Book XI

Up from the sea now soared the dawning day:

Aeneas, though his sorrow bids him haste

to burial of the slain, and his sad soul

is clouded with the sight of death, fulfils,

for reward to his gods, a conqueror's vow,

at morning's earliest beam. A mighty oak

shorn of its limbs he sets upon a hill

and clothes it o'er with glittering arms, the spoil

of King Mezentius, and a trophy proud

to thee, great lord of war. The hero's plumes

bedewed with blood are there, and splintered spears;

there hangs the corselet, by the thrusting steel

twelve times gored through; upon the left he binds

the brazen shield, and from the neck suspends

the ivory-hilted sword. Aeneas thus,

as crowding close his train of captains throng,

addressed his followers: “Ye warriors mine,

our largest work is done. Bid fear begone

of what is left to do. Behold the spoils!

Yon haughty King was firstfruits of our war.

See this Mezentius my hands have made!

Now to the Latin town and King we go.

Arm you in soul! With heart of perfect hope

prepare the war! So when the gods give sign

to open battle and lead forth our brave

out of this stronghold, no bewilderment,

nor tarrying, nor fearful, faltering mind

shall slack our march. Meanwhile in earth we lay

our comrades fallen; for no honor else

in Acheron have they. Go forth,” said he,

“bring gifts of honor and of last farewell

to those high hearts by shedding of whose blood

our country lives. To sad Evander's town

bear Pallas first; who, though he did not fail

of virtue's crown, was seized by doom unblest,

and to the bitterness of death consigned.”

Weeping he spoke, and slowly backward drew

to the tent-door, where by the breathless clay

of Pallas stood Acoetes, aged man,

once bearer of Evander's arms, but now

under less happy omens set to guard

his darling child. Around him is a throng

of slaves, with all the Trojan multitude,

and Ilian women, who the wonted way

let sorrow's tresses loosely flow. When now

Aeneas to the lofty doors drew near,

all these from smitten bosoms raised to heaven

a mighty moaning, till the King's abode

was loud with anguish. There Aeneas viewed

the pillowed head of Pallas cold and pale,

the smooth young breast that bore the gaping wound

of that Ausonian spear, and weeping said:

“Did Fortune's envy, smiling though she came,

refuse me, hapless boy, that thou shouldst see

my throne established, and victorious ride

beside me to thy father's house? Not this

my parting promise to thy King and sire,

Evander, when with friendly, fond embrace

to win imperial power he bade me go;

yet warned me anxiously I must resist

bold warriors and a stubborn breed of foes.

And haply even now he cheats his heart

with expectation vain, and offers vows,

heaping with gifts the altars of his gods.

But we with unavailing honors bring

this lifeless youth, who owes the gods of heaven

no more of gift and vow. O ill-starred King!

Soon shalt thou see thy son's unpitying doom!

What a home-coming! This is glory's day

so Iong awaited; this the solemn pledge

I proudly gave. But fond Evander's eyes

will find no shameful wounding on the slain,

nor for a son in coward safety kept

wilt thou, the sire, crave death. But woe is me!

How strong a bulwark in Ausonia falls!

What loss is thine, Iulus!” Thus lamenting,

he bids them lift the body to the bier,

and sends a thousand heroes from his host

to render the last tributes, and to share

father's tears:—poor solace and too small

for grief so great, but due that mournful sire.

Some busy them to build of osiers fine

the simple litter, twining sapling oaks

with evergreen, till o'er death's Iofty bed

the branching shade extends. Upon it lay,

as if on shepherd's couch, the youthful dead,

like fairest flower by virgin fingers culled,

frail violet or hyacinth forlorn,

of color still undimmed and leaf unmarred;

but from the breast of mother-earth no more

its life doth feed. Then good Aeneas brought

two broidered robes of scarlet and fine gold,

which with the gladsome labor of her hands

Sidonian Dido wrought him long ago,

the thin-spun gold inweaving. One of these

the sad prince o'er the youthful body threw

for parting gift; and with the other veiled

those tresses from the fire; he heaped on high

Laurentum's spoils of war, and bade to bring

much tribute forth: horses and arms he gave,

seized from the fallen enemy; with hands

fettered behind them filed a captive train

doomed to appease the shades, and with the flames

to mix their flowing blood. He bade his chiefs

set up the trunks of trees and clothe them well

with captured arms, inscribing on each one

some foeman's name. Then came Acoetes forth,

a wretched, worn old man, who beat his breast

with tight-clenched hands, and tore his wrinkled face

with ruthless fingers; oft he cast him down

full length along the ground. Then lead they forth

the blood-stained Rutule chariots of war;

Aethon, the war-horse, of his harness bare,

walks mournful by; big teardrops wet his cheek.

Some bear the lance and helm; for all the rest

victorious Turnus seized. Then filed along

a mournful Teucrian cohort; next the host

Etrurian and the men of Arcady

with trailing arms reversed. Aeneas now,

when the long company had passed him by,

spoke thus and groaned aloud: “Ourselves from hence

are summoned by the same dread doom of war

to other tears. Farewell forevermore!

