She said, and from her quiver chose with speedThe winged shaft, predestin’d for the deed;Then to the stubborn yew her strength applied,Till the far distant horns approach’d on either side.The bowstring touch’d her breast, so strong she drew;Whizzing in air the fatal arrow flew.At once the twanging bow and sounding dartThe traitor heard, and felt the point within his heart.Him, beating with his heels in pangs of death,His flying friends to foreign fields bequeath.The conqu’ring damsel, with expanded wings,The welcome message to her mistress brings.
Their leader lost, the Volscians quit the field,And, unsustain’d, the chiefs of Turnus yield.The frighted soldiers, when their captains fly,More on their speed than on their strength rely.Confus’d in flight, they bear each other down,And spur their horses headlong to the town.Driv’n by their foes, and to their fears resign’d,Not once they turn, but take their wounds behind.These drop the shield, and those the lance forego,Or on their shoulders bear the slacken’d bow.The hoofs of horses, with a rattling sound,Beat short and thick, and shake the rotten ground.Black clouds of dust come rolling in the sky,And o’er the darken’d walls and rampires fly.The trembling matrons, from their lofty stands,Rend heav’n with female shrieks, and wring their hands.All pressing on, pursuers and pursued,Are crush’d in crowds, a mingled multitude.Some happy few escape: the throng too lateRush on for entrance, till they choke the gate.Ev’n in the sight of home, the wretched sireLooks on, and sees his helpless son expire.Then, in a fright, the folding gates they close,But leave their friends excluded with their foes.The vanquish’d cry; the victors loudly shout;’Tis terror all within, and slaughter all without.Blind in their fear, they bounce against the wall,Or, to the moats pursued, precipitate their fall.
The Latian virgins, valiant with despair,Arm’d on the tow’rs, the common danger share:So much of zeal their country’s cause inspir’d;So much Camilla’s great example fir’d.Poles, sharpen’d in the flames, from high they throw,With imitated darts, to gall the foe.Their lives for godlike freedom they bequeath,And crowd each other to be first in death.Meantime to Turnus, ambush’d in the shade,With heavy tidings came th’ unhappy maid:“The Volscians overthrown, Camilla kill’d;The foes, entirely masters of the field,Like a resistless flood, come rolling on:The cry goes off the plain, and thickens to the town.”
Inflam’d with rage, (for so the Furies fireThe Daunian’s breast, and so the Fates require,)He leaves the hilly pass, the woods in vainPossess’d, and downward issues on the plain.Scarce was he gone, when to the straits, now freedFrom secret foes, the Trojan troops succeed.Thro’ the black forest and the ferny brake,Unknowingly secure, their way they take;From the rough mountains to the plain descend,And there, in order drawn, their line extend.Both armies now in open fields are seen;Nor far the distance of the space between.Both to the city bend. Aeneas sees,Thro’ smoking fields, his hast’ning enemies;And Turnus views the Trojans in array,And hears th’ approaching horses proudly neigh.Soon had their hosts in bloody battle join’d;But westward to the sea the sun declin’d.Intrench’d before the town both armies lie,While night with sable wings involves the sky.
BOOK XII
THE ARGUMENT.
Turnus challenges Aeneas to a single combat: articles are agreed on, but broken by the Rutuli, who wound Aeneas. He is miraculously cured by Venus, forces Turnus to a duel, and concludes the poem with his death.
When Turnus saw the Latins leave the field,Their armies broken, and their courage quell’d,Himself become the mark of public spite,His honour question’d for the promis’d fight;The more he was with vulgar hate oppress’d,The more his fury boil’d within his breast:He rous’d his vigour for the last debate,And rais’d his haughty soul to meet his fate.
As, when the swains the Libyan lion chase,He makes a sour retreat, nor mends his pace;But, if the pointed jav’lin pierce his side,The lordly beast returns with double pride:He wrenches out the steel, he roars for pain;His sides he lashes, and erects his mane:So Turnus fares; his eyeballs flash with fire,Thro’ his wide nostrils clouds of smoke expire.
