Complete Works of Virgil

by Virgil

  Th’ unhop’d event his heighten’d soul inspires:

  At once his arms and coursers he requires;

  Then, with a leap, his lofty chariot gains,

  And with a ready hand assumes the reins.

  He drives impetuous, and, where’er he goes,

  He leaves behind a lane of slaughter’d foes.

  These his lance reaches; over those he rolls

  His rapid car, and crushes out their souls:

  In vain the vanquish’d fly; the victor sends

  The dead men’s weapons at their living friends.

  Thus, on the banks of Hebrus’ freezing flood,

  The God of Battles, in his angry mood,

  Clashing his sword against his brazen shield,

  Let loose the reins, and scours along the field:

  Before the wind his fiery coursers fly;

  Groans the sad earth, resounds the rattling sky.

  Wrath, Terror, Treason, Tumult, and Despair

  (Dire faces, and deform’d) surround the car;

  Friends of the god, and followers of the war.

  With fury not unlike, nor less disdain,

  Exulting Turnus flies along the plain:

  His smoking horses, at their utmost speed,

  He lashes on, and urges o’er the dead.

  Their fetlocks run with blood; and, when they bound,

  The gore and gath’ring dust are dash’d around.

  Thamyris and Pholus, masters of the war,

  He kill’d at hand, but Sthenelus afar:

  From far the sons of Imbracus he slew,

  Glaucus and Lades, of the Lycian crew;

  Both taught to fight on foot, in battle join’d,

  Or mount the courser that outstrips the wind.

  Meantime Eumedes, vaunting in the field,

  New fir’d the Trojans, and their foes repell’d.

  This son of Dolon bore his grandsire’s name,

  But emulated more his father’s fame;

  His guileful father, sent a nightly spy,

  The Grecian camp and order to descry:

  Hard enterprise! and well he might require

  Achilles’ car and horses, for his hire:

  But, met upon the scout, th’ Aetolian prince

  In death bestow’d a juster recompense.

  Fierce Turnus view’d the Trojan from afar,

  And launch’d his jav’lin from his lofty car;

  Then lightly leaping down, pursued the blow,

  And, pressing with his foot his prostrate foe,

  Wrench’d from his feeble hold the shining sword,

  And plung’d it in the bosom of its lord.

  “Possess,” said he, “the fruit of all thy pains,

  And measure, at thy length, our Latian plains.

  Thus are my foes rewarded by my hand;

  Thus may they build their town, and thus enjoy the land!”

  Then Dares, Butes, Sybaris he slew,

  Whom o’er his neck his flound’ring courser threw.

  As when loud Boreas, with his blust’ring train,

  Stoops from above, incumbent on the main;

  Where’er he flies, he drives the rack before,

  And rolls the billows on th’ Aegaean shore:

  So, where resistless Turnus takes his course,

  The scatter’d squadrons bend before his force;

  His crest of horses’ hair is blown behind

  By adverse air, and rustles in the wind.

  This haughty Phegeus saw with high disdain,

  And, as the chariot roll’d along the plain,

  Light from the ground he leapt, and seiz’d the rein.

  Thus hung in air, he still retain’d his hold,

  The coursers frighted, and their course controll’d.

  The lance of Turnus reach’d him as he hung,

  And pierc’d his plated arms, but pass’d along,

  And only raz’d the skin. He turn’d, and held

  Against his threat’ning foe his ample shield;

  Then call’d for aid: but, while he cried in vain,

  The chariot bore him backward on the plain.

  He lies revers’d; the victor king descends,

  And strikes so justly where his helmet ends,

  He lops the head. The Latian fields are drunk

  With streams that issue from the bleeding trunk.

  While he triumphs, and while the Trojans yield,

  The wounded prince is forc’d to leave the field:

  Strong Mnestheus, and Achates often tried,

  And young Ascanius, weeping by his side,

  Conduct him to his tent. Scarce can he rear

  His limbs from earth, supported on his spear.

  Resolv’d in mind, regardless of the smart,

  He tugs with both his hands, and breaks the dart.

  The steel remains. No readier way he found

  To draw the weapon, than t’ inlarge the wound.

  Eager of fight, impatient of delay,

  He begs; and his unwilling friends obey.

  Iapis was at hand to prove his art,

  Whose blooming youth so fir’d Apollo’s heart,

  That, for his love, he proffer’d to bestow

  His tuneful harp and his unerring bow.

  The pious youth, more studious how to save

  His aged sire, now sinking to the grave,

  Preferr’d the pow’r of plants, and silent praise

  Of healing arts, before Phoebean bays.

  Propp’d on his lance the pensive hero stood,

  And heard and saw, unmov’d, the mourning crowd.

  The fam’d physician tucks his robes around

  With ready hands, and hastens to the wound.

  With gentle touches he performs his part,

  This way and that, soliciting the dart,

  And exercises all his heav’nly art.

  All soft’ning simples, known of sov’reign use,

  He presses out, and pours their noble juice.

  These first infus’d, to lenify the pain,

  He tugs with pincers, but he tugs in vain.

