Aeneid

Virgil

Vergil. The Aeneid of Virgil. Williams, Theodore, C, translator. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1910.

Now Jupiter to Juno thus began:
“O ever-cherished spouse and sister dear,
surely 't is Venus—as thy mind misgave—
whose favor props—O, what discernment thine!
Yon Trojan power; not swift heroic hands,
or souls of fury facing perilous war!”
Juno made meek reply: “O noblest spouse!
Why vex one sick at heart, who humbly fears
thy stern command? If I could claim to-day
what once I had, my proper right and due,
love's induence, I should not plead in vain
to thee, omnipotent, to give me power
to lead off Turnus from the fight unscathed,
and save him at his father Daunus' prayer.
Aye, let him die! And with his loyal blood
the Teucrians' vengeance feed! Yet he derives
from our Saturnian stem, by fourth remove
sprung from Pilumnus. Oft his liberal hands
have heaped unstinted offering at thy shrine.”
Thus in few words th' Olympian King replied:
“If for the fated youth thy prayer implores
delay and respite of impending doom,
if but so far thou bidst me interpose,—
go—favor Turnus' flight, and keep him safe
in this imperilled hour; I may concede
such boon. But if thy pleading words intend
some larger grace, and fain would touch or change
the issue of the war, then art thou fed
on expectation vain.” With weeping eyes
Juno made answer: “Can it be thy mind
gives what thy words refuse, and Turnus' life,
if rescued, may endure? Yet afterward
some cruel close his guiltless day shall see—
or far from truth I stray! O, that I were
the dupe of empty fears! and O, that thou
wouldst but refashion to some happier end
the things by thee begun—for thou hast power!”

She ceased; and swiftly from the peak of heaven
moved earthward, trailing cloud-wrack through the air,
and girdled with the storm. She took her way
to where Troy's warriors faced Laurentum's line.
There of a hollow cloud the goddess framed
a shape of airy, unsubstantial shade,
Aeneas' image, wonderful to see,
and decked it with a Dardan lance and shield,
a crested helmet on the godlike head;
and windy words she gave of soulless sound,
and motion like a stride—such shapes, they say,
the hovering phantoms of the dead put on,
or empty dreams which cheat our slumbering eyes.
Forth to the front of battle this vain shade
stalked insolent, and with its voice and spear
challenged the warrior. At it Turnus flew,
and hurled a hissing spear with distant aim;
the thing wheeled round and fled. The foe forthwith,
thinking Aeneas vanquished, with blind scorn
flattered his own false hope: “Where wilt thou fly,
Aeneas? Wilt thou break a bridegroom's word?
This sword will give thee title to some land
thou hast sailed far to find!” So clamoring loud
he followed, flashing far his naked sword;
nor saw the light winds waft his dream away.

By chance in covert of a lofty crag
a ship stood fastened and at rest; her sides
showed ready bridge and stairway; she had brought
Osinius, king of Clusium. Thither came
Aeneas' counterfeit of flight and fear,
and dropped to darkness. Turnus, nothing loth,
gave close chase, overleaping every bar,
and scaling the high bridge; but scarce he reached
the vessel's prow, when Juno cut her loose,
the cables breaking, and along swift waves
pushed her to sea. Yet in that very hour
Aeneas to the battle vainly called
the vanished foe, and round his hard-fought path
stretched many a hero dead. No longer now
the mocking shadow sought to hide, but soared
visibly upward and was Iost in cloud,
while Turnus drifted o'er the waters wide
before the wind. Bewildered and amazed
he looked around him; little joy had he
in his own safety, but upraised his hands
in prayer to Heaven: “O Sire omnipotent!
Didst thou condemn me to a shame like this?
Such retribution dire? Whither now?
Whence came I here? What panic wafts away
this Turnus—if 't is he? Shall I behold
Laurentum's towers once more? But what of those
my heroes yonder, who took oath to me,
and whom—O sin and shame!—I have betrayed
to horrible destruction? Even now
I see them routed, and my ears receive
their dying groans. What is this thing I do?
Where will the yawning earth crack wide enough
beneath my feet? Ye tempests, pity me!
On rocks and reef—'t is Turnus' faithful prayer,
let this bark founder; fling it on the shoals
of wreckful isles, where no Rutulian eye
can follow me, or Rumor tell my shame.”
With such wild words his soul tossed to and fro,
not knowing if to hide his infamy
with his own sword and madly drive its blade
home to his heart, or cast him in the sea,
and, swimming to the rounded shore, renew
his battle with the Trojan foe. Three times
each fatal course he tried; but Juno's power
three times restrained, and with a pitying hand
the warrior's purpose barred. So on he sped
o'er yielding waters and propitious tides,
far as his father Daunus' ancient town.

