While all this happened far away, queen Juno
Sent Iris down from heaven to bold Turnus.
She found him resting in a sacred valley,
Pilumnus’ grove, his ancestor; all radiant
She spoke to him:—“No god would promise, Turnus,
This answer to your prayers, but the turn of time
Has put it in your hands. Aeneas has gone,
Leaving the town, the fleet, and his companions,
Seeking the realm of Palatine Evander,
And more than that: he has won some cities over,
He calls the Etruscan countrymen to arms.
What are you waiting for? Now is the time
For chariot and horse. Break off delay,
Take the bewildered camp!” She spoke, and rose
Skyward on even wings, and under the clouds
Cut her great soaring arc. And Turnus knew her,
And raised his hands to the sky, and followed her flight:—
“O Iris, pride of heaven, who sent you to me
Through clouds to earth? Whence comes this storm of brightness?
I see the heavens part, and the stars wheeling
Across the sky. I follow these great omens,
Whoever calls to arms.” And, with the word,
He went to the stream, took water up, prayed often,
Making his vows to all the gods of heaven.

And now, over all the plain, the army was coming,
Rich in caparison, and rich in horses,
In gold and broidered robes, Messapus leading,
And Turnus in the center, and Tyrrhus’ sons
As captains in the rear: they stream as Ganges
Streams when his seven quiet tides flood over,
Or Nile resents his deep confining channel.
The Trojans see the sudden cloud, black dust
Thickening over the plain, and darkness rising,
And Caicus cries from the rampart:—“What is this,
O fellow-citizens, this rolling darkness?
Bring the swords quickly, bring weapons, climb the walls,
Here comes the enemy, yea! Hurry, hurry!”
Trojans, and noise, pour through the gates together.
Men fill the walls. For so, on his departure,
Aeneas had given orders: if something happened,
They should not risk a battle in the open,
They should only guard the camp, protect the ramparts.
So, much as they would love to mix in battle,
Anger and shame give way to prompt obedience.
They bar the gates; protected by their towers
They wait while the foe comes on. And Turnus, riding
Impatient past his dawdling column, is there
Before the city knows it. He has twenty
Fast riders with him, his mount a piebald Thracian,
His helmet gold with crimson crest. He cries,
“Who will be first with me? Will anybody
Be first with me against them? Let them have it!”
And with the word, he lets the javelin fly,
First sign of battle; and they cheer and follow
And wonder a little at the Trojans, cowards
Who dare not fight in the open, man to man,
Who hug their walls for comfort. Round and round,
Turnus, a wild man, rides, seeking an entrance,
But there is no way in. He is like a wolf
Lurking about a sheep-fold, snarling at midnight
Beside the pens, enduring wind and rain,
While the bleating lambs are safe beneath the ewes,
And he, unable to get at them, rages
Fierce and dry-throated in the drive of hunger;
So Turnus looks at wall and camp, and passion
Burns hot within him, burns to his very bones.
How to get in? or how to yank the Trojans
Out of their cloister, smear them over the plain?
Ah, but the fleet is there, beside the camp,
Sheltered by earthworks and the flowing river:
There lies the chance! He calls for fire, he hurls it,
The burning torch, and his hand, almost, is burning,
And all of them pitch in—Turnus has shown them,
And Turnus eggs them on—they are armed with firebrands,
They rob the hearths; the tar flares lurid yellow
Against the grey of the cloud, the soot and ashes.

What god, O Muses, turned the fire? Who saved
The Trojan ships? Remind me—the story is old,
Men have believed it long, its glory endless.
When first Aeneas built the fleet on Ida,
Preparing for deep seas, the mother of gods,
Queen Cybele, spoke to Jove:—“Grant me, my son,
Lord of Olympus now, a mother’s prayer.
I had a pine-wood on the mountain-top,
And men, for many years, brought offerings there,
I loved that forest, dark with fir and maple,
But when the Trojan lacked a fleet, I gave him
My timber gladly; now my heart is troubled.
Relieve my fear, and let a mother’s pleading
Keep them from wreck on any course, unshaken
By any whirlwind. Grown upon our mountains,
They should have privilege.” Her son, the swayer
Of the stars of the world, replied, “What call, O mother,
Is this you make on fate? What are you seeking?
Should keels laid down by mortal hand have title
To life immortal? Should Aeneas travel
Through danger, unendangered? Such power is given
No god in heaven. But I make this promise:
After their course is run, after the harbors
In Italy receive them, safe from ocean,
And with Aeneas landed in Laurentum,
I will take away their mortal shape, I will make them
Goddesses of the sea, like Nereus’ daughter,
Like Galatea, the nymphs who breast the foam.”
So Jupiter promised, and, as gods do, took oath,
By the rivers of his brother under the world,
The banks that seethe with the black pitchy torrent,
And made Olympus tremble with his nod.

