 Book 12, Part 1 of the Aeneid by Virgil. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by David Lipa, San Francisco, California. The Aeneid by Virgil, translated by John Dryden. Book 12, The Fortunes of War, Part 1. When Ternus saw the Latins leave the field, their armies broken and their courage quelled, himself become a mark of public spite. His honor questioned for the promised fight. The more he was with vulgar hate oppressed, the more his fury boiled within his breast. He roused his vigor for the last debate, and raised his haughty soul to meet his fate. As when the Swains, the Libyan lion, chase, he makes a sour retreat, nor mends his pace. But if the pointed javelin pierces his side, the lordly beast returns with double pride. He wrenches out the steel, he roars for pain, his sides he lashes and erects his mane. So Ternus fares, his eyeballs flash with fire, throw his wide nostrils, clouds of smoke expire. Trembling with rage, around the court he ran, at length approached the king, and thus began. No more excuses or delays, I stand in arms prepared to combat, hand to hand, this base deserter of his native land. The Trojan by his word is bound to take, the same conditions which himself did make. Renew the truce, the solemn rites prepare, and to my single virtue trust the war. The Latins unconcerned shall see the fight, this arm unaided shall assert your right. Then if my prostrate body press the plain, to him the crown and butchess bride remain. To whom the king sedately thus replied, Brave youth, the more your valour has been tried, the more becomes it us with due respect, to weigh the chance of war which you neglect. You want not wealth, or a successive throne, or cities which your arms have made your own. My towns and treasures are at your command, and stored with blooming beauties is my land. And to more than one Lavinia sees, unmarried fair of noble families. Now let me speak, and you with patience hear, things which perhaps may grate a lover's ear, but sound advice, proceeding from a heart, sincerely yours, and free from fraudful art. The gods by signs have manifestly shown, no prince Italian born should air my throne, to have our augurs in prediction skilled, and off our priests, for and son revealed. Yet one by worth that cannot be withstood, bribed by my kindness to my kindred blood, urged by my wife who would not be denied, I promised my Lavinia for your bride. Her from her plighted lord by force I took, all ties of treaties and of honour broke. On your account I waged an impious war, with what success is needless to declare. I in my subjects feel, and you have had your share. Twice vanquished, while in bloody fields we strive, scarce in our walls we keep our hopes alive, the rolling flood runs warm with human gore. The bones of Lations blanched the neighbouring shore. Why put I not an end to this debate, still unresolved and still a slave to fate? If turn us death a lasting peace can give, why should I not procure it whilst you live? Would I, to doubtful arms, your youth betray? What would my kinsmen, the Ritulians, say? And should you fall in flight, which heaven defend? How cursed the cause which hastened to his end, the daughter's lover and the father's friend? Weigh in your mind the various chants of war, pity your parents' age, and ease his care. Such balmy words, he poured, but all in vain, the proffered medicine but provoked the pain. The wrathful youth, disdaining the relief, with intermitting sobs thus fends his grief. The caro best of fathers, which you take for my concerns at my desire for sake, permit me not to languish out my days, but make the best exchange of life for praise. This arm, this lance, can well dispute the prize, and the blood follows where the weapon flies. His goddess mother is not near to shroud the flying coward with an empty cloud. But now the queen, who feared for Ternus' life, and loathed the hard conditions of the strife, held him by force, and dying in his death, in these sad accents gave her sorrow breath. O Ternus, I adjure thee by these tears, and whatever price Amata's honor bears. Within thy breast, since thou art all my hope, my sickly minds repose my sinking ages prop. Since on the safety of thy life alone depends Latinus and the Lation Throne. Refuse me not this one, this only prayer, to wave the combat and pursue the war. Whatever chance attends this fatal strife, think it includes in thine Amata's life. I cannot live a slave, or see my throne usurped by strangers or a Trojan's son. At this a flood of tears Lavinia shed, a crimson blush, her beautiful face overspread, varying her cheeks by turns with white and red. The driving colors never out of stay, run here and there, and flush and fade away. Delightful change, thus Indian ivory shows, which the bordering pain of purple glows or lilies damessed by the neighboring rose, the lover gazed and burning with desire. The more he looked, the more he fed the fire. Revenge and jealous rage and secret spite rolled in his breast and roused him to the fight. Then fixing on the queen his ardent eyes, firm to his first intent he thus replies, O mother, do not by your tears prepare such boating omens and prejudge the war. Resolved on fight I am no longer free to shun my death, if heaven my death decree. When turning to the herald thus pursues, go greet the Trojan with ungrateful news, denounce from me that when tomorrow's light shall gild the heavens, he need not urge to fight. The Trojan and Retrullian troops no more shall die with mutual blood, the Lacian shore. Our single swords the quarrel shall decide, and to the victor be the butchest bride. He said, and striding on with speedy pace, he sought his coarsers of the Thracian race. With his approach they tossed their heads on high, and proudly neighing promised victory. The sires of these Orithea sent from far, to grace, preliminous, when he went to war. The drifts of Thracian snows were scarce so white, nor northern winds in fleetness matched their flight. A vicious groom stand ready by his side, and some with combs their flowing mains divide, and others stroke their chests, and gently soothe their pride. He sheathed his limbs and arms, a tempered mass of gold and metal those, and mountain brass, and to his head his glittering helm he tied, and girt his faithful faucian to his side. In his attanian forge the god of fire, that faucian labored to the hero's sire, the mortal keenness on the blade bestowed, and plunged at hissing in the Stygian flood, propped on a pillar which the ceiling bore, was placed the lance Aruncan actor wore. Which with such force he brandished in his hand. The tough ash trembled like an osir wand, then cried, opondrous spoil of actor slain, and never yet by Ternus tossed in vain, fail not this day thy wanted force, but go, sent by this hand to fierce the Trojan foe. Give me to tear his coarslet from his breast, and from that eunuch head to rend the crust, dragged in the dust his frizzled hair to soil, hot from the vexing iron, and smeared with fragrant oil. Thus, while he raves, from his wide nostrils flies a fiery steam, and sparkles from his eyes. He so fares the bowl his loved female sight, proudly he bellows, and preludes the fight. He tries his goring horns against the tree, and meditates his absent enemy. He pushes out the winds, he digs the strand with his black hoofs, and spurns the yellow sand, nor lest the Trojan in his Lemnian arms, to future fight his manly courage warms. He wets his fury, and with joy prepares to terminate at once the lingering war, to cheer his chiefs, and tender sun relates what heaven had promised, and expounds the fates, then