Complete Works of Virgil
Page 121
Left me for Turnus. Turnus then should try
His cause in arms, to conquer or to die.
My right and his are in dispute: the slain
Fell without fault, our quarrel to maintain.
In equal arms let us alone contend;
And let him vanquish, whom his fates befriend.
This is the way (so tell him) to possess
The royal virgin, and restore the peace.
Bear this message back, with ample leave,
That your slain friends may fun’ral rites receive.”
Thus having said- th’ embassadors, amaz’d,
Stood mute a while, and on each other gaz’d.
Drances, their chief, who harbor’d in his breast
Long hate to Turnus, as his foe profess’d,
Broke silence first, and to the godlike man,
With graceful action bowing, thus began:
“Auspicious prince, in arms a mighty name,
But yet whose actions far transcend your fame;
Would I your justice or your force express,
Thought can but equal; and all words are less.
Your answer we shall thankfully relate,
And favors granted to the Latian state.
If wish’d success our labor shall attend,
Think peace concluded, and the king your friend:
Let Turnus leave the realm to your command,
And seek alliance in some other land:
Build you the city which your fates assign;
We shall be proud in the great work to join.”
Thus Drances; and his words so well persuade
The rest impower’d, that soon a truce is made.
Twelve days the term allow’d: and, during those,
Latians and Trojans, now no longer foes,
Mix’d in the woods, for fun’ral piles prepare
To fell the timber, and forget the war.
Loud axes thro’ the groaning groves resound;
Oak, mountain ash, and poplar spread the ground;
First fall from high; and some the trunks receive
In loaden wains; with wedges some they cleave.
And now the fatal news by Fame is blown
Thro’ the short circuit of th’ Arcadian town,
Of Pallas slain- by Fame, which just before
His triumphs on distended pinions bore.
Rushing from out the gate, the people stand,
Each with a fun’ral flambeau in his hand.
Wildly they stare, distracted with amaze:
The fields are lighten’d with a fiery blaze,
That cast a sullen splendor on their friends,
The marching troop which their dead prince attends.
Both parties meet: they raise a doleful cry;
The matrons from the walls with shrieks reply,
And their mix’d mourning rends the vaulted sky.
The town is fill’d with tumult and with tears,
Till the loud clamors reach Evander’s ears:
Forgetful of his state, he runs along,
With a disorder’d pace, and cleaves the throng;
Falls on the corpse; and groaning there he lies,
With silent grief, that speaks but at his eyes.
Short sighs and sobs succeed; till sorrow breaks
A passage, and at once he weeps and speaks:
“O Pallas! thou hast fail’d thy plighted word,
To fight with caution, not to tempt the sword!
I warn’d thee, but in vain; for well I knew
What perils youthful ardor would pursue,
That boiling blood would carry thee too far,
Young as thou wert in dangers, raw to war!
O curst essay of arms, disastrous doom,
Prelude of bloody fields, and fights to come!
Hard elements of unauspicious war,
Vain vows to Heav’n, and unavailing care!
Thrice happy thou, dear partner of my bed,
Whose holy soul the stroke of Fortune fled,
Praescious of ills, and leaving me behind,
To drink the dregs of life by fate assign’d!
Beyond the goal of nature I have gone:
My Pallas late set out, but reach’d too soon.
If, for my league against th’ Ausonian state,
Amidst their weapons I had found my fate,
(Deserv’d from them,) then I had been return’d
A breathless victor, and my son had mourn’d.
Yet will I not my Trojan friend upbraid,
Nor grudge th’ alliance I so gladly made.
‘T was not his fault, my Pallas fell so young,
But my own crime, for having liv’d too long.
Yet, since the gods had destin’d him to die,
At least he led the way to victory:
First for his friends he won the fatal shore,
And sent whole herds of slaughter’d foes before;
A death too great, too glorious to deplore.
Nor will I add new honors to thy grave,
Content with those the Trojan hero gave:
That funeral pomp thy Phrygian friends design’d,
In which the Tuscan chiefs and army join’d.
Great spoils and trophies, gain’d by thee, they bear:
Then let thy own achievements be thy share.
Even thou, O Turnus, hadst a trophy stood,
Whose mighty trunk had better grac’d the wood,
If Pallas had arriv’d, with equal length
Of years, to match thy bulk with equal strength.
But why, unhappy man, dost thou detain
These troops, to view the tears thou shedd’st in vain?
Go, friends, this message to your lord relate:
Tell him, that, if I bear my bitter fate,
And, after Pallas’ death, live ling’ring on,
‘T is to behold his vengeance for my son.
I stay for Turnus, whose devoted head
Is owing to the living and the dead.
My son and I expect it from his hand;
‘T is all that he can give, or we demand.
