Book XI

Meanwhile Aurora rising left the sea;
Aeneas, though stress of grief bade yield the hour
To burial of his friends, with mind by death
Bewildered, to the gods at earliest dawn
His victor-vows was paying. A mighty oak.
Lopped bare of branches, on a mound he plants,
And decks in gleaming armour torn from Prince
Mezentius — trophy to thy praise, great King
Of battle. The hero’s plume, still dripping blood.
And splintered spears he hangs there, the cuirass
Twice six times smitten and pierced through and through.
And to the left hand binds the brazen shield,
And hangs the ivory sword about its neck.
Then his rejoicing friends — for the whole band
Of chiefs thronged close about him — he exhorts,
Thus breaking silence: “The main work o’ the war
Has been achieved, my heroes; for the rest.
Let every fear be banished: lo! ye see
The spoils and first-fruits of the tyrant king;
And here, my handiwork, Mezentius stands.
Now lies our path to Latium’s king and town.
Arm you in spirit; in hope forestall the fray;
That when the gods give signal to pluck hence
Our standards, and lead forth the host from camp.
No pause impede you, caught at unawares.
Nor faltering purpose, born of fear, retard.
Meanwhile our comrades, that unburied lie,
Commit we to the earth — sole honour left
In depths of Acheron. Ay, go forth,” he said,
“With farewell tribute grace the peerless souls
Who with their life-blood this our country won.
And to Evander’s sorrowing city first
Be Pallas sent, whom, lacking naught of man.
The dark day reft, and plunged in bitter doom.”
Weeping he spake, and to the tent retraced
His steps, where Pallas’ lifeless corse was laid.
Watched by Acoetes old, who bare the arms
Once of Evander the Parrhasian, now
In less auspicious hour was faring forth,
Of his loved foster-child the appointed friend.
And all the attendant train and Trojan throng
Stood round, with Ilian women, their locks loosed
In wonted wise for sorrow; but when Aeneas
Within the high doors entered, they up-lift
A mighty wail to heaven, and beat their breasts.
And all the royal place resounds with shriek
Of sorrow. He likewise, when the pillowed head
And face of Pallas snowy-white he saw.
And marked the Ausonian spear-head’s gaping wound
On his smooth breast, spake with o’er-welling tears:

“Poor boy, did Fortune, when so blithe she came.
Envy me thee, that thou shouldst never look
Upon my realm, or home in triumph ride?
Not such my parting promise touching thee
Made to thy sire Evander, when he clasped
And sped me forth to win a mighty realm.
And, fearful, warned me that right brave the foe,
Stubborn the race, we strove with. And now he.
With empty hope fooled utterly, belike
Is proffering vows, and heaping high with gifts
The altars; we, the while, a lifeless corse,
That owes no more to any god in heaven,
Escort with sorrow’s ineffectual pomp.
Unhappy, thou that wilt behold thy son
Slain piteously! Is this the home-return.
The expected triumph? This my solemn pledge?
Yet here no recreant, scarred with shameful wounds,
Shalt see, Evander, nor a son so saved
That thou, his sire, for dreaded deaths shalt pray.
Ah me! Ausonia, what a tower of help
Here art thou reft of, and, Iulus, thou!”
So, having wept his fill, he bids them lift
The hapless corse, and picks a thousand men
From his whole host, and sends them to escort
The farewell pomp, and with the father’s tears
Their own commingle — for so vast a grief
Scant solace, yet to that sad father due.
Others of arbute-boughs and oaken shoots
In haste plait hurdle-wise a pliant bier.
And the heap’d bed with leafy covering shroud.
High on the rustic litter him they lay;
E’en as a flower by maiden’s finger culled.
Or violet mild, or drooping hyacinth,
Ere yet the lustre or the loveliness
Hath from its form departed; mother Earth
Feeds it no longer, nor with strength supplies.
Then garments twain, with gold and purple stiff,
Aeneas bare forth, which, raptured of the toil,
Sidonian Dido erst with her own hands
Had wrought, and shot the web with subtle gold.
One of these twain — grief’s latest rite — he wraps
About the dead, and with its covering veils
The fire-doomed tresses, and heaps high withal
Full many a prize from the Laurentian fray.
Bidding the booty in long line be borne.
Steeds too he adds, and darts, from foemen reft;
And captives he had bound, hands lashed behind,
To send as offerings to the Shade, and, slain,
Dash with their blood the fire. The chiefs themselves
He bids bear tree-trunks clad with hostile arms.
And foemen’s titles to be fixed thereon.
Hapless Acoetes, overworn with age.
Is onward led, now marring with clench’d fists
His bosom, now with nails his face, and falls
Forward, and casts his length upon the ground.
The car too, bathed in Rutule blood, they lead.
Behind, the war-horse Aethon, trappings doffed,
Goes weeping, and the big drops wet his face.
Others bear spear and helmet; for all else
Turnus, as victor, holds. Then, sad array.
Follow the Teucrians and Etruscans all,
And men of Arcady with arms reversed.
But when the long procession of his friends
Had wholly passed, Aeneas, groaning deep,
Stopped, and spake further: “Unto other tears
We by the same grim destinies of war
Are summoned hence. I bid thee hail! for aye,
O mightiest Pallas, and for aye farewell.”
No more he spake, but to the lofty walls
Turned him, and campward bent his steps.
And now
From Latium’s town came envoys, olive-wreathed.
Craving his clemency: the dead, which lay
Sword-scattered o’er the plain, would he give back,
And suffer ’neath an earthen mound to pass;
With vanquished folk and bodies void of breath
There is no warring; let him spare whom once
He hailed as hosts, and fathers of his bride.
Aeneas, for such a prayer he might not spurn,
Grants courteously the boon, and adds these words
Moreover: “Latins, say what hard mishap
Hath wound you in so vast a web of war
That thus ye fly our friendship? Do ye ask
Peace for the dead, by chance of battle quelled?
Fain would I grant it to the living too.
Nor came I, had not fate assigned me here
A place wherein to settle, nor any war
Wage I against your folk: it was the king
Left our alliance, and made choice to lean
On Turnus’ sword for succour. ’Twere more meet
Had Turnus faced the death ye mourn to-day.