to the Lation King he sends, to cease the rage of arms, and ratify the peace. The mourn ensuing, from the mountain's height, had scarcely spread the skies with rosy light, ethereal cursors bounding from the sea, from out their flaming nostrils breathed the day, when now the Trojan and Ritulian guard, in friendly labor joined, the list prepared, beneath the walls they measure out the space, then sacred alters rear on sods of grass, where, with religious their common gods they place, and purist white the priests their heads attire, and living waters bare, and holy fire, and o'er their linen hoods and shaded hair, long twisted reese of sacred varian wear. In order, issuing from the town appears, the Latin legion armed with pointed spears, and from the fields advancing on a line, the Trojan and the Tuscan forces join, their various arms afford a pleasing sight. A peaceful tray in this scene, in peace prepared for fight, betwixt the ranks the proud commanders ride, glittering with gold, and vests in purple dyed, here, Menesthes, author of the Memian line, and their Mesapas, born of seed divine, the sign is given, and round the listed space each man in order fills his proper place, reclining on their ample shields they stand, and fix their pointed lances in the sand. Now studious of the sight, and numerous throng of either sex, promiscuous, old and young, swarm the town. By those who rest behind, the gates and walls, and houses topped our line. Meantime the queen of heaven beheld the sight, with eyes unpleased from Mount Albano's height, since called Albano by succeeding fame, but then an empty hill without a name. She then surveyed the field, the Trojan powers, the Lachan squadrons, and Laurentine towers. Then thus the goddess of the skies bespoke, with sighs and tears the goddess of the lake. King Ternus' sister, once a lovely maid, ere to the lust of lawless Jove, betrayed. Compressed by force, but by the grateful God, now made the niest of the neighboring flood. No nymph, the pride of living lakes, said she, almost renowned and most beloved by me. Long hast thou known, nor need I to record, the wands and sallies of my wandering lord, of every lace and fare whom Jove misled. To mount by stealth my violated bed, to thee alone I grudge not his embrace, but gave a part of heaven in an unenviied place. Now learn from me thy near approaching grief, nor think my wishes want to thy relief while fortune favours nor heaven's king denied to lend my sucker to the Lachan side. I saved thy brother, and the sinking state, but now he struggles with unequal fate, and goes, with God's averse, o'ermatched in might, to meet inevitable death and fight. Nor must I break the truce, nor can sustain the sight. Thou, if thou daresst thy present aid supply, it well becomes a sister's care to try. At this, the lovelied nymph, with grief oppressed, thrice tore her hair and beat her comely breast, to whom's attorney hath thus, thy tears are late, haste snatch him, if he can be snatched from fate, new tummelt's kindle violate the truce, who knows what changeful fortune may produce. It's not a crime to attempt what I decree, or if it were, discharge the crime on me, she said, and sailing on the winged wind left the sad nymph suspended in her mind. And now, pomp the peaceful kings appear, four steeds the chariot of the latinus spears, twelve golden beams around his temple play, to mark his lineage from the god of day, two snowy corsers turn us chariot yoke, and in his hand two massy spears he shook, then issued from the camp in arms divine, Aeneas, author of the Roman line, and by his side Ascanius took his place, the second hope of Rome's immortal race. Adorn in white a reverend priest appears, and offerings to the flaming altars bears, a porket and a lamb that never suffered shears, then to the rising sun he turns his eyes, and strews the beasts, designed for sacrifice, the salt and meal, with like officious care he marks their foreheads, and he clips their hair, betwixt their horns the purple wine he sheds, with the same generous juice the flame he feeds. Aeneas then unsheathed his shining sword, and thus with pious prayers the gods adored, all seeing sun and thou, Asonian soil, for which I have sustained so long a toil, thou king of heaven and thou the queen of air, propitious now, and reconciled by prayer, thou god of war, whose unresisted sway, the labors and events of arms obey, ye living fountains and ye running floods, all powers of ocean, all ethereal gods, hear and bear record. If I fall in field, or recurrent in the fight to turn us yield, my Trojans shall increase Evander's town, Ascanius shall renounce the Estonian crown. All claims, all questions of debate shall cease, nor he, nor they, would force and fringe the peace. But if my juster arms prevail and fight, as sure they shall, for if I divine aright, my Trojans shall not, or the Italians reign, both equal, both unconquer shall remain, joined in their laws, their lands, and their abodes, I ask but alters for my weary gods. The care of those religious rites be mine, the crown to king Latinus I resign, his be the sovereign sway, nor will I share his power and peace, or his command in war. For me, my friends, another town shall frame, and bless the rising towers with fair Lavinia's name. Thus he, then, with erected eyes and hands, the Lation King before his altar stands. By the same heaven said he, and earth and main, and all the powers that all three contain, by hell below, and by that upper god, whose thunder signs the peace, who seals it with his nod. So let Latona's double offspring here, and double-fronted Janus, what I swear. I touch the sacred alters, touch the flames, and all those powers attest, and all their names. Whatever chance befall, on either side, no term of time this union shall divide, no force, no fortune shall my vows unbind, or shake the steadfast tenor of my mind. Not though the circling seas should break their bound, overflow the shores, or sap the solid ground. Not though the lamps of heaven their spheres forsake, hurl down and hissing in the nether lake, even as this royal scepter, for he bore a scepter of his hand, shall nevermore shoot out in branches, or renew the birth, an orphan now, cut from the mother earth, by the keen axe dishonored of its hair, and cased in brass for Lation Kings to bear. And thus in public view the peace was tied, with solemn vows and sworn on either side, all dues performed, which holy rites require. The victim beasts are slain before the fire, the trembling entrails from their bodies torn, and to the fattened flames and chargers borne. Already the Ratulians deem their man, or matched in arms, before the fight began. First rising fears are whispered through the crowd, then gathering sound they murmur more loud. Now side to side they measure with their eyes the champion's bulk, their sinews and their size. The nearer their approach the more is known, the apparent disadvantage of their own. Ternus himself appears in public sight, conscious of his fate, desponding of the fight. Slowly he moves, and at his altar stands, with eyes dejected and with trembling hands. And while he mutters undistinguished prayers, a livid deadness in his cheeks appears. With anxious pleasure, when Juturna viewed the increasing fright of the mad multitude, when their short size and thickening sobs she heard, and found their ready minds for change prepared, dissembling her immortal form she took. Emeritus mean his habit and his look. A chief of ancient blood, in arms well known, was his great sire, and he his greater son. His shape assumed, amid the rank she ran, and humoring their