Heroic Pallas! be forever blest!

I bid thee hail, farewell!” In silence then

back to the stronghold's Iofty walls he moved.

Now envoys from the Latin citadel

came olive-crowned, to plead for clemency:

would he not yield those bodies of the dead

sword-scattered o'er the plain, and let them lie

beneath an earth-built tomb? Who wages war

upon the vanquished, the unbreathing slain?

To people once his hosts and kindred called,

would he not mercy show? To such a prayer,

deemed not unworthy, good Aeneas gave

the boon, and this benignant answer made:

“Ye Latins, what misfortune undeserved

has snared you in so vast a war, that now

you shun our friendship? Have you here implored

peace for your dead, by chance of battle fallen?

Pain would I grant it for the living too.

I sailed not hither save by Heaven's decree,

which called me to this land. I wage no war

with you, the people; 't was your King refused

our proffered bond of peace, and gave his cause

to Turnus' arms. More meet and just it were

had Turnus met this death that makes you mourn.

If he would end our quarrel sword in hand,

thrusting us Teucrians forth, 't was honor's way

to cross his blade with mine; that man to whom

the gods, or his own valor, had decreed

the longer life, had lived. But now depart!

Beneath your lost friends light the funeral fires!”

So spoke Aeneas; and with wonder mute

all stood at gaze, each turning to behold

his neighbor's face. Then Drances, full of years,

and ever armed with spite and slanderous word

against young Turnus, made this answering plea:

“O prince of mighty name, whose feats of arms

are even mightier! Trojan hero, how

shall my poor praise exalt thee to the skies?

Is it thy rectitude or strenuous war

most bids me wonder? We will bear thy word

right gladly to the city of our sires;

and there, if Fortune favor it, contrive

a compact with the Latin King. Henceforth

let Turnus find his own allies! Ourselves

will much rejoice to see thy destined walls,

and our own shoulders will be proud to bear

the stone for building Troy .” Such speech he made,

and all the common voice consented loud.

So twelve days' truce they swore, and safe from harm

Latins and Teucrians unmolested roved

together o'er the wooded hills. Now rang

loud steel on ash-tree bole; enormous pines,

once thrusting starward, to the earth they threw;

and with industrious wedge asunder clove

stout oak and odorous cedar, piling high

harvest of ash-trees on the creaking wain.

Now Rumor, herald of prodigious woe,

to King Evander hied, Evander's house

and city filling, where, but late, her word

had told in Latium Pallas' victory.

th' Arcadians thronging to the city-gates

bear funeral torches, the accustomed way;

in lines of flame the long street flashes far,

lighting the fields beyond. To meet them moves

a Phrygian company, to join with theirs

its lamentation loud. The Latin wives,

soon as they saw them entering, aroused

the whole sad city with shrill songs of woe.

No hand could stay Evander. Forth he flew

into the midmost tumult, and fell prone

on his dead Pallas, on the resting bier;

he clung to the pale corse with tears, with groans,

till anguish for a space his lips unsealed:

“Not this thy promise, Pallas, to thy sire,

to walk not rashly in the war-god's way.

I knew too well how honor's morning-star,

and sweet, foretasted glory tempt and woo

in a first battle. O first-fruit forlorn

of youth so fair! O prelude pitiless

of war approaching! O my vows and prayers,

which not one god would hear! My blessed wife,

how happy was the death that spared thee not

to taste this bitterness! But I, the while,

by living longer lived to meet my doom,—

a father sole-surviving. Would I myself

had perished by the Rutule's cruel spear,

the Trojan's cause espousing! This breath of life

how gladly had I given! And O, that now

yon black solemnity were bearing home

myself, not Pallas, dead! Yet blame I not,

O Teucrians, the hallowed pact we made,

nor hospitable bond and clasp of hands.

This doom ye bring me was writ long ago,

for my old age. And though my child is fallen

untimely, I take comfort that he fell

where thousands of the Volscians slaughtered lie,

and into Latium led the Teucrian arms.

What brighter glory could I crave in death

for thee, my Pallas, than Aeneas brings,

and Phrygian princes, and Etrurian lords

with all Etruria's legions? Lo, they bear

yon glittering spoils of victims of thy sword!

Thou, Turnus, too, wert now an effigy

in giant armor clad, if but his years

and strength full ripe had been fair match for thine!

But now my woes detain the Trojan host

from battle. I beseech ye haste away,

and bear this faithful message to your King:

since I but linger out a life I loathe,

without my Pallas, nothing but thy sword

can bid me live. Then let thy sword repay

its debt to sire and son by Turnus slain!

Such deed alone may with thy honor fit,

and happier fortunes. But my life to me

has no joy left to pray for, save to bring

my son that solace in the shadowy land.”

