Complete Works of Virgil

by Virgil

  Runs equal with the margin of the flood:

  Let them the number and the form assign;

  The care and cost of all the stores be mine.

  To treat the peace, a hundred senators

  Shall be commission’d hence with ample pow’rs,

  With olive the presents they shall bear,

  A purple robe, a royal iv’ry chair,

  And all the marks of sway that Latian monarchs wear,

  And sums of gold. Among yourselves debate

  This great affair, and save the sinking state.”

  Then Drances took the word, who grudg’d, long since,

  The rising glories of the Daunian prince.

  Factious and rich, bold at the council board,

  But cautious in the field, he shunn’d the sword;

  A close caballer, and tongue-valiant lord.

  Noble his mother was, and near the throne;

  But, what his father’s parentage, unknown.

  He rose, and took th’ advantage of the times,

  To load young Turnus with invidious crimes.

  “Such truths, O king,” said he, “your words contain,

  As strike the sense, and all replies are vain;

  Nor are your loyal subjects now to seek

  What common needs require, but fear to speak.

  Let him give leave of speech, that haughty man,

  Whose pride this unauspicious war began;

  For whose ambition (let me dare to say,

  Fear set apart, tho’ death is in my way)

  The plains of Latium run with blood around.

  So many valiant heroes bite the ground;

  Dejected grief in ev’ry face appears;

  A town in mourning, and a land in tears;

  While he, th’ undoubted author of our harms,

  The man who menaces the gods with arms,

  Yet, after all his boasts, forsook the fight,

  And sought his safety in ignoble flight.

  Now, best of kings, since you propose to send

  Such bounteous presents to your Trojan friend;

  Add yet a greater at our joint request,

  One which he values more than all the rest:

  Give him the fair Lavinia for his bride;

  With that alliance let the league be tied,

  And for the bleeding land a lasting peace provide.

  Let insolence no longer awe the throne;

  But, with a father’s right, bestow your own.

  For this maligner of the general good,

  If still we fear his force, he must be woo’d;

  His haughty godhead we with pray’rs implore,

  Your scepter to release, and our just rights restore.

  O cursed cause of all our ills, must we

  Wage wars unjust, and fall in fight, for thee!

  What right hast thou to rule the Latian state,

  And send us out to meet our certain fate?

  ‘T is a destructive war: from Turnus’ hand

  Our peace and public safety we demand.

  Let the fair bride to the brave chief remain;

  If not, the peace, without the pledge, is vain.

  Turnus, I know you think me not your friend,

  Nor will I much with your belief contend:

  I beg your greatness not to give the law

  In others’ realms, but, beaten, to withdraw.

  Pity your own, or pity our estate;

  Nor twist our fortunes with your sinking fate.

  Your interest is, the war should never cease;

  But we have felt enough to wish the peace:

  A land exhausted to the last remains,

  Depopulated towns, and driven plains.

  Yet, if desire of fame, and thirst of pow’r,

  A beauteous princess, with a crown in dow’r,

  So fire your mind, in arms assert your right,

  And meet your foe, who dares you to the fight.

  Mankind, it seems, is made for you alone;

  We, but the slaves who mount you to the throne:

  A base ignoble crowd, without a name,

  Unwept, unworthy, of the fun’ral flame,

  By duty bound to forfeit each his life,

  That Turnus may possess a royal wife.

  Permit not, mighty man, so mean a crew

  Should share such triumphs, and detain from you

  The post of honor, your undoubted due.

  Rather alone your matchless force employ,

  To merit what alone you must enjoy.”

  These words, so full of malice mix’d with art,

  Inflam’d with rage the youthful hero’s heart.

  Then, groaning from the bottom of his breast,

  He heav’d for wind, and thus his wrath express’d:

  “You, Drances, never want a stream of words,

  Then, when the public need requires our swords.

  First in the council hall to steer the state,

  And ever foremost in a tongue-debate,

  While our strong walls secure us from the foe,

  Ere yet with blood our ditches overflow:

  But let the potent orator declaim,

  And with the brand of coward blot my name;

  Free leave is giv’n him, when his fatal hand

  Has cover’d with more corps the sanguine strand,

  And high as mine his tow’ring trophies stand.

  If any doubt remains, who dares the most,

  Let us decide it at the Trojan’s cost,

  And issue both abreast, where honor calls-

  Foes are not far to seek without the walls-

  Unless his noisy tongue can only fight,

  And feet were giv’n him but to speed his flight.

  I beaten from the field? I forc’d away?

  Who, but so known a dastard, dares to say?

  Had he but ev’n beheld the fight, his eyes

  Had witness’d for me what his tongue denies:

  What heaps of Trojans by this hand were slain,

  And how the bloody Tiber swell’d the main.

  All saw, but he, th’ Arcadian troops retire

  In scatter’d squadrons, and their prince expire.

  The giant brothers, in their camp, have found,

  I was not forc’d with ease to quit my ground.