The promised day had come, the fates had finished
The allotted span, when Turnus’ desecration
Warned Cybele to keep the torch and firebrand
Far from her holy vessels. A new light blazed
In mortal sight, and from the east a cloud
Ran across heaven, and choirs from Ida followed,
And a dread voice came down the air:—“O Trojans,
Be in no hurry to defend my vessels,
You have no need of arms; Turnus, most surely,
Will burn the seas before he burns these pine-trees.
Go forth in freedom, goddesses of ocean,
The Mother wills it so.” And each ship parted
Cable from bank, and dove to the deep water
As dolphins dive, and reappeared as maiden,—
Oh marvel!—and all of them bore out to ocean.

Rutulian hearts were stunned, their captains shaken,
Their steeds confused and frightened; even Tiber
Shrank back from the sea, and the murmuring stream protested.
But Turnus kept his nerve, his words rang loud
In challenge to their courage:—“These are portents
To make the Trojans timid; Jove has taken
Their comfort from them; the ships they always fled in
Run from Rutulian fire and sword; the oceans
Are pathless for the Trojans now, their hope
Of flight all gone: half of their world is taken,
And the earth is in our hands, Italians, thousands,
Thousands of us in arms. I am not frightened,
However they boast of oracles from heaven.
Venus and fate have had their share: the Trojans
Have done enough even to touch our richness,
The Ausonian fields. I have my omens, also,
To match with theirs, a sword to slay the guilty,
Death for the rape of brides! Not Atreus’ sons,
Not only Menelaus and Mycenae,
Know what this hurt can be, this need for vengeance,
This right to take up arms. Once to have perished,
They tell us, is enough. Once to have sinned
Ought to have been enough and more. Hereafter
All women should be hateful to them, cowards
Hiding behind the sheltering moat and rampart,
The little barriers that give them courage!
Have they not seen the walls that Neptune built them
Sink in the fires? Which one of you is ready,
Brave hearts, to slash their barriers with the sword,
To join me in the onrush? I do not need
The arms of Vulcan, nor a thousand vessels
Against the Trojans. Let them have Etruria!
One thing, at least, they need not fear,—the darkness,
The sneaking theft of their Palladium image,
Guards slain in the dark, hiders in horse’s belly;
I fight in open daylight, I have fire
To put around their walls, I will teach them something,—
Their business now is not with those Greek heroes
Whom Hector kept at bay for ten long years.
Now day is almost over; you have done
Good work; rest now; be happy, be preparing,
Be hopeful for the battles of to-morrow.”

Meanwhile, the guards were posted, under orders
Of Messapus, their officer; and the walls
Were ringed with fire. Fourteen Rutulian captains
Led, each, a hundred men, bright in their gold,
Plumed in their crimson, on patrol or resting,
Or sprawling on the grass, gambling or drinking;
The fires burn bright, the sentinels are watchful.

Above them, from the wall, the Trojans, waiting,
Maintain the heights with arms, and, anxious, test
The strength of the gates, link bridge and battlement,
Warriors in harness. Mnestheus and Serestus
Urge on the work; they were to be the leaders,
Aeneas said, in the event of trouble.
Along the walls the host mounts guard; they share
Relief and danger in turn, each at his post.

Nisus, quick-handed with the javelin
And the light arrows, very keen in arms,
Stood guard beside the gate, Nisus, a son
Of Hyrtacus, sent by the huntress Ida
To join Aeneas; and near-by his friend
Euryalus; no Trojan was more handsome
Than he was, that first bloom of youth. They shared
Assignments always, side by side in the charge,
And side by side defenders. Here they were
Together on sentry-duty at the gate.
Nisus burst out:—“Euryalus, what is it?
Do the gods put this ardor in our hearts
Or does each man’s desire become his god?
I want much more than this, I am not contented
With all this peace and calm; my mind keeps calling
To battle, or something big. Look! The Rutulians
Are far too confident: their lights are scattered;
They lie asleep or drunk; and all is silent.
Listen! I have a plan. People and fathers
Demand Aeneas, ask that men be sent him
With information. If I can make them promise
To let you go—(the glory of the action
Is all I want myself)—I think that I
Can find the way around that hill, can manage
To reach the walls and fort of Pallanteum.”
This shook Euryalus: a great love of praise
Spoke in his answer to his eager comrade:—
“What, Nisus? Are you planning to leave me out
In this bold scheme, planning to go alone
Into such dangers? No; no, no. I am
Opheltes’ son, a warrior trained among
Greek terror and Trojan suffering; and I follow,
With you, great-souled Aeneas and his fortunes.
I have a spirit, not too fond of living,
Not too dissatisfied to buy with death
The honor that you strive for.” Nisus answered:—
“I had no fear on your account, be certain;
That would be shameless of me: so may Jove,
Or any god that looks on this with favor,
Bring me back home triumphant. But disaster,
As well you know, or god, or chance, might take me:
If so, your youth being worthier, I’d have you
Be my survivor, give to earth my body,
Rescued or ransomed, or pay the final honor
To, it might be, an empty tomb. I would not
Cause sorrow to the only woman of many
Who scorned Acestes’ city, and came on
With you, her only son.” But then the other
Replied:—“There is no use in all this talking.
My mind is fixed, and we had better hurry.”
He roused the guards; new men came on; together
Euryalus and Nisus seek their leader.