If with arm’d force he thinks to fight it out,
And drive the Teucrians forth, beseemed him well
To meet me man to man, and spear to spear:
He should have lived whose life was granted him
Of heaven or his right hand. Now hie ye hence.
And ’neath your hapless comrades pile the fire.”
Aeneas had spoken. They stood wonder-hushed.
Eyes fixed and faces in one mutual stare.
Then, old in years, and still with slanderous spite
Armed against youthful Turnus, Drances thus
Makes answer: “O mighty in fame, in arms
Yet mightier, Trojan hero, by what praise
Can I exalt thee to the sky? Or should
Thy soul’s uprightness, or thy toils in war
Win first my wonder? We indeed thy words
Will to our native town bear blithely back,
And knit thee fast, so fortune find a way.
To Latium’s king. Let Turnus for himself
Go seek confederates. Nay, ’twill please us well
The destined ramparts of thy walls to rear.
And on our shoulders heave the stones of Troy.”
He had said; and all his comrades with one mouth
Murmured assent. For twice six days a truce
They plighted, and, with peace to interpose,
Teucrians and Latins o’er the wooded heights
Roamed without scathe together. The tall ash
Rings to the two-edged steel; sky-piercing pines
They topple o’er, and still with wedges cleave
Tough heart-of-oak and scented cedar-bole,
And freight with mountain-ash the groaning wains.
And now was winged Fame, the harbinger
Of woe so vast, filling Evander’s ears,
Evander’s home and city — she, who late
Of Pallas’ triumph o’er the Latins told.
Out-streaming to the gates, Arcadia’s sons
Grasp each a funeral-torch, their ancient wont.
Bright gleams the road with a long line of fire
That parts the fields afar. The Phrygian band,
Moving to meet them, joins the weeping train.
Soon as the matrons saw them pass the wall.
With shrieks they set the sorrowing town ablaze.
As for Evander then— no force avails
To stay him; but he thrusts amid the throng.
And, when the bier was set, on Pallas’ form
Casts him, and clings to it with groans and tears.
Scarce loosed by sorrow, words at length win way:

“Not such the pledge thou gavest to thy sire,
My Pallas, warily to put thy faith
In the fell god of battles. Well I wist
How potent was the new-born pride in arms,
And a first onset’s all-entrancing spell.
Ah! bitter first-fruit of youth’s flower! and harsh
Prelude of neighbour war! and vows and prayers
No god gave ear to! and thou, holiest wife.
And happy in thy death, that spared thee not
To see this sorrow! But, by living, I
Have overshot my doom, to linger on
A son-surviving sire. Troy’s friendly arms
Would I had followed! would the Rutule darts
Had overwhelmed me! So should I have given
This life of mine, and I, not Pallas here,
Been thus with funeral-pomp borne homeward! Yet
You would I blame not, Teucrians, nor our league
And right hands clasped in friendship: long ago
The lot, ye deal me, to mine age was owed.
But if untimely doom was o’er my son
Impending, ’twill rejoice me that he smote
His Volscian thousands, ere himself was slain.
Leading the Teucrians into Latium. Nay,
Nor other funeral could I deem thy due,
Pallas, than good Aeneas hath devised.
And the great Phrygians, and the Tyrrhene lords.
And all the host Tyrrhenian. Trophies great
They bring of whom thy right hand did to death;
And thou too, Turnus, a huge trunk in arms
Wert standing now, had age and strength of years
Been matched between ye. But why, evil-starred,
Stay I the Teucrians from the onset? Go,
Bear heedfully this message to your king:
That I, bereft of Pallas, still drag on
This hated life, thy right hand is the cause,
Which, well thou seest, to son alike and sire
Owes Turnus. Yea, for fortune and exploit
No room is left thee else. The joys of life
I ask not; ’tis forbid me: but to bear
My son these tidings to the Shades below.”
Meanwhile the Dawn her kindly light had reared
For suffering men, renewing task and toil.
Now Sire Aeneas, now Tarchon, have set up
Their funeral-pyres along the winding shore.
Hither bare each the bodies of their kin,
With rite ancestral; from the murky flames,
Lit under, the high vault in vaporous gloom
Is muffled. Thrice about the blazing piles,
Girt in bright arms, the course they ran, thrice o’er
Compassed on steeds the mournful fires of death,
With loud lamentings. Their tears rain on earth,
And rain on armour. Up to heaven is borne
Shouting of men, and clarion-blare. Anon
Others take spoil from slaughtered Latins torn,
And heap it on the fire — helms, goodly swords.
Bridles, and glowing wheels; but others bring
Gifts to the dead familiar, their own shields
And luckless weapons. Many a steer around
To death falls stricken; and bristly swine and sheep.
From all the country ravished, they let bleed
Above the flame. Then over the wide shore
They watch their comrades burning, and keep ward
O’er the charred embers, nor can tear them thence.
Till dewy night now turns the face of heaven,
Studded with glittering stars.
Nor less, the while,
The hapless Latins, far remote, have reared
Innumerable pyres: of many slain
Some in the delved earth they lay, some lift
And carry to the neighbouring fields, or send
Home to the city: what remains, one vast
And indistinguishable slaughter-heap,
They burn untold, unhonoured. Then far and wide
Flare the void fields, thick-sown with rival fires.
Thrice dawn had driven chill darkness from the sky.
When sadly from the pyres they rake and heap
The ashes up, and undistinguished bones.
And warm above them pile the mounded earth.
But now in homes of rich Latinus’ town
Is the chief uproar, and the mightiest share
Of long-drawn lamentation. Mothers here
With their sons’ brides forlorn, here cherished hearts
Of sorrowing sisters, boys of sires bereft,
Curse the fell war and Turnus’ bridal troth.
Him they bid arm, with his own single sword
Fight out the quarrel, who for himself demands
The realm of Italy, honours of a prince.
Fierce Drances fans the fire, bears testimony
Turnus alone is challenged, he alone
Called to do battle. Many a voice withal
In various counter-strain for Turnus pleads;
The queen’s great name o’ershadows him, the praise
Of many a well-earned triumph is his stay.
Amid this stir and fiery tumult, lo!
From Diomede’s great city, to crown all,
The envoys bring sad answer: all their toils
For naught were lavished; naught have gifts, or gold,
Or strenuous prayers availed them; other arms
Must Latium look to, or with terms of peace
Approach Troy’s monarch. ’Neath that load of woe
Sinks King Latinus. That Aeneas is here.
