Once more the proud Mezentius, with disdain,Brandish’d his spear, and rush’d into the plain,Where tow’ring in the midmost rank she stood,Like tall Orion stalking o’er the flood.(When with his brawny breast he cuts the waves,His shoulders scarce the topmost billow laves),Or like a mountain ash, whose roots are spread,Deep fix’d in earth; in clouds he hides his head.
The Trojan prince beheld him from afar,And dauntless undertook the doubtful war.Collected in his strength, and like a rock,Pois’d on his base, Mezentius stood the shock.He stood, and, measuring first with careful eyesThe space his spear could reach, aloud he cries:“My strong right hand, and sword, assist my stroke!(Those only gods Mezentius will invoke.)His armour, from the Trojan pirate torn,By my triumphant Lausus shall be worn.”He said; and with his utmost force he threwThe massy spear, which, hissing as it flew,Reach’d the celestial shield, that stopp’d the course;But, glancing thence, the yet unbroken forceTook a new bent obliquely, and betwixtThe side and bowels fam’d Anthores fix’d.Anthores had from Argos travel’d far,Alcides’ friend, and brother of the war;Till, tir’d with toils, fair Italy he chose,And in Evander’s palace sought repose.Now, falling by another’s wound, his eyesHe cast to heav’n, on Argos thinks, and dies.
The pious Trojan then his jav’lin sent;The shield gave way; thro’ treble plates it wentOf solid brass, of linen trebly roll’d,And three bull hides which round the buckler fold.All these it pass’d, resistless in the course,Transpierc’d his thigh, and spent its dying force.The gaping wound gush’d out a crimson flood.The Trojan, glad with sight of hostile blood,His falchion drew, to closer fight address’d,And with new force his fainting foe oppress’d.
His father’s peril Lausus view’d with grief;He sigh’d, he wept, he ran to his relief.And here, heroic youth, ’tis here I mustTo thy immortal memory be just,And sing an act so noble and so new,Posterity will scarce believe ’tis true.Pain’d with his wound, and useless for the fight,The father sought to save himself by flight:Encumber’d, slow he dragg’d the spear along,Which pierc’d his thigh, and in his buckler hung.The pious youth, resolv’d on death, belowThe lifted sword springs forth to face the foe;Protects his parent, and prevents the blow.Shouts of applause ran ringing thro’ the field,To see the son the vanquish’d father shield.All, fir’d with gen’rous indignation, strive,And with a storm of darts to distance driveThe Trojan chief, who, held at bay from far,On his Vulcanian orb sustain’d the war.
As, when thick hail comes rattling in the wind,The plowman, passenger, and lab’ring hindFor shelter to the neighb’ring covert fly,Or hous’d, or safe in hollow caverns lie;But, that o’erblown, when heav’n above ’em smiles,Return to travel, and renew their toils:Aeneas thus, o’erwhelmed on ev’ry side,The storm of darts, undaunted, did abide;And thus to Lausus loud with friendly threat’ning cried:“Why wilt thou rush to certain death, and rageIn rash attempts, beyond thy tender age,Betray’d by pious love?” Nor, thus forborne,The youth desists, but with insulting scornProvokes the ling’ring prince, whose patience, tir’d,Gave place; and all his breast with fury fir’d.For now the Fates prepar’d their sharpen’d shears;And lifted high the flaming sword appears,Which, full descending with a frightful sway,Thro’ shield and corslet forc’d th’ impetuous way,And buried deep in his fair bosom lay.The purple streams thro’ the thin armour strove,And drench’d th’ imbroider’d coat his mother wove;And life at length forsook his heaving heart,Loth from so sweet a mansion to depart.
But when, with blood and paleness all o’erspread,The pious prince beheld young Lausus dead,He griev’d; he wept; the sight an image broughtOf his own filial love, a sadly pleasing thought:Then stretch’d his hand to hold him up, and said:“Poor hapless youth! what praises can be paidTo love so great, to such transcendent storeOf early worth, and sure presage of more?Accept whate’er Aeneas can afford;Untouch’d thy arms, untaken be thy sword;And all that pleas’d thee living, still remainInviolate, and sacred to the slain.Thy body on thy parents I bestow,To rest thy soul, at least, if shadows know,Or have a sense of human things below.There to thy fellow ghosts with glory tell:‘’Twas by the great Aeneas hand I fell.’”With this, his distant friends he beckons near,Provokes their duty, and prevents their fear:Himself assists to lift him from the ground,With clotted locks, and blood that well’d from out the wound.