Meanwhile o'er sorrowing mortals the bright morn

had lifted her mild beam, renewing so

the burden of man's toil. Aeneas now

built funeral pyres along the winding shore,

King Tarchon at his side. Each thither brought

the bodies of his kin, observing well

all ancient ritual. The fuming fires

burned from beneath, till highest heaven was hid

in blackest, overmantling cloud. Three times

the warriors, sheathed in proud, resplendent steel,

paced round the kindling pyres; and three times

fair companies of horsemen circled slow,

with loud lamenting, round the doleful flame.

The wail of warriors and the trumpets' blare

the very welkin rend. Cast on the flames

are spoils of slaughtered Latins,—helms and blades,

bridles and chariot-wheels. Yet others bring

gifts to the dead familiar, their own shields

and unavailing spears. Around them slain

great herds of kine give tribute unto death:

swine, bristly-backed, from many a field are borne,

and slaughtered sheep bleed o'er the sacred fire.

So on the shore the wailing multitude

behold their comrades burning, and keep guard

o'er the consuming pyres, nor turn away

till cooling night re-shifts the globe of heaven,

thick-strewn with numberless far-flaming stars.

Likewise the mournful Latins far away

have built their myriad pyres. Yet of the slain

not few in graves are laid, and borne with tears

to neighboring country-side or native town;

the rest—promiscuous mass of dead unknown—

to nameless and unhonored ashes burn;

with multitude of fires the far-spread fields

blaze forth unweariedly. But when from heaven

the third morn had dispelled the dark and cold,

the mournful bands raked forth the mingled bones

and plenteous ashes from the smouldering pyres,

then heaped with earth the one sepulchral mound.

Now from the hearth-stones of the opulent town

of old Latinus a vast wail burst forth,

for there was found the chief and bitterest share

of all the woe. For mothers in their tears,

lone brides, and stricken souls of sisters fond,

and boys left fatherless, fling curses Ioud

on Turnus' troth-plight and the direful war:

“Let him, let Turnus, with his single sword

decide the strife,”—they cry,—“and who shall claim

Lordship of Italy and power supreme.”

Fierce Drances whets their fury, urging all

that Turnus singly must the challenge hear,

and singly wage the war; but others plead

in Turnus' favor; the Queen's noble name

protects him, and his high renown in arms

defends his cause with well-won trophies fair.

Amid these tumults of the wrathful throng,

lo, the ambassadors to Diomed

arrive with cloudy forehead from their quest

in his illustrious town; for naught availed

their toilsome errand, nor the gifts and gold,

nor strong entreaty. Other help in war

the Latins now must find, or humbly sue

peace from the Trojan. At such tidings dire

even Latinus trembles: Heaven's decrees

and influence of gods too visible

sustain Aeneas; so the wrath divine

and new-filled sepulchres conspicuous

give warning clear. Therefore the King convenes

a general council of his captains brave

beneath the royal towers. They, gathering,

throng the approaches thither, where their Iord,

gray-haired Latinus, takes the central throne,

wearing authority with mournful brow.

He bids the envoys from Aetolia's King

sent back, to speak and tell the royal words

in order due. Forthwith on every tongue

fell silence, while the princely Venulus,

heeding his Iord's behest, began the parle:

“My countrymen,” he said, “our eyes have seen

strongholds of Greeks and Diomed the King.

We braved all perils to our journey's end

and clasped that hand whereof the dreadful stroke

wrought Ilium 's fall. The hero built a town,

Argyripa, hereditary name,

near mount Garganus in Apulian land:

passing that city's portal and the King's,

we found free audience, held forth thy gifts,

and told our names and fatherland. We showed

what condict was enkindled, and what cause

brought us to Arpi's King. He, hearing all,

with brow benign made answer to our plea:

‘O happy tribes in Saturn's kingdom born,

Ausonia's ancient stem! What fortune blind

tempts ye from peace away, and now ensnares

in wars unknown? Look how we men that dared

lay Ilium waste (I speak not of what woes

in battling neath her lofty walls we bore,

nor of dead warriors sunk in Simois' wave)

have paid the penalty in many a land

with chastisement accurst and changeful woe,

till Priam's self might pity. Let the star

of Pallas tell its tale of fatal storm,

off grim Caphereus and Eubcea's crags.

Driven asunder from one field of war,

Atrides unto farthest Egypt strayed,

and wise Ulysses saw from Aetna 's caves

the Cyclops gathering. Why name the throne

of Pyrrhus, or the violated hearth

whence fled Idomeneus? Or Locri cast

on Libya 's distant shore? For even he,

Lord of Mycenae by the Greeks obeyed,

fell murdered on his threshold by the hand

of that polluted wife, whose paramour

trapped Asia 's conqueror. The envious gods

withheld me also from returning home

to see once more the hearth-stone of my sires,

the wife I yearn for, and my Calydon,

the beauteous land. For wonders horrible

pursue me still. My vanished followers

through upper air take wing, or haunt and rove

in forms of birds the island waters o'er:

ah me, what misery my people feel!

The tall rocks ring with their lament and cry.