Fate-borne at heaven’s clear bidding, the god’s wrath
Warns him, and those new graves before his eyes.
Therefore a mighty council of his chiefs.
By royal mandate summoned, he convenes
Within his lofty portals. They have flocked
Together, and all along the crowded ways
Stream toward the palace. In the midst is set.
Eldest in years, and first in sceptred sway.
With joyless brow, Latinus. Hereupon
The envoys from the Aetolian town returned
He bids declare their tidings, point by point
Demands full answer. Then on every tongue
Fell silence, and obedient to his word
Thus Venulus begins:

“O citizens.
We have seen Diomede and the Argive camp,
And overpassed all perils of the way.
And touched the hand whereby fell Ilium’s realm.
He walled Argyripa was founding, named
From his own nation, in the new-won fields
Of Iapygian Garganus. So,
When we had entered, and gat leave to speak.
Our gifts we proffer, name and race declare.
Who our invaders, for what cause we come
To Arpi. Having heard us, he replied
Thus with unruffled brow: ‘O happy race
Of Saturn’s realm, Ausonian folk of old,
What chance disturbs your quiet, and lures you on
To challenge wars ye know not? We, whoe’er
The fields of Ilium outraged with the sword —
I waive all sufferings ’neath her lofty walls
In battle drained, the warriors that lie whelmed
In yonder Simois — have, the wide world through.
Paid, one and all, the forfeit of our crime
In untold pangs, a remnant Priam’s self
Might pity. Let Minerva’s gloomy star
Bear witness, and the Euboean crags, and thou,
Caphereus the avenger. From that field
Wide-scattered, Menelaus, Atreus’ son.
Far as to Proteus’ pillars exiled dwells;
Ulysses hath the Aetnean Cyclops seen.
Why of the realm of Neoptolemus
Tell, or Idomeneus’ uprooted home.
Or Locrians dwelling on the Libyan shore?
Even he, the great Achaeans’ chief himself,
Lord of Mycenae, on the threshold’s edge
Fell by the hand of his accursed wife;
For conquered Asia crouched a paramour.
To think that heaven hath grudged me to return
Home to my country’s altars, and behold
The wife I long for, and fair Calydon!
Nay, sight-appalling signs pursue me still.
And my old comrades, lost to me, as birds
Now wing the vault, or roam the rivers — ah!
That such dire torment on my folk should fall! —
And fill the rocks with lamentable cries.
Naught else had I to look for from that hour
When with infatuate weapon I assailed
Celestial frames, and outraged with a wound
The hand of Venus. Nay, constrain me not
To such encounters. With the sons of Troy,
Since Pergama fell down, no war I wage.
Nor mind me with delight of ancient ills.
The gifts ye bring me from your native shores
Bear rather to Aeneas. We have faced
The rude edge of his weapons, hand to hand
Have grappled with him: trust me, who have tried,
How huge he rises to the shield, how swings
The whirlwind of his spear. Had Ida’s land
Borne twain beside, such heroes, Troy herself
Had stormed the gates of Inachus, and Greece,
With doom reversed, were wailing. All the time
We lingered ’neath the walls of stubborn Troy,
’Twas Hector and Aeneas by whose might
Checked was Greek victory, and for ten years’ space
Fell backward. Both renowned for valour, both
Matchless for martial exploit, this man bare
The palm for goodness. Hand to hand with him
Unite in friendship, by what means ye may.
But see your weapons shun the shock of his.’
Thou hast heard the monarch’s answer, gracious Sire,
And what he counsels for this mighty war.”
Scarce ceased the envoys, ere tumultuously
From mouth to mouth of the Ausonians ran
A various hubbub; as, when rocks impede
Some rushing river, from the imprisoned flood
A dull roar rises, and the neighbour-banks
Chafe loud with plashing waters. Soon as hearts
Beat calm again, and busy tongues were still,
First calling upon heaven, from his high throne
The King brake silence: “Well could I have wished,
Latins, and better had it been, ere now
To have determined of our kingdom’s weal.
Nor at such hour to bid you to debate,
While foemen sit before the walls. A war
Disastrous wage we, O my countrymen,
With the gods’ offspring and a hero-race
Invincible, who tire not of the fight.
No, nor when vanquished can let go the sword.
Hope in Aetolia’s confederate arms.
If aught ye had, resign it. His own hope
Is every man; but this how frail ye see.
All else, in what wide ruin overthrown,
Needs but the witness of your eyes and hands.
Nor blame I any; what utmost valour could.
We have compassed, with the realm’s whole strength have
striven.
Now mark; the upshot of my wavering thoughts
I will unfold, and — give me your good heed —
Teach briefly. Bordering on the Tuscan stream
An ancient tract have I, stretched westward far
Past the Sicanian borders: tilled it is
By Rutules and Auruncans, who with plough
Task the stiff hills, and on the roughest slopes
Graze cattle. Let all this region, with its belt
Of lofty pine-clad highland, be made o’er
To Teucrian friendship; and just terms of peace
Name we, and summon them to share our realm.
Here let them settle, if this be their desire.
And build them ramparts. But, if other bounds.
Another folk than ours, they list to win.
Are free to quit our borders — twice ten ships
Of oak Italian frame we, ay, or more.
If they can man them; by the water’s edge
Lies wood enow; their number and their size
Themselves shall teach us; be it ours to give
Brass, hands, and shipmen’s tackle. Furthermore,
For word hereof, and warrant of our league,
I will, a hundred Latins, noblest-born.
Make embassage, and proffer boughs of peace,
And bear them presents — talent-weights of gold
And ivory, and a chair and robe of state.
Our royal emblems. Freely before all
Give counsel, and uphold the weary weal.”
Then Drances, foe inveterate, whom the fame
Of Turnus aye with sidelong envy stirred
And stung to bitterness, lavish of wealth.
Tongue-valiant, but a frosty hand for war,
At council-board no vain adviser held,
In faction strong — his mother’s proud descent
Ennobling whom an obscure sire begat —
Drances now rises, and with words like these
Heightens and heaps their wrath:

“Obscure to none
Nor needing voice of ours, O gracious sire.
The theme that thou debatest. One and all
Whereto the State’s weal tendeth own they know.
