by Virgil
O’erthrows, and stretches on the earth; the wain-wheels roll him on,
Amid the bridle and the yoke, whom there upon the sward
The hurrying hoofs of horses pound, remembering not their lord.
Then Hyllus’ onset, and his heart with fury all aglow,
Doth Turnus meet; who hurls a shaft against his golden brow,
And through the helm the war-spear flies, and in the brain is stayed.
Thee, Cretheus, bravest of the Greeks, thine hands did nothing aid
To snatch from Turnus.
Nought his Gods did their Cupencus cloak
Against Æneas’ rush of war; breast-on he met the stroke,
And nought availed that hapless one the tarrying golden shield.
Thee also, warring Æolus, did that Laurentine field
See fallen, and cumbering the earth with body laid alow;
Thou diest, whom the Argive hosts might never overthrow,
Nor that Achilles’ hand that wrought the Priam’s realm its wrack.
Here was thy meted mortal doom; high house ‘neath Ida’s back,
High house within Lyrnessus’ garth, grave in Laurentine lea.
Now all the hosts to fight are turned, and blent in battle’s sea,
All Latin folk, all Dardan sons, Mnestheus, Serestus keen,
Messapus tamer of the horse, Asylas fame-beseen,
The Tuscan host, Evander’s men, the Arcadian wings of fight,
Each for himself the warriors play, and strive with utter might;
No tarrying, no rest, they strain in contest measureless.
But now a thought his mother sent Æneas’ mind to bless.
That he should wend unto the walls, and townward turn his host,
And blend amid destruction swift the Latin people lost.
For he, now marking Turnus’ ways through many a company,
Hither and thither turns his eyes, and sees the city lie
At peace amid the mighty stir, unharmed amid the fight,
And image of a greater war set all his soul alight.
Mnestheus, Sergestus then he calls, Serestus battle-strong,
The Dukes of war; he mounts a knoll; thither the Teucrians throng
In serried ranks, yet lay not by the battle-spear and shield:
So there from off the mound he speaks amidmost of the field:
“Let none hang back from these my words, for Jove is standing by;
Let none be dull herein because it cometh suddenly:
Today the town, the cause of war, the king Latinus’ home,
Unless they cry them craven men, and ‘neath the yoke they come,
Will I o’erthrow; the smoking towers upon the ground will lay.
What! must I wait till Turnus grows fain of the battle-play?
And shall he, conquered, take his ease to fight me o’er and o’er?
O fellows, this is head and well of all the wicked war.
Haste with the torches, set we forth the troth with fire to find!”
He spake; but all they set to work, and striving with one mind
Knit close their ranks, and on the town a world of battle bear:
Unlooked-for ladders are at hand, and sudden fires appear;
While some they run unto the gates, and there the out-guards slay,
Or hurl the spears, and with their cloud dim down the light of day.
Æneas, in the front of men, lifts hand unto the walls,
And in a great and mighty voice guilt on Latinus calls,
And bids the Gods to witness him twice to the battle driven,
Italians twice become his foes, and twice the treaty riven.
But mid the turmoiled city-folk arose the bickering then,
Some bade unbar and open gates unto the Dardan men;
Yea, some unto the walls would drag their very king and lord;
But some bear arms and go their ways the walls of war to ward:
E’en as the shepherd finds the bees shut in, a fencèd folk,
In chinky pumice rock, and fills their house with bitter smoke;
But they, all busy-fearful grown within their waxen wall,
Run here and there and whet their wrath with mighty humming call:
The black stink rolleth through their house, and with a murmuring blind
The stony hollows moan: the reek the empty air doth find.
Here on the weary Latins fell another stroke of fate,
That moved the city deep adown with sorrow sore and great;
For when the Queen from house aloft beheld the foe draw nigh,
The walls beset, the flaming brands unto the house-roofs fly,
And nowhere the Rutulian ranks or Turnus’ warring host,
The hapless woman deems the youth in stress of battle lost,
And, all bewildered in her mind by these so sudden woes,
Curses herself for head and spring whence all the evil flows;
And crying many a bitter word, and mad with sorrow grown,
She riveth with her dying hand the queenly purple gown,
And knits the knot of loathly death from lofty beam on high.
But when the wretched Latin wives know all this misery,
Her daughter first, Lavinia, wastes the blossom of her hair,
And wounds her rosy cheeks; then they that stood about her there
Run wild about, and all the house resoundeth with their wail.
Thence through the city flies the sound of that unhappy tale,
And all hearts sink: Latinus goes with raiment rent and torn,
Stunned by his wife’s unhappy lot, and city lost and lorn,
And scattering o’er his hoariness defilement of the dust;
And often he upbraids himself that he took not to trust
That Dardan lord, nor willingly had hallowed him his son.
Meanwhile across the outer plain war-Turnus followeth on
The last few stragglers, duller grown, and less and less his heart
Rejoices in his hurrying steed and their victorious part.
The air bore to him noise of men with doubtful terror blent,
And round about his hearkening ears confusèd murmur sent;
The noise of that turmoilèd town, a sound of nought but woe:
“Ah, me!” he cried, “what mighty grief stirs up the city so?
