Both armies from their bloody work desist,And, bearing backward, form a spacious list.The Trojan hero, who receiv’d from fameThe welcome sound, and heard the champion’s name,Soon leaves the taken works and mounted walls,Greedy of war where greater glory calls.He springs to fight, exulting in his forceHis jointed armour rattles in the course.Like Eryx, or like Athos, great he shows,Or Father Apennine, when, white with snows,His head divine obscure in clouds he hides,And shakes the sounding forest on his sides.The nations, overaw’d, surcease the fight;Immovable their bodies, fix’d their sight.Ev’n death stands still; nor from above they throwTheir darts, nor drive their batt’ring-rams below.In silent order either army stands,And drop their swords, unknowing, from their hands.Th’ Ausonian king beholds, with wond’ring sight,Two mighty champions match’d in single fight,Born under climes remote, and brought by fate,With swords to try their titles to the state.
Now, in clos’d field, each other from afarThey view; and, rushing on, begin the war.They launch their spears; then hand to hand they meet;The trembling soil resounds beneath their feet:Their bucklers clash; thick blows descend from high,And flakes of fire from their hard helmets fly.Courage conspires with chance, and both engageWith equal fortune yet, and mutual rage.As when two bulls for their fair female fightIn Sila’s shades, or on Taburnus’ height;With horns adverse they meet; the keeper flies;Mute stands the herd; the heifers roll their eyes,And wait th’ event; which victor they shall bear,And who shall be the lord, to rule the lusty year:With rage of love the jealous rivals burn,And push for push, and wound for wound return;Their dewlaps gor’d, their sides are lav’d in blood;Loud cries and roaring sounds rebellow thro’ the wood:Such was the combat in the listed ground;So clash their swords, and so their shields resound.
Jove sets the beam; in either scale he laysThe champions’ fate, and each exactly weighs.On this side, life and lucky chance ascends;Loaded with death, that other scale descends.Rais’d on the stretch, young Turnus aims a blowFull on the helm of his unguarded foe:Shrill shouts and clamours ring on either side,As hopes and fears their panting hearts divide.But all in pieces flies the traitor sword,And, in the middle stroke, deserts his lord.Now is but death, or flight; disarm’d he flies,When in his hand an unknown hilt he spies.Fame says that Turnus, when his steeds he join’d,Hurrying to war, disorder’d in his mind,Snatch’d the first weapon which his haste could find.’Twas not the fated sword his father bore,But that his charioteer Metiscus wore.This, while the Trojans fled, the toughness held;But, vain against the great Vulcanian shield,The mortal-temper’d steel deceiv’d his hand:The shiver’d fragments shone amid the sand.
Surpris’d with fear, he fled along the field,And now forthright, and now in orbits wheel’d;For here the Trojan troops the list surround,And there the pass is clos’d with pools and marshy ground.Aeneas hastens, tho’ with heavier pace—His wound, so newly knit, retards the chase,And oft his trembling knees their aid refuse—Yet, pressing foot by foot, his foe pursues.
Thus, when a fearful stag is clos’d aroundWith crimson toils, or in a river found,High on the bank the deep-mouth’d hound appears,Still opening, following still, where’er he steers;The persecuted creature, to and fro,Turns here and there, to scape his Umbrian foe:Steep is th’ ascent, and, if he gains the land,The purple death is pitch’d along the strand.His eager foe, determin’d to the chase,Stretch’d at his length, gains ground at ev’ry pace;Now to his beamy head he makes his way,And now he holds, or thinks he holds, his prey:Just at the pinch, the stag springs out with fear;He bites the wind, and fills his sounding jaws with air:The rocks, the lakes, the meadows ring with cries;The mortal tumult mounts, and thunders in the skies.Thus flies the Daunian prince, and, flying, blamesHis tardy troops, and, calling by their names,Demands his trusty sword. The Trojan threatsThe realm with ruin, and their ancient seatsTo lay in ashes, if they dare supplyWith arms or aid his vanquish’d enemy:Thus menacing, he still pursues the course,With vigour, tho’ diminish’d of his force.Ten times already round the listed placeOne chief had fled, and t’ other giv’n the chase:No trivial prize is play’d; for on the lifeOr death of Turnus now depends the strife.
Within the space, an olive tree had stood,A sacred shade, a venerable wood,For vows to Faunus paid, the Latins’ guardian god.Here hung the vests, and tablets were engrav’d,Of sinking mariners from shipwreck sav’d.With heedless hands the Trojans fell’d the tree,To make the ground enclos’d for combat free.Deep in the root, whether by fate, or chance,Or erring haste, the Trojan drove his lance;Then stoop’d, and tugg’d with force immense, to freeTh’ incumber’d spear from the tenacious tree;That, whom his fainting limbs pursued in vain,His flying weapon might from far attain.
