Aeneid

Virgil

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

  1. To him Latinus with unruffled mind
  2. thus made reply: “O youth surpassing brave!
  3. The more thy sanguinary valor burns
  4. beyond its wont, the more with toilsome care
  5. I ponder with just fear what chance may fall,
  6. weighing it well. Thy father Daunus' throne,
  7. and many a city by thy sword subdued,
  8. are still thy own. Latinus also boasts
  9. much golden treasure and a liberal hand.
  10. Other unwedded maids of noble stem
  11. in Latium and Laurentine land are found.
  12. Permit me, then, to tell thee without guile
  13. things hard to utter; let them deeply fill
  14. thy listening soul. My sacred duty 'twas
  15. to plight my daughter's hand to nonesoe'er
  16. of all her earlier wooers—so declared
  17. the gods and oracles; but overcome
  18. by love of thee, by thy dear, kindred blood,
  19. and by the sad eyes of my mournful Queen,
  20. I shattered every bond; I snatched away
  21. the plighted maiden from her destined lord,
  22. and took up impious arms. What evil case
  23. upon that deed ensued, what hapless wars,
  24. thou knowest, since thyself dost chiefly bear
  25. the cruel burden. In wide-ranging fight
  26. twice-conquered, our own city scarce upholds
  27. the hope of Italy. Yon Tiber's wave
  28. still runs warm with my people's blood; the plains
  29. far round us glisten with their bleaching bones.
  30. Why tell it o'er and o'er? What maddening dream
  31. perverts my mind? If after Turnus slain
  32. I must for friendship of the Trojan sue,
  33. were it not better to suspend the fray
  34. while Turnus lives? For what will be the word
  35. of thy Rutulian kindred—yea, of all
  36. Italia, if to death I give thee o'er—
  37. (Which Heaven avert!) because thou fain wouldst win
  38. my daughter and be sworn my friend and son?
  39. Bethink thee what a dubious work is war;
  40. have pity on thy father's reverend years,
  41. who even now thy absence daily mourns
  42. in Ardea, his native land and thine.”
  43. But to this pleading Turnus' frenzied soul
  44. yields not at all, but rather blazes forth
  45. more wildly, and his fever fiercer burns
  46. beneath the healer's hand. In answer he,
  47. soon as his passion gathered voice, began:
  48. “This keen solicitude for love of me,
  49. I pray, good sire, for love of me put by!
  50. And let me traffic in the just exchange
  51. of death for glory. This right hand, O King,
  52. can scatter shafts not few, nor do I wield
  53. untempered steel. Whene'er I make a wound
  54. blood follows. For my foeman when we meet
  55. will find no goddess-mother near, with hand
  56. to hide him in her woman's skirt of cloud,
  57. herself in dim, deluding shade concealed.”