Complete Works of Virgil

by Virgil

  while far and wide it pours; and by and by,

  each, when the sun returns, his task pursues:

  so great Aeneas, by assault o’erwhelmed,

  endured the cloud of battle, till its rage

  thundered no more; then with a warning word

  to Lausus with upbraiding voice he called:

  “Why, O death-doomed, rush on to deeds too high

  for strength like thine. Thou art betrayed, rash boy,

  by thine own loyal heart!” But none the less

  the youth made mad defence; while fiercer burned

  the Trojan’s anger; and of Lausus’ days

  the loom of Fate spun forth the last thin thread;

  for now Aeneas thrust his potent blade

  deep through the stripling’s breast and out of sight;

  through the light shield it passed — a frail defence

  to threaten with! — and through the tunic fine

  his mother’s hand had wrought with softest gold:

  blood filled his bosom, and on path of air

  down to the shades the mournful soul withdrew,

  its body quitting. As Anchises’ son

  beheld the agonizing lips and brow

  so wondrous white in death, he groaned aloud

  in pity, and reached o’er him his right hand,

  touched to the heart such likeness to behold

  of his own filial love. “Unhappy boy!

  What reward worthy of heroic deeds

  can I award thee now? Wear still those arms

  so proudly worn! And I will send thee home

  (Perhaps thou carest!) to the kindred shades

  and ashes of thy sires. But let it be

  some solace in thy pitiable doom

  that none but great Aeneas wrought thy fall.”

  Then to the stripling’s tardy followers

  he sternly called, and lifted from the earth

  with his own hand the fallen foe: dark blood

  defiled those princely tresses braided fair.

  Meanwhile Mezentius by the Tiber’s wave

  with water staunched his wound, and propped his weight

  against a tree; upon its limbs above

  his brazen helmet hung, and on the sward

  his ponderous arms lay resting. Round him watched

  his chosen braves. He, gasping and in pain,

  clutched at his neck and let his flowing beard

  loose on his bosom fall; he questions oft

  of Lausus, and sends many a messenger

  to bid him back, and bear him the command

  of his sore-grieving sire. But lo! his peers

  bore the dead Lausus back upon his shield,

  and wept to see so strong a hero quelled

  by stroke so strong. From long way off the sire,

  with soul prophetic of its woe, perceived

  what meant their wail and cry. On his gray hairs

  the dust he flung, and, stretching both his hands

  to heaven, he cast himself the corpse along.

  “O son,” he cried, “was life to me so sweet,

  that I to save myself surrendered o’er

  my own begotten to a foeman’s steel?

  Saved by these gashes shall thy father be,

  and living by thy death? O wretched me,

  how foul an end have I! Now is my wound

  deep! deep! ‘t was I, dear son, have stained

  thy name with infamy — to exile driven

  from sceptre and hereditary throne

  by general curse. Would that myself had borne

  my country’s vengeance and my nation’s hate!

  Would my own guilty life my debt had paid —

  yea, by a thousand deaths! But, see, I live!

  Not yet from human kind and light of day

  have I departed. But depart I will.”

  So saying, he raised him on his crippled thigh,

  and though by reason of the grievous wound

  his forces ebbed, yet with unshaken mien

  he bade them lead his war-horse forth, his pride,

  his solace, which from every war

  victorious bore him home. The master then

  to the brave beast, which seemed to know his pain,

  spoke thus: “My Rhoebus, we have passed our days

  long time together, if long time there be

  for mortal creatures. Either on this day

  thou shalt his bloody spoils in triumph bear

  and that Aeneas’ head, — and so shalt be

  avenger of my Lausus’ woe; or else,

  if I be vanquished, thou shalt sink and fall

  beside me. For, my bravest, thou wouldst spurn

  a stranger’s will, and Teucrian lords to bear.”

  He spoke and, mounting to his back, disposed

  his limbs the wonted way and filled both hands

  with pointed javelins; a helm of brass

  with shaggy horse-hair crest gleamed o’er his brow.

  Swift to the front he rode: a mingled flood

  surged in his heart of sorrow, wrath, and shame;

  and thrice with loud voice on his foe he called.

  Aeneas heard and made exulting vow:

  “Now may the Father of the gods on high,

  and great Apollo hear! Begin the fray!”

  He said, and moved forth with a threatening spear.

  The other cried: “Hast robbed me of my son,

  and now, implacable, wouldst fright me more?

  That way, that only, was it in thy power

  to cast me down. No fear of death I feel.

  Nor from thy gods themselves would I refrain.

  Give o’er! For fated and resolved to die

  I come thy way: but; bring thee as I pass

  these offerings.” With this he whirled a spear

  against his foe, and after it drove deep

  another and another, riding swift

  in wide gyration round him. But the shield,

  the golden boss, broke not. Three times he rode

  in leftward circles, hurling spear on spear

  against th’ unmoved Aeneas: and three times

  the Trojan hero in his brazen shield

  the sheaf of spears upbore. But such slow fight,

  such plucking of spent shafts from out his shield,

  the Trojan liked not, vexed and sorely tried

  in duel so ill-matched. With wrathful soul

  at length he strode forth, and between the brows

  of the wild war-horse planted his Iong spear.

