignation, Strive, and with a storm of darts, To distance drive the Trojan chief, Who held at bay from far, on his Volcanian orb, Sustained the war. As when thick hail comes rattling in the wind, The plowman, passenger, and labouring hind, For shelter to the neighbouring covert fly, Or housed, or safe in hollow caverns lie. But that, o'erblown, when heaven above them smiles, Return to travel and renew their toils, Enneus thus, o'erwhelmed, on every side, The storm of darts, undaunted, did abide, And thus Delausus, loud with friendly threatening, cried, Why wilt thou rush to certain death, And rage in rash attempts beyond thy tender age, Betrayed by pious love? Nor, thus forborn, the youth desists, But with insulting scorn provokes the lingering prince, Whose patience, tired, gave place, And all his breast with fury fired. For now the fates prepared their sharpened shears, And lifted high the flaming sword appears, Which, full descending with a frightful sway, Through shield and coarselet forced the impetuous way, And buried deep in his fair bosom lay, The purple streams through the thin armour strove, And drenched the embroidered coat his mother wove, And life at length forsook his heaving heart, Loath from so sweet a mansion to depart. But when, with blood and paleness all o'er spread, The pious prince beheld young Lausus dead, He grieved, he wept. The sight and image brought of his own filial love, A sadly pleasing thought. Then stretched his hand to hold him up, And said, poor hapless youth, What praises can be paid to love so great, To such transcendent store of early worth, And sure presage of more. Accept what erroneers can afford, Untouched thy arms untaken be thy sword, And all that please thee living still remain In violet 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, For by the great envious hand I fell. With this his distant friends he beckons near, Provokes their duty and prevents their fear, Himself assists to lift him from the ground, With clotted locks and blood that welled from out the wound. Meantime his father, now no father, Stood and washed his wounds by Tiber's yellow flood, Oppressed with anguish, panting, and awe spent, His fainting limbs against an oak he lent. A bow his brazen helmet did sustain, His heavier arms lay scattered 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 sort, And all on Lausus ran his restless thought. Careful concerned his danger to prevent, He much inquired, and many a message Sent to warn him from the field. Alas, in vain! Behold, his mournful followers bear him slain. Or his broad shield still gushed the yawning wound, And drew a bloody trail along the ground. Far off he heard their cries, Far off divined the dire event with a foreboding mind. With dust he sprinkled first his hoary head, Then both his lifted hands to heaven he spread. Last the dear corpse embracing, thus he said, What joys alas could this frail being give That I have been so covetous to live? To see my son and such a son Resign his life a ransom for preserving mine? And am I then preserved and up thou lost? How much too dear has that redemption cost? It is 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 unblemished name. Chased from a throne abandoned and exiled, For foul misdeeds were punishments too mild. I owed my people these, And from their hate with less resentment Could have borne my fate. And yet I live, And yet sustain the sight of hated men, And of more hated light, But will not long. With that he raised from ground his fainting limbs That staggered with his wound, Yet with a mind resolved, And unappalled with pains or perils, For his coarser called, Well-mouthed, well-managed, 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-themed sensible while thus he spoke, Oh, Roybus, we have lived too long for me. If life and long were terms that could agree, This day thou either shalt bring back The head and bloody trophies of the Trojan dead, This day thou either shalt revenge my woe For murdered Lausus on his cruel foe, Or, if inexorable fate deny our conquest, With thy conquered master die. For after such a lord I rest secure, Thou wilt know foreign rains, Or Trojan load endure. He said, and straight the officious coarser Kneels to take his won'ted weight. His hand he fills with pointed javelins, On his head he laced his glittering helm, Which terribly was graced with waving horsehair, Nodding from afar. Then spurred his thundering steed amidst the war. Love, anguish, wroth, and grief to madness wrought, Despair and secret shame, And conscious thought of inborn worth, His laboring soul oppressed, Rolled in his eyes and raged within his breast. Then loud he called Aeneas thrice by name, The loud repeated voice to glad Aeneas came. Great Jove, he said, and the far shooting God, Inspire thy mind to make thy challenge good. He spoke no more, but hastened void of fear, And threatened with his long-protended spear. To whom, maventious thus, Thy vaunts are vain, my Lausus lies extended on the plain. He's lost, thy conquest is already won, The wretched sire is murdered in the sun. Nor fate, I fear, but all the gods defy, For bear thy threats, my business is to die, But first receive this parting legacy. He said, and straight a whirling dart he sent, Another after and another went, Round in a spacious ring he rides the field, And vainly plies the impenetrable shield. Thrice rode he round, and Thrice Aeneas wheeled, Turned as he turned, the golden orb withstood the strokes, And bore about an iron wood. Impatient of delay and weary groan, Still to defend, And to defend alone, to wrench the darts Which in his buckler light Urged and ear laboured in unequal fight, At length resolved, He throws with all his force Full at the temples of the warrior horse. Just where the stroke was aimed, the unearing spear made way, And stood transfixed through either ear. Seized with unwonted pain, surprised with fright, The wounded steed curvert, and raised upright lights On his feet before, his hooves behind spring in air aloft, And lash the wind. Down comes the rider headlong from his height. His horse came after with unwieldy weight, And floundering forward, pitching on his head, His Lord's encumbered shoulder overlaid. From either host the mingled shouts and cries Of Trojans and Ritulians rend the skies, Aeneas hastening waved his fatal sword high on his head With this reproachful word. Now, where are now thy vaunts, The fierce disdain of proud, misentious, And the lofty strain? Struggling and wildly staring on the skies, With scarce recovered sight, he thus replies, Why these insulting words, this waste of breath, Their souls undaunted and secure of death, Tis no dishonour for the brave to die, Nor came I here with hope of victory, Nor ask I life, nor fought with that design, As I had used my fortune, used thou thine. My dying son contracted no such band, The gift is hateful from his murderous hand. For this, this only favour, let me sue, If pity can to conquered foes be due, refuse it not, But let my body have the last retreat of humankind, a grave. Too well I know the insulting people's hate, Protect me from their vengeance after fate, This refuge for my poor remains provide, And lay my much-loved Lausus by my side. He said, and to the sword his throat applied, The crimson stream disdained his arms around, And the disdainful soul came rushing