# Aeneid (Conington 1866)/Book 11

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BOOK XI.
Morn rose meantime from ocean's bed: Æneas, though his comrades dead His instant care invite, Still wildered by the bloody day, Yet hastes his votive dues to pay With dawn of earliest light. An oak with branches lopped all round He plants upon a lofty mound, And hangs with armour bright, Mezentius' warrior panoply, A glorious trophy, vowed to thee, Great ruler of the fight. There stands the helm, besprent with gore, The spent snapped darts in life he bore, The hauberk mail, whose twisted rows Twelve ghastly apertyres disclose: The buckler on the left is hung, And from the neck the falchion strung. Then thus the conqueror addressed The exulting chiefs who round him pressed: 'A mighty deed, my friends, is done: The future craves no fear; These spoils are from the tyrant won; See battle's first-fruits here! Behold, the great Mezentius stands, The master-work of these my hands! ​Now look to march where glory calls, To king Latinus and the walls; Let courage dream of deeds of might, And dazzling hope forestall the fight; So, when at last in prosperous hour Heaven bids us marshal forth our power, No ignorance shall breed delay, No coward fears our onset stay. Now turn we to our comrades slain, The mighty dead that load the plain, And pay to each the rites we owe, The sole sad joy that spectres know. Haste we,' he cries, 'consign to earth, The flesh that clothed those souls of worth, Who gave their precious lives to win This land of ours for us, their kin: First send we to Evander's town Brave Pallas, heir of high renown, Whose hopeful day has set too soon, O'ercast by darkness ere its noon.'
So spake he, dropping tears like dew; Then sought the tent again, Where old Acœtes, liegeman true, Was watching o'er the slain, Acœtes, who in times of yore Evander's arms in battle bore, Since called by fate less kind to tend The royal heir, his guide and friend. The gathered menials round him stand, And dames of Troy, a mourning band, Their flowing locks unbound. Soon as Æneas meets their sight, They shriek to heaven, their breasts they smite: The walls return the sound. ​There when he saw the pillowed head, The bloodless features of the dead, And on the ivory breast displayed The wound that Turnus' javelin made, Once more the pitying tear he shed, And words their utterance found: 'Unhappy youth! and can it be That Fortune, in her happier hour, Has grudged you to partake with me The spectacle of new won power, And homeward ride in conquering car, Triumphant from the field of war? Not such the oath I swore that day To your lorn father, old and grey, When, ere he sped me on my way, He clasped my hand in fond embrace, And warned me, fierce would prove the fray, And stern the temper of the race. E'en now perchance by hope beguiled He makes oblation for his child, And calls on Heaven to save; We sadly render to the shade Whose every debt to Heaven is paid The due that spectres crave. 'Tis yours, ill-fated, to behold The son you look for dead and cold! Is this our proud procession? these Our triumph's boasted pageantries, And this the pledge I gave? But not from field of battle chased, By ignominious wounds disgraced, Your darling shall return, Nor you, his father, pray for death To stop your scant remains of breath, While he survives in scorn. ​Mourn, sad Ausonia! mourn thy fate, Left of thy guardian desolate, And thou, Iulus, mourn!'
His wailing o'er, he gives command To raise the mournful load, And bids a thousand of his band Attend its homeward road, With charge to comfort and condole; Weak cordial to the father's soul, Yet such as friendship owed: While others weave without delay Of oaken branch and arbute spray A funeral bier, and deftly spread Soft leaves above the pliant bed. There high on rural couch displayed The body of the youth is laid; So cropped by maiden's finger lies A hyacinth or violet; Its graceful mould, its glowing dyes Undimmed, unwasted yet, Though parent earth afford no more The vital juice it drank before. Next brings the chief two mantles fair Deep dyed with dazzling red; Phœnicia's hapless queen whilere, So prodigal of loving care, Had wrought them for her hero's wear And pranked with golden thread. Full soon with one the lifeless frame In funeral guise he wound: The tresses that must feed the flame With one he muffled round. Then at his word in long array The attendants marshal forth the prey, Memorials of Laurentum's fray: ​And weapons from the foeman ta'en And fiery chargers swell the train. There walk with hands fast bound behind The victim prisoners, designed For slaughter o'er the flames; And mighty warriors march erect 'Neath trunks with arms of foemen decked And marked with hostile names. Then sad Acœtes, worn with years, Moves on, by others led; His breast he beats, his cheeks he tears, And rolls on earth outspread. There too is seen the dead man's car, Blood-sprinkled from Rutulian war. Then Æthon comes, his trappings doffed, The warrior's gallant horse: Big drops of pity oft and oft Adown his visage course. In sad procession others bring The lance and helm: the Rutule king Is lord of all but those: And Teucrian, Tuscan, Arcad bands, Their spears inverted in their hands, The mournful pageant close. Now, as the train at length goes by, Æneas speaks with deep-drawn sigh: 'Fate calls us other tears to shed, And we must needs obey: Hail, mighty firstling of the dead; Hail and farewell for aye!' Then turns him back, the greeting said, And campward takes his way.
Now from Laurentum's town appear Ambassadors sedate and grave; ​Thick olive boughs in hand they bear, And for indulgence crave: Be burial granted to the slain Whose mangled bodies load the plain: No war may soldier wage, they say, With vanquished men and senseless clay: Who once his hosts, his kin were styled Should find him e'en in victory mild. The good Æneas owns their plea, And thus bespeaks them courteously: 'What mischief, Latians, makes you slight Our proffered love, and plunge in fight? Ask ye that war in death may cease? Fain would I grant the living peace. I had not sought you, but the voice Of oracles compelled my choice; Fate bade me here my city place; Nor war I with the Latian race. No; 'twas your king forsook his word, And Turnus' arms to mine preferred. If Turnus waked the flames of strife, 'Twere just that Turnus risked his life. To end the war by force of hand And drive the Trojans from the land, If such his boast, his part had been To meet me here with blade as keen, And he had lived who won the right From favouring gods or inborn might. Go now, prepare the funeral pyre, And give your hapless friends to fire.'
