Aeneid

Virgil

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

But now not blindly from Olympian throne
the Sire of gods and men observant saw
how sped the day. Then to the conflict dire
the god thrust Tarchon forth, the Tyrrhene King,
goading the warrior's rage. So Tarchon rode
through slaughter wide and legions in retreat,
and roused the ranks with many a wrathful cry:
he called each man by name, and toward the foe
drove back the routed lines. “What terrors now,
Tuscan cowards, dead to noble rage,
have seized ye? or what laggard sloth and vile
unmans your hearts, that now a woman's arm
pursues ye and this scattered host confounds?
Why dressed in steel, or to what purpose wear
your futile swords? Not slackly do ye join
the ranks of Venus in a midnight war;
or when fantastic pipes of Bacchus call
your dancing feet, right venturesome ye fly
to banquets and the flowing wine—what zeal,
what ardor then! Or if your flattering priest
begins the revel, and to Iofty groves
fat flesh of victims bids ye haste away!”
So saying, his steed he spurred, and scorning death
dashed into the mid-fray, where, frenzy-driven,
he sought out Venulus, and, grappling him
with one hand, from the saddle snatched his foe,
and, clasping strongly to his giant breast,
exultant bore away. The shouting rose
to heaven, and all the Latins gazed his way,
as o'er the plain the fiery Tarchon flew
bearing the full-armed man; then, breaking off
the point of his own spear, he pried a way
through the seam'd armor for the mortal wound;
the other, struggling, thrust back from his throat
the griping hand, full force to force opposing.
As when a golden eagle high in air
knits to a victim—snake his clinging feet
and deeply-thrusting claws; but, coiling back,
the wounded serpent roughens his stiff scales
and stretches high his hissing head; whereat
the eagle with hooked beak the more doth rend
her writhing foe, and with swift stroke of wing
lashes the air: so Tarchon, from the ranks
of Tibur's sons, triumphant snatched his prey.
The Tuscans rallied now, well pleased to view
their king's example and successful war.
Then Arruns, marked for doom, made circling line
around Camilla's path, his crafty spear
seeking its lucky chance. Where'er the maid
sped furious to the battle, Arruns there
in silence dogged her footsteps and pursued;
or where triumphant from her fallen foes
she backward drew, the warrior stealthily
turned his swift reins that way: from every side
he circled her, and scanned his vantage here
or vantage there, his skilful javelin
stubbornly shaking. But it soon befell
that Chloreus, once a priest of Cybele,
shone forth in far-resplendent Phrygian arms,
and urged a foaming steed, which wore a robe
o'erwrought with feathery scales of bronze and gold;
while he, in purples of fine foreign stain,
bore light Gortynian shafts and Lycian bow;
his bow was gold; a golden casque he wore
upon his priestly brow; the saffron cloak,
all folds of rustling cambric, was enclasped
in glittering gold; his skirts and tunics gay
were broidered, and the oriental garb
swathed his whole leg. Him when the maiden spied,
(Perchance she fain on temple walls would hang
the Trojan prize, or in such captured gold
her own fair shape array), she gave mad chase,
and reckless through the ranks her prey pursued,
desiring, woman-like, the splendid spoil.
Then from his ambush Arruns seized at last
the fatal moment and let speed his shaft,
thus uttering his vow to heavenly powers:
“Chief of the gods, Apollo, who dost guard
Soracte's hallowed steep, whom we revere
first of thy worshippers, for thee is fed
the heap of burning pine; for thee we pass
through the mid-blaze in sacred zeal secure,
and deep in glowing embers plant our feet.
O Sire Omnipotent, may this my spear
our foul disgrace put by. I do not ask
for plunder, spoils, or trophies in my name,
when yonder virgin falls; let honor's crown
be mine for other deeds. But if my stroke
that curse and plague destroy, may I unpraised
safe to the cities of my sires return.”

Apollo heard and granted half the prayer,
but half upon the passing breeze he threw:
granting his votary he should confound
Camilla by swift death; but 't was denied
the mountain-fatherland once more to see,
or safe return,—that prayer th' impetuous winds
swept stormfully away. Soon as the spear
whizzed from his hand, straight-speeding on the air,
the Volscians all turned eager thought and eyes
toward their Queen. She only did not heed
that windy roar, nor weapon dropped from heaven,
till in her bare, protruded breast the spear
drank, deeply driven, of her virgin blood.
Her terror-struck companians swiftly throng
around her, and uplift their sinking Queen.
But Arruns, panic-stricken more than all,
makes off, half terror and half joy, nor dares
hazard his lance again, nor dares oppose
a virgin's arms. As creeps back to the hills
in pathless covert ere his foes pursue,
from shepherd slain or mighty bull laid low,
some wolf, who, now of his bold trespass ware,
curls close against his paunch a quivering tail
and to the forest tries: so Arruns speeds
from sight of men in terror, glad to fly,
and hides him in the crowd. But his keen spear
dying Camilla from her bosom drew,
though the fixed barb of deeply-wounding steel
clung to the rib. She sank to earth undone,
her cold eyes closed in death, and from her cheeks
the roses fled. With failing breath she called
on Acca—who of all her maiden peers
was chiefly dear and shared her heart's whole pain—
and thus she spoke: “O Acca, sister mine,
I have been strong till now. The cruel wound
consumes me, and my world is growing dark.
Haste thee to Turnus! Tell my dying words!
'T is he must bear the battle and hold back
the Trojan from our city wall. Farewell!”
So saying, her fingers from the bridle-rein
unclasped, and helpless to the earth she fell;
then, colder grown, she loosed her more and more
out of the body's coil; she gave to death
her neck, her drooping head, and ceased to heed
her war-array. So fled her spirit forth
with wrath and moaning to the world below.
Then clamor infinite uprose and smote
the golden stars, as round Camilla slain
the battle newly raged. To swifter charge
the gathered Trojans ran, with Tuscan lords
and King Evander's troops of Arcady.