Aeneid

Virgil

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

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.”

Weeping he spoke, and slowly backward drew
to the tent-door, where by the breathless clay
of Pallas stood Acoetes, aged man,
once bearer of Evander's arms, but now
under less happy omens set to guard
his darling child. Around him is a throng
of slaves, with all the Trojan multitude,
and Ilian women, who the wonted way
let sorrow's tresses loosely flow. When now
Aeneas to the lofty doors drew near,
all these from smitten bosoms raised to heaven
a mighty moaning, till the King's abode
was loud with anguish. There Aeneas viewed
the pillowed head of Pallas cold and pale,
the smooth young breast that bore the gaping wound
of that Ausonian spear, and weeping said:
“Did Fortune's envy, smiling though she came,
refuse me, hapless boy, that thou shouldst see
my throne established, and victorious ride
beside me to thy father's house? Not this
my parting promise to thy King and sire,
Evander, when with friendly, fond embrace
to win imperial power he bade me go;
yet warned me anxiously I must resist
bold warriors and a stubborn breed of foes.
And haply even now he cheats his heart
with expectation vain, and offers vows,
heaping with gifts the altars of his gods.
But we with unavailing honors bring
this lifeless youth, who owes the gods of heaven
no more of gift and vow. O ill-starred King!
Soon shalt thou see thy son's unpitying doom!
What a home-coming! This is glory's day
so Iong awaited; this the solemn pledge
I proudly gave. But fond Evander's eyes
will find no shameful wounding on the slain,
nor for a son in coward safety kept
wilt thou, the sire, crave death. But woe is me!
How strong a bulwark in Ausonia falls!
What loss is thine, Iulus!” Thus lamenting,
he bids them lift the body to the bier,
and sends a thousand heroes from his host
to render the last tributes, and to share
father's tears:—poor solace and too small
for grief so great, but due that mournful sire.
Some busy them to build of osiers fine
the simple litter, twining sapling oaks
with evergreen, till o'er death's Iofty bed
the branching shade extends. Upon it lay,
as if on shepherd's couch, the youthful dead,
like fairest flower by virgin fingers culled,
frail violet or hyacinth forlorn,
of color still undimmed and leaf unmarred;
but from the breast of mother-earth no more
its life doth feed. Then good Aeneas brought
two broidered robes of scarlet and fine gold,
which with the gladsome labor of her hands
Sidonian Dido wrought him long ago,
the thin-spun gold inweaving. One of these
the sad prince o'er the youthful body threw
for parting gift; and with the other veiled
those tresses from the fire; he heaped on high
Laurentum's spoils of war, and bade to bring
much tribute forth: horses and arms he gave,
seized from the fallen enemy; with hands
fettered behind them filed a captive train
doomed to appease the shades, and with the flames
to mix their flowing blood. He bade his chiefs
set up the trunks of trees and clothe them well
with captured arms, inscribing on each one
some foeman's name. Then came Acoetes forth,
a wretched, worn old man, who beat his breast
with tight-clenched hands, and tore his wrinkled face
with ruthless fingers; oft he cast him down
full length along the ground. Then lead they forth
the blood-stained Rutule chariots of war;
Aethon, the war-horse, of his harness bare,
walks mournful by; big teardrops wet his cheek.
Some bear the lance and helm; for all the rest
victorious Turnus seized. Then filed along
a mournful Teucrian cohort; next the host
Etrurian and the men of Arcady
with trailing arms reversed. Aeneas now,
when the long company had passed him by,
spoke thus and groaned aloud: “Ourselves from hence
are summoned by the same dread doom of war
to other tears. Farewell forevermore!
Heroic Pallas! be forever blest!
I bid thee hail, farewell!” In silence then
back to the stronghold's Iofty walls he moved.

Now envoys from the Latin citadel
came olive-crowned, to plead for clemency:
would he not yield those bodies of the dead
sword-scattered o'er the plain, and let them lie
beneath an earth-built tomb? Who wages war
upon the vanquished, the unbreathing slain?
To people once his hosts and kindred called,
would he not mercy show? To such a prayer,
deemed not unworthy, good Aeneas gave
the boon, and this benignant answer made:
“Ye Latins, what misfortune undeserved
has snared you in so vast a war, that now
you shun our friendship? Have you here implored
peace for your dead, by chance of battle fallen?
Pain would I grant it for the living too.
I sailed not hither save by Heaven's decree,
which called me to this land. I wage no war
with you, the people; 't was your King refused
our proffered bond of peace, and gave his cause
to Turnus' arms. More meet and just it were
had Turnus met this death that makes you mourn.
If he would end our quarrel sword in hand,
thrusting us Teucrians forth, 't was honor's way
to cross his blade with mine; that man to whom
the gods, or his own valor, had decreed
the longer life, had lived. But now depart!
Beneath your lost friends light the funeral fires!”
So spoke Aeneas; and with wonder mute
all stood at gaze, each turning to behold
his neighbor's face. Then Drances, full of years,
and ever armed with spite and slanderous word
against young Turnus, made this answering plea:
“O prince of mighty name, whose feats of arms
are even mightier! Trojan hero, how
shall my poor praise exalt thee to the skies?
Is it thy rectitude or strenuous war
most bids me wonder? We will bear thy word
right gladly to the city of our sires;
and there, if Fortune favor it, contrive
a compact with the Latin King. Henceforth
let Turnus find his own allies! Ourselves
will much rejoice to see thy destined walls,
and our own shoulders will be proud to bear
the stone for building Troy.” Such speech he made,
and all the common voice consented loud.
So twelve days' truce they swore, and safe from harm
Latins and Teucrians unmolested roved
together o'er the wooded hills. Now rang
loud steel on ash-tree bole; enormous pines,
once thrusting starward, to the earth they threw;
and with industrious wedge asunder clove
stout oak and odorous cedar, piling high
harvest of ash-trees on the creaking wain.