through the wound. End of book 10. Scarce had the rosy morning raised her head above the waves, And left her watchery bed. The pious chief whom double cares attend, For his unburied soldiers and his friend, Yet first to heaven performed a victor's vows, He barred an ancient oak of all her bows, Then on a rising ground the trunk he placed, Which with the spoils of his dead foe he graced. The coat of arms by proud misentious worn, Now on a naked snag and triumph borne, Was hung on high and glittered from afar, A trophy sacred to the God of War. Above his arms fixed on a leafless wood, Appeared his plumey crest besmeared with blood, His brazen buckler on the left was seen, Trunchens of shivered lances hung between, And on the right was placed his coarslet, bored, And to the neck was tied his unavailing sword. A crowd of chiefs enclosed the God-like man, Who thus conspicuous in the midst began, Our toils, my friends, are crowned with sure success. The greater part performed achieved the less. Now follow cheerful to the trembling town, Press button entrance and presume at one. Fear is no more for fierce misentious lies, As the first fruits of war a sacrifice. Turnous shall fall extended on the plain, And in this omen is already slain. Prepared in arms pursue your happy chance, That none unworned may plead his ignorance, And I at heaven's appointed hour may find Your war-like ensigns waving in the wind. Meantime the rites and funeral pumps prepare Due to your dead companions of the war, The last respect the living can bestow, To shield their shadows from contempt below, That conquered 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 a vander's send. Who not inglorious in his ages bloom Was hurried hence by too severe a doom. Thus weeping while he spoke he took his way, Where new in death lamented palace lay. Aquetis watched the corpse, Whose youth deserved the father's trust, And now the son he served with equal faith, But less auspicious care. The attendance of the slain his sorrow share, A troop of Trojans mixed with these appear, And mourning matrons with dishevelled 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 viewed the grisly wound, Which palace in his manly bosom bore, And the fair flesh disdained with purple gore, First melting into tears, The pious man deplored so sad a sight, Then thus began. Unhappy youth, when fortune gave the rest Of my full wishes, she refused the best. She came, but brought not be along To bless my longing eyes and share in my success. She grudged thy safe return, The triumphs due to prosperous valor in the public view. Not thus I promised when thy father lent Thy needless sucker with this sad consent. Embraced me parting forth the Turian land, And sent me to possess a large command. He warned, and from his own experience told, Our foes were warlike, disciplined, 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 powers below. The wretched father, ere his race is run, Shall view the funeral honors of his son. These are my triumphs of elation war, Fruits of my plighted faith and boasted care. And yet, unhappy sire, Thou shalt not see a son whose death Disgraced his ancestry. Thou shalt not blush, old man, however grieved. Thy palace no dishonest wound received. He died no death to make thee wish too late, Thou hadst not lived to see his shameful fate. But what a champion has the Sonian coast, And what a friend hast thou, Ascanius, lost. Thus having mourned, he gave the word around To raise the breathless body from the ground, And chose a thousand horse, The flower of all his warlike troops, To wait the funeral. To bear him back and share Evander's grief, A well-becoming but a weak relief, Of oaken twigs they twist an easy beer, Then on their shoulders the sad burden rear. The body on this rural hearse is born, Strewed leaves and funeral greens the beer adorn. All pale he lies and looks a lovely flower, New cropped by virgin hands to dress the bower. 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 golden bost, For ornament the Trojan hero brought, Which with her hands Sedonian dido wrought. One vest arrayed the corpse, And one they spread o'er his closed eyes And wrapped around his head. That when the yellow hair in flame should fall, The catching fire might burn the golden call. Besides the spoils of foes in battle slain, When he descended on the Leishan plain, Arms trapping horses by the hearse are led In long array, the achievements of the dead. Then, pinioned with their hands behind, Appear then happy captives marching in the rear, Appointed offerings in the victor's name, To sprinkle with their blood the funeral flame. Inferior trophies by the chiefs are born, Gauntlets and helms their loaded hands adorn, And fair inscriptions fixed and titles read, Of Leishan leaders conquered by the dead. Acoetis on his pupil's corpse attends, With feeble steps supported by his friends, Pausing at every pace in sorrow-drowned, Betwixt their arms he sinks upon the ground, Where, groveling while he lies in deep despair, He beats his breast and rends his hoary hair. The champion's chariot next is seen to roll, Besmeared with hostile blood, and honorably foul. To close the pump, Aethon, the steed of state, Is led the funerals of his lord to wait, Stripped of his trappings with a sullen pace he walks, And the big tears run rolling down his face. The lance of palace and the crimson crest Are born behind, the victor sees to 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 Palantian towers direct their course, In long procession-ranked, the pious chief Stopped in the rear, and gave event to grief. The public care, he said, which war attends, Diverts our present woes at least suspends. Peace with the mains of great palace dwell, Hail holy relics and elast farewell. He said no more, but inly through he mourned, Restrained his tears, and to the camp returned. Now, suppliants from Laurentum's scent Demand 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 conquered 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 hoped, would hear a king's request, Whose son he once was called, and once his guest. Their suit, which was too just to be denied, The hero grants, and farther thus replied, O lesion princes, how severe a fate In causeless quarrels has involved your state, And armed 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 heaven's command, And sent by fate to share the lesion land. Nor wage I wars unjust, your king denied My proffered friendship and my promised bride. Left me for Ternus. Ternus 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 fate 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 funeral rites receive. Thus having said the ambassadors amazed, Stood mute a while and on each other gazed. Durances, their chief, who harbored in his breast Long hate to Ternus as his foe professed, Broke silence first and to the god-like man, With graceful action bowing, thus began. Auspicious prince, in arms a mighty name, But yet whose actions far transcend your fame. Would I, your justice or your force express, Thought can be equal, and all words are less? Your answer we shall thankfully relate, And favours granted to the nation's state. If wished success our labour shall attend, Think peace concluded, and the king your friend. Let Ternus leave the realm to your call, Ternus 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. Thus