Meanwhile all-powerful Olympus flings
The palace open wide: the council meets,
At Jove’s command, under the starry dwelling
From which he sees all lands, the Trojan camp,
The Latin people. Between the double doors
They find their places. Jupiter speaks first:—
“Great dwellers in Heaven, why the change of heart?
Why do you fight with hostile spirit? I
Had said, I thought, that Italy and the Trojans
Were not to meet in war. Why, then, this brawling
In face of my command? What fear has driven
This side or that to arms and provocation?
The proper time will come—be in no hurry—
When Carthage, fierce and wild, will loose destruction
On the heights of Rome, and spring the Alps wide open.
Hate will be lawful then, and ravage, and battle.
But now, subside; be friendly; accept my order.”

So Jupiter spoke, briefly, but golden Venus
Was far from brief in answer:—“O great father,
Sovereign of men and destiny forever,
What other power is there for us to pray to?
Do you see, I ask you, these Rutulian warriors
In all their insolence? Have you noticed Turnus
Riding on horseback through their midst, all swollen,
With Mars as second? The barricaded walls
No longer shield the Trojans. The battle rages
Within the gates, on the high towers; the trenches
Swim deep in blood. Aeneas does not know it;
He is far away. Must siege go on forever?
Is this your will? Another enemy threatens
The walls of Troy, new-born, another army
Comes from Aetolian Arpi; Diomedes
Once more attacks the Trojans. Wounds for me
Are still to come, I well believe; your daughter
Waits for a mortal outrage, not the first one.
The Trojans came to Italy: was the coming
With your consent, by your design? If not,
Why, let them pay the penalty, do not help them!
Or were they following order after order
Given by gods above, by gods below?
If so, who dares to overturn your justice,
Who dares create new fates? Do I have to mention
The fleet on fire in Sicily, the winds
Let loose by Aeolus, their king, or Iris
Sent through the clouds? And now she is even rousing—
This chance she had not yet taken—the shades of Hell,
And here is Allecto, suddenly given license
In the upper world, and ravaging and raving
Through the Italian cities. As for empire,
I care no more about it. I was hopeful
When fortune still existed. Let the winners
Be those you want to win: have it your way.
If that tough wife of yours will give the Trojans
No land in all the world, no realm whatever,
I beg you, father, by the smoking ruins
Of shattered Troy, let me spare one, Iulus,
Let him, at least, be saved from war. Aeneas,
Of course, will still be tossed on unknown waters,
Following any course that fortune offers.
Let me protect his son. I have Amathus,
High Paphus and Cythera, Idalia’s groves;
There he may live, laying aside his weapons,
A long inglorious lifetime. Order Carthage
To crush Ausonia with her empire; nothing
Shall interfere with Tyrian towns. Much good
It did him to escape the plague of war,
To have fled through Argive burning, to have exhausted
All dangers of the land and the great ocean,
Looking for Latium and a new-born Troy!
Much good indeed! It would have been much better
For the very soil of Troy and her last ashes
To have been the new foundation for their dwelling.
Give the poor wretches Simois and Xanthus,
Father, once more; I pray you, let the Trojans
Live, once again, the fall of Troy!” And Juno
Burst out in anger:—“Why do you compel me
To break my silence, to make my sorrow vulgar
With words for the world’s ear? What god, what mortal
Forced war upon Aeneas? Who advised him
To advance, an enemy, against Latinus?
He came to Italy at the fates’ command—
So be it; but what about Cassandra’s ravings?
Was I the one—I must have been—who told him
To leave the camp, to trust his life to the winds?
Was I the one who told him to make a boy
The captain of the wall? Was it I who told him
To seek Etruscan allies, to hunt down people
Who meant no harm? What god, what power of mine
Drove him to all his cheating? What has Juno
Or Iris, sent through the clouds, to do with this?
Disgraceful and disgusting, that Italians
Threaten the walls of Troy, new-born; that Turnus
Stay in his native land, Turnus, descended
Himself from king and goddess. What about it?
What about this, that Trojans harry Latins
With smoking brand and violence, set their yoke
On fields not theirs, and carry off the plunder?
Who let them know whose daughters to wed, or ravish?
Who told them to hold out the hand for peace
And arm the ships for war? Oh, you are able,
Of course you are, to give them mist for a man,
To steal Aeneas from Greek hands; you are able
To turn their fleet to sea-nymphs, but if I
Help the Rutulians even a very little,
Is that so monstrous? Aeneas does not know it;
He is far away. Good. Let him still not know it;
Let him still be far away. You have Amathus,
High Paphus and Cythera; so why meddle
With savage hearts and a city big with war?
And now, it seems, I am trying to pull over
The wobbling walls of Troy! Really! Who was it,
I, or somebody else, who flung the Trojans,
Poor things, in the path of the Greeks? What was the reason
For Europe and Asia to rise in arms, break treaties
Over a piece of stealing? Was it I
Who shipped the adulterer Paris out to Sparta?
Was it I who armed his lust? That was the time
To have had some fear for those poor suffering Trojans.
It is too late now. You rise to the occasion
With unjust whining and shrill scolding nonsense.”

