Complete Works of Virgil

by Virgil

would raze their city to the ground. Straightway,

  though wounded, he gave chase, and five times round

  in circles ran; then winding left and right

  coursed the swift circles o’er. For, lo! the prize

  is no light laurel or a youthful game:

  for Turnus’ doom and death their race is run.

  But haply in that place a sacred tree,

  a bitter-leaved wild-olive, once had grown,

  to Faunus dear, and venerated oft

  by mariners safe-rescued from the waves,

  who nailed their gifts thereon, or hung in air

  their votive garments to Laurentum’s god.

  But, heeding not, the Teucrians had shorn

  the stem away, to clear the field for war.

  ‘T was here Aeneas’ lance stuck fast; its speed

  had driven it firmly inward, and it clave

  to the hard, clinging root. Anchises’ son

  bent o’er it, and would wrench his weapon free,

  and follow with a far-flung javelin

  the swift out-speeding foe. But Turnus then,

  bewildered and in terror, cried aloud:

  “O Faunus, pity me and heed my prayer!

  Hold fast his weapon, O benignant Earth!

  If ere these hands have rendered offering due,

  where yon polluting Teucrians fight and slay.”

  He spoke; invoking succor of the god,

  with no Iost prayer. For tugging valiantly

  and laboring long against the stubborn stem,

  Aeneas with his whole strength could but fail

  to Ioose the clasping tree. While fiercely thus

  he strove and strained, Juturna once again,

  wearing the charioteer Metiscus’ shape,

  ran to her brother’s aid, restoring him

  his own true sword. But Venus, wroth to see

  what license to the dauntless nymph was given,

  herself came near, and plucked from that deep root

  the javelin forth. So both with lofty mien

  strode forth new-armed, new-hearted: one made bold

  by his good sword, the other, spear in hand,

  uptowered in wrath, and with confronting brows

  they set them to the war-god’s breathless game.

  Meanwhile th’ Olympian sovereign supreme

  to Juno speaks, as from an amber cloud

  the strife she views: “My Queen, what end shall be?

  What yet remains? Thou seest Aeneas’ name

  numbered with tutelary gods of power;

  and well thou know’st what station in the sky

  his starward destiny intends. What scheme

  vexes thy bosom still? What stubborn hope,

  fostered in cloud and cold? O, was it well

  to desecrate a god with mortal wound;

  or well (what were a nymph unhelped by thee?)

  to give back Turnus his lost sword, and lend

  strength unavailing to the fallen brave?

  Give o’er, and to our supplication yield;

  let not such grief thy voiceless heart devour;

  nor from thy sweet lips let thy mournful care

  so oft assail my mind. For now is come

  the last decisive day. Thy power availed

  to vex the Trojans upon land and sea,

  to wake abominable war, bring shame

  upon a royal house, and mix the songs

  of marriage and the grave: but further act

  I thee refuse.” Such was the word of Jove.

  Thus Saturn’s daughter answered, drooping low

  her brows divine: “Because, great Jove, I knew

  thy pleasure, I from yonder earth retired

  and Turnus’ cause, tho, with unwilling mind.

  Else shouldst thou not behold me at this hour

  Upon my solitary throne of air

  enduring fair and foul; I should be found

  flame-girded on the battle’s deadly verge,

  tempting the Teucrians to a hated war.

  Yea, ‘t was my motion thrust Juturna forth

  to help her hapless brother. I approved —

  to save his life — that she should be too bold;

  but bade no whirl of spear nor bending bow:

  I swear it by th’ inexorable fount

  whence flow the Stygian rivers, the sole seat

  where gods of light bow down in awful prayer.

  I yield me now; heart-sick I quit the war.

  But ask one boon, which in the book of fate

  is not denied; for Latium’s good I sue,

  and high prerogatives of men that be

  thy kith and kin: when happy wedlock vows

  (aye, be it so!) shall join them by strong laws

  of chartered peace, let not the Latins Iose

  their ancient, native name. Bid them not pass

  for Trojans, nor be hailed as Teucer’s sons;

  no alien speech, no alien garb impose.

