by Virgil
He, vainly glorying in his fancied snare,
Reins round in haste, and, spurring, strives to flee.
“Fool,” cries Camilla, “let thy pride beware.
Think not to palm thy father’s tricks on me, 811
Nor hope with craft like this thy lying sire to see.”
XCII . So spake she, and on flying feet afire
Outruns his steed, and stands athwart the way,
Then grasps the reins, and deals the wretch his hire,
Doomed with his life-blood for his craft to pay.
So on a dove, amid the clouds astray,
Down swoops the sacred falcon through the sky
From some tall cliff, and fastens on his prey,
And grips, and rends, and sucks the life-blood dry; 820
The feathers, foul with blood, come, fluttering down from high.
XCIII . Nor Jove meanwhile with unregarding ken,
Throned on Olympus, doth the scene survey.
Watchful of all, the Sire of gods and men
Stirs up the Tuscan Tarchon to the fray,
And plies the war-goad with no gentle sway.
He through the squadrons on his steed aflame
Rides ‘mid the carnage, where the ranks give way;
Now chides, now cheers, and calling each by name, 829
Re-forms the broken lines, and reinspires the tame.
XCIV . “Cowards, why faint ye, Tuscans but in name?
Fie! shall a woman scatter you in flight?
O, slack! O, never to be stung to shame!
What use of weapons, if ye fear to fight?
No laggards ye for amorous jousts at night,
Or Bacchic revels, when the fife ye hear.
The feast and wine-cup — these are your delight;
For these ye linger, till the approving seer 838
Calls to the grove’s deep shade, where bleeds the fattened steer.”
XCV . Then, spurring forth, himself prepared to die,
He dashed at Venulus, unhorsed his prize,
And bore him on his saddle-bow. A cry
Goes up, and all the Latins turn their eyes.
Swift with his prey the fiery Tarchon flies,
And, while the steel-head from his spear he rends,
Each chink and crevice in his armour tries,
To deal the death-blow. He, as fierce, contends, 847
And, countering force with force, his naked throat defends.
XCVI . As when a golden eagle, high in air,
Wreathed with a serpent, fastens, as she flies,
With feet that clutch, and taloned claws that tear.
Coil writhed in coil, the roughening scales uprise,
The crest points up, the hissing tongue defies.
She with sharp beak still rends the struggling prey,
And beats the air. So Tarchon with his prize
Through Tibur’s host exulting speeds away. 856
With cheers the Tuscans charge, and hail their chief’s essay.
XCVII . Now, due to fate, aloof with lifted lance,
The crafty Aruns round Camilla wheels,
And tries where fortune lends the readiest chance.
Oft as she charges, where the war-shout peals,
He slips unseen, and follows on her heels.
When back she runs, triumphant from the foe,
He shifts the rein, and from the conflict steals.
Now here, now there, he doubles to and fro, 865
And shakes his felon spear, but hesitates to throw.
XCVIII . Lo, Chloreus, priest of Cybele, aglow
In Phrygian armour, gorgeous to behold,
Urges his foaming charger at the foe,
All decked in feathered chain-work, linked with gold.
Cretan his shafts, his bow of Lycian mould.
Dark blue and foreign purple clothed his breast,
Golden his casque and bow; his mantle’s fold
Of yellow saffron knots of gold compressed, 874
And buskins bound his knees, and broidered was his vest.
XCIX . Him the fierce huntress, whether fain the shrine
To deck with trophies, or with envious eyes
Wishful herself in Trojan arms to shine,
Marks in the strife; at him alone she flies,
Proud, like a woman, of her fancied prize.
Blindly she runs, uncautious of the snare,
When, darting from the ambush, where he lies,
The moment snatched, false Aruns shakes his spear, 883
And thus, with measured aim, invokes the Gods with prayer.
C . “O Phoebus, guardian of Soracte’s steep,
Whom first we honour, to whose sacred name,
Thy votaries, we, the blazing pine-wood heap,
And, firm in faith, pass through the smouldering flame,
Grant that our arms may wipe away this shame.
Trophies, nor spoils, nor plunder from the prey
Be mine; I look to other deeds for fame.
If wound of mine this hateful pest shall slay, 892
Home will I gladly go, and fameless quit the fray.”
CI . Apollo heard, and granted half his prayer,
And half he scattered to the winds. To slay
With sudden stroke Camilla unaware
He gave, but gave not his returning day;
The breezes puffed the bootless wish away.
Shrill sang the lance; each Volscian eye and heart
Turned to the queen. The weapon on its way, —
The rush of air she heeds not, till the dart 901
Strikes home, and, staying, draws the life-blood from her heart.
CII . Up run her friends, the fainting queen to aid,
More scared than all, in fear and joy amain,
False Aruns flies, nor dares to face the maid,
Or trust the venture of his spear again.
As guilty wolf, some steer or shepherd slain,
Slinks to the hills, ere hostile darts pursue,
And clasps his tail between his thighs, full fain
To seek the woods, so Aruns shrank from view, 910
Sore scared and glad to fly, and in the crowd withdrew.