He ended. Wildered with amaze In silence each on each they gaze. Then Drances, he whose age pursued The Daunian youth with bitter feud, ​Still prompt injurious taunts to fling, Makes answer to Dardania's king: 'O great in fame, in deeds more great! What eloquence your worth can mate? Say, which may first our praise demand, The just man's heart, the brave man's hand? Soon shall this grateful train convey Back to our peers the words you say, And, let but chance the means afford, Unite you to our gracious lord. Should Turnus gainsay or deny, Let Turnus seek some new ally. Nay, Latium's sons shall spend their pains To build the walls your fate ordains, And nerve and sinew task with joy In shouldering up the stones of Troy.' So Drances spoke: and all the rest With loud acclaim their mind expressed. For twice six days a truce is fixed, And there, while concord reigns betwixt, Teucrian and Latin, freely mixed, O'er hill and woodland stray. The sharp axe rings upon the ash; Heaven-kissing elms in ruin crash; The forceful wedge with stroke on stroke Splits cedarn core and heart of oak; And bullocks, groaning 'neath the yoke, Bear the full wains away.
Now Fame, sad harbinger of grief, Comes flying to the Arcadian chief, And fills with doleful trumpet blast The palace and the town; Fame, whose shrill voice, a moment past, Had told the tale of slaughter vast And Pallas' young renown. ​Swift through the gate Arcadia's bands Pour forth, with torches in their hands, So ancient rule ordains: The highway glimmers, sadly bright, One line of long funereal light, That parts the dusky plains. Now, marching mournfully along, The Phrygians join their wailing throng. The matrons see the crowd draw nigh And rend the heaven with piercing cry. No force can old Evander stay: With breathless haste he takes his way, And falling on the rested bier Hangs o'er his child with groan and tear; At last the refluent ware of woe Gives scanty room for speech to flow: 'O Pallas! parting from your sire Far other pledge you gave, To moderate your martial fire Nor war's worst fury brave! I knew the young blood's maddening play, The charm of battle's first essay. O valour blighted in the flower! O first dread drops of war's full shower! O prayers unheard, rejected vows, And thou, my lost, my sacred spouse, Blest in thy death, nor spared to see This uttermost calamity, While I have overlived my span, To linger on, a childless man! Ah! had I joined the Dardan train, And fallen by Rutule javelins slain, And this your escort of the dead Conveyed me home in Pallas' stead! Nor you, ye Trojans, I upbraid, The faith we swore, the league we made: ​A lot like this, of hopeless tears, Was due to my declining years. If early death was his decreed, 'Twas comfort that he thus should bleed, As Troy to Latium's walls he led Through fields his arm with death had spread. Nor e'en for you, dear child, could sire A worthier sepulture desire Than this which good Æneas deigns In honour to your loved remains, Where Phrygia's mightiest shed the tear And all Etruria tends the bier. Proud trophies to your praise they yield, The chiefs you tumble on the field: Thou, Turnus, too hadst swelled his fame, A mighty trunk with armour hung, Had time but made his years the same, His arm with equal vigour strung. But why with helpless wail delay A host impatient for the fray? Go, to your gallant prince remit My charge, upon your memory writ: If thus bereaved I linger yet, 'Tis from your hand to claim my debt, The life of Turnus, doubly due To Pallas and his father too: This niche alone is vacant still For fortune and desert to fill. Not now to glad this life of mine I ask—forbid it, powers divine! No; down to darkness I would bear The joy, and with my darling share.'
Meantime the gracious Dawn displays To wretched men her genial rays, And calls to work once more: ​Stout Tarchon and the Trojan sire Are rearing many a funeral pyre Along the winding shore. Here, as his country's rites ordain, Each brings his brave compatriots slain, And while the dusk flames mount on high A veil of darkness shrouds the sky. Thrice ride they round each lighted pyre, Encased in glittering mail, Thrice circle the funereal fire, And raise their piercing wail. Earth, armour, all with tears arc dewed, And warrior shouts and clarions rude The vault of heaven assail. There others on the embers throw Rich booty, reft from slaughtered foe, The helm, the ivory-hilted steel, The bridle and the glowing wheel: While some cast in the dead man's gear, The treacherous shield, the luckless spear. Around they butcher herds of kine, And sooth the shades with bristly swine, And cattle, from the neighbouring mead Swift harried, o'er the death-fires bleed. Far down the line of coast they gaze On kinsmen shrivelling in the blaze, And fondly watch the bier, Nor tear them from the hallowed ground, Till dewy night the sky rolls round And makes the stars appear.
Sad Latium for her part the while Builds otherwhere full many a pile; Some on the field their slain inhume, Some send them forth to distant tomb, Or to the city bear: ​The rest in undistinguished mass They burn, unheeding rank or class: The wide plains flicker through the gloom With ghastly funeral glare. And now the third return of day Had made the dewy night give way: Sighing they tumble from each pyre The hills of mingled dust, And heap them, tepid from the fire, With mounded earthen crust. But in the royal city chief Swell loud and high the sounds of grief; There mothers of their sons bereft, Young brides to widowed misery left, Fond hearts of sisters, nigh to break, And orphan boys their wailing make, Cry malison on Turnus' head And execrate his bridal bed: Who fain would wear Italia's crown Alone to battle should come down, To triumph or to fall. Loud clamours Drances, and attests In Turnus' hand the issue rests, For him the Trojans call. And Turnus too can boast his throng With voices manifold and strong: The cherished favour of the queen Protects him with a mighty screen, And many a deed of valour bold And trophy won his fame uphold.
