Now Turnus, posted on a hill, from farBeheld the progress of the moving war:With him the Latins view’d the cover’d plains,And the chill blood ran backward in their veins.Juturna saw th’ advancing troops appear,And heard the hostile sound, and fled for fear.Aeneas leads; and draws a sweeping train,Clos’d in their ranks, and pouring on the plain.As when a whirlwind, rushing to the shoreFrom the mid ocean, drives the waves before;The painful hind with heavy heart foreseesThe flatted fields, and slaughter of the trees;With like impetuous rage the prince appearsBefore his doubled front, nor less destruction bears.And now both armies shock in open field;Osiris is by strong Thymbraeus kill’d.Archetius, Ufens, Epulon, are slain(All fam’d in arms, and of the Latian train)By Gyas’, Mnestheus’, and Achates’ hand.The fatal augur falls, by whose commandThe truce was broken, and whose lance, embruedWith Trojan blood, th’ unhappy fight renew’d.Loud shouts and clamours rend the liquid sky,And o’er the field the frighted Latins fly.The prince disdains the dastards to pursue,Nor moves to meet in arms the fighting few;Turnus alone, amid the dusky plain,He seeks, and to the combat calls in vain.Juturna heard, and, seiz’d with mortal fear,Forc’d from the beam her brother’s charioteer;Assumes his shape, his armour, and his mien,And, like Metiscus, in his seat is seen.
As the black swallow near the palace plies;O’er empty courts, and under arches, flies;Now hawks aloft, now skims along the flood,To furnish her loquacious nest with food:So drives the rapid goddess o’er the plains;The smoking horses run with loosen’d reins.She steers a various course among the foes;Now here, now there, her conqu’ring brother shows;Now with a straight, now with a wheeling flight,She turns, and bends, but shuns the single fight.Aeneas, fir’d with fury, breaks the crowd,And seeks his foe, and calls by name aloud:He runs within a narrower ring, and triesTo stop the chariot; but the chariot flies.If he but gain a glimpse, Juturna fears,And far away the Daunian hero bears.
What should he do! Nor arts nor arms avail;And various cares in vain his mind assail.The great Messapus, thund’ring thro’ the field,In his left hand two pointed jav’lins held:Encount’ring on the prince, one dart he drew,And with unerring aim and utmost vigour threw.Aeneas saw it come, and, stooping lowBeneath his buckler, shunn’d the threat’ning blow.The weapon hiss’d above his head, and toreThe waving plume which on his helm he wore.Forced by this hostile act, and fir’d with spite,That flying Turnus still declin’d the fight,The Prince, whose piety had long repell’dHis inborn ardour, now invades the field;Invokes the pow’rs of violated peace,Their rites and injur’d altars to redress;Then, to his rage abandoning the rein,With blood and slaughter’d bodies fills the plain.
What god can tell, what numbers can display,The various labours of that fatal day;What chiefs and champions fell on either side,In combat slain, or by what deaths they died;Whom Turnus, whom the Trojan hero kill’d;Who shar’d the fame and fortune of the field!Jove, could’st thou view, and not avert thy sight,Two jarring nations join’d in cruel fight,Whom leagues of lasting love so shortly shall unite!
Aeneas first Rutulian Sucro found,Whose valour made the Trojans quit their ground;Betwixt his ribs the jav’lin drove so just,It reach’d his heart, nor needs a second thrust.Now Turnus, at two blows, two brethren slew;First from his horse fierce Amycus he threw:Then, leaping on the ground, on foot assail’dDiores, and in equal fight prevail’d.Their lifeless trunks he leaves upon the place;Their heads, distilling gore, his chariot grace.
Three cold on earth the Trojan hero threw,Whom without respite at one charge he slew:Cethegus, Tanais, Tagus, fell oppress’d,And sad Onythes, added to the rest,Of Theban blood, whom Peridia bore.
Turnus two brothers from the Lycian shore,And from Apollo’s fane to battle sent,O’erthrew; nor Phoebus could their fate prevent.Peaceful Menoetes after these he kill’d,Who long had shunn’d the dangers of the field:On Lerna’s lake a silent life he led,And with his nets and angle earn’d his bread;Nor pompous cares, nor palaces, he knew,But wisely from th’ infectious world withdrew:Poor was his house; his father’s painful handDischarg’d his rent, and plow’d another’s land.
As flames among the lofty woods are thrownOn diff’rent sides, and both by winds are blown;The laurels crackle in the sputt’ring fire;The frighted sylvans from their shades retire:Or as two neighb’ring torrents fall from high;Rapid they run; the foamy waters fry;They roll to sea with unresisted force,And down the rocks precipitate their course:Not with less rage the rival heroes takeTheir diff’rent ways, nor less destruction make.With spears afar, with swords at hand, they strike;And zeal of slaughter fires their souls alike.Like them, their dauntless men maintain the field;And hearts are pierc’d, unknowing how to yield:They blow for blow return, and wound for wound;And heaps of bodies raise the level ground.