first motions, thus began. For shame, Ratulians, can you bear the sight of one expose for all in single fight? Can we, before the face of heaven confess, our courage colder, our numbers less? You all the Trojan hosts, the Arcadian band, and Tuscan army, count them as they stand. Undaunted to the battle if we go, scarce every second man will share a foe. Ternist is true, in this unequal strife shall lose with honor his devoted life, or change it rather for immortal fame, succeeding to the gods from once he came. But you, a servile and inglorious band, for foreign lords shall sow your native land. As fruitful fields your fighting fathers gained, which have so long their lazy sons sustained. With words like these she carried her design, and a rising murmur runs across the line. Then even the city troops and lations tired with tedious war, seen with new souls inspired, their champions fake, with pity they lament, and of the league so lately sworn repent. War fails the goddess to foment the rage, with lying wonders and a false presage, but adds a sign, which present to their eyes inspires new courage and a glad surprise. For sudden, in the fiery tracts above, appears in pomp the imperial bird of Jove, a plump of foul he spies that swims the lakes, and o'er their head his sounding pinions shakes, and stooping on the fairest of the train. In his strong talons trust a silver swan, the Italians wonder at the unusual sight, but while he lags and labors in his flight behold, the dastard foul return anew, and with united force the foe pursue, clamorous around the royal hawk they fly, and thickening in a cloud overshade the sky. They cuff, they scratch, they cross his eerie course, nor can the encumbered burn sustain their force, but vexed not vanquished drops the ponderous prey, enlightened of his burden wings his way. The Asonian bands with shouts salute the sight, eager of action and demand the fight, then king to luminous, versed in augur's arts cries out, and thus his boasted skill imparts. At length is granted what I long desired, this, this is what my frequent vows required, ye gods I take your omen and obey, advance, my friends, and charge, I lead the way. These are the foreign foes whose impious band, like that rapacious bird, infests our land, but soon, like him, they shall be forced to the sea, by strength united and forgo the prey. Their timely sucker to your country bring, haste to the rescue, and redeem your king. He said, and pressing onward through the crew, poised his lifted arm, and his lance he threw. The winged weapon, whistling in the wind, came driving on, nor missed the mark design. At once the cornel rattled in the skies, at once Tumultus shouts, and clamors rise. Nine brothers in a goodly band there stood, born of Arcadian mixed with Tuscan blood. Jalipus's sons, the fatal Javelin through, aimed at the midmost of the friendly crew. A passage through the jointed arms it found, just where the belt was to the body bound, and struck the gentle youth extended on the ground. Then fired with pious rage, the generous train run madly forward to revenge the slain, and some with eager haste their Javelins throw, and some with sword and hand assault the foe. The wished insult the Latin troops embrace, and meet their ardor in the middle space. The Trojans, Tuscans, and Arcadian line, with equal courage, obviate their design. Haste leaves the violated fields, and hate, both armies urges to their mutual fate. With impious haste their altars are overturned, the sacrifice half broiled, and half unburned, thick storms of steel from either army fly, and clouds of clashing darts obscure the sky. Brands from the fire are missive weapons made, with chargers, bowls, and all the priestly trade. Latinus frightened hastens from the fray, and bears his unregarded gods away. These on horses vault, those yoke the car, the rest with swords on high, run headlong to the war. Misappas, eager to confound the peace, spurred his hot coarser through the fighting priests, a king Alestes by his purple known at Tuscan Prince, and by his regal crown, and with a shock encountering bore him down. Backwards he fell, and as his fate designed, the ruins of an altar were behind. There pitching on his shoulders and his head, amid the scattering fires he lay, supinely spread. The beanie spear descending from above, his cures pierced, and through his body drove. Then with a scornful smile the victor cries, the gods have found a fitter sacrifice, greedy of the spoils. The Italians stripped the dead of his rich armor and uncrowned his head. Priest Corianus armed his better hand from his own altar with a blazing brand, and as Abusus with a thundering pace, advanced to battle, dashed it on his face. His bristly beard shines out with sudden fires. The crackling crop, a noisome scent expires. During the blow he seized his curling crown with his left hand. His other cast him down, the prostrate body with his knees he pressed, and plunged his holy poignard in his breast. While Padillirus with his sword pursued the shepherd Alestes through the flying crowd, swiftly he turns and aims a deadly blow full on the front of his unwary foe. The broad axe enters with a crashing sound, and cleaves the chin with one continued wound. Warm blood and mingled brains besmere his arms around. An iron sleep his stupid eyes oppressed, and sealed their heavy lids in endless rest. But Good Aeneas rushed amidst the bands. There was his head, and naked were his hands, in sign of truce. Then thus he cried aloud, what sudden rage, what new desire of blood in flames your altered mind? So Trojans cease from impious arms, nor violate the peace. By human sanctions, and by laws divine, the terms are all agreed, the war is mine, dismiss your fears, and let the fight ensue. This hand alone shall write the gods and you, our injured alters, and their broken vow to this avenging sword, the faithless Ternus O. Thus while he spoke, unmindful of defense, a winged arrow struck the pious prince. But whether from some human hand it came, or hostile god is left unknown by fame, no human hand or hostile god was found, to boast the triumph of so base a wound. When Ternus saw the Trojan quit the plane, his chiefs dismayed, his troops a fainting train. The unhoped event his heightened soul inspires. At once his arms and his coarsers he requires, then with a leap his lofty chariot gains, then with a ready hand assumes the reins. He drives impetuous, and wherever he goes he leaves behind a lane of slaughtered foes. These his lance reaches, over those he rolls his rapid car and crushes out their souls. In vain the vanquished fly, the victor sends the dead men's weapons at their living friends. Ternus on the banks of Hebra's freezing flood, the god of battles in his angry mood, clashing his sword against his brazen shield, let loose the reins and scours along the field. Before the wind his fiery coarsers fly, groans the sad earth, resounds the rattling sky, wrath, terror, treason, tumult, and despair, dire faces and deformed, surround the car. Friends of the god and followers of the war, with fury not unlike, nor less disdain, exulting Ternus flies along the plain. His smoking horses at their utmost speed he lashes on, and urges over the dead. Their fetlocks run with blood, and when they bound the gore and gathering dust are dashed around. The myrists and pholists, masters of the war, he killed at hand, but stethanus afar. From far the sons of Embrakis he slew, Glaucus and ladies of the Lysin crew, both taught to fight on foot in battle joined, or mount the coarser that outstrips the wind. Meantime, you meadies, vaunting in the field, new