Complete Works of Virgil
Page 266
He chides, and lifts young Lausus from the plain, 991
Dead, and with dainty locks fouled by the crimson stain.
CXII . Meanwhile the sire Mezentius, faint with pain,
In Tiber’s waters bathes the bleeding wound.
Against a trunk he leans; the boughs sustain
His brazen helm; his arms upon the ground
Rest idly, and his comrades stand around.
Sick, gasping, spent, his weary neck he tends;
Loose o’er his bosom floats the beard unbound.
Oft of his son he questions, oft he sends 1000
To bid him quit the field, and seek his sire and friends.
CXIII . But, sad and sorrowful, the Tuscan train
Bear back the lifeless Lausus from the field,
Weeping — the mighty by a mightier slain,
And laid in death upon the warrior’s shield.
Far off, their wailing to the sire revealed
The grief, that made his boding heart mistrust.
In agony of vanquish, down he kneeled,
His hoary hairs disfiguring with the dust, 1009
And, grovelling, clasped the corpse, and both his hands outthrust.
CXIV . “Dear son, was life so tempting to the sire,
To let thee face the foemen in my room,
Whom I begot? Shalt thou, my son, expire,
And I live on, my darling in the tomb,
Saved by thy wounds, and living by thy doom?
Ah! woe is me; too well at length I own
The pangs of exile, and the wound strikes home.
’Twas I, thy name who tarnished, I alone, 1018
Whom just resentment thrust from sceptre and from throne.
CXV . “Due to my country was the forfeit; yea,
All deaths Mezentius had deserved to die.
Yet still I leave, and leave not man and day,
But leave I will, — the fatal hour is nigh.”
Then, slowly leaning on his crippled thigh
(Deep was the wound, but dauntless was his breast),
He rose, and calling for his steed hard by,
The steed, that oft in victory’s hour he pressed, 1027
His solace and his pride, the sorrowing beast addressed:
CXVI . “Rhæbus, full long, if aught of earth be long,
We two have lived. Æneas’ head to-day,
And spoils, blood-crimsoned to avenge this wrong,
Back shalt thou bring, or, failing in the fray,
Bite earth with me, and be the Dardan’s prey.
Not thou would’st brook a foreign lord, I weet,
Brave heart, or deign a Teucrian to obey.”
He spoke, and, mounting to his well-known seat, 1036
Swift at the ranks spurred forth, his dreaded foe to meet.
CXVII . Each hand a keen dart brandished; o’er his head
Gleamed the brass helmet with its horse-hair crest.
Shame for himself, and sorrow for the dead,
The parent’s anguish, and the warrior’s zest,
Thrilled through his veins, and kindled in his breast,
And thrice he called Æneas. With delight
Æneas heard him, and his vows addressed:
“So help me Jove, so Phoebus lend his might, 1045
Come on,” and couched his spear, advancing to the fight.
CXVIII . “Wretch,” cries Mezentius, “having robbed my son,
Why scare me now? Thy terrors I defy.
Only through Lausus were his sire undone.
I heed not death nor deities, not I;
Forbear thy taunting; I am here to die,
But send this gift to greet thee, ere I go.”
He spake, and quickly let a javelin fly,
Another — and another, as round the foe 1054
In widening orbs he wheels; the good shield bides the blow.
CXIX . Thrice round Æneas leftward he careers,
Raining his darts. Thrice, shifting round, each way
The Trojan bears the forest of his spears.
At length, impatient of the long delay,
And tired with plucking all the shafts away,
Pondering awhile, and by the ceaseless blows
Hard pressed, and chafing at the unequal fray,
Forth springs Æneas, and betwixt the brows 1063
Full at the warrior-steed a fatal javelin throws.
CXX . Up rears the steed, and paws the air in pain,
Then, following on his falling rider, lies
And pins him with his shoulder to the plain.
Shouts from each host run kindling through the skies.
Forth springs Æneas, glorying in his prize,
And plucks the glittering falchion from his thigh,
“Where now is fierce Mezentius? where,” he cries,
“That fiery spirit?” Then, with upturned eye, 1072
Gasping, with gathered sense, the Tuscan made reply:
CXXI . “Stern foe! why taunt and threaten? ‘twere no shame
To slay me. No such covenant to save
His sire made Lausus; nor for this I came.
One boon I ask — if vanquished men may crave
The victor’s grace — a burial for the brave.
My people hate me; I have lived abhorred;
Shield me from them with Lausus in the grave.”
This said, his throat he offered to the sword, 1081
And o’er his shining arms life’s purple stream was poured.
