Aeneid

Virgil

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

But lo! Aeneas—though the arrow's wound
still slackens him and oft his knees refuse
their wonted step—pursues infuriate
his quailing foe, and dogs him stride for stride.
As when a stag-hound drives the baffled roe
to torrent's edge (or where the flaunting snare
of crimson feathers fearfully confines)
and with incessant barking swift pursues;
while through the snared copse or embankment high
the frightened creature by a thousand ways
doubles and turns; but that keen Umbrian hound
with wide jaws, undesisting, grasps his prey,
or, thinking that he grasps it, snaps his teeth
cracking together, and deludes his rage,
devouring empty air: then peal on peal
the cry of hunters bursts; the lake and shore
reecho, and confusion fills the sky:—
such was the flight of Turnus, who reviled
the Rutules as he fled, and loudly sued
of each by name to fetch his own lost sword.
Aeneas vowed destruction and swift death
to all who dared come near, and terrified
their trembling souls with menace that his power
would raze their city to the ground. Straightway,
though wounded, he gave chase, and five times round
in circles ran; then winding left and right
coursed the swift circles o'er. For, lo! the prize
is no light laurel or a youthful game:
for Turnus' doom and death their race is run.

But haply in that place a sacred tree,
a bitter-leaved wild-olive, once had grown,
to Faunus dear, and venerated oft
by mariners safe-rescued from the waves,
who nailed their gifts thereon, or hung in air
their votive garments to Laurentum's god.
But, heeding not, the Teucrians had shorn
the stem away, to clear the field for war.
'T was here Aeneas' lance stuck fast; its speed
had driven it firmly inward, and it clave
to the hard, clinging root. Anchises' son
bent o'er it, and would wrench his weapon free,
and follow with a far-flung javelin
the swift out-speeding foe. But Turnus then,
bewildered and in terror, cried aloud:
“O Faunus, pity me and heed my prayer!
Hold fast his weapon, O benignant Earth!
If ere these hands have rendered offering due,
where yon polluting Teucrians fight and slay.”
He spoke; invoking succor of the god,
with no Iost prayer. For tugging valiantly
and laboring long against the stubborn stem,
Aeneas with his whole strength could but fail
to Ioose the clasping tree. While fiercely thus
he strove and strained, Juturna once again,
wearing the charioteer Metiscus' shape,
ran to her brother's aid, restoring him
his own true sword. But Venus, wroth to see
what license to the dauntless nymph was given,
herself came near, and plucked from that deep root
the javelin forth. So both with lofty mien
strode forth new-armed, new-hearted: one made bold
by his good sword, the other, spear in hand,
uptowered in wrath, and with confronting brows
they set them to the war-god's breathless game.

Meanwhile th' Olympian sovereign supreme
to Juno speaks, as from an amber cloud
the strife she views: “My Queen, what end shall be?
What yet remains? Thou seest Aeneas' name
numbered with tutelary gods of power;
and well thou know'st what station in the sky
his starward destiny intends. What scheme
vexes thy bosom still? What stubborn hope,
fostered in cloud and cold? O, was it well
to desecrate a god with mortal wound;
or well (what were a nymph unhelped by thee?)
to give back Turnus his lost sword, and lend
strength unavailing to the fallen brave?
Give o'er, and to our supplication yield;
let not such grief thy voiceless heart devour;
nor from thy sweet lips let thy mournful care
so oft assail my mind. For now is come
the last decisive day. Thy power availed
to vex the Trojans upon land and sea,
to wake abominable war, bring shame
upon a royal house, and mix the songs
of marriage and the grave: but further act
I thee refuse.” Such was the word of Jove.
Thus Saturn's daughter answered, drooping low
her brows divine: “Because, great Jove, I knew
thy pleasure, I from yonder earth retired
and Turnus' cause, tho, with unwilling mind.
Else shouldst thou not behold me at this hour
Upon my solitary throne of air
enduring fair and foul; I should be found
flame-girded on the battle's deadly verge,
tempting the Teucrians to a hated war.
Yea, 't was my motion thrust Juturna forth
to help her hapless brother. I approved—
to save his life—that she should be too bold;
but bade no whirl of spear nor bending bow:
I swear it by th' inexorable fount
whence flow the Stygian rivers, the sole seat
where gods of light bow down in awful prayer.
I yield me now; heart-sick I quit the war.
But ask one boon, which in the book of fate
is not denied; for Latium's good I sue,
and high prerogatives of men that be
thy kith and kin: when happy wedlock vows
(aye, be it so!) shall join them by strong laws
of chartered peace, let not the Latins Iose
their ancient, native name. Bid them not pass
for Trojans, nor be hailed as Teucer's sons;
no alien speech, no alien garb impose.
Let it be Latium ever; let the lords
of Alba unto distant ages reign;
let the strong, master blood of Rome receive
the manhood and the might of Italy.
Troy perished: let its name and glory die!”
The Author of mankind and all that is,
smiling benignant, answered thus her plea:
“Jove's sister true, and Saturn's second child,
what seas of anger vex thy heart divine!
But come, relinquish thy rash, fruitless rage:
I give thee this desire, and yield to thee
free submission. The Ausonian tribes
shall keep the speech and customs of their sires;
the name remains as now; the Teucrian race,
abiding in the land, shall but infuse
the mixture of its blood. I will bestow
a league of worship, and to Latins give
one language only. From the mingled breed
a people shall come forth whom thou shalt see
surpass all mortal men and even outvie
the faithfulness of gods; for none that live
shall render to thy name an equal praise.”
So Juno bowed consent, and let her will
be changed, as with much comfort in her breast
she left Olympus and her haunt of cloud.

