Complete Works of Virgil

by Virgil

  Which, full descending with a frightful sway,

  Thro’ shield and corslet forc’d th’ impetuous way,

  And buried deep in his fair bosom lay.

  The purple streams thro’ the thin armor strove,

  And drench’d th’ imbroider’d coat his mother wove;

  And life at length forsook his heaving heart,

  Loth from so sweet a mansion to depart.

  But when, with blood and paleness all o’erspread,

  The pious prince beheld young Lausus dead,

  He griev’d; he wept; the sight an image brought

  Of his own filial love, a sadly pleasing thought:

  Then stretch’d his hand to hold him up, and said:

  “Poor hapless youth! what praises can be paid

  To love so great, to such transcendent store

  Of early worth, and sure presage of more?

  Accept whate’er Aeneas can afford;

  Untouch’d thy arms, untaken be thy sword;

  And all that pleas’d thee living, still remain

  Inviolate, and sacred to the slain.

  Thy body on thy parents I bestow,

  To rest thy soul, at least, if shadows know,

  Or have a sense of human things below.

  There to thy fellow ghosts with glory tell:

  ‘‘T was by the great Aeneas hand I fell.’”

  With this, his distant friends he beckons near,

  Provokes their duty, and prevents their fear:

  Himself assists to lift him from the ground,

  With clotted locks, and blood that well’d from out the wound.

  Meantime, his father, now no father, stood,

  And wash’d his wounds by Tiber’s yellow flood:

  Oppress’d with anguish, panting, and o’erspent,

  His fainting limbs against an oak he leant.

  A bough his brazen helmet did sustain;

  His heavier arms lay scatter’d on the plain:

  A chosen train of youth around him stand;

  His drooping head was rested on his hand:

  His grisly beard his pensive bosom sought;

  And all on Lausus ran his restless thought.

  Careful, concern’d his danger to prevent,

  He much enquir’d, and many a message sent

  To warn him from the field- alas! in vain!

  Behold, his mournful followers bear him slain!

  O’er his broad shield still gush’d the yawning wound,

  And drew a bloody trail along the ground.

  Far off he heard their cries, far off divin’d

  The dire event, with a foreboding mind.

  With dust he sprinkled first his hoary head;

  Then both his lifted hands to heav’n he spread;

  Last, the dear corpse embracing, thus he said:

  “What joys, alas! could this frail being give,

  That I have been so covetous to live?

  To see my son, and such a son, resign

  His life, a ransom for preserving mine!

  And am I then preserv’d, and art thou lost?

  How much too dear has that redemption cost!

  ‘T is now my bitter banishment I feel:

  This is a wound too deep for time to heal.

  My guilt thy growing virtues did defame;

  My blackness blotted thy unblemish’d name.

  Chas’d from a throne, abandon’d, and exil’d

  For foul misdeeds, were punishments too mild:

  I ow’d my people these, and, from their hate,

  With less resentment could have borne my fate.

  And yet I live, and yet sustain the sight

  Of hated men, and of more hated light:

  But will not long.” With that he rais’d from ground

  His fainting limbs, that stagger’d with his wound;

  Yet, with a mind resolv’d, and unappall’d

  With pains or perils, for his courser call’d

  Well-mouth’d, well-manag’d, whom himself did dress

  With daily care, and mounted with success;

  His aid in arms, his ornament in peace.

  Soothing his courage with a gentle stroke,

  The steed seem’d sensible, while thus he spoke:

  “O Rhoebus, we have liv’d too long for me-

  If life and long were terms that could agree!

  This day thou either shalt bring back the head

  And bloody trophies of the Trojan dead;

  This day thou either shalt revenge my woe,

  For murther’d Lausus, on his cruel foe;

  Or, if inexorable fate deny

  Our conquest, with thy conquer’d master die:

  For, after such a lord, rest secure,

  Thou wilt no foreign reins, or Trojan load endure.”

  He said; and straight th’ officious courser kneels,

  To take his wonted weight. His hands he fills

  With pointed jav’lins; on his head he lac’d

  His glitt’ring helm, which terribly was grac’d

  With waving horsehair, nodding from afar;

  Then spurr’d his thund’ring steed amidst the war.

  Love, anguish, wrath, and grief, to madness wrought,

  Despair, and secret shame, and conscious thought

  Of inborn worth, his lab’ring soul oppress’d,

  Roll’d in his eyes, and rag’d within his breast.

  Then loud he call’d Aeneas thrice by name:

  The loud repeated voice to glad Aeneas came.

  “Great Jove,” he said, “and the far-shooting god,

  Inspire thy mind to make thy challenge good!”

  He spoke no more; but hasten’d, void of fear,

  And threaten’d with his long protended spear.

  To whom Mezentius thus: “Thy vaunts are vain.

  My Lausus lies extended on the plain:

  He’s lost! thy conquest is already won;

  The wretched sire is murther’d in the son.

  Nor fate I fear, but all the gods defy.

  Forbear thy threats: my bus’ness is to die;

  But first receive this parting legacy.”