So Juno argued: the company of heaven
Sided with one or the other, and the sound
Was like the sound of winds caught in the forest,
And sailors, listening, know that storms are coming.
And Jupiter all-powerful, the ruler
Of all the world, began, and with his word
The lofty palace of the gods grew quiet,
The earth’s foundations trembled, and the winds
Were still, and the loud ocean hushed the waters.
“Take these my words to heart; be sure to heed them.
It is forbidden Ausonians and Trojans
To join in concord; the arguments among you,
It seems, will never end. Therefore I tell you,
Whether a man is Trojan or Rutulian,
Whatever luck he has to-day, whatever
He hopes to have to-morrow, it does not matter.
I treat them both the same. It may be fate,
It may be Trojan foolishness and error
That keeps the camp besieged: I do not judge.
I hold Rutulians under obligation
As well as Trojans. In every man’s beginning
His luck resides, for good or ill. I rule
All men alike. The fates will find the way.”
And all Olympus trembled as he nodded
And swore by the waters of his Stygian brother,
The pitchy banks and the black seething torrent.
There was no more talking. From his golden throne
Jove rose, with gods and goddesses attending
In deferential escort.

In the meantime
At every gate Rutulians drive, determined
To bring down men with steel, ring walls with flame.
The host of Troy is held inside, blockaded,
With never a hope of flight. Wretched, they stand
At the high towers, in vain; they are none too many
To stretch the circle out. Imbrasus’ son,
Asius, is there; Thymoetes; two young men,
Assaracus’ sons; and Castor, and old Thymbris,
In the front ranks; two brothers of Sarpedon,
Clarus and Thaemon, with them; they came from Lycia.
One man, with every ounce of strength, is heaving
To lift a giant boulder, half a mountain:
That would be Acmon, Clytius’ son: Lyrnesus,
Their home, produced enormous men—a brother,
Mnestheus, too, was something of a giant.
So rocks are weapons of defense, and arrows,
And darts, and balls of fire, and fighting men
Are busy with them all, and the little Trojan,
The pet of Venus, rightly so, was with them,
Bare-headed, a handsome sight, a shining jewel
Inlaid in yellow gold, or a medallion
Of ivory in terebinth or boxwood;
So shone Iulus, whose white neck and shoulders
Seemed whiter where the blond hair fell, and the circlet
Of gold made bright the golden hair. Ismarus
Was there, an archer, whose shafts were dipped in poison,
A warrior far from his Maeonian homeland
Where Pactolus floods the fields with yellow gold.
And Mnestheus was there; he had beaten Turnus
The day before, and knew it, and was proud;
And Capys fought beside him: his name was given
To a city, later,—Capua, south of Rome.

So these men had been fighting, clash and conflict
In the rough shock of warfare, as Aeneas,
At midnight, cleaved the seas. He had left Evander,
He had found the Tuscan camp, he had told the king
His name, his race, his need, what help he brought him,
Told Tarchon of Mezentius, of the spirit
Of violence in Turnus; had given warning
That, always, men need help; had made appeal,
Which Tarchon promptly answered: so the people
Were free from fate’s injunction, free for war,
Having a foreign leader. Aeneas’ ship
Headed the column, her figure-head a mountain
With lions at the base, familiar Ida,
Dear to the Trojan exiles. And Aeneas
Sailed on toward war and all those changing fortunes,
And Pallas stayed beside him, asking questions:
What stars were those? which was the one to guide them
Through the dark night? what fortunes had he suffered
On land and sea?

Fling wide the gates, O Muses,
Inspire the song: what force rides with Aeneas
From Tuscan shores, what warships sail the ocean?

Massicus leads the way in the bronze Tiger,
A thousand men on board; they have come from Clusium,
From Cosae’s city, archers all, with quivers
Light on their shoulders, and their bows are deadly.
With them is glowering Abas; a gold Apollo
Gleams on his bowsprit, and the vessel blazes
With men in armor; the little island Ilva,
Rich in her mines, had sent them, thrice a hundred,
And Populonia furnished twice as many.
Third comes Asilas, priest and augur, learnèd
In all the signs, diviner of stars and lightning,
Of birds and entrails; he brings a thousand spearmen
From Pisa, on Etruscan soil. And Astur
Follows, a handsome horseman, with three hundred
Stalwarts from Caere, Minio, and Pyrgi,
Proud, confident men, with arms of many colors.
And Cinyras is there, the bravest leader
Of all Ligurian captains, and Cupavo,
With none too many followers; his crest
Is white swan-plumage, a token of his father,
Who, so they say, loved Phaethon, and grieved
Over his fall from heaven, and made music
To heal his sorrow, under the poplar trees
Phaethon’s sisters haunted, and so, singing,
Became a bird, all white and soft, and vanished
From earth, and was a crying voice in heaven,
Cygnus, the swan. And now his son Cupavo
Comes to the wars, driving his ship, the Centaur,
Which towers high as a cliff; the long keel furrows
A wide wake over the sea.

And Ocnus summons
Men from his native shores, Ocnus, the son
Of a Tuscan river and a woman, Manto,
Gifted in prophecy; her name was given
To Mantua, rich in ancestors, one city,
Three races, each one master of four peoples,
And Mantua the queen of all, her power
Secure in Tuscan strength. From here Mezentius
Rouses five hundred men in arms against him,
And Mincius, Benacus’ son, crowned with grey rushes
Brings them down to the sea. On comes Aulestes,
Whose Triton wallows heavily in the waters,
With a hundred oars lashing the waves to foam,
And the blue waters tremble at the sea-god
Riding the prow, conch at his lips, a figure
Shaped like a shaggy man, as far as the belly,
And then a fish or serpent, a great sea-monster,
Under whose weight the water sucks and gurgles.
So the bronze vessels come, thirty good ships
For the help of Troy, and men, and chosen leaders
Over the salt sea plains.