  Let it be Latium ever; let the lords

  of Alba unto distant ages reign;

  let the strong, master blood of Rome receive

  the manhood and the might of Italy.

  Troy perished: let its name and glory die!”

  The Author of mankind and all that is,

  smiling benignant, answered thus her plea:

  “Jove’s sister true, and Saturn’s second child,

  what seas of anger vex thy heart divine!

  But come, relinquish thy rash, fruitless rage:

  I give thee this desire, and yield to thee

  free submission. The Ausonian tribes

  shall keep the speech and customs of their sires;

  the name remains as now; the Teucrian race,

  abiding in the land, shall but infuse

  the mixture of its blood. I will bestow

  a league of worship, and to Latins give

  one language only. From the mingled breed

  a people shall come forth whom thou shalt see

  surpass all mortal men and even outvie

  the faithfulness of gods; for none that live

  shall render to thy name an equal praise.”

  So Juno bowed consent, and let her will

  be changed, as with much comfort in her breast

  she left Olympus and her haunt of cloud.

  After these things Jove gave his kingly mind

  to further action, that he might forthwith

  cut off Juturna from her brother’s cause.

  Two plagues there be, called Furies, which were spawned

  at one birth from the womb of wrathful Night

  with dread Megaera, phantom out of hell;

  and of their mother’s gift, each Fury wears

  grim-coiling serpents and tempestuous wings.

  These at Jove’s throne attend, and watch the doors

  of that stern King — to whet the edge of fear

  for wretched mortals, when the King of gods

  hurls pestilence and death, or terrifies

  offending nations with the scourge of war.

  ‘T was one of these which Jove sent speeding down

  from his ethereal seat, and bade her cross

  the pathway of Juturna for a sign.

  Her wings she spread, and earthward seemed to ride

  upon a whirling storm. As when some shaft,

  with Parthian poison tipped or Cretan gall,

  a barb of death, shoots cloudward from the bow,

  and hissing through the dark hastes forth unseen:

  so earthward flew that daughter of the night.

  Soon as she spied the Teucrians in array

  and Turnus’ lines, she shrivelled to the shape

  of that small bird which on lone tombs and towers

  sits perching through the midnight, and prolongs

  in shadow and deep gloom her troubling cry.

  In such disguise the Fury, screaming shrill,

&n
bsp; flitted in Turnus’ face, and with her wings

  smote on his hollow shield. A strange affright

  palsied his every limb; each several hair

  lifted with horror, and his gasping voice

  died on his lips. But when Juturna knew

  from far the shrieking fiend’s infernal wing,

  she loosed her tresses, and their beauty tore,

  to tell a sister’s woe; with clenching hands

  she marred her cheeks and beat her naked breast.

  “What remedy or help, my Turnus, now

  is in a sister’s power? What way remains

  for stubborn me? Or with what further guile

  thy life prolong? What can my strength oppose

  to this foul thing? I quit the strife at last.

  Withdraw thy terror from my fearful eyes,

  thou bird accurst! The tumult of thy wings

  I know full well, and thy death-boding call.

  The harsh decrees of that large-minded Jove

  I plainly see. Is this the price he pays

  for my lost maidenhood? Why flatter me

  with immortality, and snatch away

  my property of death? What boon it were

  to end this grief this hour, and hie away

  to be my brother’s helpmeet in his grave!

  I, an immortal? O, what dear delight

  is mine, sweet brother, living without thee?

  O, where will earth yawn deep enough and wide

  to hide a goddess with the ghosts below?”

  She spoke; and veiled in glistening mantle gray

  her mournful brow; then in her stream divine

  the nymph sank sighing to its utmost cave.

  Aeneas now is near; and waving wide

  a spear like some tall tree, he called aloud

  with unrelenting heart: “What stays thee now?