  He said; and straight a whirling dart he sent;

  Another after, and another went.

  Round in a spacious ring he rides the field,

  And vainly plies th’ impenetrable shield.

  Thrice rode he round; and thrice Aeneas wheel’d,

  Turn’d as he turn’d: the golden orb withstood

  The strokes, and bore about an iron wood.

  Impatient of delay, and weary grown,

  Still to defend, and to defend alone,

  To wrench the darts which in his buckler light,

  Urg’d and o’er-labor’d in unequal fight;

  At length resolv’d, he throws with all his force

  Full at the temples of the warrior horse.

  Just where the stroke was aim’d, th’ unerring spear

  Made way, and stood transfix’d thro’ either ear.

  Seiz’d with unwonted pain, surpris’d with fright,

  The wounded steed curvets, and, rais’d upright,

  Lights on his feet before; his hoofs behind

  Spring up in air aloft, and lash the wind.

  Down comes the rider headlong from his height:

  His horse came after with unwieldy weight,

  And, flound’ring forward, pitching on his head,

  His lord’s incumber’d shoulder overlaid.

  From either host, the mingled shouts and cries

  Of Trojans and Rutulians rend the skies.

  Aeneas, hast’ning, wav’d his fatal sword

  High o’er his head, with this reproachful word:

  “Now; where are now thy vaunts, the fierce disdain

  Of proud Mezentius, and the lofty strain?”

  Struggling, and wildly staring on the skies,

  With scarce recover’d sight he thus replies:

  “Why these insul
ting words, this waste of breath,

  To souls undaunted, and secure of death?

  ‘T is no dishonor for the brave to die,

  Nor came I here with hope victory;

  Nor ask I life, nor fought with that design:

  As I had us’d my fortune, use thou thine.

  My dying son contracted no such band;

  The gift is hateful from his murd’rer’s hand.

  For this, this only favor let me sue,

  If pity can to conquer’d foes be due:

  Refuse it not; but let my body have

  The last retreat of humankind, a grave.

  Too well I know th’ insulting people’s hate;

  Protect me from their vengeance after fate:

  This refuge for my poor remains provide,

  And lay my much-lov’d Lausus by my side.”

  He said, and to the sword his throat applied.

  The crimson stream distain’d his arms around,

  And the disdainful soul came rushing thro’ the wound.

  BOOK XI

  Scarce had the rosy Morning rais’d her head

  Above the waves, and left her wat’ry bed;

  The pious chief, whom double cares attend

  For his unburied soldiers and his friend,

  Yet first to Heav’n perform’d a victor’s vows:

  He bar’d an ancient oak of all her boughs;

  Then on a rising ground the trunk he plac’d,

  Which with the spoils of his dead foe he grac’d.

  The coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn,

  Now on a naked snag in triumph borne,

  Was hung on high, and glitter’d from afar,

  A trophy sacred to the God of War.

  Above his arms, fix’d on the leafless wood,

  Appear’d his plumy crest, besmear’d with blood:

  His brazen buckler on the left was seen;

  Truncheons of shiver’d lances hung between;

  And on the right was placed his corslet, bor’d;

  And to the neck was tied his unavailing sword.

  A crowd of chiefs inclose the godlike man,

  Who thus, conspicuous in the midst, began:

  “Our toils, my friends, are crown’d with sure success;

  The greater part perform’d, achieve the less.

  Now follow cheerful to the trembling town;

  Press but an entrance, and presume it won.

  Fear is no more, for fierce Mezentius lies,

  As the first fruits of war, a sacrifice.

  Turnus shall fall extended on the plain,

  And, in this omen, is already slain.

  Prepar’d in arms, pursue your happy chance;

  That none unwarn’d may plead his ignorance,

  And I, at Heav’n’s appointed hour, may find

  Your warlike ensigns waving in the wind.

  Meantime the rites and fun’ral pomps prepare,

  Due to your dead companions of the war:

  The last respect the living can bestow,

  To shield their shadows from contempt below.

  That conquer’d earth be theirs, for which they fought,

  And which for us with their own blood they bought;

  But first the corpse of our unhappy friend

  To the sad city of Evander send,

  Who, not inglorious, in his age’s bloom,

  Was hurried hence by too severe a doom.”

  Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way,

  Where, new in death, lamented Pallas lay.

  Acoetes watch’d the corpse; whose youth deserv’d

  The father’s trust; and now the son he serv’d

  With equal faith, but less auspicious care.

  Th’ attendants of the slain his sorrow share.

  A troop of Trojans mix’d with these appear,

  And mourning matrons with dishevel’d hair.

  Soon as the prince appears, they raise a cry;

  All beat their breasts, and echoes rend the sky.

  They rear his drooping forehead from the ground;

  But, when Aeneas view’d the grisly wound

  Which Pallas in his manly bosom bore,

  And the fair flesh distain’d with purple gore;

  First, melting into tears, the pious man

  Deplor’d so sad a sight, then thus began:

  “Unhappy youth! when Fortune gave the rest

  Of my full wishes, she refus’d the best!