fire the Trojans and their foes repelled. The son of Dolan bore his grandsire's name, but emulated more his father's name. His guileful father sent a knightly spy, the Grecian camp, in order to describe hard enterprise, and well he might require Achilles' car and horses for his hire. But met upon the scout, the Aetonian prince, in death bestowed a juster recompense, fierce Tarnas viewed the Trojan from afar, and launched his javelin from his lofty car, then lightly leaping down pursued the blow, and pressing with his foot his prostrate foe, wrenched from his feeble hold the shining sword, and plunged it in the bosom of its lord. Possess, said he, the fruit of all thy pains, and measure at thy length our Lysin planes. Thus are my foes rewarded by my hand, thus may they build their town, and thus enjoy the land. Then Darius Butis, Sibiris, he slew, whom o'er his neck his floundering coarser threw. As when loud Boreas, with his blustering train, stoopes from above, incumbent on the main. Wherever he flies, he drives the rack before, and rolls the billows on the Aegean shore. So where a resistless Tarnas takes his course, the scattered squadrons bend before his force. His crests of horses' hair is blown behind by adverse air, and rustles in the wind. This haughty Fegius saw with high disdain, and as the chariot rolled along the plain, light from the ground he leapt, and seized the rain. Thus hung in air he still retained his hold. The coarsers frided, and their course controlled. The lands of Tarnas reached him as he hung, and pierced his plated arms, but passed along and only raised the skin. He turned and held against his threatening foe his ample shield, then called for aid. But while he cried in vain, the chariot bore him backward on the plain. He lies reversed, the victor king descends, and strikes so justly where his helmet ends, he lops his head. The Lation Fields are drunk with streams that issue from the bleeding trunk. While he triumphs, and while the Trojans yield, the wounded prince is forced to leave the field. Strong Manetsis, and Akades, often tried, and young Ascanius weeping by his side, conduct him to his tent. Scarce can he rear his limbs from the earth, supported on his spear. Resolved in mind, regardless of the smart, he tugs with both his hands and breaks the dart. The steel remains. No reddier way he found to draw the weapon, than to enlarge the wound. After a fight, impatient of delay, he begs, and his unwilling friends obey. Ayapus was at hand to prove his art. His blooming youth so fired Apollo's heart, that for his love he proffered to bestow his tuneful harp and his unerring bow. The pious youth, more studious, how to save his aged sire, now sinking to the grave, preferred the powers of plants, and silent praise of healing art, before femen bays. First on his lance the pensive hero stood, and heard and saw unmoved the morning crowd. The famed physician tucked his robes around with ready hands and hastens to the wound. With gentle touches he performs his part, this way and that, soliciting the dart, and exercises all his heavenly art, all softening symbols, known of sovereign use he presses out and pours their noble juice. Their first infuse, to lennify the pain, he tugs with pincers, but he tugs in vain. Then to the patron of his art he prayed, the patron of his art refused his aid. Meantime the war approaches to the tents. The alarm grows hotter, and the noise augments. The driving dust proclaims the danger near, and first their friends, and then their foes appear. Their friends retreat, their foes pursue the rear. The camp is filled with terror and a fright, the hissing shafts within the trench alight, and undistinguished noise ascends the sky. The shouts those who kill, and the groans of those who die. But now the goddess mother moved with grief, and pierced with pity hastens her relief. A branch of healing did to me she brought, which in the creeds and fields with care she sought. Off is the stern, which woolly leafs surround, the leafs with flowers, the flowers with purple crown. Well known to wounded goats, assure relief, to draw the pointed steel and ease the grief. This Venus brings, in clouds involved, and brews the extracted liquor with ambrosian dews, and odorous panaceae. Unseen she stands, tempering the mixture with her heavenly hands, and pours it in a bowl, already crowned with juice of medicinal herbs prepared to bathe the wound, the leech unknowing of superior art, which aids the cure. With this, foments the part, and in a moment sees the raging smart, stanched as the blood, and in the bottom stands the steel, but scarcely touched with tender hands, moves up, and follows of its own accord, and health and vigour are at once restored. Ayapa's first perceived the closing wound, and first the footsteps of a god he found. Arms, arms he cries, the sword and shield prepare, and send the willing chief renewed to war. This is no mortal work, no cure of mine, nor art's effect, but done by hands divine. Some god are general to the battle-sends, some god preserved his life for greater ends. The hero arms in haste, his hands enfold his thighs with creches of reflugent gold, inflamed to the fight, and rushing to the field, that hand sustaining the celestial shield. This grips the lance, and with such vigour shakes, that to the rest the beamy weapon quakes. Then with a close embrace he strained his son, and kissing through his helmet thus began. My son, from my example learned the war, and camps to suffer, and in fields to dare. But happier chance than mine attends thy care. This day my hand, thy tender age, shall shield, and crowns with honour of the conquered field. Thou, when thy riper years send thee forth to toils of war, be mindful of my worth. Thou birthright, and in arms be known for Hector's nephew and Aeneas's son, he said, and striding issued on the plain. Aeneas and Menesthis, and a numerous train, attend his steps, the rest their weapons take, and crowding to the field, that camps forsake, a cloud of blinding dust is raised around, labours beneath their feet the trembling ground. Now Ternas posted on a hill from far, beheld the progress of the moving war. With him the Latins viewed the covered plains, and the chilled blood rend backwards in their veins. Jatarna saw the advancing troops appear, and heard the hostile sound, and fled for fear. Aeneas leads and draws a sweeping train, closed in their ranks and pouring on the plain, as when a whirlwind rushing to the shore from the mid-ocean drives the waves before. The painful hind with heavy heart foresees the flatted fields and slaughter of the trees. With like impetuous rage the prince appears, before his doubled front, nor less destruction bears. And now both armies shock in open field, a Cyrus is by strong, the Mbraeus killed. Architas, Euphans, Epulon are slain, all famed in arms and of the Lachan train, by Gaius, Menesthes, and Akati's hand. The fatal auger falls, by whose command the truce was broken, and whose lance and brood with Trojan blood, the unhappy fight renewed. Loud shouts and clamours rend the liquid sky, and o'er the field fright the Latins fly. Ternus disdains the dastards to pursue, nor moves to meet in arms the fighting few. Ternus alone, amid the dusky plain he seeks, and to the combat calls in vain, Jeterna heard and seized with mortal fear, forced from the beam her brother's charioteer assumes his shape, his armor, and his mean, and like mystiscus in his seat is seen. End of Book 12, Part 1, Recording by David Lipa, San Francisco, California. Book 12, Part 2 of the Aeneid. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by David Lipa. The Aeneid by Virgil, translated by John Dryden. Book 12, The Fortunes of War, Part 2. As the black swallows near the palace plies, o'er empty courts and under arches flies, now hawks aloft, now skims along the flood, to furnish her licuatious nest with food. So drives the rapid goddess over the plains. The smoking horses run with loosened rains. She steers a various course among the foes. Now here, now there, her conquering brother shows. Now with a straight, now with a wheeling flight, she turns and bends, but shuns the single fight. Aeneas, fired with fury, breaks the crowd, and seeks his foe and calls by name aloud. He runs within a narrower ring, and tries to stop the chariot, but the chariot flies. If he but gain a glimpse, Jeterna fears, and far away the Danian hero bears. What should he do? Nor arts nor arms avail, and various cares in vain his mind assail. The great Misappas thundering through the field, in his left hand to pointed javelins held, and countering on the prince one dart he drew, and with unerring aim, an utmost vigor through. Aeneas saw it come in stooping low, beneath his buckler shunned the threatening blow. The weapon hissed above his head, and tore the wavering plume, which on his helm he wore. Forced by this hostile act, and fired with spite, that flying Tarnas still declined the fight. The prince, whose piety had long repelled, his inborn ardor now invades the field. Invokes the powers of violated peace. Their rites and injured altars to redress, then to his rage abandoning the rain, with blood and slaughtered bodies fills the plain. What God can tell? What numbers can display the various labors of that fatal day? What chiefs and champions fell on either side in combat slain, or by what deaths they died, whom Tarnas, whom the Trojan hero killed, who shared the fame and fortune of the field? Both couldst thou view, and not avert thy sight, two jarring nations joined in cruel fight, whom leagues of lasting love so shortly shall unite? Aeneas first, Retulian, sucreau found, whose valor made the Trojans quit the ground, betwixt his ribs the javelin drove, so just it reached his heart, nor needs a second thrust. Now Tarnas, at two blows, two brethren slew. Just from his horse fierce amicus he threw, then leaping on the ground, on foot assailed, Dioris, and in equal fight prevailed, their lifeless trunks he leaves upon the place, their heads distilling gore his chariot grace. Three cold on earth the Trojan hero threw, whom without respite at one charge he threw, Cathigus, Tanius, Tegus fell oppressed, and Sade, Onythes added to the rest of Theban blood, whom Peridia bore. Tarnas, two brothers from the Lycians shore, and from Apollo's fame to battle sent, overthrew, nor Phoebus could their fate prevent. Peaceful Minothes, after these he killed, who long had shunned the dangers of the field, on Lairna's lake a silent life he led, and with his nets an angle earned his bread, nor pompous cares nor palaces he knew, but wisely from the infectious world withdrew, poor was his house, his father's painful hand discharged his rent and plowed another's land. As flames along the lofty woods are thrown, on different sides and both by winds are blown, the laurels crackle in the sputtering fire, the frightened silvons from their shades retire, or as two neighboring torrents fall from the sky, rapid they run, the foamy waters fry, they roll to the sea with unresisted force, and down the rocks precipitate their course, not with less rage the rival heroes take their different ways, nor less destruction make, with spears afar, with swords at hand they strike, and zeal of slaughter fires their souls alike, like them their dauntless men maintain the field, and hearts are pierced unknowing how to yield, they blow for blow return and wound for wound, and heaps of bodies raise the level ground. Moranus, boasting of his blood that springs from a long royal race of Lation Kings, is by the Trojan from his chariot throne, crushed with the weight of an unwieldy stone, to twix the wheels he fell, the wheels that bore his living load, his dying body tore, his starting steeds to shun the glittering sword, paw down his trampled limbs, forgetful of their lord. Fierce Highless threatened high and face to face a fronted turnus in the middle space, the prince encountered him in full career, and at his temples aimed the deadly spear, so fatally the flying weapon sped, that through his helmet pierced his head, nor Cicius could escape from turnus hand, in vain the strongest of the Arcadian band, nor to Capentus could his gods afford availing against the Aenean sword, which to his naked heart pursued the course, nor could his plated shield sustain the force. Iolus fell, whom not the Grecian powers, nor great subverter of the Trojan towers were doomed to kill, while heaven prolonged his date, but who can pass the bounds prefixed by fate? In High Lernesus and in Troy he held two palaces, and was from each expelled, of all the mighty man that last remains, a little spot of foreign earth contains. And now, both hosts, their broken troops unite in equal ranks, and mix in mortal fight. Ceresthus and undaunted Manetsus joined the Trojan, Tuscan and Arcadian line, seaborn Misappas with a tanius heads, the Latin squadrons, and two battle leads. They strike, they push, they throng the scanty space, resolved on death, impatient of disgrace, and where one falls another fills his place. The Cyprian goddess now inspires her son to leave the unfinished fight, and storm the town. For while he rolls his eyes around the plain in quest of Ternus, whom he seeks in vain, he views the unguarded city from afar, in careless quiet and secure of war. Occasion offers, and excites his mind to dare beyond the task he first designed. Resolved, he calls his chiefs, they leave the fight, attended thus he takes in neighboring height the crowding troops about their general stand, all under arms, and wait his high command. Then thus the lofty prince, here in obey ye Trojan bands, without the least delay, jove is with us, and what I have decreed requires our utmost vigor and our speed. Our instant arms against the town prepare, the source of mischief and the seed of war. This day the Lation Towers that make the sky shall level with the plain in ashes lie, the people shall be slaves, unless in their time they kneel for pardon and repent their crime. Twice have our foes been vanquished on the plain, and shall I wait till Ternus will be slain, your force against the perjured city bend, there it began, and there the war shall end. The peace profane our rightful arms requires, cleanse the polluted place with purging fires. He finished, and one soul inspiring all formed in a wedge, the foot approached the wall. Without the town, an unprovided train of gaping, gazing citizens are slain, some firebrands, other scaling ladders bear, and those they toss aloft and these they rear. The flames now launched, the feathered arrows fly, and clouds of mis of arms obscure the sky. Advancing to the front the hero stands, and stretching out to heaven his pious hands attests the gods, asserts his innocence, upraids with breach of faith the Asonian Prince, declares the royal honor doubly stained, and twice the rites of holy peace profane. When clamors in the town arise, each will be heard, and all at once advise. One part for peace, one for war contends. Some would exclude their foes, and some admit their friends. The helpless king is hurried in the throng, and whatever the tide prevails is borne along. Thus when the swain within a hollow rock invades the bees with suffocating smoke, they run around, or