Aeneid — Bk 10: The Death of Princes, pt 2

Meantime Juturna warns the Daunian chief Of Lausus’ danger, urging swift relief.

With his driv’n chariot he divides the crowd, And, making to his friends, thus calls aloud: “Let none presume his needless aid to join;

Retire, and clear the field; the fight is mine: To this right hand is Pallas only due;

O were his father here, my just revenge to view!

” From the forbidden space his men retir’d. Pallas their awe, and his stern words, admir’d;

Survey’d him o’er and o’er with wond’ring sight, Struck with his haughty mien, and tow’ring height.

Then to the king: “Your empty vaunts forbear;

Success I hope, and fate I cannot fear;

Alive or dead, I shall deserve a name;

Jove is impartial, and to both the same.

” He said, and to the void advanc’d his pace: Pale horror sate on each Arcadian face.

Then Turnus, from his chariot leaping light, Address’d himself on foot to single fight.

And, as a lion—when he spies from far A bull that seems to meditate the war, Bending his neck, and spurning back the sand— Runs roaring downward from his hilly stand: Imagine eager Turnus not more slow, To rush from high on his unequal foe.

Young Pallas, when he saw the chief advance Within due distance of his flying lance, Prepares to charge him first, resolv’d to try If fortune would his want of force supply;

And thus to Heav’n and Hercules address’d: “Alcides, once on earth Evander’s guest, His son adjures you by those holy rites, That hospitable board, those genial nights;

Assist my great attempt to gain this prize, And let proud Turnus view, with dying eyes, His ravish’d spoils.

” ’Twas heard, the vain request;

Alcides mourn’d, and stifled sighs within his breast.

Then Jove, to soothe his sorrow, thus began: “Short bounds of life are set to mortal man.

’Tis virtue’s work alone to stretch the narrow span.

So many sons of gods, in bloody fight, Around the walls of Troy, have lost the light: My own Sarpedon fell beneath his foe;

Nor I, his mighty sire, could ward the blow.

Ev’n Turnus shortly shall resign his breath, And stands already on the verge of death.

” This said, the god permits the fatal fight, But from the Latian fields averts his sight.

Now with full force his spear young Pallas threw, And, having thrown, his shining falchion drew The steel just graz’d along the shoulder joint, And mark’d it slightly with the glancing point, Fierce Turnus first to nearer distance drew, And pois’d his pointed spear, before he threw: Then, as the winged weapon whizz’d along, “See now,” said he, “whose arm is better strung.

” The spear kept on the fatal course, unstay’d By plates of ir’n, which o’er the shield were laid: Thro’ folded brass and tough bull hides it pass’d, His corslet pierc’d, and reach’d his heart at last.

In vain the youth tugs at the broken wood;

The soul comes issuing with the vital blood: He falls; his arms upon his body sound;

And with his bloody teeth he bites the ground.

Turnus bestrode the corpse: “Arcadians, hear,” Said he; “my message to your master bear: Such as the sire deserv’d, the son I send;

It costs him dear to be the Phrygians’ friend.

The lifeless body, tell him, I bestow, Unask’d, to rest his wand’ring ghost below.

” He said, and trampled down with all the force Of his left foot, and spurn’d the wretched corse;

Then snatch’d the shining belt, with gold inlaid;

The belt Eurytion’s artful hands had made, Where fifty fatal brides, express’d to sight, All in the compass of one mournful night, Depriv’d their bridegrooms of returning light.

In an ill hour insulting Turnus tore Those golden spoils, and in a worse he wore.

O mortals, blind in fate, who never know To bear high fortune, or endure the low!

The time shall come, when Turnus, but in vain, Shall wish untouch’d the trophies of the slain;

Shall wish the fatal belt were far away, And curse the dire remembrance of the day.

The sad Arcadians, from th’ unhappy field, Bear back the breathless body on a shield.

O grace and grief of war!

at once restor’d, With praises, to thy sire, at once deplor’d!

One day first sent thee to the fighting field, Beheld whole heaps of foes in battle kill’d;

One day beheld thee dead, and borne upon thy shield.

This dismal news, not from uncertain fame, But sad spectators, to the hero came: His friends upon the brink of ruin stand, Unless reliev’d by his victorious hand.