All other creatures over all the world
Were easing their troubles in slumber, and hearts forgot
Sorrow and pain; not so the Trojan leaders
Meeting in council. Here were things of moment;
What should they do? how would they reach Aeneas?
They stood there, leaning on long spears, most gravely,
Holding their shields. Euryalus and Nisus
Crave instant audience; the matter is urgent,
They say, and worth a little interruption.
Iulus takes the lead, meets their impatience,
Tells Nisus to speak out. “Give us a hearing,
O men of Troy,” says Nisus, “do not hold
Our years against us: we have something for you.
All the Rutulians are drunk or sleeping,
They are quiet now. There is a place, we know it,
We have seen it with our eyes, a place that cunning
Can take advantage of: you know the gate
Nearest the sea, and how the road splits off there.
The watchfires there die down, and the black smoke rises
Dark to the sky out there. Give us a chance!
Let us go to find Aeneas and Pallanteum.
You will see us here again; it will not be long
Till we come back, weighed down with spoil. We will kill them.
We will not miss the way; we have seen the city
Far in the distant valleys. We go hunting
Along here often; we know all the river.
We know it all by heart.” And old Aletes,
A wise man in a council, gave the answer:—
“Gods of our ancestors, under whose guidance
Troy is and has been, always, our destruction
Must be far off, seeing your care has brought us
Young men of such high heart and lofty spirit.”
In deep emotion, his hands reached out for theirs,
His arms went round their shoulders. “What can I give you,
Young men,” he cried, “worthy your praise and glory?
The best rewards come from the gods, the finest
From your own character, but good Aeneas
Will not forget your service, and your peer
In age, Ascanius, surely will remember.”
And that young man broke in, “Most truly, Nisus,
I trust my fortune to you. My only safety
Lies in my sire’s return. By all our gods,
I beg you both, I pray, bring back my father.
Our trouble goes when he is here. I promise
Two silver wine-cups, captured from Arisba,
A pair of tripods, two great talents of gold,
An ancient bowl, the present of queen Dido.
And if we capture Italy, if we live
To wield the sceptre and divide the spoil,
You know the horse that Turnus rides, the armor
He carries on his back, all gold—that armor,
The shield, the crimson plumes, and the war-horse, Nisus,
Are your reward; even now, I so declare them.
My father will give twelve women, beautiful captives,
And captive men, equipped with arms, and land
Now held by king Latinus; and I cherish
With all my heart, Euryalus, your courage.
Your years are near my own, and all my life
Your glory will be mine; in peace or war,
In word and deed, I trust in you, completely.”
Euryalus replied:—“No day will ever
Prove me unworthy of brave deeds, if fortune
Is kind, not cruel, to me. I ask one thing
Better than any gift: I have a mother
Of Priam’s ancient line, and she came with me,
Poor soul, from Troy, and king Acestes’ city
Was powerless to keep her. I leave her now
With never a word about what I am doing,
Whatever its danger is, with no farewell.
I cannot bear a mother’s tears. I beg you,
Comfort her helplessness, relieve her sorrow.
Let me take with me that much hope; it will help me
Face any risk more boldly.” They were weeping
At this, the Trojans, all of them, Iulus
More deeply touched than any. And he spoke:—
“Be reassured, Euryalus; all we do
Will prove as worthy as your glorious mission.
Your mother shall be mine, in all but name;
Great honor waits the mother of a son
So great in honor. Whatever fortune follows,
I vow and swear it, with an oath as solemn
As any my father ever took, I promise,
When you return to us, safe and successful,
Your triumph and your glory and your prizes
Shall be for her as well, for all your house.”
He spoke with tears, and from his sword-belt took
A present in farewell, the golden sword,
The ivory scabbard, wonderfully fashioned
By old Lycaon’s talent; Mnestheus gave
A lion-skin to Nisus, and Aletes
Exchanged his helmet with him. As they started,
All the great company, young men and old ones,
Went with them to the gate, and out beyond it
The hopeful prayers attended them. Iulus,
Mature beyond his years, gave many a message
To carry to Aeneas, but the winds
Bore these away and swept them off to cloudland.