And day had gone,
And the dear moon in her night-wandering chariot
Was halfway up the sky; Aeneas, restless,
Tended the sails and rudder, holding the course,
And a band of his own company came to meet him,
Those goddesses, whom Cybele had ordered
To rule the seas that once they sailed. They knew him,
Their king, far off, circled his ships in greeting,
And Cymodocea, of them all most gifted
In ways of speech, clung to the stern; one hand
Lifted her out of the water, and the other
Kept plying under the waves. She hailed Aeneas:—
“Are you on watch, son of the gods? Be watchful,
Crowd on full sail! We are the pines of Ida,
Born from that sacred mountain. Nymphs of the sea,
We used to be your fleet. But treacherous Turnus
Drove us with fire and sword; against our will
We broke our bonds to you, and now we seek you
Over the deep. The mother of the gods
Took pity on us, and made us goddesses,
Immortal under the waters. We have bad news; your son
Is under siege; walls hold him in, and trenches,
And the air is filled with darts, and the wild Latins
Bristle in war. The cavalry of Pallas
And the brave Etruscan allies, minding orders,
Hold their appointed station. Turnus knows it,
Turnus is certain to send opposing squadrons
To keep them from the camp. Hurry, then, hurry,
Get the men armed by daylight; raise the shield
Given by Vulcan, the invincible armor,
Bright with its ring of gold. To-morrow morning
Shall see, unless I speak in foolish error,
Great heaps of slain Rutulians.” She finished speaking,
And as she left the ship, her right hand gave it
An expert shove, and it sped over the water
Swifter than javelin or flying arrow,
And the other vessels quickened pace. Aeneas
Marvelled, amazed, and the portent cheered his spirit,
And he looked up to the vault of heaven, praying:—
“Dear mother of the gods, Idean queen,
Lover of tower-crowned cities, and the lions
That draw the chariot, be my leader now
Before the fight begins, affirm the omen,
Favor the Trojans, goddess, with your blessing.”
And as he spoke, new day broke over the ocean
In a great blaze of light, and the darkness vanished.

It was time for the last warnings to his comrades:
Follow the signals, nerve the spirit for battle,
Make every preparation! And he stood there,
High on the stern, seeing, before his eyes,
The Trojans and his camp, and he lifted high
The blazing shield, and the Trojans raised a clamor
To the high stars; new hope inflamed their anger,
And the darts flew, as cranes come back to Strymon
Noisy before the southern gales. But Turnus
And the Rutulian leaders were dumbfounded,—
What miracle was this?—looked back and saw
The sterns lined up to the shore, the whole great ocean
One mass of moving ships. The helmet burned,
The crest streamed fire, the golden boss of the shield
Poured golden radiance: even so, at night-time
The comets burn blood-red, or Sirius’ fire,
Portent of drought and pestilence to mortals,
Saddens the sky with evil glare.

But Turnus
Never lost confidence or nerve; he would beat them
There at the shore, he knew, and stop the landing.
“Men, here is what you always prayed for; do it!
Break through with sword-arm! Mars is in your hands.
Remember, every man, his wife, his household,
His fathers’ noble glories. On to meet them
At the water’s edge: they tremble there, they stagger,
And luck helps men who dare.” He chose his captains,
Picked men for this attack, and left to others
The duty of the siege.

Meanwhile Aeneas
Landed his comrades, down from the tall ships,
Over the gangways. Many leapt boldly down
Catching the ebb of the sea, and others vaulted
Over the oar-blades. Tarchon, watching the shore-line,
Saw where the shallow water was hardly breathing,
Where never a breaker roared, where the smooth ocean
Came gliding slowly in, and he turned his prow,
Calling on comrades:—“Now is the time, bend to it,
Lean on the oars, pick up the ships and lift them!
Let the beaks split this hostile land, and keels
Plough a deep furrow: what does a shipwreck matter,
So we take hold of land?” And as he urged them
They rose to the oars, they drove the foaming ships
To the dry Latin fields, and every vessel
Came in, unhurt, except for one. For Tarchon
Ran up on a ledge of rock and hung there, doubtful,
Tilting now back, now forward, until he broke
Above the weary wave, and the timbers weakened,
Gave way, and the men were flung in the midst of ocean,
Among the broken oars and the floating cross-beams,
And the drag of the undertow.

No lazy dawdling
Held Turnus back; he hurled his lines against them,
He stopped them at the shore. Aeneas charged,
Aeneas was the first invader, Aeneas
Struck down the Latin countrymen, killed Theron,
The biggest of them all. That was an omen;
Theron had taken extra pains to meet him,
But the sword went through his mail and through his tunic
And pierced his side and drank his blood. Next, Lichas
Was slain, Apollo’s devotee, at birth
Cut from the womb of his dead mother: the child
Escaped the steel, but not the man. Two others,
One of them tough, one huge, Cisseus, Gyas,
Went down before Aeneas. They were fighting
With clubs, as Hercules used to, and much good
It did them, though their father was Melampus
Who had been with Hercules through many labors.
Then there was Pharus, who had his mouth wide open,
For boast or taunt, and got a javelin in it,
Flung by Aeneas’ hand. Cydon loved Clytius,
And followed him everywhere, his golden darling,
And would have had a lesson in forgetting
All his beloved young men, falling a victim
Under Aeneas’ hand, but his seven brothers,
The sons of Phorcus, hurried to his rescue.
Each one let fly a dart: helmet and shield
Turned them aside, or they only grazed the body
Through Venus’ help. “Achates,” cried Aeneas,
“Bring up more weapons! Any I ever landed
In bodies of the Greeks, on the plains of Ilium,
Will never miss Rutulians here.” He snatched
A great spear up, and flung it; it went flying
Through Maeon’s shield of bronze; it rent the breastplate,
It tore the breast, went through, and struck Alcanor
Through the right arm around his falling brother,
And pierced the arm, and kept its bloody journey
While the dead arm dangled from shoulder-sinew.
Numitor ripped the spear from his brother’s body,
Aimed at Aeneas, missed, but grazed Achates.