  Up reared the creature, beating at the air

  with quivering feet, then o’er his fallen lord

  entangling dropped, and prone above him lay,

  pinning with ponderous shoulder to the ground.

  The Trojans and the Latins rouse the skies

  with clamor Ioud. Aeneas hastening forth

  unsheathes his sword, and looming o’er him cries:

  “Where now is fierce Mezentius, and his soul’s

  wild pulse of rage?” The Tuscan in reply

  with eyes uprolled, and gasping as he gave

  long looks at heaven, recalled his fading mind:

  “Why frown at me and fume, O bitterest foe?

  Why threaten death? To slay me is no sin.

  Not to take quarter came I to this war,

  not truce with thee did my lost Lausus crave,

  yet this one boon I pray, — if mercy be

  for fallen foes: O, suffer me when dead

  in covering earth to hide! Full well I know

  what curses of my people ring me round.

  Defend me from that rage! I pray to be

  my son’s companion in our common tomb.”

  He spoke: then offered with unshrinking eye

  his veined throat to the sword. O’er the bright mail

  his vital breath gushed forth in streaming gore.

  BOOK XI

 
; Up from the sea now soared the dawning day:

  Aeneas, though his sorrow bids him haste

  to burial of the slain, and his sad soul

  is clouded with the sight of death, fulfils,

  for reward to his gods, a conqueror’s vow,

  at morning’s earliest beam. A mighty oak

  shorn of its limbs he sets upon a hill

  and clothes it o’er with glittering arms, the spoil

  of King Mezentius, and a trophy proud

  to thee, great lord of war. The hero’s plumes

  bedewed with blood are there, and splintered spears;

  there hangs the corselet, by the thrusting steel

  twelve times gored through; upon the left he binds

  the brazen shield, and from the neck suspends

  the ivory-hilted sword. Aeneas thus,

  as crowding close his train of captains throng,

  addressed his followers: “Ye warriors mine,

  our largest work is done. Bid fear begone

  of what is left to do. Behold the spoils!

  Yon haughty King was firstfruits of our war.

  See this Mezentius my hands have made!

  Now to the Latin town and King we go.

  Arm you in soul! With heart of perfect hope

  prepare the war! So when the gods give sign

  to open battle and lead forth our brave

  out of this stronghold, no bewilderment,

  nor tarrying, nor fearful, faltering mind

  shall slack our march. Meanwhile in earth we lay

  our comrades fallen; for no honor else

  in Acheron have they. Go forth,” said he,

  “bring gifts of honor and of last farewell

  to those high hearts by shedding of whose blood

  our country lives. To sad Evander’s town

  bear Pallas first; who, though he did not fail

  of virtue’s crown, was seized by doom unblest,

  and to the bitterness of death consigned.”

  Weeping he spoke, and slowly backward drew

  to the tent-door, where by the breathless clay

  of Pallas stood Acoetes, aged man,

  once bearer of Evander’s arms, but now

  under less happy omens set to guard

  his darling child. Around him is a throng

  of slaves, with all the Trojan multitude,

  and Ilian women, who the wonted way

  let sorrow’s tresses loosely flow. When now

  Aeneas to the lofty doors drew near,

  all these from smitten bosoms raised to heaven

  a mighty moaning, till the King’s abode

  was loud with anguish. There Aeneas viewed

  the pillowed head of Pallas cold and pale,

  the smooth young breast that bore the gaping wound

  of that Ausonian spear, and weeping said:

  “Did Fortune’s envy, smiling though she came,

  refuse me, hapless boy, that thou shouldst see

  my throne established, and victorious ride

  beside me to thy father’s house? Not this

  my parting promise to thy King and sire,

  Evander, when with friendly, fond embrace

  to win imperial power he bade me go;

  yet warned me anxiously I must resist

  bold warriors and a stubborn breed of foes.

  And haply even now he cheats his heart

  with expectation vain, and offers vows,

  heaping with gifts the altars of his gods.

  But we with unavailing honors bring

  this lifeless youth, who owes the gods of heaven

  no more of gift and vow. O ill-starred King!

  Soon shalt thou see thy son’s unpitying doom!

  What a home-coming! This is glory’s day

  so Iong awaited; this the solemn pledge

  I proudly gave. But fond Evander’s eyes

  will find no shameful wounding on the slain,

  nor for a son in coward safety kept

  wilt thou, the sire, crave death. But woe is me!

  How strong a bulwark in Ausonia falls!

  What loss is thine, Iulus!” Thus lamenting,

  he bids them lift the body to the bier,

  and sends a thousand heroes from his host

  to render the last tributes, and to share

  father’s tears: — poor solace and too small

  for grief so great, but due that mournful sire.