And now they have crossed the trench, and through night’s shadow
Invade the hostile camp; they are bound to be
The doom of many. They see the bodies sprawling
In drunken sleep, the chariots half turned over,
Men lying under the wheels and among the reins,
And Nisus whispers:—“Euryalus, we must
Be bold; the chance is given; here lies our way.
Watch and keep back, lest some one steal upon us
Along the trail behind. I lead, you follow
Where I have cut the way; it will be a broad one.”
His voice was silent; and he drew the sword
At Rhamnes, cushioned on high covers, lying
In a deep slumber, breathing deep, a king
And Turnus’ favorite augur, but his doom
No augury prevented. Nisus struck
Three slaves, and then the armor-bearer of Remus,
And Remus’ charioteer—their necks were severed
With steel, and their lord Remus was beheaded.
The trunk spurts blood, the earth and couch are darkened
With blood, black-flowing. Lamyrus and Lamus
Are slain, and young Serranus, handsome gambler
Who had won high stakes that night, and slept contented
Smiling at the gods’ favor, luckier surely
If he had lost all night. A starving lion
Loose in a sheepfold with the crazy hunger
Urging him on, gnashing and dragging, raging
With bloody mouth against the fearful feeble,
So Nisus slaughters. And his savage comrade
Keeps pace with him: Fadus is slain, Herbesus,
Rhoetus, Abaris, all of them unconscious,
Murdered in sleep. One of them, Rhoetus, wakened
A little, saw, and tried to hide, and crouching
Behind a wine-bowl, took the sword, and rose,
Stumbled and sprawled and belched, the red life spurting
Out of the mouth, red wine, red blood. All hotly
Euryalus went on. Messapus’ quarters
Are next in line; the fires burn low, the horses,
Tether-contented, graze. Then, briefly, Nisus,
Sensing his comrade’s recklessness in slaughter,
Calls:—“Light is near, our enemy; give over,
We have killed enough, we have cut the path we needed.
No more of this!” They left behind them armor
Of solid silver, bowls, rich-woven carpets,
But must take something: Rhamnes’ golden sword-belt
Euryalus held on to, all that armor
That went with long tradition, from father to son,
From son to enemy, once more a trophy
For young Euryalus. He dons the armor,
Picks up, puts on, besides, a shapely helmet,
The spoil of Messapus, the long plume flowing.
They leave the camp, are on their way to safety.

Meanwhile, sent forward from the Latin city,
Horsemen were coming, while the legion rested
Behind them on the plain, three hundred horsemen
With word for Turnus, under their captain Volcens,
All armed with shields and riding at the ready.
They are near the camp, the wall, and in the distance
See two men turning left along a pathway,
And a helmet glittering among the shadows,
Euryalus’ prize and foolishness. They notice
At once, of course, and challenge. From the column
Volcens cried out:—“Halt! Who goes there? Who are you?
What are you doing in arms? Upon what mission?”
No answer: flight to wood and trust in darkness.
But the horsemen, fanning out, block every cross-road,
Circle and screen each outlet. Wide with brambles
And dark with holm-oak spreads the wood; the briars
Fill it on every side, but the path glimmers
In the rare intervals between the shadows.
Euryalus is hindered by the branches,
The darkness, and the spoil he carries; terror
Makes him mistake the path. Nisus is clear,
Reaching the site that later men called Alba,
Where king Latinus had his lofty stables.
He halts, looks back to find his friend: in vain.
“Euryalus, Euryalus, where are you?
Where have I lost you? How am I to follow
Back through the tangled wood, the treacherous thickets?
Euryalus, Euryalus!” He turns,
Tries to retrace his step, is lost in the woods,
And hears the horses, hears the shouts and signals
As the pursuit comes closer, and he hears
A cry, he sees Euryalus, dragged along
Out of the treason of the night and darkness,
Bewildered by the uproar, fighting vainly
In the hands of Volcens’ squadron. There is nothing
Nisus can do, or is there? With what arms,
What force, redeem his friend? Or is it better
To hurl himself to death, dash in, regardless,
To glorious wounds? His spear is poised, his arm
Drawn back; he looks to the moon on high, and prays:—
“Dear goddess, daughter of Latona, aid me,
Pride of the stars and glory of the groves,
If ever my father Hyrtacus brought honors
In my name to the altar, if ever I
Have brought gifts home from my own hunting, aid me!
Let me confound that troop, direct my weapon!”
The straining body flung the spear; it whistled
Across the shadow of night, and Sulmo took it
In his turned back; the point snaps off; it lodges
With part of the splintered wood deep in the lungs.
Sulmo goes down, his mouth spurts blood, his body
Sobs, straining, in the gasp and chill and shudder
Of a cold death. They look in all directions,
See nothing. And another spear is flying,
Fiercer this time. This pierces Tagus’ temples,
Clings, warm, in the split brain. And Volcens rages,
And cannot find the spearman, and his anger
Has no sure place to go, but for his vengeance
Turns on Euryalus, sword drawn, and rushing
He cries:—“You will pay for both of them, your blood
Be the atonement.” Nisus, from the darkness,
Shrieks in his terror:—“Here I am, I did it,
The guilt is mine, let him alone, come get me,
Rutulians! How could he have dared or done it?
God knows, the only thing he did was love
A luckless friend too well.” But the sword is driven
Deep in the breast. Euryalus rolls over,
Blood veins the handsome limbs, and on the shoulder
The neck droops over, as a bright-colored flower
Droops when the ploughshare bends it, or as poppies
Sink under the weight of heavy summer rainfall.
And Nisus rushes them; he is after Volcens,
Volcens alone. They mass around him, cluster,
Batter him back, but through them all he charges,
Whirling the blade like fire, until he drives it
Full in the face while the Rutulian, shrieking,
Goes down, and Nisus, dying, sees him die,
Falls over his lifeless friend, and there is quiet
In the utter peace of death.

