Thus he. Then, with erected eyes and hands,The Latian king before his altar stands.“By the same heav’n,” said he, “and earth, and main,And all the pow’rs that all the three contain;By hell below, and by that upper godWhose thunder signs the peace, who seals it with his nod;So let Latona’s double offspring hear,And double-fronted Janus, what I swear:I touch the sacred altars, touch the flames,And all those pow’rs attest, and all their names;Whatever chance befall on either side,No term of time this union shall divide:No force, no fortune, shall my vows unbind,Or shake the steadfast tenor of my mind;Not tho’ the circling seas should break their bound,O’erflow the shores, or sap the solid ground;Not tho’ the lamps of heav’n their spheres forsake,Hurl’d down, and hissing in the nether lake:Ev’n as this royal scepter” (for he boreA scepter in his hand) “shall never moreShoot out in branches, or renew the birth:An orphan now, cut from the mother earthBy the keen ax, dishonour’d of its hair,And cas’d in brass, for Latian kings to bear.”
When thus in public view the peace was tiedWith solemn vows, and sworn on either side,All dues perform’d which holy rites require;The victim beasts are slain before the fire,The trembling entrails from their bodies torn,And to the fatten’d flames in chargers borne.
Already the Rutulians deem their manO’ermatch’d in arms, before the fight began.First rising fears are whisper’d thro’ the crowd;Then, gath’ring sound, they murmur more aloud.Now, side to side, they measure with their eyesThe champions’ bulk, their sinews, and their size:The nearer they approach, the more is knownTh’ apparent disadvantage of their own.Turnus himself appears in public sightConscious of fate, desponding of the fight.Slowly he moves, and at his altar standsWith eyes dejected, and with trembling hands;And, while he mutters undistinguish’d pray’rs,A livid deadness in his cheeks appears.
With anxious pleasure when Juturna view’dTh’ increasing fright of the mad multitude,When their short sighs and thick’ning sobs she heard,And found their ready minds for change prepar’d;Dissembling her immortal form, she tookCamertus’ mien, his habit, and his look;A chief of ancient blood; in arms well knownWas his great sire, and he his greater son.His shape assum’d, amid the ranks she ran,And humoring their first motions, thus began:“For shame, Rutulians, can you bear the sightOf one expos’d for all, in single fight?Can we, before the face of heav’n, confessOur courage colder, or our numbers less?View all the Trojan host, th’ Arcadian band,And Tuscan army; count ’em as they stand:Undaunted to the battle if we go,Scarce ev’ry second man will share a foe.Turnus, ’tis true, in this unequal strife,Shall lose, with honour, his devoted life,Or change it rather for immortal fame,Succeeding to the gods, from whence he came:But you, a servile and inglorious band,For foreign lords shall sow your native land,Those fruitful fields your fighting fathers gain’d,Which have so long their lazy sons sustain’d.”With words like these, she carried her design:A rising murmur runs along the line.Then ev’n the city troops, and Latians, tir’dWith tedious war, seem with new souls inspir’d:Their champion’s fate with pity they lament,And of the league, so lately sworn, repent.
Nor fails the goddess to foment the rageWith lying wonders, and a false presage;But adds a sign, which, present to their eyes,Inspires new courage, and a glad surprise.For, sudden, in the fiery tracts above,Appears in pomp th’ imperial bird of Jove:A plump of fowl he spies, that swim the lakes,And o’er their heads his sounding pinions shakes;Then, stooping on the fairest of the train,In his strong talons truss’d a silver swan.Th’ Italians wonder at th’ unusual sight;But, while he lags, and labours in his flight,Behold, the dastard fowl return anew,And with united force the foe pursue:Clam’rous around the royal hawk they fly,And, thick’ning in a cloud, o’ershade the sky.They cuff, they scratch, they cross his airy course;Nor can th’ incumber’d bird sustain their force;But vex’d, not vanquish’d, drops the pond’rous prey,And, lighten’d of his burthen, wings his way.
Th’ Ausonian bands with shouts salute the sight,Eager of action, and demand the fight.Then King Tolumnius, vers’d in augurs’ arts,Cries out, and thus his boasted skill imparts:“At length ’tis granted, what I long desir’d!This, this is what my frequent vows requir’d.Ye gods, I take your omen, and obey.Advance, my friends, and charge! I lead the way.These are the foreign foes, whose impious band,Like that rapacious bird, infest our land:But soon, like him, they shall be forc’d to seaBy strength united, and forego the prey.Your timely succour to your country bring,Haste to the rescue, and redeem your king.”
He said; and, pressing onward thro’ the crew,Pois’d in his lifted arm, his lance he threw.The winged weapon, whistling in the wind,Came driving on, nor miss’d the mark design’d.At once the cornel rattled in the skies;At once tumultuous shouts and clamours rise.Nine brothers in a goodly band there stood,Born of Arcadian mix’d with Tuscan blood,Gylippus’ sons: the fatal jav’lin flew,Aim’d at the midmost of the friendly crew.A passage thro’ the jointed arms it found,Just where the belt was to the body bound,And struck the gentle youth extended on the ground.Then, fir’d with pious rage, the gen’rous trainRun madly forward to revenge the slain.And some with eager haste their jav’lins throw;And some with sword in hand assault the foe.