Naught else had I to hope for from that day

when my infatuate sword on gods I drew,

and outraged with abominable wound

the hand of Venus. Urge me not, I pray,

to conflicts in this wise. No more for me

of war with Trojans after Ilium 's fall!

I take no joy in evils past, nor wish

such memory to renew. Go, lay these gifts,

brought to my honor from your ancient land,

at great Aeneas' feet. We twain have stood

confronting close with swords implacable

in mortal fray. Believe me, I have known

the stature of him when he lifts his shield,

and swings the whirlwind of his spear. If Troy

two more such sons had bred, the Dardan horde

had stormed at Argos ' gates, and Greece to-day

were for her fallen fortunes grieving sore.

Our lingering at Ilium 's stubborn wall,

our sluggard conquest halting ten years Iong,

was his and Hector's work. Heroic pair!

Each one for valor notable, and each

famous in enterprise of arms,—but he

was first in piety. Enclasp with his

your hands in plighted peace as best ye may:

but shock of steel on steel ye well may shun.’

now hast thou heard, good King, a king's reply,

and how his wisdom sits in this vast war.”

Soon as the envoys ceased, an answering sound

of troubled voices through the council flowed

of various note, as when its rocky bed

impedes an arrowy stream, and murmurs break

from the strait-channelled flood; the fringing shores

repeat the tumult of the clamorous wave.

But when their hearts and troublous tongues were still,

the King, invoking first the gods in heaven,

thus from a Iofty throne his sentence gave:

“Less evil were our case, if long ago

ye had provided for your country's weal,

O Latins, as I urged. It is no time

to hold dispute, while, compassing our walls,

the foeman waits. Ill-omened war is ours

against a race of gods, my countrymen,

invincible, unwearied in the fray,

and who, though lost and fallen, clutch the sword.

If hope ye cherished of Aetolia 's power,

dismiss it! For what hope ye have is found

in your own bosoms only. But ye know

how slight it is and small. What ruin wide

has fallen, is now palpable and clear.

No blame I cast. What valor's uttermost

may do was done; our kingdom in this war

strained its last thews. Now therefore I will tell

such project as my doubtful mind may frame,

and briefly, if ye give good heed, unfold:

an ancient tract have I, close-bordering

the river Tiber ; it runs westward far

beyond Sicania's bound, and filth it bears

to Rutule and Auruncan husbandmen,

who furrow its hard hills or feed their flocks

along the stonier slopes. Let this demesne,

together with its pine-clad mountain tall,

be given the Teucrian for our pledge of peace,

confirmed by free and equitable league,

and full alliance with our kingly power.

Let them abide there, if it please them so,

and build their city's wall. But if their hearts

for other land or people yearn, and fate

permits them hence to go, then let us build

twice ten good galleys of Italian oak,

or more, if they can man them. All the wood

lies yonder on the shore. Let them but say

how numerous and large the ships they crave,

and we will give the brass, the artisans,

and ship-supplies. Let us for envoys choose

a hundred of the Latins noblest born

to tell our message and arrange the peace,

bearing mild olive-boughs and weighty gifts

of ivory and gold, with chair of state

and purple robe, our emblems as a king.

But freely let this council speak; give aid

to our exhausted cause.” Then Drances rose,

that foe inveterate, whom Turnus' fame

to stinging hate and envy double-tongued

ever pricked on. Of liberal wealth was he

and flowing speech, but slack of hand in war

at council board accounted no weak voice,

in quarrels stronger still; of lofty birth

in the maternal line, but by his sire's

uncertain and obscure. He, claiming place,

thus multiplies with words the people's ire:

“A course most clear, nor needing voice of mine,

thy council is, good King; for all men see

the way of public weal, but smother close

the telling of it. Turnus must concede

freedom to speak, and his own arrogance

diminish! Under his ill-boding star

and fatal conduct—yea, I speak it plain,

though with his naked steel my death he swear—

yon host of princes fell, and we behold

the whole land bowed with grief; while he assails

the Trojan camp (beating such bold retreats!)

and troubles Heaven with war. One gift the more,

among the many to the Trojans given,

one chiefly, best of kings, thy choice should be.

Let not wild violence thy will restrain

from granting, sire, thy virgin daughter's hand

to son-in-law illustrious, in a match

worthy of both,—and thus the lasting bond

of peace establish. But if verily

our hearts and souls be weak with craven fear,

let us on Turnus call, and grace implore

even of him. Let him no more oppose;

but to his country and his King concede

their natural right. Why wilt thou o'er and o'er

fling thy poor countrymen in danger's way,

O chief and fountain of all Latium 's pain?

War will not save us. Not a voice but sues

for peace, O Turnus! and, not less than peace,

its one inviolable pledge. Behold,

I lead in this petition! even I

whom thou dost feign thy foe—(I waste no words

denying)—look! I supplicate of thee,

take pity on thy kindred; drop thy pride,

and get thee home defeated. We have seen

slaughter enough, enough of funeral flames,

and many a wide field waste and desolate.