  Or wherefore, Turnus, backward fly? Our work

  is not a foot-race, but the wrathful strife

  of man with man. Aye, hasten to put on

  tricks and disguises; gather all thou hast

  of skill or courage; wish thou wert a bird

  to fly to starry heaven, or hide thy head

  safe in the hollow ground!” The other then

  shook his head, saying: “It is not thy words,

  not thy hot words, affright me, savage man!

  Only the gods I fear, and hostile Jove.”

  Silent he stood, and glancing round him saw

  a huge rock Iying by, huge rock and old,

  a landmark justly sundering field from field,

  which scarce six strong men’s shoulders might upraise,

  such men as mother-Earth brings forth to-day:

  this grasped he with impetuous hand and hurled,

  stretched at full height and roused to all his speed,

  against his foe. Yet scarcely could he feel

  it was himself that ran, himself that moved

  with lifted hand to fling the monster stone;

  for his knees trembled, and his languid blood

  ran shuddering cold; nor could the stone he threw,

  tumbling in empty air, attain its goal

  nor strike the destined blow. But as in dreams,

  when helpless slumber binds the darkened eyes,

  we seem with fond desire to tread in vain

  along a lengthening road, yet faint and fall

  when straining to the utmost, and the tongue

  is palsied, and the body’s wonted power

  obeys not, and we have no speech or cry:

  so unto Turnus, whatsoever way

  his valiant spirit moved, the direful Fiend

  stopped in the act his will. Swift-changing thoughts

  rush o’er his soul; on the Rutulian host,

  then at the town he glares, shrinks back in fear,

  and trembles at th’ impending lance; nor sees

  what path to fly, what way confront the foe: —

  no chariot now, nor sister-charioteer!

  Above his faltering terror gleams in air

  Aeneas’ fatal spear; whose eye perceived

  the moment of success, and all whose strength

  struck forth: the vast and ponderous rock outflung

  from engines which make breach in sieged walls

  not louder roars nor breaks in thunder-sound

  more terrible; like some black whirlwind flew

  the death-delivering spear, and, rending wide

  the corselet’s edges and the heavy rim

  of the last circles of the seven-fold shield,

  pierced, hissing, through the thigh. Huge Turnus sinks

  o’erwhelmed upon the ground with doubling knee.

  Up spring the Rutules, groaning; the whole hill

  roars answering round them, and from far and wide

  the lofty groves give back an echoing cry.

  Lowly, with suppliant eyes, and holding forth

  his hand in prayer: “I have my meed,” he cried,

  “Nor ask for mercy. Use what Fate has given!

  But if a father’s grief upon thy heart

  have power at all, — for Sire Anchises once

  to thee was dear, — I pray thee to show grace

  to Daunus in his desolate old age;

  and me, or, if thou wilt, my lifeless clay,

  to him and his restore. For, lo, thou art

  my conqueror! Ausonia’s eyes have seen

  me suppliant, me fallen. Thou hast made

  Lavinia thy bride. Why further urge

  our enmity?”With swift and dreadful arms

  Aeneas o’er him stood, with rolling eyes,

  but his bare sword restraining; for such words

  moved on him more and more: when suddenly,

  over the mighty shoulder slung, he saw

  that fatal baldric studded with bright gold

  which youthful Pallas wore, what time he fell

  vanquished by Turnus’ stroke, whose shoulders now

  carried such trophy of a foeman slain.

  Aeneas’ eyes took sure and slow survey

  of spoils that were the proof and memory

  of cruel sorrow; then with kindling rage

  and terrifying look, he cried, “Wouldst thou,

  clad in a prize stripped off my chosen friend,

  escape this hand? In this thy mortal wound

  ‘t is Pallas has a victim; Pallas takes

  the lawful forfeit of thy guilty blood!”

  He said, and buried deep his furious blade

  in the opposer’s heart. The failing limbs

  sank cold and helpless; and the vital breath

  with moan of wrath to darkness fled away.

  THE AENEID – Mackail’s Translation

  In 1885 the Scottish socialist and translator, John William Mackail, published his prose translation of The Aeneid, attempting a more faithful rendering of Virgil’s text, unconstrained by verse.