The wish’d insult the Latine troops embrace,And meet their ardour in the middle space.The Trojans, Tuscans, and Arcadian line,With equal courage obviate their design.Peace leaves the violated fields, and hateBoth armies urges to their mutual fate.With impious haste their altars are o’erturn’d,The sacrifice half-broil’d, and half-unburn’d.Thick storms of steel from either army fly,And clouds of clashing darts obscure the sky;Brands from the fire are missive weapons made,With chargers, bowls, and all the priestly trade.Latinus, frighted, hastens from the fray,And bears his unregarded gods away.These on their horses vault; those yoke the car;The rest, with swords on high, run headlong to the war.
Messapus, eager to confound the peace,Spurr’d his hot courser thro’ the fighting press,At King Aulestes, by his purple knownA Tuscan prince, and by his regal crown;And, with a shock encount’ring, bore him down.Backward he fell; and, as his fate design’d,The ruins of an altar were behind:There, pitching on his shoulders and his head,Amid the scatt’ring fires he lay supinely spread.The beamy spear, descending from above,His cuirass pierc’d, and thro’ his body drove.Then, with a scornful smile, the victor cries:“The gods have found a fitter sacrifice.”Greedy of spoils, th’ Italians strip the deadOf his rich armour, and uncrown his head.
Priest Corynaeus, arm’d his better hand,From his own altar, with a blazing brand;And, as Ebusus with a thund’ring paceAdvanc’d to battle, dash’d it on his face:His bristly beard shines out with sudden fires;The crackling crop a noisome scent expires.Following the blow, he seiz’d his curling crownWith his left hand; his other cast him down.The prostrate body with his knees he press’d,And plung’d his holy poniard in his breast.
While Podalirius, with his sword, pursuedThe shepherd Alsus thro’ the flying crowd,Swiftly he turns, and aims a deadly blowFull on the front of his unwary foe.The broad ax enters with a crashing sound,And cleaves the chin with one continued wound;Warm blood, and mingled brains, besmear his arms aroundAn iron sleep his stupid eyes oppress’d,And seal’d their heavy lids in endless rest.
But good Aeneas rush’d amid the bands;Bare was his head, and naked were his hands,In sign of truce: then thus he cries aloud:“What sudden rage, what new desire of blood,Inflames your alter’d minds? O Trojans, ceaseFrom impious arms, nor violate the peace!By human sanctions, and by laws divine,The terms are all agreed; the war is mine.Dismiss your fears, and let the fight ensue;This hand alone shall right the gods and you:Our injur’d altars, and their broken vow,To this avenging sword the faithless Turnus owe.”
Thus while he spoke, unmindful of defence,A winged arrow struck the pious prince.But, whether from some human hand it came,Or hostile god, is left unknown by fame:No human hand or hostile god was found,To boast the triumph of so base a wound.
When Turnus saw the Trojan quit the plain,His chiefs dismay’d, his troops a fainting train,Th’ unhop’d event his heighten’d soul inspires:At once his arms and coursers he requires;Then, with a leap, his lofty chariot gains,And with a ready hand assumes the reins.He drives impetuous, and, where’er he goes,He leaves behind a lane of slaughter’d foes.These his lance reaches; over those he rollsHis rapid car, and crushes out their souls:In vain the vanquish’d fly; the victor sendsThe dead men’s weapons at their living friends.Thus, on the banks of Hebrus’ freezing flood,The God of Battles, in his angry mood,Clashing his sword against his brazen shield,Let loose the reins, and scours along the field:Before the wind his fiery coursers fly;Groans the sad earth, resounds the rattling sky.Wrath, Terror, Treason, Tumult, and Despair(Dire faces, and deform’d) surround the car;Friends of the god, and followers of the war.With fury not unlike, nor less disdain,Exulting Turnus flies along the plain:His smoking horses, at their utmost speed,He lashes on, and urges o’er the dead.Their fetlocks run with blood; and, when they bound,The gore and gath’ring dust are dash’d around.Thamyris and Pholus, masters of the war,He kill’d at hand, but Sthenelus afar:From far the sons of Imbracus he slew,Glaucus and Lades, of the Lycian crew;Both taught to fight on foot, in battle join’d,Or mount the courser that outstrips the wind.
Meantime Eumedes, vaunting in the field,New fir’d the Trojans, and their foes repell’d.This son of Dolon bore his grandsire’s name,But emulated more his father’s fame;His guileful father, sent a nightly spy,The Grecian camp and order to descry:Hard enterprise! and well he might requireAchilles’ car and horses, for his hire:But, met upon the scout, th’ Aetolian princeIn death bestow’d a juster recompense.Fierce Turnus view’d the Trojan from afar,And launch’d his jav’lin from his lofty car;Then lightly leaping down, pursued the blow,And, pressing with his foot his prostrate foe,Wrench’d from his feeble hold the shining sword,And plung’d it in the bosom of its lord.“Possess,” said he, “the fruit of all thy pains,And measure, at thy length, our Latian plains.Thus are my foes rewarded by my hand;Thus may they build their town, and thus enjoy the land!”