Trembling with rage, around the court he ran,At length approach’d the king, and thus began:“No more excuses or delays: I standIn arms prepar’d to combat, hand to hand,This base deserter of his native land.The Trojan, by his word, is bound to takeThe same conditions which himself did make.Renew the truce; the solemn rites prepare,And to my single virtue trust the war.The Latians unconcern’d shall see the fight;This arm unaided shall assert your right:Then, if my prostrate body press the plain,To him the crown and beauteous bride remain.”
To whom the king sedately thus replied:“Brave youth, the more your valour has been tried,The more becomes it us, with due respect,To weigh the chance of war, which you neglect.You want not wealth, or a successive throne,Or cities which your arms have made your own:My towns and treasures are at your command,And stor’d with blooming beauties is my land;Laurentum more than one Lavinia sees,Unmarried, fair, of noble families.Now let me speak, and you with patience hear,Things which perhaps may grate a lover’s ear,But sound advice, proceeding from a heartSincerely yours, and free from fraudful art.The gods, by signs, have manifestly shown,No prince Italian born should heir my throne:Oft have our augurs, in prediction skill’d,And oft our priests, a foreign son reveal’d.Yet, won by worth that cannot be withstood,Brib’d by my kindness to my kindred blood,Urg’d by my wife, who would not be denied,I promis’d my Lavinia for your bride:Her from her plighted lord by force I took;All ties of treaties, and of honour, broke:On your account I wag’d an impious war—With what success, ’tis needless to declare;I and my subjects feel, and you have had your share.Twice vanquish’d while in bloody fields we strive,Scarce in our walls we keep our hopes alive:The rolling flood runs warm with human gore;The bones of Latians blanch the neighb’ring shore.Why put I not an end to this debate,Still unresolv’d, and still a slave to fate?If Turnus’ death a lasting peace can give,Why should I not procure it whilst you live?Should I to doubtful arms your youth betray,What would my kinsmen, the Rutulians, say?And, should you fall in fight, (which Heav’n defend!)How curse the cause which hasten’d to his endThe daughter’s lover and the father’s friend?Weigh in your mind the various chance of war;Pity your parent’s age, and ease his care.”
Such balmy words he pour’d, but all in vain:The proffer’d med’cine but provok’d the pain.The wrathful youth, disdaining the relief,With intermitting sobs thus vents his grief:“The care, O best of fathers, which you takeFor my concerns, at my desire forsake.Permit me not to languish out my days,But make the best exchange of life for praise.This arm, this lance, can well dispute the prize;And the blood follows, where the weapon flies.His goddess mother is not near, to shroudThe flying coward with an empty cloud.”
But now the queen, who fear’d for Turnus’ life,And loath’d the hard conditions of the strife,Held him by force; and, dying in his death,In these sad accents gave her sorrow breath:“O Turnus, I adjure thee by these tears,And whate’er price Amata’s honour bearsWithin thy breast, since thou art all my hope,My sickly mind’s repose, my sinking age’s prop;Since on the safety of thy life aloneDepends Latinus, and the Latian throne:Refuse me not this one, this only pray’r,To waive the combat, and pursue the war.Whatever chance attends this fatal strife,Think it includes, in thine, Amata’s life.I cannot live a slave, or see my throneUsurp’d by strangers or a Trojan son.”
At this, a flood of tears Lavinia shed;A crimson blush her beauteous face o’erspread,Varying her cheeks by turns with white and red.The driving colours, never at a stay,Run here and there, and flush, and fade away.Delightful change! Thus Indian iv’ry shows,Which with the bord’ring paint of purple glows;Or lilies damask’d by the neighb’ring rose.