Joy is no more; but I would gladly go,
To greet my Pallas with such news below.”
The morn had now dispell’d the shades of night,
Restoring toils, when she restor’d the light.
The Trojan king and Tuscan chief command
To raise the piles along the winding strand.
Their friends convey the dead fun’ral fires;
Black smold’ring smoke from the green wood expires;
The light of heav’n is chok’d, and the new day retires.
Then thrice around the kindled piles they go
(For ancient custom had ordain’d it so)
Thrice horse and foot about the fires are led;
And thrice, with loud laments, they hail the dead.
Tears, trickling down their breasts, bedew the ground,
And drums and trumpets mix their mournful sound.
Amid the blaze, their pious brethren throw
The spoils, in battle taken from the foe:
Helms, bits emboss’d, and swords of shining steel;
One casts a target, one a chariot wheel;
Some to their fellows their own arms restore:
The fauchions which in luckless fight they bore,
Their bucklers pierc’d, their darts bestow’d in vain,
And shiver’d lances gather’d from the plain.
Whole herds of offer’d bulls, about the fire,
And bristled boars, and woolly sheep expire.
Around the piles a careful troop attends,
To watch the wasting flames, and weep their burning friends;
Ling’ring along the shore, till dewy night
New decks the face of heav’n with starry light.
The conquer’d Latians, with like pious care,
Piles without number for their dead prepare.
/> Part in the places where they fell are laid;
And part are to the neighb’ring fields convey’d.
The corps of kings, and captains of renown,
Borne off in state, are buried in the town;
The rest, unhonor’d, and without a name,
Are cast a common heap to feed the flame.
Trojans and Latians vie with like desires
To make the field of battle shine with fires,
And the promiscuous blaze to heav’n aspires.
Now had the morning thrice renew’d the light,
And thrice dispell’d the shadows of the night,
When those who round the wasted fires remain,
Perform the last sad office to the slain.
They rake the yet warm ashes from below;
These, and the bones unburn’d, in earth bestow;
These relics with their country rites they grace,
And raise a mount of turf to mark the place.
But, in the palace of the king, appears
A scene more solemn, and a pomp of tears.
Maids, matrons, widows, mix their common moans;
Orphans their sires, and sires lament their sons.
All in that universal sorrow share,
And curse the cause of this unhappy war:
A broken league, a bride unjustly sought,
A crown usurp’d, which with their blood is bought!
These are the crimes with which they load the name
Of Turnus, and on him alone exclaim:
“Let him who lords it o’er th’ Ausonian land
Engage the Trojan hero hand to hand:
His is the gain; our lot is but to serve;
‘T is just, the sway he seeks, he should deserve.”
This Drances aggravates; and adds, with spite:
“His foe expects, and dares him to the fight.”
Nor Turnus wants a party, to support
His cause and credit in the Latian court.
His former acts secure his present fame,
And the queen shades him with her mighty name.
While thus their factious minds with fury burn,
The legates from th’ Aetolian prince return:
Sad news they bring, that, after all the cost
And care employ’d, their embassy is lost;
That Diomedes refus’d his aid in war,
Unmov’d with presents, and as deaf to pray’r.
Some new alliance must elsewhere be sought,
Or peace with Troy on hard conditions bought.
Latinus, sunk in sorrow, finds too late,
A foreign son is pointed out by fate;
And, till Aeneas shall Lavinia wed,
The wrath of Heav’n is hov’ring o’er his head.
The gods, he saw, espous’d the juster side,
When late their titles in the field were tried:
Witness the fresh laments, and fun’ral tears undried.
Thus, full of anxious thought, he summons all
The Latian senate to the council hall.
The princes come, commanded by their head,
And crowd the paths that to the palace lead.
Supreme in pow’r, and reverenc’d for his years,
He takes the throne, and in the midst appears.
Majestically sad, he sits in state,
And bids his envoys their success relate.
When Venulus began, the murmuring sound
Was hush’d, and sacred silence reign’d around.
“We have,” said he, “perform’d your high command,
And pass’d with peril a long tract of land:
We reach’d the place desir’d; with wonder fill’d,
The Grecian tents and rising tow’rs beheld.
Great Diomede has compass’d round with walls
The city, which Argyripa he calls,
From his own Argos nam’d. We touch’d, with joy,
The royal hand that raz’d unhappy Troy.
When introduc’d, our presents first we bring,
Then crave an instant audience from the king.
His leave obtain’d, our native soil we name,
And tell th’ important cause for which we came.
Attentively he heard us, while we spoke;
Then, with soft accents, and a pleasing look,
Made this return: ‘Ausonian race, of old
Renown’d for peace, and for an age of gold,
What madness has your alter’d minds possess’d,
To change for war hereditary rest,
Solicit arms unknown, and tempt the sword,
A needless ill your ancestors abhorr’d?