Clausus from Cures, proud of his young body,
Let fly, far off, a javelin, which caught Dryops
Under the chin and pierced the throat and robbed him
Of voice—he tried to speak—and life together,
And Dryops’ forehead hit the ground, and blood
Poured thick from mouth and wound. Three Thracians fell,
Sons of the race of Boreas, and three others,
Ismarians, sons of Idas, killed by Clausus.
Halaesus came to his side, and Neptune’s son,
Messapus, joined them, that famous tamer of horses.
Here, there, on every side, the struggle rages:
The cry is Drive them back! Here is the beach-head
For gain or loss. As warring winds in heaven,
Rage at each other through that wide dominion,
Equal in will and violence, the battle
Doubtful and long, and nothing yields, not wind,
Not cloud, not sea, in that eternal deadlock,
So Troy meets Latium in the shock of fighting,
Foot tramples foot, man grapples man.

And inland,
On ground where a raging stream had sent stones rolling,
And torn the bushes from the banks, the horsemen
Had to be infantry, for the rough ground
Forbade the use of chariots. Their nerve
Was at low ebb; they fled. And Pallas saw them,
And being their one hope, with scorn and prayer
Rallied their courage:—“Where do you flee, Arcadians?
By your own brave deeds I beg you, by your king,
By the old wars won in Evander’s name,
By my own hopes to match my father’s praise,
Trust not to flight. The sword must cut the way,
And where that mass of men comes thickest toward us,
That way we go, with Pallas as your leader
Our country calls; no gods pursue us: men,
We are being chased by men, with no more hands,
With no more lives than we have. Ocean blocks us
With his great dam; earth offers us no haven:
Are we bound for Troy or the sea?” And he dashed in
Where the enemy was thickest. Lagus came
To meet him; fate was far from kind to Lagus.
He was trying to lift a stone when Pallas hit him
And the javelin stuck in the spine between the ribs
Till Pallas pulled it loose again. Then Hisbo
Hoped to surprise him and failed; he came in rushing,
Reckless and angry over the death of Lagus,
And Pallas was ready for him, and drove the sword
Deep in the swollen lung. He went for Sthenius,
Then Anchemolus, of Rhoetus’ ancient line,
The consort of his stepmother in incest,
And then he saw twin brothers, sons of Daucus,
Named Thymber and Larides, whom their kinsmen
Could never tell apart, and their own parents
Made fond mistakes about them. But Pallas made
Them different, once for all; Evander’s sword
Cut off the head of Thymber; Larides’ hand,
Severed, looked blindly for its arm, the fingers
Closed, quivering and dying, on the sword.

So the Arcadians rallied; his example
Armed them with shame and rage. Tyres and Teuthras,
Arcadian brothers, started after Rhoeteus,
Who fled, and that saved Ilus’ life, for Pallas
Had flung a spear at Ilus, but Rhoeteus, driving
Into its path, received it, rolled from the chariot,
And his heels kicked the ground in death’s convulsion.
And as in summer, when a shepherd kindles
Fire here and there among the brush or forest,
And waits for wind, and hears it rise, and swiftly
The many fires are one great blaze, and Vulcan
Takes charge of all the field, above the battle
Watching victorious, so Pallas’ comrades
Swept in from all directions, bright and burning,
Toward him, their focus and centre. And Halaesus
Came on to meet them, pulling himself together,
Setting himself for battle. He killed Ladon,
Pheres, Demodocus: Strymonius threatened
His throat with the gleaming sword, and for his trouble
Got his right hand cut off, and then Halaesus
Bashed Thoas’ head in with a rock and scrambled
His skull-bones, blood and brains. Halaesus’ father
Knew his son’s destiny and tried to spare him,
Hiding him in the woodlands, but grew old
And could not watch forever, and when his eyes
Were blind in death, the fates reached out, Halaesus
Could not avoid his doom. Pallas attacked him,
Praying before he flung the spear:—“O Tiber,
Grant to the steel I poise and hurl good fortune,
A pathway through the breast of tough Halaesus:
Your oak will hold his arms and spoil as trophy.”
And Tiber heard the prayer; Halaesus’ luck
Ran out, he had left himself exposed, to cover
Imaon with his shield, and the bare breast
Took the Arcadian lance.

Lausus, unfrightened,
Himself no little portion of war, fought on,
Kept up the courage of his men, found Abas
And cut him down; when Abas fell, a cluster
Of stubborn fight was broken. The young men die,
Arcadians, Etruscans, Trojan fighters
Who had survived Greek wounds; they come to grips,
Both armies, equal in leadership and valor;
Lines become columns, columns lines: all thickens
Into confusion, a press too close for fighting.
On one side Pallas thrusts and strains, and Lausus
Struggles to meet him, two young heroes, equal,
Or nearly so, in years, in worth, in courage,
In handsome manliness; and both denied
Return to fatherland; and each forbidden
To meet the other; and both assured of finding
Their fate where a greater enemy is waiting.