He whirls his sword around, without delay, And hews thro’ adverse foes an ample way, To find fierce Turnus, of his conquest proud: Evander, Pallas, all that friendship ow’d To large deserts, are present to his eyes;

His plighted hand, and hospitable ties.

Four sons of Sulmo, four whom Ufens bred, He took in fight, and living victims led, To please the ghost of Pallas, and expire, In sacrifice, before his fun’ral fire.

At Magus next he threw: he stoop’d below The flying spear, and shunn’d the promis’d blow;

Then, creeping, clasp’d the hero’s knees, and pray’d: “By young Iulus, by thy father’s shade, O spare my life, and send me back to see My longing sire, and tender progeny!

A lofty house I have, and wealth untold, In silver ingots, and in bars of gold: All these, and sums besides, which see no day, The ransom of this one poor life shall pay.

If I survive, will Troy the less prevail?

A single soul’s too light to turn the scale.

” He said.

The hero sternly thus replied: “Thy bars and ingots, and the sums beside, Leave for thy children’s lot.

Thy Turnus broke All rules of war by one relentless stroke, When Pallas fell: so deems, nor deems alone My father’s shadow, but my living son.

” Thus having said, of kind remorse bereft, He seiz’d his helm, and dragg’d him with his left;

Then with his right hand, while his neck he wreath’d, Up to the hilts his shining falchion sheath’d. Apollo’s priest, Emonides, was near;

His holy fillets on his front appear;

Glitt’ring in arms, he shone amidst the crowd;

Much of his god, more of his purple, proud.

Him the fierce Trojan follow’d thro’ the field: The holy coward fell; and, forc’d to yield, The prince stood o’er the priest, and, at one blow, Sent him an off’ring to the shades below.

His arms Seresthus on his shoulders bears, Design’d a trophy to the God of Wars.

Vulcanian Caeculus renews the fight, And Umbro, born upon the mountains’ height.

The champion cheers his troops t’ encounter those, And seeks revenge himself on other foes.

At Anxur’s shield he drove; and, at the blow, Both shield and arm to ground together go.

Anxur had boasted much of magic charms, And thought he wore impenetrable arms, So made by mutter’d spells; and, from the spheres, Had life secur’d, in vain, for length of years.

Then Tarquitus the field in triumph trod;

A nymph his mother, his sire a god.

Exulting in bright arms, he braves the prince: With his protended lance he makes defence;

Bears back his feeble foe; then, pressing on, Arrests his better hand, and drags him down;

Stands o’er the prostrate wretch, and, as he lay, Vain tales inventing, and prepar’d to pray, Mows off his head: the trunk a moment stood, Then sunk, and roll’d along the sand in blood.

The vengeful victor thus upbraids the slain: “Lie there, proud man, unpitied, on the plain;

Lie there, inglorious, and without a tomb, Far from thy mother and thy native home, Exposed to savage beasts, and birds of prey, Or thrown for food to monsters of the sea.

” On Lycas and Antaeus next he ran, Two chiefs of Turnus, and who led his van.

They fled for fear; with these, he chas’d along Camers the yellow-lock’d, and Numa strong;

Both great in arms, and both were fair and young.

Camers was son to Volscens lately slain, In wealth surpassing all the Latian train, And in Amycla fix’d his silent easy reign.

And, as Aegaeon, when with heav’n he strove, Stood opposite in arms to mighty Jove;

Mov’d all his hundred hands, provok’d the war, Defied the forky lightning from afar;

At fifty mouths his flaming breath expires, And flash for flash returns, and fires for fires;

In his right hand as many swords he wields, And takes the thunder on as many shields: With strength like his, the Trojan hero stood;

And soon the fields with falling corps were strow’d, When once his falchion found the taste of blood.

With fury scarce to be conceiv’d, he flew Against Niphaeus, whom four coursers drew.

They, when they see the fiery chief advance, And pushing at their chests his pointed lance, Wheel’d with so swift a motion, mad with fear, They threw their master headlong from the chair.

They stare, they start, nor stop their course, before They bear the bounding chariot to the shore.

Now Lucagus and Liger scour the plains, With two white steeds; but Liger holds the reins, And Lucagus the lofty seat maintains: Bold brethren both.

