Complete Works of Virgil

by Virgil

prayed but for rest and safety, clamored loud

  for arms, desired annulment of the league,

  and pitied Turnus’ miserable doom.

  Whereon Juturna tried a mightier stroke,

  a sign from heaven, which more than all beside

  confused the Latins and deceived their hearts

  with prodigy. For through the flaming skies

  Jove’s golden eagle swooped, and scattered far

  a clamorous tribe of river-haunting birds;

  then, swiftly to the waters falling, seized

  one noble swan, which with keen, curving claws

  he ruthless bore away: th’ Italians all

  watched eagerly, while the loud-screaming flock

  wheeled upward (wondrous sight!), with host of wings

  shadowed the sky, and in a legion-cloud

  chased through the air the foe; till, overborne

  by heavier odds, the eagle from his claws

  flung back his victim to the waves, and fled

  to the dim, distant heaven. The Rutules then

  hailed the good omen with consenting cry,

  and grasped the sword and shield. Tolumnius

  the augur spake first: “Lo, the sign I sought

  with many a prayer! I welcome and obey

  the powers divine. Take me for captain, me!

  And draw your swords, ye wretches, whom th’ assault

  of yonder foreign scoundrel puts in fear

  like feeble birds, and with his violence

  lays waste your shore. He too shall fly away,

  spreading his ships’ wings on the distant seas.

  Close up your ranks — one soul in all our breasts!

  Defend in open war your stolen King.”

  So saying, he hurled upon th’ opposing foe

  his javelin, running forward. The strong shaft

  of corner whistled shrill, and clove the air

  unerring. Instantly vast clamor rose,

  and all th’ onlookers at the spectacle

  leaped up amazed, and every heart beat high.

  The spear sped flying to the foeman’s line,

  where stood nine goodly brethren, pledges all

  of one true Tuscan mother to her lord,

  Gylippus of Arcadia; it struck full

  on one of these at his gold-belted waist,

  and where the clasp clung, pierced the rib clean through.

  And stretched the fair youth in his glittering arms

  full length and lifeless on the yellow sand.

  His brothers then, bold band to wrath aroused

  by sorrow, seize the sword or snatch the spear

  and blindly charge. Opposing them, the host

  Laurentine makes advance, and close-arrayed

  the Trojans like a torrent pour, enforced

  by Tuscans and the gay-accoutred clans

  of Arcady. One passion moved in all

  to try the judgment of the sword. They tore

  the altars down: a very storm of spears

  rose angrily to heaven, in iron rain

  down-pouring: while the priests bore far away

  the sacrificial bowls and sacred fires.

  Even Latinus fled; his stricken gods

  far from his violated oath he bore.

  Some leaped to horse or chariot and rode

  with naked swords in air. Messapus, wild

  to break the truce, assailed the Tuscan King,

  Aulestes, dressed in kingly blazon fair,

  with fearful shock of steeds; the Tuscan dropped

  helplessly backward, striking as he fell

  his head and shoulders on the altar-stone

  that lay behind him. But Messapus flew,

  infuriate, a javelin in his hand,

  and, towering o’er the suppliant, smote him strong

  with the great beam-like spear, and loudly cried:

  “Down with him! Ah! no common victim he

  to give the mighty gods!” Italia’s men

  despoiled the dead man ere his limbs were cold.

  Then Corynaeus snatched a burning brand

  out of the altar, and as Ebysus

  came toward him for to strike, he hurled the flame

  full in his face: the big beard quickly blazed

  with smell of singeing; while the warrior bold

  strode over him, and seized with firm left hand

  his quailing foe’s Iong hair; then with one knee

  he pushed and strained, compelled him to the `ground —

  and struck straight at his heart with naked steel.

  The shepherd Alsus in the foremost line

  came leaping through the spears; when o’er him towered

  huge Podalirius with a flashing sword

  in close pursuit; the mighty battle-axe

  clove him with swinging stroke from brow to chin,

  and spilt along his mail the streaming gore:

  so stern repose and iron slumber fell

  upon that shepherd’s eyes, and sealed their gaze

  in endless night. But good Aeneas now

  stretched forth his unarmed hand, and all unhelmed

  thus Ioudly to his people called: “What means

  this frantic stir, this quarrel rashly bold?

  Recall your martial rage! The pledge is given

  and all its terms agreed. ‘T is only I

  do lawful battle here. So let me forth,

  and tremble not. My own hand shall confirm

  the solemn treaty. For these rites consign

  Turnus to none but me.” Yet while he spoke,

  behold, a winged arrow, hissing loud,

  the hero pierced; but what bold hand impelled

  its whirling speed, none knew; nor if it were

  chance or some power divine that brought this fame

  upon Rutulia; for the glorious deed

  was covered o’er with silence: none would boast

  an arrow guilty of Aeneas’ wound.

  When Turnus saw Aeneas from the line

  retreating, and the captains in dismay,

  with sudden hope he burned: he called for steeds,

  for arms, and, leaping to his chariot,

  rode insolently forth, the reins in hand.

