by Virgil
clean passage through the foe.” Full many a prize
was left untaken: princely suits of mail
enwrought with silver pure, huge drinking-bowls,
and broideries fair. Yet grasped Euryalus
the blazonry at Rhamnes’ corselet hung,
and belt adorned with gold: which were a gift
to Remulus of Tibur from the store
of opulent Caedicus, who sued from far
to be a friend; and these in death he gave
to his son’s son, who slain in battle fell,
and proud Rutulians seized them with the spoil.
Euryalus about his shoulder strong
this booty slung — unprofitable gain! —
and fitted on a gorgeous, crested helm
which once Messapus wore. So from the camp,
escaping danger, the two champions ran.
But horsemen from the Latin city sent
to join the serried legions of the plain
had come at Turnus’ call, three hundred strong
all bearing shields, and under the command
of Volscens. Nigh the camp and walls they drew;
and soon they spied upon the leftward path
th’ heroic pair, where in dim shades of night
the helmet of Euryalus betrayed
the heedless boy, and with a glancing beam
flashed on the foe. Nor was it seen in vain.
Loud from the line the voice of Volscens called:
“Stand, gentlemen! What business brings you here?
Whose your allegiance? Whither speed so fast?”
No answer gave they save to fly in haste
to cover of the forest and deep gloom
of the defensive night. The horsemen then
blocked every crossway known, and, scattering wide,
kept sentry at the entrance. The great wood
was all of tangled brush and blinding shade
of flex-boughs. Impenetrable thorns
had thickly overgrown, and seldom showed
a pathway through the maze. Euryalus,
by the black branches and his ponderous spoil
impeded, groped along in fearful doubt,
deceived and quite astray. Nisus his friend
had quit him, and incautiously had forced
a sally through the close-encircling foe,
into that region which should after bear
the name of Alba — a rude shelter then
for King Latinus’ herds. He stayed him there
and looked, but vainly, for the comrade gone.
“Euryalus, ill-fated boy!” he cried,
“Where have I lost thee in the pathless wild?
How find thee? How retrace the blinding maze
of yonder treacherous wood?” Yet ere he said,
on his own path he turns him back, and scans
his own light footprints through the tangled thorn,
so dark and still. But suddenly he hears
the tread of horses, with confusing din
and tumult of pursuit. Nor was it long
he tarried ere upon his anguished ear
smote a great cry: and, lo! Euryalus,
trapped by the dark night, the deceptive ground,
faced the whole onset, and fell back o’erwhelmed
by a loud mob of foes, while his sole sword
tried many a thrust in vain. O, what defence
may Nisus bring? With what audacious arms
his chosen comrade save? Shall he make bare
his dying breast to all their swords, and run
to honorable death that bloody way?
he swung his spear with lifted arm, then looked
to the still moon, in heaven, and thus implored:
“O goddess, aid me in my evil case.
O glory of the stars, Latona’s child!
O guardian of groves, if in my name
my father Hyrtacus made offerings
on burning altars, if my own right hand,
successful in the chase, ere hung its gift
beneath thy dome or on thy sacred wall,
grant me yon troop to scatter. Guide my spear
along its path in air.” He spoke, and hurled
with all his gathered strength the shaft of steel.
the swift spear clove the shades of night, and struck
full in the back of Sulmo, where it split,
but tore through to his very heart. The breast
poured forth life’s glowing stream, and he, o’erthrown
lay cold in death, while his huge, heaving sides
gave lingering throes. The men about him stared
this way and that. But Nisus, fiercer still,
poised level with his ear a second shaft,
and, while the foeman paused, the whizzing spear
straight through the brows of Tagus drove, and clung
deep in the cloven brain. In frenzy rose
Volscens, but nowhere could espy what hand
the shaft had hurled, nor whither his wild rage
could make reply. “But thou,” he cried, “shalt feed
with thy hot blood my honor and revenge
for both the slain.” Then with a sword unsheathed
upon Euryalus he fell. Loud shrieked
Nisus, of reason reft, who could not bear
such horror, nor in sheltering gloom of night
longer abide: “‘T is I, ‘t is I!” he said.
look on the man who slew them! Draw on me
your swords, Rutulians! The whole stratagem
was mine, mine only, and the lad ye slay
dared not, and could not. O, by Heaven above
and by the all-beholding stars I swear,
he did but love his hapless friend too well.”