Yet dare but mutter. Let him now concede
Untrammelled speech, and his blown pride abate.
Through whose disastrous leading, fro ward mien —
Ay, I will speak it, though with arms and death
He menace me — so many stars of war
Have we seen set, and the whole city plunged
In mourning, while the Trojan camp he braves.
Counting on flight, and scares the heaven with arms.
Yet one to all those gifts thou badest send
Or promise to the Dardans — add but one.
Thrice gracious king, and let no blusterer’s wrath
O’ersway thee not to give thy daughter, Sire,
In meet espousal to a peerless son,
And on this treaty set a lasting seal.
But if such terror hold us, heart and mind,
Himself conjure we, sue his grace to yield,
And their inalienable right resign
To king and country. Why these hapless folk
Into the jaws of peril hurl so oft,
O fount and well-spring of our Latium’s ills?
No safety is in war: ’tis peace we all
Crave of thee, Turnus, and, with peace, her one
Inviolable pledge. I first, whom thou
Feign’st for thy foe, nor reck I so to be,
Sue suppliant-wise. Have pity of thine own;
Abate thy pride, and, vanquished, quit the field.
Enough of routs and slaughters have we seen.
Vast tracts have left to desolation. Else,
If glory stir thee, if such hardihood
Thou nurse within thy breast, so hug to heart
A palace for thy bridal dower, be bold,
And launch thee fearless on the opposing foe.
Must we, that Turnus to his arms may take
A royal bride, as paltry lives forsooth,
A herd unwept, unburied, strew the plain?
Thou too, if there be in thee aught of force.
Aught of the war-god of thy sires, confront
And face thy challenger.”
As thus he spake
Out blazed the fury of Turnus; loud he groaned.
And from his bosom’s depth these words broke way:

“Lavish, I wot, is aye thy wealth of tongue,
Drances, when war demandeth hands, and when
The sires are summoned, there the first art thou.
Nathless naught need we fill our court with words,
Which, big albeit, fly from thee safe enow,
While the wall-rampart keeps the foe at bay,
Nor blood yet drowns the trenches. Ay, let peal
The wordy thunder; ’tis thy wont of old;
And charge me, Drances, thou, with cowardice,
Seeing thy hand hath reared such slaughter-heaps
Of Teucrians, and set all the fields ablaze
With trophies. What the pulse of valour can,
Yet may’st thou prove: nor far methinks to seek.
But round our very ramparts swarm the foe.
We march to meet them: wherefore hold’st aback?
Or will the war-god ever make his home
But in that windy tongue, those flying feet?
What, vanquished? I? Will any, thou foul liar.
Flout me as vanquished justly, who beholds
Tiber still swelling o’er with Ilian blood,
Evander’s whole house by the roots laid low,
And his Arcadians stripped of arms? Not such
Bid Bitias prove me, and huge Pandarus,
Nor whom, a thousand in a single day.
My victor-arm to nether Tartarus hurled.
Penned and shut fast within the foeman’s wall.
No safety in war? ‘Such brainless bodings keep
For thine own fortune, and the Dardan’s head.
Ay, cease not with gross panic to whelm all
In wide confusion, laud to heaven the might
Of a twice-conquered nation, and decry
Latinus’ arms beside it. Now, forsooth,
The Myrmidonian lords and Tydeus’ son
Tremble before the Phrygian host, now, too,
Achilles of Larissa; and Aufidus
From Hadria’s waves flees backward. Or, again,
When feigns the schemer’s villainy to cower
Before my chiding, and with terror whets
The sting of calumny! Nay, such a life —
Cease to be troubled — by this hand of mine
Ne’er shalt thou forfeit; let it with thee dwell,
Of that thy breast fit denizen. Now, Sire,
To thee and thy great counsels I return.
If in our arms thou rest no further hope,
If we so friendless are, and, routed once.
Are utterly o’erthrown, and fortune foiled
Hath no retrieval, pray we then for peace,
And reach out helpless hands. But ah! if aught
Were ours of wonted valour, him would I
Deem before all men of his travail blest.
Peerless of soul, who, such a sight to shun,
Fell once for all, and bit the dust, in death.
But if means yet be ours, a host for war
Unminished, and Italia’s towns and tribes
Remain to aid us; if with outpoured blood
Troy bought her triumph — -for their own dead have they.
And the like tempest swept o’er all — why thus
Inglorious faint we on the threshold’s edge?
Why quake our limbs before the trumpet-call?
Time, and the shifting toil of changeful days.
Hath many a lot repaired; and many a man
Wave after wave of fortune hath by turns
Played with, and planted on firm ground again.
The Aetolian, Arpi, will not succour us:
Yet will Messapus, and Tolumnius blest.
And all those chiefs by. many a nation sent;
Nor will scant fame attend the chosen flower
Of Latium and Laurentum’s land. Ours, too,
Camilla, from the Volscians’ peerless stem.
Heading her horse-troop, squadrons bright with brass.
But if the Teucrian lords bid me alone
Do battle, and ye would have it so, and I
Stand here the hinderer of your common good.
Why, Victory hath not from these hands of mine
Shrunk with such loathing, that for hope so high
I should draw back from any bold essay.
Dauntless will I confront him, though he match
E’en great Achilles, and don arms like his.
Wrought by the hand of Vulcan. Lo! to you
And my bride’s sire, Latinus, I devote
My life — I, Turnus, of the brave of old
Second to none in valour. Me alone
Aeneas summons? Let him, I implore,
Nor Drances rather, if heaven’s wrath be here.
With his life pay the forfeit, nor, if here
Prowess and honour, bear the palm away”
So of dark issues held they hot debate:
Aeneas meanwhile moved on from camp to field.
Lo! one with tidings, amid uproar wild,
Speeds through the palace, and with mighty dread
Fills all the city, that for battle dight
Teucrian and Tyrrhene host are marching down
From Tiber’s river o’er all the plain. At once
Confusion and heart-shaking seize the crowd.
And wrath, roused in them with no gentle stings.
With quivering hands they clutch at arms; for arms
Clamour their youth; the sires to weeping fall
And mournful mutterings. Now from every side
Rises to heaven a loud discordant din;
E’en as in some tall grove when flocks of birds
Have settled, or on Padusa’s fishy stream
Swans hoarsely cry athwart the clamorous pools.

