Book XII

When Turnus saw the Latins had waxed faint,
Crushed by the war’s reverse, his promise now
Claimed for fulfilment, all eyes turned on him,
With wrath implacable he burns, and rears
Aloft his courage. As lo! on Punic plains
A lion, his breast by hunters wounded sore,
At last to battle stirs him, with fierce joy
Shakes from his neck the shaggy mane, and snaps
The robber’s rooted weapon, undismayed.
Roaring with blood-stained mouth; not otherwise
Once fired, the rage of Turnus swells apace:
Then thus the king accosts he, and begins
With blustering speech: “In Turnus is no stop;
Yon dastards of Aeneas have no plea
Their bond to cancel, or their vows recant:
I go to meet him. Bring the holy rites.
Sire, and rehearse the treaty. Or shall I
To Tartarus hurl this Dardan runagate
From Asia — let the Latins sit and see —
With my sole arm our common shame rebut;
Or let him hold us as his thralls of war.
And take to bride Lavinia.”
With calm breast
Answered Latinus: “Peerless-hearted youth.
The loftier mounts thy valour, the more meet
That I stint naught of counsel, weigh with fear
All issues. Thine is thy sire Daunus’ realm,
And many a war-won city; nor lack I
Latinus gold or the goodwill to give.
In Latium’s and Laurentum’s realm are yet
Maids, nor of race to shame thee. Let me strip
The ungentle utterance bare of all disguise;
And thou in soul absorb it: unto none,
Who heretofore came wooing, might I wed
My daughter; so sang gods alike and men.
Won o’er by love of thee, won o’er by claim
Of kinship, and my sorrowing consort’s tears,
I brake all fetters, plucked from her true lord
The plighted bride, and flew to impious arms.
Thenceforth what perils, what wars pursue me still,
Turnus, thou seest, yea, and what mighty toils
Thyself art first to suffer. On stricken field
Twice conquered, scarce within our walls we guard
The hopes of Italy; Tiber-waves are yet
Warm with our blood, the wide plain white with bones.
Why drift I back so oft? What madness turns
My purpose? If, the light of Turnus quenched,
I stand prepared to welcome them as friends.
Why rather, while he lives, not stay the strife?
What will thy Rutule kinsmen say, what all
In Italy beside them, if to death —
Fortune refute the word— I thee betray,
Seeking our daughter and alliance? Mark
War’s shifting chances; pity thine old sire.
Whom now his native Ardea far aloof
Holds sorrowing.” With such words he bends no whit
The fury of Turnus; it but mounts the more.
Grown worse with healing. When his lips at length
Gat utterance, he begins: “Prithee, good Sire,
The load of care, that for my sake thou hast.
Lay for my sake aside, and suffer me
To pledge my life for honour. Our hand too
Can scatter darts, and wield no weakling swords;
When we too strike, blood follows. Nowise near
Will be his goddess-mother with a cloud
To shield the recreant, woman-like, and hide
Her form in empty shadows.”
But the queen.
At these new terms of battle sore dismayed,
Stood weeping, and, as one resolved to die.
Clave to her fiery son. “By these my tears,
O Turnus, and if aught still touch thy heart
Of reverence for Amata — thou art now
Sole hope and solace of my sad old age;
Latinus’ honour and imperial sway
Rest in thy keeping; upon thee alone
Leans all our tottering house — one boon I beg.
Forbear to fight the Teucrians. In yon strife
What doom soe’er awaits thee, waits no less,
Turnus, for me: the selfsame hour will I
Quit the loath’d light, nor with a captive’s eyes
Look on Aeneas as my daughter’s lord.”
Lavinia heard her mother’s voice with cheek
Flaming and tear-suffused; for a deep flush
Kindled and o’er her burning features ran:
E’en as if Indian ivory one should stain
With blood-red purple, or as lilies white
Blush with the blended rose; such hues o’er-spread
The maiden’s features. He, with love distraught.
Fastens his eyes upon the maid. He burns
The more for battle, and briefly thus bespeaks
Amata: “Follow me not with tears, I pray,
Or with these dark forebodings, to the war’s
Grim strife, O mother; for Turnus is not free
To bid death tarry. Idmon, do thou bear
This message — nowise welcome — from my lips
To Phrygia’s tyrant: soon as morrow’s dawn
With crimson chariot-wheel shall flush the sky,
Let him not Teucrian against Rutule lead;
Rest Rutule arms and Teucrian; that we twain
With our own blood may set a term to strife,
And on that field Lavinia’s hand be won.”
So saying, he swiftly gat him home, and there
Calls for his steeds, and views them with delight
Snorting before him, which, a glorious gift,
Erst to Pilumnus Orithyia gave.
To out-vie snows in whiteness, winds in speed.
Around them, bustling, stand the charioteers.
Clap with their hollow hands the sounding chests,
And comb the maned necks. A corslet then
He binds about his shoulders, stiff with gold
And pale-hued orichalc, and’ to his grasp
Fits sword and shield, and red-plumed helmet-spikes;
Sword, which the lord of fire himself had forged
For his sire Daunus, and had dipped white-hot
In Stygian water. Last, a mighty spear.
As it stood propped against a column vast
Amid the hall, Auruncan Actor s spoil.
Strongly he seized, and shook the quivering shaft,
Crying aloud: “O spear, that never yet
Hast balked my bidding, now the hour is come;
Thee mightiest Actor once, now Turnus wields;
Grant me with doughty hand on earth to stretch
The effeminate Phrygian, shatter and rend ope
His corslet, and defile with dust the locks
Curl’d with hot iron, and reeking-moist with myrrh.”
So raves he, fury-driven; from all his face
Shoot fiery sparks; his eager eyes flash flame:
As when a bull, against some battle-bout
Uplifts a fearful bellowing, and for proof
Flings wrath into his horns, and butts against
A tree trunk, and provokes the air with blows,
Or, scattering sand, makes prelude of the fray.
Aeneas no less, girt in his mother’s gear.
Now fiercely whets the war-god in his heart,
And kindles into wrath, right glad the while
That thus, truce proffered, shall the strife be stayed.
Then comforts he his comrades, soothes the fear
Of sad Iulus, teaching them of fate.
And unto King Latinus bids return
Sure answer, and the terms of peace declare.
Scarce was the next dawn sprinkling with new ray
The mountain-tops, what time from Ocean’s deep
Up-spring the sun-steeds, and breathe forth the light
Through lifted nostrils, When both Rutule folk
And Teucrian ’neath their mighty city-walls
Make ready and mete out the battle-ground,
And hearths and grassy altars thereamidst
Rear to their common gods. Others the while
Bring freshet-wave and fire, girt apron-wise.