Meanwhile the sister of Turnus brought him warning,
Lausus needs aid! So, with his car, he drove
Swift through the ranks. “Break off, and give me room,”
He cried, “Room for my duel. I am bound
To battle Pallas; Pallas is my prize,
My prize alone. I only wish his father
Were here to watch!” Obedient, his comrades
Gave place, and as they yielded, Pallas stood
Astonished at this arrogance, this giant:
He took the whole scene in, undaunted, proud,
Fierce, high in spirit, with a ready answer
For Turnus’ taunting:—“Either I win my praise
For kingly spoils or glorious death, and soon:
My father can face either: spare the threats!”
And he moved forward, and the blood ran chill
In all Arcadian hearts. Down from his car
Jumps Turnus; he comes nearer, like a lion
Who sees far-off a bull, intent on battle,
And stalks, and rushes; even so came Turnus,
Came within spear-throw; Pallas, watching, knew it,
Took a step forward, and, that chance might favor
However uneven his strength, prayed to the heavens:—
“If ever my father entertained a stranger
Who proved a god, and gave him food and greeting,
Aid me, O Hercules! Let Turnus see me
Taking the bloody armor from his body,
And his dying eyes behold me, Pallas, victor.”
The young prayer touched the god: his grief was stifled
Deep in his heart, and tears were vain; his father
Spoke to him kindly:—“Every man, my son,
Has his appointed time; life’s day is short
For all men; they can never win it back,
But to extend it further by noble deeds
Is the task set for valor. Even my son,
My own, and sons of other gods have fallen
Under Troy’s lofty walls. Sarpedon, Turnus,
Fate calls alike: the years for each are measured,
The goal in sight.” Jupiter, having spoken,
Shifted his eyes from the Rutulian landscape.

And Pallas flung the spear, full force, and drew
The flashing blade; the shaft sped on, it struck
Where mail and shoulder met; piercing the shield
It grazed the side of Turnus. And he poised
His long oak shaft with the sharp iron, hurled it,
And a taunt went with the toss:—“Which pierces deeper,
Your spear or mine?” So, through the plates of iron,
The plates of bronze, the overlapping leather,
Through the shield’s center drives the quivering point,
Through stubborn mail, through the great breast. In vain
Pallas pulls out the dart, warm from the wound.
His blood, his life, come with it, and he falls
Doubled upon his wound; the armor clangs
Over his body; he strikes the hostile earth,
Dying, with bloody mouth. Above him Turnus,
Rejoicing, cries:—“Arcadians, take notice,
And let Evander know, I am sending back
Pallas as he deserved. Whatever honor
A tomb affords, whatever comfort lies
In burial, that much I grant, and freely:
A costly welcome, Evander’s to Aeneas!”
His left foot on the body, he ripped loose
The belt’s great weight, with the story of a murder
Carved in its metal, the young men foully murdered
On the bridal night, the chamber drenched in blood,
As Clonus, son of Eurytus, engraved it.
And Turnus gloried in the spoil, exulting—
O ignorant mortal mind, which never knows
Of fate or doom ahead, or how, in fortune,
To keep in decent bounds! A time is coming
When Turnus would pay dearly, could he purchase
Pallas unharmed again, would view with loathing
Those spoils, that day. But now, with tears and weeping,
Comrades lift Pallas to the shield and take him,
Great sorrow and great glory, to his father.
One day of war, one day of death, but victims,
And many, for Rutulians to remember.

No rumor, but a runner from the battle
Comes to Aeneas, of his men endangered,
At the edge of death: they are giving way, the Trojans,
There is not much time. Aeneas draws the sword;
Aeneas, burning, cuts a pathway through
The nearest lines; it is Turnus he is seeking,
Turnus the arrogant, slaughter fresh upon him.
Aeneas, all imagination, sees
Pallas, Evander, and the friendly tables
To which he came, a stranger; hears the pledge
Given and taken. For another pledge
He seizes four young men, the sons of Sulmo,
And four whom Ufens fathered; he takes them, living,
For later sacrifice, to dye with blood
The funeral pyre of Pallas. From afar,
He aimed his spear at Magus, but that warrior
Ducked under it cleverly, and the shaft flew over,
And Magus was a suppliant at his knees:—
“I beg you, by the shades of great Anchises,
By all the hope you have of young Iulus,
Spare me, a father and a son, for son
And father. I have property and treasure,
A lofty house, talents of gold and silver
Buried in safety, crude and minted metal.
One life like mine is nothing to the Trojans:
What difference will it make?” “Save for your sons,”
Aeneas answered, “all that gold and silver.
Turnus broke off all bargain-talk, the killer,
When Pallas fell. The shades of great Anchises
Know this, my growing son, Iulus, knows it.”
His left hand grasped the helmet; Magus felt
His head drawn back, he felt throat muscles tighten,
And, as he pleaded still, he felt the sword
Deep driven to the hilt.

A son of Haemon
Was standing not far off, the holy fillets
Around his temples, gleaming in the robes
He wore as priest of Phoebus and Diana,
Bright in his glittering arms. He fled Aeneas
Across the field, in vain escape, and stumbled,
And the Trojan hero, standing over his body,
Struck down, and killed, and gave him a cloak of darkness,
And Serestus took his armor, spoil for Mars.