labor on their wings, disused to flight, and shoot their sleepy stings. To shun the bitter fumes in vain they try. Black vapors issuing from the vent involve the sky. But fate and envious fortune now prepare to plunge the latins in the last despair. The queen who saw the foes invade the town, and brands on top of burning houses thrown, passed round her eyes, distracted with her fear. No troops of Tarnas in the field appear. Once more she stares abroad, but still in vain, and then concludes the royal youth is slain. Mad with her anguish, impotent to bear the mighty grief, she loathes the vital air. She calls herself the cause of all this ill, and owns the dire effects of her ungoverned will. She raves against the gods. She beats her breast. She tears with both her hands her purple vests. Then round a beam, a running noose she tied, and fastened by the neck obscenely died. Soon as the fatal news by fame was blown, and to her dames and to her daughter known, the sad LaVenia rends her yellow hair and rosy cheeks. The rest her sorrows share. With shrieks the palace rings and madness of despair, the spreading rumor fills the public place, confusion, fear, distraction, and disgrace, and silent shame are seen in every face. Latinus tears his garments as he goes, both for his public and his private woes. With filth his venerable beard besmears, and sordid dust deforms his silver hairs, and much he blames the softness of his mind, obnoxious to the charms of womankind, and soon seduced to change what he so well designed, to break the solemn league so long desired, nor finish what his fates and those of Troy required. Now Ternus rolls aloof o'er empty plains, and here and there, some struggling foes he gleams. His flying cursors please him less and less, ashamed of easy fight and cheap success. Ternus half contented, anxious in his mind, the distant cries come driving in the wind, shouts from the walls, but shouts and murmurs drown, a jarring mixture and a boating sound. Alas! that he, what mean these dismal cries, what doleful clamors from the town arise. Confused he stops, and backward pulls the reins. She who the driver's office now sustains replies. Protect my lord these new alarms, hear fight and urge the fortune of your arms. There want not others to defend the wall. If by your rival's hand the Italians fall, so shall your fatal sword his friends oppress and honor equal, equal in success. To this the prince, O sister, for I knew the peace infringed preceded first from you. Knew you when you mingled first in fight, and now in vain you would deceive my sight. Why, goddess, this unprofitable gear, who sent you down from heaven involved in air, your share of mortal sorrows to sustain, and see your brother bleeding on the plane? For to what power can Ternus have recourse, or how resists his fate's prevailing force? These eyes beheld Moranus by the ground. See the man, and mighty was the wound. I heard my dearest friend with dying breath, my name invoking to revenge his death. Brave euthans fell, with honor on the place, to shun the shameful sight of my disgrace. On earth's supine, a manly corpse he lies, his vest and armor are the victor's prize. Then shall I see Larentum in a flame, which only wanted to complete my shame. How will the Latins hoot their champion's flight? How drances will insult and point them to the sight? Is death so hard to bear, ye gods below, since those above so small compassion show, receive a soul unsullied yet with shame, which not belies my great forefather's name? He said, and while he spoke with flying speed came sages urging on his foamy steed. Fixed on his wounded face, his shaft he bore, and seeking Ternus sent his voice before. Ternus, on you, on you alone depends our last relief. Compassionate your friends, like lightning, fierce anias rolling on, with arms and vests, with flames invades the town. The brands are tossed on high, the winds conspire to drive along the deluge of the fire. All eyes are fixed on you. Your foes rejoice, even the king staggers and suspends his choice. Doubts to deliver or defend the town, whom to reject or whom to call his son. The queen on whom your utmost hopes were placed, herself suborning death, has breathed her last. She's true, Missapis fearless of his fate, with fears, a Ternus aid, defends the gate. On every side surrounded by the foe, the more they kill, the greater numbers grow. An iron harvest mounts, and still remains to mow. You, far aloof from your forsaken bands, your rolling chariot drive over empty. Did he say, his eyes on death declined, and various cares revolving in his mind, rage boiling from the bottom of his heart, and sorrow mixed with shame, his soul oppressed, and conscious worth lay laboring in his thought, and love by jealousy to madness wrought, by slow degrees his reason drove away, the mists of passion, and resumed her sway. Then rising on his car, he turned his look, and saw the town involved in fire and smoke. A wooden tower, with flames already blazed, which his own hands on beams and rafters raised, and bridges laid above to join the space, and wheels below to roll from place to place. Sister, the fates have vanquished, let us go, the way which heaven and my hard fortune show. The fight is fixed, nor shall the branded name of a base-coward blot your brother's fame. Death is my choice, but suffer me to try my force and vent my rage before I die, he said, and leaping down without delay through crowds of scattered foes he freed his way, striding he passed, impetuous as the wind, and left the grieving goddess far behind. As when a fragment from a mountain torn by raging tempests, or by torrents born, or sapped by time, or loosed from the roots, prone through the void, the rocky ruin shoots, rolling from crag to crag, from steep to steep, down-sink at once the shepherds and their sheep. Involved alike they rushed to nether ground, stunned with the shock they fall, and stunned from earth rebound. So Ternus, hasting headlong into town, shouldering and shoving, bore the squadrons down, still pressing onwards to the wall he drew, where shafts and spears and darts promiscuous flew, and sanguine streams the slippery ground and brew. First stretching out his arm in sign of peace, he cries aloud to make the combat cease, Ritulians hold and Latin troops retire, the fight is mine, and me the gods require, to just that I should vindicate alone the broken truce, or for the breach atone, this day shall free from war as the Estonian state, or finish my misfortunes in my fate. Both armies, from their bloody work desist, and bearing backwards form a spacious list. The Trojan hero, who received from fame the welcome sound, and heard the champion's name, soon leaves the taken works and mounted walls, greedy of war where the greater glory calls, he springs to fight, exulting in his force. His jointed armor rattles in the course, like Eryx, or like Athos, great he shows, for father Epineen, when, white with snows, his head divine obscure in clouds he hides, and shakes the sounding forest on his sides. The nations over odds secreased the fight, immovable their bodies, fixed their sight. Even death stands still, nor from above they throw their darts nor drive their battering rams below. In silent order, either army stands, and drop their swords unknowing from their hands. The Estonian king beholds with wondering sight, two mighty champions, matched in single fight, born under climes remote and brought by fate with swords to try their titles to the state. Now in closed field, each other from afar they view, and rushing on begin the war. They launch their spears, then hand to hand