Brow-bound with vervain. The Ausonian host
Move onward, and in ranks close-banded pour
Through the thronged portals. Here in unlike arms
Speeds all the Trojan and Tyrrhenian host,
E’en as at war’s stern bidding, ranged in mail.
Amid their thousands to and fro the chiefs
Hover, in pride of purple and of gold,
Mnestheus, of old Assaracus the seed.
And stout Asilas, and, from Neptune sprung,
Messapus the steed-tamer. Either host.
At trumpet-call to its own ground retired.
Fix spears in earth, and lay their shields aslant.
Then eager-thronging matrons, (a mixed crowd
Of folk defenceless and infirm old men,
Fill all the towers and house-roofs; other some
Hard by the lofty portals stand at gaze.
But Juno from the hill, hight Alban now,
Then nameless, without fame or glory, peered
Forth on the plain, and either host beheld,
Laurentine, Trojan, and Latinus’ town.
Straightway to Turnus’ sister thus she spake —
Goddess to goddess — who hath power o’er pools
And sounding streams; such honour had high Jove,
The king of heaven, for theft of maidenhead
With hallowing hand assigned her: “Nymph,” she cried,
“Glory of rivers, to my heart most dear.
Whoe’er to high-souled Jove’s unthankful bed
Of Latin maids have mounted, thee, thou knowest.
O’er all have I preferred, for thee with joy
Found part and place in heaven: now learn thy grief,
Juturna, that thou blame not me. So far
As Fortune seemed to suffer. Fate allow
Good hap to Latium, I have guarded well
Thy town and Turnus: now I see him rush
Ill-matched upon his fate, and lo! the hour
Of destiny draws near, and force malign.
This fight, this treaty, never can mine eyes
Endure to look on. For thy brother thou.
If aught thou durst of more effectual aid.
On! it becomes thee. Happier days belike
Shall follow misery.’” Ere she ceased, the tears
Burst from Juturna’s eyes, and with her hand
Thrice, four times o’er, she smote her lovely breast.

“No time for tears,” Saturnian Juno cries:

“Hie thee with speed, thy brother snatch from death,
If any way thou mayest, or else wake war.
Dash from their hands the plighted peace: ’tis I
Bid brave it”. And, so warned, she left her there
Doubting, wit-wildered by the baleful blow.
Meanwhile the kings ride forth, Latinus first,
Mighty of stature, on a four-horse car.
About whose temples gleam twelve golden rays,
Badge of the Sun, his grandsire: Turnus next
With snow-white pair comes charioted, his hand
Twin javelins brandishing, broad-tipped with steel.
Then Sire Aeneas, of Rome’s stem the root.
Blazing with starry shield, celestial arms,
And at his side Ascanius, of great Rome
The after-hope, move onward from the camp;
While pure-robed priest a two-year sheep unshorn.
With offspring of a bristly boar hath brought,
And by the blazing altars set the beasts.
They, with eyes turned toward the rising sun.
Scatter salt meal from hand, and graze with knife
The foreheads of the victims, and pour wine
Upon the altars. Drawing then his sword.
Thus good Aeneas prays: “Now may the Sun
Attest my utterance, and this land for which
I have essayed such mighty toils to bear.
The Sire omnipotent, and his consort thou,
Saturnia, goddess, now at last, I pray,
More favourable; and Mavors the renowned,
Who dost all wars with power paternal sway;
And Floods I call, and Fountains, and what Awe
Dwells in high heaven, what gods in the blue sea:
If victory to Ausonian Turnus hap.
We vanquished will depart — so stands the bond —
Hence to Evander’s town; Iulus then
Shall quit the soil, nor e’er in after-time.
Armed for new war, Aeneas’ sons return,
Or vex this kingdom with invasion. But,
If Victory will the battle to our hand —
As I deem rather, and so seal it heaven! —
Nor shall Italian at my bidding bow
To Teucrian, nor list I to reign; let both,
Unconquered, beneath equal laws unite
In everlasting bonds of amity.
My gods I’ll give them, and my sacred things;
The sword Latinus, as my sire, must sway,
And, as my sire, the daily round of State:
For me the Teucrians shall build walls, my town
Be named from fair Lavinia.” So spake first
Aeneas, and after him Latinus thus,
Eyes raised to heaven, and right hand star-ward stretched:

“Now by the self-same Earth, Sea, Stars, I swear,
Aeneas, and by Latona’s double brood.
And two-faced Janus, and the might of gods
Infernal, and relentless Pluto’s shrine;
Let the Sire hear, who doth on treaties set
His seal of thunder. I these altars touch,
The flames and powers betwixt us I adjure:
No lapse of time shall break for Italy
This covenant of peace, betide what may,
Nor any force me from my purpose turn;
Nay, not though earth into the waves be washed
In one blind deluge, and the vault of heaven
Poured into Tartarus: as this sceptre here”—
For sceptre in right hand he chanced to wield —
“Shall never into light-leaved twigs expand.
Or shady spray, since in the greenwood once
Lopped from the parent-stem, beneath the axe
It shed both boughs and foliage; erst a tree.
Now by the craftsman’s handiwork made o’er
Bound in fair brass, for Latin sires to hold.”
So spake they, pledging mutual vows of peace.
Amid the gazing lords, then solemnly
Let bleed the sacred victims o’er the flame.
And flay the flesh yet quivering, and anon
With groaning chargers heap the altars high.
But long ere this, to Rutule eyes ill-matched
Appears the conflict, and their bosoms heave
With manifold emotion more and more,
As closelier seen the odds of strength they scan.
Swells their disquietude with noiseless tread
To mark how Turnus to the altar stepped,
His lowly reverent mien, his downcast eyes.
The wasted cheek, the youthful form so wan.
But when Juturna, when his sister, saw
Whispers wax rife, the crowd with wavering hearts
Irresolute, amid the ranks in form
Like unto Camers — who, of hero-strain.
Was from a sire of peerless valour sprung.
Himself no laggard warrior — ’mid the ranks
She plunges, and, well witting of the task.
Scatters wide rumour, and bespeaks them thus:

“Blush ye not, Rutules, thus to jeopardise
One life for all, and all so valiant? Say
In numbers are we over-matched, or might?
Trojans, Arcadians, these are all they boast,
See! and the fate-led bands — Etruria’s wrath
Hurled upon Turnus. Every second man
Grappled we them, scarce each should find a foe.
