by Virgil
And shun, for fear, the danger of the fight?
Where is our Eryx now, the boasted name,
The god who taught your thund’ring arm the game?
Where now your baffled honor? Where the spoil
That fill’d your house, and fame that fill’d our isle?”
Entellus, thus: “My soul is still the same,
Unmov’d with fear, and mov’d with martial fame;
But my chill blood is curdled in my veins,
And scarce the shadow of a man remains.
O could I turn to that fair prime again,
That prime of which this boaster is so vain,
The brave, who this decrepid age defies,
Should feel my force, without the promis’d prize.”
He said; and, rising at the word, he threw
Two pond’rous gauntlets down in open view;
Gauntlets which Eryx wont in fight to wield,
And sheathe his hands with in the listed field.
With fear and wonder seiz’d, the crowd beholds
The gloves of death, with sev’n distinguish’d folds
Of tough bull hides; the space within is spread
With iron, or with loads of heavy lead:
Dares himself was daunted at the sight,
Renounc’d his challenge, and refus’d to fight.
Astonish’d at their weight, the hero stands,
And pois’d the pond’rous engines in his hands.
“What had your wonder,” said Entellus, “been,
Had you the gauntlets of Alcides seen,
Or view’d the stern debate on this unhappy green!
These which I bear your brother Eryx bore,
Still mark’d with batter’d brains and mingled gore.
With these he long sustain’d th’ Herculean arm;
And these I wielded while my blood was warm,
This languish’d frame while better spirits fed,
Ere age unstrung my nerves, or time o’ersnow’d my head.
But if the challenger these arms refuse,
And cannot wield their weight, or dare not use;
If great Aeneas and Acestes join
In his request, these gauntlets I resign;
Let us with equal arms perform the fight,
And let him leave to fear, since I resign my right.”
This said, Entellus for the strife prepares;
Stripp’d of his quilted coat, his body bares;
Compos’d of mighty bones and brawn he stands,
A goodly tow’ring object on the sands.
Then just Aeneas equal arms supplied,
Which round their shoulders to their wrists they tied.
Both on the tiptoe stand, at full extent,
Their arms aloft, their bodies inly bent;
Their heads from aiming blows they bear afar;
With clashing gauntlets then provoke the war.
One on his youth and pliant limbs relies;
One on his sinews and his giant size.
The last is stiff with age, his motion slow;
He heaves for breath, he staggers to and fro,
And clouds of issuing smoke his nostrils loudly blow.
Yet equal in success, they ward, they strike;
Their ways are diff’rent, but their art alike.
Before, behind, the blows are dealt; around
Their hollow sides the rattling thumps resound.
A storm of strokes, well meant, with fury flies,
And errs about their temples, ears, and eyes.
Nor always errs; for oft the gauntlet draws
A sweeping stroke along the crackling jaws.
Heavy with age, Entellus stands his ground,
But with his warping body wards the wound.
His hand and watchful eye keep even pace;
While Dares traverses and shifts his place,
And, like a captain who beleaguers round
Some strong-built castle on a rising ground,
Views all th’ approaches with observing eyes:
This and that other part in vain he tries,
And more on industry than force relies.
With hands on high, Entellus threats the foe;
But Dares watch’d the motion from below,
And slipp’d aside, and shunn’d the long descending blow.
Entellus wastes his forces on the wind,
And, thus deluded of the stroke design’d,
Headlong and heavy fell; his ample breast
And weighty limbs his ancient mother press’d.
So falls a hollow pine, that long had stood
On Ida’s height, or Erymanthus’ wood,
Torn from the roots. The diff’ring nations rise,
And shouts and mingled murmurs rend the skies,
Acestus runs with eager haste, to raise
The fall’n companion of his youthful days.
Dauntless he rose, and to the fight return’d;
With shame his glowing cheeks, his eyes with fury burn’d.
Disdain and conscious virtue fir’d his breast,
And with redoubled force his foe he press’d.
He lays on load with either hand, amain,
And headlong drives the Trojan o’er the plain;
Nor stops, nor stays; nor rest nor breath allows;
But storms of strokes descend about his brows,
A rattling tempest, and a hail of blows.
But now the prince, who saw the wild increase
Of wounds, commands the combatants to cease,
And bounds Entellus’ wrath, and bids the peace.
First to the Trojan, spent with toil, he came,
And sooth’d his sorrow for the suffer’d shame.
“What fury seiz’d my friend? The gods,” said he,
“To him propitious, and averse to thee,
Have giv’n his arm superior force to thine.
‘T is madness to contend with strength divine.”
The gauntlet fight thus ended, from the shore
His faithful friends unhappy Dares bore:
His mouth and nostrils pour’d a purple flood,
And pounded teeth came rushing with his blood.
