Virgil’s Æneid | Project Gutenberg

And now what god will tell me all those horrors and

relate for me in verse the several scenes of slaughter, the 30

deaths of the leaders whom Turnus here, the Trojan hero

there, is chasing over the plain? Was it thy will, great

Jove, that nations destined in time to come to everlasting

amity should first clash in such dread turmoil? Æneas

confronted by Rutulian Sucro[o] (that combat first brought 35

the Trojan onset to a stand) after brief delay catches him

on the side and drives his stubborn sword death’s nearest

way through the ribs that fence the bosom. Turnus in

foot-encounter slays Amycus, whose horse had thrown

him, and his brother Diores, striking one with the spear

ere he came up, the other with the swordblade, lops the

heads of both, hangs them from his car, and carries them

dripping with blood. That sends down Talos to death 5

and Tanais and brave Cethegus, those at one onslaught,

and hapless Onytes, of the house of Echion, brought forth

by Peridia: that kills the brethren who came from

Apollo’s land of Lycia, and young Menœtes the Arcadian,

who shrunk from war in vain; he plied his craft and lived 10

in poverty by the fishy waters of Lerna, a stranger to the

halls of the great; and his father tilled land for hire.

Like two fires launched from different quarters on a dry

forest with bushes of crackling bay, or as when two foaming

rivers pouring from lofty heights crash along and run 15

towards the ocean, each ploughing his own wild channel:

with no less fury rush through the fight Æneas and

Turnus both: now, now the wrath is boiling within them:

their unconquered bosoms swell to bursting: they throw

their whole force on the wounds they deal. This with 20

the whirl and the blow of a mighty rock dashes Murranus

headlong from his car to the ground, Murranus who had

ever on his tongue the ancient names of sires and grandsires

and a lineage stretching through the series of Latium’s

kings: the wheels throw forward the fallen man under the 25

reins and yoke, and he is crushed by the quick hoof-beat

of the steeds that mind not their lord. That meets

Hyllus as he rushed on in vehement fury, and hurls a

javelin at his gold-bound brows: the spear pierced the

helmet and stood fixed in the brain. Nor did your 30

prowess, Cretheus, bravest of Greeks, deliver you from

Turnus, nor did the gods Cupencus worshipped shield

him from the onset of Æneas: his bosom met the steel,

and the check of the brazen buckler stood the wretch in

small stead. You, too, great Æolus, the Laurentian 35

plains looked on in death, spreading your frame abroad

over their surface: fallen are you, whom the Argive bands

could never overthrow, nor Achilles the destroyer of

Priam’s realm: here was your fatal goal: a princely

home under Ida’s shade: at Lyrnesus a princely hope, in

Laurentian soil a sepulchre. The two armies are in hot

conflict: all the Latians, all the sons of Dardanus, Mnestheus, 5

and keen Serestus, and Messapus tamer of the steed,

and brave Asilas, the Tuscan band, and Evander’s Arcad

cavalry, each man for himself straining every nerve: no

stint, no stay; they strive with giant tension.

And now Æneas had a thought inspired by his beauteous

mother, to march to the walls, throw his force 10

rapidly on the town, and stun the Latians with a sudden

blow. Tracking Turnus through the ranks he swept his

eyes round and round, and beholds the city enjoying

respite from all that furious war, and lying in unchallenged

repose. At once his mind is fired with the vision of a 15

grander battle: Mnestheus he summons and Sergestus

and brave Serestus, the first in command, and mounts an

eminence round which the rest of the Teucrian army

gathers in close ranks, not laying shield or dart aside.

Standing on the tall mound, he thus bespeaks them: 20

“Let nothing stay my orders; the hand of Jove is here;

nor let any move slower because the enterprise is sudden.

