She said. The faithful nymph descends from highWith rapid flight, and cuts the sounding sky:Black clouds and stormy winds around her body fly.
By this, the Trojan and the Tuscan horse,Drawn up in squadrons, with united force,Approach the walls: the sprightly coursers bound,Press forward on their bits, and shift their ground.Shields, arms, and spears flash horribly from far;And the fields glitter with a waving war.Oppos’d to these, come on with furious forceMessapus, Coras, and the Latian horse;These in the body plac’d, on either handSustain’d and clos’d by fair Camilla’s band.Advancing in a line, they couch their spears;And less and less the middle space appears.Thick smoke obscures the field; and scarce are seenThe neighing coursers, and the shouting men.In distance of their darts they stop their course;Then man to man they rush, and horse to horse.The face of heav’n their flying jav’lins hide,And deaths unseen are dealt on either side.Tyrrhenus, and Aconteus, void of fear,By mettled coursers borne in full career,Meet first oppos’d; and, with a mighty shock,Their horses’ heads against each other knock.Far from his steed is fierce Aconteus cast,As with an engine’s force, or lightning’s blast:He rolls along in blood, and breathes his last.The Latin squadrons take a sudden fright,And sling their shields behind, to save their backs in flightSpurring at speed to their own walls they drew;Close in the rear the Tuscan troops pursue,And urge their flight: Asylas leads the chase;Till, seiz’d, with shame, they wheel about and face,Receive their foes, and raise a threat’ning cry.The Tuscans take their turn to fear and fly.So swelling surges, with a thund’ring roar,Driv’n on each other’s backs, insult the shore,Bound o’er the rocks, incroach upon the land,And far upon the beach eject the sand;Then backward, with a swing, they take their way,Repuls’d from upper ground, and seek their mother sea;With equal hurry quit th’ invaded shore,And swallow back the sand and stones they spew’d before.
Twice were the Tuscans masters of the field,Twice by the Latins, in their turn, repell’d.Asham’d at length, to the third charge they ran;Both hosts resolv’d, and mingled man to man.Now dying groans are heard; the fields are strow’dWith falling bodies, and are drunk with blood.Arms, horses, men, on heaps together lie:Confus’d the fight, and more confus’d the cry.Orsilochus, who durst not press too nearStrong Remulus, at distance drove his spear,And stuck the steel beneath his horse’s ear.The fiery steed, impatient of the wound,Curvets, and, springing upward with a bound,His helpless lord cast backward on the ground.Catillus pierc’d Iolas first; then drewHis reeking lance, and at Herminius threw,The mighty champion of the Tuscan crew.His neck and throat unarm’d, his head was bare,But shaded with a length of yellow hair:Secure, he fought, expos’d on ev’ry part,A spacious mark for swords, and for the flying dart.Across the shoulders came the feather’d wound;Transfix’d he fell, and doubled to the ground.The sands with streaming blood are sanguine dyed,And death with honour sought on either side.
Resistless thro’ the war Camilla rode,In danger unappall’d, and pleas’d with blood.One side was bare for her exerted breast;One shoulder with her painted quiver press’d.Now from afar her fatal jav’lins play;Now with her ax’s edge she hews her way:Diana’s arms upon her shoulder sound;And when, too closely press’d, she quits the ground,From her bent bow she sends a backward wound.Her maids, in martial pomp, on either side,Larina, Tulla, fierce Tarpeia, ride:Italians all; in peace, their queen’s delight;In war, the bold companions of the fight.So march’d the Tracian Amazons of old,When Thermodon with bloody billows roll’d:Such troops as these in shining arms were seen,When Theseus met in fight their maiden queen:Such to the field Penthisilea led,From the fierce virgin when the Grecians fled;With such, return’d triumphant from the war,Her maids with cries attend the lofty car;They clash with manly force their moony shields;With female shouts resound the Phrygian fields.
Who foremost, and who last, heroic maid,On the cold earth were by thy courage laid?Thy spear, of mountain ash, Eumenius first,With fury driv’n, from side to side transpierc’d:A purple stream came spouting from the wound;Bath’d in his blood he lies, and bites the ground.Liris and Pegasus at once she slew:The former, as the slacken’d reins he drewOf his faint steed; the latter, as he stretch’dHis arm to prop his friend, the jav’lin reach’d.By the same weapon, sent from the same hand,Both fall together, and both spurn the sand.Amastrus next is added to the slain:The rest in rout she follows o’er the plain:Tereus, Harpalycus, Demophoon,And Chromis, at full speed her fury shun.Of all her deadly darts, not one she lost;Each was attended with a Trojan ghost.Young Ornithus bestrode a hunter steed,Swift for the chase, and of Apulian breed.Him from afar she spied, in arms unknown:O’er his broad back an ox’s hide was thrown;His helm a wolf, whose gaping jaws were spreadA cov’ring for his cheeks, and grinn’d around his head,He clench’d within his hand an iron prong,And tower’d above the rest, conspicuous in the throng.Him soon she singled from the flying train,And slew with ease; then thus insults the slain:“Vain hunter, didst thou think thro’ woods to chaseThe savage herd, a vile and trembling race?Here cease thy vaunts, and own my victory:A woman warrior was too strong for thee.Yet, if the ghosts demand the conqu’ror’s name,Confessing great Camilla, save thy shame.”Then Butes and Orsilochus she slew,The bulkiest bodies of the Trojan crew;But Butes breast to breast: the spear descendsAbove the gorget, where his helmet ends,And o’er the shield which his left side defends.Orsilochus and she their courses ply:He seems to follow, and she seems to fly;But in a narrower ring she makes the race;And then he flies, and she pursues the chase.Gath’ring at length on her deluded foe,She swings her ax, and rises to the blowFull on the helm behind, with such a swayThe weapon falls, the riven steel gives way:He groans, he roars, he sues in vain for grace;Brains, mingled with his blood, besmear his face.