Caeculus, born of Vulcan’s race, and Umbro,
From Marsian mountains, rallied the ranks. Aeneas
Came storming toward them, hot from wounding Anxur,
Who had been boasting loud, hoping that words
Would make him more aggressive: there was no limit
To promises he made himself, long years,
A ripe old age—if so, he would be a cripple,
A man with no left hand: Aeneas lopped it
Off at the wrist, and the shield’s round circle with it.
Tarquitus, son of Dryope and Faunus,
Proud in his gleaming arms, stood up against him
Briefly; the spear drove through the shield’s huge weight
Nailing it to the breastplate; all in vain
Tarquitus pleaded, stammering and choking.
Aeneas gave his head a shove; the body,
Still warm, turned halfway over under his foot.
Dying, Tarquitus heard:—“Lie there, and scare me,
Terrible warrior! No loving mother
Will ever bury your bones, no father build
A sepulchre above them. The birds of prey
Will take you, or the waters of the flood,
And greedy fishes nibble your wounds and mouth them.”
Four more were slaughtered, Lucas and Antaeus,
Conspicuous in Turnus’ ranks, and Numa,
And sun-burnt Camers, son of noble Volcens,
Richest in land of all Ausonians, ruler
Over Amyclae, the city known for silence.
Men say there was a giant once, Aegaeon,
Who had a hundred arms, and fifty mouths
From each of which came fire, and fifty swords
And fifty shields, and rattled them together,
Defying Heaven’s thunderbolts and lightning,—
Such was Aeneas now, a victor raging
All up and down the field, with one sword only
But that one hot and red. He saw Niphaeus
Driving his four swift horses, and went toward them
With terrible strides and cursing, and they bolted,
Shook off the driver, dragged the car, a ruin,
Down to the shore of the sea. And then two brothers
Bring their white chariot on, Lucagus, Liger,
Of whom Lucagus whirls the sword in fighting,
And Liger plies the reins; they burn with fury,
More than Aeneas can stand: he rushes, monstrous,
A giant with a spear. And Liger taunts him:—
“Whoa! This is not Achilles’ car, these fields
Not Troy, these horses Diomedes’.
You will get it now, the end of life and battle,
Here on this ground.” Poor crazy-talking Liger!
Aeneas wastes no words; his lance comes flying,
And while Lucagus, leaning over the chariot,
Makes of his sword a whip, his left foot forward,
Setting himself for action, the point comes through
The low rim of his shield, drives on, and pierces
The groin on the left side. Lucagus topples,
Writhes on the ground, and dies; and then Aeneas
Has words for him, and bitter ones:—“Lucagus,
Your horses have not run away; they are brave,
They are no traitors, shying at a shadow.
You are the one, it seems, the cheap deserter,
Who jump the wheels, leave the poor beasts forsaken.”
He pulls the horses up; and down comes Liger,
His luck all gone, his hands outstretched for mercy:—
“O Trojan hero, son of mighty parents,
For their remembrance, spare my life: Oh, hear me—”
And there was more he would have said. Aeneas
Broke in:—“Liger, that’s not the way you sounded
A little while ago. What? Should a brother
Leave brother in the battle? Never. Die!”
And the sword went its deadly way, exposing
The spirit’s hiding-place. Such was the carnage
Dealt by Aeneas over the plain, a whirlwind,
A flood of black destruction. And at the city
Ascanius and the warriors broke the siege,
Came from the threatened camp.

And high in heaven
Jupiter spoke to Juno:—“Sister of mine,
And dearest wife, it is, as you were thinking—
You are not wrong—Venus, who helps the Trojans,
Instead of their own right hands, war-quick, or spirit
Aggressive in attack, enduring in danger.”
And Juno made meek answer:—“Why, dear husband,
Trouble me further? I am sick at heart,
I fear your sad commandments. If I only
Had what I used to have, compelling love,
You would not, all-powerful king, refuse my pleading:
You would let me rescue Turnus from the battle,
Restore him safely to his father Daunus.
That would have been my prayer; but let him die,
Let innocent blood be forfeit to the Trojans,
No matter that his lineage is lofty,
His origin from our stock; no matter, either,
The generous offerings he has made your altars.”

The king of high Olympus thus made answer:—
“If it is only respite and reprieve
You ask for this doomed youth, delay, postponement,
If that is all, and you realize I know it,
Take Turnus off by flight, snatch him from danger.
That much you are permitted. But if, beneath the prayer,
Some deeper hope lies hidden, if you are thinking
The war might change entirely, then you nourish
The silliest kind of dreaming.” Juno, weeping,
Replied:—“But what if, in your heart, you granted
The gift your speech refuses? What if Turnus
Might still live on? No; heavy doom awaits him,
Or else I am borne along in grievous error.
I wish my fear were false and I deluded,
And that the god, who has all power, would use it
To change things for the better.” And, having spoken,
She veiled herself with cloud, came down from heaven,
Driving a storm before her, and sought Laurentum,
The Trojan line, the Latin camp, and fashioned
Out of a cloud, a hollow man, a figure
Thin, weak, and curious to see, a phantom,
A false Aeneas, dressed in Trojan armor,
A mimic shield and crest, with unreal language,
Voice without purpose, the image of a stride,
Like the vain forms that flit when death is over,
Like dreams that mock the drugged and drowsy senses.
With arrogant joy this ghost went out parading
Before the warriors’ ranks, brandishing weapons,
Taunting and daring Turnus, who came on,
Hurled from afar the whirring spear; the phantom
Turned and made off, and Turnus, in confusion,
Nourished an empty hope: Aeneas, he thought,
Had turned away, was gone. “What now, Aeneas?
Where do you flee? Do not desert the bride,
The marriage chamber!” And he drew the sword
Glittering as he challenged, and did not notice
The winds sweep off his happiness. Near by,
Moored to a shelf of rock, a ship was standing,
Ladders let down, and gangplank set; a king
Had sailed therein from Clusium. The ghost,
The false Aeneas, hurrying, found shelter
Deep in the hold, and Turnus followed after,
Hot-foot through all delays, leaped onto the deck,
And had no sooner reached the bow than Juno
Broke off the mooring-lines, and the ship went scudding
Over the yielding sea. The real Aeneas
Kept calling Turnus to the fight, kept killing
Any who crossed his path. But the frail image
No longer sought a hiding-place, but swept
High to the darker clouds, with Turnus riding
The gale far out to seaward. Ignorant still,
Ungrateful for reprieve, he looked to shore,
Raising his hands to heaven, and praying:—“Father,
What have I done, to be so tricked, so sullied?
What am I being punished for? Where am I?
Who am I, for that matter? Fugitive
And coward, will I ever see again
The camp, the walls? And all that band of heroes
Who followed me and trusted me, I leave them
In death unspeakable, I see them wheeling,
I hear their dying groans. What am I doing?
What gulf, what chasm, is deep enough to hide me?
Pity me, winds; dash this accursèd vessel
On rocks, on reefs, on any savage quicksands.
I, Turnus, plead with all my heart, ah, strand me
Beyond all reach, where rumor or Rutulian
May neither one pursue me.” His doubting spirit,
Mad with so much disgrace, was undecided
Whether to let the sword drive through the body,
Or dive and swim for it, toward camp and Trojans.
Three times he tried each way, three times his hand,
His will, were stayed by Juno in her mercy
And the tall ship, on wind and tide, was carried
On to Ardea, Daunus’ lofty city.