“Ay, crowd to council, citizens,” Turnus cries,
Seizing the moment, “and sit praising peace,
While they rush armed on empire.” No word more
He uttered, but, up-starting, swiftly flung
From out the lofty hall. “Thou, Volusus,
Bid arm the Volscian cohorts,” he exclaimed,
“And lead the Rutules on. Messapus, thou.
And Coras with thy brother, array the horse.
And o’er the wide plain spread them. Some secure
Each access to the town, and man the towers;
The rest, where I shall bid, fall on with me.”
At once a wild rush to the wall begins
From every quarter. Sire Latinus too
Quits council, and breaks off his high designs.
By the dark hour dismayed; and oft his heart
Upbraids him that he freely welcomed not
Dardan Aeneas to the adopted rank
Of citizen and son. Before the gates
Others dig trenches, or heave stakes and stones
On shoulder. The hoarse clarion for the fray
Gives bloody signal. Then in motley ring
Boys, see, and matrons gird the ramparts; all
To one last effort summoned. Furthermore,
Up to the temple that crowns Pallas’ height,
Thronged with a company of dames, the queen
Rides onward, bringing gifts, and at her side
The maid Lavinia, source of all that woe.
Her comely eyes cast earthward. Entering in.
The matrons fill the holy place with smoke
Of incense, and send forth a mournful cry
From the high portal: “O mighty in arms.
And mistress of the sword, Tritonian maid,
Break with thy might the Phrygian robber’s spear.
Himself cast prone on earth, and spurn him low
Beneath our lofty gates”. Turnus, the while.
With emulous fury arms him for the fray.
E’en now, the ruddy breastplace donned, he stood
Bristling with brazen scales; his legs he had sheathed
In golden cuishes, and, bare-browed as yet.
But battle-blade on thigh, all golden shone.
As down he hies him from the fortress-height
Exulting, and in hope forestalls the foe.
As with snapped tether free at length, a horse
Breaks stall, and, launched upon the open plain,
Or seeks the herds and pastures of the mares.
Or, wont to plunge him in the well-known stream.
Darts forth, and, rearing his proud crest on high,
Neighs for mere wantonness; the tossing mane
Plays over neck and shoulder. Him to meet,
Backed by her Volscian host, Camilla sped,
And hard beside the gateway leapt from horse,
Queen as she was, whom following, all the band
Glide from their steeds to earth. Then thus she spake:

“Turnus, if aught self-trust beseem the brave,
I dare and pledge me face the Trojan troop,
And sole against the Tyrrhene horsemen ride.
Let me first prove the perils of the fray:
Tarry thou here on foot beside the wall.
And guard the ramparts.” Whereunto replied
Turnus, his eyes on the dread maiden fixed,
“O maiden, glory of Italy, what thanks
Can I or hope to utter or repay?
But since thy spirit doth all price out-soar,
Share now the task with me. Aeneas, ’tis said —
And scouts sent forth confirm the tale— hath pushed
Forward, relentless still, his light-armed horse,
To scour the plain; himself, mounting the ridge.
Draws cityward by the lone mountain-heights.
In the wood’s hollow track a sleight of war
I purpose — to beset with armed men
The thoroughfare of the mountain gorge. Do thou
Meet and do battle with the Etruscan horse;
Valiant Messapus at thy side will be,
With Latium’s squadron and Tiburtus’ band;
Take thou too on thyself a leader’s sway.”
So saying, Messapus and the federate chiefs
Cheered with like words to battle, he moves to meet
The foe. There is a vale that curves and bends.
Well framed for stratagems and wiles of war,
Hemmed in on either side by wooded walls
Impenetrably dark. Hereinto leads
A narrow footpath, and a strait ravine
Churlish of access. Over it there lies
High on the watch-towers of the mountain-top
A broad expanse unlooked for, safe retreat
To charge from right and left-ward, or take stand
Upon the ridge, and roll down mighty rocks.
Hither the warrior, thridding well-known ways.
Hies him, has seized the spot, and sat him down
Within the treacherous forest.
But meanwhile
Latona’s daughter in the halls of heaven
Addressed fleet Opis, of the sacred band
Of maids that be her fellows, and poured forth
These sorrowing words: “Lo! to the cruel war
Goes forth Camilla, maiden, and in vain
Girds on these arms of ours, though dear to me
Beyond all others. Nor soothly is the love
Thou knowest new-born to Dian, nor her heart
Touched with a sudden charm. When Metabus,
Now driven through hate of his tyrannic sway
Forth from his realm, Privernum’s ancient hold
Was leaving, through the battle’s press he bore
His babe in flight, to share his banishment.
And named her from her mother, in altered wise,
Camilla for Casmilla. To the long
Lone forest-heights he sped, still carrying her
Before him on his bosom. From all sides
Fierce darts beset him, and in circling swarms
Hovered the Volscian soldiery, when lo!
Athwart his flight full Amasenus’ flood
Foamed with o’er-brimming banks; so wild a storm
Had burst the clouds of heaven. Here, fain to swim.
Love for the babe witholds him, and he quakes
For his dear burden. Pondering every way,
Hardly at last this swift resolve took root:
A huge spear, which the warrior’s stalwart hand
Bare, of hard-knotted and fire-seasoned oak —
To this he lashed his daughter, swathed in bark
Of the wild cork, and midmost of the shaft
Bound her for throwing, and then, with mighty hand
Poising it, cried to heaven; ‘O gracious Maid,
Child of Latona, hauntress of the grove,
I vow this babe thy servant, I her sire;
Thy weapon first she grasps, and from her foe
Flies through the air, thy suppliant. For thine own.
Goddess, receive her, I implore, who now
Is to the random breezes given.’ He spake.
Drew back his arm, and strongly wheeled the spear.
And threw it: the waves roared; over the swift stream
Flies poor Camilla on the hurtling dart.
But Metabus, by a mighty band the while
Pressed closelier, plunges, and in triumph plucks
His gift to Trivia from the grassy bank,
Javelin and maid together. Him thenceforth
Nor homes of men, nor city-walls received;
Nor had his wild heart brooked it, but he led
A life of shepherds on the lonely hills.
Here in the brakes, amid rough forest-dens.
Reared he his daughter upon wild mare’s milk.