BOOK ELEVEN
ARGUMENT
Æneas erects a trophy of Mezentius’ arms, and sends the body of Pallas with tears and lamentations to Evander (1-108). A truce for the burial of the dead is asked by the Latins, and sympathy with the Trojan cause finds a spokesman in Drances (109-144). The sorrow of Evander and the funeral rites of Trojans and Latins (145-262). The ambassadors return from the city of Diomedes and report that he praises Æneas and counsels submission (263-336). An anxious debate follows: Latinus suggests terms of peace: Drances inveighs against Turnus, who replies, protesting his readiness to meet Æneas in single combat, and presently seizes the opportunity afforded by a false alarm of impending attack to break up the council. The Latin mothers and maidens offer gifts and litanies to Pallas. Turnus arms for battle (337-576). Camilla and Messapus command the Latin horse; Turnus prepares an ambuscade (577-612). Diana tells the story of Camilla and charges Opis, one of her nymphs, to avenge her should she fall (613-684). Opis watches the battle before the city of Latinus (685-738). The deeds and death of Camilla are recounted: Aruns, her slayer, is slain by Opis (739-972). The Latins are routed, and Turnus, learning the news, abandons the ambush and hurries to the city, closely followed by Æneas (973-1026).
I . Meanwhile from Ocean peeps the dawning day.
The Dardan chief, though fain his friends to mourn,
And pressed with thoughts of burial, hastes to pay
His vows, as victor, with the rising morn.
A towering oak-tree, of its branches shorn,
He plants upon a mound. Aloft, in sight,
The glittering armour from Mezentius torn,
His spoils, he hangs, — a trophy to thy might, 1
Great Mars, the Lord of war, the Ruler of the fight.
II . Thereon he sets the helmet and the crest,
Bedewed with gore, the javelins snapt in twain,
And fits the corslet on the warrior’s breast,
Pierced in twelve places through the twisted chain.
The left arm, as for battle, bears again
The brazen shield, and from the neck depends
The ivory-hilted falchion of the slain.
Around, with shouts of triumph, crowd his friends, 10
Whom thus the Dardan chief with gladdening words commends:
III . “Comrades, great deeds have been achieved to-day;
Let not the morrow trouble you. See there
The tyrant’s spoils, the first-f
ruits of the fray.
And this my work, Mezentius. Now prepare
To king Latinus and his walls to fare.
Let hope forestall, and courage hail the fray,
So, when the gods shall summon us to bear
The standards forth, and muster our array, 19
No fears shall breed dull sloth, nor ignorance delay.
IV . “Our co-mates now commit we to the ground,
Sole honour that in Acheron below
Awaits them. Go ye, on these souls renowned,
Who poured their blood, to purchase from the foe
This country for our fatherland, bestow
The last, sad gift, the tribute of a tomb.
First to Evander’s city, whelmed in woe,
Send Pallas back, whom Death’s relentless doom 28
Hath reft ere manhood’s prime, and plunged in early gloom.”
V . He spake, and sought the threshold, weeping sore,
Where by dead Pallas watched with pious care
Acoetes; once Evander’s arms he bore,
His squire; since then, with auspices less fair,
The trusted guardian of his dear-loved heir.
A crowd of sorrowing menials stand around,
And Troy’s sad matrons, with their streaming hair.
These, when Æneas at the door is found, 37
Shriek out, and beat their breasts, and bitter wails resound.
VI . He marked the pillowed head, the snow-white face,
The smooth breast, gaping with the wound, and cried
In anguish, while the tears burst forth apace,
“Poor boy; hath Fortune, in her hour of pride,
To me thy triumph and return denied?
Not such my promise to thy sire; not so
My pledge to him, who, ere I left his side
In quest of empire, clasped me, boding woe, 46
And warned the race was fierce, and terrible the foe.
VII . “He haply now, by empty hope betrayed,
With prayer and presents doth the gods constrain.
We to the dead, whose debt to Heaven is paid,
The rites of mourners render, but in vain.
Unhappy! doomed to see thy darling slain.
Is this the triumph? this the promise sworn?
This the return? Yet never thine the pain
A coward’s flight, a coward’s scars to mourn; 55
Not thine to long for death, thy loved one saved with scorn.
VIII . “Ah, weep, Ausonia! thou hast lost to-day
Thy champion. Weep, Iulus; he is ta’en,
Thy heart’s delight, the bulwark of the fray!”
Thus he with tears, and bids them lift the slain.
A thousand men, the choicest of his train,
He sends as mourners, with the corpse to go,
And stand between the parent and his pain,
A scanty solace for so huge a woe, 64
But such as pity claims, and piety doth owe.
IX . Of oaken twigs and arbutus they wove
A wattled bier. Soft leaves beneath him made
His pillow, and with leafy boughs above
They twined a verdurous canopy of shade.
There, on his rustic couch the youth is laid,
Fair as the hyacinth, with drooping head,
Cropped by the careless fingers of a maid,
Or tender violet, when life has fled, 73
That, torn from earth, still blooms, unfaded but unfed.
X . Two purple mantles, stiff with golden braid,
Æneas brings, which erst, in loving care,
Sidonian Dido with her hands had made,
And pranked with golden tissue, for his wear.
One, wound in sorrow round the corpse so fair,
The last, sad honour, shrouds the senseless clay;
One, ere the burning, veils the warrior’s hair.
Rich spoils, the trophies of Laurentum’s fray, 82
Stript arms and steeds he brings, and bids them pile the prey.
