Aeneid

Virgil

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

What voice divine
such horror can make known? What song declare
the bloodshed manifold, the princes slain,
or flying o'er the field from Turnus' blade,
or from the Trojan King? Did Jove ordain
so vast a shock of arms should interpose
'twixt nations destined to perpetual bond?
Aeneas met the Rutule Sucro—thus
staying the Trojan charge—and with swift blow
struck at him sidewise, where the way of death
is quickest, cleaving ribs and rounded side
with reeking sword. Turnus met Amycus,
unhorsed him, though himself afoot, and slew
Diores, his fair brother (one was pierced
fronting the spear, the other felled to earth
by strike of sword), and both their severed heads
he hung all dripping to his chariot's rim.
But Talon, Tanais, and Cethegus brave,
three in one onset, unto death went down
at great Aeneas' hand; and he dispatched
ill-starred Onites of Echion's line,
fair Peridia's child. Then Turnus slew
two Lycian brothers unto Phoebus dear,
and young Menoetes, an Arcadian,
who hated war (though vainly) when he plied
his native fisher-craft in Lerna's streams,
where from his mean abode he ne'er went forth
to wait at great men's doors, but with his sire
reaped the scant harvest of a rented glebe.
as from two sides two conflagrations sweep
dry woodlands or full copse of crackling bay,
or as, swift-leaping from the mountain-vales,
two flooded, foaming rivers seaward roar,
each on its path of death, not less uproused,
speed Turnus and Aeneas o'er the field;
now storms their martial rage; now fiercely swells
either indomitable heart; and now
each hero's full strength to the slaughter moves.

Behold Murranus, boasting his high birth
from far-descended sires of storied name,
the line of Latium's kings! Aeneas now
with mountain-boulder lays him low in dust,
smitten with whirlwind of the monster stone;
and o'er him fallen under yoke and rein
roll his own chariot wheels, while with swift tread
the mad hoofs of his horses stamp him down,
not knowing him their lord. But Turnus found
proud Hyllus fronting him with frantic rage,
and at his golden helmet launched the shaft
that pierced it; in his cloven brain it clung.
Nor could thy sword, O Cretheus, save thee then
from Turnus, though of bravest Greeks the peer;
nor did Cupencus' gods their priest defend
against Aeneas, but his breast he gave
unto the hostile blade; his brazen shield
delayed no whit his miserable doom.
Thee also, Aeolus, Laurentum saw
spread thy huge body dying on the ground;
yea, dying, thou whom Greeks in serried arms
subdued not, nor Achilles' hand that hurled
the throne of Priam down: here didst thou touch
thy goal of death; one stately house was thine
on Ida's mountain, at Lyrnessus, one;
Laurentum's hallowed earth was but thy grave.
Now the whole host contends; all Latium meets
all Ilium; Mnestheus and Serestus bold;
Messapus, the steed-breaker, and high-soured
Asilas; Tuscans in a phalanx proud;
Arcadian riders of Evander's train:
each warrior lifts him to his height supreme
of might and skill; no sloth nor lingering now,
but in one far-spread conflict all contend.