While thus men's passions heave and rage And tumult fiercest burns, With doleful news the embassage From Diomed returns: 'Tis idly spent, their toil and pain, Gifts, gold, entreaties, all in vain: ​Elsewhere must Latium seek relief, Or yield her to the Trojan chief. Latinus quails, and bends him low Before the giant wave of woe: Heaven's wrath, in sad reverses read, The earth new mounded o'er the dead, All warn him with presaging voice Æneas is the gods' true choice: So Latium's wisest sons he calls To council in the palace halls. They meet, and flooding all the road Stream onward to their king's abode: Midmost, in age and state the chief, Latinus sits with face of grief, Invites the lately-missioned train, And bids them point by point explain. Then talk is stilled, and Venulus, The charge obeying, answers thus: 'Townsmen of Latium! we have seen King Diomed in his home: Each perilous chance that lay between Is mastered and o'ercome; The hand that levelled Ilium's towers In friendship has been clasped in ours. We found him on his work intent, By might of victor hand Rearing an Argive settlement In Iapygian land. Admission to his presence gained, And privilege of speech obtained, We tender gifts to buy his grace, Inform him of our name and race, Tell who our foe, and what the cause Our embassy to Arpi draws. He hears, and with untroubled eye And courteous accent makes reply: ​"Blest nations of Ausonian strain, The heirs of Saturn's golden reign, What chance disturbs your peace, and goads To rush on war's untrodden roads? All, all our chiefs who erst combined To sweep the Trojans from mankind (Let pass the sufferings in the field, The dead by Simois' wave concealed) Alike have drained 'neath every sky The cup of penal agony, A hapless crew, whose lorn estate E'en Priam would compassionate, As Pallas' baleful star can tell, And grim Caphareus knows too well. The perils of our warfare o'er, Outcast we fly from shore to shore; Lo, Menelaus borne away To Proteus' pillars all astray! Ulysses, sorest tried of men, 'Neath Ætna sees the Cyclops' den. What need to tell of Pyrrhas slain, Idomeneus expelled his reign, And Locrians driven, their country lost, To make their homes on Libya's coast? E'en he, Mycenæ's mighty lord, Who led us when at Troy we warred, In his own hall shed out his life By hand of his adulterous wife: As Asia sinks in fight subdued, The paramour takes up the feud. O jealous heaven, that no return To hapless Diomed allows, To see his home's dear altars burn And greet his wished-for spouse! Nay, dreadful prodigies of ill: With ghastly presence hound me still: ​My comrades lost before my eyes Are turned to birds, and wing the skies, Haunt, cruel change, the banks of streams, And fill the rocks with piteous screams. Such was the extremity of fate On my transgression doomed to wait, E'er since with heavenly ichor stained My javelin Venus' hand profaned. Then ask me not to tempt anew The fight whose memory yet I rue: Since Pergamus to earth was cast I war not with the sons of Troy: I cherish not the woful past, Nor think of it with joy. The presents that your country sends May make you yet Æneas' friends. Myself have faced him on the field And tried the combat's chance; I know the arms his hand can wield, The thunder of his lifted shield, The lightning of his lance. Two chiefs beside in strength as great Had Ida's region borne, Troy's sons had knocked at Argos' gate Unbidden, and reverse of fate Had made Achaia mourn. Count up the weary mouths we spent 'Neath Ilium's stubborn battlement, 'Twas Hector's and Æneas' power Delayed so long the conquering hour, Till in the tenth slow year it came At last, with halting feet and lame. Brave warriors both alike; but he, Æneas, first in piety. Join hands in peace, if so ye may, But meet not arms with arms in fray." ​Thus spoke, my lord, the monarch sage, And thus he judged the war we wage.'
The ambassadors had scarcely done, Loud murmurs through the council run, Of multiform intent; So, checked by rocks, the rapid flood Chafes wildly, loth to be withstood, And struggles for a vent, While bank and river-side around Remurmur to the impatient sound. Soon as the hum of tongues was stayed And the wild storm in quiet laid, Due preface to the gods addressed, The king enthroned his mind expressed.
'I would, ye peers, that Latium's state At earlier time had claimed debate, Nor I been driven a court to call With foemen clustering round our wall. A fearful war, my friends, is ours, Waged with a race of godlike powers: No wounds their energy can tame: Win they or lose, they fight the same. Who thought on Diomed to rely Must lay that hope for ever by: Each from himself his hope must seek; But hopes like ours, alas! are weak. How low has fallen our common weal Your eyes can see, your senses feel. I censure none; each gallant man Has done the most that valour can: The forces of a nation's life Have all been lavished on the strife. Now hearken while I show the scheme My doubting thoughts the wisest deem. ​Where Tiber irrigates the plain, A tract there lies, my own domain, Stretching beyond the bounds possessed By old Sicanians, far a-west; The Rutules and Auruncans till Its mingled range of dale and hill, Scar the rude mountain with their ploughs, And bid their herds the thickets browse. That tract, that slope of mountain pine, To Troy I purpose to resign: Let peace an equal rule ordain And make them partners in our reign; There let the wanderers sit them down, If such their wish, and build their town: But should they other lands desire And from our soil may yet retire, Twice ten good vessels let us build Or more, if more may well be filled; Good store e'en now of seasoned wood Is hewn and lying by the flood; Fix they the rate and number; we Give fittings, brass, and labour free. Let too ambassadors be sent Whose pleading may the peace cement, A hundred men, of noblest race, Boughs in their hands, to sue for grace, With gifts of ivory and of gold, A talent each by measure told, And these the emblems of our reign, The throne, the robe of purple grain. Give counsel for the general need, And stanch the wounds that newly bleed.'