But while he spoke, the furious-thrusting sword
had pierced the tender body, and run through
the bosom white as snow. Euryalus
sank prone in death; upon his goodly limbs
the life-blood ran unstopped, and low inclined
the drooping head; as when some purpled flower,
cut by the ploughshare, dies, or poppies proud
with stem forlorn their ruined beauty bow
before the pelting storm. Then Nisus flew
straight at his foes; but in their throng would find
Volscens alone, for none but Volscens stayed:
they gathered thickly round and grappled him
in shock of steel with steel. But on he plunged,
swinging in ceaseless circles round his head
his lightning-sword, and thrust it through the face
of shrieking Volscens, with his own last breath
striking his foeman down; then cast himself
upon his fallen comrade’s breast; and there,
stabbed through, found tranquil death and sure repose.
Heroic pair and blest! If aught I sing
have lasting music, no remotest age
shall blot your names from honor’s storied scroll:
not while the altars of Aeneas’ line
shall crown the Capitol’s unshaken hill,
nor while the Roman Father’s hand sustains
its empire o’er the world.
The Rutules seized the spoils of victory,
and slowly to their camp, with wail and cry,
bore Volscens’ corse; and in the eamp they made
like wailing over Rhamnes lifeless found,
o’er Numa and Serranus, and a throng
of princes dead. The gazing people pressed
around the slain, the dying, where the earth
ran red with slaughter and full many a stream
of trickling gore; nor did they fail to know
Messapus’ glittering helm, his baldric fair,
recaptured now with lavish sweat and pain.
Now, from Tithonus’ saffron couch set free,
Aur
ora over many a land outpoured
the rising morn; the sun’s advancing beam
unveiled the world; and Turnus to his host
gave signal to stand forth, while he arrayed
himself in glorious arms. Then every chief
awoke his mail-clad company, and stirred
their slumbering wrath with tidings from the foe.
Tumultuously shouting, they impaled
on lifted spears — O pitiable sight! —
the heads of Nisus and Euryalus.
Th’ undaunted Trojans stood in battle-line
along the wall to leftward (for the right
the river-front defended) keeping guard
on the broad moat; upon the ramparts high
sad-eyed they stood, and shuddered as they saw
the hero-faces thrust aloft; too well
their loyal grief the blood-stained features knew.
On restless pinions to the trembling town
had voiceful Rumor hied, and to the ears
of that lone mother of Euryalus
relentless flown. Through all her feeble frame
the chilling sorrow sped. From both her hands
dropped web and shuttle; she flew shrieking forth,
ill-fated mother! and with tresses torn,
to the wide ramparts and the battle-line
ran frantic, heeding naught of men-at-arms,
nor peril nor the rain of falling spears;
and thus with loud and lamentable cry
filled all the air: “Is it in yonder guise,
Euryalus, thou comest? Art thou he,
last comfort of my life? O cruel one!
Couldst thou desert me? When they thrust thee forth
to death and danger, did they dare refuse
a wretched mother’s last embrace? But now —
O woe is me! — upon this alien shore
thou liest for a feast to Latin dogs
and carrion birds. Nor did thy mother lead
the mourners to thy grave, nor shut those eyes,
nor wash the dreadful wounds, nor cover thee
with the fair shroud, which many a night and day
I swiftly wove, and at my web and loom
forgot my years and sorrows. Whither now
to seek and follow thee? What spot of earth
holds the torn body and the mangled limbs?
Is all the gift thou bringest home, dear child,
this? O, was this the prize for which I came
o’er land and sea? O, stab me very deep,
if ye have any pity; hurl on me
your every spear, Rutulians; make of me
your swords’ first work. Or, Father of the gods!
Show mercy, thou! and with thy lightning touch
this head accurst, and let it fall by thee
down to the dark. For else what power is mine
my tortured life to end?” Her agony
smote on their listening souls; a wail of woe
along the concourse ran. Stern men-at-arms
felt valor for a moment sleep, and all
their rage of battle fail. But while she stirred
the passion of her grief, Ilioneus
and young Iulus, weeping filial tears,
bade Actor and Idaeus, lifting her
in both their reverent arms, to bear her home.
But now the brazen trumpet’s fearsome song
blares loud, and startled shouts of soldiery
spread through the roaring sky. The Volscian band
press to the siege, and, locking shield with shield,
fill the great trenches, tear the palisades,
or seek approach by ladders up the walls,
where’er the line of the defenders thins, and light
through their black circle shines. The Trojans pour
promiscuous missiles down, and push out hard
with heavy poles — so well have they been schooled
to fight against long sieges. They fling down
a crushing weight of rocks, in hope to break
th’ assailing line, where roofed in serried shields
the foe each charge repels. But not for long
the siegers stand; along their dense array
the crafty Teucrians down the rampart roll
a boulder like a hill-top, laying low
the Rutule troop and crashing through their shields.
Nor may the bold Rutulian longer hope
to keep in cover, but essays to storm
only with far-flung shafts the bastion strong.