If glory move thee, if thy martial breast

so swell with strength, and if a royal dower

be thy dear dream, go, pluck thy courage up,

and front thy own brave bosom to the foe.

for, lo, that Turnus on his wedding day

may win a princess, our cheap, common lives—

we the mere mob, unwept, unsepulchred—

must be spilled forth in battle! Thou, I say,

if there be mettle in thee and some drops

of thy undaunted sires, Iook yonder where

the Trojan chieftain waits thee in the field.”

By such discourse he stirred the burning blood

of Turnus, who groaned loud and from his heart

this utterance hurled: “O Drances, thou art rich

in large words, when the day of battle calls

for actions. If our senators convene

thou comest early. But the council hall

is not for swollen talk, such as thy tongue

in safety tosses forth; so long as walls

hold back thy foes, and ere the trenches flow

with blood of brave men slain. O, rattle on

in fluent thunder—thy habitual style!

Brand me a coward, Drances, when thy sword

has heaped up Trojan slain, and on the field

thy shining trophies rise. Now may we twain

our martial prowess prove. Our foe, forsooth,

is not so far to seek; around yon wall

he lies in siege: to front him let us fly!

Why art thou tarrying? Wilt thou linger here,

a soldier only in thy windy tongue,

and thy swift, coward heels? Defeated, I?

Foul wretch, what tongue that honors truth can tell

of my defeat, while Tiber overflows

with Trojan blood? while King Evander's house

in ruin dies, and his Arcadians lie

stripped naked on the field? O, not like thee

did Bitias or the giant Pandarus

misprize my honor; nor those men of Troy

whom this good sword to death and dark sent down,

a thousand in a day,—though I was penned

a prisoner in the ramparts of my foe.

War will not save us? Fling that prophecy

on the doomed Dardan's head, or on thy own,

thou madman! Aye, with thy vile, craven soul

disturb the general cause. Extol the power

of a twice-vanquished people, and decry

Latinus' rival arms. From this time forth

let all the Myrmidonian princes cower

before the might of Troy ; let Diomed

and let Achilles tremble; let the stream

of Aufidus in panic backward flow

from Hadria 's wave. But hear me when I say

that though his guilt and cunning feign to feel

fear of my vengeance, much embittering so

his taunts and insult—such a life as his

my sword disdains. O Drances, be at ease!

In thy vile bosom let thy breath abide!

But now of thy grave counsel and thy cause,

O royal sire, I speak. If from this hour

thou castest hope of armed success away,

if we be so unfriended that one rout

o'erwhelms us utterly, if Fortune's feet

never turn backward, let us, then, for peace

offer petition, lifting to the foe

our feeble, suppliant hands. Yet would I pray

some spark of manhood such as once we knew

were ours once more! I count him fortunate,

and of illustrious soul beyond us all,

who, rather than behold such things, has fallen

face forward, dead, his teeth upon the dust.

But if we still have power, and men-at-arms

unwasted and unscathed, if there survive

Italian tribes and towns for help in war,

aye! if the Trojans have but won success

at bloody cost,—for they dig graves, I ween,

storm-smitten not less than we,—O, wherefore now

stand faint and shameful on the battle's edge?

Why quake our knees before the trumpet call?

Time and the toil of shifting, changeful days

restore lost causes; ebbing tides of chance

deceive us oft, which after at their flood

do lift us safe to shore. If aid come not

from Diomed in Arpi , our allies

shall be Mezentius and Tolumnius,

auspicious name, and many a chieftain sent

from many a tribe; not all inglorious

are Latium 's warriors from Laurentian land!

Hither the noble Volscian stem sends down

Camilla with her beauteous cavalry

in glittering brass arrayed. But if, forsooth,

the Trojans call me singly to the fight,

if this be what ye will, and I so much

the public weal impair—when from this sword

has victory seemed to fly away in scorn?

I should not hopeless tread in honor's way

whate'er the venture. Dauntless will I go

though equal match for great Achilles, he,

and though he clothe him in celestial arms

in Vulcan's smithy wrought. I, Turnus, now,

not less than equal with great warriors gone,

vow to Latinus, father of my bride,

and to ye all, each drop of blood I owe.

Me singly doth Aeneas call? I crave

that challenge. Drances is not called to pay

the debt of death, if wrath from Heaven impend;

nor his a brave man's name and fame to share.”

Thus in their doubtful cause the chieftains strove.

Meanwhile Aeneas his assaulting line

moved forward. The ill tidings wildly sped

from royal hall to hall, and filled the town

with rumors dark: for now the Trojan host

o'er the wide plains from Tiber 's wave was spread

in close array of war. The people's soul

was vexed and shaken, and its martial rage

rose to the stern compulsion. Now for arms

their terror calls; the youthful soldiery

clamor for arms; the sires of riper days

weep or repress their tears. On every side

loud shouts and cries of dissonant acclaim

trouble the air, as when in lofty grove

legions of birds alight, or by the flood

of Padus' fishy stream the shrieking swans

far o'er the vocal marish fling their song.