Now Rumor, herald of prodigious woe,
to King Evander hied, Evander's house
and city filling, where, but late, her word
had told in Latium Pallas' victory.
th' Arcadians thronging to the city-gates
bear funeral torches, the accustomed way;
in lines of flame the long street flashes far,
lighting the fields beyond. To meet them moves
a Phrygian company, to join with theirs
its lamentation loud. The Latin wives,
soon as they saw them entering, aroused
the whole sad city with shrill songs of woe.
No hand could stay Evander. Forth he flew
into the midmost tumult, and fell prone
on his dead Pallas, on the resting bier;
he clung to the pale corse with tears, with groans,
till anguish for a space his lips unsealed:
“Not this thy promise, Pallas, to thy sire,
to walk not rashly in the war-god's way.
I knew too well how honor's morning-star,
and sweet, foretasted glory tempt and woo
in a first battle. O first-fruit forlorn
of youth so fair! O prelude pitiless
of war approaching! O my vows and prayers,
which not one god would hear! My blessed wife,
how happy was the death that spared thee not
to taste this bitterness! But I, the while,
by living longer lived to meet my doom,—
a father sole-surviving. Would I myself
had perished by the Rutule's cruel spear,
the Trojan's cause espousing! This breath of life
how gladly had I given! And O, that now
yon black solemnity were bearing home
myself, not Pallas, dead! Yet blame I not,
O Teucrians, the hallowed pact we made,
nor hospitable bond and clasp of hands.
This doom ye bring me was writ long ago,
for my old age. And though my child is fallen
untimely, I take comfort that he fell
where thousands of the Volscians slaughtered lie,
and into Latium led the Teucrian arms.
What brighter glory could I crave in death
for thee, my Pallas, than Aeneas brings,
and Phrygian princes, and Etrurian lords
with all Etruria's legions? Lo, they bear
yon glittering spoils of victims of thy sword!
Thou, Turnus, too, wert now an effigy
in giant armor clad, if but his years
and strength full ripe had been fair match for thine!
But now my woes detain the Trojan host
from battle. I beseech ye haste away,
and bear this faithful message to your King:
since I but linger out a life I loathe,
without my Pallas, nothing but thy sword
can bid me live. Then let thy sword repay
its debt to sire and son by Turnus slain!
Such deed alone may with thy honor fit,
and happier fortunes. But my life to me
has no joy left to pray for, save to bring
my son that solace in the shadowy land.”

Meanwhile o'er sorrowing mortals the bright morn
had lifted her mild beam, renewing so
the burden of man's toil. Aeneas now
built funeral pyres along the winding shore,
King Tarchon at his side. Each thither brought
the bodies of his kin, observing well
all ancient ritual. The fuming fires
burned from beneath, till highest heaven was hid
in blackest, overmantling cloud. Three times
the warriors, sheathed in proud, resplendent steel,
paced round the kindling pyres; and three times
fair companies of horsemen circled slow,
with loud lamenting, round the doleful flame.
The wail of warriors and the trumpets' blare
the very welkin rend. Cast on the flames
are spoils of slaughtered Latins,—helms and blades,
bridles and chariot-wheels. Yet others bring
gifts to the dead familiar, their own shields
and unavailing spears. Around them slain
great herds of kine give tribute unto death:
swine, bristly-backed, from many a field are borne,
and slaughtered sheep bleed o'er the sacred fire.
So on the shore the wailing multitude
behold their comrades burning, and keep guard
o'er the consuming pyres, nor turn away
till cooling night re-shifts the globe of heaven,
thick-strewn with numberless far-flaming stars.