Confus’d with fear, bereft of human aid,Then Turnus to the gods, and first to Faunus pray’d:“O Faunus, pity! and thou Mother Earth,Where I thy foster son receiv’d my birth,Hold fast the steel! If my religious handYour plant has honour’d, which your foes profan’d,Propitious hear my pious pray’r!” He said,Nor with successless vows invok’d their aid.Th’ incumbent hero wrench’d, and pull’d, and strain’d;But still the stubborn earth the steel detain’d.Juturna took her time; and, while in vainHe strove, assum’d Meticus’ form again,And, in that imitated shape, restor’dTo the despairing prince his Daunian sword.The Queen of Love, who, with disdain and grief,Saw the bold nymph afford this prompt relief,T’ assert her offspring with a greater deed,From the tough root the ling’ring weapon freed.
Once more erect, the rival chiefs advance:One trusts the sword, and one the pointed lance;And both resolv’d alike to try their fatal chance.
Meantime imperial Jove to Juno spoke,Who from a shining cloud beheld the shock:“What new arrest, O Queen of Heav’n, is sentTo stop the Fates now lab’ring in th’ event?What farther hopes are left thee to pursue?Divine Aeneas, (and thou know’st it too,)Foredoom’d, to these celestial seats are due.What more attempts for Turnus can be made,That thus thou ling’rest in this lonely shade?Is it becoming of the due respectAnd awful honour of a god elect,A wound unworthy of our state to feel,Patient of human hands and earthly steel?Or seems it just, the sister should restoreA second sword, when one was lost before,And arm a conquer’d wretch against his conqueror?For what, without thy knowledge and avow,Nay more, thy dictate, durst Juturna do?At last, in deference to my love, forbearTo lodge within thy soul this anxious care;Reclin’d upon my breast, thy grief unload:Who should relieve the goddess, but the god?Now all things to their utmost issue tend,Push’d by the Fates to their appointed end.While leave was giv’n thee, and a lawful hourFor vengeance, wrath, and unresisted pow’r,Toss’d on the seas, thou couldst thy foes distress,And, driv’n ashore, with hostile arms oppress;Deform the royal house; and, from the sideOf the just bridegroom, tear the plighted bride:Now cease at my command.” The Thund’rer said;And, with dejected eyes, this answer Juno made:“Because your dread decree too well I knew,From Turnus and from earth unwilling I withdrew.Else should you not behold me here, alone,Involv’d in empty clouds, my friends bemoan,But, girt with vengeful flames, in open sightEngag’d against my foes in mortal fight.’Tis true, Juturna mingled in the strifeBy my command, to save her brother’s life,At least to try; but, by the Stygian lake,(The most religious oath the gods can take,)With this restriction, not to bend the bow,Or toss the spear, or trembling dart to throw.And now, resign’d to your superior might,And tir’d with fruitless toils, I loathe the fight.This let me beg (and this no fates withstand)Both for myself and for your father’s land,That, when the nuptial bed shall bind the peace,(Which I, since you ordain, consent to bless,)The laws of either nation be the same;But let the Latins still retain their name,Speak the same language which they spoke before,Wear the same habits which their grandsires wore.Call them not Trojans: perish the renownAnd name of Troy, with that detested town.Latium be Latium still; let Alba reignAnd Rome’s immortal majesty remain.”
Then thus the founder of mankind replies(Unruffled was his front, serene his eyes)“Can Saturn’s issue, and heav’n’s other heir,Such endless anger in her bosom bear?Be mistress, and your full desires obtain;But quench the choler you foment in vain.From ancient blood th’ Ausonian people sprung,Shall keep their name, their habit, and their tongue.The Trojans to their customs shall be tied:I will, myself, their common rites provide;The natives shall command, the foreigners subside.All shall be Latium; Troy without a name;And her lost sons forget from whence they came.From blood so mix’d, a pious race shall flow,Equal to gods, excelling all below.No nation more respect to you shall pay,Or greater off’rings on your altars lay.”Juno consents, well pleas’d that her desiresHad found success, and from the cloud retires.
The peace thus made, the Thund’rer next preparesTo force the wat’ry goddess from the wars.Deep in the dismal regions void of light,Three daughters at a birth were born to Night:These their brown mother, brooding on her care,Indued with windy wings to flit in air,With serpents girt alike, and crown’d with hissing hair.In heav’n the Dirae call’d, and still at hand,Before the throne of angry Jove they stand,His ministers of wrath, and ready stillThe minds of mortal men with fears to fill,Whene’er the moody sire, to wreak his hateOn realms or towns deserving of their fate,Hurls down diseases, death and deadly care,And terrifies the guilty world with war.One sister plague if these from heav’n he sent,To fright Juturna with a dire portent.The pest comes whirling down: by far more slowSprings the swift arrow from the Parthian bow,Or Cydon yew, when, traversing the skies,And drench’d in pois’nous juice, the sure destruction flies.With such a sudden and unseen a flightShot thro’ the clouds the daughter of the night.Soon as the field inclos’d she had in view,And from afar her destin’d quarry knew,Contracted, to the boding bird she turns,Which haunts the ruin’d piles and hallow’d urns,And beats about the tombs with nightly wings,Where songs obscene on sepulchers she sings.Thus lessen’d in her form, with frightful criesThe Fury round unhappy Turnus flies,Flaps on his shield, and flutters o’er his eyes.