He doubtless, winged with glory, to the gods,
Gods to whose altars he devotes his life,
Shall soar, ride living on the lips of men;
We, reft of home, to haughty lords must bow,
Who thus sit idly, cumberers of the field.”
Fired by such words, now more and more up-blazed
The warriors’ purpose, and from rank to rank
Speeds on the murmur; e’en Laurentum’s sons.
E’en Latium’s folk are changed. Who late for rest
From battle, and safety for their fortune, sighed.
Now wish for arms, implore the league undone.
And pity Turnus and his cruel fate.
Hereto another and a mightier spell
Juturna adds, and shows a sign in heaven,
Than which no cause, more potent to confound,
Fooled omen-wise the hearts of Italy.
For as in ruddy sky Jove’s tawny bird
Flew chasing water-fowl, a clamorous rout
In wing-borne column, suddenly he swooped
Down on the stream, and seized a lordly swan
Ruthless in taloned gripe. Italia’s folk
Gave eager heed, as all the birds at once
Wheeled screaming, wondrous to behold! and darked
The heaven with wings, and in a serried cloud
Urge through the air their foe, till, overborne
By the sheer weight of onset, he gave o’er,
Into the flood let fall his loosened prey,
And vanished amid cloudy depths of heaven.
The Rutules hail the omen with a shout,
And free their hands for battle; and first out-spoke
Augur Tolumnius: “This, ay this it was,
So oft my prayers desired: I greet the call.
And own the gods herein; follow my lead.
Even mine, and seize the sword, ye miserable.
Whom yon rapacious stranger frights with war.
Like silly birds, and rudely ravages
Your borders. He will turn, trim sail, and fly
Far o’er the deep. With one heart close your ranks,
And fight for rescue of your ravished king.”
He spake, and, dashing forward, hurled his lance
Full at the foe; the hurtling cornel hissed.
And cleft the air, and erred not. Hard upon.
Rose a vast shout; through all the welded ranks
Confusion ran, and hearts beat fiery-fast.
As sped the spear, right in its onward track
Stood grouped nine goodly brethren, borne alike
Of one true Tuscan mother to her lord
Gylippus of Arcadia. One of these.
Where the sewn belt pressed midmost of his bulk
Hard on the belly, and the ribs’ edges felt
The buckle’s bite — a youth of peerless form
In glittering armour — through the flank it pierced,
And on the dun sand stretched him. At the sight
His brethren, a bold band, now fired with grief,
Some drawing sword, some snatching darts to hurl,
Rush blindly onward. The Laurentine ranks
Dash forth to meet them; from the opposers’ side
Trojans, Agyllines, and Arcadia’s host
Girt in gay arms, one turbid torrent pour,
All, each, on fire to let the sword decide.
They have stripped the altars; a thick javelin-storm
Scours all the sky; the steel sleet drives apace.
The bowls, the hearths, they hale away: fast flies
Latinus, and bears off his baffled gods,
Leaving the league undone. Some harness cars,
Some hurl to horse, and with drawn swords are there.
Messapus, eager to confound the league.
Spurs at and scares Aulestes, Tuscan king,
Dight with the kingly diadem; but he,
Luckless, leaps backward, strikes the altar-stone
Behind him, and rolls head and shoulders o’er.
Up speeds Messapus fiery-swift, with spear
Huge as a beam, and towering upon steed
Deals him, for all his prayers, one deadly blow
Downward, and cries: “He hath it: here behold
A nobler victim to the high gods given”
Italia’s folk throng round him, and despoil
The yet warm body. Then Corynaeus snatched
A charred brand from the altar, and therewith.
As Ebysus rode up and sought to strike,
Dashed in his face the flame; his mighty beard
Blazed brightly, and sent forth a burning stench.
Following, he clutches in left hand the locks
Of his dazed foe, with push of bended knee
Pins him to earth, and buries the stark blade
Deep in his side. As shepherd Alsus rushed
Through showering darts along the battle’s front,
Lo! Podalirius with bare blade pursues
And overhangs him; but with axe swung back
Full in his face, he cleft him, brow to chin.
Drenching his armour with wide-spattered gore.
Stern rest and iron slumber seal his eyes.
And their orbs close in everlasting night.
But good Aeneas, stretching forth his hand
Unarmed the while, bare-headed, with loud shouts
Cried ever to his men: “Why storm ye forth?
Whence springs this sudden quarrel? O curb your ire!
The league is stricken, and all its laws allowed;
I only may do battle; balk me not,
And have no fear: this hand shall consummate
The treaty; by these rites is Turnus mine.”
As thus he spake, e’en in mid utterance, lo!
Wing-borne against him glides a whizzing shaft,
Launched by what hand, who steered its stormy speed,
Knows no man, nor what power, or chance, or god,
Glory so boundless to the Rutule brought;
The fame of that high deed lay locked from sight,
And none e’er boasted of Aeneas’ wound.
When Turnus marked Aeneas quit the host,
The chiefs dismayed, with sudden hope he fires.
Anon cries out for horses and for arms.
Springs proudly on the car, and grasps the reins.
In swift career full many a mighty form
He gives to death, or tumbles them half-slain.
Crushes whole ranks beneath his car, or plucks
Spear after spear, and hurls them on the fliers.
As when at furious speed, anigh the banks
Of Hebrus’ icy wave, blood-dabbled Mars
Clangs on his shield, and, rousing war, lets loose
His raging steeds; they scour the open plain
Swifter than south or west wind; utmost Thrace
Groans with their hoof-beat; all around him rush
Dark-frowning Fear and Wraths and Treacheries,
The god’s attendant train: so eager goads
Turnus his smoking steeds amid the fray,
Trampling the foe slain piteously; each hoof
At furious speed spirts showers of ruddy dew,
And ’neath their tread the sand is caked with gore.
Now Sthenelus to slaughter hath he given,
And Thamyrus and Pholus, this and this
Encountering close, that other from afar;
From far both Glaucus too and Lades, sons
Of Imbrasus, whom Imbrasus himself
In Lycia reared, and with like arms arrayed
To fight as footmen, or out-ride the winds.
Elsewhere Eumedes hies him to the fray.
The war-famed son of ancient Dolon he.
His grandsire’s name, his sire’s own doughty deeds
Renewing, who erst, upon the Danaan camp.
To creep and make espial, for wage dared ask
Pelides’ chariot; with far other wage
Dowered for his daring by great Tydeus’ son.
He to Achilles’ team no more aspires.