We- for myself I speak, and all the name
Of Grecians, who to Troy’s destruction came,
Omitting those who were in battle slain,
Or borne by rolling Simois to the main-
Not one but suffer’d, and too dearly bought
The prize of honor which in arms he sought;
Some doom’d to death, and some in exile driv’n.
Outcasts, abandon’d by the care of Heav’n;
So worn, so wretched, so despis’d a crew,
As ev’n old Priam might with pity view.
Witness the vessels by Minerva toss’d
In storms; the vengeful Capharean coast;
Th’ Euboean rocks! the prince, whose brother led
Our armies to revenge his injur’d bed,
In Egypt lost! Ulysses with his men
Have seen Charybdis and the Cyclops’ den.
Why should I name Idomeneus, in vain
Restor’d to scepters, and expell’d again?
Or young Achilles, by his rival slain?
Ev’n he, the King of Men, the foremost name
Of all the Greeks, and most renown’d by fame,
The proud revenger of another’s wife,
Yet by his own adult’ress lost his life;
Fell at his threshold; and the spoils of Troy
The foul polluters of his bed enjoy.
The gods have envied me the sweets of life,
My much lov’d country, and my more lov’d wife:
Banish’d from both, I mourn; while in the sky,
Transform’d to birds, my lost companions fly:
Hov’ring about the coasts, they make their moan,
And cuff the cliffs with pinions not their own.
What squalid specters, in the dead of night,
Break my short sleep, and skim before my sight!
I might have promis’d to myself those harms,
Mad as I was, when I, with mortal arms,
Presum’d against immortal pow’rs to move,
And violate with wounds the Queen of Love.
Such arms this hand shall never more employ;
No hate remains with me to ruin’d Troy.
I war not with its dust; nor am I glad
To think of past events, or good or bad.
Your presents I return: whate’er you bring
To buy my friendship, send the Trojan king.
We met in fight; I know him, to my cost:
With what a whirling force his lance he toss’d!
Heav’ns! what a spring was in his arm, to throw!
How high he held his shield, and rose at ev’ry blow!
Had Troy produc’d two more his match in might,
They would have chang’d the fortune of the fight:
Th’ invasion of the Greeks had been return’d,
Our empire wasted, and our cities burn’d.
The long defense the Trojan people made,
The war protracted, and the siege delay’d,
Were due to Hector’s and this hero’s hand:
Both brave alike, and equal in command;
Aeneas, not inferior in the field,
In pious reverence to the gods excell’d.
Make peace, ye Latians, and avoid with care
Th’ impending dangers of a fatal wa
r.’
He said no more; but, with this cold excuse,
Refus’d th’ alliance, and advis’d a truce.”
Thus Venulus concluded his report.
A jarring murmur fill’d the factious court:
As, when a torrent rolls with rapid force,
And dashes o’er the stones that stop the course,
The flood, constrain’d within a scanty space,
Roars horrible along th’ uneasy race;
White foam in gath’ring eddies floats around;
The rocky shores rebellow to the sound.
The murmur ceas’d: then from his lofty throne
The king invok’d the gods, and thus begun:
“I wish, ye Latins, what we now debate
Had been resolv’d before it was too late.
Much better had it been for you and me,
Unforc’d by this our last necessity,
To have been earlier wise, than now to call
A council, when the foe surrounds the wall.
O citizens, we wage unequal war,
With men not only Heav’n’s peculiar care,
But Heav’n’s own race; unconquer’d in the field,
Or, conquer’d, yet unknowing how to yield.
What hopes you had in Diomedes, lay down:
Our hopes must center on ourselves alone.
Yet those how feeble, and, indeed, how vain,
You see too well; nor need my words explain.
Vanquish’d without resource; laid flat by fate;
Factions within, a foe without the gate!
Not but I grant that all perform’d their parts
With manly force, and with undaunted hearts:
With our united strength the war we wag’d;
With equal numbers, equal arms, engag’d.
You see th’ event.- Now hear what I propose,
To save our friends, and satisfy our foes.
A tract of land the Latins have possess’d
Along the Tiber, stretching to the west,
Which now Rutulians and Auruncans till,
And their mix’d cattle graze the fruitful hill.
Those mountains fill’d with firs, that lower land,
If you consent, the Trojan shall command,
Call’d into part of what is ours; and there,
On terms agreed, the common country share.
There let’em build and settle, if they please;
Unless they choose once more to cross the seas,
In search of seats remote from Italy,
And from unwelcome inmates set us free.
Then twice ten galleys let us build with speed,
Or twice as many more, if more they need.
Materials are at hand; a well-grown wood