Faintly he stagger’d thro’ the hissing throng,
And hung his head, and trail’d his legs along.
The sword and casque are carried by his train;
But with his foe the palm and ox remain.
The champion, then, before Aeneas came,
Proud of his prize, but prouder of his fame:
“O goddess-born, and you, Dardanian host,
Mark with attention, and forgive my boast;
Learn what I was, by what remains; and know
From what impending fate you sav’d my foe.”
Sternly he spoke, and then confronts the bull;
And, on his ample forehead aiming full,
The deadly stroke, descending, pierc’d the skull.
Down drops the beast, nor needs a second wound,
But sprawls in pangs of death, and spurns the ground.
Then, thus: “In Dares’ stead I offer this.
Eryx, accept a nobler sacrifice;
Take the last gift my wither’d arms can yield:
Thy gauntlets I resign, and here renounce the field.”
This done, Aeneas orders, for the close,
The strife of archers with contending bows.
The mast Sergesthus’ shatter’d galley bore
With his own hands he raises on the shore.
A flutt’ring dove upon the top they tie,
The living mark at which their arrows fly.
The rival archers in a line advance,
Their turn of shooting to receive from chance.
A helmet holds their names; the lots are drawn:
On the first scroll was read Hippocoon.
The people shout. Upon the next was found
Young Mnestheus, late with naval honors crown’d.
&nb
sp; The third contain’d Eurytion’s noble name,
Thy brother, Pandarus, and next in fame,
Whom Pallas urg’d the treaty to confound,
And send among the Greeks a feather’d wound.
Acestes in the bottom last remain’d,
Whom not his age from youthful sports restrain’d.
Soon all with vigor bend their trusty bows,
And from the quiver each his arrow chose.
Hippocoon’s was the first: with forceful sway
It flew, and, whizzing, cut the liquid way.
Fix’d in the mast the feather’d weapon stands:
The fearful pigeon flutters in her bands,
And the tree trembled, and the shouting cries
Of the pleas’d people rend the vaulted skies.
Then Mnestheus to the head his arrow drove,
With lifted eyes, and took his aim above,
But made a glancing shot, and missed the dove;
Yet miss’d so narrow, that he cut the cord
Which fasten’d by the foot the flitting bird.
The captive thus releas’d, away she flies,
And beats with clapping wings the yielding skies.
His bow already bent, Eurytion stood;
And, having first invok’d his brother god,
His winged shaft with eager haste he sped.
The fatal message reach’d her as she fled:
She leaves her life aloft; she strikes the ground,
And renders back the weapon in the wound.
Acestes, grudging at his lot, remains,
Without a prize to gratify his pains.
Yet, shooting upward, sends his shaft, to show
An archer’s art, and boast his twanging bow.
The feather’d arrow gave a dire portent,
And latter augurs judge from this event.
Chaf’d by the speed, it fir’d; and, as it flew,
A trail of following flames ascending drew:
Kindling they mount, and mark the shiny way;
Across the skies as falling meteors play,
And vanish into wind, or in a blaze decay.
The Trojans and Sicilians wildly stare,
And, trembling, turn their wonder into pray’r.
The Dardan prince put on a smiling face,
And strain’d Acestes with a close embrace;
Then, hon’ring him with gifts above the rest,
Turn’d the bad omen, nor his fears confess’d.
“The gods,” said he, “this miracle have wrought,
And order’d you the prize without the lot.
Accept this goblet, rough with figur’d gold,
Which Thracian Cisseus gave my sire of old:
This pledge of ancient amity receive,
Which to my second sire I justly give.”
He said, and, with the trumpets’ cheerful sound,
Proclaim’d him victor, and with laurel-crown’d.
Nor good Eurytion envied him the prize,
Tho’ he transfix’d the pigeon in the skies.
Who cut the line, with second gifts was grac’d;
The third was his whose arrow pierc’d the mast.
The chief, before the games were wholly done,
Call’d Periphantes, tutor to his son,
And whisper’d thus: “With speed Ascanius find;
And, if his childish troop be ready join’d,
On horseback let him grace his grandsire’s day,
And lead his equals arm’d in just array.”
He said; and, calling out, the cirque he clears.
The crowd withdrawn, an open plain appears.
And now the noble youths, of form divine,
Advance before their fathers, in a line;
The riders grace the steeds; the steeds with glory shine.
Thus marching on in military pride,
Shouts of applause resound from side to side.
Their casques adorn’d with laurel wreaths they wear,
Each brandishing aloft a cornel spear.
Some at their backs their gilded quivers bore;
Their chains of burnish’d gold hung down before.
Three graceful troops they form’d upon the green;
Three graceful leaders at their head were seen;
Twelve follow’d ev’ry chief, and left a space between.