Astonish’d Aunus just arrives by chance,To see his fall; nor farther dares advance;But, fixing on the horrid maid his eye,He stares, and shakes, and finds it vain to fly;Yet, like a true Ligurian, born to cheat,(At least while fortune favour’d his deceit,)Cries out aloud: “What courage have you shown,Who trust your courser’s strength, and not your own?Forego the vantage of your horse, alight,And then on equal terms begin the fight:It shall be seen, weak woman, what you can,When, foot to foot, you combat with a man,”He said. She glows with anger and disdain,Dismounts with speed to dare him on the plain,And leaves her horse at large among her train;With her drawn sword defies him to the field,And, marching, lifts aloft her maiden shield.The youth, who thought his cunning did succeed,Reins round his horse, and urges all his speed;Adds the remembrance of the spur, and hidesThe goring rowels in his bleeding sides.“Vain fool, and coward!” cries the lofty maid,“Caught in the train which thou thyself hast laid!On others practice thy Ligurian arts;Thin stratagems and tricks of little heartsAre lost on me: nor shalt thou safe retire,With vaunting lies, to thy fallacious sire.”At this, so fast her flying feet she sped,That soon she strain’d beyond his horse’s head:Then turning short, at once she seiz’d the rein,And laid the boaster grov’ling on the plain.Not with more ease the falcon, from above,Trusses in middle air the trembling dove,Then plumes the prey, in her strong pounces bound:The feathers, foul with blood, come tumbling to the ground.
Now mighty Jove, from his superior height,With his broad eye surveys th’ unequal fight.He fires the breast of Tarchon with disdain,And sends him to redeem th’ abandon’d plain.Betwixt the broken ranks the Tuscan rides,And these encourages, and those he chides;Recalls each leader, by his name, from flight;Renews their ardour, and restores the fight.“What panic fear has seiz’d your souls? O shame,O brand perpetual of th’ Etrurian name!Cowards incurable, a woman’s handDrives, breaks, and scatters your ignoble band!Now cast away the sword, and quit the shield!What use of weapons which you dare not wield?Not thus you fly your female foes by night,Nor shun the feast, when the full bowls invite;When to fat off’rings the glad augur calls,And the shrill hornpipe sounds to bacchanals.These are your studied cares, your lewd delight:Swift to debauch, but slow to manly fight.”Thus having said, he spurs amid the foes,Not managing the life he meant to lose.The first he found he seiz’d with headlong haste,In his strong gripe, and clasp’d around the waist;’Twas Venulus, whom from his horse he tore,And, laid athwart his own, in triumph bore.Loud shouts ensue; the Latins turn their eyes,And view th’ unusual sight with vast surprise.The fiery Tarchon, flying o’er the plains,Press’d in his arms the pond’rous prey sustains;Then, with his shorten’d spear, explores aroundHis jointed arms, to fix a deadly wound.Nor less the captive struggles for his life:He writhes his body to prolong the strife,And, fencing for his naked throat, exertsHis utmost vigour, and the point averts.So stoops the yellow eagle from on high,And bears a speckled serpent thro’ the sky,Fast’ning his crooked talons on the prey:The pris’ner hisses thro’ the liquid way;Resists the royal hawk; and, tho’ oppress’d,She fights in volumes, and erects her crest:Turn’d to her foe, she stiffens ev’ry scale,And shoots her forky tongue, and whisks her threat’ning tail.Against the victor, all defence is weak:Th’ imperial bird still plies her with his beak;He tears her bowels, and her breast he gores;Then claps his pinions, and securely soars.Thus, thro’ the midst of circling enemies,Strong Tarchon snatch’d and bore away his prize.The Tyrrhene troops, that shrunk before, now pressThe Latins, and presume the like success.