Then, seizing the swift moment, Turnus cried:

“Once more, my countrymen,—ye sit in parle,

lazily praising peace, while yonder foe

speeds forth in arms our kingdom to obtain.”

He spoke no more, but hied him in hot haste,

and from the housetop called, “Volusus, go!

Equip the Volscian companies! Lead forth

my Rutules also! O'er the spreading plain,

ye brothers Coras and Messapus range

our host of cavalry! Let others guard

the city's gates and hold the walls and towers:

I and my followers elsewhere oppose

the shock of arms.” Now to and fro they run

to man the walls. Father Latinus quits—

the place of council and his large design,

vexed and bewildered by the hour's distress.

He blames his own heart that he did not ask

Trojan Aeneas for his daughter's Iord,

and gain him for his kingdom's lasting friend.

They dig them trenches at the gates, or lift

burden of stakes and stones. The horn's harsh note

sounds forth its murderous signal for the war;

striplings and women, in a motley ring,

defend the ramparts; the decisive hour

lays tasks on all. Upon the citadel

a train of matrons, with the doleful Queen,

toward Pallas' temple moves, and in their hand

are gifts and offerings. See, at their side

the maid Lavinia, cause of all these tears,

drops down her lovely eyes! The incense rolls

in clouds above the altar; at the doors

with wailing voice the women make this prayer:

“Tritonian virgin, arbitress of war!

Break of thyself yon Phrygian robber's spear!

Hurl him down dying in the dust! Spill forth

his evil blood beneath our lofty towers!”

Fierce Turnus girds him, emulous to slay:

a crimson coat of mail he wears, with scales

of burnished bronze; beneath his knees are bound

the golden greaves; upon his naked brow

no helm he wears; but to his thigh is bound

a glittering sword. Down from the citadel

runs he, a golden glory, in his heart

boldly exulting, while impatient hope

fore-counts his fallen foes. He seemed as when,

from pinfold bursting, breaking his strong chain,

th' untrammelled stallion ranges the wide field,

or tries him to a herd of feeding mares,

or to some cooling river-bank he knows,

most fierce and mettlesome; the streaming mane

o'er neck and shoulder flies. Across his path

Camilla with her Volscian escort came,

and at the city-gate the royal maid

down from her charger leaped; while all her band

at her example glided to the ground,

their horses leaving. Thus the virgin spoke:

“Turnus, if confidence beseem the brave,

I have no fear; but of myself do vow

to meet yon squadrons of Aeneadae

alone, and front me to the gathered charge

of Tuscan cavalry. Let me alone

the war's first venture-prove. Take station, thou,

here at the walls, this rampart to defend.”

With fixed eyes on the terror-striking maid,

Turnus replied, “O boast of Italy ,

O virgin bold! What praise, what gratitude

can words or deeds repay? But since thy soul

so large of stature shows, I bid thee share

my burden and my war. Our spies bring news

that now Aeneas with pernicious mind

sends light-armed horse before him, to alarm

the plains below, while through the wilderness

he climbs the steep hills, and approaches so

our leaguered town. But I in sheltered grove

a stratagem prepare, and bid my men

in ambush at a mountain cross-road lie.

Meet thou the charge of Tuscan cavalry

with all thy banners. For auxiliar strength

take bold Messapus with his Latin troop

and King Tiburtus' men: but the command

shall be thy task and care.” He spoke, and urged

with like instruction for the coming fray

Messapus and his captains; then advanced

to meet the foe. There is a winding vale

for armed deception and insidious war

well fashioned, and by interlacing leaves

screened darkly in; a small path thither leads,

through strait defile-a passage boding ill.

Above it, on a mountain's lofty brow,

are points of outlook, level spaces fair,

and many a safe, invisible retreat

from whence on either hand to challenge war,

or, standing on the ridges, to roll down

huge mountain boulders. Thither Turnus fared,

and, ranging the familiar tract, chose out

his cunning ambush in the dangerous grove.

But now in dwellings of the gods on high,

Diana to fleet-footed Opis called,

a virgin from her consecrated train,

and thus in sorrow spoke: “O maiden mine!

Camilla now to cruel conflict flies;

with weapons like my own she girds her side,

in vain, though dearest of all nymphs to me.

Nor is it some new Iove that stirs to-day

with sudden sweetness in Diana's breast:

for long ago, when from his kingdom driven,

for insolent and envied power, her sire

King Metabus, from old Privernum 's wall

was taking flight amidst opposing foes,

he bore a little daughter in his arms

to share his exile; and he called the child

(Changing Casmilla, her queen-mother's name)

Camilla. Bearing on his breast the babe,

he fled to solitary upland groves.

But hovering round him with keen lances, pressed

the Volscian soldiery. Across his path,

lo, Amasenus with full-foaming wave

o'erflowed its banks—so huge a rain had burst

but lately from the clouds. There would he fain

swim over, but the love of that sweet babe

restrained him, trembling for his burden dear.