Durances, and his words so well persuade The rest empowered, that soon a truth is made. Twelve days the term allowed, And during those, Lations and Trojans now no longer foes. Mixed in the wood, for funeral piles prepare To fell the timber, and forget the war. Loud axes through the groaning groves resound, Oak, mountain ash, and poplar spread the ground. First fall from high, and some the trunks receive And loaded wanes, with wedges some they cleave. And now the fatal news by fame is blown Through the short circuit of the Arcadian town, Of palace slain by fame, which just before His triumphs on distended pinions bore. Rushing from out the gate the people stand, Each with a funeral flambeau in his hand. Wildly they stare, distracted with a maze. The fields are lightened with a fiery blaze That cast a sullen splendor 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 mixed mourning rends the vaulted sky. The town is spilled with tumult and with tears, Till the loud clamors reach Evander's ears. Forgetful of his state he runs along, With a disordered 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 sob succeed till sorrow breaks a passage, And at once he weeps and speaks. O palace, thou hast failed thy plighted word To fight with caution not to tempt the sword. I warned thee but in vain, for well I knew What peril's youthful ardour would pursue. That boiling blood would carry thee too far, Young as thou were in dangers, raw to war. O cursed essay of arms, disastrous doom, Prelude of bloody fields and fights to come. Hard elements of unauspicious war, Vain vows to heaven and unavailing care. Thrice happy thou, dear partner of my bed, Whose holy soul the stroke of fortune fled. Precious of ills and leaving me behind To drink the dregs of life by fate assigned. Beyond the goal of nature I have gone, My palace late set out but reached too soon. If for my league against the Sonian state Amidst their weapons I had found my fate, Deserved from them, then I had been returned, A breathless victor and my son had mourned. Yet will I not my Trojan friend abrade, Nor grudge the alliance I so gladly made. Twas not his fault my palace fell so young, But my own crime for having lived too long. Yet since the gods had destined him to die, At least he led the way to victory. First for his friends he won the fatal shore, And sent whole herds the slaughtered foes before. A death too great, too glorious to deplore, Nor will I add new honors to thy grave, Content with those the Trojan hero gave. That funeral pump thy Phrygian friends designed, In which the Tuscan chiefs and army joined, Great spoils and trophies gained 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 graced the wood, If palace had arrived 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 shedst in vain? Go, friends, this message to your lord relate, Tell him that if I bear my bitter fate, And after palace's death live lingering on, Tis 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, Tis all that he can give or we demand. Joy is no more, but I would gladly go To greet my palace with such news below. The morn had now dispel'd the shades of night, Restoring toils when she restored the light. The Trojan king and Tuscan chief command To raise the piles along the winding strand. Their friends convey the dead funeral fires, Black smoldering smoke from the green wood expires, The light of heaven is choked and the new day retires, Then thrice around the kindled piles they go, For ancient custom had ordained 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, Bedo the ground, and drums and trumpets Mix their mournful sound. Amid the blaze their pious brethren Throw the spoils embattled taken from the foe. Helms, bits embossed, and soothed, 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 pierced, and their darts bestowed In vain, and shivered lances gathered from the plain. Whole herds have offered 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, Lingering along the shore till dewy night New decks the face of heaven with starry light. The concordlations 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 neighbouring fields conveyed. The core of kings and captains of renown, Born off in state, are buried in the town. The rest, unhonoured and without a name, Are cast a common heap to feed the flame. Trojans and Lations vie with like desires To make the field of battle shine with fires, And the promiscuous blaze to heaven aspires. Now had the morning thrice renewed the light, And thrice dispelled 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 unburned 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 usurped, which with their blood is bought. These are the crimes with which they load the name of Ternus, And on him alone exclaim, Let him who lords it o'er the Othonian land Engage the Trojan hero hand to hand. His is the gain, our lot is but to serve, To his just, though sway he seeks, he should deserve. This trances aggravates and adds with spite, His foe expects and dares him to the fight, Nor Ternus wants a party to support his cause And credit in the Lecian 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 the Tolian prince return, Sad news they bring that after all the cost And care employed their embassy is lost, That Diomedes refused his aid in war, Unmoved with presence, and as deaf to prayer. 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 Avinia wed, The wrath of heaven is hovering o'er his head. The gods, he saw, espoused the juster side, When late their titles in the field were tried. Witness the fresh laments, and funeral tears undried. Thus, full of anxious thought, He summons all the Lecian senate to the council hall. The princes come, commanded by their head, And crowd the paths that to the palace led. Supreme in power and reverenced 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 venulis began, the murmuring sound was hushed, And sacred silence reigned around. We have, said he, performed your high command, And passed with peril a long tract of land. We reached the place desired, with wonder filled, The Grecian tents and rising towers beheld. Great Diomity has compassed round with walls the city, Which Argerippa he calls, from his own Argos named. We touched, with joy, the royal hand that raised unhappy Troy. When introduced our presence first we bring, Then crave an instant audience from the king. His leave obtained our native soil we name, And tell the important cause for which we came. Atentively he heard us, while we spoke, Then with soft accents and a pleasing look, made this return. A Sonian race of old, renowned for peace, And for an age of gold. What madness has your altered minds possessed, To change for war hereditary rest? Solicit arms unknown, and tempt the sword, And needless ill your ancestors abhorred? We, for myself I speak, and all the name of Grecians, Who to Troy's destruction came, omitting those who were in battle slain, Or borne by rolling simoes to the main. Not one but suffered, and too dearly bought, The prize of honour, which in arms he sought. Some doomed to death, and some in exile driven, Outcasts abandoned by the care of heaven, So worn, so wretched, so despised a crew, As even old Priam might with pity view. Witness the vessels by Minerva Tost in storms, The vengeful Caferian coast, the Uboean rocks, The