After these things Jove gave his kingly mind
to further action, that he might forthwith
cut off Juturna from her brother's cause.
Two plagues there be, called Furies, which were spawned
at one birth from the womb of wrathful Night
with dread Megaera, phantom out of hell;
and of their mother's gift, each Fury wears
grim-coiling serpents and tempestuous wings.
These at Jove's throne attend, and watch the doors
of that stern King—to whet the edge of fear
for wretched mortals, when the King of gods
hurls pestilence and death, or terrifies
offending nations with the scourge of war.
'T was one of these which Jove sent speeding down
from his ethereal seat, and bade her cross
the pathway of Juturna for a sign.
Her wings she spread, and earthward seemed to ride
upon a whirling storm. As when some shaft,
with Parthian poison tipped or Cretan gall,
a barb of death, shoots cloudward from the bow,
and hissing through the dark hastes forth unseen:
so earthward flew that daughter of the night.
Soon as she spied the Teucrians in array
and Turnus' lines, she shrivelled to the shape
of that small bird which on lone tombs and towers
sits perching through the midnight, and prolongs
in shadow and deep gloom her troubling cry.
In such disguise the Fury, screaming shrill,
flitted in Turnus' face, and with her wings
smote on his hollow shield. A strange affright
palsied his every limb; each several hair
lifted with horror, and his gasping voice
died on his lips. But when Juturna knew
from far the shrieking fiend's infernal wing,
she loosed her tresses, and their beauty tore,
to tell a sister's woe; with clenching hands
she marred her cheeks and beat her naked breast.
“What remedy or help, my Turnus, now
is in a sister's power? What way remains
for stubborn me? Or with what further guile
thy life prolong? What can my strength oppose
to this foul thing? I quit the strife at last.
Withdraw thy terror from my fearful eyes,
thou bird accurst! The tumult of thy wings
I know full well, and thy death-boding call.
The harsh decrees of that large-minded Jove
I plainly see. Is this the price he pays
for my lost maidenhood? Why flatter me
with immortality, and snatch away
my property of death? What boon it were
to end this grief this hour, and hie away
to be my brother's helpmeet in his grave!
I, an immortal? O, what dear delight
is mine, sweet brother, living without thee?
O, where will earth yawn deep enough and wide
to hide a goddess with the ghosts below?”
She spoke; and veiled in glistening mantle gray
her mournful brow; then in her stream divine
the nymph sank sighing to its utmost cave.

Aeneas now is near; and waving wide
a spear like some tall tree, he called aloud
with unrelenting heart: “What stays thee now?
Or wherefore, Turnus, backward fly? Our work
is not a foot-race, but the wrathful strife
of man with man. Aye, hasten to put on
tricks and disguises; gather all thou hast
of skill or courage; wish thou wert a bird
to fly to starry heaven, or hide thy head
safe in the hollow ground!” The other then
shook his head, saying: “It is not thy words,
not thy hot words, affright me, savage man!
Only the gods I fear, and hostile Jove.”
Silent he stood, and glancing round him saw
a huge rock Iying by, huge rock and old,
a landmark justly sundering field from field,
which scarce six strong men's shoulders might upraise,
such men as mother-Earth brings forth to-day:
this grasped he with impetuous hand and hurled,
stretched at full height and roused to all his speed,
against his foe. Yet scarcely could he feel
it was himself that ran, himself that moved
with lifted hand to fling the monster stone;
for his knees trembled, and his languid blood
ran shuddering cold; nor could the stone he threw,
tumbling in empty air, attain its goal
nor strike the destined blow. But as in dreams,
when helpless slumber binds the darkened eyes,
we seem with fond desire to tread in vain
along a lengthening road, yet faint and fall
when straining to the utmost, and the tongue
is palsied, and the body's wonted power
obeys not, and we have no speech or cry:
so unto Turnus, whatsoever way
his valiant spirit moved, the direful Fiend
stopped in the act his will. Swift-changing thoughts
rush o'er his soul; on the Rutulian host,
then at the town he glares, shrinks back in fear,
and trembles at th' impending lance; nor sees
what path to fly, what way confront the foe:—
no chariot now, nor sister-charioteer!