  Some busy them to build of osiers fine

  the simple litter, twining sapling oaks

  with evergreen, till o’er death’s Iofty bed

  the branching shade extends. Upon it lay,

  as if on shepherd’s couch, the youthful dead,

  like fairest flower by virgin fingers culled,

  frail violet or hyacinth forlorn,

  of color still undimmed and leaf unmarred;

  but from the breast of mother-earth no more

  its life doth feed. Then good Aeneas brought

  two broidered robes of scarlet and fine gold,

  which with the gladsome labor of her hands

  Sidonian Dido wrought him long ago,

  the thin-spun gold inweaving. One of these

  the sad prince o’er the youthful body threw

  for parting gift; and with the other veiled

  those tresses from the fire; he heaped on high

  Laurentum’s spoils of war, and bade to bring

  much tribute forth: horses and arms he gave,

  seized from the fallen enemy; with hands

  fettered behind them filed a captive train

  doomed to appease the shades, and with the flames

  to mix their flowing blood. He bade his chiefs

  set up the trunks of trees and clothe them well

  with captured arms, inscribing on each one

  some foeman’s name. Then came Acoetes forth,

  a wretched, worn old man, who beat his breast

  with tight-clenched hands, and tore his wrinkled face

  with ruthless fingers; oft he cast him down

  full length along the ground. Then lead they forth

  the blood-stained Rutule chariots of war;

  Aethon, the war-horse, of his harness bare,

  walks mournful by; big teardrops wet his cheek.

  Some bear the lance and helm; for all the rest

  victorious Turnus seized. Then filed along

  a mournful Teucrian cohort; next the host

  Etrurian and the men of Arcady

  with trailing arms reversed. Aeneas now,

  when the long company had passed him by,

  spoke thus and groaned aloud: “Ourselves from hence

  are summoned by the same dread doom of war

  to other tears. Farewell forevermore!

  Heroic Pallas! be forever blest!

  I bid thee hail, farewell!” In silence then

  back to the stronghold’s Iofty walls he moved.

  Now envoys from the Latin citadel

  came olive-crowned, to plead for clemency:

  would he not yield those bodies of the dead

  sword-scattered o’er the plain, and let them lie

  beneath an earth-built tomb? Who wages war

  upon the vanquished, the unbreathing slain?

  To people once his hosts and kindred called,

  would he not mercy show? To such a prayer,

  deemed not unworthy, good Aeneas gave

  the boon, and this benignant answer made:

  “Ye Latins, what misfortune undeserved

  has snared you in so vast a war, that now

  you shun our friendship? Have you here implored

  peace for your dead, by chance of battle fallen?

  Pain would I grant it for the living too.

  I sailed not hither save by Heaven’s decree,

  which called me to this land. I wage no war

  with you, the people; ‘t was your King refuse
d

  our proffered bond of peace, and gave his cause

  to Turnus’ arms. More meet and just it were

  had Turnus met this death that makes you mourn.

  If he would end our quarrel sword in hand,

  thrusting us Teucrians forth, ‘t was honor’s way

  to cross his blade with mine; that man to whom

  the gods, or his own valor, had decreed

  the longer life, had lived. But now depart!

  Beneath your lost friends light the funeral fires!”

  So spoke Aeneas; and with wonder mute

  all stood at gaze, each turning to behold

  his neighbor’s face. Then Drances, full of years,

  and ever armed with spite and slanderous word

  against young Turnus, made this answering plea:

  “O prince of mighty name, whose feats of arms

  are even mightier! Trojan hero, how

  shall my poor praise exalt thee to the skies?

  Is it thy rectitude or strenuous war

  most bids me wonder? We will bear thy word

  right gladly to the city of our sires;

  and there, if Fortune favor it, contrive

  a compact with the Latin King. Henceforth

  let Turnus find his own allies! Ourselves

  will much rejoice to see thy destined walls,

  and our own shoulders will be proud to bear

  the stone for building Troy.” Such speech he made,

  and all the common voice consented loud.

  So twelve days’ truce they swore, and safe from harm

  Latins and Teucrians unmolested roved

  together o’er the wooded hills. Now rang

  loud steel on ash-tree bole; enormous pines,

  once thrusting starward, to the earth they threw;

  and with industrious wedge asunder clove

  stout oak and odorous cedar, piling high

  harvest of ash-trees on the creaking wain.

  Now Rumor, herald of prodigious woe,

  to King Evander hied, Evander’s house

  and city filling, where, but late, her word

  had told in Latium Pallas’ victory.

  th’ Arcadians thronging to the city-gates

  bear funeral torches, the accustomed way;

  in lines of flame the long street flashes far,

  lighting the fields beyond. To meet them moves

  a Phrygian company, to join with theirs

  its lamentation loud. The Latin wives,

  soon as they saw them entering, aroused

  the whole sad city with shrill songs of woe.

  No hand could stay Evander. Forth he flew

  into the midmost tumult, and fell prone

  on his dead Pallas, on the resting bier;

  he clung to the pale corse with tears, with groans,

  till anguish for a space his lips unsealed:

  “Not this thy promise, Pallas, to thy sire,