The former wav’d in air His flaming sword: Aeneas couch’d his spear, Unus’d to threats, and more unus’d to fear.

Then Liger thus: “Thy confidence is vain To scape from hence, as from the Trojan plain: Nor these the steeds which Diomede bestrode, Nor this the chariot where Achilles rode;

Nor Venus’ veil is here, near Neptune’s shield;

Thy fatal hour is come, and this the field.

” Thus Liger vainly vaunts: the Trojan peer Return’d his answer with his flying spear.

As Lucagus, to lash his horses, bends, Prone to the wheels, and his left foot protends, Prepar’d for fight; the fatal dart arrives, And thro’ the borders of his buckler drives;

Pass’d thro’ and pierc’d his groin: the deadly wound, Cast from his chariot, roll’d him on the ground.

Whom thus the chief upbraids with scornful spite: “Blame not the slowness of your steeds in flight;

Vain shadows did not force their swift retreat;

But you yourself forsake your empty seat.

” He said, and seiz’d at once the loosen’d rein;

For Liger lay already on the plain, By the same shock: then, stretching out his hands, The recreant thus his wretched life demands: “Now, by thyself, O more than mortal man!

By her and him from whom thy breath began, Who form’d thee thus divine, I beg thee, spare This forfeit life, and hear thy suppliant’s pray’r. ” Thus much he spoke, and more he would have said;

But the stern hero turn’d aside his head, And cut him short: “I hear another man;

You talk’d not thus before the fight began.

Now take your turn; and, as a brother should, Attend your brother to the Stygian flood.

” Then thro’ his breast his fatal sword he sent, And the soul issued at the gaping vent.

As storms the skies, and torrents tear the ground, Thus rag’d the prince, and scatter’d deaths around.

At length Ascanius and the Trojan train Broke from the camp, so long besieg’d in vain.

Meantime the King of Gods and Mortal Man Held conference with his queen, and thus began: “My sister goddess, and well-pleasing wife, Still think you Venus’ aid supports the strife— Sustains her Trojans—or themselves, alone, With inborn valour force their fortune on?

How fierce in fight, with courage undecay’d!

Judge if such warriors want immortal aid.

” To whom the goddess with the charming eyes, Soft in her tone, submissively replies: “Why, O my sov’reign lord, whose frown I fear, And cannot, unconcern’d, your anger bear;

Why urge you thus my grief?

when, if I still (As once I was) were mistress of your will, From your almighty pow’r your pleasing wife Might gain the grace of length’ning Turnus’ life, Securely snatch him from the fatal fight, And give him to his aged father’s sight.

Now let him perish, since you hold it good, And glut the Trojans with his pious blood.

Yet from our lineage he derives his name, And, in the fourth degree, from god Pilumnus came;

Yet he devoutly pays you rites divine, And offers daily incense at your shrine.

” Then shortly thus the sov’reign god replied: “Since in my pow’r and goodness you confide, If for a little space, a lengthen’d span, You beg reprieve for this expiring man, I grant you leave to take your Turnus hence From instant fate, and can so far dispense.

But, if some secret meaning lies beneath, To save the short-liv’d youth from destin’d death, Or if a farther thought you entertain, To change the fates; you feed your hopes in vain.

” To whom the goddess thus, with weeping eyes: “And what if that request, your tongue denies, Your heart should grant; and not a short reprieve, But length of certain life, to Turnus give?

Now speedy death attends the guiltless youth, If my presaging soul divines with truth;

Which, O!

I wish, might err thro’ causeless fears, And you (for you have pow’r) prolong his years!

” Thus having said, involv’d in clouds, she flies, And drives a storm before her thro’ the skies.

Swift she descends, alighting on the plain, Where the fierce foes a dubious fight maintain.

Of air condens’d a spectre soon she made;

And, what Aeneas was, such seem’d the shade.

Adorn’d with Dardan arms, the phantom bore His head aloft; a plumy crest he wore;

This hand appear’d a shining sword to wield, And that sustain’d an imitated shield.

With manly mien he stalk’d along the ground, Nor wanted voice belied, nor vaunting sound.

(Thus haunting ghosts appear to waking sight, Or dreadful visions in our dreams by night.

