The peace polluted thus, a chosen bandHe first commissions to the Latian land,In threat’ning embassy; then rais’d the rest,To meet in arms th’ intruding Trojan guest,To force the foes from the Lavinian shore,And Italy’s indanger’d peace restore.Himself alone an equal match he boasts,To fight the Phrygian and Ausonian hosts.The gods invok’d, the Rutuli prepareTheir arms, and warn each other to the war.His beauty these, and those his blooming age,The rest his house and his own fame engage.
While Turnus urges thus his enterprise,The Stygian Fury to the Trojans flies;New frauds invents, and takes a steepy stand,Which overlooks the vale with wide command;Where fair Ascanius and his youthful train,With horns and hounds, a hunting match ordain,And pitch their toils around the shady plain.The Fury fires the pack; they snuff, they vent,And feed their hungry nostrils with the scent.’Twas of a well-grown stag, whose antlers riseHigh o’er his front; his beams invade the skies.From this light cause th’ infernal maid preparesThe country churls to mischief, hate, and wars.
The stately beast the two Tyrrhidae bred,Snatch’d from his dams, and the tame youngling fed.Their father Tyrrheus did his fodder bring,Tyrrheus, chief ranger to the Latian king:Their sister Silvia cherish’d with her careThe little wanton, and did wreaths prepareTo hang his budding horns, with ribbons tiedHis tender neck, and comb’d his silken hide,And bathed his body. Patient of commandIn time he grew, and, growing us’d to hand,He waited at his master’s board for food;Then sought his salvage kindred in the wood,Where grazing all the day, at night he cameTo his known lodgings, and his country dame.
This household beast, that us’d the woodland grounds,Was view’d at first by the young hero’s hounds,As down the stream he swam, to seek retreatIn the cool waters, and to quench his heat.Ascanius young, and eager of his game,Soon bent his bow, uncertain in his aim;But the dire fiend the fatal arrow guides,Which pierc’d his bowels thro’ his panting sides.The bleeding creature issues from the floods,Possess’d with fear, and seeks his known abodes,His old familiar hearth and household gods.He falls; he fills the house with heavy groans,Implores their pity, and his pain bemoans.Young Silvia beats her breast, and cries aloudFor succour from the clownish neighbourhood:The churls assemble; for the fiend, who layIn the close woody covert, urg’d their way.One with a brand yet burning from the flame,Arm’d with a knotty club another came:Whate’er they catch or find, without their care,Their fury makes an instrument of war.Tyrrheus, the foster father of the beast,Then clench’d a hatchet in his horny fist,But held his hand from the descending stroke,And left his wedge within the cloven oak,To whet their courage and their rage provoke.And now the goddess, exercis’d in ill,Who watch’d an hour to work her impious will,Ascends the roof, and to her crooked horn,Such as was then by Latian shepherds borne,Adds all her breath: the rocks and woods around,And mountains, tremble at th’ infernal sound.The sacred lake of Trivia from afar,The Veline fountains, and sulphureous Nar,Shake at the baleful blast, the signal of the war.Young mothers wildly stare, with fear possess’d,And strain their helpless infants to their breast.
The clowns, a boist’rous, rude, ungovern’d crew,With furious haste to the loud summons flew.The pow’rs of Troy, then issuing on the plain,With fresh recruits their youthful chief sustain:Not theirs a raw and unexperienc’d train,But a firm body of embattled men.At first, while fortune favour’d neither side,The fight with clubs and burning brands was tried;But now, both parties reinforc’d, the fieldsAre bright with flaming swords and brazen shields.A shining harvest either host displays,And shoots against the sun with equal rays.Thus, when a black-brow’d gust begins to rise,White foam at first on the curl’d ocean fries;Then roars the main, the billows mount the skies;Till, by the fury of the storm full blown,The muddy bottom o’er the clouds is thrown.First Almon falls, old Tyrrheus’ eldest care,Pierc’d with an arrow from the distant war:Fix’d in his throat the flying weapon stood,And stopp’d his breath, and drank his vital bloodHuge heaps of slain around the body rise:Among the rest, the rich Galesus lies;A good old man, while peace he preach’d in vain,Amidst the madness of th’ unruly train:Five herds, five bleating flocks, his pastures fill’d;His lands a hundred yoke of oxen till’d.
Thus, while in equal scales their fortune stoodThe Fury bath’d them in each other’s blood;Then, having fix’d the fight, exulting flies,And bears fulfill’d her promise to the skies.To Juno thus she speaks: “Behold! It is done,The blood already drawn, the war begun;The discord is complete; nor can they ceaseThe dire debate, nor you command the peace.Now, since the Latian and the Trojan broodHave tasted vengeance and the sweets of blood;Speak, and my pow’r shall add this office more:The neighbr’ing nations of th’ Ausonian shoreShall hear the dreadful rumour, from afar,Of arm’d invasion, and embrace the war.”Then Juno thus: “The grateful work is done,The seeds of discord sow’d, the war begun;Frauds, fears, and fury have possess’d the state,And fix’d the causes of a lasting hate.A bloody Hymen shall th’ alliance joinBetwixt the Trojan and Ausonian line:But thou with speed to night and hell repair;For not the gods, nor angry Jove, will bearThy lawless wand’ring walks in upper air.Leave what remains to me.” Saturnia said:The sullen fiend her sounding wings display’d,Unwilling left the light, and sought the nether shade.