XI . Here march the captives, doomed to feed the flames;
There, staff in hand, each Dardan chief uprears
The spoil-decked ensigns, marked with foemen’s names.
There, too, they lead Acoetes, bowed with years,
He smites his breast, his haggard cheeks he tears,
Then flings his full length prostrate. There, again,
The blood-stained chariot, and with big, round tears,
Stript of his trappings, in the mournful train, 91
Æthon, the warrior’s steed, comes sorrowing for the slain.
XII . These bear the dead man’s helmet and his spear;
All else the victor for his spoils hath ta’en.
A melancholy phalanx close the rear,
Teucrians, and Tuscans, and Arcadia’s train,
With arms reversed, and mourning for the slain.
So passed the pomp, and, while the tear-drops fell,
Æneas stopped, and, groaning, cried again,
“Hail, mighty Pallas! us the fates compel 100
Yet other tears to shed. Farewell! a long farewell!”
XIII . He spake, then, turning, to the camp doth fare.
Thither Laurentum’s envoys found their way.
Branches of olive in their hands they bear,
And beg a truce, — a respite from the fray,
Their slaughtered comrades in the ground to lay,
And glean the war’s sad harvest. Brave men ne’er
Warred with the dead and vanquished. Once were they
His hosts and kinsmen; he would surely spare. 109
Their plea Æneas owns, and thus accosts them fair:
XIV . “What mischief, Latins, hath your minds misled,
To shun our friendship in the hour of need,
And rush to arms? Peace ask ye for the dead,
The War-God’s prey, whom folly doomed to bleed?
Peace to the living would I fain concede.
I came not hither, but with Heaven to guide.
Fate chose this country, and this home decreed;
Nor war I with the race. Your king denied 118
Our proffered league; ’twas he on Turnus’ arms relied.
XV . “‘Twere juster then that Turnus hand to hand
His life had ventured. Dreams he in his pride
To end the war, and drive us from the land?
He should have met me; he or I had died,
As Fate or prowess might the day decide.
Go, take your dead, and let the bale-fires blaze:
Ye have your answer.” Thus the prince replied,
And each on each the wondering heralds gaze, 127
Mute with admiring awe, and wildered with amaze.
XVI . Then Drances, ever fain with gibes and hate
To vex young Turnus, takes the word and cries,
“O Trojan, great in fame, in arms more great,
What praise of mine shall match thee with the skies?
What most — thy deeds or justice — shall I prize?
Grateful, this answer to our friends we bear,
And thee (let Turnus seek his own allies),
Thee King Latinus shall his friend declare, 136
And Latium’s sons with joy Troy’s destined walls prepare.”
XVII . He spake; as one, all murmur their assent.
For twice six days a solemn truce they plight,
And Teucrians, now, with Latins, freely blent
In peaceful fellowship, as friends unite,
And roam the wooded hills. Sharp axes smite
The sounding ash; these with keen wedges cleave
Tall oak and scented cedar; those with might
The pine-tree, soaring to the stars, upheave, 145
And wains, with groaning wheels, the giant elms receive.
XVIII . Now Rumour, harbinger of woe so great,
That told of Pallas victor, fills again
Evan
der’s town. All hurry to the gate,
With torches snatched, as ancient rites ordain.
A line of fire, that parts the dusky plain,
The long road gleams before them, as they go
To meet the mourners. Soon the wailing train
The Phrygians join. With shrieks the matrons know 154
Far off the funeral throng, and fill the town with woe.
XIX . Naught stays Evander; through the midst he springs,
And falling on the bier, as down they lay
Dead Pallas, groaning to his child he clings,
And hangs with tears upon the senseless clay,
Till speech, half-choked with sorrow, finds a way.
“Pallas, not such thy promise to thy sire,
Warely to trust the War-God in the fray.
I knew what ardour would thy soul inspire, 163
The charms of new-won fame, and battle’s fierce desire.
XX . “O bitter first-fruits of a youth so fair!
O war’s stern prelude! promise dashed to scorn!
Unheeded vows, and unavailing prayer!
O happy spouse! not left, like me, to mourn
A son thus slaughtered, and a life outworn.
I have o’erlived my destiny; life fled
When Pallas left me childless and forlorn.
O, had I fall’n with Trojans in his stead, 172
And me this pomp brought home, and not my Pallas, dead!
XXI . “Yet, Trojans, you I blame not, nor the hands
We joined in friendship, nor the league we swore.
Old age — too old — this cruel lot demands.
Ah, sweet to think, though falling in his flower,
He fell, where thousand Volscians fell before,
Leading Troy’s sons to Latium. Thou shalt have
A Trojan’s funeral — can I wish thee more? —
What rites Æneas offers to the brave, 181
And all Etruria’s hosts shall bear thee to the grave.
XXII . “Proud trophies those who perish by thy hand
Bear thee, and slaughtered foemen speak thy fame.
Thou, Turnus, too, an effigy should’st stand,
Hung round with arms, and Pallas’ praise proclaim,
Had but thine age and Pallas’ been the same,