  Please note: to aid the reader, line numbers within square brackets are provided in relation to Virgil’s text.

  MACKAIL’S AENEID

  CONTENTS

  PREFACE

  BOOK FIRST

  BOOK SECOND

  BOOK THIRD

  BOOK FOURTH

  BOOK FIFTH

  BOOK SIXTH

  BOOK SEVENTH

  BOOK EIGHTH

  BOOK NINTH

  BOOK TENTH

  BOOK ELEVENTH

  BOOK TWELFTH

  ‘Virgil Reading the Aeneid to Augustus and Octavia’ by Kauffman Angelica, 1798

  THE

  AENEID OF VIRGIL

  TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH PROSE

  BY

  J. W. MACKAIL, M.A.

  FELLOW OF BALLIOL COLLEGE, OXFORD

  PREFACE

  There is something grotesque in the idea of a prose translation of a poet, though the practice is become so common that it has ceased to provoke a smile or demand an apology.
The language of poetry is language in fusion; that of prose is language fixed and crystallised; and an attempt to copy the one material in the other must always count on failure to convey what is, after all, one of the most essential things in poetry, — its poetical quality. And this is so with Virgil more, perhaps, than with any other poet; for more, perhaps, than any other poet Virgil depends on his poetical quality from first to last. Such a translation can only have the value of a copy of some great painting executed in mosaic, if indeed a copy in Berlin wool is not a closer analogy; and even at the best all it can have to say for itself will be in Virgil’s own words, Experiar sensus; nihil hic nisi carmina desunt.

  In this translation I have in the main followed the text of Conington and Nettleship. The more important deviations from this text are mentioned in the notes; but I have not thought it necessary to give a complete list of various readings, or to mention any change except where it might lead to misapprehension. Their notes have also been used by me throughout.

  Beyond this I have made constant use of the mass of ancient commentary going under the name of Servius; the most valuable, perhaps, of all, as it is in many ways the nearest to the poet himself. The explanation given in it has sometimes been followed against those of the modern editors. To other commentaries only occasional reference has been made. The sense that Virgil is his own best interpreter becomes stronger as one studies him more.

  My thanks are due to Mr. Evelyn Abbott, Fellow and Tutor of Balliol, and to the Rev. H. C. Beeching, for much valuable suggestion and criticism.

  THE AENEID

  BOOK FIRST

  THE COMING OF AENEAS TO CARTHAGE

  I sing of arms and the man who of old from the coasts of Troy came, an exile of fate, to Italy and the shore of Lavinium; hard driven on land and on the deep by the violence of heaven, for cruel Juno’s unforgetful anger, and hard bestead in war also, ere he might found a city and carry his gods into Latium; from whom is the Latin race, the lords of Alba, and the stately city Rome.

  Muse, tell me why, for what attaint of her deity, or in what vexation, did the Queen of heaven drive one so excellent in goodness to circle through so many afflictions, to face so many toils? Is anger so fierce in celestial spirits?

  There was a city of ancient days that Tyrian settlers dwelt in, Carthage, over against Italy and the Tiber mouths afar; rich of store, and mighty in war’s fierce pursuits; wherein, they say, alone beyond all other lands had Juno her seat, and held Samos itself less dear. Here was her armour, here her chariot; even now, if fate permit, the goddess strives to nurture it for queen of the nations. Nevertheless she had heard a race was issuing of the blood of Troy, which sometime should overthrow her Tyrian citadel; from it should come a people, lord of lands and tyrannous in war, the destroyer of Libya: so rolled the destinies. Fearful of that, the daughter of Saturn, the old war in her remembrance that she fought at Troy for her beloved Argos long ago, — nor had the springs of her anger nor the bitterness of her vexation yet gone out of mind: deep stored in her soul lies the judgment of Paris, the insult of her slighted beauty, the hated race and the dignities of ravished Ganymede; fired with this also, she tossed all over ocean the Trojan remnant left of the Greek host and merciless Achilles, and held them afar from Latium; and many a year were they wandering driven of fate around all the seas. Such work was it to found the Roman people.