  Not such the Trojans tried me, when, inclos’d,

  I singly their united arms oppos’d:

  First forc’d an entrance thro’ their thick array;

  Then, glutted with their slaughter, freed my way.

  ‘T is a destructive war? So let it be,

  But to the Phrygian pirate, and to thee!

  Meantime proceed to fill the people’s ears

  With false reports, their minds with panic fears:

  Extol the strength of a twice-conquer’d race;

  Our foes encourage, and our friends debase.

  Believe thy fables, and the Trojan town

  Triumphant stands; the Grecians are o’erthrown;

  Suppliant at Hector’s feet Achilles lies,

  And Diomede from fierce Aeneas flies.

  Say rapid Aufidus with awful dread

  Runs backward from the sea, and hides his head,

  When the great Trojan on his bank appears;

  For that’s as true as thy dissembled fears

  Of my revenge. Dismiss that vanity:

  Thou, Drances, art below a death from me.

  Let that vile soul in that vile body rest;

  The lodging is well worthy of the guest.

  “Now, royal father, to the present state

  Of our affairs, and of this high debate:

  If in your arms thus early you diffide,

  And think your fortune is already tried;

  If one defeat has brought us down so low,

  As never more in fields to meet the foe;

  Then I conclude for peace: ‘t is time to treat,

  And lie like vassals at the victor’s feet.

&
nbsp; But, O! if any ancient blood remains,

  One drop of all our fathers’, in our veins,

  That man would I prefer before the rest,

  Who dar’d his death with an undaunted breast;

  Who comely fell, by no dishonest wound,

  To shun that sight, and, dying, gnaw’d the ground.

  But, if we still have fresh recruits in store,

  If our confederates can afford us more;

  If the contended field we bravely fought,

  And not a bloodless victory was bought;

  Their losses equal’d ours; and, for their slain,

  With equal fires they fill’d the shining plain;

  Why thus, unforc’d, should we so tamely yield,

  And, ere the trumpet sounds, resign the field?

  Good unexpected, evils unforeseen,

  Appear by turns, as fortune shifts the scene:

  Some, rais’d aloft, come tumbling down amain;

  Then fall so hard, they bound and rise again.

  If Diomede refuse his aid to lend,

  The great Messapus yet remains our friend:

  Tolumnius, who foretells events, is ours;

  Th’ Italian chiefs and princes join their pow’rs:

  Nor least in number, nor in name the last,

  Your own brave subjects have your cause embrac’d

  Above the rest, the Volscian Amazon

  Contains an army in herself alone,

  And heads a squadron, terrible to sight,

  With glitt’ring shields, in brazen armor bright.

  Yet, if the foe a single fight demand,

  And I alone the public peace withstand;

  If you consent, he shall not be refus’d,

  Nor find a hand to victory unus’d.

  This new Achilles, let him take the field,

  With fated armor, and Vulcanian shield!

  For you, my royal father, and my fame,

  I, Turnus, not the least of all my name,

  Devote my soul. He calls me hand to hand,

  And I alone will answer his demand.

  Drances shall rest secure, and neither share

  The danger, nor divide the prize of war.”

  While they debate, nor these nor those will yield,

  Aeneas draws his forces to the field,

  And moves his camp. The scouts with flying speed

  Return, and thro’ the frighted city spread

  Th’ unpleasing news, the Trojans are descried,

  In battle marching by the river side,

  And bending to the town. They take th’ alarm:

  Some tremble, some are bold; all in confusion arm.

  Th’ impetuous youth press forward to the field;

  They clash the sword, and clatter on the shield:

  The fearful matrons raise a screaming cry;

  Old feeble men with fainter groans reply;

  A jarring sound results, and mingles in the sky,

  Like that of swans remurm’ring to the floods,

  Or birds of diff’ring kinds in hollow woods.

  Turnus th’ occasion takes, and cries aloud:

  “Talk on, ye quaint haranguers of the crowd:

  Declaim in praise of peace, when danger calls,

  And the fierce foes in arms approach the walls.”

  He said, and, turning short, with speedy pace,

  Casts back a scornful glance, and quits the place:

  “Thou, Volusus, the Volscian troops command

  To mount; and lead thyself our Ardean band.

  Messapus and Catillus, post your force

  Along the fields, to charge the Trojan horse.

  Some guard the passes, others man the wall;

  Drawn up in arms, the rest attend my call.”

  They swarm from ev’ry quarter of the town,

  And with disorder’d haste the rampires crown.

  Good old Latinus, when he saw, too late,

  The gath’ring storm just breaking on the state,

  Dismiss’d the council till a fitter time,

  And own’d his easy temper as his crime,

  Who, forc’d against his reason, had complied

  To break the treaty for the promis’d bride.

  Some help to sink new trenches; others aid

  To ram the stones, or raise the palisade.

  Hoarse trumpets sound th’ alarm; around the walls

  Runs a distracted crew, whom their last labor calls.

  A sad procession in the streets is seen,

  Of matrons, that attend the mother queen:

  High in her chair she sits, and, at her side,

  With downcast eyes, appears the fatal bride.