Then Drances, he whom Turnus' fame Still kindled into jealous flame, ​Wealthy and dowered with wordy skill, In battle spiritless and chill, At council-board a name of weight, Powerful in faction and debate, His mother's house to kings allied, Inglorious on his father's side, Stands up, and thus with artful phrase Fans smouldering passion into blaze: 'Too plain the answer that you seek, Good king, nor needs my voice to speak: The state's true interest none dispute, But muttering terror holds them mute. Let him the while free speech allow, And calm the thunder of his brow, Whose sullen mien, like baleful star Grim lowering o'er the tide of war— Aye, though with arms and death he threat My safety, he shall hear me yet— Has quenched the light of many a chief, And plunged a city deep in grief, While, trusting to retreat, he tries Troy's camp, and menaces the skies. Send one gift more, great prince, besides The rest your care for Troy provides, One more; nor let tempestuous frown Or bluster bear your purpose down, But give your child a fitting lord, And bind two realms in firm accord. Nay, if such craven fear we feel, Let Latium to her master kneel, Pray him of grace his claim to wave And yield what king and country crave. Why drive to death your nation still, O guilty cause of all this ill? No hope from war: for peace we sue, For peace, and peace's sanction true. ​See, I you feign your bitterest foe (Nor care I though in truth 'twere so) First of the train the suit begin: Have mercy on your wretched kin, Allay your pride, confess defeat, And routed from the strife retreat! Suffice it us, those heaps of killed, Those fields unpeopled and untilled. Or, if ambition yet has charms, If courage thus your bosom warms, If spousal kingdoms seem so sweet, Be bold, and dare your foe to meet. Forsooth, that an imperial bride May gratify our Turnus' pride, We, worthless souls, must needs be swept To death, unburied and unwept. Now, if one generous spark remains Of native fire in those dull veins, Front him that calls you, eye to eye, And, oft defied, in turn defy!'
That taunt the rage of Turnus woke: He groaned and into utterance broke: 'High, Dranccs, swells your stream of words, When battle claims not tongues but swords: When council gathers to the hall, You still are there, the first of all: But needs not now the court to fill With that big talk you vent at will While ramparts yet the foe repel, Nor choked-up moats with carnage swell. Then roll your thunders—'tis your way— And call me coward, as well you may; You, whose strong hand has heaped the plain With trophied trunks and hills of slain. What glowing bravery can do We twain may try, myself and you: ​No distant foemen wait our call: Behold them mustered round the wall! Come, march we on to meet the foe! What, Drances linger? why so slow? Has Mars found out no worthier seat That that loose tongue, those flying feet? Confess defeat? I routed? I? Who dares retail that slanderous lie? Who, that has seen old Tiber's flood Foaming and swollen with Dardan blood, Evander's stock at once laid low, And Arcads vanquished at a blow? Not Bitias thus and Pandarus found The hand that brought them to the ground, Or the great host to death I sent By trench and hostile rampart pent. "No hope from war." Go, dotard, drone In ears of Dardans, or your own; Spread wild alarms, extol the powers Of twice-foiled tribes, disparage ours. Now Myrmidons are all afraid Of conquering Phrygia's ruthless blade; Now fails the heart of Diomede And Peleus' Larissæan seed, And Aufidus recoils with dread Prom Hadria to his fountain head. Or hear the trickster when he feigns He cowers before my threatening strains, And, counterfeiting fear, forsooth, Adds venom to his serpent tooth! No, Drances; ne'er shall you resign Such life as yours to hand of mine: No; let it dwell with you, nor quit A mansion for its use so fit. Now, gracious Sire, my thoughts return To that your theme of high concern. ​If, baffled, you relinquish hope That Latium's arms with Troy may cope, If our estate have fallen so low, Crushed by a single overthrow, Nor Fortune can her steps retrace, Stretch we weak hands and sue for grace. Yet O! were aught of valour here, Sure his were deemed the happiest cheer, Who, sooner than behold such stain, Fell prone, and dying bit the plain. But if resources still are ours, Unbroken still our martial powers, If Italy e'en yet affords Fresh tribes to draw their friendly swords, If Trojan blood in streams has run To gain the vantage Troy has won (For they too have their deaths; the blast Of withering war o'er all has passed), Why fail we on the threshold? why, Ere sounds the trumpet, quake and fly? Time, toil, and circumstance full oft A humbled cause has raised aloft, And Fortune whom she mocked before Has placed on solid ground once more. Ætolian Diomede will send No help our efforts to befriend; But brave Messapus yet is here, Tolumnius too, auspicious seer, And all the chiefs of all the bands That swell our ranks from neighbouring lands: Nor scant the trophies that await The flower of Latium's own estate. Camilla too, the Volscian maid, Her horsemen brings in steel arrayed. If 'tis on me the Trojans call And my one life imperils all, ​Not all so weak these hands of mine That I the combat should decline. Nay, though Achilles' self be there And Vulcan make him arms to wear, I yet will meet him. Here I stand, I, Turnus, like my fathers manned, And pledge the life your needs require To you and to my own wife's sire. 'Tis I the Phrygian claims to meet; Pray Heaven the challenge he repeat, Nor in my stead let Drances pay His forfeit breath or win the day!'