prince whose brother led our armies To revenge his injured bed in Egypt lost. Ulysses with his men have seen cherubdis, And the Cyclops den. Why should I name Idomeneus in vain, Restored to sceptres, and expelled again? Or young Achilles by his rival slain? Even he, the king of men, the foremost name of all the Greeks, And most renowned by fame, the proud revenger of another's wife, Yet by his own adulteress lost his life, Fell at his threshold, and the spoils of Troy, The foul polluters of his bed in joy. The gods have envied me the sweets of life, My much loved country, and my more loved wife. Banished from both, I mourn while in the sky, Transformed to birds my lost companions fly. Hovering about the coast, they make their moan, And cuff the cliffs with pinions not their own. What squalid specters in the dead of night Break my short sleep and skim before my sight! I might have promised to myself those harms, Mad as I was when I, with mortal arms, Presumed against immortal powers to move, And violate with wounds the queen of love. Such arms this hand shall never more employ, No hate remains with me to ruin Troy. I war not with its dust, nor am I glad to think of past events, Or good or bad. Your presence I return, Whatever 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 tossed, Heavens, what a spring was in his arm, To throw, how high he held his shield, And rose at every blow. Had Troy produced two more his match in might, They would have changed the fortune of the fight. The invasion of the Greeks had been returned, Our empire wasted, and our cities burned. The long defense the Trojan people made, The war protracted, and the siege delayed, Were due to hectors and this hero's hand, Both brave alike, and equal in command. A neus not inferior in the field, In pious reverence to the gods excelled, Make peace elations, and avoid with care, Them pending dangers of a fatal war. He said no more, but with this cold excuse Refused the alliance, and advised a truce. Thus Venulis concluded his report. A jarring murmur filled the factious court, As when a torrent rolls with rapid force, And dashes over the stones that stop the course, The flood constrained within a scanty space, Roars horrible along the uneasy race, White foam in gathering eddies floats around, The rocky shores rebello to the sound. The murmur ceased, then from his lofty throne The king invoked the gods, and thus begun, I wish elations what we now debate had been resolved Before it was too late. Much better had it been for you and me, Enforced 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 heaven's peculiar care, But heaven's own race unconquered in the field, Or conquered yet unknowing how to yield. What hopes you had in Diomedes lay down? Our hopes must center on ourselves alone. Yet those how feeble and indeed how vain, You see too well, nor need my words explain. Vanquished without resource, Laid flat by fate, factions within, A foe without the gate. Not but I grant that all performed their parts With manly force and with undaunted hearts, With our united strength the war we waged With equal numbers, equal arms engaged. You see the event, now hear what I propose, To save our friends and satisfy our foes. Attractive land the Lations have possessed Along the Tiber, stretching to the west, Which now Rutulians and Aruncans till, And their mixed cattle graze the fruitful hill. Those mountains filled with furs that lower land, If you consent the Trojan shall command. Called 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 commissioned hence with ample powers, With all of the presence they shall bear, A purple robe, a royal ivory chair, And all the marks of sway that elation monarchs wear, And sums of gold. Among yourselves debate this great affair, And save the sinking state. Then Drances took the word who grudged long since, The rising glories of the Donnian Prince. Factious and rich, bold at the council board, But cautious in the field he shunned the sword. A close caballer and tongue valiant lord. Noble his mother was, and near the throne, But what his father's parentage unknown. He rose and took the advantage of the times, To load young turnis with invidious crimes. Such truths, O King, said he, your 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, though death is in my way. The plains of Lysium run with blood around. So many valiant heroes bite the ground, Dejected grief in every face appears, A town in mourning and a land in tears. While he, the 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 ignitable flight. Now, best of kings, since you propose to send Such bounteous presence 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 Levinia 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 father's right bestow your own. For this malignor of the general good, If still we fear his force he must be wooed. His haughty godhead we with prayers 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 Lation State, And send us out to meet our certain fate? Tis a destructive war, from turnest 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. Turnest 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 others 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 power, A beautyous princess with a crown in dour, 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-ignable crowd without a name, Unwept, unworthy of the funeral flame. By duty bound to forfeit each his life, That turnest 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 do, Rather alone your matchless force employ, To merit what alone you must enjoy. Leonid, by Publius Virgilius Maro, Translated by John Dryden, Book 11, Debaters and a Warrior Girl, Part 2. These words so full of malice mixed with art, Inflamed with rage the youthful hero's heart. Then, groaning from the bottom of his breast, He heaved to wind and thus his wrath expressed. You, drancers, 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, Here yet with blood our ditches overflow. But let the potent orator declaim, And with the brand of coward blood my name, Free leave is given him when his fatal hand Has covered with more corpse the sandren's strand, And highest mine his towering trophies stand. If any doubt remains who dares the most, Let us decide it at the Trojan's cost, And issue both a breast where honour calls. Foes are not far to seek without the walls, Unless his noisy tongue can only fight, And feet were given him but the speed is flight. I, beaten from the field, I, forced away, Who, but so known a dastard dares to say. Had he but even beheld the fight, His eyes had whittest for me what his tongue denies. What heaps of Trojans by this hand was slain, And how the bloody Tybers swelled the main. All saw but he, the Arcadian troops retire In scattered squatterns and their prints expire. The giant brothers in their camp have found I was not forced with ease to quit my ground. Not such the Trojans tried me, When, enclosed, I singly their united arms opposed, First force an entrance through their thick array, Then, glutted with their slaughter, freed my way. Tis a destructive war, so let it be, But to the friggin pirate and to thee. Meantime, proceed to fill the people's ears, With false reports, their minds with panic fears. Extoll the strength of a twice conquered race, Our foes encourage and our friends debase. Believe thy fables