The first young Priam led; a lovely boy,
Whose grandsire was th’ unhappy king of Troy;
His race in after times was known to fame,
New honors adding to the Latian name;
And well the royal boy his Thracian steed became.
White were the fetlocks of his feet before,
And on his front a snowy star he bore.
Then beauteous Atys, with Iulus bred,
Of equal age, the second squadron led.
The last in order, but the first in place,
First in the lovely features of his face,
Rode fair Ascanius on a fiery steed,
Queen Dido’s gift, and of the Tyrian breed.
Sure coursers for the rest the king ordains,
With golden bits adorn’d, and purple reins.
The pleas’d spectators peals of shouts renew,
And all the parents in the children view;
Their make, their motions, and their sprightly grace,
And hopes and fears alternate in their face.
Th’ unfledg’d commanders and their martial train
First make the circuit of the sandy plain
Around their sires, and, at th’ appointed sign,
Drawn up in beauteous order, form a line.
The second signal sounds, the troop divides
In three distinguish’d parts, with three distinguish’d guides
Again they close, and once again disjoin;
In troop to troop oppos’d, and line to line.
They meet; they wheel; they throw their darts afar
With harmless rage and well-dissembled war.
Then in a round the mingled bodies run:
Flying they follow, and pursuing shun;
Broken, they break; and, rallying, they renew
In other forms the military shew.
At last, in order, undiscern’d they join,
And march together in a friendly line.
And, as the Cretan labyrinth of old,
With wand’ring ways and many a winding fold,
Involv’d the weary feet, without redress,
In a round error, which denied recess;
So fought the Trojan boys in warlike play,
Turn’d and return’d, and still a diff’rent way.
Thus dolphins in the deep each other chase
In circles, when they swim around the wat’ry race.
This game, these carousels, Ascanius taught;
And, building Alba, to the Latins brought;
Shew’d what he learn’d: the Latin sires impart
To their succeeding sons the graceful art;
From these imperial Rome receiv’d the game,
Which Troy, the youths the Trojan troop, they name.
Thus far the sacred sports they celebrate:
But Fortune soon resum’d her ancient hate;
For, while they pay the dead his annual dues,
Those envied rites Saturnian Juno views;
And sends the goddess of the various bow,
To try new methods of revenge below;
Supplies the winds to wing her airy way,
Where in the port secure the navy lay.
Swiftly fair Iris down her arch descends,
And, undiscern’d, her fatal voyage ends.
She saw the gath’ring crowd; and, gliding thence,
The desart shore, and fleet without defense.
The Trojan matrons, on the sands alone,
With sighs and tears Anchises’ death bemoan;
Then, turning to the sea their weeping eyes,
Their pity to t
hemselves renews their cries.
“Alas!” said one, “what oceans yet remain
For us to sail! what labors to sustain!”
All take the word, and, with a gen’ral groan,
Implore the gods for peace, and places of their own.
The goddess, great in mischief, views their pains,
And in a woman’s form her heav’nly limbs restrains.
In face and shape old Beroe she became,
Doryclus’ wife, a venerable dame,
Once blest with riches, and a mother’s name.
Thus chang’d, amidst the crying crowd she ran,
Mix’d with the matrons, and these words began:
“O wretched we, whom not the Grecian pow’r,
Nor flames, destroy’d, in Troy’s unhappy hour!
O wretched we, reserv’d by cruel fate,
Beyond the ruins of the sinking state!
Now sev’n revolving years are wholly run,
Since this improsp’rous voyage we begun;
Since, toss’d from shores to shores, from lands to lands,
Inhospitable rocks and barren sands,
Wand’ring in exile thro’ the stormy sea,
We search in vain for flying Italy.
Now cast by fortune on this kindred land,
What should our rest and rising walls withstand,
Or hinder here to fix our banish’d band?
O country lost, and gods redeem’d in vain,
If still in endless exile we remain!
Shall we no more the Trojan walls renew,
Or streams of some dissembled Simois view!
Haste, join with me, th’ unhappy fleet consume!
Cassandra bids; and I declare her doom.
In sleep I saw her; she supplied my hands
(For this I more than dreamt) with flaming brands:
‘With these,’ said she, ‘these wand’ring ships destroy:
These are your fatal seats, and this your Troy.’
Time calls you now; the precious hour employ:
Slack not the good presage, while Heav’n inspires
Our minds to dare, and gives the ready fires.
See! Neptune’s altars minister their brands:
The god is pleas’d; the god supplies our hands.”
Then from the pile a flaming fire she drew,
And, toss’d in air, amidst the galleys threw.
Wrapp’d in amaze, the matrons wildly stare:
Then Pyrgo, reverenc’d for her hoary hair,
Pyrgo, the nurse of Priam’s num’rous race:
“No Beroe this, tho’ she belies her face!
What terrors from her frowning front arise!
Behold a goddess in her ardent eyes!