Him Turnus eyeing afar on open plain.
First with light dart through length of air pursues.
Then checks the twin yoked steeds, and leaps from car
To find him fall’n half-lifeless, on his neck
Plants foot, and wrests from his right hand the sword.
And in his throat dyes deep the glittering blade.
And thus withal speaks over him; “Lie there,
Trojan, and measure those Hesperian fields
Thou cam’st to fight for: lo! such meed they win.
So found their walls, who dare me to the fray.”
Next with hurled spear, to bear him company,
He sends Asbutes, Chloreus, Sybaris,
Dares, Thersilochus, and Thymoetes, flung
Prone from the neck of his unruly steed.
And as when Thracian Boreas with his blast
Roars o’er the deep Aegean, and pursues
Its billows to the shore, where swoop the winds.
The clouds scud fast through heaven, so yield the ranks
To Turnus, where he cleaves a path, and all
Their battle is swept backwards; his own speed
Impels him, and the breeze, his chariot breasts.
Tosses his flying plume. Such fierce assault
And stormy arrogance Phegeus might not brook;
He crossed the car’s path, grasped and wrenched aside
The mouths o’ the mad steeds foaming at the bit:
So dragged, and hanging to the yoke, the broad
Spear-head uncovered found him, and its thrust
Broke ope the corslet’s double-woven mail,
And tasted of his body. He nathless,
Shield set before him, facing still the foe,
From his bare blade sought succour, when the wheel
And onward-hurrying axle prone to earth
Smote him, and Turnus, stooping, with his sword
’Twixt helmet-edge and corslet’s topmost rim
Lopped off his head, and left the trunk to lie.
While Turnus thus triumphant o’er the plain
Deals havoc, Mnestheus and Achates true,
Ascanius at their side, in camp have set
Aeneas, now bleeding, every second step
Propped on his long spear. He, in rage of soul,
Striving to pluck forth barb and splintered shaft.
Calls for what aid lies nearest: let them cleave
With a broad battle-blade, probe deep, the wound
Where the barb lurks, and send him back to war.
And now lapis, son of lasus,
Dear before all to Phoebus, draws anigh.
Whom erst Apollo, by keen love subdued,
With his own arts and gifts — prophetic lore,
The lyre, and arrows swift — was fain to bless.
He, to protract his sire’s appointed span
Now nigh to death, the power of herbs to know,
The healer’s skill, chose rather, and to ply
A silent art, inglorious. Chafing sore.
Propped on his mighty spear, ’mid a vast throng
Of warriors, with Iulus grieving nigh,
Untroubled by their tears Aeneas stood.
The aged sire, his garb Paeonian-wise
Flung back and girt about him, with deft hand.
And Phoebus’ herbs of power, makes much ado
Vainly, with vain endeavour at the shaft
Pulls, or with biting pincer grips the barb.
Fortune no clue, no aid his patron-god
Apollo lends him; and now fiercer grows
The alarm of battle, and more nigh the bane.
They see the heaven up-stand in solid dust;
On come the horsemen, and amid their camp
Javelins fall thick and fast. A dismal shout
Is borne to heaven of those that fight and fall
’Neath the stern war-god’s hand. Then, mother-like,
Smit to the heart by her son’s cruel pain,
Venus from Cretan Ida culls a stalk
Of dittany, with downy leaves thick-fledged.
And purple flower; the wild goats know it well.
When winged arrows have fastened in their side.
This bare she down, veiled in a mantling mist,
And tinges therewithal fresh water, poured
In bright-brimmed vessel, darkly healing it.
And sprinkles life-juice from ambrosia bled.
And sweet-breathed panacea. With that lymph,
Unwitting, old lapis bathed the wound;
When lo! from out the limbs all pain hath passed,
All gush of blood in the deep wound is stayed;
And at a touch the arrow unimpelled
Out-falling, his old strength returns anew.

“Arms for the hero, quick! Why tarry ye?”
Loud cries lapis, and first fires their wrath
Against the foe. “Man’s power and master-craft
Work not such issues, nor doth hand of mine
Save thee, Aeneas; some mightier one, some god
Is operant here, and unto mightier deeds
Restores thee.” Ravenous for the fray meanwhile
He, right and left, had sheathed his legs in gold.
Spurning all checks, and brandishing his spear.
When shield to side, corslet to back were braced,
About Ascanius his mail’d arms he flung.
And lightly kissed him through the helm, and said:

“O boy, learn valour and true toil from me.
Fortune from others. Now shall my right hand
I Shield thee in fight, and lead where high rewards
Await the winning: hereafter look that thou.
When ripening years have made thee perfect man.
Be mindful, and the exemplars of thy race
Recalling, let Aeneas for thy sire,
Hector thine uncle, be thy spurs to fame.”
So having said, forth from the gate he strode
Gigantic, shaking his portentous spear:
Antheus and Mnestheus therewithal rush on
With serried column; from the abandoned camp
Streams the whole host. Then all the plain is blent
In one blind dust-cloud; the affrighted earth
Trembles beneath their foot-tread. Turnus saw
From an opposing height, as on they came;
The Ausonians saw, and through their inmost bones
Ran a chill shudder: instant before all
The Latin host Juturna heard the sound,
Knew it, and fled in terror. He speeds on,
Hurrying his dark line o’er the open plain.
As, when with bursting squall a hurricane
Drives landward o’er mid-ocean, hapless hinds
Shudder, afar foreboding; it will bring
Downfall to trees, destruction to the crops,
Whelm all in one wide havoc; the winds fly
Bearing its sound before it to the beach:
So speeds his war-host the Rhoeteian chief
Full on the foe; in wedges dense they close,
Massed at his side. Thymbraeus smites with sword
Osiris huge, Mnestheus Arcetius;
Achates hews in sunder Epulo,
And Gyas Ufens; falls Tolumnius too,
The Augur, who had first hurled hostile dart.
The cry mounts heaven, and Rutules, chased in turn,
Their backs with flight all dusty, scour the plain.
Himself, nor deigns he strike to death who fled.
Nor follow up who met him, foot to foot.
Or wielding javelins: Turnus, him alone,
He tracks, still circling through the battle’s night,
Bids him alone to combat. Hereupon
With fear heart-stricken, Juturna, the man-maid.
Flings forth Metiscus, Turnus’ charioteer,
From ’twixt the reins, and leaves him far behind
Fall’n from the pole, so leaps into his seat,
And, grasping, guides herself the wavy thongs,
Metiscus’ voice, form, arms, assuming all.