they meet, the trembling soil resounds beneath their feet, their bucklers clash, their blows descend from high, and flakes of fire from their hard helmets fly. Courage conspires with chance, and both engage with equal fortunes yet in mutual rage. As when two bulls for their fair female fight in silas shades, or on Tabernas's height, with horns at verse they meet, the keeper flies, mute stands the herd, their heifers roll their eyes, and wait the event which victor they shall bear, and who shall be the lord to rule the lusty year. With a rage of love the jealous rivals burn, and push for push, and wound for wound return. Their doulaps scored, their sides are laughed in blood, loud cries and roaring sounds rebello through the wood. Such was the combat in the listed ground, so clashed their swords, and so their shields resound. Jove sets the beam, in either scale he lays the champion's fate, and each exactly weighs. On this side life and lucky chance ascends, loaded with death that other scale descends. Raised on the stretch young Ternas aims a blow, full on the helm of his unguarded foe, shrill shouts and clamors ring on either side, as hopes and fears their panting hearts divide. But all in pieces flies the traitor's sword, and in the middle stroke deserts his lord. Now is but death or flight disarmed, he flies, when in his hand an unknown hilt he spies. Fame says that Ternas, when his steeds he joined hurring to war, disordered in his mind, snatched the first weapon which his haste could find. It was not the faded sword his father bore, but that his charioteer Mesticus wore. This while the Trojans fled, the toughness held, but vain against the great vulcanian shield. The mortal tempered steel deceived his hand, the shivered fragments shone amid the sand. A surprise with fear he fled along the field, and now forthright and now in orbits wheeled, for here the Trojan troops the lists surround, and there the pass is closed with pools and marshy ground, a neus hastens, though with heavier pace his wounds so newly knit retards the chase, and off to his trembling knees their aid refuse, yet pressing foot by foot his foe pursues. Thus when a fearful stag is closed around, with crimson toils or in a river found, high on the bank the deep mouth hound appears, still opening following still, wherever he steers the persecuted creature to and fro turns here and there to escape his umbrian foe. Steep is the ascent, and if he gains the land, the purple death is pitched along the strand, his eager foe determined to the chase, stretched at his length, gains ground at every pace. Now to his balmy head he makes his way, and now he holds or thinks he holds his prey, just at the pitch the stag springs out with fear, he bites the wind, and fills his sounding jaws with air, the rocks, the lakes, the meadows ring with cries, the mortal tumult mounts and thunders in the skies, thus flies the danian prince, and flying blames, his tardy troops, calling by their names, demands his trusty sword. The trojan threats the realm of the ruin, and their ancient seats to lay in ashes if they dare supply with arms or aid his vanquished enemy. Thus menacing he still pursues the course with vigor, though diminished of his force, ten times already the listed place when chief had fled, and the other given chase, no trivial prize is played, for on the life or death of Ternus now depends the strife. In the space an olive tree had stood, a sacred shade of venerable wood, for vows to fawn as paid the latin's guardian god. Here hung the vests, and tablets were engraved of sinking mariners from shipwrecked save, with heedless hands the trojans felled the tree, to make the ground enclosed for combat free. Deep in the root, whether by fate, or chance, or earring haste, the trojan drove his lance, and stooped and tugged with force immense to free the encumbered spear from the tenacious tree. That whom his fainting limbs pursued in vain, his flying weapon might from far attain. Confused with fear bereft of human aid, then turn us to the gods, and first to fawn us preyed. O fawness pity, and thou mother earth, where I thy foster son received my birth, hold fast the steel. If my religious hand your plant has honored which your foes profaned, propitious hear my prayers, he said, nor will successless vows invoke their aid. The incumbent hero wrenched, and pulled, and strained, but still the stubborn earth, the steel detained. Jaterna took her time, and while in vain he strove, assumed meticus form again. And in that imitated shape restored, the despairing prince, his danian sword, the queen of love, who would disdain and grief, saw the bold nymph afford this prompt relief, to assert her offspring with a greater deed, from the tough root of the lingering weapon freed. Once more erect, the rival chiefs advance, one trusts the sword, the other the pointed lance, and both resolve to like to try their fatal chance. Meantime, imperial jove to Juno speak, who from a shining cloud beheld the shock. What new arrest, O queen of heaven, is sent, to stop the fates now laboring in the event, what farther hopes are left thee to pursue, divine and neous, and thou knows it too, for doomed to these celestial seats are due. But more attempts for Ternus can be made, that this, the linguists in this lonely shade, is it the coming of the due respect and awful honor of a god-elect, a wound unworthy of our state to feel, patient of human hands and earthly steel, or seems it just the sister should restore a second sword, when one was last before, and arm a conquered wretch against his conqueror. For what, without thy knowledge and avow, nay more thy dictate, thirst to turn a due? At last, in deference to my love, forbear to lodge within thy soul this anxious care, reclined upon my breast thy grief unload. Who should relieve the goddess but the god? Now all things to their utmost issue tend, pushed by the fates to their appointed, while leave was given thee, and a lawful hour for vengeance, wrath, and unresisted power, tossed on the seas that could thy foes distress, and driven ashore with hostile arms oppress, deform the royal house, and from the side of the just bridegroom tear the plighted bride. Now cease at my command, the thunderer said, and with dejected eyes this answer Juno made. Use your dread decree too well I knew, from Ternus, and from earth unwilling I withdrew. Else should you not behold me here alone, involved in empty clouds, my friend's bemoan, but girt with vengeful flames in open sight, engaged against my foes in mortal fight. Tis true, Jatarna mingled in the strife by my command to save her brother's life, at least a try, but by the stinging lake, the most religious oath the gods can take. With this restriction not to bend the bow, or toss the spear, or trembling dart to throw, and now resign to your superior might, and tired with fruitless toils, I loathe the fight. This let me beg, and this no fates would stand, both for myself and for your father's land, that when the nuptial bed shall bind the peace, which I, since you ordain consent to bless, the laws of either nation be the same, but let the latins still retain their name. Take the same language which they spoke before, wear the same habits which their grandsires wore, call them not Trojans, perish the renown, and name of Troy. With that detested town, Lachem be Lachem still, let Alba reign, and Rome's immortal majesty remain. Then thus the founder of mankind replies, unruffled was his front, serene his eyes. In Saturn's issue, and Heaven's other air, such endless anger in her bosom bear, be mistress, and your full desires obtain, but quench