Squeezing the teats into her tender lips.
Soon as the baby-feet their earliest steps
Had planted, with sharp javelin’s weight he armed
Her hands, and from the tiny shoulder hung
Shafts and a bow. For gold to deck her hair,
And for long-trailing robe, a tiger’s spoils
Hung from her head adown the back. E’en then
With tender hand she launched her puny darts,
And, whirling round her head the smooth-thonged sling,
Struck crane Strymonian, or white swan, to earth.
Her many a mother through the Tyrrhene towns
Sought for their sons, but vainly. Well content
To mate alone with Dian, she cherishes
A lifelong passion for the hunter’s darts
And maidenhood unsullied. Would she had ne’er.
Caught up by such a wave of war, essayed
To brave in fight the Teucrians! so were she
Still dear, and of my maiden band to-day.
But come, since harsh fate dogs her hard at heel,
Glide, nymph, from heaven, and Latium’s borders seek,
Where now begins the dark ill-omened fray.
Take these, and pluck from quiver a vengeful shaft.
Herewith, whoe’er with wound her sacred flesh —
Or Trojan or Italian — shall profane,
Let him like quittance pay me blood for blood.
Thereafter I in hollow cloud will bear
Her hapless corse for burial, and, of arms
All undespoiled, to her own land restore.”
She spake, but the other down the light air sped
Hurtling, her form in a black whirlwind swathed.
Meanwhile the Trojan host draw nigh the walls,
The Etruscan chiefs and all their horse-array,
Told into ordered troops. The war-steed neighs.
Paws the wide plain, and with the tight-drawn curb
Fights, as he faces to this side and that:
Then bristles the wide plain with iron spears.
And the field blazes with their brandished blades.
Nor less Messapus, Latium’s swift-foot sons.
And Coras with his brother, and the light troop
Of maid Camilla, show forth upon the plain.
Confronting them; with back-drawn hands afar
They couch the spear, or shake the quivering lance;
And fiery-fierce now grows the tramp of men.
Neighing of steeds. By this had either host
Paused within spear-cast: then, with sudden shout,
Forward they burst, cheer on their maddened steeds.
And all together, from all sides, pour forth
Darts thick as snowflakes, that obscure the sky.
At once Tyrrhenus and Aconteus keen
Rush each on each with spears that meet amain.
And first deal thunderous downfall, either steed
Shock-shattered with the brunt of breast to breast.
Aconteus, like a levin-bolt flung forth,
Or ponderous engine-stone, is hurled afar
Headlong, and scatters to the winds his life.
Straight all is disarray; the Latins turn.
Set shield to back, and for the ramparts ride.
Troy gives them chase; Asilas leads the van.
And now the gates they near, when once again
The Latins lift the war-shout, and wheel round
Their chargers’ supple necks. The victors fly,
And with loose bridle gallop fast and far.
As when, with alternating ebb and flow.
The advancing sea now rushes to the beach,
Flings o’er the crags in torrent foam, and bathes
With drenching bosom all the sandy bourn.
Now, with swift ebb, retreats, and sucking back
The shingle, leaves the shore with gliding shoal.
Twice o’er the Tuscans to their ramparts drive
The Rutules headlong, and twice o’er look back
Routed, and sling behind their covering shields.
But when, for the third onset charging home,
Army gripped army, and man singled man,
Then were there dying groans, and deep in blood
Roll arms and bodies and death-wounded steeds.
Mingled with slaughtered men; the fight swells fierce.
Orsilochus at the steed of Remulus —
Himself he feared to face — a javelin hurled,
And left the steel beneath its ear, whereat
The stricken brute rears furiously, and flings
In air his fore-legs, with uplifted breast.
Sustaining not the wound. Tumbled to earth,
His rider rolled. Catillus hurls from horse
Iollas, and, of giant heart to match
His giant arms and frame, Herminius:
Bare-headed he with tawny locks, bare too
His shoulders; nor wounds daunt him, such a front
He offers to all weapons. The spear sped.
And, quivering through the mighty shoulder-joints.
Pinned, and bowed double all his bulk with pain.
Dark blood flows wide, as with the sword they slay,
Fighting, or seek through wounds a glorious death.
But midst the slaughter, like an Amazon,
One breast for battle bared, and quiver-girt.
Rages Camilla, and now thick and fast
Showers from her hand tough javelins, and now grips
The doughty war-axe with unwearying grasp,
While from her shoulder clangs the golden bow.
The arms of Dian. Nay, if forced to fly.
And backward beaten, with bow turned she aims
Retreating arrows. Round about her throng
The comrades of her choice, Larina, maid.
And Tulla, and Tarpeia brandishing
An axe of bronze, Italia’s daughters; whom
Godlike Camilla for her own glory chose.
And as good helpers both in peace and war.
Like Thracian Amazons, when Thermodon’s flood
Shakes to their tramp, as in gay arms they ride
To battle, or round Hippolyte, or when
Penthesilea, child of Mars, from war
Comes charioted, and all the woman-host
With loud tumultuous shouting madly prance,
Armed with their moony shields. Whom first, whom last,
Fierce maiden, didst thou dash to earth? What tale
Of warrior-forms stretch dying in the dust?
Euneus first, from Clytius sprung, whose breast,
Confronting and left bare, she pierces through
With her long pine-shaft. Vomiting forth streams
Of blood, he falls, and bites the gory dust.
And, dying, writhes upon his wound; anon
Liris, and o’er him Pegasus, of whom
One thrown in act to gather up the reins.
His steed stabbed under him, one hurrying up
With unarmed hand to aid him as he falls.
Meet headlong death together. Then to these
She adds Amastrus, son of Hippotas,
And, leaning forward, plies with spear from far
Tereus, Harpalycus, Demophoon,
And Chromis; yea, for every shaft that sped.
Hurled from the maiden’s hand, some Phrygian fell.
In uncouth arms on Iapygian steed.
Afar rides hunter Ornytus; a hide
Stripped from a bullock swathes his shoulders broad,
Turned warrior now; a wolf’s huge-gaping mouth
For head-gear — jaws and flashing teeth; his hands
Armed with rude hunting-blade: so through the ranks
He moves, and by a whole head tops them all.