In his perplexed heart suddenly arose

firm resolve. It chanced the warrior bore

huge spear in his brawny hand, strong shaft

of knotted, seasoned oak; to this he lashed

his little daughter with a withe of bark

pulled from a cork-tree, and with skilful bonds

fast bound her to the spear; then, poising it

high in his right hand, thus he called on Heaven:

‘Latona's daughter, whose benignant grace

protects this grove, behold, her father now

gives thee this babe for handmaid! Lo, thy spear

her infant fingers hold, as from her foes

she flies a suppliant to thee! Receive,

O goddess, I implore, what now I cast

upon the perilous air.’—He spoke, and hurled

with lifted arm the whirling shaft. The waves

roared loud, as on the whistling javelin

hapless Camilla crossed th' impetuous flood.

But Metabus, his foes in hot pursuit,

dared plunge him in mid-stream, and, triumphing,

soon plucked from grass-grown river-bank the spear,

the child upon it,—now to Trivia vowed,

a virgin offering. Him nevermore

could cities hold, nor would his wild heart yield

its sylvan freedom, but his days were passed

with shepherds on the solitary hills.

His daughter too in tangled woods he bred:

a brood-mare from the milk of her fierce breast

suckled the child, and to its tender lips

.Her udders moved; and when the infant feet

their first firm steps had taken, the small palms

were armed with a keen javelin; her sire

a bow and quiver from her shoulder slung.

Instead of golden combs and flowing pall,

she wore, from her girl-forehead backward thrown,

the whole skin of a tigress; with soft hands

she made her plaything of a whirling spear,

or, swinging round her head the polished thong

of her good sling, she fetched from distant sky

Strymonian cranes or swans of spotless wing.

From Tuscan towns proud matrons oft in vain

sought her in marriage for their sons; but she

to Dian only turned her stainless heart,

her virgin freedom and her huntress' arms

with faithful passion serving. Would that now

this Iove of war had ne'er seduced her mind

the Teucrians to provoke! So might she be

one of our wood-nymphs still. But haste, I pray,

for bitter is her now impending doom.

Descend, dear nymph, from heaven, and explore

the country of the Latins, where the fight

with unpropitious omens now begins.

These weapons take, and from this quiver draw

a vengeful arrow, wherewith he who dares

to wound her sacred body, though he be

a Trojan or Italian, shall receive

bloody and swift reward at my command.

Then, in a cloud concealed, I will consign

her corpse, ill-fated but inviolate

unto the sepulchre, restoring so

the virgin to her native land.” Thus spake

the goddess; but her handmaid, gliding down,

took her loud pathway on the moving winds,

and mantled in dark storm her shape divine.

Meanwhile the Teucrian legions to the wall

draw near, with Tuscan lords and cavalry

in numbered troops arrayed. Loud-footed steeds

prance o'er the field, to manage of the rein

rebellious, but turned deftly here or there.

The iron harvest of keen spears spreads far,

and all the plain burns bright with lifted steel.

Messapus and swift Latin cavalry,

Coras his brother, and th' attending train

of the fair maid Camilla, form their lines

in the opposing field. Their poised right hands

point the long lances forward, and light shafts

are brandished in the air; the warrior hosts

on steeds of fire come kindling as they ride.

One instant, at a spear-throw's space, each line

its motion stays; then with one sudden cry

they rush forth, spurring on each frenzied steed.

From-every side the multitudinous spears

pour down like snowflakes, mantling heaven in shade.

Now with contending spears and straining thews,

Tyrrhenus, and Aconteus, champion bold,

ride forward; with the onset terrible

loudly their armor rings; their chargers twain

crash breast to breast, and like a thunderbolt

Aconteus drops, or like a ponderous stone

hurled from a catapult; full length he falls,

surrend'ring to the winds his fleeting soul.

Now all is panic: holding their light shields

behind their backs, the Latin horse wheel round,

retreating to the wall, the Trojan foe

in close pursuit. Asilas, chieftain proud,

led on th' assault. Hard by the city gates

the Latins wheeled once more and pressed the rein

strong on the yielding neck; the charging foe

took flight and hurried far with loose-flung rein.

'T was like the shock and onset of the sea

that landward hurls the alternating flood

and hides high cliffs in foam,—the tawny sands

upflinging as it rolls; then, suddenly

whirled backward on the reingulfing waves,

it quits the ledges, and with ebbing flow

far from the shore retires. The Tuscans twice

drive back the flying Rutules to the town;

and twice repulsed, with shields to rearward thrown,

glare back at the pursuer; but conjoined

in the third battle-charge, both armies merge

confusedly together in grim fight

of man to man; then follow dying groans,

armor blood-bathed and corpses, and strong steeds

inextricably with their masters slain,

so fierce the fray. Orsilochus—afraid

to front the warrior's arms—launched forth a spear

at Remulus' horse, and left the fatal steel

clinging below its ear; the charger plunged

madly, and tossed its trembling hoofs in air,

sustaining not the wound; the rider fell,

flung headlong to the ground. Catillus slew

Iollas; and then struck Herminius down,

great-bodied and great-hearted, who could wield

a monster weapon, and whose yellow hair

from naked head to naked shoulder flowed.