Why from the walls now goeth up this cry and noise afar?”
He spake, and, wildered, drew the rein and stayed the battle-car:
His sister met his questioning, as she in seeming clad
Of that Metiscus, all the rule of battle-chariot had,
And steeds and bridle:
“Hereaway, O Turnus, drive we on
The sons of Troy; where victory shows a road that may be won:
For other hands there are, belike, the houses to defend.
Æneas falls on Italy, and there doth battle blend;
So let our hands give cruel death to Teucrian men this day,
No less in tale: so shalt thou hold thine honour in the fray.”
But Turnus sayeth thereunto:
“Sister, I knew thee long ago, when first by art and craft
Thou brok’st the troth-plight, and therewith amidst the battle went;
And now thou hidest God in vain. But whose will thee hath sent
From high Olympus’ house to bear such troubles, and so great?
Was it to see thy brother’s end and most unhappy fate?
For what do I? What heal is left in aught that may befall?
Mine eyes beheld Murranus die, on me I heard him call:
No dearer man in all the world is left me for a friend:
Woe’s me I that mighty man of men a mighty death must end.
Ufens is dead, unhappy too lest he our shame behold;
E’en as I speak the Teucrians ward his arms and body cold.
And now — the one shame wanting yet — shall I stand deedless by
Their houses’ wrack, nor let my
sword cast back that Drances’ lie?
Shall I give back, and shall this land see craven Turnus fled?
Is death, then, such a misery? O rulers of the dead,
Be kind! since now the high God’s heart is turned away from me;
A hallowed soul I go adown, guiltless of infamy,
Not all unworthy of the great, my sires of long ago.”
Scarce had he said when, here behold, from midmost of the foe,
Comes Saces on his foaming steed, an arrow in his face,
Who, crying prayers on Turnus’ name, onrusheth to the place:
“Turnus, in thee our last hope lies! pity thy wretched folk!
Æneas thundereth battle there, and threateneth with his stroke
The overthrow of tower and town, and wrack of Italy.
The flames are flying toward the roofs; all mouths of Latins cry
On thee; all eyes are turned to thee: yea, the king wavereth there,
Whom shall he call his son-in-law, to whom for friendship fare.
The Queen to wit, thy faithfullest, is dead by her own hand,
And, fearful of the things to come, hath left the daylight land.
Messapus and Atinas keen alone upbear our might
Before the gates: round each of them are gathered hosts of fight
Thick-thronging, and a harvest-tide that bristles with the sword;
While here thou wendest car about the man-deserted sward.”
Bewildered then with images of diverse things he stood
In silent stare; and in his heart upswelled a mighty flood
Of mingled shame and maddening grief: the Furies goaded sore
With bitter love and valour tried and known from time of yore.
But when the cloud was shaken off and light relit his soul,
His burning eyeballs toward the town, fierce-hearted, did he roll,
And from the wheels of war looked back unto the mighty town;
And lo, behold, a wave of flame into a tongue-shape grown
Licked round a tower, and ‘twixt its floors rolled upward unto heaven:
A tower that he himself had reared with timbers closely driven,
And set beneath it rolling-gear, and dight the bridges high.
“Now, sister, now the Fates prevail! no more for tarrying try.
Nay, let us follow where the God, where hard Fate calleth me!
Doomed am I to Æneas’ hand; doomed, howso sore it be,
To die the death; ah, sister, now thou seest me shamed no more:
Now let me wear the fury through ere yet my time is o’er.”
He spake, and from the chariot leapt adown upon the mead,
And left his sister lone in grief amidst the foe to speed,
Amidst the spears, and breaketh through the midmost press of fight,
E’en as a headlong stone sweeps down from off the mountain-height,
Torn by the wind; or drifting rain hath washed it from its hold,
Or loosed, maybe, it slippeth down because the years grow old:
Wild o’er the cliffs with mighty leap goes down that world of stone,
And bounds o’er earth, and woods and herds and men-folk rolleth on
Amidst its wrack: so Turnus through the broken battle broke
Unto the very city-walls, where earth was all a-soak
With plenteous blood, and air beset with whistling of the shafts;
There with his hand he maketh sign, and mighty speech he wafts:
“Forbear, Rutulians! Latin men, withhold the points of fight!
Whatever haps, the hap is mine; I, I alone, of right
Should cleanse you of the broken troth, and doom of sword-edge face.”
So from the midst all men depart, and leave an empty space;
But now the Father Æneas hath hearkened Turnus’ name,
And backward from the walls of war and those high towers he came.
He casts away all tarrying, sets every deed aside,
And thundering in his battle-gear rejoicing doth he stride:
As Athos great, as Eryx great, great as when roaring goes
Amid the quaking oaken woods and glory lights the snows,
And Father Apennine uprears his head amidst the skies.
Then Trojan and Rutulian men turn thither all their eyes,
And all the folk of Italy, and they that hold the wall,
And they that drive against its feet the battering engines’ fall
All men do off their armour then. Amazed Latinus stands
To see two mighty heroes, born in such wide-sundered lands.