Thus they in passionate debate The weary hours prolong: Æneas through the encampment's gate Leads forth his armed throng. A messenger comes hastening down And fills the palace and the town With tumult and dismay; 'The Trojan and the Tuscan train From Tiber pour along the plain In battle's stern array.' A turmoil takes the public mind; Their passions flame, by furious wind To conflagration blown: At once to arms they fain would fly: 'To arms!' the youth impatient cry: The old men weep and moan. A dissonance of various cries Keeps swelling, soaring to the skies, As when in lofty wood Birds settle, lighting in a cloud, Or swans make clangor hoarse and loud Along Padusa's flood. ​'Aye, sit' cries Turnus, striking in As for an instant flags the din, 'Sit still, and while of peace you prate Let foemen armed assail your gate!' He spoke, and speaking rushed away: 'You, Volusus, in arms array The Volscians' warlike power; Lead out the Rutules: Coras too, Catillus, and Messapus, you With horse the champaign scour. Let others every inlet guard, And on the towers keep watch and ward: The residue myself obey, And follow where I point the way.' Forth from the city, one and all, They rush, and hurry to the wall: Latinus, bowed with grief, adjourns The council and its high concerns, And oft himself he blames, Who gave not to his daughter fair A husband, to the state an heir, Nor owned the Trojan's claims. Before the gates some trenches make, Or load their backs with stone and stake: The trump peals shrill and clear: Matrons and boys enring the wall In close array: the last dread call Resounds in every ear. Now up to Pallas' rock-built fane The queen amid a matron train Is borne in stately car; With her Lavinia, maiden chaste, Her lovely eyes to earth abased, Fair author of the war. Beneath the dome the matrons crowd, And bid the incense smoke, ​And thus with lamentation loud The guardian power invoke: 'Tritonian maiden, name of fear, Controller of the fray, O break the Phrygian pirate's spear! Himself in dust, protectress dear, Beneath our rampart lay!' Impatient Turnus, all ablaze, His manly limbs for fight arrays. Now mailed with chainwork round his breast, His legs in golden cuishes dressed, His head still bare to view, He flashed in armour's golden pride, His sword loose hanging from his side, As down the height he flew; With fervid heat his spirits glow, And eager hope forestalls the foe. As when, his halter snapped, the steed Darts forth, rejoicing to be freed, And ranges o'er the open mead, Keen life in every limb: Now hies he to the pastured mares, Now to the well-known river fares, Where oft he wont to swim: He tosses high his head, and neighs: His mane o'er neck and shoulder plays.
And now Camilla at the gates With Volscian troops his coming waits. Queen as she was, with graceful speed She lighted instant from her steed: Her train the like observance pay, While, standing, she begins her say: 'Turnus, if valiant lips may boast What valiant hands can do, ​Myself will front the Trojan host And Tyrrhene horseman crew: Let me the field's first peril brave: Bide you at home, the town to save.' With wondering eyes the chief surveyed The terrible yet lovely maid: Then thus: 'What thanks can speech command, Fair glory of the Italian land? But now, since praise must needs despair To match your worth, my labour share. Æneas—so my scouts explore— Has sent his cavalry before To gallop to the town: He with his footmen armed for fight Along; the mountain's wooded height At leisure marches down. In that dark passage I prepare The invading Trojan to ensnare, That men in arms on each side set May clasp him as in hunter's net. You marshal your embattled force To grapple with the Tuscan horse; Messapus shall attend your side, And Latium's troop the charge divide, And brave Tiburtus' missioned host; Yourself assume the leader's post.' This said, with like address he plies Messapus and his tried allies; Then quickly on his errand hies. There is a valley, dusk and blind, For martial stratagem designed: Its narrow walls with foliage black, And strait and scant the pathway's track. Above there lies a table-land High on the far hill-top, ​Where warlike deeds might well be planned, Or would men combat band to hand, Or on the ridge in shelter stand And rocky fragments drop. The well-known way the warrior takes, And in the wood his ambush makes.
