Complete Works of Virgil

by Virgil

  Penthesilea in triumphal car

  ‘mid acclamations shrill, and all her host

  of women clash in air the moon-shaped shield.

  What warrior first, whom last, did thy strong spear,

  fierce virgin, earthward fling? Or what thy tale

  of prostrate foes laid gasping on the ground?

  Eunaeus first, the child of Clytius’ Ioins,

  whose bared breast, as he faced his foe, she pierced

  with fir-tree javelin; from his lips outpoured

  the blood-stream as he fell; and as he bit

  the gory dust, he clutched his mortal wound.

  Then Liris, and upon him Pagasus

  she slew: the one clung closer to the reins

  of his stabbed horse, and rolled off on the ground;

  the other, flying to his fallen friend,

  reached out a helpless hand; so both of these

  fell on swift death together. Next in line

  she smote Amastrus, son of Hippotas;

  then, swift-pursuing, pierced with far-flung spear

  Tereus, Harpalycus, Demophoon,

  and Chromis; every shaft the virgin threw

  laid low its Phrygian warrior. From afar

  rode Ornytus on his Apulian steed,

  bearing a hunter’s uncouth arms; for cloak

  he wore upon his shoulders broad a hide

  from some wild bull stripped off; his helmet was

  a wolf’s great, gaping mouth, with either jaw

  full of white teeth; the weapon in his hand,

  a farmer’s pole. He strode into the throng,

  head taller than them all. But him she seized

  and clove him through (his panic-stricken troop

  gave her advantage), and with wrathful heart

  she taunted thus the fallen: “Didst thou deem

  this was a merry hunting in the wood

  in chase of game? Behold, thy fatal day

  befalls thee at a woman’s hand, and thus

  thy boasting answers. No small glory thou

  unto the ghosts of thy dead sires wilt tell,

  that ‘t was Camilla’s javelin struck thee down.”

  The turn of Butes and Orsilochus

  came next, who were the Trojans, hugest twain:

  yet Butes with her javelin-point she clove

  from rearward, ‘twixt the hauberk and the helm,

  just where the horseman’s neck showed white, and where

  from shoulder leftward slung the light-weight shield.

  From swift Orsilochus she feigned to fly,

  through a wide circle sweeping, craftily

  taking the inside track, pursuing so

  her own pursuer; then she raised herself

  to her full height, and through the warrior’s helm

  drove to his very skull with doubling blows

  of her strong battle-axe, — while he implored

  her mercy with loud prayers: his cloven brain

  spilt o’er his face. Next in her pathway came —

  but shrank in startled fear — the warrior son

  of Aunus, haunter of the Apennine,

  not least of the Ligurians ere his doom

  cut short a life of lies. He, knowing well

  no flight could save him from the shock of arms

  nor turn the royal maid’s attack, began

  with words of cunning and insidious guile:

  “What glory is it if a girl be bold,

  on sturdy steed depending? Fly me not!

  But, venturing with me on this equal ground,

  gird thee to fight on foot. Soon shalt thou see

  which one of us by windy boast achieves

  a false renown.” He spoke; but she, to pangs

  of keenest fury stung, gave o’er her steed

  in charge of a companion, and opposed

  her foe at equal vantage, falchion drawn,

  on foot, and, though her shield no blazon bore,

  of fear incapable. But the warrior fled,

  thinking his trick victorious, and rode off

  full speed, with reins reversed, — his iron heel

  goading his charger’s flight. Camilla cried:

  “Ligurian cheat! In vain thy boastful heart

  puffs thee so large; in vain thou hast essayed

  thy father’s slippery ways; nor shall thy trick

  bring thee to guileful Aunus safely home.”

  Herewith on winged feet that virgin bold

  flew past the war-horse, seized the streaming rein,

  and, fronting him, took vengeance on her foe

  in bloody strokes: with not less ease a hawk,

  dark bird of omen, from his mountain crag

  pursues on pinions strong a soaring dove

  to distant cloud, and, clutching with hooked claws,

  holds tight and rips, — while through celestial air

  the torn, ensanguined plumage floats along.

  But now not blindly from Olympian throne

  the Sire of gods and men observant saw

  how sped the day. Then to the conflict dire

  the god thrust Tarchon forth, the Tyrrhene King,

  goading the warrior’s rage. So Tarchon rode

  through slaughter wide and legions in retreat,

  and roused the ranks with many a wrathful cry:

  he called each man by name, and toward the foe

  drove back the routed lines. “What terrors now,

  Tuscan cowards, dead to noble rage,

  have seized ye? or what laggard sloth and vile

  unmans your hearts, that now a woman’s arm

  pursues ye and this scattered host confounds?

  Why dressed in steel, or to what purpose wear

  your futile swords? Not slackly do ye join

  the ranks of Venus in a midnight war;

  or when fantastic pipes of Bacchus call

  your dancing feet, right venturesome ye fly

  to banquets and the flowing wine — what zeal,

  what ardor then! Or if your flattering priest

  begins the revel, and to Iofty groves

  fat flesh of victims bids ye haste away!”

