Complete Works of Virgil

by Virgil

  Thro’ flames unsing’d we march, and tread the kindled coals

  Give me, propitious pow’r, to wash away

  The stains of this dishonorable day:

  Nor spoils, nor triumph, from the fact I claim,

  But with my future actions trust my fame.

  Let me, by stealth, this female plague o’ercome,

  And from the field return inglorious home.”

  Apollo heard, and, granting half his pray’r,

  Shuffled in winds the rest, and toss’d in empty air.

  He gives the death desir’d; his safe return

  By southern tempests to the seas is borne.

  Now, when the jav’lin whizz’d along the skies,

  Both armies on Camilla turn’d their eyes,

  Directed by the sound. Of either host,

  Th’ unhappy virgin, tho’ concern’d the most,

  Was only deaf; so greedy was she bent

  On golden spoils, and on her prey intent;

  Till in her pap the winged weapon stood

  Infix’d, and deeply drunk the purple blood.

  Her sad attendants hasten to sustain

  Their dying lady, drooping on the plain.

  Far from their sight the trembling Aruns flies,

  With beating heart, and fear confus’d with joys;

  Nor dares he farther to pursue his blow,

  Or ev’n to bear the sight of his expiring foe.

  As, when the wolf has torn a bullock’s hide

  At unawares, or ranch’d a shepherd’s side,

  Conscious of his audacious deed, he flies,

  And claps his quiv’ring tail between his thighs:

  So, speeding once, the wretch no more attends,

  But, spurring forward, herds among his friends.

  She wrench’d the jav’lin with her dying hands,

  But wedg’d within her breast the weapon stands;

  The wood she draws, the steely point remains;

  She staggers in her seat with agonizing pains:

  (A gath’ring mist o’erclouds her cheerful eyes,

  And from her cheeks the rosy color flies:)

  Then turns to her, whom of her female train

  She trusted most, and thus she speaks with pain:

  “Acca, ‘t is past! he swims before my sight,

  Inexorable Death; and claims his right.

  Bear my last words to Turnus; fly with speed,

  And bid him timely to my charge succeed,

  Repel the Trojans, and the town relieve:

  Farewell! and in this kiss my parting breath receive.”

  She said, and, sliding, sunk upon the plain:

  Dying, her open’d hand forsakes the rein;

  Short, and more short, she pants; by slow degrees

  Her mind the passage from her body frees.

  She drops her sword; she nods her plumy crest,

  Her drooping head declining on her breast:

  In the last sigh her struggling soul expires,

  And, murm’ring with disdain, to Stygian sounds retires.

  A shout, that struck the golden stars, ensued;

  Despair and rage the languish’d fight renew’d.

  The Trojan troops and Tuscans, in a line,

  Advance to charge; the mix’d Arcadians join.

  But Cynthia’s maid, high seated, from afar

  Surveys the field, and fortune of the war,

  Unmov’d a while, till, prostrate on the plain,

  Welt’ring in blood, she sees Camilla slain,

  And, round her corpse, of friends and foes a fighting train.

  Then, from the bottom of her breast, she drew

  A mournful sigh, and these sad words ensue:

  “Too dear a fine, ah much lamented maid,

  For warring with the Trojans, thou hast paid!

  Nor aught avail’d, in this unhappy strife,

  Diana’s sacred arms, to save thy life.

  Yet unreveng’d thy goddess will not leave

  Her vot’ry’s death, nor; with vain sorrow grieve.

  Branded the wretch, and be his name abhorr’d;

  But after ages shall thy praise record.

  Th’ inglorious coward soon shall press the plain:

  Thus vows thy queen, and thus the Fates ordain.”

  High o’er the field there stood a hilly mound,

  Sacred the place, and spread with oaks around,

  Where, in a marble tomb, Dercennus lay,

  A king that once in Latium bore the sway.

  The beauteous Opis thither bent her flight,

  To mark the traitor Aruns from the height.

  Him in refulgent arms she soon espied,

  Swoln with success; and loudly thus she cried:

  “Thy backward steps, vain boaster, are too late;

  Turn like a man, at length, and meet thy fate.

  Charg’d with my message, to Camilla go,

  And say I sent thee to the shades below,

  An honor undeserv’d from Cynthia’s bow.”

  She said, and from her quiver chose with speed

  The winged shaft, predestin’d for the deed;

  Then to the stubborn yew her strength applied,

  Till the far distant horns approach’d on either side.

  The bowstring touch’d her breast, so strong she drew;

  Whizzing in air the fatal arrow flew.

  At once the twanging bow and sounding dart

  The traitor heard, and felt the point within his heart.

  Him, beating with his heels in pangs of death,

  His flying friends to foreign fields bequeath.

  The conqu’ring damsel, with expanded wings,

  The welcome message to her mistress brings.

  Their leader lost, the Volscians quit the field,

  And, unsustain’d, the chiefs of Turnus yield.

  The frighted soldiers, when their captains fly,

  More on their speed than on their strength rely.

  Confus’d in flight, they bear each other down,

  And spur their horses headlong to the town.