Here grim Mezentius, terrible to see,
waved an Etrurian pine, and made his war
with smoking firebrands; there, in equal rage,
Messapus, the steed-tamer, Neptune’s son,
ripped down the palisade, and at the breach
strung a steep path of ladders up the wall.
Aid, O Calliope, the martial song!
Tell me what carnage and how many deaths
the sword of Turnus wrought: what peer in arms
each hero to the world of ghosts sent down.
Unroll the war’s great book before these eyes.
A tower was there, well-placed and looming large,
with many a lofty bridge, which desperately
th’ Italians strove to storm, and strangely plied
besieging enginery to cast it down:
the Trojans hurled back stones, or, standing close,
flung through the loopholes a swift shower of spears.
But Turnus launched a firebrand, and pierced
the wooden wall with flame, which in the wind
leaped larger, and devoured from floor to floor,
burning each beam away. The trembling guards
sought flight in vain; and while they crowded close
into the side unkindled yet, the tower
bowed its whole weight and fell, with sudden crash
that thundered through the sky. Along the ground
half dead the warriors fell (the crushing mass
piled over them) by their own pointed spears
pierced to the heart, or wounded mortally
by cruel splinters of the wreck. Two men,
Helenor one, and Lyeus at his side,
alone get free. Helenor of the twain
was a mere youth; the slave Lycymnia
bore him in secret to the Lydian King,
and, arming him by stealth, had sent away
to serve the Trojan cause. One naked sword
for arms had he, and on his virgin shield
no blazon of renown; but when he saw
the hosts of Turnus front him, and the lines
this way and that of Latins closing round, —
as a fierce, forest-creature, brought to bay
in circling pack of huntsmen, shows its teeth
against the naked spears, and scorning death
leaps upward on the javelins, — even so,
not loth to die, the youthful soldier flew
straight at the centre of his foes, and where
the shining swords looked thickest, there he sprung.
But Lyeus, swifter-footed, forced his way
past the opposing spears and made escape
far as the ciity-wall, where he would fain
clutch at the coping and climb up to clasp
some friend above: but Turnus, spear in hand,
had hotly followed, and exulting loud
thus taunted him, “Hadst thou the hope, rash fool,
beyond this grasp to fly?” So, as he clung,
he tore him down; and with him broke and fell
a huge piece of the wall: not otherwise
a frail hare, or a swan of snow-white wing,
is clutched in eagle-talons, when the bird
of Jove soars skyward with his prey; or tender lamb
from bleating mother and the broken fold
is stolen by the
wolf of Mars. Wild shouts
on every side resound. In closer siege
the foe press on, and heap the trenches full,
or hurl hot-flaming torches at the towers.
Ilioneus with mountain-mass of stone
struck down Lucetius, as he crept with fire
too near the city-gate. Emathion fell
by Liger’s hand, and Corynteus’ death
Asilas dealt: one threw the javelin well;
th’ insidious arrow was Asilas’ skill.
Ortygius was slain by Caeneus, then
victorious Geneus fell by Turnus’ ire.
Then smote he Dioxippus, and laid low
Itys and Promolus and Sagaris
and Clonius, and from the lofty tower
shot Idas down. The shaft of Capys pierced
Privernus, whom Themilla’s javelin
but now had lightly grazed, and he, too bold,
casting his shield far from him, had outspread
his left hand on the wound: then sudden flew
the feathered arrow, and the hand lay pinned
against his left side, while the fatal barb
was buried in his breathing life. The son
of Arcens now stood forth in glittering arms.
His broidered cloak was red Iberian stain,
and beautiful was he. Arcens his sire
had sent him to the war; but he was bred
in a Sicilian forest by a stream
to his nymph-mother dear, where rose the shrine
of merciful Palicus, blest and fair.
But, lo! Mezentius his spear laid by,
and whirled three times about his head the thong
of his loud sling: the leaden bullet clove
the youth’s mid-forehead, and his towering form
fell prostrate its full length along the ground.
‘T was then Ascanius first shot forth in war
the arrow swift from which all creatures wild
were wont to fly in fear: and he struck down
with artful aim Numanus, sturdy foe,
called Remulus, who lately was espoused
to Turnus’ younger sister. He had stalked
before the van, and made vociferous noise
of truths and falsehoods foul and base, his heart
puffed up with new-found greatness. Up and down
he strode, and swelled his folly with loud words:
“No shame have ye this second time to stay
cooped close within a rampart’s craven siege,
O Phrygians twice-vanquished? Is a wall
your sole defence from death? Are such the men
who ask our maids in marriage? Say what god,
what doting madness, rather, drove ye here
to Italy? This way ye will not find
the sons of Atreus nor the trickster tongue
of voluble Ulysses. Sturdy stock
are we; our softest new-born babes we dip