By wounds unterrified he dared oppose

his huge bulk to the foe: the quivering spear

pierced to his broad back, and with throes of pain

bowed the man double and clean clove him through.

Wide o'er the field th' ensanguined horror flowed,

where fatal swords were crossed and cut their way

through many a wound to famous death and fair.

Swift through the midmost slaughter proudly strides

the quiver-girt Camilla, with one breast

thrust naked to the fight, like Amazon.

Oft from her hand her pliant shafts she rains,

or whirls with indefatigable arm

a doughty battle-axe; her shoulder bears

Diana's sounding arms and golden bow.

Sometimes retreating and to flight compelled,

the maiden with a rearward-pointing bow

shoots arrows as she flies. Around her move

her chosen peers, Larina, virgin brave,

Tarpeia, brandishing an axe of bronze,

and Tulla, virgins out of Italy

whom the divine Camilla chose to be

her glory, each a faithful servitress

in days of peace or war. The maids of Thrace

ride thus along Thermodon's frozen flood,

and fight with blazoned Amazonian arms

around Hippolyta; or when returns

Penthesilea in triumphal car

'mid acclamations shrill, and all her host

of women clash in air the moon-shaped shield.

What warrior first, whom last, did thy strong spear,

fierce virgin, earthward fling? Or what thy tale

of prostrate foes laid gasping on the ground?

Eunaeus first, the child of Clytius' Ioins,

whose bared breast, as he faced his foe, she pierced

with fir-tree javelin; from his lips outpoured

the blood-stream as he fell; and as he bit

the gory dust, he clutched his mortal wound.

Then Liris, and upon him Pagasus

she slew: the one clung closer to the reins

of his stabbed horse, and rolled off on the ground;

the other, flying to his fallen friend,

reached out a helpless hand; so both of these

fell on swift death together. Next in line

she smote Amastrus, son of Hippotas;

then, swift-pursuing, pierced with far-flung spear

Tereus, Harpalycus, Demophoon,

and Chromis; every shaft the virgin threw

laid low its Phrygian warrior. From afar

rode Ornytus on his Apulian steed,

bearing a hunter's uncouth arms; for cloak

he wore upon his shoulders broad a hide

from some wild bull stripped off; his helmet was

a wolf's great, gaping mouth, with either jaw

full of white teeth; the weapon in his hand,

a farmer's pole. He strode into the throng,

head taller than them all. But him she seized

and clove him through (his panic-stricken troop

gave her advantage), and with wrathful heart

she taunted thus the fallen: “Didst thou deem

this was a merry hunting in the wood

in chase of game? Behold, thy fatal day

befalls thee at a woman's hand, and thus

thy boasting answers. No small glory thou

unto the ghosts of thy dead sires wilt tell,

that 't was Camilla's javelin struck thee down.”

The turn of Butes and Orsilochus

came next, who were the Trojans, hugest twain:

yet Butes with her javelin-point she clove

from rearward, 'twixt the hauberk and the helm,

just where the horseman's neck showed white, and where

from shoulder leftward slung the light-weight shield.

From swift Orsilochus she feigned to fly,

through a wide circle sweeping, craftily

taking the inside track, pursuing so

her own pursuer; then she raised herself

to her full height, and through the warrior's helm

drove to his very skull with doubling blows

of her strong battle-axe,—while he implored

her mercy with loud prayers: his cloven brain

spilt o'er his face. Next in her pathway came—

but shrank in startled fear—the warrior son

of Aunus, haunter of the Apennine,

not least of the Ligurians ere his doom

cut short a life of lies. He, knowing well

no flight could save him from the shock of arms

nor turn the royal maid's attack, began

with words of cunning and insidious guile:

“What glory is it if a girl be bold,

on sturdy steed depending? Fly me not!

But, venturing with me on this equal ground,

gird thee to fight on foot. Soon shalt thou see

which one of us by windy boast achieves

a false renown.” He spoke; but she, to pangs

of keenest fury stung, gave o'er her steed

in charge of a companion, and opposed

her foe at equal vantage, falchion drawn,

on foot, and, though her shield no blazon bore,

of fear incapable. But the warrior fled,

thinking his trick victorious, and rode off

full speed, with reins reversed,—his iron heel

goading his charger's flight. Camilla cried:

“Ligurian cheat! In vain thy boastful heart

puffs thee so large; in vain thou hast essayed

thy father's slippery ways; nor shall thy trick

bring thee to guileful Aunus safely home.”

Herewith on winged feet that virgin bold

flew past the war-horse, seized the streaming rein,

and, fronting him, took vengeance on her foe

in bloody strokes: with not less ease a hawk,

dark bird of omen, from his mountain crag

pursues on pinions strong a soaring dove

to distant cloud, and, clutching with hooked claws,

holds tight and rips,—while through celestial air

the torn, ensanguined plumage floats along.