  Many strong heroes he dispatched to die,

  as on he flew, and many stretched half-dead,

  or from his chariot striking, or from far

  raining his javelins on the recreant foe.

  As Mars, forth-speeding by the wintry stream

  of Hebrus, smites his sanguinary shield

  and whips the swift steeds to the front of war,

  who, flying past the winds of eve and morn,

  scour the wide champaign; the bounds of Thrace

  beneath their hoof-beats thunder; the dark shapes

  of Terror, Wrath, and Treachery move on

  in escort of the god: in such grim guise

  bold Turnus lashed into the fiercest fray

  his streaming steeds, that pitiful to see

  trod down the slaughtered foe; each flying hoof

  scattered a bloody dew; their path was laid

  in mingled blood and sand. To death he flung

  Pholus and Sthenelus and Thamyris:

  two smitten in close fight and one from far:

  also from far he smote with fatal spear

  Glaucus and Lades, the Imbrasidae,

  whom Imbrasus himself in Lycia bred,

  and honored them with arms of equal skill

  when grappling with a foe, or o’er the field

  speeding a war-horse faster than the wind.

  Elsewhere Eumedes through a throng of foes

  to battle rode, the high-born Dolon’s child,

  famous in war, who bore his grandsire’s name,

  but seemed in might and courage like his sire:

  that prince, who reconnoitring crept so near

  the Argive camp, he dared to claim for spoil

&nbs
p; the chariot of Achilles; but that day

  great Diomed for such audacious deed

  paid wages otherwise, — and he no more

  dreamed to possess the steeds of Peleus’ son.

  When Turnus recognized in open field

  this warrior, though far, he aimed and flung

  his javelin through the spacious air; then stayed

  his coursers twain, and, leaping from his car,

  found the wretch helpless fallen; so planted he

  his foot upon his neck, and from his hand

  wrested the sword and thrust it glittering

  deep in the throat, thus taunting as he slew:

  “There’s land for thee, thou Trojan! Measure there

  th’ Hesperian provinces thy sword would find.

  Such reward will I give to all who dare

  draw steel on me; such cities they shall build.”

  To bear him company his spear laid low

  Asbutes, Sybaris, Thersilochus,

  Chloreus and Dares, and Thymoetes thrown

  sheer off the shoulders of his balking steed.

  As when from Thrace the north wind thunders down

  the vast Aegean, flinging the swift flood

  against the shore, and where his blasts assail

  the cloudy cohorts vanish out of heaven:

  so before Turnus, where his path he clove,

  the lines fell back, the wheeling legions fled.

  The warrior’s own wild impulse swept him on,

  and every wind that o’er his chariot blew

  shook out his plume in air. But such advance

  so bold, so furious, Phegeus could not brook,

  but, fronting the swift chariot’s path, he seized

  the foam-flecked bridles of its coursers wild,

  while from the yoke his body trailed and swung;

  the broad lance found his naked side, and tore

  his double corselet, pricking lightly through

  the outer flesh; but he with lifted shield

  still fought his foe and thrust with falchion bare;

  but the fierce pace of whirling wheel and pole

  flung him down prone, and stretched him on the plain.

  Then Turnus, aiming with relentless sword

  between the corselet’s edge and helmet’s rim

  struck off his whole head, leaving on the sands

  the mutilated corpse. While thus afield

  victorious Turnus dealt out death and doom,

  Mnestheus, Achates true, and by their side

  Ascanius, have carried to the camp

  Aeneas, gashed and bleeding, whose long lance

  sustained his limping step. With fruitless rage

  he struggled with the spear-head’s splintered barb,

  and bade them help him by the swiftest way

  to carve the wound out with a sword, to rip

  the clinging weapon forth, and send him back

  to meet the battle. Quickly to his side

  came Iapyx, dear favorite and friend

  of Phoebus, upon whom the god bestowed

  his own wise craft and power, Iove-impelled.

  The gifts of augury were given, and song,

  with arrows of swift wing: he when his sire

  was carried forth to die, deferred the doom

  for many a day, by herbs of virtue known

  to leechcraft; and without reward or praise

  his silent art he plied. Aeneas stood,

  bitterly grieving, propped upon his spear;

  a throng of warriors were near him, and

  Iulus, sorrowing. The aged man

  gathered his garments up as leeches do,

  and with skilled hand and Phoebus’ herbs of power

  bustled in vain; in vain his surgery

  pried at the shaft, and with a forceps strong

  seized on the buried barb. But Fortune gave

  no remedy, nor did Apollo aid

  his votary. So more and more grim fear

  stalks o’er the field of war, and nearer hies

  the fatal hour; the very heavens are dust;

  the horsemen charge, and in the midmost camp

  a rain of javelins pours. The dismal cry

  of men in fierce fight, and of men who fall

  beneath relentless Mars, rends all the air.