The lover gaz’d, and, burning with desire,The more he look’d, the more he fed the fire:Revenge, and jealous rage, and secret spite,Roll in his breast, and rouse him to the fight.Then fixing on the queen his ardent eyes,Firm to his first intent, he thus replies:“O mother, do not by your tears prepareSuch boding omens, and prejudge the war.Resolv’d on fight, I am no longer freeTo shun my death, if Heav’n my death decree.”Then turning to the herald, thus pursues:“Go, greet the Trojan with ungrateful news;Denounce from me, that, when tomorrow’s lightShall gild the heav’ns, he need not urge the fight;The Trojan and Rutulian troops no moreShall dye, with mutual blood, the Latian shore:Our single swords the quarrel shall decide,And to the victor be the beauteous bride.”
He said, and striding on, with speedy pace,He sought his coursers of the Thracian race.At his approach they toss their heads on high,And, proudly neighing, promise victory.The sires of these Orythia sent from far,To grace Pilumnus, when he went to war.The drifts of Thracian snows were scarce so white,Nor northern winds in fleetness match’d their flight.Officious grooms stand ready by his side;And some with combs their flowing manes divide,And others stroke their chests and gently soothe their pride.
He sheath’d his limbs in arms; a temper’d massOf golden metal those, and mountain brass.Then to his head his glitt’ring helm he tied,And girt his faithful falchion to his side.In his Aetnaean forge, the God of FireThat falchion labour’d for the hero’s sire;Immortal keenness on the blade bestow’d,And plung’d it hissing in the Stygian flood.Propp’d on a pillar, which the ceiling bore,Was plac’d the lance Auruncan Actor wore;Which with such force he brandish’d in his hand,The tough ash trembled like an osier wand:Then cried: “O pond’rous spoil of Actor slain,And never yet by Turnus toss’d in vain,Fail not this day thy wonted force; but go,Sent by this hand, to pierce the Trojan foe!Give me to tear his corslet from his breast,And from that eunuch head to rend the crest;Dragg’d in the dust, his frizzled hair to soil,Hot from the vexing ir’n, and smear’d with fragrant oil!”
Thus while he raves, from his wide nostrils fliesA fiery steam, and sparkles from his eyes.So fares the bull in his lov’d female’s sight:Proudly he bellows, and preludes the fight;He tries his goring horns against a tree,And meditates his absent enemy;He pushes at the winds; he digs the strandWith his black hoofs, and spurns the yellow sand.
Nor less the Trojan, in his Lemnian arms,To future fight his manly courage warms:He whets his fury, and with joy preparesTo terminate at once the ling’ring wars;To cheer his chiefs and tender son, relatesWhat Heav’n had promis’d, and expounds the fates.Then to the Latian king he sends, to ceaseThe rage of arms, and ratify the peace.
The morn ensuing, from the mountain’s height,Had scarcely spread the skies with rosy light;Th’ ethereal coursers, bounding from the sea,From out their flaming nostrils breath’d the day;When now the Trojan and Rutulian guard,In friendly labour join’d, the list prepar’d.Beneath the walls they measure out the space;Then sacred altars rear, on sods of grass,Where, with religious their common gods they place.In purest white the priests their heads attire;And living waters bear, and holy fire;And, o’er their linen hoods and shaded hair,Long twisted wreaths of sacred vervain wear.