  So saying, his steed he spurred, and scorning death

  dashed into the mid-fray, where, frenzy-driven,

  he sought out Venulus, and, grappling him

  with one hand, from the saddle snatched his foe,

  and, clasping strongly to his giant breast,

  exultant bore away. The shouting rose

  to heaven, and all the Latins gazed his way,

  as o’er the plain the fiery Tarchon flew

  bearing the full-armed man; then, breaking off

  the point of his own spear, he pried a way

  through the seam’d armor for the mortal wound;

  the other, struggling, thrust back from his throat

  the griping hand, full force to force opposing.

  As when a golden eagle high in air

  knits to a victim — snake his clinging feet

  and deeply-thrusting claws; but, coiling back,

  the wounded serpent roughens his stiff scales

  and stretches high his hissing head; whereat

  the eagle with hooked beak the more doth rend

  her writhing foe, and with swift stroke of wing

  lashes the air: so Tarchon, from the ranks

  of Tibur’s sons, triumphant snatched his prey.

  The Tuscans rallied now, well pleased to view

  their king’s example and successful war.

  Then Arruns, marked for doom, made circling line

  around Camilla’s path, his crafty spear

  seeking its lucky chance. Where’er the maid

  sped furious to the battle, Arruns there

  in silence dogged her footsteps and pursued;

  or where triumphant from her fallen foes

  she backward drew, the warrior stealthily

  turned
his swift reins that way: from every side

  he circled her, and scanned his vantage here

  or vantage there, his skilful javelin

  stubbornly shaking. But it soon befell

  that Chloreus, once a priest of Cybele,

  shone forth in far-resplendent Phrygian arms,

  and urged a foaming steed, which wore a robe

  o’erwrought with feathery scales of bronze and gold;

  while he, in purples of fine foreign stain,

  bore light Gortynian shafts and Lycian bow;

  his bow was gold; a golden casque he wore

  upon his priestly brow; the saffron cloak,

  all folds of rustling cambric, was enclasped

  in glittering gold; his skirts and tunics gay

  were broidered, and the oriental garb

  swathed his whole leg. Him when the maiden spied,

  (Perchance she fain on temple walls would hang

  the Trojan prize, or in such captured gold

  her own fair shape array), she gave mad chase,

  and reckless through the ranks her prey pursued,

  desiring, woman-like, the splendid spoil.

  Then from his ambush Arruns seized at last

  the fatal moment and let speed his shaft,

  thus uttering his vow to heavenly powers:

  “Chief of the gods, Apollo, who dost guard

  Soracte’s hallowed steep, whom we revere

  first of thy worshippers, for thee is fed

  the heap of burning pine; for thee we pass

  through the mid-blaze in sacred zeal secure,

  and deep in glowing embers plant our feet.

  O Sire Omnipotent, may this my spear

  our foul disgrace put by. I do not ask

  for plunder, spoils, or trophies in my name,

  when yonder virgin falls; let honor’s crown

  be mine for other deeds. But if my stroke

  that curse and plague destroy, may I unpraised

  safe to the cities of my sires return.”

  Apollo heard and granted half the prayer,

  but half upon the passing breeze he threw:

  granting his votary he should confound

  Camilla by swift death; but ‘t was denied

  the mountain-fatherland once more to see,

  or safe return, — that prayer th’ impetuous winds

  swept stormfully away. Soon as the spear

  whizzed from his hand, straight-speeding on the air,

  the Volscians all turned eager thought and eyes

  toward their Queen. She only did not heed

  that windy roar, nor weapon dropped from heaven,

  till in her bare, protruded breast the spear

  drank, deeply driven, of her virgin blood.

  Her terror-struck companians swiftly throng

  around her, and uplift their sinking Queen.

  But Arruns, panic-stricken more than all,

  makes off, half terror and half joy, nor dares

  hazard his lance again, nor dares oppose

  a virgin’s arms. As creeps back to the hills

  in pathless covert ere his foes pursue,

  from shepherd slain or mighty bull laid low,

  some wolf, who, now of his bold trespass ware,

  curls close against his paunch a quivering tail

  and to the forest tries: so Arruns speeds

  from sight of men in terror, glad to fly,

  and hides him in the crowd. But his keen spear

  dying Camilla from her bosom drew,

  though the fixed barb of deeply-wounding steel

  clung to the rib. She sank to earth undone,

  her cold eyes closed in death, and from her cheeks

  the roses fled. With failing breath she called

  on Acca — who of all her maiden peers

  was chiefly dear and shared her heart’s whole pain —

  and thus she spoke: “O Acca, sister mine,

  I have been strong till now. The cruel wound

  consumes me, and my world is growing dark.

  Haste thee to Turnus! Tell my dying words!

  ‘T is he must bear the battle and hold back

  the Trojan from our city wall. Farewell!”

  So saying, her fingers from the bridle-rein

  unclasped, and helpless to the earth she fell;

  then, colder grown, she loosed her more and more

  out of the body’s coil; she gave to death

  her neck, her drooping head, and ceased to heed

  her war-array. So fled her spirit forth

  with wrath and moaning to the world below.