The town, the cause of the war, the royal home of the

Latian king, unless they submit the yoke and confess

themselves vanquished, I will overthrow this day, and lay 25

its smoking turrets level with the ground. What? am I

to wait till Turnus choose to bide the combat, and once

conquered, meet me a second time? This, my men, is

the well-spring, this the head and front of the monstrous

war. Bring torches with speed, and reclaim the treaty 30

fire in hand.” He said, and all with emulous spirit of

union close their ranks and stream to the walls in compact

mass. Scaling ladders and brands are produced

suddenly and in a moment. Some run to the several

gates and slay those stationed there: some hurl the steel 35

and overshadow the sky with javelins. Æneas himself

among the foremost lifts up his hand under the city wall,

loudly upbraids the king, and calls the gods to witness

that he is once more forced into battle, the Italians twice

his foes, the second treaty broken like the first. Strife

arises among the wildered citizens: some are for throwing

open the town and unbarring the gates to the Dardans:

nay, they even drag the monarch to the ramparts: others 5

draw the sword and prepare to guard the walls: as when

a countryman has tracked out bees concealed in a cavernous

rock and filled their hiding-place with pungent smoke,

they in alarm for the common wealth flit about their

waxen realm and stir themselves to wrath by vehement 10

buzzing: the murky smell winds from chamber to chamber:

a dull blind noise fills the cavern: vapours ascend

into the void of air.

Yet another stroke fell on Latium’s wearied sons,

shaking with its agony the city to her foundations. When 15

the queen from her palace saw the enemy draw near, the

walls assailed, flames flying roofward, the Rutulian army,

the soldiers of Turnus nowhere in sight, she deemed, poor

wretch, her warrior slain in the combat, and maddened

with the access of grief, cries aloud that she alone is the 20

guilty cause, the fountainhead of all this evil; and flinging

out wild words in the fury of her frenzied anguish,

rends with desperate hand her purple raiment, and fastens

from a lofty beam the noose of hideous death. Soon as

Latium’s wretched dames knew the blow that had fallen, 25

her daughter Lavinia is first to rend yellow hair and

roseate cheek, and the rest about her ran as wildly: the

palace re-echoes their wail. The miserable story spreads

through the town: every heart sinks: there goes the old

king with garments rent, all confounded by his consort’s 30

death and his city’s ruin: he soils his hoary locks with

showers of unseemly dust, and oft and oft upbraids himself

that he embraced not sooner Æneas the Dardan nor

took him for son-in-law of his own free will.

Turnus, meantime, is plying the war far away on the 35

plain, following here and there a straggler with abated

zeal, himself and his steeds alike less buoyant. The air

wafted to him the confused din, inspiring unknown terror,

and on his quickened ears smote the sound of the city’s

turmoil and the noise not of joy. “Alas! what is this

mighty agony that shakes the walls? what these loud

shouts pouring from this quarter and that?” So he cries,

and drawing his bridle halts bewildered. His sister, just 5

as she stood in guise of Metiscus the driver, guiding car,

horse, and reins, thus meets his question: “Proceed we

still, Turnus, to chase the Trojans, where victory’s dawn

shows us the way: others there are whose hands can

guard the city: Æneas bears down on the Italians and 10

stirs up the battle: let us send havoc as cruel among his

Teucrians: so shall your slain be as many and your martial

fame as high.” Turnus answered: “Sister, I both

knew you long since, when at first you artfully disturbed

the truce and flung yourself into our quarrel, and now 15

you vainly hide the goddess from my eyes. But tell me

by whose will you are sent from Olympus to cope with

toils like this? Is it that you may look on the cruel end

of your hapless brother? For what can I do? what

chance is there left to give me hope of safety? With my 20

own eyes I saw Murranus die, his giant frame laid low

by a giant wound: he called me by name, he, than whom

I had no dearer friend. Dead, too, is ill-starred Ufens,

all because he would not see me disgraced: his body and

his arms are the Teucrians’ prize. Am I to let the nation’s 25

homes be razed to the ground, the one drop that was

wanting to the cup, and not rather with my own right

hand give Drances’ words the lie? Shall I turn my back?

shall this land see Turnus flying? is death after all so

bitter? Be gracious to me, gentle powers of the grave, 30

since the gods above are against me! Yes, I will come

down to you a stainless spirit, guiltless of that base charge,

worthy in all my acts of my great forefathers.”