Murranus, boasting of his blood, that springsFrom a long royal race of Latian kings,Is by the Trojan from his chariot thrown,Crush’d with the weight of an unwieldy stone:Betwixt the wheels he fell; the wheels, that boreHis living load, his dying body tore.His starting steeds, to shun the glitt’ring sword,Paw down his trampled limbs, forgetful of their lord.
Fierce Hyllus threaten’d high, and, face to face,Affronted Turnus in the middle space:The prince encounter’d him in full career,And at his temples aim’d the deadly spear;So fatally the flying weapon sped,That thro’ his brazen helm it pierc’d his head.Nor, Cisseus, couldst thou scape from Turnus’ hand,In vain the strongest of th’ Arcadian band:Nor to Cupentus could his gods affordAvailing aid against th’ Aenean sword,Which to his naked heart pursued the course;Nor could his plated shield sustain the force.
Iolas fell, whom not the Grecian pow’rs,Nor great subverter of the Trojan tow’rs,Were doom’d to kill, while Heav’n prolong’d his date;But who can pass the bounds, prefix’d by fate?In high Lyrnessus, and in Troy, he heldTwo palaces, and was from each expell’d:Of all the mighty man, the last remainsA little spot of foreign earth contains.
And now both hosts their broken troops uniteIn equal ranks, and mix in mortal fight.Seresthus and undaunted Mnestheus joinThe Trojan, Tuscan, and Arcadian line:Sea-born Messapus, with Atinas, headsThe Latin squadrons, and to battle leads.They strike, they push, they throng the scanty space,Resolv’d on death, impatient of disgrace;And, where one falls, another fills his place.
The Cyprian goddess now inspires her sonTo leave th’ unfinish’d fight, and storm the town:For, while he rolls his eyes around the plainIn quest of Turnus, whom he seeks in vain,He views th’ unguarded city from afar,In careless quiet, and secure of war.Occasion offers, and excites his mindTo dare beyond the task he first design’d.Resolv’d, he calls his chiefs; they leave the fight:Attended thus, he takes a neighb’ring height;The crowding troops about their gen’ral stand,All under arms, and wait his high command.Then thus the lofty prince: “Hear and obey,Ye Trojan bands, without the least delayJove is with us; and what I have decreedRequires our utmost vigour, and our speed.Your instant arms against the town prepare,The source of mischief, and the seat of war.This day the Latian tow’rs, that mate the sky,Shall level with the plain in ashes lie:The people shall be slaves, unless in timeThey kneel for pardon, and repent their crime.Twice have our foes been vanquish’d on the plain:Then shall I wait till Turnus will be slain?Your force against the perjur’d city bend.There it began, and there the war shall end.The peace profan’d our rightful arms requires;Cleanse the polluted place with purging fires.”
He finish’d; and, one soul inspiring all,Form’d in a wedge, the foot approach the wall.Without the town, an unprovided trainOf gaping, gazing citizens are slain.Some firebrands, others scaling ladders bear,And those they toss aloft, and these they rear:The flames now launch’d, the feather’d arrows fly,And clouds of missive arms obscure the sky.Advancing to the front, the hero stands,And, stretching out to heav’n his pious hands,Attests the gods, asserts his innocence,Upbraids with breach of faith th’ Ausonian prince;Declares the royal honour doubly stain’d,And twice the rites of holy peace profan’d.
Dissenting clamours in the town arise;Each will be heard, and all at once advise.One part for peace, and one for war contends;Some would exclude their foes, and some admit their friends.The helpless king is hurried in the throng,And, whate’er tide prevails, is borne along.Thus, when the swain, within a hollow rock,Invades the bees with suffocating smoke,They run around, or labour on their wings,Disus’d to flight, and shoot their sleepy stings;To shun the bitter fumes in vain they try;Black vapours, issuing from the vent, involve the sky.
But fate and envious fortune now prepareTo plunge the Latins in the last despair.The queen, who saw the foes invade the town,And brands on tops of burning houses thrown,Cast round her eyes, distracted with her fear—No troops of Turnus in the field appear.Once more she stares abroad, but still in vain,And then concludes the royal youth is slain.Mad with her anguish, impotent to bearThe mighty grief, she loathes the vital air.She calls herself the cause of all this ill,And owns the dire effects of her ungovern’d will;She raves against the gods; she beats her breast;She tears with both her hands her purple vest:Then round a beam a running noose she tied,And, fasten’d by the neck, obscenely died.
Soon as the fatal news by Fame was blown,And to her dames and to her daughter known,The sad Lavinia rends her yellow hairAnd rosy cheeks; the rest her sorrow share:With shrieks the palace rings, and madness of despair.The spreading rumour fills the public place:Confusion, fear, distraction, and disgrace,And silent shame, are seen in ev’ry face.Latinus tears his garments as he goes,Both for his public and his private woes;With filth his venerable beard besmears,And sordid dust deforms his silver hairs.And much he blames the softness of his mind,Obnoxious to the charms of womankind,And soon seduc’d to change what he so well design’d;To break the solemn league so long desir’d,Nor finish what his fates, and those of Troy, requir’d.