the collar you foment in vain. From ancient blood, the Asonian people sprung, shall keep their name, their habit, and their tongue. The Trojans to their customs shall be tied. I will myself, their common rights provide. The natives shall command, the foreigners subside. All shall be latium, Troy without a name, and her lost sons forget from whence they came. From blood so mixed, a pious race shall flow, equal to God's excelling all below, no nation more respect to you shall pay, or greater offerings on your altar's lay. Juno consents, well pleased that her desires found success, and from the cloud retires. The peace thus made, the thunderer next prepares to force the watery goddess from the wars. Deep in the dismal regions void of light, three daughters at a birth were born to-night. These their brown mother brooding on her care, endued with windy wings to flit in air, with serpents girt alike, and crowned with hissing hair. In Heaven the dire called, and still at hand, before the throne of angry Jov they stand. His ministers of wrath, and ready still, the minds of mortal men with fears to fill. Whenever the moody sire to wreak his hate on realms or towns deserving of their fate, hurls down diseases, death and deadly care, and terrifies the guilty world with war. One sister plague, if these from Heaven he sent, to fright Cheterna with a dire portent. The pest comes whirling down, by far more slow springs the swift arrow from the parthen bow, or side on you, when traversing the skies, and drenched in poisonous juice, the sure destruction flies. With such a sudden and unseen aflight, shot through the clouds the daughter of the night, soon as the field enclosed she had in view, and from afar her destined quarry knew, contracted to the boating bird she turns, which haunts the ruined piles and hallowed urns, and beats about the tombs with nightly wings, where songs obscene on sephultures she sings. Thus lessened in her form with frightful cries, the fury round unhappy Ternus flies, flaps on his shield, and flutters o'er his eyes. A lazy chillness crept along his blood, choked was his voice, his hair with horror stood. Cheterna from afar beheld her fly, and knew the ill omen by her screaming cry, and strider of her wings. Amazed with fear, her butchess breast she beat, and rent her flowing hair. Am I, she cries, in this unequal strife, what can thy sister more to save thy life? Weak as I am, can I alas, contend in arms, without inexorable fiend? Now, now, I quit the field, forbear to fright my tender soul ye baleful birds of night, the lashing of your wings I know too well, the sounding flight and funeral screams of hell. These are the gifts you bring from haughty jove, the worthy recompense of my ravished love. Did he for this accept my life from fate, O hard conditions of immortal state, though born to death not privileged to die, but forced to bear imposed eternity? Take back your envious bribes, and let me go, companion to my brother's ghost below. The joys are vanished, nothing now remains of life immortal but immortal pains. What earth will open her devouring womb, to rest a weary goddess in the tomb? She drew a length of size, nor more, she said, but in her azure mantle wrapped her head, then plunged into her stream with a deep despair, and her last sobs came bubbling up in air. Now stern envious his weighty spear against his foe, and thus abrades his fear. What father's sutter-fuge can turn his find? What empty hopes are harbored in his mind? Tis not thy swiftness can secure thy flight, nor with their feet but hands the valiant fight. Vary thy shape in thousand forms, and dare what skill and courage can attempt in war. Wish for the wings of winds to mount to sky, or hid within the hollow earth to lie. The champion shook his head, and made this short reply. No threats of thine, my manly mind, can move. Tis hostile heaven I dread, and partial jove. He said no more, but with a sigh repressed the mighty sorrow in his swelling breast. Then as he rolled his troubled eyes around, an antique stone he saw, the common bound of neighboring fields, and barrier of the ground, so vast that twelve strongmen of modern days the enormous weight from earth could hardly raise. He heaved it at a lift, and poised on high, ran staggering on his enemy, but so disordered that he scarcely knew his way, or what unwieldy weight he threw. His knocking knees are bent beneath the load, and shivering cold congeals his vital blood. The stone drops from his arms, and falling short for want of vigor mocks his vain effort. And as when a heavy sleep has closed the sight, the sickly fancy labours in the night, we seem to run, and destitute of force are sinking limbs forsake us in the chorus. In vain we heave for breath, in vain we cry, the nerves embraced, their usual strength deny, and on the tongue the faltering accents die. So Ternus fared, whatever means he tried, all force of arms and points of art employed, the fury flew a thwart, and made the endeavor void. A thousand various thoughts his soul confound. He started about nor aid nor issue found. His own man stopped the pass, and his own wall surround. Once more he pauses, and looks out again, and seeks the goddess Charioteer in vain. Trembling he views the thundering chief advance, and brandishing aloft the deadly lance. Amazed he cowers beneath the conquering foe, forgets to ward and waits the coming blow. Astonished while he stands, and fixed with fear, aimed at his shield he sees the impending spear. The hero measured first, with narrow view, the destined mark, and rising as he threw, with its full swing the fatal weapon flew. Not with less rage the rattling thunder falls, or stones from battering engines break the walls, swift as a whirlwind, from an arm so strong the lance drove on, and bore the death along. Not could his sevenfold shield the Prince avail, nor ought beneath his arms the coat of mail. It pierced through all, and with a grisly wound transfixed his thigh, and doubled him to ground. With groans the Latins rend the vaulted sky, woods, hills, and valleys, to the voice reply. Now low on earth the lofty chief is laid, and with eyes cast upward, and with arms displayed, and requriant thus to the proud victor prayed. I know my death deserved, nor hope to live, use what the gods and thy good fortune give. Yet think, O think, if mercy may be shown, thou hast a father once, and hast a son, pity my sire, now sinking to the grave, and for it and Kaisi's sake, O donna save, or if thy vowed revenge pursue my death, give to my friends my body void of breath. The Latian chiefs have seen me beg my life, thine is the conquest, thine the royal wife, against the yielded man, to his mean, ignoble strife. And deep suspense the Trojan seem to stand, and, just prepared to strike, repressed his hand. He rolled his eyes, and every moment felt his manly soul with more compassion melt. When casting down a casual glance he spied, the golden belt that glittered on his side, the fatal spoils which haughty turn us tore from dying palace, and in triumph wore. Then roused and new to wrath he loudly cries, flames while he spoke came flashing from his eyes. Traitor, dost thou, dost thou, to grace pretend, clad as thou art in trophies of my friend, to his sad soul a grateful offering go, to his palace, palace gives this deadly blow. He raised his arm aloft, and at the word, deep in his bosom drove the shining sword, the streaming blood disdained his arms around, and the disdainful soul came rushing through the wound. End of book 12, End of the Aeneid by Virgil, translated by John Dryden, recording by David Lipa, San Francisco, California.