  Then to the patron of his art he pray’d:

  The patron of his art refus’d his aid.

  Meantime the war approaches to the tents;

  Th’ alarm grows hotter, and the noise augments:

  The driving dust proclaims the danger near;

  And first their friends, and then their foes appear:

  Their friends retreat; their foes pursue the rear.

  The camp is fill’d with terror and affright:

  The hissing shafts within the trench alight;

  An undistinguish’d noise ascends the sky,

  The shouts those who kill, and groans of those who die.

  But now the goddess mother, mov’d with grief,

  And pierc’d with pity, hastens her relief.

  A branch of healing dittany she brought,

  Which in the Cretan fields with care she sought:

  Rough is the stern, which woolly leafs surround;

  The leafs with flow’rs, the flow’rs with purple crown’d,

  Well known to wounded goats; a sure relief

  To draw the pointed steel, and ease the grief.

  This Venus brings, in clouds involv’d, and brews

  Th’ extracted liquor with ambrosian dews,

  And odorous panacee. Unseen she stands,

  Temp’ring the mixture with her heav’nly hands,

  And pours it in a bowl, already crown’d

  With juice of med’c’nal herbs prepar’d to bathe the wound.

  The leech, unknowing of superior art

  Which aids the cure, with this foments the part;

  And in a moment ceas’d the raging smart.

  Stanch’d is the blood, and in the bottom stands:

  The steel, but scarcely touch’d with tender hands,

  Moves up, and follows of its own accord,

  And health and vigor are at once rest
or’d.

  Iapis first perceiv’d the closing wound,

  And first the footsteps of a god he found.

  “Arms! arms!” he cries; “the sword and shield prepare,

  And send the willing chief, renew’d, to war.

  This is no mortal work, no cure of mine,

  Nor art’s effect, but done by hands divine.

  Some god our general to the battle sends;

  Some god preserves his life for greater ends.”

  The hero arms in haste; his hands infold

  His thighs with cuishes of refulgent gold:

  Inflam’d to fight, and rushing to the field,

  That hand sustaining the celestial shield,

  This gripes the lance, and with such vigor shakes,

  That to the rest the beamy weapon quakes.

  Then with a close embrace he strain’d his son,

  And, kissing thro’ his helmet, thus begun:

  “My son, from my example learn the war,

  In camps to suffer, and in fields to dare;

  But happier chance than mine attend thy care!

  This day my hand thy tender age shall shield,

  And crown with honors of the conquer’d field:

  Thou, when thy riper years shall send thee forth

  To toils of war, be mindful of my worth;

  Assert thy birthright, and in arms be known,

  For Hector’s nephew, and Aeneas’ son.”

  He said; and, striding, issued on the plain.

  Anteus and Mnestheus, and a num’rous train,

  Attend his steps; the rest their weapons take,

  And, crowding to the field, the camp forsake.

  A cloud of blinding dust is rais’d around,

  Labors beneath their feet the trembling ground.

  Now Turnus, posted on a hill, from far

  Beheld the progress of the moving war:

  With him the Latins view’d the cover’d plains,

  And the chill blood ran backward in their veins.

  Juturna saw th’ advancing troops appear,

  And heard the hostile sound, and fled for fear.

  Aeneas leads; and draws a sweeping train,

  Clos’d in their ranks, and pouring on the plain.

  As when a whirlwind, rushing to the shore

  From the mid ocean, drives the waves before;

  The painful hind with heavy heart foresees

  The flatted fields, and slaughter of the trees;

  With like impetuous rage the prince appears

  Before his doubled front, nor less destruction bears.

  And now both armies shock in open field;

  Osiris is by strong Thymbraeus kill’d.

  Archetius, Ufens, Epulon, are slain

  (All fam’d in arms, and of the Latian train)

  By Gyas’, Mnestheus’, and Achates’ hand.

  The fatal augur falls, by whose command

  The truce was broken, and whose lance, embrued

  With Trojan blood, th’ unhappy fight renew’d.

  Loud shouts and clamors rend the liquid sky,

  And o’er the field the frighted Latins fly.

  The prince disdains the dastards to pursue,

  Nor moves to meet in arms the fighting few;

  Turnus alone, amid the dusky plain,

  He seeks, and to the combat calls in vain.

  Juturna heard, and, seiz’d with mortal fear,

  Forc’d from the beam her brother’s charioteer;

  Assumes his shape, his armor, and his mien,

  And, like Metiscus, in his seat is seen.

  As the black swallow near the palace plies;

  O’er empty courts, and under arches, flies;

  Now hawks aloft, now skims along the flood,

  To furnish her loquacious nest with food:

  So drives the rapid goddess o’er the plains;

  The smoking horses run with loosen’d reins.

  She steers a various course among the foes;

  Now here, now there, her conqu’ring brother shows;

  Now with a straight, now with a wheeling flight,

  She turns, and bends, but shuns the single fight.

  Aeneas, fir’d with fury, breaks the crowd,

  And seeks his foe, and calls by name aloud:

  He runs within a narrower ring, and tries

  To stop the chariot; but the chariot flies.