In midst of Italy, well known to fame,There lies a lake, Amsanctus is the name,Below the lofty mounts: on either sideThick forests the forbidden entrance hide.Full in the centre of the sacred woodAn arm arises of the Stygian flood,Which, breaking from beneath with bellowing sound,Whirls the black waves and rattling stones around.Here Pluto pants for breath from out his cell,And opens wide the grinning jaws of hell.To this infernal lake the Fury flies;Here hides her hated head, and frees the lab’ring skies.
Saturnian Juno now, with double care,Attends the fatal process of the war.The clowns, return’d, from battle bear the slain,Implore the gods, and to their king complain.The corps of Almon and the rest are shown;Shrieks, clamours, murmurs, fill the frighted town.Ambitious Turnus in the press appears,And, aggravating crimes, augments their fears;Proclaims his private injuries aloud,A solemn promise made, and disavow’d;A foreign son is sought, and a mix’d mungril brood.Then they, whose mothers, frantic with their fear,In woods and wilds the flags of Bacchus bear,And lead his dances with dishevel’d hair,Increase the clamour, and the war demand,(Such was Amata’s int’rest in the land,)Against the public sanctions of the peace,Against all omens of their ill success.With fates averse, the rout in arms resort,To force their monarch, and insult the court.But, like a rock unmov’d, a rock that bravesThe raging tempest and the rising waves,Propp’d on himself he stands; his solid sidesWash off the seaweeds, and the sounding tides:So stood the pious prince, unmov’d, and longSustain’d the madness of the noisy throng.But, when he found that Juno’s pow’r prevail’d,And all the methods of cool counsel fail’d,He calls the gods to witness their offence,Disclaims the war, asserts his innocence.“Hurried by fate,” he cries, “and borne beforeA furious wind, we have the faithful shore.O more than madmen! you yourselves shall bearThe guilt of blood and sacrilegious war:Thou, Turnus, shalt atone it by thy fate,And pray to Heav’n for peace, but pray too late.For me, my stormy voyage at an end,I to the port of death securely tend.The fun’ral pomp which to your kings you pay,Is all I want, and all you take away.”He said no more, but, in his walls confin’d,Shut out the woes which he too well divin’dNor with the rising storm would vainly strive,But left the helm, and let the vessel drive.
A solemn custom was observ’d of old,Which Latium held, and now the Romans hold,Their standard when in fighting fields they rearAgainst the fierce Hyrcanians, or declareThe Scythian, Indian, or Arabian war;Or from the boasting Parthians would regainTheir eagles, lost in Carrhae’s bloody plain.Two gates of steel (the name of Mars they bear,And still are worship’d with religious fear)Before his temple stand: the dire abode,And the fear’d issues of the furious god,Are fenc’d with brazen bolts; without the gates,The wary guardian Janus doubly waits.Then, when the sacred senate votes the wars,The Roman consul their decree declares,And in his robes the sounding gates unbars.The youth in military shouts arise,And the loud trumpets break the yielding skies.These rites, of old by sov’reign princes us’d,Were the king’s office; but the king refus’d,Deaf to their cries, nor would the gates unbarOf sacred peace, or loose th’ imprison’d war;But hid his head, and, safe from loud alarms,Abhorr’d the wicked ministry of arms.Then heav’n’s imperious queen shot down from high:At her approach the brazen hinges fly;The gates are forc’d, and ev’ry falling bar;And, like a tempest, issues out the war.
The peaceful cities of th’ Ausonian shore,Lull’d in their ease, and undisturb’d before,Are all on fire; and some, with studious care,Their restiff steeds in sandy plains prepare;Some their soft limbs in painful marches try,And war is all their wish, and arms the gen’ral cry.Part scour the rusty shields with seam; and partNew grind the blunted ax, and point the dart:With joy they view the waving ensigns fly,And hear the trumpet’s clangour pierce the sky.Five cities forge their arms: th’ Atinian pow’rs,Antemnae, Tibur with her lofty tow’rs,Ardea the proud, the Crustumerian town:All these of old were places of renown.Some hammer helmets for the fighting field;Some twine young sallows to support the shield;The croslet some, and some the cuishes mould,With silver plated, and with ductile gold.The rustic honours of the scythe and shareGive place to swords and plumes, the pride of war.Old falchions are new temper’d in the fires;The sounding trumpet ev’ry soul inspires.The word is giv’n; with eager speed they laceThe shining headpiece, and the shield embrace.The neighing steeds are to the chariot tied;The trusty weapon sits on ev’ry side.