A lazy chillness crept along his blood;Chok’d was his voice; his hair with horror stood.Juturna from afar beheld her fly,And knew th’ ill omen, by her screaming cryAnd stridor of her wings. Amaz’d with fear,Her beauteous breast she beat, and rent her flowing hair.
“Ah me!” she cries, “in this unequal strifeWhat can thy sister more to save thy life?Weak as I am, can I, alas! contendIn arms with that inexorable fiend?Now, now, I quit the field! forbear to frightMy tender soul, ye baleful birds of night;The lashing of your wings I know too well,The sounding flight, and fun’ral screams of hell!These are the gifts you bring from haughty Jove,The worthy recompense of ravish’d love!Did he for this exempt my life from fate?O hard conditions of immortal state,Tho’ born to death, not privileg’d to die,But forc’d to bear impos’d eternity!Take back your envious bribes, and let me goCompanion to my brother’s ghost below!The joys are vanish’d: nothing now remains,Of life immortal, but immortal pains.What earth will open her devouring womb,To rest a weary goddess in the tomb!”She drew a length of sighs; nor more she said,But in her azure mantle wrapp’d her head,Then plung’d into her stream, with deep despair,And her last sobs came bubbling up in air.
Now stern Aeneas his weighty spearAgainst his foe, and thus upbraids his fear:“What farther subterfuge can Turnus find?What empty hopes are harbour’d in his mind?’Tis not thy swiftness can secure thy flight;Not with their feet, but hands, the valiant fight.Vary thy shape in thousand forms, and dareWhat skill and courage can attempt in war;Wish for the wings of winds, to mount the sky;Or hid, within the hollow earth to lie!”The champion shook his head, and made this short reply:“No threats of thine my manly mind can move;’Tis hostile heav’n I dread, and partial Jove.”He said no more, but, with a sigh, repress’dThe mighty sorrow in his swelling breast.
Then, as he roll’d his troubled eyes around,An antique stone he saw, the common boundOf neighb’ring fields, and barrier of the ground;So vast, that twelve strong men of modern daysTh’ enormous weight from earth could hardly raise.He heav’d it at a lift, and, pois’d on high,Ran stagg’ring on against his enemy,But so disorder’d, that he scarcely knewHis way, or what unwieldly weight he threw.His knocking knees are bent beneath the load,And shiv’ring cold congeals his vital blood.The stone drops from his arms, and, falling shortFor want of vigour, mocks his vain effort.And as, when heavy sleep has clos’d the sight,The sickly fancy labours in the night;We seem to run; and, destitute of force,Our sinking limbs forsake us in the course:In vain we heave for breath; in vain we cry;The nerves, unbrac’d, their usual strength deny;And on the tongue the falt’ring accents die:So Turnus far’d; whatever means he tried,All force of arms and points of art employ’d,The Fury flew athwart, and made th’ endeavor void.
A thousand various thoughts his soul confound;He star’d about, nor aid nor issue found;His own men stop the pass, and his own walls surround.Once more he pauses, and looks out again,And seeks the goddess charioteer in vain.Trembling he views the thund’ring chief advance,And brandishing aloft the deadly lance:Amaz’d he cow’rs beneath his conqu’ring foe,Forgets to ward, and waits the coming blow.Astonish’d while he stands, and fix’d with fear,Aim’d at his shield he sees th’ impending spear.
The hero measur’d first, with narrow view,The destin’d mark; and, rising as he threw,With its full swing the fatal weapon flew.Not with less rage the rattling thunder falls,Or stones from batt’ring-engines break the walls:Swift as a whirlwind, from an arm so strong,The lance drove on, and bore the death along.Naught could his sev’nfold shield the prince avail,Nor aught, beneath his arms, the coat of mail:It pierc’d thro’ all, and with a grisly woundTransfix’d his thigh, and doubled him to ground.With groans the Latins rend the vaulted sky:Woods, hills, and valleys, to the voice reply.
Now low on earth the lofty chief is laid,With eyes cast upward, and with arms display’d,And, recreant, thus to the proud victor pray’d:“I know my death deserv’d, nor hope to live:Use what the gods and thy good fortune give.Yet think, O think, if mercy may be shown,Thou hadst a father once, and hast a son.Pity my sire, now sinking to the grave;And for Anchises’ sake old Daunus save!Or, if thy vow’d revenge pursue my death,Give to my friends my body void of breath!The Latian chiefs have seen me beg my life;Thine is the conquest, thine the royal wife:Against a yielded man, ’tis mean ignoble strife.”