  If he but gain a glimpse, Juturna fears,

  And far away the Daunian hero bears.

  What should he do! Nor arts nor arms avail;

  And various cares in vain his mind assail.

  The great Messapus, thund’ring thro’ the field,

  In his left hand two pointed jav’lins held:

  Encount’ring on the prince, one dart he drew,

  And with unerring aim and utmost vigor threw.

  Aeneas saw it come, and, stooping low

  Beneath his buckler, shunn’d the threat’ning blow.

  The weapon hiss’d above his head, and tore

  The waving plume which on his helm he wore.

  Forced by this hostile act, and fir’d with spite,

  That flying Turnus still declin’d the fight,

  The Prince, whose piety had long repell’d

  His inborn ardor, now invades the field;

  Invokes the pow’rs of violated peace,

  Their rites and injur’d altars to redress;

  Then, to his rage abandoning the rein,

  With blood and slaughter’d bodies fills the plain.

  What god can tell, what numbers can display,

  The various labors of that fatal day;

  What chiefs and champions fell on either side,

  In combat slain, or by what deaths they died;

  Whom Turnus, whom the Trojan hero kill’d;

  Who shar’d the fame and fortune of the field!

  Jove, could’st thou view, and not avert thy sight,

  Two jarring nations join’d in cruel fight,

  Whom leagues of lasting love so shortly shall unite!

  Aeneas first Rutulian Sucro found,

  Whose valor made the Trojans quit their ground;

  Betwixt his ribs the jav’lin drove so just,

  It reach’d his heart, nor needs a second thrust.

  Now Turnus, at two blows, two brethren slew;

  First from his horse fierce Amycus he threw:

  Then, leaping on the ground, on foot assail’d

  Diores, and in equal fight prevail’d.

  Their lifeless trunks he leaves upon the place;

  Their heads, distilling gore, his chariot grace.

  Three cold on earth the Trojan hero threw,

  Whom without respite at one charge he slew:

  Cethegus, Tanais, Tagus, fell oppress’d,

  And sad Onythes, added to the rest,

  Of Theban blood, whom Peridia bore.

  Turnus two brothers from the Lycian shore,

  And from Apollo’s fane to battle sent,

  O’erthrew; nor Phoebus could their fate prevent.

  Peaceful Menoetes after these he kill’d,

  Who long had shunn’d the dangers of the field:

  On Lerna’s lake a silent life he led,

  And with his nets and angle earn’d his bread;

  Nor pompous cares, nor palaces, he knew,

  But wisely from th’ infectious world withdrew:

  Poor was his house; his father’s painful hand

  Discharg’d his rent, and plow’d another’s land.

  As flames among the lofty woods are thrown

  On diff’rent sides, and both by winds are blown;

  The laurels crackle in the sputt’ring fire;

  The frighted sylvans from their shades retire:

  Or as two neighb’ring torrents fall from high;

  Rapid they run; the foamy waters fry;

  They roll to sea with unresisted force,

  And down the rocks precipitate their course:
r />   Not with less rage the rival heroes take

  Their diff’rent ways, nor less destruction make.

  With spears afar, with swords at hand, they strike;

  And zeal of slaughter fires their souls alike.

  Like them, their dauntless men maintain the field;

  And hearts are pierc’d, unknowing how to yield:

  They blow for blow return, and wound for wound;

  And heaps of bodies raise the level ground.

  Murranus, boasting of his blood, that springs

  From a long royal race of Latian kings,

  Is by the Trojan from his chariot thrown,

  Crush’d with the weight of an unwieldy stone:

  Betwixt the wheels he fell; the wheels, that bore

  His living load, his dying body tore.

  His starting steeds, to shun the glitt’ring sword,

  Paw down his trampled limbs, forgetful of their lord.

  Fierce Hyllus threaten’d high, and, face to face,

  Affronted Turnus in the middle space:

  The prince encounter’d him in full career,

  And at his temples aim’d the deadly spear;

  So fatally the flying weapon sped,

  That thro’ his helm it pierc’d his head.

  Nor, Cisseus, couldst thou scape from Turnus’ hand,

  In vain the strongest of th’ Arcadian band:

  Nor to Cupentus could his gods afford

  Availing aid against th’ Aenean sword,

  Which to his naked heart pursued the course;

  Nor could his plated shield sustain the force.

  Iolas fell, whom not the Grecian pow’rs,

  Nor great subverter of the Trojan tow’rs,

  Were doom’d to kill, while Heav’n prolong’d his date;

  But who can pass the bounds, prefix’d by fate?

  In high Lyrnessus, and in Troy, he held

  Two palaces, and was from each expell’d:

  Of all the mighty man, the last remains

  A little spot of foreign earth contains.

  And now both hosts their broken troops unite

  In equal ranks, and mix in mortal fight.

  Seresthus and undaunted Mnestheus join

  The Trojan, Tuscan, and Arcadian line:

  Sea-born Messapus, with Atinas, heads

  The Latin squadrons, and to battle leads.

  They strike, they push, they throng the scanty space,

  Resolv’d on death, impatient of disgrace;

  And, where one falls, another fills his place.