Meantime, his father, now no father, stood,And wash’d his wounds by Tiber’s yellow flood:Oppress’d with anguish, panting, and o’erspent,His fainting limbs against an oak he leant.A bough his brazen helmet did sustain;His heavier arms lay scatter’d on the plain:A chosen train of youth around him stand;His drooping head was rested on his hand:His grisly beard his pensive bosom sought;And all on Lausus ran his restless thought.Careful, concern’d his danger to prevent,He much enquir’d, and many a message sentTo warn him from the field—alas! in vain!Behold, his mournful followers bear him slain!O’er his broad shield still gush’d the yawning wound,And drew a bloody trail along the ground.Far off he heard their cries, far off divin’dThe dire event, with a foreboding mind.With dust he sprinkled first his hoary head;Then both his lifted hands to heav’n he spread;Last, the dear corpse embracing, thus he said:“What joys, alas! could this frail being give,That I have been so covetous to live?To see my son, and such a son, resignHis life, a ransom for preserving mine!And am I then preserv’d, and art thou lost?How much too dear has that redemption cost!’Tis now my bitter banishment I feel:This is a wound too deep for time to heal.My guilt thy growing virtues did defame;My blackness blotted thy unblemish’d name.Chas’d from a throne, abandon’d, and exil’dFor foul misdeeds, were punishments too mild:I ow’d my people these, and, from their hate,With less resentment could have borne my fate.And yet I live, and yet sustain the sightOf hated men, and of more hated light:But will not long.” With that he rais’d from groundHis fainting limbs, that stagger’d with his wound;Yet, with a mind resolv’d, and unappall’dWith pains or perils, for his courser call’dWell-mouth’d, well-manag’d, whom himself did dressWith daily care, and mounted with success;His aid in arms, his ornament in peace.
Soothing his courage with a gentle stroke,The steed seem’d sensible, while thus he spoke:“O Rhoebus, we have liv’d too long for me—If life and long were terms that could agree!This day thou either shalt bring back the headAnd bloody trophies of the Trojan dead;This day thou either shalt revenge my woe,For murder’d Lausus, on his cruel foe;Or, if inexorable fate denyOur conquest, with thy conquer’d master die:For, after such a lord, I rest secure,Thou wilt no foreign reins, or Trojan load endure.”He said; and straight th’ officious courser kneels,To take his wonted weight. His hands he fillsWith pointed jav’lins; on his head he lac’dHis glitt’ring helm, which terribly was grac’dWith waving horsehair, nodding from afar;Then spurr’d his thund’ring steed amidst the war.Love, anguish, wrath, and grief, to madness wrought,Despair, and secret shame, and conscious thoughtOf inborn worth, his lab’ring soul oppress’d,Roll’d in his eyes, and rag’d within his breast.Then loud he call’d Aeneas thrice by name:The loud repeated voice to glad Aeneas came.“Great Jove,” he said, “and the far-shooting god,Inspire thy mind to make thy challenge good!”He spoke no more; but hasten’d, void of fear,And threaten’d with his long protended spear.
To whom Mezentius thus: “Thy vaunts are vain.My Lausus lies extended on the plain:He’s lost! thy conquest is already won;The wretched sire is murder’d in the son.Nor fate I fear, but all the gods defy.Forbear thy threats: my bus’ness is to die;But first receive this parting legacy.”He said; and straight a whirling dart he sent;Another after, and another went.Round in a spacious ring he rides the field,And vainly plies th’ impenetrable shield.Thrice rode he round; and thrice Aeneas wheel’d,Turn’d as he turn’d: the golden orb withstoodThe strokes, and bore about an iron wood.Impatient of delay, and weary grown,Still to defend, and to defend alone,To wrench the darts which in his buckler light,Urg’d and o’er-labour’d in unequal fight;At length resolv’d, he throws with all his forceFull at the temples of the warrior horse.Just where the stroke was aim’d, th’ unerring spearMade way, and stood transfix’d thro’ either ear.Seiz’d with unwonted pain, surpris’d with fright,The wounded steed curvets, and, rais’d upright,Lights on his feet before; his hoofs behindSpring up in air aloft, and lash the wind.Down comes the rider headlong from his height:His horse came after with unwieldy weight,And, flound’ring forward, pitching on his head,His lord’s encumber’d shoulder overlaid.
From either host, the mingled shouts and criesOf Trojans and Rutulians rend the skies.Aeneas, hast’ning, wav’d his fatal swordHigh o’er his head, with this reproachful word:“Now; where are now thy vaunts, the fierce disdainOf proud Mezentius, and the lofty strain?”
Struggling, and wildly staring on the skies,With scarce recover’d sight he thus replies:“Why these insulting words, this waste of breath,To souls undaunted, and secure of death?’Tis no dishonour for the brave to die,Nor came I here with hope victory;Nor ask I life, nor fought with that design:As I had us’d my fortune, use thou thine.My dying son contracted no such band;The gift is hateful from his murd’rer’s hand.For this, this only favour let me sue,If pity can to conquer’d foes be due:Refuse it not; but let my body haveThe last retreat of humankind, a grave.Too well I know th’ insulting people’s hate;Protect me from their vengeance after fate:This refuge for my poor remains provide,And lay my much-lov’d Lausus by my side.”He said, and to the sword his throat applied.The crimson stream distain’d his arms around,And the disdainful soul came rushing thro’ the wound.
BOOK XI
THE ARGUMENT.
Aeneas erects a trophy of the spoils of Mezentius, grants a truce for burying the dead, and sends home the body of Pallas with great solemnity. Latinus calls a council, to propose offers of peace to Aeneas; which occasions great animosity betwixt Turnus and Drances. In the mean time there is a sharp engagement of the horse; wherein Camilla signalizes herself, is killed, and the Latine troops are entirely defeated.