  Then Venus, by her offspring’s guiltless woe

  sore moved, did cull from Cretan Ida’s crest

  some dittany, with downy leaf and stem

  and flowers of purple bloom — a simple known

  to mountain goats, when to their haunches clings

  an arrow gone astray. This Venus brought,

  mantling her shape in cloud; and this she steeped

  in bowls of glass, infusing secretly

  ambrosia’s healing essence and sweet drops

  of fragrant panacea. Such a balm

  aged Iapyx poured upon the wound,

  though unaware; and sudden from the flesh

  all pain departed and the blood was staunched,

  while from the gash the arrow uncompelled

  followed the hand and dropped: his wonted strength

  flowed freshly through the hero’s frame. “Make haste!

  Bring forth his arms! Why tarry any more?”

  Iapyx shouted, being first to fire

  their courage ‘gainst the foe. “This thing is done

  not of man’s knowledge, nor by sovereign skill;

  nor has my hand, Aeneas, set thee free.

  Some mighty god thy vigor gives again

  for mighty deeds.” Aeneas now put on,

  all fever for the fight, his golden greaves,

  and, brooking not delay, waved wide his spear.

  Soon as the corselet and the shield were bound

  on back and side, he clasped Ascanius

  to his mailed breast, and through his helmet grim

  tenderly kissed his son. “My boy”, he cried,

  “What valor is and patient, genuine toil

  learn thou of me; let others guide thy feet

  to prosperous fortune. Let this hand and sword

  defend thee through the war and lead thee on

  to high rewards. Thou also play the man!

  And when thy riper vigor soon shall bloom,

  forget not in thy heart to ponder well

  the story of our line. Heed honor’s call,

  like Sire Aeneas and Hector thy close kin.”

  After such farewell word, he from the gates

  in mighty stature strode, and swung on high

  his giant spear. With him in serried line

  Antheus and Mnestheus moved, and all the host

  from the forsaken fortress poured. The plain

  was darkened with their dust; the startled earth

  shook where their footing fell. From distant hill

  Turnus beheld them coming, and the eyes

  of all Ausonia saw: a chill of fear

  shot through each soldier’s marrow; in their van

  Juturna knew full well the dreadful sound,

  and fled before it, shuddering. But he

  hurried his murky cohorts o’er the plain.

  As when a tempest from the riven sky

  drives landward o’er mid-ocean, and from far

  the hearts of husbandmen, foreboding woe,

  quake ruefully, — for this will come and rend

  their trees asunder, kill the harvests all,

  and sow destruction broadcast; in its path

  fly roaring winds, swift heralds of the storm:

  such dire approach the Trojan chieftain showed

  before his gathered foes. In close array

  they wedge their ranks about him. With a sword

  Thymbraeus cuts huge-limbed Osiris down;

  Mnestheus, Arcetius; from Epulo

  Achates shears the head; from Ufens, Gyas;

  Tolumnius the augur falls, the same

  who fl
ung the first spear to the foeman’s line.

  Uprose to heaven the cries. In panic now

  the Rutules in retreating clouds of dust

  scattered across the plain. Aeneas scorned

  either the recreant or resisting foe

  to slaughter, or the men who shoot from far:

  for through the war-cloud he but seeks the arms

  of Turnus, and to single combat calls.

  The warrior-maid Juturna, seeing this,

  distraught with terror, strikes down from his place

  Metiscus, Turnus’ charioteer, who dropped

  forward among the reins and off the pole.

  Him leaving on the field, her own hand grasped

  the loosely waving reins, while she took on

  Metiscus’ shape, his voice, and blazoned arms.

  As when through some rich master’s spacious halls

  speeds the black swallow on her lightsome wing,

  exploring the high roof, or harvesting

  some scanty morsel for her twittering brood,

  round empty corridors or garden-pools

  noisily flitting: so Juturna roams

  among the hostile ranks, and wings her way

  behind the swift steeds of the whirling car.

  At divers points she lets the people see

  her brother’s glory, but not yet allows

  the final tug of war; her pathless flight

  keeps far away. Aeneas too must take

  a course circuitous, and follows close

  his foeman’s track; Ioud o’er the scattered lines

  he shouts his challenge. But whene’er his eyes

  discern the foe, and fain he would confront

  the flying-footed steeds, Juturna veers

  the chariot round and flies. What can he do?

  Aeneas’ wrath storms vainly to and fro,

  and wavering purposes his heart divide.

  Against him lightly leaped Messapus forth,

  bearing two pliant javelins tipped with steel;

  and, whirling one in air, he aimed it well,

  with stroke unfailing. Great Aeneas paused

  in cover of his shield and crouched low down

  upon his haunches. But the driven spear

  battered his helmet’s peak and plucked away

  the margin of his plume. Then burst his rage:

  his cunning foes had forced him; so at last,

  while steeds and chariot in the distance fly,

  he plunged him in the fray, and called on Jove

  the altars of that broken oath to see.

  Now by the war-god’s favor he began

  grim, never-pitying slaughter, and flung free

  the bridle of his rage.

  What voice divine

  such horror can make known? What song declare

  the bloodshed manifold, the princes slain,

  or flying o’er the field from Turnus’ blade,

  or from the Trojan King? Did Jove ordain