  Driv’n by their foes, and to their fears resign’d,

  Not once they turn, but take their wounds behind.

  These drop the shield, and those the lance forego,

  Or on their shoulders bear the slacken’d bow.

  The hoofs of horses, with a rattling sound,

  Beat short and thick, and shake the rotten ground.

  Black clouds of dust come rolling in the sky,

  And o’er the darken’d walls and rampires fly.

  The trembling matrons, from their lofty stands,

  Rend heav’n with female shrieks, and wring their hands.

  All pressing on, pursuers and pursued,

  Are crush’d in crowds, a mingled multitude.

  Some happy few escape: the throng too late

  Rush on for entrance, till they choke the gate.

  Ev’n in the sight of home, the wretched sire

  Looks on, and sees his helpless son expire.

  Then, in a fright, the folding gates they close,

  But leave their friends excluded with their foes.

  The vanquish’d cry; the victors loudly shout;

  ‘T is terror all within, and slaughter all without.

  Blind in their fear, they bounce against the wall,

  Or, to the moats pursued, precipitate their fall.

  The Latian virgins, valiant with despair,

  Arm’d on the tow’rs, the common danger share:

  So much of zeal their country’s cause inspir’d;

  So much Camilla’s great example fir’d.

  Poles, sharpen’d in the flames, from high they throw,

  With imitated darts, to gall the foe.

  Their lives for godlike freedom they bequeath,

  And crowd each other to be first in death.

  Meantime to Turnus, ambush’d in the shade,

  With heavy tidings came th’ unha
ppy maid:

  “The Volscians overthrown, Camilla kill’d;

  The foes, entirely masters of the field,

  Like a resistless flood, come rolling on:

  The cry goes off the plain, and thickens to the town.”

  Inflam’d with rage, (for so the Furies fire

  The Daunian’s breast, and so the Fates require,)

  He leaves the hilly pass, the woods in vain

  Possess’d, and downward issues on the plain.

  Scarce was he gone, when to the straits, now freed

  From secret foes, the Trojan troops succeed.

  Thro’ the black forest and the ferny brake,

  Unknowingly secure, their way they take;

  From the rough mountains to the plain descend,

  And there, in order drawn, their line extend.

  Both armies now in open fields are seen;

  Nor far the distance of the space between.

  Both to the city bend. Aeneas sees,

  Thro’ smoking fields, his hast’ning enemies;

  And Turnus views the Trojans in array,

  And hears th’ approaching horses proudly neigh.

  Soon had their hosts in bloody battle join’d;

  But westward to the sea the sun declin’d.

  Intrench’d before the town both armies lie,

  While Night with sable wings involves the sky.

  BOOK XII

  When Turnus saw the Latins leave the field,

  Their armies broken, and their courage quell’d,

  Himself become the mark of public spite,

  His honor question’d for the promis’d fight;

  The more he was with vulgar hate oppress’d,

  The more his fury boil’d within his breast:

  He rous’d his vigor for the last debate,

  And rais’d his haughty soul to meet his fate.

  As, when the swains the Libyan lion chase,

  He makes a sour retreat, nor mends his pace;

  But, if the pointed jav’lin pierce his side,

  The lordly beast returns with double pride:

  He wrenches out the steel, he roars for pain;

  His sides he lashes, and erects his mane:

  So Turnus fares; his eyeballs flash with fire,

  Thro’ his wide nostrils clouds of smoke expire.

  Trembling with rage, around the court he ran,

  At length approach’d the king, and thus began:

  “No more excuses or delays: I stand

  In arms prepar’d to combat, hand to hand,

  This base deserter of his native land.

  The Trojan, by his word, is bound to take

  The same conditions which himself did make.

  Renew the truce; the solemn rites prepare,

  And to my single virtue trust the war.

  The Latians unconcern’d shall see the fight;

  This arm unaided shall assert your right:

  Then, if my prostrate body press the plain,

  To him the crown and beauteous bride remain.”

  To whom the king sedately thus replied:

  “Brave youth, the more your valor has been tried,

  The more becomes it us, with due respect,

  To weigh the chance of war, which you neglect.

  You want not wealth, or a successive throne,

  Or cities which your arms have made your own:

  My towns and treasures are at your command,

  And stor’d with blooming beauties is my land;

  Laurentum more than one Lavinia sees,

  Unmarried, fair, of noble families.

  Now let me speak, and you with patience hear,

  Things which perhaps may grate a lover’s ear,

  But sound advice, proceeding from a heart

  Sincerely yours, and free from fraudful art.

  The gods, by signs, have manifestly shown,

  No prince Italian born should heir my throne:

  Oft have our augurs, in prediction skill’d,

  And oft our priests, foreign son reveal’d.

  Yet, won by worth that cannot be withstood,

  Brib’d by my kindness to my kindred blood,

  Urg’d by my wife, who would not be denied,

  I promis’d my Lavinia for your bride:

  Her from her plighted lord by force I took;

  All ties of treaties, and of honor, broke:

  On your account I wag’d an impious war-

  With what success, ‘t is needless to declare;

  I and my subjects feel, and you have had your share.