Fortunate boys!
If there is any power in my verses,
You will not be forgotten in time and story
While rock stands firm beneath the Capitol,
While the imperial house maintains dominion.

With victory and tears, with spoil and plunder,
They brought Rutulian Volcens home to camp-ground,
And a great wail arose, for Rhamnes slaughtered,
For Numa, for Serranus, for so many
Slain in one fight. They rush to see the bodies,
To heroes dead or dying, to the ground
Reeking with carnage, the red foaming rivers.
They recognize the spoil, the shining helmet
Brought back for Messapus, and all the trappings
It cost them sweat to win.

And the Dawn-goddess
Came from her husband’s saffron couch, bestowing
Fresh light across the world. Turnus, in armor,
Summoned his men to arms, and every leader
Marshalled his ranks of bronze, and each man sharpens
His anger with one rumor or another.
And more than that, a pitiful sight, they fix
On spears upraised, and follow with loud shouting,
The heads of Nisus and Euryalus.
On the left of the wall the Trojans form their line
Whose right rests on the river. They hold the trenches,
Stand on the high towers, sorrowing; they know,
And all too well, those heads with spears for bodies,
And the black blood running down.

And meanwhile Rumor
Goes flying through the panic of the city,
Comes to Euryalus’ mother. That poor woman
Is cold as death; the shuttle falls from her hands,
The yarn is all unwound. She rushes, shrieking,
Tearing her hair, out to the walls, in frenzy,
Heedless of men, heedless of darts and danger
To fill the air with terrible lamentation:—
“Is this thing you I see, Euryalus?
Could you, a poor old woman’s only comfort,
Leave her to loneliness? O cruel, cruel!
To go to danger, and never a farewell word
Between the mother and son! And now you lie
On a strange land for dogs and birds to pick at,
No mother to bathe the wounds, or close the eyes,
To veil the body with the robe I worked on
For quite another purpose, night and day,
Comforting, so, the cares of age. Where can I
Go now, to find you? In what land are lying
The limbs, dismembered, and the mangled body?
Is this thing all you bring me from the wars,
Is this what I have followed on land and sea?
If you have anything of decent feeling,
Rutulians, kill me; hurl your weapons on me,
All of you, all of them: let steel destroy me.
Or, father of the gods, have pity on me
And strike with the bolt of lightning; hurl to Hell
The life I hate; no other way is left me
To break the cruel thread.” And at her wailing
The Trojan spirit sank, and a groan of sorrow
Passed through the ranks, their will to battle broken.
She kindles mourning; the leaders give an order,
Idaeus and Actor, taking her between them,
Lead her away.

And the loud terrible trumpet
Blared in bronze-throated challenge, and the shouting
Rose to the sky. And on they came, the Volscians
Under their tortoise-shield, in a wild hurry
To fill the moat, tear down the wall: some sought
A quick way in, or over, with scaling-ladders
Where the ring of men is thin, and light breaks in
Where no men stand. And in reply the Trojans
Rain every kind of weapon down—long war
Has taught them how the walls must be defended.
They use crude poles to push men off the ladders,
They roll tremendous boulders to crush the ranks
Covered by shields, and glad of that protection,
Too little now, too small for the great rock
The Trojans heave and pry and dump down on them
Where the clump of men is thickest. The back of the tortoise
Is broken, like the bodies of men beneath it.
No more blind war, like this, for the Rutulians!
They change their tactics, sweep the wall with arrows,
Mezentius, grim to look at, works with firebrands,
While Neptune’s son, Messapus, tamer of horses,
Keeps tearing at the walls, and screaming for ladders.