Scarce had he spoken, when lo! there flies through the

midst of the foe, on a foaming steed, Saces, with an arrow 35

full in his face: up he spurs, imploring Turnus by name:

“Turnus, our last hope is in you: have compassion on

your army. Æneas thunders with sword and spear, and

threatens that he will level in dust and give to destruction

the Italians’ topmost battlements: even now brands

are flying to the roofs. Every Latian face, every eye

turns to you: the king himself mutters in doubt whom

to call his son-in-law, to whose alliance to incline. Nay, 5

more, your fastest friend the queen is dead by her own

hand, scared and driven out of life. Only Messapus and

keen Atinas are at the gates to uphold our forces. About

them are closed ranks, and an iron harvest of naked

blades: you are rolling your car over a field from which 10

war has ebbed.” Turnus stood still with silent dull regard,

wildered by the thoughts that crowd on his mind:

deep shame, grief and madness, frenzy-goaded passion

and conscious wrath all surging at once. Soon as the

shadows parted and light came back to his intelligence, 15

he darted his blazing eyes cityward with restless vehemence,

and looked back from his car to the wide-stretching

town. Lo! there was a cone of fire spreading from story

to story and flaring to heaven: the flame was devouring

the turret which he had built himself of planks welded 20

together, put wheels beneath it, and furnished it with

lofty bridges. “Fate is too strong for me, sister, too

strong: hold me back no longer: we needs must follow

where Heaven and cruel Fortune are calling us. Yes, I

will meet Æneas: I will endure the full bitterness of 25

death: no more, my love, shall you see me disgraced:

suffer me first to have my hour of madness.” He said,

and in a moment leapt to the ground, rushes on through

foes, through javelins, leaves his sister to her sorrow, and

dashes at full speed through the intervening ranks. Even 30

as from a mountain’s top down comes a rock headlong,

torn off by the wind, or washed down by vehement rain,

or loosened by the lapse of creeping years; down the steep

it crashes with giant impulse, that reckless stone, bounding

over the ground and rolling along with it trees, herds, 35

and men: so, dashing the ranks apart, rushes Turnus to

the city walls, where the earth is wet with plashy blood,

and the gale hurtles with spears: he beckons with his

hand, and cries with a mighty voice: “Have done, ye

Rutulians! ye Latians, hold back your darts! whatever

Fortune brings she brings to me: ’tis juster far that I in

your stead should singly expiate the treaty’s breach and

try the issue of the steel.” All at the word part from the 5

midst, and leave him a clear space.

But father Æneas, hearing Turnus’ name, quits his

hold on the walls and the battlements that crown them,

flings delay to the winds and breaks off the work of war,

steps high in triumph, and makes his arms peal dread 10

thunder: vast as Athos, vast as Eryx, vast as father

Apennine himself, when he roars with his quivering holms[286]

and lifts his snowy crest exultingly to the sky. All turn

their eyes with eager contention. Rutulians, Trojans, and

Italians, those alike who were manning the towers and 15

those whose battering-rams were assailing the foundations.

All unbrace their armour. Latinus himself stands amazed

to see two men so mighty, born in climes so distant each

from each, thus met together to try the steel’s issue. At

once, when a space is cleared on the plain, first hurling 20

their spears, they advance with swift onset, and dash into

the combat with shield and ringing harness. Earth groans

beneath them; their swords hail blow on blow: chance

and valour mingle pell-mell. As when on mighty Sila or

Taburnus’ summit two bulls, lowering their brows for 25

combat, engage fiercely: the herdsmen retreat in dread:

the cattle all stand dumb with terror, the heifers wait in

suspense who is to be the monarch of the woodland,

whom the herds are to follow henceforth: they each in

turn give furious blows, push and lodge their horns, and 30

bathe neck and shoulders with streams of blood: the

sound makes the forest bellow again: with no less fury

Æneas the Trojan, and the Daunian chief clash shield on

shield: the enormous din fills the firmament. Jupiter

himself holds aloft his scales poised and level, and lays 35

therein the destinies of the two, to see whom the struggle

dooms, and whose the weight that death bears down.

Forth darts Turnus, deeming it safe, rises with his whole

frame on the uplifted sword, and strikes, Trojans and

eager Latians shout aloud: both armies gaze expectant.