At Jove's command Mezentius, breathing rage,
now takes the field and leads a strong assault
against victorious Troy. The Tuscan ranks
meet round him, and press hard on him alone,
on him alone with vengeance multiplied
their host of swords they draw. As some tall cliff,
projecting to the sea, receives the rage
of winds and waters, and untrembling bears
vast, frowning enmity of seas and skies,—
so he. First Dolichaon's son he slew,
Hebrus; then Latagus and Palmus, though
they fled amain; he smote with mighty stone
torn from the mountain, full upon the face
of Latagus; and Palmus he let lie
hamstrung and rolling helpless; he bestowed
the arms on his son Lausus for a prize,
another proud crest in his helm to wear;
he laid the Phrygian Euanthus Iow;
and Mimas, Paris' comrade, just his age,—
born of Theano's womb to Amycus
his sire, that night when royal Hecuba,
teeming with firebrand, gave Paris birth:
one in the city of his fathers sleeps;
and one, inglorious, on Laurentian strand.
As when a wild boar, harried from the hills
by teeth of dogs (one who for many a year
was safe in pine-clad Vesulus, or roamed
the meres of Tiber, feeding in the reeds)
falls in the toils at last, and stands at bay,
raging and bristling, and no hunter dares
defy him or come near, but darts are hurled
from far away, with cries unperilous:
not otherwise, though righteous is their wrath
against Mezentius, not a man so bold
as face him with drawn sword, but at long range
they throw their shafts and with loud cries assail;
he, all unterrified, makes frequent stand,
gnashing his teeth, and shaking off their spears.

From ancient Corythus had Acron come,
a Greek, who left half-sung his wedding-song,
and was an exile; him Mezentius saw
among long lines of foes, with flaunting plumes
and purple garments from his plighted spouse.
Then as a starving lion when he prowls
about high pasture-lands, urged on his way
by maddening hunger (if perchance he see
a flying she-goat or tall-antlered stag)
lifts up his shaggy mane, and gaping wide
his monstrous jaws, springs at the creature's side,
feeding foul-lipped, insatiable of gore:
so through his gathered foes Mezentius
flew at his prey. He stretched along the ground
ill-fated Acron, who breathed life away,
beating the dark dust with his heels, and bathed
his broken weapons in his blood. Nor deigned
Mezentius to strike Orodes down
as he took flight, nor deal a wound unseen
with far-thrown spear; but ran before his face,
fronting him man to man, nor would he win
by sleight or trick, but by a mightier sword.
Soon on the fallen foe he set his heel,
and, pushing hard, with heel and spear, cried out:
“Look ye, my men, where huge Orodes lies,
himself a dangerous portion of this war!”
With loyal, Ioud acclaim his peers reply;
but thus the dying hero: “Victor mine,
whoe'er thou art, I fall not unavenged!
Thou shalt but triumph for a fleeting hour.
Like doom for thee is written. Speedily
thou shalt this dust inhabit, even as I!”
Mezentius answered him with wrathful smile:
“Now die! What comes on me concerns alone
the Sire of gods and Sovereign of mankind.”
So saying, from the wounded breast he plucked
his javelin: and on those eyes there fell
inexorable rest and iron slumber,
and in unending night their vision closed.

Then Caedicus cut down Alcathous,
Sacrator slew Hydaspes, Rapo smote
Parthenius and Orses stout and strong;
Messapus, good blade cut down Clonius
and Ericetes, fierce Lycaon's child;
the one from an unbridled war-horse thrown,
the other slain dismounted. Then rode forth
Agis the Lycian, but bold Valerus,
true to his valiant breeding, hurled him down;
having slain Thronius, Salius was slain
by skilled Nealces, of illustrious name
for spear well cast and far-surprising bow.

Thus Mars relentless holds in equal scale
slaughters reciprocal and mutual woe;
the victors and the vanquished kill or fall
in equal measure; neither knows the way
to yield or fly. Th' Olympians Iook down
out of Jove's house, and pity as they see
the unavailing wrath of either foe,
and burdens measureless on mortals laid.
Lo! Venus here, Saturnian Juno yon,
in anxious watch; while pale Tisiphone
moves on infuriate through the battling lines.
On strode Mezentius o'er the gory plain,
and swollen with rage waved wide-his awful spear.
Like tall Orion when on foot he goes
trough the deep sea and lifts his shoulders high
above the waves; or when he takes his path
along the mountain-tops, and has for staff
an aged ash-tree, as he fixes firm
his feet in earth and hides his brows in cloud;—
so Ioomed Mezentius with his ponderous arms.