Then Dares, Butes, Sybaris he slew,Whom o’er his neck his flound’ring courser threw.As when loud Boreas, with his blust’ring train,Stoops from above, incumbent on the main;Where’er he flies, he drives the rack before,And rolls the billows on th’ Aegaean shore:So, where resistless Turnus takes his course,The scatter’d squadrons bend before his force;His crest of horses’ hair is blown behindBy adverse air, and rustles in the wind.
This haughty Phegeus saw with high disdain,And, as the chariot roll’d along the plain,Light from the ground he leapt, and seiz’d the rein.Thus hung in air, he still retain’d his hold,The coursers frighted, and their course controll’d.The lance of Turnus reach’d him as he hung,And pierc’d his plated arms, but pass’d along,And only raz’d the skin. He turn’d, and heldAgainst his threat’ning foe his ample shield;Then call’d for aid: but, while he cried in vain,The chariot bore him backward on the plain.He lies revers’d; the victor king descends,And strikes so justly where his helmet ends,He lops the head. The Latian fields are drunkWith streams that issue from the bleeding trunk.
While he triumphs, and while the Trojans yield,The wounded prince is forc’d to leave the field:Strong Mnestheus, and Achates often tried,And young Ascanius, weeping by his side,Conduct him to his tent. Scarce can he rearHis limbs from earth, supported on his spear.Resolv’d in mind, regardless of the smart,He tugs with both his hands, and breaks the dart.The steel remains. No readier way he foundTo draw the weapon, than t’ inlarge the wound.Eager of fight, impatient of delay,He begs; and his unwilling friends obey.
Iapis was at hand to prove his art,Whose blooming youth so fir’d Apollo’s heart,That, for his love, he proffer’d to bestowHis tuneful harp and his unerring bow.The pious youth, more studious how to saveHis aged sire, now sinking to the grave,Preferr’d the pow’r of plants, and silent praiseOf healing arts, before Phoebean bays.
Propp’d on his lance the pensive hero stood,And heard and saw, unmov’d, the mourning crowd.The fam’d physician tucks his robes aroundWith ready hands, and hastens to the wound.With gentle touches he performs his part,This way and that, soliciting the dart,And exercises all his heav’nly art.All soft’ning simples, known of sov’reign use,He presses out, and pours their noble juice.These first infus’d, to lenify the pain,He tugs with pincers, but he tugs in vain.Then to the patron of his art he pray’d:The patron of his art refus’d his aid.
Meantime the war approaches to the tents;Th’ alarm grows hotter, and the noise augments:The driving dust proclaims the danger near;And first their friends, and then their foes appear:Their friends retreat; their foes pursue the rear.The camp is fill’d with terror and affright:The hissing shafts within the trench alight;An undistinguish’d noise ascends the sky,The shouts of those who kill, and groans of those who die.
But now the goddess mother, mov’d with grief,And pierc’d with pity, hastens her relief.A branch of healing dittany she brought,Which in the Cretan fields with care she sought:Rough is the stern, which woolly leafs surround;The leafs with flow’rs, the flow’rs with purple crown’d,Well known to wounded goats; a sure reliefTo draw the pointed steel, and ease the grief.This Venus brings, in clouds involv’d, and brewsTh’ extracted liquor with ambrosian dews,And odorous panacee. Unseen she stands,Temp’ring the mixture with her heav’nly hands,And pours it in a bowl, already crown’dWith juice of med’c’nal herbs prepar’d to bathe the wound.The leech, unknowing of superior artWhich aids the cure, with this foments the part;And in a moment ceas’d the raging smart.Stanch’d is the blood, and in the bottom stands:The steel, but scarcely touch’d with tender hands,Moves up, and follows of its own accord,And health and vigour are at once restor’d.Iapis first perceiv’d the closing wound,And first the footsteps of a god he found.“Arms! arms!” he cries; “the sword and shield prepare,And send the willing chief, renew’d, to war.This is no mortal work, no cure of mine,Nor art’s effect, but done by hands divine.Some god our general to the battle sends;Some god preserves his life for greater ends.”
The hero arms in haste; his hands infoldHis thighs with cuishes of refulgent gold:Inflam’d to fight, and rushing to the field,That hand sustaining the celestial shield,This gripes the lance, and with such vigour shakes,That to the rest the beamy weapon quakes.Then with a close embrace he strain’d his son,And, kissing thro’ his helmet, thus begun:“My son, from my example learn the war,In camps to suffer, and in fields to dare;But happier chance than mine attend thy care!This day my hand thy tender age shall shield,And crown with honours of the conquer’d field:Thou, when thy riper years shall send thee forthTo toils of war, be mindful of my worth;Assert thy birthright, and in arms be known,For Hector’s nephew, and Aeneas’ son.”He said; and, striding, issued on the plain.Anteus and Mnestheus, and a num’rous train,Attend his steps; the rest their weapons take,And, crowding to the field, the camp forsake.A cloud of blinding dust is rais’d around,Labours beneath their feet the trembling ground.