But the faithless sword snaps in twain and fails its fiery

lord midway in the stroke, unless flight should come to

his aid. Off he flies swifter than the wind, seeing an unknown 5

hilt in his defenceless hand. Men say that in his

headlong haste, when first he was mounting the car harnessed

for battle, he left behind his father’s falchion and

snatched up the steel of Metiscus, his charioteer: so long

as the Teucrians fled straggling before him, the weapon 10

did good service; soon as it came to the divine Vulcanian

armour, the mortal blade, like brittle ice, flew asunder at

the stroke: the fragments sparkle on the yellow sand.

So now in his distraction Turnus flies here and there

over the plain, weaving vague circles in this place and in 15

that: for the Trojans have closed in circle about him,

and here is a spreading marsh, there lofty ramparts to

bar the way.

Nor is Æneas wanting, though at times the arrow

wound slackens his knees and robs them of their power 20

to run: no, he follows on, and presses upon the flier foot

for foot: as when a hound has got a stag pent in by a

river, or hedged about by the terror of crimson plumage,

and chases him running and barking: the stag, frighted

by the snare and the steep bank, doubles a thousand times: 25

the keen Umbrian clings open-mouthed to his skirts, all

but seizes him, and as though in act to seize, snaps his

teeth, and is baffled to find nothing in their gripe. Then,

if ever, uprises a shout, echoing along bank and marsh,

and heaven rings again with the noise. Turnus, even as 30

he flies, calls fiercely on the Rutulians, addressing by

name, and clamors for his well-known sword. Æneas,

for his part, threatens death and instant destruction,

should any come near, and terrifies his trembling foes,

swearing that he will raze their city to the ground, and 35

presses on in spite of his wound. Five times they circle

round, five times they retrace the circle: for no trivial

prize is at stake, no guerdon of a game: the contest is

for Turnus’ life, for his very heart’s blood. It chanced

that there had stood there a wild olive with its bitter

leaves, sacred to Faunus, a tree in old days reverenced by

seamen, where when saved from ocean they used to fasten

their offerings to the Laurentian god and hang up their 5

votive garments: but the unrespecting Trojans had lately

lopped the hallowed trunk, that the lists might be clear

for combat. There was lodged Æneas’ spear: thither its

force had carried it, and was now holding it fast in the

unyielding root. The Dardan chief bent over it, fain to 10

wrench forth the steel that his weapon may catch whom

his foot cannot overtake. Then cried Turnus in the

moment of frenzied agony: “Have mercy, I conjure thee,

good Faunus, and thou, most gracious earth, hold fast

the steel if I have ever reverenced your sanctities, which 15

Æneas’ crew for their part have caused battle to desecrate.”

He said, nor were his vows unanswered by heavenly aid.

Hard as he struggled, long as he lingered over the stubborn

stock, by no force could Æneas make the wood unclose

its fangs. While he strains with keen insistence, the 20

Daunian goddess, resuming the guise of charioteer Metiscus,

runs forward and restores to her brother his sword.

Then Venus, resenting the freedom taken by the presumptuous

Nymph, came nigh, and plucks the weapon

from the depth of the root. And now towering high, 25

with restored weapons and recruited force, this in strong

reliance on his sword, that fiercely waving his spear tall

as he, the two stand front to front in the breath-draining

conflict of war.

Meanwhile the king of almighty Olympus accosts Juno, 30

as from a golden cloud she gazes on the battle: “Where

is this to end, fair spouse? what last stroke have you in

store? you know yourself, by your own confession, that

Æneas has his place assured in heaven among Italia’s

native gods, that destiny is making him a ladder to the 35

stars. What plan you now? what hope keeps you seated

on those chilly clouds? was it right that mortal wound

should harm a god, or that Turnus—for what power

could Juturna have apart from you?—should receive

back his lost sword and the vanquished should feel new

forces? At length have done, and let my prayers bow

your will. Let this mighty sorrow cease to devour you

in silence: let me hear sounds of sullen disquiet less often 5

from your lovely lips. The barrier has been reached.