Help me, Calliope, with the song: what killing
Turnus dealt out that day, the roll of victims
Whom every warrior sent to Hell: O, aid me
To unfold it all, the war’s great panorama.

There was a tower, high overhead, well chosen
To suit the ground, equipped with lofty gangways;
On this the Italians spent their every effort
To tear it down, the Trojans to defend it
With stones from above, and arrows through the loopholes.
A firebrand, flung by Turnus, found a lodging
Along one side, and the wind blew and fanned it,
And lintel and planking burned, and the men huddled
Within, and found no way to flee, and shifted
Toward the undamaged portion, when all of a sudden,
Lopsided under the weight, it toppled crashing
And filled all heaven with thunder. Half dead already
Men reached the ground, and the tower came down upon them,
Pierced through and through by shafts of their own making,
Their chests transfixed by jagged broken timbers.
Two manage to escape, Lycus, Helenor,
The latter a young warrior, the son
Of a Maeonian king and a slave-girl mother,
Who sent him off to Troy in arms (forbidden,
Since arms were not for slaves), a naked sword,
A shield with no device. He saw himself
Now in the midst of Turnus’ thousands, marshalled
Before him and behind him. There he stood
Like a wild animal, ringed in by hunters,
Raging against their weapons, and sure of death,
Leaping upon them,—so Helenor, certain
To die, rushed where the weapons were the thickest.
Lycus was swifter afoot: through men, through weapons,
He gained the wall, reached up to pull himself over,
Reached up for hands to help him. But Turnus came
Hot on his heels:—“You fool,” he cried in triumph,
“Did you think you were out of reach?” And as he hung there,
Turnus grabbed him, tore him loose, and the wall came with him.
An eagle, so, sweeps up again to heaven
With a white swan or rabbit in his talons;
Or so a wolf snatches a lamb from the sheepfold
To the bleating of the ewe. A shout arises;
Men from all sides come on; they fill the trenches,
Keep firebrands flying at the tower and rooftop.
Ilioneus knocks over one, Lucetius,
Who came to the gates with fire; he bowled him over
With a rock as big as a mountain. Liger slew
Emathion with a javelin; Asilas
Shot Corynaeus down. Caeneus won
Over Ortygius, lost to Turnus. Turnus
Killed half a dozen, Clonius, Dioxippus,
Itys, Promolus, Sagaris, and Idas.
Capys cut down Privernus: a spear had grazed him,
And the fool had flung his shield aside, to carry
His hand to his side, and an arrow pinned it there,
And went on through, a mortal wound in the bowels.
A young man in the battle, the son of Arcens,
Stood out conspicuous in arms, a tunic
Embroidered bright, Iberian blue; his father
Had sent him from his mother’s grove along
Symaethus stream and Palicus’ rich altars.
Mezentius saw him there, laid down his spear,
Whirled the sling thrice around his head, let fly,
And the slug of the sling-shot split the victim’s temples,
Stretching his blue in the deep yellow sand.

Then, so they say, was the first time Iulus
Brought down a man in war; he had hunted only
Wild beasts, before this time, with bow and arrows.
There was a youngster, Remulus by name,
Or, it might be, Numanus, lately married
To Turnus’ younger sister, very proud
And pleased with his new royalty. He strode
Along the foremost battle-line, and taunted,
Shouting indecencies, a swollen hero:—
“What, once again, O Phrygians twice-besieged?
Have you no shame, to hide behind the ramparts
A second time, a second time with walls
To ward off death? Look at the silly warriors
Who claim our brides with steel! What god, what madness,
Brought you to Italy? No sons of Atreus
Are here, no lying glib Ulysses. We
Are a tough race, we bring our new-born sons
To the ice-cold river, dip them in to make them
Tough as their fathers, make them wake up early
To hunt till they wear the forests out; they ride,
They shoot, and love it; they tame the earth, they battle
Till cities fall: and all our life is iron,
The spear, reversed, prods on the ox; old age
Pulls on the helmet over the whitest hair;
We live on what we plunder, we revel in booty.
But you—O wonderful in purple and saffron!—
Love doing nothing, you delight in dancing,
And oh, those fancy clothes, sleeves on the tunics,
And ribbons in the bonnets! Phrygian women,
By God, not Phrygian men! Be gone forever
Over the heights of Dindymus; pipe and timbrel
Call you to female rites: leave arms to men,
The sword to warriors!”