Meanwhile, at Jove’s command, Mezentius, burning,
Entered the fight, swept through the cheering Trojans.
The Etruscan ranks rush on; against Mezentius
All turn their hate, their weapons. But he stands
Firm as a cliff, a jutting promontory
In the great deep, exposed to the winds’ anger,
Taking all violence of sky and ocean,
Itself unmoved, immovable. Mezentius
Slew Hebrus, son of Dolichaon, and with him
Latagus and the running Palmus; Palmus
He hamstrung from behind, and left him writhing,
And gave his arms to Lausus, mail for his shoulders,
Plumes for the helmet. A rock brought down Latagus,
Smashing his mouth, full in the face. Evanthes
Fell victim, and Paris’ comrade fell, that Mimas
Whose mother gave him birth on the same evening
When Hecuba was delivered of her firebrand.
As a wild boar, sheltered for many years
In woods of pine or tracts of marshland, nourished
On reeds thick-grown, is driven from the mountains
By the sharp-toothed hunting-dogs, and comes to the nets,
And makes a stand, and snorts in savage anger,
And bristles up his shoulders, and no one dares
Come any nearer, but they all assail him
At a safe distance, pelting him and shouting,
And he is fierce and bold and very stubborn,
Gnashing his teeth, and shaking off the weapons,
Even so, like that wild boar, Mezentius held them
At bay, all those who hated him; they dared not
Close with the sword; they kept their distance, shouting,
Assailing him, but out of reach, with missiles.

There was a youth named Acron, who had come
From a Greek town, leaving his bride a virgin
At home in Corythus. Mezentius saw him
Bright in the ranks, flashing, maroon and crimson,
The colors of his bride. Mezentius saw him
The way a hungry lion sees a deer
And the jaws open and the mane is lifted
And after one great leap the claws are fastened
Deep in the flank, and the mouth is red with slaughter.
So charged Mezentius into the midst, and Acron
Went down, heels drumming on the ground, and blood
Staining the broken spear. Orodes fled,
Or tried to, but no spear for him; Mezentius
Closed in, and struck with the sword, leaned on his spear,
With one foot on the body, and cried aloud:—
“Here lies Orodes, men, a mighty captain,
No little bit of the war!” His comrades joined him,
Shouting applause; with his last breath Orodes
Managed an answer:—“Not for long, O foeman,
Shall I be unavenged: exult a little.
Your doom keeps watch; you will hold these fields, as I do,
Before too long.” Mezentius, smiling at him,
Said only, “Die; and let the sire of the gods,
The king of men, look after me.” The steel
Came from the body; iron sleep and heavy
Repose weighed down his eyes; they closed forever
In night’s eternal dark.

Caedicus slaughters
Alcathous, Sacrator kills Hydaspes,
Rapo cuts two men down, Parthenius, Orses,
A tough, strong fighter; Messapus slays Clonius,
Lying, defenceless, on the ground, a rider
Thrown when the bridle of the horse was broken,
And Messapus slays another, Erichaetes,
Who tried to fight on foot; and Lycian Agis
Attempts to fight on foot, and meets Valerus,
And finds him a stout foeman, like his fathers,
And falls; and Thronius falls; his victor, Salius,
Is victim of Nealces, a good fighter
With javelin and far-deceiving arrow.
The scales were balanced: Trojans and Rutulians,
Arcadians, Etruscans, died and slaughtered.
Mars was a heavy-handed god, impartial
In dealing death and wounds. Victors and vanquished
Stood firm, in death or triumph, and the gods
Pitied both sides and all that useless anger,
That suffering which mortals take in battle.
Venus is watching, and Saturnian Juno,
And pale Tisiphone through the hosts goes raging.