To match him now, Aeneas, Iooking down
the long array of war, came forth in arms
to challenge and defy. But quailing not,
a mass immovable, the other stood
waiting his noble foe, and with a glance
measured to cast his spear the space between.
“May this right hand“, he said, “and this swift spear
which here I poise, be favoring gods for me!
The spoils from yonder robber's carcase stripped
I vow to hang on thee, my Lausus, thou
shalt stand for trophy of Aeneas slain.”
He said, and hurled from far the roaring spear,
which from the shield glanced off, and speeding still
smote famed Antores 'twixt the loin and side—
antores, friend of Hercules, who came
from Argos, and had joined Evander's cause,
abiding in Italia. Lo, a wound
meant for another pierced him, and he lay,
ill-fated! Iooking upward to the light,
and dreaming of dear Argos as he died.
Then good Aeneas hurled his spear; it passed
through hollow orb of triple bronze, and through
layers of flax and triple-twisted hides;
then in the lower groin it lodged, but left
its work undone. Aeneas, not ill-pleased
to see the Tuscan wounded, swiftly drew
the falchion from his thigh, and hotly pressed
his startled foe. But Lausus at the sight
groaned loud, so much he loved his father dear,
and tears his cheek bedewed. O storied youth!
If olden worth may win believing ear,
let not my song now fail of thee to sing,
thy noble deeds, thy doom of death and pain!
Mezentius, now encumbered and undone,
fell backward, trailing from the broken shield
his foeman's spear. His son leaped wildly forth
to join the fray; and where Aeneas' hand
lifted to strike, he faced the thrusting sword
and gave the hero pause. His comrades raised
applauding cries, as shielded by his son
the father made retreat; their darts they hurl,
and vex with flying spears the distant foe:
Aeneas, wrathful, stands beneath his shield.
As when the storm-clouds break in pelting hail,
the swains and ploughmen from the furrows fly,
and every traveller cowers in sure defence
of river-bank or lofty shelving crag,
while far and wide it pours; and by and by,
each, when the sun returns, his task pursues:
so great Aeneas, by assault o'erwhelmed,
endured the cloud of battle, till its rage
thundered no more; then with a warning word
to Lausus with upbraiding voice he called:
“Why, O death-doomed, rush on to deeds too high
for strength like thine. Thou art betrayed, rash boy,
by thine own loyal heart!” But none the less
the youth made mad defence; while fiercer burned
the Trojan's anger; and of Lausus' days
the loom of Fate spun forth the last thin thread;
for now Aeneas thrust his potent blade
deep through the stripling's breast and out of sight;
through the light shield it passed—a frail defence
to threaten with!—and through the tunic fine
his mother's hand had wrought with softest gold:
blood filled his bosom, and on path of air
down to the shades the mournful soul withdrew,
its body quitting. As Anchises' son
beheld the agonizing lips and brow
so wondrous white in death, he groaned aloud
in pity, and reached o'er him his right hand,
touched to the heart such likeness to behold
of his own filial love. “Unhappy boy!
What reward worthy of heroic deeds
can I award thee now? Wear still those arms
so proudly worn! And I will send thee home
(Perhaps thou carest!) to the kindred shades
and ashes of thy sires. But let it be
some solace in thy pitiable doom
that none but great Aeneas wrought thy fall.”
Then to the stripling's tardy followers
he sternly called, and lifted from the earth
with his own hand the fallen foe: dark blood
defiled those princely tresses braided fair.

Meanwhile Mezentius by the Tiber's wave
with water staunched his wound, and propped his weight
against a tree; upon its limbs above
his brazen helmet hung, and on the sward
his ponderous arms lay resting. Round him watched
his chosen braves. He, gasping and in pain,
clutched at his neck and let his flowing beard
loose on his bosom fall; he questions oft
of Lausus, and sends many a messenger
to bid him back, and bear him the command
of his sore-grieving sire. But lo! his peers
bore the dead Lausus back upon his shield,
and wept to see so strong a hero quelled
by stroke so strong. From long way off the sire,
with soul prophetic of its woe, perceived
what meant their wail and cry. On his gray hairs
the dust he flung, and, stretching both his hands
to heaven, he cast himself the corpse along.
“O son,” he cried, “was life to me so sweet,
that I to save myself surrendered o'er
my own begotten to a foeman's steel?
Saved by these gashes shall thy father be,
and living by thy death? O wretched me,
how foul an end have I! Now is my wound
deep! deep! 't was I, dear son, have stained
thy name with infamy—to exile driven
from sceptre and hereditary throne
by general curse. Would that myself had borne
my country's vengeance and my nation's hate!
Would my own guilty life my debt had paid—
yea, by a thousand deaths! But, see, I live!
Not yet from human kind and light of day
have I departed. But depart I will.”
So saying, he raised him on his crippled thigh,
and though by reason of the grievous wound
his forces ebbed, yet with unshaken mien
he bade them lead his war-horse forth, his pride,
his solace, which from every war
victorious bore him home. The master then
to the brave beast, which seemed to know his pain,
spoke thus: “My Rhoebus, we have passed our days
long time together, if long time there be
for mortal creatures. Either on this day
thou shalt his bloody spoils in triumph bear
and that Aeneas' head,—and so shalt be
avenger of my Lausus' woe; or else,
if I be vanquished, thou shalt sink and fall
beside me. For, my bravest, thou wouldst spurn
a stranger's will, and Teucrian lords to bear.”
He spoke and, mounting to his back, disposed
his limbs the wonted way and filled both hands
with pointed javelins; a helm of brass
with shaggy horse-hair crest gleamed o'er his brow.
Swift to the front he rode: a mingled flood
surged in his heart of sorrow, wrath, and shame;
and thrice with loud voice on his foe he called.