Likewise the mournful Latins far away
have built their myriad pyres. Yet of the slain
not few in graves are laid, and borne with tears
to neighboring country-side or native town;
the rest—promiscuous mass of dead unknown—
to nameless and unhonored ashes burn;
with multitude of fires the far-spread fields
blaze forth unweariedly. But when from heaven
the third morn had dispelled the dark and cold,
the mournful bands raked forth the mingled bones
and plenteous ashes from the smouldering pyres,
then heaped with earth the one sepulchral mound.
Now from the hearth-stones of the opulent town
of old Latinus a vast wail burst forth,
for there was found the chief and bitterest share
of all the woe. For mothers in their tears,
lone brides, and stricken souls of sisters fond,
and boys left fatherless, fling curses Ioud
on Turnus' troth-plight and the direful war:
“Let him, let Turnus, with his single sword
decide the strife,”—they cry,—“and who shall claim
Lordship of Italy and power supreme.”
Fierce Drances whets their fury, urging all
that Turnus singly must the challenge hear,
and singly wage the war; but others plead
in Turnus' favor; the Queen's noble name
protects him, and his high renown in arms
defends his cause with well-won trophies fair.

Amid these tumults of the wrathful throng,
lo, the ambassadors to Diomed
arrive with cloudy forehead from their quest
in his illustrious town; for naught availed
their toilsome errand, nor the gifts and gold,
nor strong entreaty. Other help in war
the Latins now must find, or humbly sue
peace from the Trojan. At such tidings dire
even Latinus trembles: Heaven's decrees
and influence of gods too visible
sustain Aeneas; so the wrath divine
and new-filled sepulchres conspicuous
give warning clear. Therefore the King convenes
a general council of his captains brave
beneath the royal towers. They, gathering,
throng the approaches thither, where their Iord,
gray-haired Latinus, takes the central throne,
wearing authority with mournful brow.
He bids the envoys from Aetolia's King
sent back, to speak and tell the royal words
in order due. Forthwith on every tongue
fell silence, while the princely Venulus,
heeding his Iord's behest, began the parle:

“My countrymen,” he said, “our eyes have seen
strongholds of Greeks and Diomed the King.
We braved all perils to our journey's end
and clasped that hand whereof the dreadful stroke
wrought Ilium's fall. The hero built a town,
Argyripa, hereditary name,
near mount Garganus in Apulian land:
passing that city's portal and the King's,
we found free audience, held forth thy gifts,
and told our names and fatherland. We showed
what condict was enkindled, and what cause
brought us to Arpi's King. He, hearing all,
with brow benign made answer to our plea:
‘O happy tribes in Saturn's kingdom born,
Ausonia's ancient stem! What fortune blind
tempts ye from peace away, and now ensnares
in wars unknown? Look how we men that dared
lay Ilium waste (I speak not of what woes
in battling neath her lofty walls we bore,
nor of dead warriors sunk in Simois' wave)
have paid the penalty in many a land
with chastisement accurst and changeful woe,
till Priam's self might pity. Let the star
of Pallas tell its tale of fatal storm,
off grim Caphereus and Eubcea's crags.
Driven asunder from one field of war,
Atrides unto farthest Egypt strayed,
and wise Ulysses saw from Aetna's caves
the Cyclops gathering. Why name the throne
of Pyrrhus, or the violated hearth
whence fled Idomeneus? Or Locri cast
on Libya's distant shore? For even he,
Lord of Mycenae by the Greeks obeyed,
fell murdered on his threshold by the hand
of that polluted wife, whose paramour
trapped Asia's conqueror. The envious gods
withheld me also from returning home
to see once more the hearth-stone of my sires,
the wife I yearn for, and my Calydon,
the beauteous land. For wonders horrible
pursue me still. My vanished followers
through upper air take wing, or haunt and rove
in forms of birds the island waters o'er:
ah me, what misery my people feel!
The tall rocks ring with their lament and cry.
Naught else had I to hope for from that day
when my infatuate sword on gods I drew,
and outraged with abominable wound
the hand of Venus. Urge me not, I pray,
to conflicts in this wise. No more for me
of war with Trojans after Ilium's fall!
I take no joy in evils past, nor wish
such memory to renew. Go, lay these gifts,
brought to my honor from your ancient land,
at great Aeneas' feet. We twain have stood
confronting close with swords implacable
in mortal fray. Believe me, I have known
the stature of him when he lifts his shield,
and swings the whirlwind of his spear. If Troy
two more such sons had bred, the Dardan horde
had stormed at Argos' gates, and Greece to-day
were for her fallen fortunes grieving sore.
Our lingering at Ilium's stubborn wall,
our sluggard conquest halting ten years Iong,
was his and Hector's work. Heroic pair!
Each one for valor notable, and each
famous in enterprise of arms,—but he
was first in piety. Enclasp with his
your hands in plighted peace as best ye may:
but shock of steel on steel ye well may shun.’
now hast thou heard, good King, a king's reply,
and how his wisdom sits in this vast war.”