And now the mighty labour is begunYe Muses, open all your Helicon.Sing you the chiefs that sway’d th’ Ausonian land,Their arms, and armies under their command;What warriors in our ancient clime were bred;What soldiers follow’d, and what heroes led.For well you know, and can record alone,What fame to future times conveys but darkly down.Mezentius first appear’d upon the plain:Scorn sate upon his brows, and sour disdain,Defying earth and heav’n. Etruria lost,He brings to Turnus’ aid his baffled host.The charming Lausus, full of youthful fire,Rode in the rank, and next his sullen sire;To Turnus only second in the graceOf manly mien, and features of the face.A skilful horseman, and a huntsman bred,With fates averse a thousand men he led:His sire unworthy of so brave a son;Himself well worthy of a happier throne.
Next Aventinus drives his chariot roundThe Latian plains, with palms and laurels crown’d.Proud of his steeds, he smokes along the field;His father’s hydra fills his ample shield:A hundred serpents hiss about the brims;The son of Hercules he justly seemsBy his broad shoulders and gigantic limbs;Of heav’nly part, and part of earthly blood,A mortal woman mixing with a god.For strong Alcides, after he had slainThe triple Geryon, drove from conquer’d SpainHis captive herds; and, thence in triumph led,On Tuscan Tiber’s flow’ry banks they fed.Then on Mount Aventine the son of JoveThe priestess Rhea found, and forc’d to love.For arms, his men long piles and jav’lins bore;And poles with pointed steel their foes in battle gore.Like Hercules himself his son appears,In salvage pomp; a lion’s hide he wears;About his shoulders hangs the shaggy skin;The teeth and gaping jaws severely grin.Thus, like the god his father, homely dress’d,He strides into the hall, a horrid guest.
Then two twin brothers from fair Tibur came,(Which from their brother Tiburs took the name,)Fierce Coras and Catillus, void of fear:Arm’d Argive horse they led, and in the front appear.Like cloud-born Centaurs, from the mountain’s heightWith rapid course descending to the fight;They rush along; the rattling woods give way;The branches bend before their sweepy sway.
Nor was Praeneste’s founder wanting there,Whom fame reports the son of Mulciber:Found in the fire, and foster’d in the plains,A shepherd and a king at once he reigns,And leads to Turnus’ aid his country swains.His own Praeneste sends a chosen band,With those who plow Saturnia’s Gabine land;Besides the succour which cold Anien yields,The rocks of Hernicus, and dewy fields,Anagnia fat, and Father Amasene—A num’rous rout, but all of naked men:Nor arms they wear, nor swords and bucklers wield,Nor drive the chariot thro’ the dusty field,But whirl from leathern slings huge balls of lead,And spoils of yellow wolves adorn their head;The left foot naked, when they march to fight,But in a bull’s raw hide they sheathe the right.Messapus next, (great Neptune was his sire,)Secure of steel, and fated from the fire,In pomp appears, and with his ardour warmsA heartless train, unexercis’d in arms:The just Faliscans he to battle brings,And those who live where Lake Ciminius springs;And where Feronia’s grove and temple stands,Who till Fescennian or Flavinian lands.All these in order march, and marching singThe warlike actions of their sea-born king;Like a long team of snowy swans on high,Which clap their wings, and cleave the liquid sky,When, homeward from their wat’ry pastures borne,They sing, and Asia’s lakes their notes return.Not one who heard their music from afar,Would think these troops an army train’d to war,But flocks of fowl, that, when the tempests roar,With their hoarse gabbling seek the silent shore.
Then Clausus came, who led a num’rous bandOf troops embodied from the Sabine land,And, in himself alone, an army brought.’Twas he, the noble Claudian race begot,The Claudian race, ordain’d, in times to come,To share the greatness of imperial Rome.He led the Cures forth, of old renown,Mutuscans from their olive-bearing town,And all th’ Eretian pow’rs; besides a bandThat follow’d from Velinum’s dewy land,And Amiternian troops, of mighty fame,And mountaineers, that from Severus came,And from the craggy cliffs of Tetrica,And those where yellow Tiber takes his way,And where Himella’s wanton waters play.Casperia sends her arms, with those that lieBy Fabaris, and fruitful Foruli:The warlike aids of Horta next appear,And the cold Nursians come to close the rear,Mix’d with the natives born of Latine blood,Whom Allia washes with her fatal flood.Not thicker billows beat the Libyan main,When pale Orion sets in wintry rain;Nor thicker harvests on rich Hermus rise,Or Lycian fields, when Phoebus burns the skies,Than stand these troops: their bucklers ring around;Their trampling turns the turf, and shakes the solid ground.
High in his chariot then Halesus came,A foe by birth to Troy’s unhappy name:From Agamemnon born—to Turnus’ aidA thousand men the youthful hero led,Who till the Massic soil, for wine renown’d,And fierce Auruncans from their hilly ground,And those who live by Sidicinian shores,And where with shoaly fords Vulturnus roars,Cales’ and Osca’s old inhabitants,And rough Saticulans, inur’d to wants:Light demi-lances from afar they throw,Fasten’d with leathern thongs, to gall the foe.Short crooked swords in closer fight they wear;And on their warding arm light bucklers bear.