As a black swallow through the mansion flits
Of some rich lord, and skims the lofty hall
With circling pinion, for her noisy brood
Some tiny morsels gleaning, and now whirrs
Adown the empty corridors, and now
Round the moist fish-ponds; with like course to hers,
Juturna through the thickest foemen drives.
Careering o’er the field with flying car.
Now here, now there, her brother she displays
In triumph, yet suffers not in fight to close.
But whirls far off away, Aeneas no less
To meet him thrids the winding maze of war,
And tracks his steps, and through the sundered ranks
With mighty voice defies him. Oft as he
Spied out the foe, and strove afoot to match
The flying hooves, so oft Juturna wheeled
And turned the chariot. Ah! what can he do?
Tossed vainly on a restless tide, and called
Now this, now that way by conflicting cares!
At him Messapus, for his left hand chanced
To hold two supple javelins tipped with steel.
Up-speeding lightly, levelled and let fly
One with unerring aim. Aeneas stopped.
Huddled behind his shield, and on one knee
Sank; yet the swift spear took his helmet-top.
And smote away the crest-plume. Then up-surged
His ire, and, by their treachery constrained,
While steeds and chariot whirl away from sight,
Jove and the altars of their outraged league
Invoking oft to witness, ’mid the ranks
He bursts, and, terrible in victorious strength,
At last awakens indiscriminate
Grim carnage, and lets loose the reins of wrath.
What god may now in song for me tell o’er
The tale of horrors, diverse forms of death.
And fall of chieftains, whom o’er all the plain
Now Turnus, now the Trojan hero, drives?
Was it thy will, great Jove, that folk with folk.
To everlasting peace ordained, should rush
So furiously together? Aeneas meets
Sucro the Rutule — and that fight first checked
The Teucrian onset — but, not long detained,
Takes him in flank, and, by death’s quickest way.
Through ribs and breast-work drives his reeking blade.
Amycus and Diores, brothers twain,
Turnus unhorses, and confronts on foot;
One, still approaching, with long lance he strikes.
And one with sword-blade; the lopped heads of both
He bears, blood-dripping, fastened to his car.
Talos and Tanais and Cethegus brave.
Three at one rush, that other sends to death.
And sad Onites, Echionian name.
Offspring of Peridia. This strikes down
The brethren sent from Lycian land, and fields
Loved of Apollo, and, loathing war in vain.
Youthful Menoetes the Arcadian, who
By Lerna’s fishy stream had erst his craft
And full poor home, nor cares of greatness knew.
Whose father needs must hire the land he sowed.
As when two fires from points opposing fall
On a dry forest and brakes of rustling bay.
Or as, down-tumbling from the mountain-heights,
Roar foamy rivers, and, swept seaward, strew
Each its own path with ruin: so swift as they
Aeneas and Turnus through the battle rush;
Now, now wrath boils within them, and nigh burst
The indomitable hearts; now with main strength
They hurl them upon wounds. Murranus, still
Mouthing of sires and grandsires, names of yore —
A whole line downward traced through Latium’s kings —
Aeneas with whirl of a huge craggy rock
Dashed headlong from his car, and stretched on earth;
So lying ’neath reins and yoke, the rolling wheels
Dragged him, and with quick hoof-beat o’er his head
Trod the swift steeds, unmindful of their lord.
The other met Hyllus, as he rushed along
Immeasurably exulting in his pride,
And at his gold-bound temples hurls a dart;
Pierced helm and brain the weapon, and there stuck.
Nor could thine arm from Turnus win thee free,
Cretheus, of Greeks the bravest, nor his gods
Shield their Cupencus, as Aeneas drew nigh;
His bosom meets the invading bolt, nor aught
‘Steads the doomed wretch his brazen buckler’s stay.
Thee too Laurentum’s plain, O Aeolus.
Saw perish, and spread thy bulk on earth; thou fall st.
Whom Argive armies, nor Achilles’ self.
Wrecker of Priam’s realm, availed to slay.
Here was thy bourne of death; ’neath Ida’s hill
Thy stately home; thy stately home where lies
Lyrnesus, in Laurentum’s soil thy tomb.
Yea, the whole lines, now turning — Latins all,
All Dardans, Mnestheus and Serestus keen,
Messapus, steed-subduer, Asilas bold,
The Tuscan ranks, Evander’s Arcad horse —
Strain each to do man’s uttermost; no pause.
No respite, but one giant tug of war.
Now from his beauteous mother was the thought
Borne on Aeneas to draw nigh the walls,
Upon the city launch his host amain.
And with swift slaughter Latium’s folk confound.
As through the ranks from point to point he roves,
Still tracking Turnus with wide-circling eye.
He marks the city from all that conflict free,
At ease and unmolested. Fires his heart
Forthwith the vision of a mightier fray;
Mnestheus, Sergestus, and Serestus bold.
His chiefs, he summons, and plants him on a mound.
Where all the remnant of the Teucrian host
Throng dense around, but loosed not hold of shield
Or javelin. Midmost on the hillock’s height
Erect he cries: “Let naught my bidding stay —
Jove with us stands — nor any man the more
That sudden seem the call, be slack to go.
To-day this city, the cause of war, itself
Latinus’ seat of sovereignty, will I —
Except they take my bridle in their mouth,
Confess a conqueror’s bidding — topple o’er.
And level with the dust her smoking towers.
Am I to wait, forsooth, till Turnus choose
To bide our onset, and, once beaten, brook
The fight’s renewal? Here stands the head and front,
O countrymen, of this accursed war.
Bring torches quick! with tongues of fire reclaim
The treaty.” He had said, when all, as one,
With emulous hearts, wedge-welded, on the walls
In dense array bear down, and in a trice
Lo! ladders, and the flash of sudden fire!
Some, scattering for the gates, who front them slay;
Some hurl the steel, and darken heaven with darts;
Aeneas, his right hand toward the rampart raised,
Chides with loud voice Latinus, in their van,
Bids heaven attest him forced again to fight.
The folk of Italy twice o’er his foes,
And snapped the second treaty. Strife up-springs
Betwixt the fluttered townsmen; some bid ope
The city-gates, let in the Dardans, yea.
Would to the ramparts hale their very king;
Others bring arms, and haste to man the walls.
As, when some shepherd hath a swarm of bees
Tracked to their hiding in the caverned crag.
With smarting smoke he fills it; they, within.
Scared for their safety, through the waxen camp
Dart wildly, and with loud buzzings whet their wrath;
The black stench rolls from cell to cell; anon
Is heard a hum, rock-stifled, and smoke soars
Into the void of air.