Him now she caught — amid the battle’s rout
Light task enow — and speared, and over him
Cried in fierce scorn: “O Tuscan, didst thou deem
’Twas forest-game thou huntedst? Lo! the day
Is come that shall your people’s vaunts refute
With woman’s darts. Yet to thy father’s shades
No mean renown goes with thee, to have fallen
Slain by Camilla’s spear.” Orsilochus
And Butes next, in bulk Troy’s mightiest twain:
But Butes from behind she stabbed, where gleamed
The neck ’twixt helm and hauberk, as he rode,
And the light shield from his left shoulder hung:
Orsilochus she flies, and, heading off
In a wide sweep, wheels inward, and so foils.
Pursuing the pursuer. Then at length
Up-towering higher, through basnet and through bone
With strokes redoubled the strong axe she drives
For all his deprecating cries: the wound
Spatters his face with the hot brain. Here happed
Upon her path, and at the sudden sight
Hung terrified aback, the warrior-son
Of Aunus, dweller upon Apennine,
Not meanest of Ligurians, while the Fates
Allowed his lies. He, seeing no flight would serve
To ’scape the fray, nor turn aside the queen
Now hard at heel, with subtle craft and wile
Essaying to ply trickery, thus begins:

“What glory is it, woman as thou art.
To trust in a steed’s strength? Give o’er escape.
Dare close with me on equal ground, and come
Gird thee to fight on foot; full soon shalt know
To whom vain boasting bringeth bane.” He spake;
She, stung to fury, and with the bitter smart
Burning, her charger to a comrade gave,
And in like arms stood fronting him on foot.
With bare blade dauntless, and unblazoned shield.
But, deeming guile had won, away darts he.
Turns bridle in hot haste, rides off, and goads
His galloper to full speed with armed heel.

“Thou false Ligurian, puffed with empty pride.
Thy slippery native tricks hast played in vain;
Ay, nor shall treachery win thee scathless way
To juggler Aunus”. Thus the maiden cries.
And swift as fire, with lightning steps, afoot
Passes the steed, confronts him, grasps the rein,
Grapples, and wreaks red vengeance on the foe:
Lightly as when a hawk, that bodeful bird,
Winging from some tall crag, o’ertakes a dove
High in the cloud, and, clutch’d within his gripe,
Mangles her body with hook’d feet, the while
Blood and rent feathers flutter from the sky.
But with no eyeless watch the Sire of men
And gods hereon from high Olympus’ top
Sat gazing. To the ruthless fight he goads
Tyrrhenian Tarchon, with no gentle stings
Pricks him to fury. So, ’mid weltering heaps,
Ranks wavering, rides he, with this cry or that
Kindles the troops, and, calling each by name.
Rallies the runaways to fight. “What fear,
O never to be shamed, O laggards still!
What coward sloth hath seized your Tuscan hearts?
Routs and makes rabble of such ranks as these
A woman? Say why then wield we sword, or grasp
These idle darts? To love naught slack are ye
And nightly bouts, or, when the wry-necked fife
Of Bacchus hath the dance proclaimed, to look
For revel and wine-cup on the loaded board —
Your joy, your passion this — till favouring seer
Announce the sacred feast, and victim fat
To the tall groves invite you.” Thus he spake.
And, courting his own death, amid the press
Spurs, and at Venulus like a whirlwind drives,
Hales him from horse, and in a foeman’s grip
Clasped to his breast bears off at furious speed.
A shout goes up to heaven; all Latin eyes
Upon them turn. Like fire along the plain,
Bearing both man and armour, Tarchon flies,
Then from the foe’s spear snapping off the head,
Gropes for a vulnerable point, to deal
A death-blow. The other from his throat, the while,
Struggling, wards off the wound, force baffling force:
As when a golden eagle, soaring high,
Swoops and bears off a serpent in his clutch,
Foot-fastened in its folds, with claws that cling;
But the maimed snake writhes tortuous, coil on coil,
Pricks scales erect, and hisses with its mouth,
High-towering: none the less with hooked beak
He plies his struggling victim, all the while
Scourging the air with pinion-strokes: e’en so
Tarchon from Tibur’s battle-ranks bears off
His prize in triumph. Maeonia’s sons rush on
Following their chief’s example and success.
Then Arruns, ripe for doom, wheels, dart in hand.
Round swift Camilla, and, with many a wile
Preventing, tries what chance may best bestead.
Where’er the maid spurs furious ’mid the ranks,
There up comes Arruns, silent scours her track —
Where’er triumphant from the foe retires.
Thither turns he his swift and furtive rein.
Now this approach, now that, he traverses.
Circling on all sides, and relentless shakes
His deadly javelin. Chloreus, as it chanced.
Sacred to Cybele, and erewhile her priest.
In Phrygian arms shone glorious from afar,
Urging his foamy steed, its saddle-cloth
A fell with brass scales feathered, clasped with gold.
In foreign purple darkly dight he rode,
Launching Gortynian shafts from Lycian bow;
Gold hung the bow from shoulder, gold the casque
On the diviner’s head; a saffron scarf
Rustling with gauzy waves he had bound up
Into a knot with tawny gold, and wore
Needle-wrought tunic and barbaric hose.
Him now the maid, or fain to fix on shrine
Arms Trojan, of to flaunt in captive gold,
From all the melee singling, huntress-like,
Chased blindly, and through the ranks all reckless burned
With woman’s love of booty and of spoil;
When Arruns from his ambush seized at last
The moment, and let speed his javelin, thus
Imploring heaven: “Apollo, chief of gods.
And guardian of Soracte’s sacred height,
Whom we of all men honour, for whom is fed
The glow of heaped pine, while ’midst the fire
Thy votaries we, by holy zeal up-borne,
In the live embers deep our footprints press.
Grant, Sire, that this foul shame, for thou canst all.
Be by my darts abolished. I desire
Nor arms, nor trophies of the maid’s defeat,
Nor any spoil; what else my hand has wrought
Shall win me glory: let but this dread pest
Fall ’neath my weapon, I will get me back
Inglorious to the cities of my sires.”
Apollo heard, and inwardly vouchsafed
Half the fulfillment of his prayer, but half
To the fleet winds he scattered. To lay low
Camilla with swift stroke of death — thus far
Yields he his asking; that his stately home
Should see him back return, he granted not;
The wild winds changed his utterance into air.
So, when the spear sped hurtling, launched through heaven.
