Aeneid

Virgil

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

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.

But when first the light
of reason to his blinded soul returned,
he strained his flaming eyeballs to behold
the distant wall, and from his chariot gazed
in wonder at the lordly citadel.
For, lo, a pointed peak of flame uprolled
from tier to tier, and surging skyward seized
a tower—the very tower his own proud hands
had built of firm-set beams and wheeled in place,
and slung its Iofty bridges high in air.
“Fate is too strong, my sister! Seek no more
to stay the stroke. But let me hence pursue
that path where Heaven and cruel Fortune call.
Aeneas I must meet; and I must bear
the bitterness of death, whate'er it be.
O sister, thou shalt look upon my shame
no longer. But first grant a madman's will!”
He spoke; and leaping from his chariot, sped
through foes and foemen's spears, not seeing now
his sister's sorrow, as in swift career
he burst from line to line. Thus headlong falls
a mountain-boulder by a whirlwind flung
from lofty peak, or loosened by much rain,
or by insidious lapse of seasons gone;
the huge, resistless crag goes plunging down
by leaps and bounds, o'erwhelming as it flies
tall forests, Bocks and herds, and mortal men:
so through the scattered legions Turnus ran
straight to the city walls, where all the ground
was drenched with blood, and every passing air
shrieked with the noise of spears. His lifted hand
made sign of silence as he loudly called:
“Refrain, Rutulians! O ye Latins all,
your spears withhold! The issue of the fray
is all my own. I only can repair
our broken truce by judgment of the sword.”
Back fell the hostile lines, and cleared the field.

But Sire Aeneas, hearing Turnus' name,
down the steep rampart from the citadel
unlingering tried, all lesser task laid by,
with joy exultant and dread-thundering arms.
Like Athos' crest he loomed, or soaring top
of Eryx, when the nodding oaks resound,
or sovereign Apennine that lifts in air
his forehead of triumphant snow. All eyes
of Troy, Rutulia, and Italy
were fixed his way; and all who kept a guard
on lofty rampart, or in siege below
were battering the foundations, now laid by
their implements and arms. Latinus too
stood awestruck to behold such champions, born
in lands far-sundered, met upon one field
for one decisive stroke of sword with sword.
Swift striding forth where spread the vacant plain,
they hurled their spears from far; then in close fight
the brazen shields rang. Beneath their tread
Earth groaned aloud, as with redoubling blows
their falchions fell; nor could a mortal eye
'twixt chance and courage the dread work divide.
As o'er Taburnus' top, or spacious hills
of Sila, in relentless shock of war,
two bulls rush brow to brow, while terror-pale
the herdsmen fly; the herd is hushed with fear;
the heifers dumbly marvel which shall be
true monarch of the grove, whom all the kine
obedient follow; but the rival twain,
commingling mightily wound after wound,
thrust with opposing horns, and bathe their necks
in streams of blood; the forest far and wide
repeats their bellowing rage: not otherwise
Trojan Aeneas and King Daunus' son
clashed shield on shield, till all the vaulted sky
felt the tremendous sound. The hand of Jove
held scales in equipoise, and threw thereon
th' unequal fortunes of the heroes twain:
one to vast labors doomed and one to die.

Soon Turnus, reckless of the risk, leaped forth,
upreached his whole height to his lifted sword,
and struck: the Trojans and the Latins pale
cried mightily, and all eyes turned one way
expectant. But the weak, perfidious sword
broke off, and as the blow descended, failed
its furious master, whose sole succor now
was flight; and swifter than the wind he flew.
But, lo! a hilt of form and fashion strange
lay in his helpless hand. For in his haste,
when to the battle-field his team he drove,
his father's sword forgotten (such the tale),
he snatched Metiscus' weapon. This endured
to strike at Trojan backs, as he pursued,
but when on Vulcan's armory divine
its earthly metal smote, the brittle blade
broke off like ice, and o'er the yellow sands
in flashing fragments scattered. Turnus now
takes mad flight o'er the distant plain, and winds
in wavering gyration round and round;
for Troy's close ring confines him, and one way
a wide swamp lies, one way a frowning wall.