Scarce had the rosy Morning rais’d her headAbove the waves, and left her wat’ry bed;The pious chief, whom double cares attendFor his unburied soldiers and his friend,Yet first to Heav’n perform’d a victor’s vows:He bar’d an ancient oak of all her boughs;Then on a rising ground the trunk he plac’d,Which with the spoils of his dead foe he grac’d.The coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn,Now on a naked snag in triumph borne,Was hung on high, and glitter’d from afar,A trophy sacred to the God of War.Above his arms, fix’d on the leafless wood,Appear’d his plumy crest, besmear’d with blood:His brazen buckler on the left was seen;Truncheons of shiver’d lances hung between;And on the right was placed his corslet, bor’d;And to the neck was tied his unavailing sword.
A crowd of chiefs inclose the godlike man,Who thus, conspicuous in the midst, began:“Our toils, my friends, are crown’d with sure success;The greater part perform’d, achieve the less.Now follow cheerful to the trembling town;Press but an entrance, and presume it won.Fear is no more, for fierce Mezentius lies,As the first fruits of war, a sacrifice.Turnus shall fall extended on the plain,And, in this omen, is already slain.Prepar’d in arms, pursue your happy chance;That none unwarn’d may plead his ignorance,And I, at Heav’n’s appointed hour, may findYour warlike ensigns waving in the wind.Meantime the rites and fun’ral pomps prepare,Due to your dead companions of the war:The last respect the living can bestow,To shield their shadows from contempt below.That conquer’d earth be theirs, for which they fought,And which for us with their own blood they bought;But first the corpse of our unhappy friendTo the sad city of Evander send,Who, not inglorious, in his age’s bloom,Was hurried hence by too severe a doom.”
Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way,Where, new in death, lamented Pallas lay.Acoetes watch’d the corpse; whose youth deserv’dThe father’s trust; and now the son he serv’dWith equal faith, but less auspicious care.Th’ attendants of the slain his sorrow share.A troop of Trojans mix’d with these appear,And mourning matrons with dishevel’d hair.Soon as the prince appears, they raise a cry;All beat their breasts, and echoes rend the sky.They rear his drooping forehead from the ground;But, when Aeneas view’d the grisly woundWhich Pallas in his manly bosom bore,And the fair flesh distain’d with purple gore;First, melting into tears, the pious manDeplor’d so sad a sight, then thus began:“Unhappy youth! when Fortune gave the restOf my full wishes, she refus’d the best!She came; but brought not thee along, to blessMy longing eyes, and share in my success:She grudg’d thy safe return, the triumphs dueTo prosp’rous valour, in the public view.Not thus I promis’d, when thy father lentThy needless succour with a sad consent;Embrac’d me, parting for th’ Etrurian land,And sent me to possess a large command.He warn’d, and from his own experience told,Our foes were warlike, disciplin’d, and bold.And now perhaps, in hopes of thy return,Rich odors on his loaded altars burn,While we, with vain officious pomp, prepareTo send him back his portion of the war,A bloody breathless body, which can oweNo farther debt, but to the pow’rs below.The wretched father, ere his race is run,Shall view the fun’ral honours of his son.These are my triumphs of the Latian war,Fruits of my plighted faith and boasted care!And yet, unhappy sire, thou shalt not seeA son whose death disgrac’d his ancestry;Thou shalt not blush, old man, however griev’d:Thy Pallas no dishonest wound receiv’d.He died no death to make thee wish, too late,Thou hadst not liv’d to see his shameful fate:But what a champion has th’ Ausonian coast,And what a friend hast thou, Ascanius, lost!”
Thus having mourn’d, he gave the word around,To raise the breathless body from the ground;And chose a thousand horse, the flow’r of allHis warlike troops, to wait the funeral,To bear him back and share Evander’s grief:A well-becoming, but a weak relief.Of oaken twigs they twist an easy bier,Then on their shoulders the sad burden rear.The body on this rural hearse is borne:Strew’d leaves and funeral greens the bier adorn.All pale he lies, and looks a lovely flow’r,New cropp’d by virgin hands, to dress the bow’r:Unfaded yet, but yet unfed below,No more to mother earth or the green stern shall owe.Then two fair vests, of wondrous work and cost,Of purple woven, and with gold emboss’d,For ornament the Trojan hero brought,Which with her hands Sidonian Dido wrought.One vest array’d the corpse; and one they spreadO’er his clos’d eyes, and wrapp’d around his head,That, when the yellow hair in flame should fall,The catching fire might burn the golden caul.Besides, the spoils of foes in battle slain,When he descended on the Latian plain;Arms, trappings, horses, by the hearse are ledIn long array—th’ achievements of the dead.Then, pinion’d with their hands behind, appearTh’ unhappy captives, marching in the rear,Appointed off’rings in the victor’s name,To sprinkle with their blood the fun’ral flame.Inferior trophies by the chiefs are borne;Gauntlets and helms their loaded hands adorn;And fair inscriptions fix’d, and titles readOf Latian leaders conquer’d by the dead.