But Ascanius loosened
An arrow from the quiver, held the shaft
Nocked to the bow-string, and with arms outspread
For shot, made prayer:—“Almighty Jupiter,
Favor my bold beginning. I shall offer
The temple every year a snow-white bullock
With gilded horns, a young one, but already
Tall as his dam, butting with horn, and pawing
The sand with restless hoof.” The father heard him,
There was thunder on the left, and in that instant
The fatal bow-string twanged. The shaft came flying
Through air, and the steel split the hollow temples
Of that young bragger Remulus. “Go on,
Mock valor with arrogant words! This is the answer
The Phrygians twice-besieged, the Phrygian women,
Send back to Remulus.” The Trojans cheered him
With joyful shouts and spirits raised to heaven.

And it so happened from the realm of sky
Long-haired Apollo, throned with cloud, looked down
And saw the Ausonian battle-lines and city,
And had a word of blessing for Iulus:—
“Good for your prowess, youngster! That’s the way
To reach the stars, a son of gods, a father
Of gods to be. In time the wars will end
Under that royal line. Troy sets you free
For greater destinies.” And he left the heaven,
Came through the stir of air, and sought Iulus,
Disguised as ancient Butes, armor-bearer,
Once, to Anchises, a guardian at his threshold,
Later Ascanius’ servant. With his voice,
His grizzled hair, his color, his sounding arms,
Apollo came and spoke to the hot young warrior:—
“Let that be plenty, son of great Aeneas:
Numanus slain and unavenged; your arrow
Has done its work. Apollo grants this praise,
Your first, and does not envy the little archer.
But now, my son, refrain from war.” He vanished,
Before the speech was ended, into thin air,
And the Trojan captains knew the god, his weapons,
The clang of the quiver of the god ascending,
And at his will and order keep Ascanius
Out of the fight for which he longs, themselves
Go back to the work, charge at the jaws of danger.
The loud cry runs from tower to tower, all down
The avenue of the walls, and they bend the bows,
And catapults hum as the great stone goes flying.
The ground is sown with weapons; shield and helmet
Ring with the clanging; the fight is a swell and a surge
Like the rise of a wind from the west, with rainstorm pelting
Hard on the ground, thicker than hail on ocean,
When Jupiter lashes the gales and cloud-burst thunders from heaven.

Two young men, tall as pine-trees, tall as hills
That gave them birth, Alcanor’s sons, their mother
The Oread Iaera, stood at the gate,
Obeying orders, Pandarus and Bitias,
And had their own idea, and flung it open,
Relying on their arms, an invitation—
Here’s open house for all, come in, come in!
To right and left they stood before the towers,
Armed with the steel, and with the high plumes tossing,
Like twin oaks towering by pleasant rivers.
The Rutulians saw the entrance open, rushed in,
Were beaten back: Haemon, the son of Mars,
Tmarus the headstrong, Quercens, Aquicolus
Handsome in arms, fled with their columns routed,
Or perished in the gateway. And anger mounted
In all those battling spirits: the Trojans gathered,
Daring in closer combat now, and risking
Brief sallies past the walls.

Turnus, far off,
Raging and rioting, heard the glad tidings
Of enemies gone wild with slaughter, gates
Flung open wide. Whatever he was doing
He broke off gladly, burned with monstrous anger,
Rushed to the Trojan gate and those proud brothers.
Antiphates came to meet him, bastard son
Of tall Sarpedon and a Theban mother,
And Turnus’ javelin laid him low: it flew,
Italian cornel-wood, through the soft air,
Lodged in the throat, pierced deep into the chest.
The wound’s dark hollow filled with foaming red,
The steel grew warm in the lung. And Turnus’ hand
Brought down Meropes, Erymas, Aphidnus,
Then Bitias blazing-eyed and hot in spirit.
No javelin brought him down, no common javelin
Would ever have killed that giant, but a pikestaff,
Rifled and whirring loud, driven like lightning,
Cut through the double leather, the double mail
With scales of gold, and the huge limbs sprawl and tumble,
Earth groans, and his great shield clangs down above him,
The way a pillar of rock comes down, at Baiae,
When men have pried it loose and shoved it over
Into the ocean, and, crashing down in ruin,
It lies in shallow water, confusion of sea,
Eruption of black sand, and the shock of sound
Makes the high mountains tremble, and the earth
Shudder under the oceans.