To toss the Trojans over land and sea, to kindle an unhallowed

war, to plunge a home in mourning, to blend a

dirge with the bridal song, this it has been yours to do:

all further action I forbid.” So spake Jupiter: and so in 10

return Saturn’s daughter with downcast look: “Even

because I knew, great Jove, that such was your pleasure,

have I withdrawn against my will from Turnus and from

earth: else you would not see me now in the solitude of

my airy throne, exposed to all that comes, meet or unmeet: 15

armed with firebrands, I should stand in the very

line of battle, and force the Teucrians into the hands of

their foes. As for Juturna, I counselled her, I own, to

succour her wretched brother, and warranted an unusual

venture where life was at stake: but nought was said of 20

aiming the shaft or bending the bow: I swear by the inexpiable

fountain-head of Styx, the one sanction that

binds us powers above. And now I yield indeed, and

quit this odious struggle. Yet there is a boon I would

ask, a boon which destiny forefends not. I ask it for 25

the sake of Latium, for the dignity of your own people:

when at last peace shall be ratified with a happy bridal,

for happy let it be: when bonds of treaty shall be knit

at last, let it not be thy will that the native Latians

should change their ancient name, become Trojans or 30

take the Teucrian style: let not them alter their language

or their garb. Let there be Latium still: let there be

centuries of Alban kings: let there be a Roman stock,

strong with the strength of Italian manhood: but let

Troy be fallen as she is, name and nation alike.” The 35

Father of men and nature answered with a smile: “Aye,

you are Jove’s own sister, the other branch of Saturn’s

line; such billows of passion surge in your bosom! but

come,—let this ineffectual frenzy give way: I grant your

wish, and submit myself in willing obedience. The

Ausonians shall keep their native tongue, their native

customs: the name shall remain as it is: the Teucrians

shall merge in the nation they join—that and no more: 5

their rites and worship shall be my gift: all shall be Latians

and speak the Latian tongue. The race that shall arise

from this admixture of Ausonian blood shall transcend in

piety earth and heaven itself, nor shall any nation pay

you such honours as they.” Juno nodded assent, and 10

turned her sullenness to pleasure; meanwhile she departs

from the sky, and quits the cloud where she sat.

This done, the sire meditates a further resolve, and

prepares to part Juturna from her brother’s side. There

are two fiends known as the Furies, whom with Tartarean 25

Megæra dismal Night brought forth at one and the same

birth, wreathing them alike with coiling serpents, and

equipping them with wings that fan the air. They are

seen beside Jove’s throne, at the threshold of his angry

sovereignty, goading frail mortality with stings of terror, 20

oft as the monarch of the gods girds himself to send forth

disease and frightful death, or appals guilty towns with

war. One of these Jove sped with haste from heaven’s

summit, and bade her confront Juturna in token of his

will. Forth she flies, borne earthward on the blast of a 25

whirlwind. Swift as the arrow from the string cleaves

the cloud, sent forth by Parthian—Parthian or Cydonian—tipped

with fell poison’s gall, the dealer of a wound

incurable, and skims the flying vapours hurtling and unforeseen,

so went the Daughter of Night and made her 30

way to earth. Soon as she sees the forces of Troy and

the army of Turnus, she huddles herself suddenly into the

shape of a puny bird, which oft on tombstone or lonely

roof sitting by night screams restlessly through the gloom;

in this disguise the fiend again and again flies flapping in 35

Turnus’ face, and beats with her wings on his shield. A

strange chilly terror unknits his frame, his hair stands

shudderingly erect, and his utterance cleaves to his jaws.