and the Trojan town triumphant stands. The Gratians are overthrown, Supplied at hector's feet a killer's lies, And diametered from fierce anias flies. Say, rapid Orphidus, with awful dread, Runs backward from the sea and hides his head, When the great Trojan on his bank appears. For that's as true as thy dissembled fears of my revenge. Dismiss that vanity. Thou drances are below a death from me. Let that vile soul in that vile body rest. The lodging is well worthy of the guest. Now, royal father, to the present state of our affairs, And of this high debate, if in your arms, Thus early you'd defied, and think your fortune is already tried, If one defeat has brought us down so low, As nevermore in fields to meet the foe. Then I conclude for peace, this time to treat, And lie like vessels at the victor's feet. But, oh, if any ancient blood remains, One drop of all our fathers in our veins, That man would I prefer before the rest, Who dared his death with an undaunted breast, Who calmly fell by no dishonest wound, To shun that sight, and dying gnaw'd 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 blotless victory was bought, Their losses equaled ours, and for their slain, With equal fires they filled the shining plain. Why, thus, unforced, should we so tamely yield, And ere the trumpet sounds, resign the field? Good, unexpected, evil's unforeseen, Appear by turns, as fortune shifts the scene. Some, raised aloft, come tumbling down a main, Then fall so hard, they bound, and rise again. If Diomed refuse his aid to lend, The great messipus yet remains our friend. Tolemnius, who foretells events, is ours. The Italian chiefs and princes join their powers, Nor lease the number, nor name the last. Your own brave subjects have your cause embraced. Above the rest, the Volskan Amazon Contains an army in herself alone, And heads a squadron, terrible to sight, With glittering shields in brazen armor bright. Yet, if the foe a single fight demand, And I alone the public peace withstand, If you consent, he shall not be refused, Nor find a hand to victory unused. This new Achilles, let him take the field, With fated armor and vulcanian shield. For you, my royal father, and my fame, I, Ternus, not the least of all my name, Devote my soul. He calls me hand to hand, And I alone will answer his demand. Drancers shall rest secure, And neither share the danger, Nor divide the price of war. 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 through the frighted city, Spread the unpleasant news, the Trojans are described, In battle marching by the riverside, and bending to the town. They take their alarm, some tremble, some are bold, All in confusion arm. The 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 man with fainter groans reply. A jarring sound results, and mingles in the sky, Like that of swans, remermering to the floods, Or birds of different kinds in hollow woods. Turn us, the occasion takes, and cries aloud. Talk on, you quaint harangers of the crowd. Declaim in praise of peace when danger calls, And the fierce foes in arms approach the walls. He said, and turning short with speedy pace, Cast back at scornful glance, and quits the place. Thou, Volusus, the Volskian troops command to mount, And lead thyself our Ardian band. Mesapas and Catillus, post your force along the fields, To charge the Trojan hauls. Some guard the passes, others man the wall. Drawn up in arms, the rest attend my call. They swarm from every quarter of the town, And with disordered haste the ramparts crown. Good old Latinus, when he saw too late, The gathering storm just breaking on the state, Dismissed the council till a fitter time, And owned his easy temper as his crime, Who, forced against his reason, had complied, To break the treaty for the promised bride. Some help to sink new trenches, Others aid to ram the stones or raise the palisade. Horses trumpets sound 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 palace temple stands, Prayers in their mouths and presents in their hands, With censors first they fume the sacred shrine, Then in this common supplication join. O patroness of arms, unspotted maid, Propitious here and lend thy lettons aid, Break short the pirate's lance, Pronounce his fate, And lay the friggin' lobe before the gate. Now turn his arms for fight, His back and breast well tempered steel, And scaly bras invest. The quiches which his brawny thighs enfold, Are mingled metal, damaged o'er with gold. His faithful fortune sits upon his side, Nor cask nor crest, his manly features hide. But, bare to view, amid surrounding friends, With God-like grace, he from the tower descends. Exalting in his strength, He seems to dare his absent rival, And to promise war. Freed from his keepers thus with broken reins, The wanton coals her prances over the plains, Or in the pride of youth or leaps the mounds, And snuffs the females in forbidden grounds, Or seeks his watering in the well-known flood, To quench his thirst and cool his fury blood. He swims luxuriant in the liquid plain, And over his shoulder flows his waving mane. He nays, 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 volskians, with their virgin leader, Wait his last commands. Then, with a graceful mean, Lights from a lofty steed the warrior queen. Her squadron imitates in each descents, Whose common suit Camilla does commands. If sense of honour, if a soul secure of inborn worth, That can all tests endure, Can promise ought, or on itself rely, Greatly to dare, to conquer or to die, Then I alone, sustained by these, Will meet the therene troops and promise their defeat. Ours be the danger, ours the soul renown. You, generals, stay behind and guard the town. Ternous a while stood mute with glad surprise, And on the fierce varago fixed his eyes. Then thus returned, O grace of Italy, With what becoming thanks can I reply? Not only words lie laboring in my breast, But thought itself is by their praise oppressed. Yet rock me not of all, but let me join, My toils, my hazard, and my fame with dine. The Trojan, not in stratagemens, killed, Sends his light-horse before to scar the field. Himself, through steeper scents and thorny breaks, 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 forlay, And place an ambush in the widening way. Thou, with thy Volskans, face the Tuscan horse. The brave messappers shall thy troops enforce With those of Tyber, an elation band, Subjected all to thy supreme command. This said he warns messappers to the war, Then every chief exhorts with equal care. All thus encouraged his own troops he joins, And hastes to prosecute his deep designs. In close with hills a winding valley lies, By nature formed for fraud and fitted for surprise, A narrow track, by human steps enthroned, Leads through perplexing thorns to this obscure abode. High over the veil a steepy mountain stands, Wends to the surveying site the netherground commands. The top is level, an offensive seat of war, And from the war a safe retreat. Four, on the right and left, Is room to press the foes at hand, Or from afar distress. To drive him headlong downward, And to pour on their descending backs a stony shower. Thidde, young Turnus, took the well-known way, Possessed the pass and in blind ambush lay. Meantime, lettonian Phoebe, from the skies, Beheld the approaching war with hateful eyes, And called the light-foot opus to her