This further fate
Befel the war-worn Latins, and with grief
Shook the whole city to its base. The queen,
When from her towers she sees the approaching foe,
Her walls assailed, fire to the house-roofs fly,
No Rutule host, no sign of Turnus near
In arms to meet them, deems, unhappy soul.
Her champion quenched in onset, and, distraught
With sudden agony, shrieks against herself.
As cause and guilty source of all their woe;
Then in a frenzy of anguish uttering
Mad words a many, resolved to die, she grasps
And rends her purple raiment, and knits fast
To the high beam a noose of hideous death.
Whose woful end when Latium’s women knew,
Lavinia first, her daughter, with rude clutch
Tore flower-like locks and vermeil cheek; then all
The rest around her throng, one frenzied rout;
Rings the wide palace with their wail. From hence
Through the whole city the dark tidings spread;
Hearts sink; Latinus with rent raiment goes.
Stunned by his consort’s fate, the city’s doom.
Soiling his white hair with unsightly dust.
But Turnus, battling on the plain’s last verge.
Still drives the minished stragglers, more and more
Slackening, the while, and ever less and less
Exulting in his steeds’ victorious course.
Blent with blind terrors came the wind-borne cry.
And from the city smote his straining ears
Sound of confusion, and no joyful hum.

“Ah me! what mighty anguish shakes the walls?
What shrill cry from the city speeds afar?”
So saying, half frantic he draws rein, and halts.
To whom his sister, wearing still the form
Of charioteer Metiscus, as she swayed
Steeds, reins, and chariot, thus gives counter-word:

“This way pursue we yet the sons of Troy,
Turnus, where quickest victory clears a path;
Others there are may strike for house and home.
Aeneas falls hotly on Italia’s folk,
And spreads the broil of battle; hurl we too
Fierce havoc on the Teucrians: nor in fame,
Nor tale of dead, shalt thou come worse away.”

“Sister, long since I knew thee,” Turnus cried,
“When first by stratagem didst mar the league,
And plunge into the fight; and vainly now
Would’st cloak thy godhead. But by whom wert sent
From high Olympus, such sore toils to bear?
Was it thy brother’s piteous death to see?
For what can I? What pledge of safety yet
Doth Fortune yield me? Nay, these very eyes
Saw perish, and with my name upon his lips,
Murranus, dearest-left of all my friends.
Mighty, and vanquished by a mighty wound.
Fell ill-starred Ufens, not to see my shame;
His corse, his arms, are now the Teucrians’ spoil.
And shall I suffer — that alone was left —
Our home’s upheaval? nor with blows rebut
The taunts of Drances? Shall I fly? — this land
See Turnus play the runagate? Is death
A lot so grievous? O ye Powers of hell.
Befriend me, for heaven’s face is turned away.
To you, a stainless Shade, will I descend.
Witless of that foul wrong, nor ever yet
Degenerate from my mighty sires of old.”
Scarce had he said when through the foemen’s midst
Lo! Saces, borne upon a foamy steed.
Comes rushing, full in face an arrow-wound,
By name conjuring Turnus as he flies:

“Turnus, in thee is our last hope of life;
Have pity on thine own. Aeneas in arms
Lightens and thunders, threatening to hurl down,
Raze utterly, the tall Italian towers;
E’en now their firebrands to the house-roofs fly.
On thee their looks, their eyes, the Latins bend;
The King himself, Latinus, muttering, doubts
Whom to call son, to whose alliance turn.
Ay, and the queen, thine ever staunchest friend.
Self-slain, hath fled in terror from the light.
Messapus, keen Atinas, at the gates
Are our sole props of battle. Around these
The serried lines throng close, and with bare blades
Bristles the iron harvest: thou the while
Whirlest thy chariot o’er an empty plain.”
Wildered with manifold imaginings
Stood Turnus, mutely gazing; in one heart
Seethe boundless shame, and madness mix’d with grief,
And frenzy-goaded love, and conscious worth.
Soon as, the darkness from his heart dispelled.
Light dawned afresh, toward the walls he bent
His burning eyeballs stormily, and glanced
Back from his chariot on the mighty town;
When lo! a spire of wreathed flame, rolled on
From floor to floor, went wavering up to heaven.
And clasped the tower, the tower which his own hand
Of welded beams had reared, and under it
Set wheels, and from aloft high gangways hung.

“Now, sister, now Fate masters us; forbear
To hold me loitering; follow me where heaven
And cruel fortune call. Resolved am I
To grapple with Aeneas, resolved to bear
The utmost of death’s bitterness; no more
Shalt see me shamed, my sister. Thus far first
Suffer the madman to give madness way.”
He spake, and swiftly leapt from car to plain.
And dashed through foes, through javelins, and there left
His sister sorrowing, and at furious speed
Cleaves the mid battle-ranks. As, when a crag
From mountain-top shoots headlong, torn away
By the wind’s blast — whether with stormy shower
Washed free, or loosened by slow lapse of years —
With mighty rush relentless the mass swings
Down the abyss, and riots o’er the plain,
Men, flocks, and forests rolled along with it;
So rushes Turnus through the scattered ranks
On to the city-walls, where streams the earth
Deepest with torrent-gore, and sings the wind
With missiles, and there beckons with his hand,
And with loud voice begins: “Rutules, forbear.
And hold your darts, ye Latins; mine to-day
The award of Fortune, whatsoe’er it be.
Let me — ’tis meeter — for your broken troth
Sole penance pay, my sword alone decide.”
The mid ranks part asunder and make room.
But sire Aeneas, hearing Turnus’ name.
Forsakes the wall, forsakes the lofty towers.
Spurns all delay, breaks off all enterprise.
Exultant, and clangs terribly his arms:
Vast as mount Athos, or as Eryx vast;
Sire Apennine no vaster, when he roars
Through all his quivering holm-oaks, and aloft
With snowy crest soars jubilant to heaven.
Now Rutules, Trojans, and Italians all
Turn emulous eyes — who held the lofty towers,
Nor less who battered at the walls below —
And shield from shoulder drop. Latinus e’en
Stood all amazed those mighty ones to see,
Born in far distant climes, met man to man,
To try the sword’s arbitrament. But they.
Soon as the plain gave open space, dart forth,
Hurl from afar their spears, and with loud clang
Of brazen bucklers dash into the fray.
