Aeneid

Virgil

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

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.”

Scarce had he said, when through the foeman's line
Saces dashed forth upon a foaming steed,
his face gashed by an arrow. He cried loud
on Turnus' name: “O Turnus, but in thee
our last hope lies. Have pity on the woe
of all thy friends and kin! Aeneas hurls
his thunderbolt of war, and menaces
to crush the strongholds of all Italy,
and lay them low; already where we dwell
his firebrands are raining. Unto thee
the Latins Iook, and for thy valor call.
The King sits dumb and helpless, even he,
in doubt which son-in-law, which cause to choose.
Yea, and the Queen, thy truest friend, is fallen
by her own hand; gone mad with grief and fear,
she fled the light of day. At yonder gates
Messapus only and Atinas bear
the brunt of battle; round us closely draw
the serried ranks; their naked blades of steel
are thick as ripening corn; wilt thou the while
speed in thy chariot o'er this empty plain?”
Dazed and bewildered by such host of ills,
Turnus stood dumb; in his pent bosom stirred
shame, frenzy, sorrow, a despairing love
goaded to fury, and a warrior's pride
of valor proven.