CIII . With dying hand she strives to pluck the spear:
Deep ‘twixt the rib-bones in the wound it lies.
Bloodless she faints; her features, late so fair,
Fade, as the crimson from the pale cheeks flies,
And cold and misty wax the drooping eyes.
Then, with quick gasps, and groaning from her breast,
She calls to faithful Acca, ere she dies, —
Acca, her truest comrade and her best, 919
The partner of her cares, — and breathes a last request.
CIV . “Sister, ’tis past; the bitter shaft apace
Consumes me; all is growing dark. Go, tell
This news to Turnus; bid him take my place,
And keep these Trojans from the town. Farewell.”
So saying, she dropped the bridle, as she fell.
Death’s creeping chills the loosened limbs o’erspread.
Down dropped the weapons she had borne so well,
The neck drooped, slackened; and she bowed her head, 928
And the disdainful soul went groaning to the dead.
CV . Up rose a shout, Camilla fall’n, that beat
The golden stars, and fiercer waxed the fray.
On press the host, in serried ranks complete,
Trojans, Arcadians, Tuscans in array.
High on a hill, fair Opis watched the day,
Set there by Trivia, undisturbed till now,
When, lo, amid the tumult far away
She sees Camilla, in the dust laid low, 937
Deep from her breast she sighs, and thus in words of woe:
CVI . “Cruel, too cruel, is thy forfeit paid,
Poor maiden, who the Trojan arms would’st dare;
Nor aught availed thee, in t
he woodland glade
To serve Diana, and her arms to wear.
Yet not unhonoured in thy death, nor bare
Of fame she leaves thee; nor in after day
Shall vengeance fail thy prowess to declare.
Whoso hath dared thy sacred form to slay, 946
His blood shall rue the deed, and fit atonement pay.”
CVII . Beneath the hill a barrow chanced to stand,
Heaped there of old, and holm-oaks frowned beside
Dercennus’ tomb, who ruled Laurentum’s land.
Here, lightning swift, the lovely Nymph espied,
In shining arms, and puffed with empty pride,
False Aruns. “Caitiff! dost thou think to flee?
Why keep aloof? Turn hitherward!” she cried,
“Come here, and die! Camilla claims her fee. 955
Must Cynthia waste her shafts on worthless knaves like thee?”
CVIII . Plucking the arrow from her case, she drew
The bow, full-stretched, till both the horns unite.
Both arms raised level, ere the missile flew,
Her left hand touched the iron point, the right,
Pressed to her nipple, strained the bow-string tight.
He hears the arrow whistle as it flies,
And feels the wound. Sweeping on amain, [word missing]
Forsakes him. Groaning, with a gasp, he dies. 964
Upsoars the gladdening Nymph, and seeks the Olympian skies.
CIX . First flies Camilla’s troop, their mistress slain,
Then, routed, the Rutulian ranks give way,
And fierce Atinas gallops from the plain,
And scattered chiefs and squadrons in dismay
Spur towards the town for shelter from the fray.
None dares that murderous onset of the foe
To stem with javelins, nor their charge to stay.
Slack from their fainting shoulders hangs the bow, 973
The clattering horse-hoofs shake the crumbling ground below.
CX . Dark rolls the dust-cloud, to the town-walls driven,
And mothers on the watch-towers, pale with fear,
Smite on their breasts, and shriek aloud to heaven.
These, bursting in, their foemen in the rear
Crush in the crowd, and slaughter with the spear,
Slain in the gateway — miserably slain! —
Their walls in sight, their happy homes so near.
Those bar the gates, while comrades on the plain 982
Stretch their imploring hands, and call to them in vain.
CXI . Then piteous waxed the carnage by the gate,
Some storming, some defending. These without,
In sight of parents, weeping at their fate,
Roll down the moat, swept headlong by the rout,
Or charge the battered doorposts with a shout.
The very matrons, at their country’s call,
Their javelins hurl. Charr’d stakes and oak-staves stout
Serve them for swords. Forth rush they, one and all, 991
Fir’d by Camilla’s deeds, to save the town or fall.
CXII . Meanwhile to Turnus, in the woods afar,
Came Acca, and the bitter news made plain,
And told the chief the tumult of the war, —
The panic and the rout — the Volscian train
Swept from the battle, and Camilla slain.
The foemen, flushed with conquest, far and near
In hot pursuit, and sweeping on amain,
And all the city now aghast with fear: — 1000
Such was the dolorous tale that filled the warrior’s ear.
CXIII . Then, mad with fury, in revengeful mood
(For Jove is stern, and so the Fates ordain),
He quits his mountain-ambush and the wood.
Scarce, out of sight, had Turnus reached the plain,
When, issuing forth, Æneas hastes to gain
The pass, left open, climbs the neighbouring height,
And leaves the tangled forest. Thus the twain,
Each near to each, — the middle space is slight, — 1009
Townward their troops lead on, and hail the proffered fight.
CXIV . At once Æneas on the dusty plain
Marks the Laurentine columns far away.