aid, Her most beloved and ever-trusty maid. Then, with a sigh began, Camilla goes to meet her death amidst her fatal foes. The nymphs I loved of all my mortal train Invesced with Diana's arms in vain. Nor is my kindness for the virgin new, T'was born with her, and with her years it grew. Her father Metubus, when forced away from old Prevernum, For a tyrannic sway, snatched up, And saved from his prevailing foes, This tender babe, companion of his woes. Casmilla was our mother, But he drowned one hissing letter in a softer sound, And called Camilla. Through the woods he flies, Wrapped in his robe the royal infant lies. His foes in sight he mens his wary pace, With shout and clements they pursue the chase. The banks of Amesene at length he gains. The raging flood his father flight restrains, Raised over the borders with unusual rains. Prepared 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, desperate in distress, results at last. A nutty lance of well-boiled oak he bore, The middle part with cork he covered oar. He closed the child within the hollow space, With twigs of bending osre bound the case. Then poised the spear, heavy with human weight, And thus invoked my favour for the freight. Accept great goddess of the woods, And thus invoked my favour for the freight. Accept great goddess of the woods, he said, Send by her sire this dedicated maid. Through air she flies a supple into thy shrine, And the first weapons that she knows are thine. He said, and with full force the spear he threw, Above the sounding waves Camilla flew. Then, pressed by foes, he stemmed the stormy tide, And gained by stress of arms the farther side. His fastened spear he pulled from out the ground, And, victor of his vows, his infant nymph unbound. Nor after that, in towns which walls enclose, Would trust his hunted life amidst his foes. But rough, in open air he chose to lie. Earth was his couch, his covering was the sky. On hills unshawn, or in a desert den, He shunned the dire society of men. A shepherd's solitary life he led, His daughter with the milk of mares he fed. The ducks of bears and every salvage beast He drew, and through her lips the liquor pressed. The little Amazon could scarcely go, He loathe her with a quiver and a bow. And, that she might her staggering steps command, He with a slender javelin fills her hand. Her flowing hand no golden fillet bound, Nor swept her trailing robe the dusty ground. Instead of these a tiger's hide overspread Her back and shoulders fastened to her head. The flying dart she first attempted to fling, And round her tender temples tossed a sling. Then, as her strength with years increased, Began to pierce a loft 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's sons with such a bride. But she disdains their love, To share with me the silven shades and vowed virginity. And, oh, I wish, contented with my cares Of salvage spoils she had not sought the wars. Then had she been of my celestial train, And shunned the fate that dooms her to be slain. But since, opposing heaven's 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 bequave, This chosen arrow to revenge her death. By whatever hand Camilla shall be slain, Or of the Trojan or Italian train, Let him not pass unpunished from the plain. Then, in a hollow cloud, myself will aid To bear the breathless body of my maid. Unspoiled shall be her arms, And unprofamed her holy limbs with any human hand. And in a marble tomb laid in her native land. 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 foes, Approach the walls, the sprightly causers 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. Oppose to these, come on with furious foes, Micepus, Chorus, and Aleatian horse. These, in the body placed on either hand, Sustained and closed by fair Camilla's band. Advancing in a line they couch their spears, And less and less the middle space appears. Thick smoke obscures the field, And scares are seen that name courses, And the shouting man. In distance of their darts they stop their course. Then man to man they rush, and horse to horse. The face of heaven their flying javelins hide, And deaths unseen are dealt on either side. Tarinas and Acantius void of fear, By metaled courses born in full career, Meet first opposed, and with a mighty shock, Their horses' heads against each other knock. Far from his steed is fierce Acantius cast, As with an engine's foes or lightning's blast. He rolls along in blood, and breathes 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 that Tuscan troops pursue, And urge their flight. Aceles leads the chase. Till, seized with shame, they wheel about and face, Receive their foes, and raise a threatening cry. The Tuscans take their turn to fear and fly. So, swelling surges with a thundering roar, Driven on each other's backs insult the shore, Bound over the rocks encroach upon the land, And fire upon the beach eject the sand. Them backwards with a swing they take their way, Repulse from upper ground and seek their mother's sea, With equal hurry quit the invaded shore, And swallow back the sand and stones they spooked before. Twice with the Tuscans' masses of the field, Twice by the Lethans in their turn repelled. Ashamed at length to the third charts they ran, Both hosts resolved and mingled man to man. Now, dying groans are heard, The fields are strode with falling bodies, And are drunk with blood. Arms, horses, men, on heaps together lie, Confuse the fight and more confuse the cry. Orcelokus, who does not press too near strong remulus, At distance drove his spear, And stuck the steel beneath his horse's ear. The theory steed, impatient at the wound, Curvates and springing upwards with a bound, His helpless lord cast backward on the ground. Cattellus pierced Iola's first, Then drew his reeking lance, And at Herminius through, The mighty champion of the Tuscan crew. His neck and throat erned, His head was bare but shaded with a length of yellow hair. Secure he fought, exposed on every part, A spacious mark for swords and for the flying dart. Across the shoulders came the fetid wound, Transfixed he fell, and doubled to the ground. The sands with streaming blood are sanguine dyed, And death with honour sought on either side. Resistless through the war Camilla rode, In danger unappalled and pleased with blood, One sight was bare for her exerted breast, One shoulder with her painted quiver pressed. Now from afar her fatal javelins play, Now with her excess edge she hoos her way, Diana's arms upon her shoulders sound, And when too closely pressed she quits the ground, From her bent bow she scents a backward wound. Her maids in martial pomp on either side, Larina, Tulla, fierce Tarpaia ride. Italians all in peace their queens delight, In war the bold companions of the fight. So marched the treachery and amazons of old, When Thermodon with bloody billows rolled. Such troops as these in shining arms were seen, When thesias met in fight their maiden queen. Such to the field Pentezelea led, From the fierce virgin when agrations fled. With such return triumphant from the war, Her maids with cries attend a lofty car. They clash with manly force their moony shields, With female shouts resound the friggin' fields. Who foremost and who last herald made, On the cold earth were by thy courage laid. Thy spear of mountain ash, Eumenius first with fury driven, From side to side