Aeneas heard and made exulting vow:
“Now may the Father of the gods on high,
and great Apollo hear! Begin the fray!”
He said, and moved forth with a threatening spear.
The other cried: “Hast robbed me of my son,
and now, implacable, wouldst fright me more?
That way, that only, was it in thy power
to cast me down. No fear of death I feel.
Nor from thy gods themselves would I refrain.
Give o'er! For fated and resolved to die
I come thy way: but; bring thee as I pass
these offerings.” With this he whirled a spear
against his foe, and after it drove deep
another and another, riding swift
in wide gyration round him. But the shield,
the golden boss, broke not. Three times he rode
in leftward circles, hurling spear on spear
against th' unmoved Aeneas: and three times
the Trojan hero in his brazen shield
the sheaf of spears upbore. But such slow fight,
such plucking of spent shafts from out his shield,
the Trojan liked not, vexed and sorely tried
in duel so ill-matched. With wrathful soul
at length he strode forth, and between the brows
of the wild war-horse planted his Iong spear.
Up reared the creature, beating at the air
with quivering feet, then o'er his fallen lord
entangling dropped, and prone above him lay,
pinning with ponderous shoulder to the ground.
The Trojans and the Latins rouse the skies
with clamor Ioud. Aeneas hastening forth
unsheathes his sword, and looming o'er him cries:
“Where now is fierce Mezentius, and his soul's
wild pulse of rage?” The Tuscan in reply
with eyes uprolled, and gasping as he gave
long looks at heaven, recalled his fading mind:
“Why frown at me and fume, O bitterest foe?
Why threaten death? To slay me is no sin.
Not to take quarter came I to this war,
not truce with thee did my lost Lausus crave,
yet this one boon I pray,—if mercy be
for fallen foes: O, suffer me when dead
in covering earth to hide! Full well I know
what curses of my people ring me round.
Defend me from that rage! I pray to be
my son's companion in our common tomb.”
He spoke: then offered with unshrinking eye
his veined throat to the sword. O'er the bright mail
his vital breath gushed forth in streaming gore.

Up from the sea now soared the dawning day:
Aeneas, though his sorrow bids him haste
to burial of the slain, and his sad soul
is clouded with the sight of death, fulfils,
for reward to his gods, a conqueror's vow,
at morning's earliest beam. A mighty oak
shorn of its limbs he sets upon a hill
and clothes it o'er with glittering arms, the spoil
of King Mezentius, and a trophy proud
to thee, great lord of war. The hero's plumes
bedewed with blood are there, and splintered spears;
there hangs the corselet, by the thrusting steel
twelve times gored through; upon the left he binds
the brazen shield, and from the neck suspends
the ivory-hilted sword. Aeneas thus,
as crowding close his train of captains throng,
addressed his followers: “Ye warriors mine,
our largest work is done. Bid fear begone
of what is left to do. Behold the spoils!
Yon haughty King was firstfruits of our war.
See this Mezentius my hands have made!
Now to the Latin town and King we go.
Arm you in soul! With heart of perfect hope
prepare the war! So when the gods give sign
to open battle and lead forth our brave
out of this stronghold, no bewilderment,
nor tarrying, nor fearful, faltering mind
shall slack our march. Meanwhile in earth we lay
our comrades fallen; for no honor else
in Acheron have they. Go forth,” said he,
“bring gifts of honor and of last farewell
to those high hearts by shedding of whose blood
our country lives. To sad Evander's town
bear Pallas first; who, though he did not fail
of virtue's crown, was seized by doom unblest,
and to the bitterness of death consigned.”