  Twice vanquish’d while in bloody fields we strive,

  Scarce in our walls we keep our hopes alive:

  The rolling flood runs warm with human gore;

  The bones of Latians blanch the neighb’ring shore.

  Why put I not an end to this debate,

  Still unresolv’d, and still a slave to fate?

  If Turnus’ death a lasting peace can give,

  Why should I not procure it whilst you live?

  Should I to doubtful arms your youth betray,

  What would my kinsmen the Rutulians say?

  And, should you fall in fight, (which Heav’n defend!)

  How curse the cause which hasten’d to his end

  The daughter’s lover and the father’s friend?

  Weigh in your mind the various chance of war;

  Pity your parent’s age, and ease his care.”

  Such balmy words he pour’d, but all in vain:

  The proffer’d med’cine but provok’d the pain.

  The wrathful youth, disdaining the relief,

  With intermitting sobs thus vents his grief:

  “The care, O best of fathers, which you take

  For my concerns, at my desire forsake.

  Permit me not to languish out my days,

  But make the best exchange of life for praise.

  This arm, this lance, can well dispute the prize;

  And the blood follows, where the weapon flies.

  His goddess mother is not near, to shroud

  The flying coward with an empty cloud.”

  But now the queen, who fear’d for Turnus’ life,

  And loath’d the hard conditions of the strife,

  Held him by force; and, dying in his death,

  In these sad accents gave her sorrow breath:

  “O Turnus, I adjure thee by these tears,

  And whate’er price Amata’s honor bears

  Within thy breast, since thou art all my hope,

  My sickly mind’s repose, my sinking age’s prop;

  Since on the safety of thy life alone

  Depends Latinus, and the Latian throne:

  Refuse me not this one, this only pray’r,

  To waive the combat, and pursue the war.

  Whatever chance attends this fatal strife,

  Think it includes, in thine, Amata’s life.

  I cannot live a slave, or see my throne

  Usurp’d by strangers or a Trojan son.”

  At this, a flood of tears Lavinia shed;

  A crimson blush her beauteous face o’erspread,

  Varying her cheeks by turns with white and red.

  The driving colors, never at a stay,

  Run here and there, and flush, and fade away.

  Delightful change! Thus Indian iv’ry shows,

  Which with the bord’ring paint of purple glows;

  Or lilies damask’d by the neighb’ring rose.

  The lover gaz’d, and, burning with desire,

  The more he look’d, the more he fed the fire:

  Revenge, and jealous rage, and secret spite,

  Roll in his breast, and rouse him to the fight.

  Then fixing on the queen his ardent eyes,

  Firm to his first intent, he thus replies:

  “O mother, do not by your tears prepare

  Such boding omens, and prejudge the war.

  Resolv’d on fight, I am no longer fr
ee

  To shun my death, if Heav’n my death decree.”

  Then turning to the herald, thus pursues:

  “Go, greet the Trojan with ungrateful news;

  Denounce from me, that, when to-morrow’s light

  Shall gild the heav’ns, he need not urge the fight;

  The Trojan and Rutulian troops no more

  Shall dye, with mutual blood, the Latian shore:

  Our single swords the quarrel shall decide,

  And to the victor be the beauteous bride.”

  He said, and striding on, with speedy pace,

  He sought his coursers of the Thracian race.

  At his approach they toss their heads on high,

  And, proudly neighing, promise victory.

  The sires of these Orythia sent from far,

  To grace Pilumnus, when he went to war.

  The drifts of Thracian snows were scarce so white,

  Nor northern winds in fleetness match’d their flight.

  Officious grooms stand ready by his side;

  And some with combs their flowing manes divide,

  And others stroke their chests and gently soothe their pride.

  He sheath’d his limbs in arms; a temper’d mass

  Of golden metal those, and mountain brass.

  Then to his head his glitt’ring helm he tied,

  And girt his faithful fauchion to his side.

  In his Aetnaean forge, the God of Fire

  That fauchion labor’d for the hero’s sire;

  Immortal keenness on the blade bestow’d,

  And plung’d it hissing in the Stygian flood.

  Propp’d on a pillar, which the ceiling bore,

  Was plac’d the lance Auruncan Actor wore;

  Which with such force he brandish’d in his hand,

  The tough ash trembled like an osier wand:

  Then cried: “O pond’rous spoil of Actor slain,

  And never yet by Turnus toss’d in vain,

  Fail not this day thy wonted force; but go,

  Sent by this hand, to pierce the Trojan foe!

  Give me to tear his corslet from his breast,

  And from that eunuch head to rend the crest;

  Dragg’d in the dust, his frizzled hair to soil,

  Hot from the vexing ir’n, and smear’d with fragrant oil!”

  Thus while he raves, from his wide nostrils flies

  A fiery steam, and sparkles from his eyes.

  So fares the bull in his lov’d female’s sight:

  Proudly he bellows, and preludes the fight;

  He tries his goring horns against a tree,