transpierced. A purple stream came spouting from the wound, Bathe in his blood he lies and bites the ground. Lariss and Pegasus at once she slew. The former, as a slackened reins he drew of his faint steed, The latter as he stretched his arm to prop his friend, The javelin reached. By the same weapon, sand from the same hand, Both fall together, and both spurn the sand. A maestros next is added to the slain. The rest in round she follows over the plain. Tereas, Harpalaikus, Demophon, And Cromus at full speed her fury shun. Of all her deadly darts, not one she lost. Each was attendant with a Trojan ghost. Young Ornithus, bestrowed a hunter's steed, Swift for the chase, and of Apullian breed. Him from afar she spied, in arms unknown. Over his broad back an ox's height was thrown. His helma-woof, whose gaping jaws were spread, A covering for his cheeks, and grinned around his head. He clenched within his hand an iron prong, And towered above the rest, conspicuous in her throng. Him soon she singled from the flying train, And slew with ease, then thus insults the slain. Veinhunter, that's thou think, Through woods to chase the savage herd, A violent trembling race. Here seize thy vant, and own my victory. A woman warrior was too strong for thee. Yet, if the ghosts demand the conqueror's name, Confessing great Camilla, save thy shame. Then Butis and Orcilicus she slew, The bulkiest bodies of the Trojan crew. But Butis breast-bressed. The spear descends, above the gorget, Where his helmet ends, and over the shield, Which is left side-defense. Orcilicus and she their courses ply. He seems to follow, and she seems to fly. But in a narrow ring she makes the race, And then he flies, and she pursues the chase. Gathering at length on her deluded foe, She swings her axe, and rises to the blow, Full on the helm behind, with such a sway, The weapon falls, the riven steel gives way. He groans, he roars, he soothes in vain for grace. Brains, mingled with his blood, besmere his face. A astonished honest just arrives by chance, To see his fall, nor father dares advance, But, fixing on the horrid maid his eye, He stares, and shakes, and finds it vain to fly. Yet, like a true lagurian, born to cheat, At least while fortune favoured his deceit, Cries out aloud, what courage have you shown, Who trust your course of strength and not your own? Forgo the vantage of your halls, Alight, and then on equal terms begin the fight. It shall be seen, weak woman, what you can, When foot to foot you combat with a man. He said. She glows with anger and disdain. This mounts with speed to dare him on the plane. And leaves her halls at large among her train. With her drawn sword defies him to the field, And, marching, lifts aloft her maiden shield. The youth, who thought his cunning did succeed, Rains round his halls, and urges all his speed, Eds the remembrance of the spur, And hides the goring rouse in his bleeding sights. Vain fool and coward, cries the lofty maid, Caught in the train which thou thyself has laid, On others practice thy lagurian arts, Thins stratgems, and tricks of little hearts, Are lost on me, nor shall thou safe retire, With vaunting lies to thy fallacious sire. At this so fast her flying feet she sped, That soon she strained beyond his horse's head, Then, turning short, at once she seized the rain, And laid the bow-stuck groveling on the plane. Not with more ease the falcon from above, Trusses in middle air the trembling dove, Then plumes the prey, in her strong pounces bound, The feathers foul with blood, come tumbling to the ground. Now, mighty jove from his superior height, With his broad eye surveys the unequal fight, He fires the breast of Tarkon with disdain, And sends him to redeem the abandoned plane, Betwixt the broken ranks, the tuscan rides, And these encourages, and those he chides, Recalls each leader by his name from flight, Renews their ardour, and restores the fight. What panic fear has seized your souls! Oh, shame! Oh, brand perpetual of their trurian name! Cowards incurable! A woman's hand drives, Breaks, and scatters your ignoble band! Now cast away the sword, and quit the shield! What use of weapons which you dare not wield? Not thus you fly your female foes by night, Nor shun the feast when the full bowels invite! When too fat offerings the glad auger calls, And the shrill hornpipe sounds to bacchanals! These are your studied cares, your lewd delight, Swift to the botch, but slow to menly fight! Thus, having said, he spurs amid the foes, Not managing the life he meant to lose. The first, he found, he sees with headlong haste, In his strong gripe, and clasped around the waist. T'was Vanulus, whom from his horse he tore, And laid Edward his own in triumph-ball. Loud shouts and shoo, the lettons turn their eyes, And view the unusual sight with vast surprise. The fiery tarcan, flying over the plains, Pressed in his arms the ponderous prey sustains. Then, with his shortened spear, explores around His jointed arms to fix a deadly wound. Nor less the captive struggles for his life, He rides his body to prolong the strife, And fencing for his naked throat exerts his utmost vigour, And the pointed verts. So stoops the yellow eagle from on high, And bears a speckled serpent through the sky. Fastening his crooked talons on the prey, The prisoner hisses through the liquid way, Resists the royal hawk, and, though oppressed, She fights in volumes, and erects her crest. Turn to her foe, she stiffens every scale, And shoots her forky tongue, and whisks her threatening tail. Against the victor all defences weak. The imperial bird still plies her with his beak. He tears her bowels, and her breast he gaws, Then claps his pinions, and securely soars. Thus, through the midst of circling enemies, Strong targets snatched and bore away his prize. The tyrene troops that shrunk before, Now press the lettons, and presume the like success. Then errands doomed to death, his arms assayed, To murder unespite the vulskin maid. This way and that his winding course he bends, And wears her as she turns her steps atence. When she retires victorious from the chase, He wheels about with care, and shifts his place. When, rushing on, she seeks her foe's flight, He keeps aloof, but keeps her still in sight. He threats, and trembles, trying every way, Unseen to kill, and safely to betray. Glorious the priests of Sibley, from far, Glittering and frigging arms amidst the war, Was by the virgin viewed. The steed he pressed was proud with trappings, And his brawny chest with scales of gilded brass Was covered over. A rope of tyrene dye the rider wore. With deadly wounds he gold a distant foe, Gnosh in his shafts, and Lycian was his bow. A golden helm his front and head surrounds, A gilded quiver from his shoulder's sounds. Gold weaved with linen on his thighs he wore, With flowers of needlework distinguished oar, With golden buckles bound, and gathered up before. Him the fears made beheld with ardent eyes, Font and ambitious of so rich a prize, Or that the temple might his trophies hold, Or else to shine herself in Trojan gold. Blind in her haste she chases him alone, And seeks his life, regardless of her own. This lucky moment the sly traitor chose, Then, starting from his ambush, up he rose, And threw, but first to heaven addressed his vows. O patron of Socrates, high abodes, Phoebus the ruling power