The Volscians all, their eager thoughts and eyes
Turned toward the queen. She only nor of breeze
Nor hurtling sound, nor sky-borne weapon, weened;
Till, buried in her protruding breast, the spear
Clave, deeply driven, and drank her maiden blood.
Her scared troop hurry round her, and sustain
Their sinking mistress. Fearful beyond all
Flies Arruns, terror mingling with his joy;
Nor longer dares he on his lance rely.
Nor face the maidens’ weapons. And as the wolf,
Ere hostile darts can follow, plunges straight
By pathless ways into the mountain heights,
If shepherd he hath slain, or mighty bull.
And, ware of his bold deed, with slackened tail
Clapped quivering ’neath his belly, seeks the woods;
So Arruns whirled madly from men’s eyes, and plunged.
Content with flight, amid the warrior throng.
She plucks the dart with dying hand; but deep
Betwixt the rib-bones sticks the embedded steel.
Bloodless she droops; droop too her death-chilled eyes;
The once bright colour from her face has ebbed.
Then thus with failing breath to Acca, one
Of her companions, spake she, who alone
Of all Camilla’s maiden-band had been
Friend of her bosom, and partner of her cares:

“Acca, my sister,” in such wise she spake,
“I can no more; e’en now the bitter wound
Quells me, and all around grows dim and dark.
Fly, bear to Turnus this my latest word:
Bid him bear up the battle, and ward off
The Trojans from the wall. And now — farewell.”
So saying, she dropped the reins, all helplessly
Gliding to earth. Then, cold and colder grown.
Slowly she slipped the body’s bonds, let fall
The neck now nerveless, and death-ravished head,
Dropping her war-gear; and the spirit passed
Moaning indignant to the Shades below.
Then boundless uproar surging heavenward strikes
The golden stars; around Camilla fall’n
The fight grows bloodier; in one dense array
On rush the Teucrian host, the Tyrrhene chiefs,
And, flanking all, Evander’s Arcad horse.
But Opis, Trivia’s sentinel, long since.
Throned on the mountain-height, sits undismayed
Watching the conflict. When amid the din
Of raging warriors far away she spied
Camilla by death’s bitter doom fordone,
She groaned, and thus with heart-drawn utterance spake:

“Dearly, too dearly, maid, hast thou atoned
Thine arm’d defiance of the sons of Troy,
Nor aught availed thee in green solitudes
To have served Dian, or on shoulder borne
The quiver of our craft. Yet hath thy queen
Not left thee, e’en in death’s extremity,
Bare of all honour, nor shall this thine end
Be noised not through the world, nor thou endure
An unavenged name. For whosoe’er
With desecrating wound hath pierced thy flesh.
The well-earned forfeit with his life shall pay.”
’Neath a tall mountain stood the giant tomb
Of King Dercennus, the Laurentine old.
Of mounded earth, and roofed with ilex dark:
Here, first the lovely goddess with swift spring
Plants her, and from the lofty rising-ground
Spies Arruns. When in flashing armour bright
She marked him vainly swelling, “Why,” she cries,
“Swerv’st thou aside? Turn hither, and draw nigh
To meet thy doom, and for Camilla take
Due guerdon. Must thou too by Dian’s darts
Perish? “She spake, and, like a Thracian maid.
Forth from gilt quiver plucked a winged shaft.
Stretched it on bow to strike him, and drew far.
Until, the bent tips meeting, and both hands
Now level, with her left the point she touched,
Her bosom with the bow-string in her right.
Forthwith the shaft’s hiss and the hurtling air
Heard Arruns, and the selfsame moment felt
The barb within his body. Him, gasping out
Life’s latest groan, his comrades leave to lie
Forgotten in the plain’s unnoted dust;
Opis to high Olympus wings her way.
First flies, of queen bereft, Camilla’s troop
Of light-arm’d horse; the Rutules break and fly;
Flies keen Atinas; captains scattered far
And cohorts leaderless for shelter make,
And, backward turning, for the ramparts ride.
Nor any can with darts sustain the rush
Of the death-dealing Teucrians, or make stand
Against them; but their unstrung bows they cast
On fainting shoulders, and the four-foot tramp
Of galloping horse-hooves shakes the crumbling plain.
Rolls toward the ramparts a black storm of dust,
And on the watch-towers mothers beat their breasts,
And raise a woman’s wail aloft to heaven.
Who through the open gates dash first, on these
The foe press madly, mingling with the rout;
Nor ’scape they piteous slaughter, but thrust through
E’en on the threshold, with their native walls
And sheltering homes around, gasp out their lives.
Some close the gates, and dare not to their friends
Open, or let them pass, for all their prayers.
Within the ramparts; and anon begins
Most piteous carnage, as these guard with swords
The portal, those upon the sword-points rush.
Shut out before their weeping parents’ eyes.
Into the trenches some are headlong hurled
By the wild rout; some, spurring at full speed,
With battering force tilt blindly at the gates
And their stout barriers. At the conflict’s height
The very mothers from the walls — true love
Of country points them — as their eyes beheld
Camilla, shower down darts with trembling hand;
With stout oak-truncheons and fire hardened stakes
Hotly they strive to ape the strength of steel,
And foremost for their ramparts burn to die.
Meanwhile amid the wood fills Turnus’ ear
The terrible tale, and fraught with dire amaze
Comes Acca’s word; the Volscian ranks are quelled,
Camilla fallen; the foe rush fiercely on,
And with triumphant arms have swept the field;
Now to the ramparts spreads the panic. He,
Raging — so rules it Jove’s relentless will —
Quits his hill-ambush, the rough wood forsakes.
Scarce had he passed from sight, and gained the plain.
Ere Sire Aeneas enters the void glen.
And tops the ridge, and quits the forest-gloom.
So swiftly both with all their war-array
March town-ward, nor far parted each from each;
And lo! Aeneas at once beheld the plain
Smoking with dust afar, and therewithal
Laurentum’s host; and Turnus was aware
Of fell Aeneas armed for fight, and heard
The approach of tramping feet and neighing steeds.
And straight in shock of battle would they clash.
But ruddy Phoebus in the Iberian flood
Now dips his tir’d team, and with ebbing day
Bids night return. Before the city-walls
They bivouac, and entrench the ramparts round.