Now Turnus rolls aloof o’er empty plains,And here and there some straggling foes he gleans.His flying coursers please him less and less,Asham’d of easy fight and cheap success.Thus half-contented, anxious in his mind,The distant cries come driving in the wind,Shouts from the walls, but shouts in murmurs drown’d;A jarring mixture, and a boding sound.“Alas!” said he, “what mean these dismal cries?What doleful clamours from the town arise?”Confus’d, he stops, and backward pulls the reins.She who the driver’s office now sustains,Replies: “Neglect, my lord, these new alarms;Here fight, and urge the fortune of your arms:There want not others to defend the wall.If by your rival’s hand th’ Italians fall,So shall your fatal sword his friends oppress,In honour equal, equal in success.”
To this, the prince: “O sister—for I knewThe peace infring’d proceeded first from you;I knew you, when you mingled first in fight;And now in vain you would deceive my sight—Why, goddess, this unprofitable care?Who sent you down from heav’n, involv’d in air,Your share of mortal sorrows to sustain,And see your brother bleeding on the plain?For to what pow’r can Turnus have recourse,Or how resist his fate’s prevailing force?These eyes beheld Murranus bite the ground:Mighty the man, and mighty was the wound.I heard my dearest friend, with dying breath,My name invoking to revenge his death.Brave Ufens fell with honour on the place,To shun the shameful sight of my disgrace.On earth supine, a manly corpse he lies;His vest and armour are the victor’s prize.Then, shall I see Laurentum in a flame,Which only wanted, to complete my shame?How will the Latins hoot their champion’s flight!How Drances will insult and point them to the sight!Is death so hard to bear? Ye gods below,(Since those above so small compassion show,)Receive a soul unsullied yet with shame,Which not belies my great forefather’s name!”
He said; and while he spoke, with flying speedCame Sages urging on his foamy steed:Fix’d on his wounded face a shaft he bore,And, seeking Turnus, sent his voice before:“Turnus, on you, on you alone, dependsOur last relief: compassionate your friends!Like lightning, fierce Aeneas, rolling on,With arms invests, with flames invades the town:The brands are toss’d on high; the winds conspireTo drive along the deluge of the fire.All eyes are fix’d on you: your foes rejoice;Ev’n the king staggers, and suspends his choice;Doubts to deliver or defend the town,Whom to reject, or whom to call his son.The queen, on whom your utmost hopes were plac’d,Herself suborning death, has breath’d her last.’Tis true, Messapus, fearless of his fate,With fierce Atinas’ aid, defends the gate:On ev’ry side surrounded by the foe,The more they kill, the greater numbers grow;An iron harvest mounts, and still remains to mow.You, far aloof from your forsaken bands,Your rolling chariot drive o’er empty sands.
Stupid he sate, his eyes on earth declin’d,And various cares revolving in his mind:Rage, boiling from the bottom of his breast,And sorrow mix’d with shame, his soul oppress’d;And conscious worth lay lab’ring in his thought,And love by jealousy to madness wrought.By slow degrees his reason drove awayThe mists of passion, and resum’d her sway.Then, rising on his car, he turn’d his look,And saw the town involv’d in fire and smoke.A wooden tow’r with flames already blaz’d,Which his own hands on beams and rafters rais’d;And bridges laid above to join the space,And wheels below to roll from place to place.“Sister, the Fates have vanquish’d: let us goThe way which Heav’n and my hard fortune show.The fight is fix’d; nor shall the branded nameOf a base coward blot your brother’s fame.Death is my choice; but suffer me to tryMy force, and vent my rage before I die.”He said; and, leaping down without delay,Thro’ crowds of scatter’d foes he freed his way.Striding he pass’d, impetuous as the wind,And left the grieving goddess far behind.As when a fragment, from a mountain tornBy raging tempests, or by torrents borne,Or sapp’d by time, or loosen’d from the roots—Prone thro’ the void the rocky ruin shoots,Rolling from crag to crag, from steep to steep;Down sink, at once, the shepherds and their sheep:Involv’d alike, they rush to nether ground;Stunn’d with the shock they fall, and stunn’d from earth rebound:So Turnus, hasting headlong to the town,Should’ring and shoving, bore the squadrons down.Still pressing onward, to the walls he drew,Where shafts, and spears, and darts promiscuous flew,And sanguine streams the slipp’ry ground embrue.First stretching out his arm, in sign of peace,He cries aloud, to make the combat cease:“Rutulians, hold; and Latin troops, retire!The fight is mine; and me the gods require.’Tis just that I should vindicate aloneThe broken truce, or for the breach atone.This day shall free from wars th’ Ausonian state,Or finish my misfortunes in my fate.”