Meanwhile Diana, high in air, To Opis at her side, Her huntress-comrade, chaste and fair, In mournful accents cried: 'There goes Camilla to the fight, In those our arms all vainly dight, Beloved beyond the rest; For not of yesterday there came This passion, with a sudden flame To touch Diana's breast. When Metabus, for tyrant wrong Driven from the realm be scourged so long, Privernum's ancient walls forsook, His infant girl in arms he took His banishment to share; Casmilla was her mother styled; He changed the sound, and gave his child Camilla's name to bear. He with his precious load in haste Was making for the mountain waste, By arrow-flights and javelins chased And thronging Volscian powers: Lo, as be hurries, Amasene, Brimming and foaming, roars between, Swollen high with new-fallen showers. Fain would he plunge and swim to shore, But paused, for love of her he bore: Long conning each expedient o'er, A course be sees at last: ​A spear he bore of solid oak, Knotty and seasoned by the smoke: To its mid shaft his child he bound, With cork-tree bark encompassed round, And made her firm and fast: The spear in his broad hand he shakes, And thus to heaven petition makes: "Latonian queen of greenwood shade, To thee I vow this infant maid: Thy dart she grasps in suppliant guise Thus early, as from death she flies: Extend, I pray, thy guardian care, And guide her through the dubious air." Thus having prayed, the oaken beam With backdrawn arm he threw: Loud roared the billows: o'er the stream Camilla hurtling flew. Now as pursuit grows yet more near, He plunges in the foaming tide, And standing on the farther side Recovers with a conqueror's pride The maiden and the spear. No peaceful home, no city gave Its shelter to the wanderer's head; Too stern his mould such aid to crave: On mountain and in lonely cave A shepherd's life he led. 'Mid tangled brakes and wild beasts' lairs He reared his child on milk of mares, To her young lips applied the teat, And thence drew out the beverage sweet. Soon as on earth she first could stand, With pointed dart he armed her hand, And from her infant shoulder hung A quiver and a bow. ​For coif and robe that sweeps the ground A tiger's spoils are o'er her wound. E'en then her tiny lance she flung, Or round her head the tough hide swung, And with her bullet deftly slung Brought crane or cygnet low. Full many a Tyrrhene dame has tried To gain her for her offspring's bride: Content with Dian, in the wood Unstained she keeps her maidenhood. Ah! had she war's contagion fled, Nor with the multitude been led The Trojans to molest! My true companion she had been, The chosen favourite of her queen, In that free service blest. Now, since the fatal hour is nigh, Descend, dear goddess, from on high To Latium's frontier, where the war Is joining under evil star. Take these my weapons of offence, And draw the avenging arrow thence, That whoso may her life destroy, Be he from Italy or Troy, His forfeit blood may pay; I in a hollow cloud will bear Her corpse and armour through the air And in her country lay.' Fair Opis heard the words she said, Then in a storm concealed With swift descent through ether sped, While loud her weapons pealed
Meantime the Trojans near the wall, The Tuscans and the horsemen all, In separate troops arrayed: ​Their mettled steeds the champaign spurn, And chafing this and that way turn; Spears bristle o'er the fields, that burn With arms on high displayed. Messapus and the Latian force And Coras and Camilla's horse An adverse front array: With hands drawn back, they couch the spear, And aim the dart in full career; The tramp of heroes strikes the ear, Mixed with the charger's neigh. Arrived within a javelin's throw The armies halt a space: when lo! Sudden they let their good steeds go And meet with deafening cry: Their volleyed darts fly thick as snow, Dark shadowing all the sky. Tyrrhenus and Aconteus rash With lance in rest together clash, And falling both with hideous crash Inaugurate the strife: Each gallant steed has burst its heart: Like spring-launched stone or lightning's dart Hurled is Aconteus far apart, And spends on air his life. At once the line of battle breaks: The Latians one and all Sling their broad bucklers on their backs And gallop toward the wall: The Trojans follow them apace; Asilas leads the martial chase. And now the gates were well in sight, When with a ringing shout The Latian hosts renew the fight, And wheel their steeds about. ​The Trojans fly with loosened reins, And pour promiscuous o'er the plains: Thus ocean, swaying to and fro, Now seeks the shore with onward flow, Rains on the cliff the sprinkled surge, And breaking bathes the sand's last verge, Now draws the rocky fragments back And quits the sea-board, faint and slack. Twice to their walls the Tuscans beat The routed Rutule foe, Twice, looking back in swift retreat, Their shields behind them throw. But when a third time hand to hand The hosts in deadly mêlée stand And man with man they close. Then deathful groans invade the sky; Arms, men, and horses soon to die Blent in promiscuous carnage lie; Like fire the combat glows. Orsilochus, afraid to front Bold Remulus in battle's brunt, Full at his charger flings a spear, And leaves it lodged beneath the ear. The generous beast, distraught with pain, His forefeet lifts and rears amain; The rider tumbles to the plain. Iolas by Catillus dies, Herminius too, of giant size, Nor less in spirit bold: Bare was his head; his shoulders bare Sustain a yellow length of hair; No wounds the doughty warrior scare, So vast his martial mould: Through his broad chest the spear is driven; He writhes, by deadly anguish riven. ​With rivulets of slaughter reeks The stern embattled field, While each deals havoc round, or seeks The glory death-wounds yield.
But fierce Camilla stems the fight With all an Amazon's delight, One naked breast conspicuous shone By looping of her golden zone: And now she rains an iron shower, Thick pouring spears on spears, And now with unabated power Her mighty axe she rears; Behind her sounds her golden bow, And those dread darts the silvans know. Nay, should she e'en perforce retreat, Flying she wings her arrows fleet. Her favoured comrades round her stand, Larina maid, her strong heart manned, Tulla, Tarpeia, axe in hand, Italia's daughters they, Whom erst she chose, attendants true, Her bidding resolute to do In peace or battle-fray: So on Thermodon's echoing banks The Amazons array their ranks, In painted arms of radiant sheen Around Hippolyte the queen, Or when Penthesilea's car Triumphant breasts the surge of war; The maidens with their moony shields Howling and leaping shake the fields.