In order issuing from the town appearsThe Latin legion, arm’d with pointed spears;And from the fields, advancing on a line,The Trojan and the Tuscan forces join:Their various arms afford a pleasing sight;A peaceful train they seem, in peace prepar’d for fight.Betwixt the ranks the proud commanders ride,Glitt’ring with gold, and vests in purple dyed;Here Mnestheus, author of the Memmian line,And there Messapus, born of seed divine.The sign is giv’n; and, round the listed space,Each man in order fills his proper place.Reclining on their ample shields, they stand,And fix their pointed lances in the sand.Now, studious of the sight, a num’rous throngOf either sex promiscuous, old and young,Swarm the town: by those who rest behind,The gates and walls and houses’ tops are lin’d.Meantime the Queen of Heav’n beheld the sight,With eyes unpleas’d, from Mount Albano’s height(Since call’d Albano by succeeding fame,But then an empty hill, without a name).She thence survey’d the field, the Trojan pow’rs,The Latian squadrons, and Laurentine tow’rs.Then thus the goddess of the skies bespoke,With sighs and tears, the goddess of the lake,King Turnus’ sister, once a lovely maid,Ere to the lust of lawless Jove betray’d:Compress’d by force, but, by the grateful god,Now made the Nais of the neighb’ring flood.“O nymph, the pride of living lakes,” said she,“O most renown’d, and most belov’d by me,Long hast thou known, nor need I to record,The wanton sallies of my wand’ring lord.Of ev’ry Latian fair whom Jove misledTo mount by stealth my violated bed,To thee alone I grudg’d not his embrace,But gave a part of heav’n, and an unenvied place.Now learn from me thy near approaching grief,Nor think my wishes want to thy relief.While fortune favour’d, nor Heav’n’s King deniedTo lend my succour to the Latian side,I sav’d thy brother, and the sinking state:But now he struggles with unequal fate,And goes, with gods averse, o’ermatch’d in might,To meet inevitable death in fight;Nor must I break the truce, nor can sustain the sight.Thou, if thou dar’st thy present aid supply;It well becomes a sister’s care to try.”
At this the lovely nymph, with grief oppress’d,Thrice tore her hair, and beat her comely breast.To whom Saturnia thus: “Thy tears are late:Haste, snatch him, if he can be snatch’d from fate:New tumults kindle; violate the truce:Who knows what changeful fortune may produce?’Tis not a crime t’ attempt what I decree;Or, if it were, discharge the crime on me.”She said, and, sailing on the winged wind,Left the sad nymph suspended in her mind.
And now in pomp the peaceful kings appear:Four steeds the chariot of Latinus bear;Twelve golden beams around his temples play,To mark his lineage from the God of Day.Two snowy coursers Turnus’ chariot yoke,And in his hand two massy spears he shook:Then issued from the camp, in arms divine,Aeneas, author of the Roman line;And by his side Ascanius took his place,The second hope of Rome’s immortal race.Adorn’d in white, a rev’rend priest appears,And off’rings to the flaming altars bears;A porket, and a lamb that never suffer’d shears.Then to the rising sun he turns his eyes,And strews the beasts, design’d for sacrifice,With salt and meal: with like officious careHe marks their foreheads, and he clips their hair.Betwixt their horns the purple wine he sheds;With the same gen’rous juice the flame he feeds.
Aeneas then unsheath’d his shining sword,And thus with pious pray’rs the gods ador’d:“All-seeing sun, and thou, Ausonian soil,For which I have sustain’d so long a toil,Thou, King of Heav’n, and thou, the Queen of Air,Propitious now, and reconcil’d by pray’r;Thou, God of War, whose unresisted swayThe labours and events of arms obey;Ye living fountains, and ye running floods,All pow’rs of ocean, all ethereal gods,Hear, and bear record: if I fall in field,Or, recreant in the fight, to Turnus yield,My Trojans shall encrease Evander’s town;Ascanius shall renounce th’ Ausonian crown:All claims, all questions of debate, shall cease;Nor he, nor they, with force infringe the peace.But, if my juster arms prevail in fight,(As sure they shall, if I divine aright,)My Trojans shall not o’er th’ Italians reign:Both equal, both unconquer’d shall remain,Join’d in their laws, their lands, and their abodes;I ask but altars for my weary gods.The care of those religious rites be mine;The crown to King Latinus I resign:His be the sov’reign sway. Nor will I shareHis pow’r in peace, or his command in war.For me, my friends another town shall frame,And bless the rising tow’rs with fair Lavinia’s name.”