  They mount the cliff, where Pallas’ temple stands;

  Pray’rs in their mouths, and presents in their hands,

  With censers first they fume the sacred shrine,

  Then in this common supplication join:

  “O patroness of arms, unspotted maid,

  Propitious hear, and lend thy Latins aid!

  Break short the pirate’s lance; pronounce his fate,

  And lay the Phrygian low before the gate.”

  Now Turnus arms for fight. His back and breast

  Well-temper’d steel and scaly brass invest:

  The cuishes which his brawny thighs infold

  Are mingled metal damask’d o’er with gold.

  His faithful fauchion sits upon his side;

  Nor casque, nor crest, his manly features hide:

  But, bare to view, amid surrounding friends,

  With godlike grace, he from the tow’r descends.

  Exulting in his strength, he seems to dare

  His absent rival, and to promise war.

  Freed from his keepers, thus, with broken reins,

  The wanton courser prances o’er the plains,

  Or in the pride of youth o’erleaps the mounds,

  And snuffs the females in forbidden grounds.

  Or seeks his wat’ring in the well-known flood,

  To quench his thirst, and cool his fiery blood:

  He swims luxuriant in the liquid plain,

  And o’er his shoulder flows his waving mane:

  He neighs, he snorts, he bears his head on high;

  Before his ample chest the frothy waters fly.

  Soon as the prince appears without the gate,

  The Volscians, with their virgin leader, wait

  His last commands. Then, with a graceful mien,

  Lights from her lofty steed the warrior queen:

  Her squadron imitates, and each descends;

  Whose common suit Camilla thus commends:

  “If sense of honor, if a soul secure

  Of inborn worth, that can all tests endure,

  Can promise aught, or on itself rely

  Greatly to dare, to conquer or to die;

  Then, I alone, sustain’d by these, will meet

  The Tyrrhene troops, and promise their defeat.

  Ours be the danger, ours the sole renown:

  You, gen’ral, stay behind, and guard the town:”

  Turnus a while stood mute, with glad surprise,

  And on the fierce virago fix’d his eyes;

  Then thus return’d: “O grace of Italy,

  With what becoming thanks can I reply?

  Not only words lie lab’ring in my breast,

  But thought itself is by thy praise oppress’d.

  Yet rob me not of all; but let me join

  My toils, my hazard, and my fame, with thine.

  The Trojan, not in stratagem unskill’d,

  Sends his light horse before to scour the field:

  Himself, thro’ steep ascents and thorny brakes,

  A larger compass to the city takes.

  This news my scouts confirm, and I prepare

  To foil his cunning, and his force to dare;

  With chosen foot his passage to forelay,

  And place an ambush in the winding way.

  Thou,
with thy Volscians, face the Tuscan horse;

  The brave Messapus shall thy troops inforce

  With those of Tibur, and the Latian band,

  Subjected all to thy supreme command.”

  This said, he warns Messapus to the war,

  Then ev’ry chief exhorts with equal care.

  All thus encourag’d, his own troops he joins,

  And hastes to prosecute his deep designs.

  Inclos’d with hills, a winding valley lies,

  By nature form’d for fraud, and fitted for surprise.

  A narrow track, by human steps untrode,

  Leads, thro’ perplexing thorns, to this obscure abode.

  High o’er the vale a steepy mountain stands,

  Whence the surveying sight the nether ground commands.

  The top is level, an offensive seat

  Of war; and from the war a safe retreat:

  For, on the right and left, is room to press

  The foes at hand, or from afar distress;

  To drive ’em headlong downward, and to pour

  On their descending backs a stony show’r.

  Thither young Turnus took the well-known way,

  Possess’d the pass, and in blind ambush lay.

  Meantime Latonian Phoebe, from the skies,

  Beheld th’ approaching war with hateful eyes,

  And call’d the light-foot Opis to her aid,

  Her most belov’d and ever-trusty maid;

  Then with a sigh began: “Camilla goes

  To meet her death amidst her fatal foes:

  The nymphs I lov’d of all my mortal train,

  Invested with Diana’s arms, in vain.

  Nor is my kindness for the virgin new:

  ‘T was born with her; and with her years it grew.

  Her father Metabus, when forc’d away

  From old Privernum, for tyrannic sway,

  Snatch’d up, and sav’d from his prevailing foes,

  This tender babe, companion of his woes.

  Casmilla was her mother; but he drown’d

  One hissing letter in a softer sound,

  And call’d Camilla. Thro’ the woods he flies;

  Wrapp’d in his robe the royal infant lies.

  His foes in sight, he mends his weary pace;

  With shout and clamors they pursue the chase.

  The banks of Amasene at length he gains:

  The raging flood his farther flight restrains,

  Rais’d o’er the borders with unusual rains.

  Prepar’d to plunge into the stream, he fears,

  Not for himself, but for the charge he bears.

  Anxious, he stops a while, and thinks in haste;

  Then, desp’rate in distress, resolves at last.