Who first, who last, dread maiden, died By thy resistless blow? How many chiefs in valour's pride Didst thou on earth lay low? ​First fell Eunæus, Clytius' heir: His breast, unguarded left and bare, Receives the lance's wound: He vomits forth a crimson flood, Writhes dying round the fatal wood, And bites the bloody ground. Then Pagasus and Liris bleed: One, tumbled from his wounded steed, Is gathering up the rein, One strives his helpless hand to reach To his fallen friend; that moment each Lies prostrate on the plain. With these, the tale of death to swell, Hippotades Amastrus fell: Then as in wildering rout they run She bids her darts pursue Harpalycus, Demophoon, Tereus and Chromis too: A Phrygian mother mourned her son For every lance that flew. Afar in unknown arms equipped See Ornytus the hunter ride On Iapygian steed: a hide Enswathes him round, from bullock stripped; A wolf's grim jaws, whose white teeth grin, Clasp like a helmet brow and chin: A club like curving sheep-hook planned In rustic fashion arms his hand; On high he lifts his lofty crest That towers conspicuous o'er the rest. Hampered by helpless disarray She catches him, an easy prey, Transfixes, and in bitter strain Contemptuously insults the slain: 'Tuscan, you deemed us beasts of chase That fly before the hunter's face: ​A woman's weapon shall unteach Your misproud tribe that boastful speech: Yet take this glory to your grave, Camilla's hand your death-wound gave.' Orsilochus and Butes then (In Troy's great host no huger men) Their lives successive yield: Butes she pierces in the rear With her inevitable spear, The corslet and the helm between, Just where the sitter's neck is seen And hangs the left-hand shield: Orsilochus she traps by guile: She flies and he pursues the while, Till, as in narrowing rings he wheels, Each treads upon the other's heels: Then, rising to the stroke, she drives Her weighty battle-axe, and rives The helmet and the crown, E'en as he sues for grace: again The blow descends: the spattered brain The severed cheeks runs down. Now Aunus' warrior son by chance Meets her, and quails before her glance, Not meanest of Liguria's breed, While fate allowed his tricks to speed. So, when he sees no means to fly Or put that dreadful presence by, What artifice can do he tries, And thus with feigned defiance cries: 'Good sooth, 'tis chivalry indeed: A woman trusts her mettled steed! Come now, discard those means of flight, And gird you for an equal fight: Stand face to face, you soon shall see Whom boasting favours, you or me.' ​Stung by the insult, fiery-souled, She gives her mate her horse to hold, And stands with stainless buckler bold And bare uplifted steel. The youth believes his arts succeed: Turning his rein with caitiff speed He flies, and gores his panting steed With iron-pointed heel. 'Ah! base Ligurian, boaster vile, In vain you try your native guile: Trickster and dastard though you be, False Aunus you shall never see!' With foot like fire, in middle course She meets and heads the flying horse, Confronts the rider, lays him low, And wreaks her vengeance, foe on foe. Look how the hawk, whom augurs love, With matchless ease o'ertakes a dove Seen in the clouds on high: He gripes, he rends the prey forlorn, While drops of blood and plumage torn Come tumbling from the sky.
But not with unregardful gaze The sire of heaven the scene surveys From his Olympian tower: He bids Tyrrhenian Tarchon wage A deadlier fight, and stirs his rage With all ungentle power. From rank to rank the chieftain flies, The yielding troops with menace plies, Calls each by his familiar name, And wakes again the expiring flame: 'What panic terror of the foe, What drowsy spell has made you slow, O hearts that will not feel? ​A woman chases you—ye fly: Why don that useless armour? why Parade your idle steel? Yet all too quick your ears to heed The call of laughing dames, Or when the piper's scrannel reed The Bacchic dance proclaims: Then with keen eyes and hungry throat On meat and brimming cups ye gloat, Till seers announce the victim good And feast-time bids you to the wood.' This said, prepared himself to bleed, 'Gainst Venulus he spurs his steed, Plucks from his horse the unwary foe And bears him on his saddle-bow. All Latium turns astonished eyes, And deafening clamours mount the skies; Swift o'er the champaign Tarchon flies, The chief before him still: The spearhead from the shaft he broke, And scans him o'er, to plant a stroke Which may the readiest kill: The victim, struggling, guards his neck, And still by force keeps force in check. E'en as an eagle bears aloft A serpent in her taloncd nails; The reptile writhes him oft and oft, Rears in his ire his stiffening scales, And darts his hissing jaws on high: She with quick wing still beats the sky, While her sharp beak his life assails: So Tarchon from the midmost foe In triumph bears his prey; His heartened Lydians catch the glow, And back their chief's essay. ​Now Arruns, Fate's predestined prize, Circles Camilla round, His javelin in his hand, and tries The easiest way to wound. Where'er she leads the fierce attack, He follows, and observes her track: Where'er she issues from the rout, He deftly shifts his reins about: Explores each method of advance, Wheels round and round, weighs chance with chance, And shakes the inevitable lance. Just then rich Chloreus, priest of yore To Cybele, bedizened o'er With Phrygian armour shone, And spurred afield his charger bold, A chainwork cloth with clasp of gold Around its body thrown. He, clad in purple's wealthiest grain, The work of looms beyond the main, Launches untiring on the foe Gortynian shafts from Cretan bow: Behind a golden quiver sounds, A helm of gold his head surrounds: His saffron scarf, with gold confined, Flaunts, light and rustling, in the wind: And hose of gay barbaric wear And broidered vest his race declare. Perchance the huntress sought to gain Troy's spoils, to deck a Volscian fane; Perchance herself she would adorn In that bright gold, so proudly worn: Whate'er the cause, from all about She singles, follows, tracks him out, And winds him through the embattled field, Her eyes to coming danger sealed, ​While all the woman's fond desire For plunder sets her soul on fire. His moment Arruns marked: he aims His dart, and thus to heaven exclaims: 'Lord of Soracte, Phœbus sire, Whose rites we Tuscans keep, For whom the blaze of sacred fire Lives in the pine-wood heap, While, safe in piety, we tread, Thy votaries we, on embers red, Grant, mightiest of the gods above, My arms may this foul stain remove! No blazonry I look to gain, Trophy or spoil, from maiden slain; My other deeds shall guard my name, And keep the doer fresh in fame; This fury let me once bring low, Home unrenowned I gladly go.' Apollo granted half his prayer: The rest was scattered into air. With unexpected wound to slay The foe he dreads—so much he may: In safety to return, and see His stately home—that may not be: E'en as 'twas breathed, the wild winds caught The uttered prayer, and turned to nought.