But when Juturna knew from far the rustling of those

Fury pinions, she rends, hapless maid, her dishevelled

tresses, marring, in all a sister’s agony, her face with her

nails, her breast with her clenched hands: “What now,

my Turnus, can your sister avail? what more remains for 5

an obdurate wretch like me? by what expedient can I

lengthen your span? can I face a portent like this? At

last, at last I quit the field. Cease to appal my fluttering

soul, ye birds of ill omen: I know the flapping of your

wings and its deathful noise; nor fail I to read great 10

Jove’s tyrannic will. Is this his recompense for lost virginity?

why gave he me life to last for ever? why was

the law of death annulled? else might I end this moment

the tale of my sorrows, and travel to the shades hand in

hand with my poor brother. Can immortality, can aught 15

that I have to boast give me joy without him? Oh, that

earth would but yawn deep enough, and send me down,

goddess though I be, to the powers of the grave!” So

saying, she shrouded her head in her azure robe, with many

a groan, and vanished beneath the river of her deity. 20

Æneas presses on, front to front, shaking his massy,

tree-like spear, and thus speaks in the fierceness of his

spirit: “What is to be the next delay? why does Turnus

still hang back? ours is no contest of speed, but of stern

soldiership, hand to hand. Take all disguises you can; 25

muster all your powers of courage or of skill: mount on

wing, if you list, to the stars aloft, or hide in the cavernous

depth of earth.” Shaking his head, he replied: “I quail

not at your fiery words, insulting foe: it is Heaven that

makes me quail, and Jove my enemy.” No more he 30

spoke: but, sweeping his eyes round, espies a huge stone,

a stone ancient and huge, which chanced to be lying on

the plain, set as some field’s boundary, to forefend disputes

of ownership: scarce could twelve picked men lift

it on their shoulders, such puny frames as earth produces 35

now-a-days: he caught it up with hurried grasp and

flung it at his foe, rising as he threw, and running rapidly,

as hero might. And yet all the while he knows not that

he is running or moving, lifting up or stirring the enormous

stone: his knees totter under him, and his blood

chills and freezes: and so the mass from the warrior’s

hand, whirled through the empty void, passed not through

all the space between nor carried home the blow. Even 5

as in dreams, at night, when heavy slumber has weighed

down the eyes, we seem vainly wishing to make eager

progress forward and midway in the effort fail helplessly;

our tongue has no power, our wonted strength stands not

our frames in stead, nor do words or utterance come at 10

our call: so it is with Turnus: whatever means his valour

tries, the fell fiend bars them of their issue. And now

confused images whirl through his brain: he looks to his

Rutulians and to the city, and falters with dread, and

quails at the threatening spear: how to escape he knows 15

not, nor how to front the foe, nor sees he anywhere his

car or the sister who drives it.

Full in that shrinking face Æneas shakes his fatal

weapon, taking aim with his eye, and with an effort of

his whole frame hurls it forth. Never stone flung from 20

engine of siege roars so loud, never peal so rending follows

the thunderbolt. On flies the spear like dark whirlwind

with fell destruction on its wing, pierces the edge of the

corslet, and the outermost circle of the seven-fold shield,

and with a rush cleaves through the thigh. Down with 25

his knee doubled under him comes Turnus to earth, all

his length prostrated by the blow. Up start the Rutulians,

groaning as one man: the whole mountain round

rebellows, and the depths of the forest send back the

sound far and wide. He in lowly suppliance lifts up eye 30

and entreating hand: “It is my due,” he cries, “and I

ask not to be spared it: take what fortune gives you.

Yet, if you can feel for a parent’s misery—your father,

Anchises was once in like plight—have mercy on Daunus’

hoary hairs, and let me, or if you choose my breathless 35

body, be restored to my kin. You are conqueror: the

Ausonians have seen my conquered hands outstretched:

the royal bride is yours: let hatred be pressed no further.”

Æneas stood still, a fiery warrior, his eyes rolling, and

checked his hand: and those suppliant words were working

more and more on his faltering purpose, when, alas!

the ill-starred belt was seen high on the shoulder, and

light flashed from the well-known studs—the belt of 5

young Pallas, whom Turnus conquered and struck down

to earth, and bore on his breast the badge of triumphant

enmity. Soon as his eyes caught the spoil and drank in

the recollection of that cruel grief, kindled into madness

and terrible in his wrath: “What, with my friend’s 10

trophies upon you, would you escape my hand? It is

Pallas, Pallas, who with this blow makes you his victim,

and gluts his vengeance with your accursed blood.”

With these words, fierce as flame, he plunged the steel into

the breast that lay before him. That other’s frame grows 15

chill and motionless, and the soul,[287] resenting its lot, flies

groaningly to the shades.