Earth groans, and thick and fast the sword-strokes shower,
Valour with chance commingling. Even as when
On mighty Sila or Taburnus’ top
Two bulls for fierce encounter each on each
Rush, brow to brow; the affrighted keepers fly;
The herd stands hushed in fear; the heifers muse
Which of the twain shall lord it o’er the grove.
Which all the kine must follow; they mix amain
Blow upon blow, and gore with butting horns;
Blood streams o’er neck and shoulder; all the grove
Rebellows with the roar: not otherwise
Trojan Aeneas and the Daunian chief
Clash shields together; the vast din fills heaven.
Two scales at equipoise in his own hand
Holds Jupiter, and sets therein of both
The diverse destinies — whom travail dooms.
Whose weight with death sinks downward. Hereupon
Forth Turnus darts, of danger dreaming not.
Rears his whole height to the uplifted sword.
And strikes. Trojans and Latins all a-quake
Cry out; both armies stand at eager gaze.
But snaps the treacherous weapon, in mid stroke
Failing its fiery master, except flight
Befriend him. Swifter than the wind he flies
At sight of a strange hilt in swordless hand.
Folk say when first the harnessed battle-car
He mounted, his sire’s sword in headlong haste
Then left behind him, he caught up the brand
Of charioteer Metiscus; and, while yet
The straggling Teucrians turned their backs in flight.
Long time it served him; but with Vulcan’s arms
Of a god’s making matched, the mortal blade
Like brittle ice fell shivered at a stroke —
Mere splinters glittering on the tawny sand.
So Turnus madly scours the plain in flight,
And hither, thither, weaves a wayward maze;
For round him closed the Teucrians’ ring, and here
Spreads a waste fen, here girdling ramparts tower.
Nor less Aeneas, though, hindered by the wound.
His knees oft fail him, and their speed deny.
Pursues and hotly presses, stride by stride.
The panting foe: as, when a hound of chase
Lights on a stag hemmed in by river-bend.
Or hedged about with scare of crimson plumes,
With foot and clamorous tongue it plies him; he.
Or of the toils, or the steep bank afeard.
Darts here, darts there, a thousand ways; but close
Clings the keen Umbrian open-mouthed, and seems
Now, now to clutch him, and, as though he clutched,
Snaps with his jaws, and baffled bites the air.
Ah! then a shout uprises; marge and mere!
Re-echo round; all heaven roars back the din.
He flying upbraids the while, calls, each by name.
The Rutules, clamouring for the sword he knew.
Aeneas in turn vows death and present doom.
Should one approach, and scares the tremblers more,
Threatening to dash their city to the dust.
And, wounded, still pursues him. Circles five
They measure in their course, as oft again
Unravel and retrace them; for not light
The prize they seek, nor trivial; the heart’s blood
And very life of Turnus are at stake.
A bitter-leaved wild olive, as it chanced.
Sacred to Faunus, had here stood, a tree
Revered of old by seamen, where they wont.
Snatched from the billows, to set gifts, and hang
Their votive raiment to Laurentum’s god.
But Teucrian hands indifferently had shorn
The sacred trunk away, thereby to win
Clear space for shock of battle. Here stood fixed
The lance of Aeneas; hither its own rush
Had driven, and in the tough root held it fast.
The son of Dardanus bent over it,
Fain by sheer strength to wrench the weapon free,
And follow up with spear, whom catch with speed
He could not. Then at last, with terror crazed.
Cried Turnus: “Pity me, O Faun, I pray,
And, kind earth, keep the weapon, if I still
Held dear your honours, which the Aeneadae
Have with foul war polluted”. So he spake.
Nor to vain prayers invoked the aid of heaven.
For wrestling, lingering o’er the stubborn stem,
No strength availed Aeneas to prise ope
The knotty vice. While hard he tugs and strains.
Forth darts the Daunian goddess, changed once more
To charioteer Metiscus, and restores
Her brother the lost sword. Then Venus, wroth
At the nymph’s chartered arrogance, drew near.
And from the deep root wrenched the weapon free.
So both elate, with arms and courage new.
He trusting to his sword, and he with spear
Impetuously up-towering, take their stand
Face to face, panting, in the lists of war.
Meanwhile the lord of heaven’s almighty throne
To Juno speaks, as from a golden cloud
She marks the strife: “Say, what shall be the end,
O consort? or what yet remains to do?
Full well thou knowest, and dost thyself allow.
Heaven claims Aeneas a tutelary god,
Fate lifts him to the stars. What schem’st thou yet?
With what hope hang’st amid these chilly clouds?
A god by mortal wounded — was it meet?
Or — for what could Juturna without thee? —
“In Turnus’ hand to set the sword anew,
And re-invigorate the vanquished? Nay,
Give o’er at length, and bend thee to my prayers;
Let not such grief thy silent heart devour,
Nor bitter woes from thy sweet lips so oft
Return to vex me. Lo! the bound is reached;
To chase the Teucrians over land or wave
Thou hast had power, to kindle monstrous strife,
Mar a fair home, and mix the bridal song
With mourning: further venture I forbid.”
Thus Jupiter; and thus with look demure
Replies Saturnia: “E’en because thy will
Was known to me, great Jove, have I forsook
Turnus and earth, unwilling; else should’st thou
Not see me thus on my lone airy seat,
Patient of foul or fair; but girt with fire
I on the battle’s very verge had stood
Drawing the Teucrians on to deadly fray.
Juturna — I confess— I moved to aid
Her hapless brother, for his life’s sake allowed
Scope to her daring; not to hurl the dart.
Or bend the bow; I swear it by the source
Of Stygian wave inexorable, sole awe
Of binding-power vouchsafed to gods above.
Well, now I yield, and, loathing, quit the strife.
One boon, withholden by no law of fate,
For Latium, for thy kindred’s majesty,
I beg thee: when with happy bridal-rites
They pledge the peace — so be it — when now they knit
Their terms of treaty, bid them not put by
The native name of Latins, nor become
Trojans, or pass for Teucrians on men’s lips,
Nor alien speech assume, nor altered garb.
Let Latium, and let Alban kings endure
For ages; be there still a Roman stock,
Strong with Italian valour. Troy is fallen.
And, name with nation, let the fallen lie.”
The Author of mankind and all that is
Smiling made answer: “Jove’s own sister thou,
And Saturn’s other offspring, such wild waves
Of passion heav’st within thy bosom’s depth!
But come, this unavailing wrath allay:
Thy suit I grant, and willing let thee win.