Meet thus to try what deed of doom in meeting swords may be.
But they, when empty space is cleared amid the open lea,
Set each on each in speedy wise, and with their war-spears hurled
Amid the clash of shield and brass break into Mavors’ world;
Then groaneth earth; then comes the hail of sword-strokes thick and fast,
And in one blended tangle now are luck and valour cast:
As when on mighty Sila’s side, or on Taburnus height,
Two bulls with pushing horny brows are mingled in the fight:
The frighted herdsmen draw aback, and all the beasts are dumb
For utter fear; the heifers too misdoubt them what shall come,
Who shall be master of the grove and leader of the flock;
But each on each they mingle wounds with fearful might of shock,
And gore and push home fencing horns, and with abundant blood
Bathe neck and shoulder, till the noise goes bellowing through the wood;
E’en so Æneas out of Troy, and he, the Daunian man,
Smite shield on shield; and mighty clash through all the heavens there ran.
’Tis Jupiter who holds the scales ‘twixt even-poisèd tongue;
There in the balance needfully their sundered fates he hung,
Which one the battle-pain shall doom, in which the death shall lie.
Now Turnus deems him safe, and forth with sword upreared on high,
He springs, and all his body strains, and rises to the stroke,
And smites: the Trojans cry aloud, and eager Latin folk,
And both hosts hang ‘twixt hope and fear: but lo, the treacherous sword
Breaks in the middle of the blow and leaves its fiery lord: —
And if the flight shall fail him now! — Swift as the East he flees
When in his right hand weaponless an unknown hilt he sees.
They say, that when all eager-hot he clomb his yokèd car
In first of fight, that then he left his father’s blade of war,
And caught in hand his charioteer Metiscus’ battle-glaive;
And that was well while Trojan fleers backs to the smiting gave,
But when they meet Vulcanian arms, the very God’s device,
Then shivereth all the mortal blade e’en as the foolish ice;
And there upon the yellow sand the glittering splinters lie.
So diversely about the field doth wildered Turnus fly,
And here and there in winding ways he doubleth up and down,
For thick all round about the lists was drawn the Teucrian crown:
By wide marsh here, by high walls there, his fleeing was begirt.
Nor less Æneas, howsoe’er, hampered by arrow-hurt,
His knees might hinder him at whiles and fail him as he ran,
Yet foot for foot all eagerly followed the hurrying man;
As when a hound hath caught a hart hemmed by the river’s ring,
Or hedged about by empty fear of crimson-feathered string,
And swift of foot and baying loud goes following up the flight;
But he, all fearful of the snare and of the flood-bank’s height,
Doubles and turns a thousand ways, while open-mouthed and staunch
The Umbrian keen sticks hard at heel, and now, now hath his haunch,
Snapping his jaws as though he grippe
d, and, mocked, but biteth air.
Then verily the cry arose; the bank, the spreading mere,
Rang back about, and tumult huge ran shattering through the sky.
But Turnus as he fled cried out on all his Rutuli,
And, calling each man by his name, craved his familiar blade.
Meanwhile Æneas threateneth death if any come to aid,
And swift destruction: and their souls with fearful threats doth fill
Of city ruined root and branch; and, halting, followeth still.
Five rings of flight their running fills, and back the like they wend:
Nought light nor gamesome is the prize for which their feet contend,
For there they strive in running-game for Turnus’ life and blood.
By hap hard by an olive wild of bitter leaves there stood,
Hallowed to Faunus, while agone a most well-worshipped tree,
Whereon to that Laurentian God the sailors saved from sea
Would set their gifts, and hang therefrom their garments vowed at need.
But now the Teucrian men of late had lopped with little heed
That holy stem, that they might make the lists of battle clear:
And there Æneas’ war-spear stood; his might had driven it there,
And held it now, set hard and fast in stubborn root and stout:
The Dardan son bent o’er it now to pluck the weapon out,
That he might follow him with shot whom running might not take.
But Turnus, wildered with his fear, cried out aloud and spake:
“O Faunus, pity me, I pray! and thou, O kindest Earth,
Hold thou the steel for me, who still have worshipped well thy worth,
Which ever those Ænean folk with battle would profane!”
He spake, and called the God to aid with vows not made in vain;
For o’er the tough tree tarrying long, struggling with utter might,
No whit Æneas could undo the gripping woody bite.
But while he struggleth hot and hard, and hangeth o’er the spear,
Again the Daunian Goddess, clad in shape of charioteer
Metiscus, Turnus’ trusty sword unto his hand doth speed.
But Venus, wrathful that the Nymph might dare so bold a deed,
Came nigh, and from the deep-set root the shaft of battle drew.
So they, high-hearted, stored with hope and battle-gear anew,
One trusting in his sword, and one fierce with his spear on high,
Stand face to face, the glorious game of panting Mars to try.
Meanwhile the King of Heaven the great thus unto Juno saith,
As from a ruddy cloud she looked upon the game of death:
