Complete Works of Virgil

by Virgil

  fear of my vengeance, much embittering so

  his taunts and insult — such a life as his

  my sword disdains. O Drances, be at ease!

  In thy vile bosom let thy breath abide!

  But now of thy grave counsel and thy cause,

  O royal sire, I speak. If from this hour

  thou castest hope of armed success away,

  if we be so unfriended that one rout

  o’erwhelms us utterly, if Fortune’s feet

  never turn backward, let us, then, for peace

  offer petition, lifting to the foe

  our feeble, suppliant hands. Yet would I pray

  some spark of manhood such as once we knew

  were ours once more! I count him fortunate,

  and of illustrious soul beyond us all,

  who, rather than behold such things, has fallen

  face forward, dead, his teeth upon the dust.

  But if we still have power, and men-at-arms

  unwasted and unscathed, if there survive

  Italian tribes and towns for help in war,

  aye! if the Trojans have but won success

  at bloody cost, — for they dig graves, I ween,

  storm-smitten not less than we, — O, wherefore now

  stand faint and shameful on the battle’s edge?

  Why quake our knees before the trumpet call?

  Time and the toil of shifting, changeful days

  restore lost causes; ebbing tides of chance

  deceive us oft, which after at their flood

  do lift us safe to shore. If aid come not

  from Diomed in Arpi, our allies

  shall be Mezentius and Tolumnius,

  auspicious name, and many a chieftain sent

  from many a tribe; not all inglorious

  are Latium’s warriors from Laurentian land!

  Hither the noble Volscian stem sends down

  Camilla with her beauteous cavalry

  in glittering brass arrayed. But if, forsooth,

  the Trojans call me singly to the fight,

  if this be what ye will, and I so much

  the public weal impair — when from this sword

  has victory seemed to fly away in scorn?

  I should not hopeless tread in honor’s way

  whate’er the venture. Dauntless will I go

  though equal match for great Achilles, he,

  and though he clothe him in celestial arms

  in Vulcan’s smithy wrought. I, Turnus, now,

  not less than equal with great warriors gone,

  vow to Latinus, father of my bride,

  and to ye all, each drop of blood I owe.

  Me singly doth Aeneas call? I crave

  that challenge. Drances is not called to pay

  the debt of death, if wrath from Heaven impend;

  nor his a brave man’s name and fame to share.”

  Thus in their doubtful cause the chieftains strove.

  Meanwhile Aeneas his assaulting line

  moved forward. The ill tidings wildly sped

  from royal hall to hall, and filled the town

  with rumors dark: for now the Trojan host

  o’er the wide plains from Tiber’s wave was spread

  in close array of war. The people’s soul

  was vexed and shaken, and its martial rage

  rose to the stern compulsion. Now for arms

  their terror calls; the youthful soldiery

  clamor for arms; the sires of riper days

  weep or repress their tears. On every side

  loud shouts and cries of dissonant acclaim

  trouble the air, as when in lofty grove

  legions of birds alight, or by the flood

  of Padus’ fishy stream the shrieking swans

  far o’er the vocal marish fling their song.

  Then, seizing the swift moment, Turnus cried:

  “Once more, my countrymen, — ye sit in parle,

  lazily praising peace, while yonder foe

  speeds forth in arms our kingdom to obtain.”

  He spoke no more, but hied him in hot haste,

  and from the housetop called, “Volusus, go!

  Equip the Volscian companies! Lead forth

  my Rutules also! O’er the spreading plain,

  ye brothers Coras and Messapus range

  our host of cavalry! Let others guard

  the city’s gates and hold the walls and towers:

  I and my followers elsewhere oppose

  the shock of arms.” Now to and fro they run

  to man the walls. Father Latinus quits —

  the place of council and his large design,

  vexed and bewildered by the hour’s distress.

  He blames his own heart that he did not ask

  Trojan Aeneas for his daughter’s Iord,

  and gain him for his kingdom’s lasting friend.

  They dig them trenches at the gates, or lift

  burden of stakes and stones. The horn’s harsh note

  sounds forth its murderous signal for the war;

  striplings and women, in a motley ring,

  defend the ramparts; the decisive hour

  lays tasks on all. Upon the citadel

  a train of matrons, with the doleful Queen,

  toward Pallas’ temple moves, and in their hand

  are gifts and offerings. See, at their side

  the maid Lavinia, cause of all these tears,

  drops down her lovely eyes! The incense rolls

  in clouds above the altar; at the doors

  with wailing voice the women make this prayer:

  “Tritonian virgin, arbitress of war!

  Break of thyself yon Phrygian robber’s spear!

  Hurl him down dying in the dust! Spill forth

  his evil blood beneath our lofty towers!”

  Fierce Turnus girds him, emulous to slay:

  a crimson coat of mail he wears, with scales

  of burnished bronze; beneath his knees are bound

  the golden greaves; upon his naked brow

  no helm he wears; but to his thigh is bound

  a glittering sword. Down from the citadel

  runs he, a golden glory, in his heart

  boldly exulting, while impatient hope

  fore-counts his fallen foes. He seemed as when,

  from pinfold bursting, breaking his strong chain,

  th’ untrammelled stallion ranges the wide field,

  or tries him to a herd of feeding mares,

  or to some cooling river-bank he knows,

  most fierce and mettlesome; the streaming mane

  o’er neck and shoulder flies. Across his path

  Camilla with her Volscian escort came,

  and at the city-gate the royal maid

  down from her charger leaped; while all her band

  at her example glided to the ground,

  their horses leaving. Thus the virgin spoke:

  “Turnus, if confidence beseem the brave,

  I have no fear; but of myself do vow

  to meet yon squadrons of Aeneadae

  alone, and front me to the gathered charge

  of Tuscan cavalry. Let me alone

  the war’s first venture-prove. Take station, thou,

  here at the walls, this rampart to defend.”

  With fixed eyes on the terror-striking maid,

  Turnus replied, “O boast of Italy,

  O virgin bold! What praise, what gratitude

  can words or deeds repay? But since thy soul

  so large of stature shows, I bid thee share

  my burden and my war. Our spies bring news

  that now Aeneas with pernicious mind

  sends light-armed horse before him, to alarm

  the plains below, while through the wilderness

  he climbs the steep hills, and approaches so

  our leaguered town. But I in sheltered grove

  a stratagem p
repare, and bid my men

  in ambush at a mountain cross-road lie.

  Meet thou the charge of Tuscan cavalry

  with all thy banners. For auxiliar strength

  take bold Messapus with his Latin troop

  and King Tiburtus’ men: but the command

  shall be thy task and care.” He spoke, and urged

  with like instruction for the coming fray

  Messapus and his captains; then advanced

  to meet the foe. There is a winding vale

  for armed deception and insidious war

  well fashioned, and by interlacing leaves

  screened darkly in; a small path thither leads,

  through strait defile-a passage boding ill.

  Above it, on a mountain’s lofty brow,

  are points of outlook, level spaces fair,

  and many a safe, invisible retreat

  from whence on either hand to challenge war,

  or, standing on the ridges, to roll down

  huge mountain boulders. Thither Turnus fared,

  and, ranging the familiar tract, chose out

  his cunning ambush in the dangerous grove.

  But now in dwellings of the gods on high,

  Diana to fleet-footed Opis called,

  a virgin from her consecrated train,

  and thus in sorrow spoke: “O maiden mine!

  Camilla now to cruel conflict flies;

  with weapons like my own she girds her side,

  in vain, though dearest of all nymphs to me.

  Nor is it some new Iove that stirs to-day

  with sudden sweetness in Diana’s breast:

  for long ago, when from his kingdom driven,

  for insolent and envied power, her sire

  King Metabus, from old Privernum’s wall

  was taking flight amidst opposing foes,

  he bore a little daughter in his arms

  to share his exile; and he called the child

  (Changing Casmilla, her queen-mother’s name)

  Camilla. Bearing on his breast the babe,

  he fled to solitary upland groves.

  But hovering round him with keen lances, pressed

  the Volscian soldiery. Across his path,

  lo, Amasenus with full-foaming wave

  o’erflowed its banks — so huge a rain had burst

  but lately from the clouds. There would he fain

  swim over, but the love of that sweet babe

  restrained him, trembling for his burden dear.

  In his perplexed heart suddenly arose

  firm resolve. It chanced the warrior bore

  huge spear in his brawny hand, strong shaft

  of knotted, seasoned oak; to this he lashed

  his little daughter with a withe of bark

  pulled from a cork-tree, and with skilful bonds

  fast bound her to the spear; then, poising it

  high in his right hand, thus he called on Heaven:

  ‘Latona’s daughter, whose benignant grace

  protects this grove, behold, her father now

  gives thee this babe for handmaid! Lo, thy spear

  her infant fingers hold, as from her foes

  she flies a suppliant to thee! Receive,

  O goddess, I implore, what now I cast

  upon the perilous air.’ — He spoke, and hurled

  with lifted arm the whirling shaft. The waves

  roared loud, as on the whistling javelin

  hapless Camilla crossed th’ impetuous flood.

  But Metabus, his foes in hot pursuit,

  dared plunge him in mid-stream, and, triumphing,

  soon plucked from grass-grown river-bank the spear,

  the child upon it, — now to Trivia vowed,

  a virgin offering. Him nevermore

  could cities hold, nor would his wild heart yield

  its sylvan freedom, but his days were passed

  with shepherds on the solitary hills.

  His daughter too in tangled woods he bred:

  a brood-mare from the milk of her fierce breast

  suckled the child, and to its tender lips

  .Her udders moved; and when the infant feet

  their first firm steps had taken, the small palms

  were armed with a keen javelin; her sire

  a bow and quiver from her shoulder slung.

  Instead of golden combs and flowing pall,

  she wore, from her girl-forehead backward thrown,

  the whole skin of a tigress; with soft hands

  she made her plaything of a whirling spear,

  or, swinging round her head the polished thong

  of her good sling, she fetched from distant sky

  Strymonian cranes or swans of spotless wing.

  From Tuscan towns proud matrons oft in vain

  sought her in marriage for their sons; but she

  to Dian only turned her stainless heart,

  her virgin freedom and her huntress’ arms

  with faithful passion serving. Would that now

  this Iove of war had ne’er seduced her mind

  the Teucrians to provoke! So might she be

  one of our wood-nymphs still. But haste, I pray,

  for bitter is her now impending doom.

  Descend, dear nymph, from heaven, and explore

  the country of the Latins, where the fight

  with unpropitious omens now begins.

  These weapons take, and from this quiver draw

  a vengeful arrow, wherewith he who dares

  to wound her sacred body, though he be

  a Trojan or Italian, shall receive

  bloody and swift reward at my command.

  Then, in a cloud concealed, I will consign

  her corpse, ill-fated but inviolate

  unto the sepulchre, restoring so

  the virgin to her native land.” Thus spake

  the goddess; but her handmaid, gliding down,

  took her loud pathway on the moving winds,

  and mantled in dark storm her shape divine.

  Meanwhile the Teucrian legions to the wall

  draw near, with Tuscan lords and cavalry

  in numbered troops arrayed. Loud-footed steeds

  prance o’er the field, to manage of the rein

  rebellious, but turned deftly here or there.

  The iron harvest of keen spears spreads far,

  and all the plain burns bright with lifted steel.

  Messapus and swift Latin cavalry,

  Coras his brother, and th’ attending train

  of the fair maid Camilla, form their lines

  in the opposing field. Their poised right hands

  point the long lances forward, and light shafts

  are brandished in the air; the warrior hosts

  on steeds of fire come kindling as they ride.

  One instant, at a spear-throw’s space, each line

  its motion stays; then with one sudden cry

  they rush forth, spurring on each frenzied steed.

  From-every side the multitudinous spears

  pour down like snowflakes, mantling heaven in shade.

  Now with contending spears and straining thews,

  Tyrrhenus, and Aconteus, champion bold,

  ride forward; with the onset terrible

  loudly their armor rings; their chargers twain

  crash breast to breast, and like a thunderbolt

  Aconteus drops, or like a ponderous stone

  hurled from a catapult; full length he falls,

  surrend’ring to the winds his fleeting soul.

  Now all is panic: holding their light shields

  behind their backs, the Latin horse wheel round,

  retreating to the wall, the Trojan foe

  in close pursuit. Asilas, chieftain proud,

  led on th’ assault. Hard by the city gates

  the Latins wheeled once more and pressed the rein

  strong on the yiel
ding neck; the charging foe

  took flight and hurried far with loose-flung rein.

  ‘T was like the shock and onset of the sea

  that landward hurls the alternating flood

  and hides high cliffs in foam, — the tawny sands

  upflinging as it rolls; then, suddenly

  whirled backward on the reingulfing waves,

  it quits the ledges, and with ebbing flow

  far from the shore retires. The Tuscans twice

  drive back the flying Rutules to the town;

  and twice repulsed, with shields to rearward thrown,

  glare back at the pursuer; but conjoined

  in the third battle-charge, both armies merge

  confusedly together in grim fight

  of man to man; then follow dying groans,

  armor blood-bathed and corpses, and strong steeds

  inextricably with their masters slain,

  so fierce the fray. Orsilochus — afraid

  to front the warrior’s arms — launched forth a spear

  at Remulus’ horse, and left the fatal steel

  clinging below its ear; the charger plunged

  madly, and tossed its trembling hoofs in air,

  sustaining not the wound; the rider fell,

  flung headlong to the ground. Catillus slew

  Iollas; and then struck Herminius down,

  great-bodied and great-hearted, who could wield

  a monster weapon, and whose yellow hair

  from naked head to naked shoulder flowed.

  By wounds unterrified he dared oppose

  his huge bulk to the foe: the quivering spear

  pierced to his broad back, and with throes of pain

  bowed the man double and clean clove him through.

  Wide o’er the field th’ ensanguined horror flowed,

  where fatal swords were crossed and cut their way

  through many a wound to famous death and fair.

  Swift through the midmost slaughter proudly strides

  the quiver-girt Camilla, with one breast

  thrust naked to the fight, like Amazon.

  Oft from her hand her pliant shafts she rains,

  or whirls with indefatigable arm

  a doughty battle-axe; her shoulder bears

  Diana’s sounding arms and golden bow.

  Sometimes retreating and to flight compelled,

  the maiden with a rearward-pointing bow

  shoots arrows as she flies. Around her move

  her chosen peers, Larina, virgin brave,

  Tarpeia, brandishing an axe of bronze,

  and Tulla, virgins out of Italy

  whom the divine Camilla chose to be

  her glory, each a faithful servitress

  in days of peace or war. The maids of Thrace

  ride thus along Thermodon’s frozen flood,

  and fight with blazoned Amazonian arms

  around Hippolyta; or when returns