) The spectre seems the Daunian chief to dare, And flourishes his empty sword in air.

At this, advancing, Turnus hurl’d his spear: The phantom wheel’d, and seem’d to fly for fear.

Deluded Turnus thought the Trojan fled, And with vain hopes his haughty fancy fed.

“Whether, O coward?

” (thus he calls aloud, Nor found he spoke to wind, and chas’d a cloud,) “Why thus forsake your bride!

Receive from me The fated land you sought so long by sea.

” He said, and, brandishing at once his blade, With eager pace pursued the flying shade.

By chance a ship was fasten’d to the shore, Which from old Clusium King Osinius bore: The plank was ready laid for safe ascent;

For shelter there the trembling shadow bent, And skipp’t and skulk’d, and under hatches went.

Exulting Turnus, with regardless haste, Ascends the plank, and to the galley pass’d. Scarce had he reach’d the prow: Saturnia’s hand The haulsers cuts, and shoots the ship from land.

With wind in poop, the vessel plows the sea, And measures back with speed her former way.

Meantime Aeneas seeks his absent foe, And sends his slaughter’d troops to shades below.

The guileful phantom now forsook the shroud, And flew sublime, and vanish’d in a cloud.

Too late young Turnus the delusion found, Far on the sea, still making from the ground.

Then, thankless for a life redeem’d by shame, With sense of honour stung, and forfeit fame, Fearful besides of what in fight had pass’d, His hands and haggard eyes to heav’n he cast;

“O Jove!

” he cried, “for what offence have I Deserv’d to bear this endless infamy?

Whence am I forc’d, and whether am I borne?

How, and with what reproach, shall I return?

Shall ever I behold the Latian plain, Or see Laurentum’s lofty tow’rs again?

What will they say of their deserting chief The war was mine: I fly from their relief;

I led to slaughter, and in slaughter leave;

And ev’n from hence their dying groans receive.

Here, overmatch’d in fight, in heaps they lie;

There, scatter’d o’er the fields, ignobly fly.

Gape wide, O earth, and draw me down alive!

Or, O ye pitying winds, a wretch relieve!

On sands or shelves the splitting vessel drive;

Or set me shipwreck’d on some desert shore, Where no Rutulian eyes may see me more, Unknown to friends, or foes, or conscious Fame, Lest she should follow, and my flight proclaim.

” Thus Turnus rav’d, and various fates revolv’d: The choice was doubtful, but the death resolv’d. And now the sword, and now the sea took place, That to revenge, and this to purge disgrace.

Sometimes he thought to swim the stormy main, By stretch of arms the distant shore to gain.

Thrice he the sword assay’d, and thrice the flood;

But Juno, mov’d with pity, both withstood.

And thrice repress’d his rage; strong gales supplied, And push’d the vessel o’er the swelling tide.

At length she lands him on his native shores, And to his father’s longing arms restores.

Meantime, by Jove’s impulse, Mezentius arm’d, Succeeding Turnus, with his ardour warm’d His fainting friends, reproach’d their shameful flight, Repell’d the victors, and renew’d the fight.

Against their king the Tuscan troops conspire;

Such is their hate, and such their fierce desire Of wish’d revenge: on him, and him alone, All hands employ’d, and all their darts are thrown.

He, like a solid rock by seas inclos’d, To raging winds and roaring waves oppos’d, From his proud summit looking down, disdains Their empty menace, and unmov’d remains.

Beneath his feet fell haughty Hebrus dead, Then Latagus, and Palmus as he fled.

At Latagus a weighty stone he flung: His face was flatted, and his helmet rung.

But Palmus from behind receives his wound;

Hamstring’d he falls, and grovels on the ground: His crest and armour, from his body torn, Thy shoulders, Lausus, and thy head adorn.

Evas and Mimas, both of Troy, he slew.

Mimas his birth from fair Theano drew, Born on that fatal night, when, big with fire, The queen produc’d young Paris to his sire: But Paris in the Phrygian fields was slain, Unthinking Mimas on the Latian plain.