So now, as hurtling through the sky Flew the fell spear, each Volscian eye On the doomed queen was bent: She hears no rushing sound, nor sees The javelin sweeping down the breeze, Till 'neath her naked breast it stood, And drinking deep the unsullied blood At length its fury spent. ​Up run her comrades, one and all, And stay their mistress ere she fall. But daunted far beyond the rest, Fear mixed with triumph in his breast, False Arruns takes to flight: A second time he dares not try The lance that served him, nor defy The maid to further fight. As flies a caitiff wolf for fear From shepherd slain or mighty steer, Or ere the avenger's darts draw near, To pathless mountain steep, And, conscious of his guilt unseen, Claps his lithe tail his legs between, And dives in forest deep; So Arruns steals confused away, And flying plunges mid the fray. In vain she strives with dying hands To wrench away the blade: Fixed in her ribs the weapon stands, Closed by the wound it made. Bloodless and faint, she gasps for breath; Her heavy eyes sink down in death; Her cheek's bright colours fade. Then thus expiring she addressed Her truest comrade and her best, Acca, who wont alone to share The burden of Camilla's care: 'Thus far, dear Acca, have I sought To battle with my wound: But now the fight is over-fought, And all grows dark around. Go: my last charge to Turnus tell, To haste with succour, and repel The Trojans from the town—farewell.' ​She spoke, and speaking, dropped her rein, Perforce descending to the plain. Then by degrees she slips away From all that heavy load of clay: Her languid neck, her drowsy head She droops to earth, of vigour sped: She lets her martial weapons go: The indignant soul flies down below. Loud clamours to the skies arose; With fiercer heat the combat glows, The Volscian princess slain; On, on they push, the Teucrian power, The Tyrrhene chiefs, their nation's flower, The Arcad horseman train.
Meanwhile Diana's sentinel, Fair Opis, sits on mountain fell The scene of blood to view: Soon as Camilla she espied O'erborne in battle's raging tide, From her deep bosom, as she sighed, These piteous words she drew: 'Too stern requital, hapless maid, For that your error have you paid, That venturous daring, which essayed To brave the Trojan power: Your woodland life, to Dian sworn, Those heavenly arms in combat borne, Alas! they left you all forlorn In need's extremest hour. Yet not unhonoured in your end She lets you lie, your queen and friend, Nor unavenged shall you descend A name to after time: For he whose arm has stretched in death That sacred form, his forfeit breath Shall compensate his crime.' ​'Neath the high hill a barrow stood, Dercennus' tomb, o'ergrown with wood (A monarch he of elder blood Who ruled Laurentum's land): The goddess, lighting with a bound, Paused here, and from the lofty mound The guilty Arruns scanned. She saw him insolent and gay, And 'Why' she cries 'so far astray? This way, doomed caitiff, come this way! Shall vengeance vainly call? Here, take Camilla's guerdon due: Alas the day, when such as you By Dian's arrows fall!' Thus having said, the maid of Thrace An arrow from the golden case Draws out, and fits for flight: Then at full stretch the bow she bends, Till now she joins the horn's two ends, And touches with her left the blade Of the keen shaft transversely laid, Her bosom with the right. That instant Arruns heard the sound And in his heart the weapon found. Him gasping out his life with pain His comrades on the dusty plain Unheeded leave to die; Triumphant Opis soars again Back to the Olympian sky.
First turns to flight, its mistress slain, Camilla's light-armed horseman train: The Rutules and Atinas fly; Lorn bands and chiefs astray For safety to the city hie In rout and disarray. ​The deathful onset of the foe None further dares sustain: Each slings behind his unstrung bow, And horse-hoof beat in quick retreat Recurrent shakes the plain. Townward there rolls a dusty cloud; The matrons catch the sight Prom their high station, shriek aloud, And on their bosoms smite. Who gain the open portals first Are whelmed beneath a following burst Of foemen in their rear: No scaping from their piteous fate: E'en at the entry of the gate, 'Mid those dear homes they left so late, They feel the fatal spear. The wildered townsmen close the gates: Nor yield admittance to their mates, For all they beg and pray: E'en foemen might that carnage weep, Where these in arms the pass would keep And those would force the way. Sad fathers from the strong redoubt Look forth, and see their sons shut out: Some down the moat's steep sides amain In helpless ruin crash: Some with blind haste and loosened rein 'Gainst door and doorpost dash. Nay, even the dames on rampart high, Camilla's glories in their eye, With might and main the artillery ply, So true their patriot flame: Make truncheons seared and knotty wood For lack of steel do service good, And 'mid the first would shed their blood, To save their walls from shame. ​Meantime to Turnus in the glade Sad Acca Las her news conveyed, Confusion great and sore; The Volscian troops are disarrayed, Camilla lives no more; On like a torrent comes the foe: Nought stands before their wasting flow; Their terrors townward pour. He, all on flame—so Jove requires— From ambushed slope and wood retires. Scarce out of sight he touched the plains, The unguarded pass Æneas gains, Surmounts the ridge with scant delay, And through the forest wins his way. So both make speed the walls to reach, Nor long the space 'twixt each and each: At once Æneas sees from far The rising dust of Latium's war, And Turnus knows Æneas near, As tramp and neigh assail his ear. Then had they clashed that hour in fray And tried the fortune of the day, But Phœbus in the Hiberian seas Bathes his tired steeds, and sunlight flees: So by the walls they pitch their tents, And guard their mounded battlements.
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