And now Mezentius, shaking his great spear,
Sweeps like a whirlwind over the plain, a giant
Huge as Orion, wading through the waters,
Towering with his shoulders over the waves,
Lugging an ancient ash-tree from the mountains,
And his head hidden in the clouds of heaven,
So looms Mezentius, monstrous in his armor,
And, from the other side, Aeneas sees him,
And moves to meet him, and Mezentius stands there,
Unfrightened, heavy-set, waiting his foe.
He eyes the distance that the spear may need,
Indulges in mock prayer:—“Let my right hand,
That is to say, my god, and the dart I balance
Favor me now! And as a trophy, Lausus,
I vow yourself, my son, to carry, living,
The spoil stripped from this robber.” The spear flew on,
Glanced from the shield, wounded the knight Antores
Between the side and thigh; Evander’s ally,
Hercules’ comrade, a man from Argos, he falls,
Killed by a wound meant for another; dying,
He thinks of his dear Argos. And Aeneas
Lets drive his spear: it penetrates the shield,
The triple bronze, the layers of leather, biting
Deep in the groin, not going through. And happy
At sight of Tuscan blood, Aeneas draws
Sword from his side, comes hotly on; Mezentius
Staggers, and Lausus grieves; he loves his father,
The tears stream down his face.
Mezentius, dragging back, useless, disabled,
Slowly gives ground, the hostile spear still trailing,
Still fastened to the shield. Lausus runs forward,
Lifts his right arm and strikes. Aeneas parries,
Lausus is halted. But his comrades follow—
The father, with the son’s protecting shield,
Has, still, a chance of safety. Missiles shower
From all sides at Aeneas: though he rages,
He huddles under shelter, like a farmer
When hailstones rattle down, or any traveller
Seeking what he can find, a river bank,
An overhanging rock, or any cover
Until the downpour stops, and the sun returns
Men to their daily labor: so Aeneas,
With javelins thickening, every way, against him,
Endures the storm of war, and threatens Lausus:—
“What rush to death is this? What silly daring
Beyond the limit of strength? O foolish youngster,
You love your father, I know, but fool yourself
With too much loving.” Lausus, in his madness,
Has never a thought of stopping, and Aeneas
Feels anger rise against him, and the Fates
Tie off the ends of Lausus’ thread: the Trojan
Drives with the sword; it is buried in the body
Deep to the hilt. The little shield, frail armor
Against so great a menace, could not hold it.
The pliant tunic, woven by his mother
With golden thread, is no more help; the blood
Stains it another color, and through air
The life went sorrowing to the shades. And now
Aeneas changes. Looking on that face
So pale in death, he groans in pity; he reaches
As if to touch him with his hand, in comfort,
Knowing, himself, how one can love a father.
“Poor boy, what tribute can Aeneas offer,
What praise for so much glory? Keep the armor
You loved so much: if there is any comfort
In burial at home, know I release you
To your ancestral shades and ashes. Further,
You have one solace, this, that you have fallen
By great Aeneas’ hand.” He lifted Lausus
From the bloody ground and raised the head, that dust
And earth and blood should not defile its glory,
And called the Etruscans closer, scornful of them,
Over their hesitation.

Meanwhile, Mezentius, by the wave of the river,
Propped his slumped frame against a tree-trunk, staunching
The wound with water. The bronze helmet hung,
Inverted, from the bough; the heavy arms
Lay quiet on the meadow. Chosen men
Were standing by. Sick, and with labored breath,
He let his chin fall forward, rubbed his neck,
While over his chest the flowing beard was streaming.
Over and over again, he asks and sends
For Lausus: bring him back, he tells the men,
Those are the orders from his unhappy father.
But they were bringing him back, a big man slain
By a big wound. Mezentius knew the sound
Of sorrow from afar, before he heard it,
Fouled his gray hair with dust, flung up his arms,
Clung to the body. “O my son, my son,
Was I so fond of living that I sent
You to the sword for me, saved by your wounds,
Alive when you are dead? The wound indeed
Is driven deep, the bitterness of death
Comes home. I was the one, my son, my son,
Who stained your name with crime, with hatred, driven
From throne and sceptre. I have owed too long
The debt of punishment, and here I am,
Living, and never leaving men and light,
But I shall leave.” He heaved his sickened weight,
Pulling himself together, groin and all,
Slowly. The wound was deep, but he could stand.
He ordered them to bring his horse, that solace,
That pride of his, on which he used to ride
Victorious out of all the wars. He spoke,
And the beast sorrowed with his master’s sorrow:—
“Rhoebus, if anything is ever long
For mortal beings, you and I have lived
For a long time. Today you carry back
Those bloody spoils, Aeneas’ arms, avenging
The pangs of Lausus with me, or we both,
If no force clears the way, go down together,
O bravest heart, too noble to endure
The stranger’s order and the Trojan rider.”
He swung astride, shifted his weight a little,
The way he always did, held in both hands
A load of darts. The helmet glittered bronze,
The horsehair plume was bristling as he rode,
Madness and grief and shame all urging on
That singleness of purpose. He came on fast,
Calling, Aeneas! Aeneas! over and over,
And his voice was loud and firm. Aeneas heard,
Rejoiced, and recognized, and made his prayer:—
“Let this be true, O father of the gods,
O high Apollo!"—then, to his foe, “Come on!”
And moved to meet him with the deadly spear.
Mezentius answered:—“Do you frighten me
With all that fierceness, now that my son is taken?
How meaningless! That was the only way
You could destroy me. Now I fear no death,
I spare no god. Be quiet; for I come
To die, but first of all I bring you this,
A present from me,"—and he flung the dart,
And flung another, and another, wheeling
In a great arc. The boss of gold held strong.
Three times in circles to the left he rode
Around the steady Trojan; thrice the hand
Let fly the dart, and thrice the shield of bronze
Was a great forest with its load of spears.
All this was wearisome,—too many darts,
Too much defensiveness. Aeneas broke
Out of the watchful attitude, and flung
The spear between the charger’s hollow temples.
The great beast reared with fore-hooves flailing air,
Throwing the rider, and came tumbling down
Head-foremost on him, shoulder out of joint.
Trojan and Latin uproar swelled to heaven.
Aeneas, sword-blade ready, rushes in:—
“Where is the fierce Mezentius now, and where
All that wild rage of spirit?” But the king,
Raising his eyes, drank in the sky a little,
Knew a brief moment of recovery,
Enough to say:—“O bitter enemy,
Why all the tauntings and the threats of death?
There is no wrong in slaughter: neither I
Nor Lausus ever made such battle-pledges.
One thing I ask, if beaten enemies
Have any claim on mercy. Let my body
Be granted burial. I know the hate
Of my own people rages round me. Keep
Their fury from me. Let me share the grave
Of my dear son.” He said no more, but welcomed,
Fully aware, the sword-thrust in the throat,
And poured his life in crimson over the armor.