And, as a savage boar, on mountains bred, With forest mast and fatt’ning marshes fed, When once he sees himself in toils inclos’d, By huntsmen and their eager hounds oppos’d, He whets his tusks, and turns, and dares the war;

Th’ invaders dart their jav’lins from afar: All keep aloof, and safely shout around;

But none presumes to give a nearer wound: He frets and froths, erects his bristled hide, And shakes a grove of lances from his side: Not otherwise the troops, with hate inspir’d, And just revenge against the tyrant fir’d, Their darts with clamour at a distance drive, And only keep the languish’d war alive.

From Coritus came Acron to the fight, Who left his spouse betroth’d, and unconsummate night.

Mezentius sees him thro’ the squadrons ride, Proud of the purple favours of his bride.

Then, as a hungry lion, who beholds A gamesome goat, who frisks about the folds, Or beamy stag, that grazes on the plain— He runs, he roars, he shakes his rising mane, He grins, and opens wide his greedy jaws;

The prey lies panting underneath his paws: He fills his famish’d maw; his mouth runs o’er With unchew’d morsels, while he churns the gore: So proud Mezentius rushes on his foes, And first unhappy Acron overthrows: Stretch’d at his length, he spurns the swarthy ground;

The lance, besmear’d with blood, lies broken in the wound.

Then with disdain the haughty victor view’d Orodes flying, nor the wretch pursued, Nor thought the dastard’s back deserv’d a wound, But, running, gain’d th’ advantage of the ground: Then turning short, he met him face to face, To give his victory the better grace.

Orodes falls, in equal fight oppress’d: Mezentius fix’d his foot upon his breast, And rested lance; and thus aloud he cries: “Lo!

here the champion of my rebels lies!

” The fields around with Io Paean!

ring;

And peals of shouts applaud the conqu’ring king.

At this the vanquish’d, with his dying breath, Thus faintly spoke, and prophesied in death: “Nor thou, proud man, unpunish’d shalt remain: Like death attends thee on this fatal plain.

” Then, sourly smiling, thus the king replied: “For what belongs to me, let Jove provide;

But die thou first, whatever chance ensue.

” He said, and from the wound the weapon drew.

A hov’ring mist came swimming o’er his sight, And seal’d his eyes in everlasting night.

By Caedicus, Alcathous was slain;

Sacrator laid Hydaspes on the plain;

Orses the strong to greater strength must yield;

He, with Parthenius, were by Rapo kill’d. Then brave Messapus Ericetes slew, Who from Lycaon’s blood his lineage drew.

But from his headstrong horse his fate he found, Who threw his master, as he made a bound: The chief, alighting, stuck him to the ground;

Then Clonius, hand to hand, on foot assails: The Trojan sinks, and Neptune’s son prevails.

Agis the Lycian, stepping forth with pride, To single fight the boldest foe defied;

Whom Tuscan Valerus by force o’ercame, And not belied his mighty father’s fame.

Salius to death the great Antronius sent: But the same fate the victor underwent, Slain by Nealces’ hand, well-skill’d to throw The flying dart, and draw the far-deceiving bow.

Thus equal deaths are dealt with equal chance;

By turns they quit their ground, by turns advance: Victors and vanquish’d, in the various field, Nor wholly overcome, nor wholly yield.

The gods from heav’n survey the fatal strife, And mourn the miseries of human life.

Above the rest, two goddesses appear Concern’d for each: here Venus, Juno there.

Amidst the crowd, infernal Ate shakes Her scourge aloft, and crest of hissing snakes.

Once more the proud Mezentius, with disdain, Brandish’d his spear, and rush’d into the plain, Where tow’ring in the midmost rank he stood, Like tall Orion stalking o’er the flood.

(When with his brawny breast he cuts the waves, His shoulders scarce the topmost billow laves), Or like a mountain ash, whose roots are spread, Deep fix’d in earth; in clouds he hides his head.

The Trojan prince beheld him from afar, And dauntless undertook the doubtful war.

Collected in his strength, and like a rock, Pois’d on his base, Mezentius stood the shock.

He stood, and, measuring first with careful eyes The space his spear could reach, aloud he cries: “My strong right hand, and sword, assist my stroke!

(Those only gods Mezentius will invoke.

) His armour, from the Trojan pirate torn, By my triumphant Lausus shall be worn.