And Mars added
New strength and spirit to the Latins, raked them
With the sharp sting of the spur, and sent the Trojans
Panic and runaway fear. The Latins, given
The chance of fight, come on, as the war-god rides them.
Pandarus, seeing his brother’s fallen body,
Seeing the turn of fortune, puts his shoulder
With all his strength to the gate, and slowly, slowly,
Swings it on stubborn hinge, to leave his comrades,
Many of them, shut out, beyond the rampart,
Fighting in desperate battle; others he welcomes
As they come pouring in, the fool, not seeing
One of them was no Trojan! That was Turnus,
Shut up in the town, as welcome as a tiger
Penned in a flock of sheep. And Turnus’ eyes
Shone with new light, his arms rang loud, his plume
Nodded blood-red, and his great shield flashed lightning.
Sudden confusion fastened on the Trojans;
They knew him as he was, gigantic, hateful,
But Pandarus flashed forward toward him, burning
With vengeance for a brother’s death, and shouting:—
“Why, this is not Amata’s bridal palace,
Nor yet the center of your father’s city!
This is a hostile camp you see here, Turnus,
And not a chance to leave it.” Turnus only
Smiled at him with untroubled heart:—“Start something,
If there is any fighting spirit in you;
Come closer; I have a message for king Priam:
Tell him Achilles was here.” And Pandarus flung
His spear, rough-knotted, the unpeeled bark still on it,
And the winds bore it off, and Juno parried
The threat of the coming wound, and it fastened, harmless,
Stuck in the wooden gate.

“And here’s a weapon
That will not miss, seeing my right hand swings it,”
And with his answer Turnus rose full height
To the sword upraised, and brought it down, and the steel
Split the head clean apart between the temples,
And Pandarus came crashing down, and the earth
Shook underneath his weight, and he lay there, dying,
Limbs buckled underneath him, and his armor
Spattered with brains, and the head’s halves, divided,
Dangling on either shoulder.

And the Trojans
Ran every way, in rout and sudden terror.
That day might well have been their last, that battle
The end of war, had Turnus ever bothered
To break the bars of the gate, let in his comrades.
But no: his fury and mad desire of slaughter
Drove him one way, and one way only, forward.
He caught Phaleris, and he hamstrung Gyges,
And snatched their spears and flung them at the Trojans
Who fled with nothing but their backs for target.
Juno supplied him fire and strength. He added
Halys to the dead roster of his comrades,
Pierced Phegeus through his shield and mail. Four others,
Alcander, Halius, Prytanis, Noemon,
Ignorant of his presence, roused the fighters
Along the walls, and fell before they knew it.
Lynceus, calling his comrades, came to meet him,
And Turnus, standing higher, slashed and swung,
Close in, and the flashing blade swept head and helmet
Together from the shoulders; then he slaughtered
Amycus, hunter of beasts, a clever craftsman
In arming darts with poison; and Aeolus’ son,
Clytius; and Cretheus, the Muses’ comrade,
Lover of music and song, whose theme was always
Warfare and warhorse, arms of men, and battle.

And the Trojan leaders heard about the slaughter,
And met, Serestus, keen in arms, and Mnestheus,
And saw their comrades wheeling and Turnus welcomed,
And Mnestheus tried to halt them:—“Where do you aim
That flight?” he cried, “What other ramparts have you?
What walls beyond these walls? Shall one man, circled,
Hemmed in on every side, deal out destruction
Unscathed through all the city? Will you let him
Send down to Hell so many brave young fighters?
What kind of cowards are you? Have you no pity,
No shame at all, for your unhappy country,
Your ancient household gods, and great Aeneas?”

That gave them courage; and the column thickened,
And they were firm, and stood. And very slowly
Turnus drew back, retreating toward the river,
And they came on, more boldly now, with yelling
And massing rank on rank, a crowd of hunters
With deadly spears, after a deadly lion,
And the beast they hunt is frightened, but still deadly,
Still dangerous, still glaring, and neither anger
Nor courage lets him turn his back, and forward
He cannot go, however much he wants to,
Through all that press of men and spears. So Turnus,
Doubtful, kept stepping back, little by little,
Burning, inside, with anger. Two more times
He made a sudden charge, sent the foe flying
Along the walls, but they came back, and Juno
Dared not assist him further; Jove had sent
Iris from heaven, with no uncertain message
If Turnus does not leave the Trojan ramparts,
He can no longer hold his own against them,
The shield and sword-arm falter; darts like hail
Rain down from everywhere. The helmet rings
Around his temples, and the brass cracks open
Under the storm of stones; the horsehair crest
Is shot away; the boss of the shield is dented;
Mnestheus, with lightning force, and other Trojans
Multiply spears. The sweat all over his body
Runs in a tarry stream; he cannot breathe.
At last, with one great leap, in all his armor,
He plunges into the stream, and Tiber takes him
On the yellow flood, held up by the buoyant water,
Washing away the stains of war, a hero,
Returning happily to his warrior-comrades.