  She came; but brought not thee along, to bless

  My longing eyes, and share in my success:

  She grudg’d thy safe return, the triumphs due

  To prosp’rous valor, in the public view.

  Not thus I promis’d, when thy father lent

  Thy needless succor with a sad consent;

  Embrac’d me, parting for th’ Etrurian land,

  And sent me to possess a large command.

  He warn’d, and from his own experience told,

  Our foes were warlike, disciplin’d, and bold.

  And now perhaps, in hopes of thy return,

  Rich odors on his loaded altars burn,

  While we, with vain officious pomp, prepare

  To send him back his portion of the war,

  A bloody breathless body, which can owe

  No farther debt, but to the pow’rs below.

  The wretched father, ere his race is run,

  Shall view the fun’ral honors of his son.

  These are my triumphs of the Latian war,

  Fruits of my plighted faith and boasted care!

  And yet, unhappy sire, thou shalt not see

  A son whose death disgrac’d his ancestry;

  Thou shalt not blush, old man, however griev’d:

  Thy Pallas no dishonest wound receiv’d.

  He died no death to make thee wish, too late,

  Thou hadst not liv’d to see his shameful fate:

  But what a champion has th’ Ausonian coast,

  And what a friend hast thou, Ascanius, lost!”

  Thus having mourn’d, he gave the word around,

  To raise the breathless body from the ground;

  And chose a thousand horse, the flow’r of all

  His warlike troops, to wait the funeral,

  To bear him back and share Evander’s grief:

  A well-becoming, but a weak relief.

  Of oaken twigs they twist an easy bier,

  Then on their shoulders the sad burden rear.

  The body on this rural hearse is borne:

  Strew’d leaves and funeral greens the bier adorn.

  All pale he lies, and looks a lovely flow’r,

  New cropp’d by virgin hands, to dress the bow’r:

  Unfaded yet, but yet unfed below,

  No more to mother earth or the green stern shall owe.

  Then two fair vests, of wondrous work and cost,

  Of purple woven, and with gold emboss’d,

  For ornament the Trojan hero brought,

  Which with her hands Sidonian Dido wrought.

  One vest array’d the corpse; and one they spread

  O’er his clos’d eyes, and wrapp’d around his head,

  That, when the yellow hair in flame should fall,

  The catching fire might burn the golden caul.

  Besides, the spoils of foes in battle slain,

  When he descended on the Latian plain;

  Arms, trappings, horses, by the hearse are led

  In long array- th’ achievements of the dead.

  Then, pinion’d with their hands behind, appear

  Th’ unhappy captives, marching in the rear,

  Appointed off’rings in the victor’s name,

  To sprinkle with their blood the fun’ral flame.

  Inferior trophies by the chiefs are borne;

  Gauntlets and helms their loaded hands adorn;

  And fair inscriptions fix’d, and titles read

  Of Latian leaders conquer’d by the dead.


  Acoetes on his pupil’s corpse attends,

  With feeble steps, supported by his friends.

  Pausing at ev’ry pace, in sorrow drown’d,

  Betwixt their arms he sinks upon the ground;

  Where grov’ling while he lies in deep despair,

  He beats his breast, and rends his hoary hair.

  The champion’s chariot next is seen to roll,

  Besmear’d with hostile blood, and honorably foul.

  To close the pomp, Aethon, the steed of state,

  Is led, the fun’rals of his lord to wait.

  Stripp’d of his trappings, with a sullen pace

  He walks; and the big tears run rolling down his face.

  The lance of Pallas, and the crimson crest,

  Are borne behind: the victor seiz’d the rest.

  The march begins: the trumpets hoarsely sound;

  The pikes and lances trail along the ground.

  Thus while the Trojan and Arcadian horse

  To Pallantean tow’rs direct their course,

  In long procession rank’d, the pious chief

  Stopp’d in the rear, and gave a vent to grief:

  “The public care,” he said, “which war attends,

  Diverts our present woes, at least suspends.

  Peace with the manes of great Pallas dwell!

  Hail, holy relics! and a last farewell!”

  He said no more, but, inly thro’ he mourn’d,

  Restrained his tears, and to the camp return’d.

  Now suppliants, from Laurentum sent, demand

  A truce, with olive branches in their hand;

  Obtest his clemency, and from the plain

  Beg leave to draw the bodies of their slain.

  They plead, that none those common rites deny

  To conquer’d foes that in fair battle die.

  All cause of hate was ended in their death;

  Nor could he war with bodies void of breath.

  A king, they hop’d, would hear a king’s request,

  Whose son he once was call’d, and once his guest.

  Their suit, which was too just to be denied,

  The hero grants, and farther thus replied:

  “O Latian princes, how severe a fate

  In causeless quarrels has involv’d your state,

  And arm’d against an unoffending man,

  Who sought your friendship ere the war began!

  You beg a truce, which I would gladly give,

  Not only for the slain, but those who live.

  I came not hither but by Heav’n’s command,

  And sent by fate to share the Latian land.

  Nor wage I wars unjust: your king denied

  My proffer’d friendship, and my promis’d bride;