” He said; and with his utmost force he threw The massy spear, which, hissing as it flew, Reach’d the celestial shield, that stopp’d the course;

But, glancing thence, the yet unbroken force Took a new bent obliquely, and betwixt The side and bowels fam’d Anthores fix’d. Anthores had from Argos travel’d far, Alcides’ friend, and brother of the war;

Till, tir’d with toils, fair Italy he chose, And in Evander’s palace sought repose.

Now, falling by another’s wound, his eyes He cast to heav’n, on Argos thinks, and dies.

The pious Trojan then his jav’lin sent;

The shield gave way; thro’ treble plates it went Of solid brass, of linen trebly roll’d, And three bull hides which round the buckler fold.

All these it pass’d, resistless in the course, Transpierc’d his thigh, and spent its dying force.

The gaping wound gush’d out a crimson flood.

The Trojan, glad with sight of hostile blood, His falchion drew, to closer fight address’d, And with new force his fainting foe oppress’d. His father’s peril Lausus view’d with grief;

He sigh’d, he wept, he ran to his relief.

And here, heroic youth, ’tis here I must To thy immortal memory be just, And sing an act so noble and so new, Posterity will scarce believe ’tis true.

Pain’d with his wound, and useless for the fight, The father sought to save himself by flight: Encumber’d, slow he dragg’d the spear along, Which pierc’d his thigh, and in his buckler hung.

The pious youth, resolv’d on death, below The lifted sword springs forth to face the foe;

Protects his parent, and prevents the blow.

Shouts of applause ran ringing thro’ the field, To see the son the vanquish’d father shield.

All, fir’d with gen’rous indignation, strive, And with a storm of darts to distance drive The Trojan chief, who, held at bay from far, On his Vulcanian orb sustain’d the war.

As, when thick hail comes rattling in the wind, The plowman, passenger, and lab’ring hind For shelter to the neighb’ring covert fly, Or hous’d, or safe in hollow caverns lie;

But, that o’erblown, when heav’n above ’em smiles, Return to travel, and renew their toils: Aeneas thus, o’erwhelmed on ev’ry side, The storm of darts, undaunted, did abide;

And thus to Lausus loud with friendly threat’ning cried: “Why wilt thou rush to certain death, and rage In rash attempts, beyond thy tender age, Betray’d by pious love?

” Nor, thus forborne, The youth desists, but with insulting scorn Provokes the ling’ring prince, whose patience, tir’d, Gave place; and all his breast with fury fir’d. For now the Fates prepar’d their sharpen’d shears;

And lifted high the flaming sword appears, Which, full descending with a frightful sway, Thro’ shield and corslet forc’d th’ impetuous way, And buried deep in his fair bosom lay.

The purple streams thro’ the thin armour strove, And drench’d th’ imbroider’d coat his mother wove;

And life at length forsook his heaving heart, Loth from so sweet a mansion to depart.

But when, with blood and paleness all o’erspread, The pious prince beheld young Lausus dead, He griev’d; he wept; the sight an image brought Of his own filial love, a sadly pleasing thought: Then stretch’d his hand to hold him up, and said: “Poor hapless youth!

what praises can be paid To love so great, to such transcendent store Of early worth, and sure presage of more?

Accept whate’er Aeneas can afford;

Untouch’d thy arms, untaken be thy sword;

And all that pleas’d thee living, still remain Inviolate, and sacred to the slain.

Thy body on thy parents I bestow, To rest thy soul, at least, if shadows know, Or have a sense of human things below.

There to thy fellow ghosts with glory tell: ‘’Twas by the great Aeneas hand I fell.

’” With this, his distant friends he beckons near, Provokes their duty, and prevents their fear: Himself assists to lift him from the ground, With clotted locks, and blood that well’d from out the wound.

Meantime, his father, now no father, stood, And wash’d his wounds by Tiber’s yellow flood: Oppress’d with anguish, panting, and o’erspent, His fainting limbs against an oak he leant.

A bough his brazen helmet did sustain;

His heavier arms lay scatter’d on the plain: A chosen train of youth around him stand;

His drooping head was rested on his hand: His grisly beard his pensive bosom sought;

And all on Lausus ran his restless thought.

Careful, concern’d his danger to prevent, He much enquir’d, and many a message sent To warn him from the field—alas!

in vain!

Behold, his mournful followers bear him slain!