Ausonia’s folk their native tongue shall keep
And customs; and, as now, their name shall be;
The Teucrians shall but in the mass be merged
And settle; I myself will add their rites
Of ceremonial worship, and make all
Of one tongue, Latins. Hence shall spring a race
Blent of Ausonian blood, whom thou shalt see
Outsoar mankind, outsoar the very gods,
In duty; nor shall any race beside
Pay thee like homage.” Juno at the word
Assents, and with changed purpose, blithe at heart.
Anon withdraws from heaven, and quits the cloud.
This done, the Sire, revolving in his heart
Yet more, bestirs him from her brother’s aid
To part Juturna. There are monsters twain,
Yclept the Furies, at one selfsame birth
Born, with Megaera’s hellish shape, of Night
That knows no seasons, and with serpent-coils
Wreathed each alike, and dowered with windy wings.
These at Jove’s throne and on the threshold wait
Of the fierce monarch, and whet terror’s edge
In suffering mortals, whensoe’er heaven’s king
Launches disease and direful death, or scares
With war offending cities. One of these
Swiftly from heaven’s cope Jupiter sent down.
And bade confront Juturna, for a sign.
She speeds, borne earthward on the hurrying blast.
As some cloud-piercing arrow, shot from string.
Which Parthian in fell venom-bane hath dipped —
Or Parthian or Cydonian — and launched forth,
A shaft past healing-power; with strident sound
It skims the rushing darkness, known of none;
So, journeying earth-ward, sped the child of Night.
When Ilium’s host and Turnus’ ranks she viewed,
Shrunk suddenly into a small bird’s shape.
Which oft on tomb or lonely roof-top sits.
And nightly shrills a late ill-boding lay
Through darkness — in such altered guise the fiend
Flits shrieking, and still flits in Turnus’ face,
Flapping his shield with pinion-strokes. A strange
And fearful numbness loosed his limbs; his hair
Stood stiff with horror, the voice stuck in his throat.
But when from far the Fury’s whistling wings
She knew, Juturna, hapless one, rent loose
Her tresses, and marred, sister-like, her face
With wounding nails, and with clench’d hands her breast.

“How shall thy sister stead thee, Turnus, now?
What more avails my hardihood? Wherewith
May I prolong thy hfe-day, or how face
A pest so dire? Now, now I quit the field:
Fright not the trembler more, ye birds of bale;
I know your wing-beat and its deathful whirr;
The haughty mandates of imperious Jove
I miss not. Quits he thus my maiden loss?
Why dowered he me with life eternal? Why
Of mortal’s lot bereaved me? I might else
Surely have ended all these miseries.
Trod the dark road at my poor brother’s side.
Immortal! I? could aught of all I have,
Brother, be sweet without thee? Ah! might Earth
Somewhere yawn deep enough to serve my need,
And hurl me — goddess — to the ghosts below!”
She ceased, her head in grey-green mantle wrapped,
Sore sighing, and plunged beneath her sacred pool.
Aeneas pressed onward, brandishing his spear.
Huge, like a tree-trunk, and with wrathful heart
Made utterance: “What delays thee next? why still
So backward, Turnus? Not with speed of foot
Strive we, but in grim arms, and hand to hand.
Shift to all shapes, yea, muster all thou can’st
Of craft or valour; pray now to wing aloft
The star-way, or in earth’s pent hollows hide.”
He shook his head: “Thy fiery words, fierce man.
Affright me not; the gods and adverse Jove
Affright me”. There he ceased, and, glancing round.
Spied a vast stone, an ancient stone and vast.
Which chanced to lie there, for a landmark pitched,
’Twixt rival fields to sever, on the plain.
Scarce could twice six, of such as earth in bulk
Now bears, upon their necks have heaved it; he
Caught with quick hand and hurled it on the foe.
High-towering, and at hero’s utmost speed.
Yet knew he not himself, as on he rushed.
Or reared aloft and swung the mighty stone;
But his knees totter, his blood curdles cold:
Nor the stone’s self, which through the void he whirled.
Sped to full distance, or brought home the blow.
E’en as in dreams of night, when languorous sleep
Weighs down the eyelids, with vain wish we seem
Some eager course to ply, but helpless sink
E’en in mid effort; and the tongue lacks power,
And the limbs’ wonted strength besteads us not.
Nor voice nor utterance follows: even so,
Strain as his valour might, the goddess fell
Bars Turnus from fulfilment. Through his heart
Shift changeful phantasies; on Rutule host
And on.the town he gazes, and with dread
Falters, and quails before the impending lance;
Nor whither ’scape, with what force meet the foe.
Nor car he sees, nor sister-charioteer.
E’en as he faltered his death-bearing dart
Aeneas brandished, marking with his eye
The happy moment, then with all his bulk
Hurled it against him. Never stone so crashed.
Flung from the leaguer’s engine, nor such roar
Burst with the fire-bolt. Like a black typhoon.
Laden with dire destruction, sped the spear.
And rending ope the warrior’s corslet-rims
And utmost circle of his sevenfold shield.
Right through the thigh rushed hurtling. At the blow
Turnus fell huge to earth on bended knee.
Upsurge the Rutules with one groan, and all
The mountain round rebellows, and far off
The forest-depths reverberate the cry.
Lowly, with up-cast eyes, a suppliant hand
Outstretching, “I have earned it,” he exclaims,
“Nor deprecate my doom; thy fortune use.
If a sad father’s yearning heart at all
Can touch thee, I implore — thou too had’st such
A sire, Anchises — upon Daunus old
Have pity, and me, or, if thou wilt, my corse
Reft of the daylight, to mine own restore.
Thou art the victor; and Ausonia’s folk
Have seen me stretch forth vanquished hands; ’tis thine
To wed Lavinia; further hate forgo.”
Fierce in his arms, with rolling eyeballs, stood
Aeneas, and checked his hand; and more and more
The words ’gan work upon his faltering will,
When high on shoulder lo! the luckless belt
Lay bare, and with its well-known bosses gleamed
The girdle of young Pallas, whom erewhile
Turnus with wound had vanquished, and laid low,
And now on shoulder bore the fatal badge.
Soon as those relics — record of fierce grief —
His eyes drank in, with sudden frenzy fired,
And terrible in his wrath: “Would’st thou go hence —
Tricked in my comrade’s trophies ’scape my hand?
Thou art Pallas’ victim; Pallas deals this blow,
And claims the forfeit of thy felon blood.”
So saying, with fiery force he plunged the steel
Full in his bosom. But the warrior’s limbs
Grow chilled and slackened, and the spirit flies
Moaning indignant to the Shades below.