At once, in arms, fierce Turnus knows again
The dread Æneas, and he hears the neigh
Of steeds, and tramp of footmen in array.
Then each the fight had ventured, as they stood,
But rosy Phoebus, with declining day,
His steeds was bathing in the Iberian flood; 1018
So by the walls they camp, and make the ramparts good.
BOOK TWELVE
ARGUMENT
Turnus realises that he must now redeem his promise to meet Æneas in single combat, and refuses to be dissuaded either by Latinus or by Amata (1-90). The challenge is sent, and the two make ready. Lists are prepared and spectators gather (91-153). Juno warns the Nymph Juturna to aid her brother Turnus (154-180). After the terms of combat have been ratified by oath and sacrifice, Juturna, in disguise, by an opportune omen induces one of the assembled Latins to break the truce and kill a Trojan (181-310). Æneas is wounded while endeavouring to restrain his men from reprisals, and the fray becomes general. Turnus deals death among the Trojans (311-441). Æneas is miraculously healed, and at first pursues only Turnus — who is carried off by Juturna (442-561), but presently gives rein to his anger and slays indiscriminately, until by Venus’ advice he attacks the city. Amata kills herself, believing Turnus dead (562-702). Turnus’ eyes are opened. Seeing the city outworks in flames, he returns and proclaims himself ready to meet Æneas, who, welcoming the challenge, rushes forward. All eyes are riveted on the two, when Turnus’ sword breaks, and once more he flees, pursued by Æneas. Juturna gives Turnus another sword, and Venus restores to Æneas his spear (703-918). Follows a colloquy between Jupiter and Juno. — Turnus must die. Æneas shall marry Lavinia and be king. But the new nation must keep the ancient rites and names of Latium, and be called not Trojans but Latins. Juno yields, and Jupiter warns Juturna to leave the battle (919-1026). Turnus, being beside himself, after a last superhuman effort, is struck down. Æneas is about to spare his life, when he sees upon his shoulder the spoils of Pallas, and kills him (1027-1107).
I . When Turnus saw the Latins faint and fly,
Crushed by the War-God, and his pledge reclaimed,
Himself the mark of every scornful eye,
Rage unappeasable his pride inflamed.
As when a lion, in the breast sore maimed
In Punic fields, uprousing, shakes his mane,
And snaps the shaft that felon hands had aimed,
His mouth all bloody, as he roars with pain, 1
So Turnus blazed with wrath, as thus in scornful strain
II . He hailed the king: “Not Turnus stops the way;
No cause have these their challenge to forego,
Poor Trojan cowards; I accept the fray,
Sire, be the compact hallowed; be it so.
Or I, while Latins sit and see the show,
Will hurl to Hell this Dardan thief abhorred,
This Asian runaway, and on the foe
Refute the common slander with the sword, 10
Or he, as victor, reign and be Lavinia’s lord.”
III . Then, calm of soul, Latinus made reply,
“O gallant youth, the more thy heart is fain
In fierceness to excel, the more should I
Weigh well the risks and measure loss with gain.
To thee belong thy father Daunus’ reign
And captured towns. Good will have I and gold,
And other maids our Latin homes contain,
Of noble birth and lovely to behold. 19
Hear now, and let plain speech the thankless truth unfold.
IV . “To none of former suitors was I free
To wed my daughter, so
the voice ordained
Of gods and men consenting. Love for thee,
And sympathy for kindred blood hath gained
The mastery, and a weeping wife constrained.
I robbed the husband of the bride he wooed,
Took impious arms, and plighted faith disdained.
Ah me! what wars, what bitter fates ensued, 28
Thou, Turnus, know’st too well, who first hast felt the feud.
V . “Scarce now, twice worsted in the desperate fray,
Our walls can guard what Latin hopes remain,
And, choked with Latin corpses, day by day,
Old Tiber’s stream runs purple to the main,
And Latin bones are whitening all the plain.
Why shifts my frenzied purpose to and fro?
Why change and change? If, maugre Turnus slain,
I deign to welcome as a friend his foe, 37
Why not, while Turnus lives, the needless strife forego?
VI . “What will Rutulian kinsmen, what will all
Italia say, if (Chance the deed forefend!)
I leave thee, cheated of my care, to fall,
The daughter’s lover, and the father’s friend?
O, weigh the risks that on the war attend;
Pity the parent in his sad, old age,
Left at far Ardea to lament thine end.”
Thus he; but naught fierce Turnus can assuage; 46
The healing hand but chafes, and words augment his rage.
VII . Then he, scarce gathering utterance, spake again,
“Good Sire, thy trouble for my sake forego;
Leave me the price of glory — to be slain.
I too can hurl, nor feeble is my blow,
The whistling shaft, that lays the foeman low,
And drinks his life-blood. Vain shall be his prayer.
No goddess mother shall be there, to throw
Her mist around him, with a woman’s care, 55
And screen her darling son with empty shades of air.”
VIII . The Queen, with death before her, filled with fears,
Wept sore and checked the fiery suitor’s way.
“O Turnus! if thou heed’st me, by these tears; —
Hope of my age, Latinus’ strength and stay,