O’er his broad shield still gush’d the yawning wound, And drew a bloody trail along the ground.

Far off he heard their cries, far off divin’d The dire event, with a foreboding mind.

With dust he sprinkled first his hoary head;

Then both his lifted hands to heav’n he spread;

Last, the dear corpse embracing, thus he said: “What joys, alas!

could this frail being give, That I have been so covetous to live?

To see my son, and such a son, resign His life, a ransom for preserving mine!

And am I then preserv’d, and art thou lost?

How much too dear has that redemption cost!

’Tis now my bitter banishment I feel: This is a wound too deep for time to heal.

My guilt thy growing virtues did defame;

My blackness blotted thy unblemish’d name.

Chas’d from a throne, abandon’d, and exil’d For foul misdeeds, were punishments too mild: I ow’d my people these, and, from their hate, With less resentment could have borne my fate.

And yet I live, and yet sustain the sight Of hated men, and of more hated light: But will not long.

” With that he rais’d from ground His fainting limbs, that stagger’d with his wound;

Yet, with a mind resolv’d, and unappall’d With pains or perils, for his courser call’d Well-mouth’d, well-manag’d, whom himself did dress With daily care, and mounted with success;

His aid in arms, his ornament in peace.

Soothing his courage with a gentle stroke, The steed seem’d sensible, while thus he spoke: “O Rhoebus, we have liv’d too long for me— If life and long were terms that could agree!

This day thou either shalt bring back the head And bloody trophies of the Trojan dead;

This day thou either shalt revenge my woe, For murder’d Lausus, on his cruel foe;

Or, if inexorable fate deny Our conquest, with thy conquer’d master die: For, after such a lord, I rest secure, Thou wilt no foreign reins, or Trojan load endure.

” He said; and straight th’ officious courser kneels, To take his wonted weight.

His hands he fills With pointed jav’lins; on his head he lac’d His glitt’ring helm, which terribly was grac’d With waving horsehair, nodding from afar;

Then spurr’d his thund’ring steed amidst the war.

Love, anguish, wrath, and grief, to madness wrought, Despair, and secret shame, and conscious thought Of inborn worth, his lab’ring soul oppress’d, Roll’d in his eyes, and rag’d within his breast.

Then loud he call’d Aeneas thrice by name: The loud repeated voice to glad Aeneas came.

“Great Jove,” he said, “and the far-shooting god, Inspire thy mind to make thy challenge good!

” He spoke no more; but hasten’d, void of fear, And threaten’d with his long protended spear.

To whom Mezentius thus: “Thy vaunts are vain.

My Lausus lies extended on the plain: He’s lost!

thy conquest is already won;

The wretched sire is murder’d in the son.

Nor fate I fear, but all the gods defy.

Forbear thy threats: my bus’ness is to die;

But first receive this parting legacy.

” He said; and straight a whirling dart he sent;

Another after, and another went.

Round in a spacious ring he rides the field, And vainly plies th’ impenetrable shield.

Thrice rode he round; and thrice Aeneas wheel’d, Turn’d as he turn’d: the golden orb withstood The strokes, and bore about an iron wood.

Impatient of delay, and weary grown, Still to defend, and to defend alone, To wrench the darts which in his buckler light, Urg’d and o’er-labour’d in unequal fight;

At length resolv’d, he throws with all his force Full at the temples of the warrior horse.

Just where the stroke was aim’d, th’ unerring spear Made way, and stood transfix’d thro’ either ear.

Seiz’d with unwonted pain, surpris’d with fright, The wounded steed curvets, and, rais’d upright, Lights on his feet before; his hoofs behind Spring up in air aloft, and lash the wind.

Down comes the rider headlong from his height: His horse came after with unwieldy weight, And, flound’ring forward, pitching on his head, His lord’s encumber’d shoulder overlaid.

From either host, the mingled shouts and cries Of Trojans and Rutulians rend the skies.

Aeneas, hast’ning, wav’d his fatal sword High o’er his head, with this reproachful word: “Now; where are now thy vaunts, the fierce disdain Of proud Mezentius, and the lofty strain?

” Struggling, and wildly staring on the skies, With scarce recover’d sight he thus replies: “Why these insulting words, this waste of breath, To souls undaunted, and secure of death?