among the gods, Whom first we serve, whole woods of unctuous pine Are felt for thee, and to thy glory shine. By thee protected with our naked souls, Through flames unsinged we march, And trap the kindled coals. Give me propitious power to wash away The stains of this dishonourable day. Nor spoils, nor triumph from the fact I claim, But with my future actions trust my fame. Let me by stealth this female plague or come, And from the field return in glorious home. Apollo heard, and granting half his prayer, Shuffled in winds the rest and tossed in empty air. He gives the death desired, His safe return by southern tempests to the seas is born. Now, when the javelin whist along the skies, Both armies on Camilla turn their eyes, Directed by the sound. Of either host, the unhappy virgin, Though concerned the most, was only deaf. So greedy was she bent on golden spoils, And on our prey intent, till in her pap The winged weapon stood, Infixed and deeply drunk the purple blood. Her sad attendants hastened to sustain their dying lady, Drooping on the plain. Far from their sight the trembling errands flies, With beating heart and fear confused with joys. Nor dares he father to pursue his blow, Or even to bear the sight of his expiring foe. As, when the wolf has torn a bullock's hide at unawares, Or ranched a shepherd's side, Conscious of his audacious deed, He flies and claps his quivering tail between his thighs. So, speeding once, the wretch no more attends, But, spurring forward, hurts among his friends. She wrenched the javelin with her dying hands, But whetted within her breast the weapon stands. The wood she draws, the steely point remains. She staggers in her seat with agonizing pains. A gathering misto clouds her cheerful eyes, And from her cheeks the rosy colour flies. Then turns to her, whom of her female train She trussed most, and thus she speaks with pain. Aka, dispassed, he swims before my sight, Inexorable death, and claims his right. Bear my last words to Ternus, fly with speed, And bid him timely to my charge succeed, Repel the Trojans and the town relieve. Farewell, and in this kiss my parting breath receive. She said, and, sliding, sunk upon the plain, Dying, her opened hand forsakes the rain, Short and more short she pants, By slow degrees her mind the passage from her body frees. She drops her sword, she knots her plumi crest, Her drooping head declining on her breast. In the last sigh her struggling soul expires, And, murmuring with disdain, to stygian sounds retires. A shout that struck the golden stars ensued, Despair and rage the languished fight renewed, The Trojan troops and Tuscans in a line advanced to charge, The mixed Arcadians join. But Cynthia's maid, high-seated from afar, Surveys the field, and fortune of the war, And moved awhile till prostrate on the plain, Weltery in blood she seized Camilla's slain, And round her corpse of friends and foes a fighting train. Then, from the bottom of her breast she drew a mournful sigh, And these sad words enshew. Too dear a fine, much lamented maid, For warring with the Trojans thou hast paid, Nor odd availed in this unhappy strife, Diana's sacred arms to save thy life. Yet, unrevent thy goddess will not leave Her votary's death, Nor with vain sorrow grieve. Branded the wretch, and be his name abhorred, But after ages shall thy praise recalled, The inglorious coward soon shall press the plain, Thus vows thy queen, and thus the fates ordain. High over the field there stood a hilly mound, Sacred the place, and spread with oaks around, Where, in a marble tomb, there sanness lay, A king that once in Lysian bore this way. The beauty's opus thither bent her flight, To mark the traitor errands from the height. Him in refulgent arms she soon aspired, Soil with success, and loudly thus she cried. Thy backward steps, vain boaster, are too late. Turn like a man at length, and meet thy fate. Charged with my message to Camilla go, And say I send thee to the shades below, An honor undeserved from Sinti's bow. She said, and from her quiver chose with speed The winged shaft, predestined for the deed. Then to the stubborn you her strength applied, Till the far distant horns approached on either side. The bow-string touched her breast so strong she drew, Whizzing in air the fatal arrow flew. At once the twanging bow and sounding dart The traitor heard and felt the point within his heart. Him beating with his heels in pangs of death, His flying friends to foreign fields bequeath. The conquering damsel with expanded wings The welcome message to her mistress brings. Their leader lost, Novolskians quit the field, And unsustained the chiefs of Ternus yield. Their frighted soldiers, when their captains fly, More on their speed than on their strength rely. Confused in flight they bear each other down, And spur their horses headlong to the town. Driven by their foes and to their fears resigned, Not once they turn but take their wounds behind. These drop the shield and those the lands forego, Or on their shoulders bear the slackened bow. The hoofs of horses with a rattling sound Beat short and thick and shake the rotten ground, Black clouds of dust come rolling in the sky, And o'er the darkened walls and rampars fly. The trembling matrons from their lofty stands Rent heaven with female shrieks and ring their hands. All pressing on, pursuers and pursued, Are crushed in crowds, a mingled multitude. Some happy few escape, The throng too late rush on for entrance, Till they choke the gate. Even inside of home the wretched sire looks on, And sees his helpless son expire. Then, in a fright, the folding gates they close, But leave their friends excluded with their foes. The vanquished cry, the victors loudly shout, This terror all within and slaughter all without. Blind in their fear they bounce against the wall, Or to the moat's pursuit precipitate their fall. The lace in virgins, valiant with despair, Armed on the towers the common danger share. So much of zeal their country's calls inspired, So much Camilla's great example fired. Polls sharpened in the flames from high they threw, With imitated darts to gold of foe. Their lives forgot like freedom they bequeath, And crowd each other to be first in death. Meantime to turn us, ambushed in the shade, With heavy tidings came the happy maid. The Volskans overthrown, Camilla killed, The foes entirely masters of the field, Like a resistless flood come rolling on, The cry goes off the plain and thickens to the town. Inflamed with rage, for so the fury's fire The dawnin's breast and so the fates require, He leaves the hilly pass, the woods in vain possessed, And downward issues on the plain. Scares was he gone when to the straits Now freed from secret foes the Trojan troops succeed. Through the black forest and the ferny break, Unknowingly secure their way they take, From the rough mountains to the plain descent, And there in order drawn their line extend. Both armies now in open fields are seen, Nor far the distance of the space between, Both to the city bend. A naeus sees through smoking fields his hastening enemies, And turners views the Trojans in array, And hears the approaching horses proudly nae. Soon had their hosts in bloody battle joined, But westward to the sea the sun declined, Entrenched before the town both armies lie, While night with sable wings involves the sky. End of book 11