His goddess-mother in Aeneas' mind
now stirred the purpose to make sudden way
against the city-wall, in swift advance
of all his line, confounding Latium so
with slaughter and surprise. His roving glance,
seeking for Turnus through the scattered lines
this way and that, beholds in distant view
the city yet unscathed and calmly free
from the wide-raging fight. Then on his soul
rushed the swift vision of a mightier war.
Mnestheus, Sergestus, and Serestus brave,
his chosen chiefs, he summons to his side,
and stands upon a hillock, whither throng
the Teucrian legions, each man holding fast
his shield and spear. He, towering high,
thus from the rampart to his people calls:
“Perform my bidding swiftly: Jove's own hand
sustains our power. Be ye not slack, because
the thing I do is sudden. For this day
I will pluck out th' offending root of war,—
yon city where Latinus reigns. Unless
it bear our yoke and heed a conqueror's will,
will lay low in dust its blazing towers.
Must I wait Turnus' pleasure, till he deign
to meet my stroke, and have a mind once more,
though vanquished, to show fight? My countrymen,
see yonder stronghold of their impious war!
Bring flames; avenge the broken oath with fire!”
Scarce had he said, when with consenting souls,
they speed them to the walls in dense array,
forming a wedge. Ladders now leap in air,
and sudden-blazing fires. In various war
some troops run charging at the city-gates,
and slay the guards; some fling the whirling spear
and darken heaven with arrows. In their van,
his right hand lifted to the wails and towers,
Aeneas, calling on the gods to hear,
loudly upbraids Latinus that once more
conflict is thrust upon him; that once more
Italians are his foes and violate
their second pledge of peace. So blazes forth
dissension 'twixt the frighted citizens:
some would give o'er the city and fling wide
its portals to the Trojan, or drag forth
the King himself to parley; others fly
to arms, and at the rampart make a stand.
'T is thus some shepherd from a caverned crag
stirs up the nested bees with plenteous fume
of bitter smoke; they, posting to and fro,
fly desperate round the waxen citadel,
and whet their buzzing fury; through their halls
the stench and blackness rolls; within the caves
noise and confusion ring; the fatal cloud
pours forth incessant on the vacant air.

But now a new adversity befell
the weary Latins, which with common woe
shook the whole city to its heart. The Queen,
when at her hearth she saw the close assault
of enemies, the walls beset, and fire
spreading from roof to roof, but no defence
from the Rutulian arms, nor front of war
with Turnus leading,—she, poor soul, believed
her youthful champion in the conflict slain;
and, mad with sudden sorrow, shrieked aloud
against herself, the guilty chief and cause
of all this ill; and, babbling her wild woe
in endless words, she rent her purple pall,
and with her own hand from the rafter swung
a noose for her foul death. The tidings dire
among the moaning wives of Latium spread,
and young Lavinia's frantic fingers tore
her rose-red cheek and hyacinthine hair.
Then all her company of women shrieked
in anguish, and the wailing echoed far
along the royal seat; from whence the tale
of sorrow through the peopled city flew;
hearts sank; Latinus rent his robes, appalled
to see his consort's doom, his falling throne;
and heaped foul dust upon his hoary hair.

Meanwhile the warrior Turnus far afield
pursued a scattered few; but less his speed,
for less and less his worn steeds worked his will;
and now wind-wafted to his straining ear
a nameless horror came, a dull, wild roar,
the city's tumult and distressful cry.
“Alack,” he cried, “what stirs in yonder walls
such anguish? Or why rings from side to side
such wailing through the city?” Asking so,
he tightened frantic grasp upon the rein.
To him his sister, counterfeiting still
the charioteer Metiscus, while she swayed
rein, steeds, and chariot, this answer made:
“Hither, my Turnus, let our arms pursue
the sons of Troy. Here lies the nearest way
to speedy triumph. There be other swords
to keep yon city safe. Aeneas now
storms against Italy in active war;
we also on this Trojan host may hurl
grim havoc. Nor shalt thou the strife give o'er
in glory second, nor in tale of slain.”
Turnus replied, “O sister, Iong ago
I knew thee what thou wert, when guilefully
thou didst confound their treaty, and enlist
thy whole heart in this war. No Ionger now
thy craft divine deceives me. But what god
compelled thee, from Olympus fallen so far,
to bear these cruel burdens? Wouldst thou see
thy wretched brother slaughtered? For what else
is in my power? What flattering hazard still
holds forth deliverance? My own eyes have seen
Murranus (more than any now on earth
my chosen friend) who, calling on my name,
died like a hero by a hero's sword.
Ill-fated Ufens fell, enduring not
to Iook upon my shame; the Teucrians
divide his arms for spoil and keep his bones.
Shall I stand tamely, till my hearth and home
are levelled with the ground? For this would be
the only blow not fallen. Shall my sword
not give the lie to Drances' insolence?
Shall I take flight and let my country see
her Turnus renegade? Is death a thing
so much to weep for? O propitious dead,
O spirits of the dark, receive and bless
me whom yon gods of light have cast away!
Sacred and guiltless shall my soul descend
to join your company; I have not been
unworthy offspring of my kingly sires.”