Then Aruns, doom’d to death, his arts assay’d,To murder, unespied, the Volscian maid:This way and that his winding course he bends,And, whereso’er she turns, her steps attends.When she retires victorious from the chase,He wheels about with care, and shifts his place;When, rushing on, she seeks her foes in fight,He keeps aloof, but keeps her still in sight:He threats, and trembles, trying ev’ry way,Unseen to kill, and safely to betray.Chloreus, the priest of Cybele, from far,Glitt’ring in Phrygian arms amidst the war,Was by the virgin view’d. The steed he press’dWas proud with trappings, and his brawny chestWith scales of gilded brass was cover’d o’er;A robe of Tyrian dye the rider wore.With deadly wounds he gall’d the distant foe;Gnossian his shafts, and Lycian was his bow:A golden helm his front and head surroundsA gilded quiver from his shoulder sounds.Gold, weav’d with linen, on his thighs he wore,With flowers of needlework distinguish’d o’er,With golden buckles bound, and gather’d up before.Him the fierce maid beheld with ardent eyes,Fond and ambitious of so rich a prize,Or that the temple might his trophies hold,Or else to shine herself in Trojan gold.Blind in her haste, she chases him alone.And seeks his life, regardless of her own.
This lucky moment the sly traitor chose:Then, starting from his ambush, up he rose,And threw, but first to Heav’n address’d his vows:“O patron of Socrates’ high abodes,Phoebus, the ruling pow’r among the gods,Whom first we serve, whole woods of unctuous pineAre fell’d for thee, and to thy glory shine;By thee protected with our naked soles,Thro’ flames unsing’d we march, and tread the kindled coalsGive me, propitious pow’r, to wash awayThe stains of this dishonourable day:Nor spoils, nor triumph, from the fact I claim,But with my future actions trust my fame.Let me, by stealth, this female plague o’ercome,And from the field return inglorious home.”Apollo heard, and, granting half his pray’r,Shuffled in winds the rest, and toss’d in empty air.He gives the death desir’d; his safe returnBy southern tempests to the seas is borne.
Now, when the jav’lin whizz’d along the skies,Both armies on Camilla turn’d their eyes,Directed by the sound. Of either host,Th’ unhappy virgin, tho’ concern’d the most,Was only deaf; so greedy was she bentOn golden spoils, and on her prey intent;Till in her pap the winged weapon stoodInfix’d, and deeply drunk the purple blood.Her sad attendants hasten to sustainTheir dying lady, drooping on the plain.Far from their sight the trembling Aruns flies,With beating heart, and fear confus’d with joys;Nor dares he farther to pursue his blow,Or ev’n to bear the sight of his expiring foe.As, when the wolf has torn a bullock’s hideAt unawares, or ranch’d a shepherd’s side,Conscious of his audacious deed, he flies,And claps his quiv’ring tail between his thighs:So, speeding once, the wretch no more attends,But, spurring forward, herds among his friends.
She wrench’d the jav’lin with her dying hands,But wedg’d within her breast the weapon stands;The wood she draws, the steely point remains;She staggers in her seat with agonizing pains:(A gath’ring mist o’erclouds her cheerful eyes,And from her cheeks the rosy colour flies:)Then turns to her, whom of her female trainShe trusted most, and thus she speaks with pain:“Acca, ’tis past! he swims before my sight,Inexorable Death; and claims his right.Bear my last words to Turnus; fly with speed,And bid him timely to my charge succeed,Repel the Trojans, and the town relieve:Farewell! and in this kiss my parting breath receive.”She said, and, sliding, sunk upon the plain:Dying, her open’d hand forsakes the rein;Short, and more short, she pants; by slow degreesHer mind the passage from her body frees.She drops her sword; she nods her plumy crest,Her drooping head declining on her breast:In the last sigh her struggling soul expires,And, murm’ring with disdain, to Stygian sounds retires.
A shout, that struck the golden stars, ensued;Despair and rage the languish’d fight renew’d.The Trojan troops and Tuscans, in a line,Advance to charge; the mix’d Arcadians join.
But Cynthia’s maid, high seated, from afarSurveys the field, and fortune of the war,Unmov’d a while, till, prostrate on the plain,Welt’ring in blood, she sees Camilla slain,And, round her corpse, of friends and foes a fighting train.Then, from the bottom of her breast, she drewA mournful sigh, and these sad words ensue:“Too dear a fine, ah, much lamented maid,For warring with the Trojans, thou hast paid!Nor aught avail’d, in this unhappy strife,Diana’s sacred arms, to save thy life.Yet unreveng’d thy goddess will not leaveHer vot’ry’s death, nor; with vain sorrow grieve.Branded the wretch, and be his name abhorr’d;But after ages shall thy praise record.Th’ inglorious coward soon shall press the plain:Thus vows thy queen, and thus the Fates ordain.”
High o’er the field there stood a hilly mound,Sacred the place, and spread with oaks around,Where, in a marble tomb, Dercennus lay,A king that once in Latium bore the sway.The beauteous Opis thither bent her flight,To mark the traitor Aruns from the height.Him in refulgent arms she soon espied,Swoln with success; and loudly thus she cried:“Thy backward steps, vain boaster, are too late;Turn like a man, at length, and meet thy fate.Charg’d with my message, to Camilla go,And say I sent thee to the shades below,An honour undeserv’d from Cynthia’s bow.”