  Then clamor infinite uprose and smote

  the golden stars, as round Camilla slain

  the battle newly raged. To swifter charge

  the gathered Trojans ran, with Tuscan lords

  and King Evander’s troops of Arcady.

  Fair Opis, keeping guard for Trivia

  in patient sentry on a lofty hill, beheld

  unterrified the conflict’s rage. Yet when,

  amid the frenzied shouts of soldiery,

  she saw from far Camilla pay the doom

  of piteous death, with deep-drawn voice of sight

  she thus complained: “O virgin, woe is me!

  Too much, too much, this agony of thine,

  to expiate that thou didst lift thy spear

  for wounding Troy. It was no shield in war,

  nor any vantage to have kept thy vow

  to chaste Diana in the thorny wild.

  Our maiden arrows at thy shoulder slung

  availed thee not! Yet will our Queen divine

  not leave unhonored this thy dying day,

  nor shall thy people let thy death remain

  a thing forgot, nor thy bright name appear

  a glory unavenged. Whoe’er he be

  that marred thy body with the mortal wound

  shall die as he deserves.” Beneath that hill

  an earth-built mound uprose, the tomb

  of King Dercennus, a Laurentine old,

  by sombre ilex shaded: thither hied

  the fair nymph at full speed, and from the mound

  looked round for Arruns. When his shape she saw

  in glittering armor vainly insolent,

  “Whither so fast?” she cried. “This way, thy path!

  This fatal way approach, and here receive

  thy reward for Camilla! Thou shalt fall,

  vile though thou art, by Dian’s shaft divine.”

  She said; and one swift-coursing arrow took

  from golden quiver, like a maid of Thrace,

  and stretched it on her bow with hostile aim,

  withdrawing far, till both the tips of horn

  together bent, and, both hands poising well,

  the left outreached to touch the barb of steel,

  the right to her soft breast the bowstring drew:

  the hissing of the shaft, the sounding air,

  Arruns one moment heard, as to his flesh

  the iron point clung fast. But his last groan

  his comrades heeded not, and let him lie,

  scorned and forgotten, on the dusty field,

  while Opis soared to bright Olympian air.

  Camilla’s light-armed troop, its virgin chief

  now fallen, were the first to fly; in flight

  the panic-stricken Rutule host is seen

  and Acer bold; his captains in dismay

  with shattered legions from the peril fly,

  and goad their horses to the city wall.

  Not one sustains the Trojan charge, or stands

  in arms against the swift approach of death.

  Their bows unstrung from drooping shoulder fall,

  and clatter of hoof-beats shakes the crumbling ground.

  On to the city in a blinding cloud

  the dust uprolls. From watch-towers Iooking forth,

  the women smite their brea
sts and raise to heaven

  shrill shouts of fear. Those fliers who first passed

  the open gates were followed by the foe,

  routed and overwhelmed. They could not fly

  a miserable death, but were struck down

  in their own ancient city, or expired

  before the peaceful shrines of hearth and home.

  Then some one barred the gates. They dared not now

  give their own people entrance, and were deaf

  to all entreaty. Woeful deaths ensued,

  both of the armed defenders of the gate,

  and of the foe in arms. The desperate band,

  barred from the city in the face and eyes

  of their own weeping parents, either dropped

  with headlong and inevitable plunge

  into the moat below; or, frantic, blind,

  battered with beams against the stubborn door

  and columns strong. Above in conflict wild

  even the women (who for faithful love

  of home and country schooled them to be brave

  Camilla’s way) rained weapons from the walls,

  and used oak-staves and truncheons shaped in flame,

  as if, well-armed in steel, each bosom bold

  would fain in such defence be first to die.

  Meanwhile th’ unpitying messenger had flown

  to Turnus in the wood; the warrior heard

  from Acca of the wide confusion spread,

  the Volscian troop destroyed, Camilla slain,

  the furious foe increasing, and, with Mars

  to help him, grasping all, till in that hour

  far as the city-gates the panic reigned.

  Then he in desperate rage (Jove’s cruel power

  decreed it) from the ambushed hills withdrew

  and pathless wild. He scarce had passed beyond

  to the bare plain, when forth Aeneas marched

  along the wide ravine, climbed up the ridge,

  and from the dark, deceiving grove stood clear.

  Then swiftly each with following ranks of war

  moved to the city-wall, nor wide the space

  that measured ‘twixt the twain. Aeneas saw

  the plain with dust o’erclouded, and the lines

  of the Laurentian host extending far;

  Turnus, as clearly, saw the war array

  of dread Aeneas, and his ear perceived

  loud tramp of mail-clad men and snorting steeds.

  Soon had they sped to dreadful shock of arms,

  hazard of war to try; but Phoebus now,

  glowing rose-red, had dipped his wearied wheel

  deep in Iberian seas, and brought back night

  above the fading day. So near the town

  both pitch their camps and make their ramparts strong.

  BOOK XII

  When Turnus marks how much the Latins quail