BOOK XITHE DESPAIROF THE LATINS

Meanwhile Aurora, rising, left the ocean.Aeneas’ heart was troubled—so much dying,So great a need for funeral rites,—but firstVows must be paid for victory. At dawnHe sets an oak-trunk on a mound, the branchesStripped off on every side, and hangs upon itMezentius’ gleaming arms, the war-god’s trophy.He adds the crest, blood-stained, the broken darts,The riddled breast-plate; binds, to the left, the shield,Hangs from the neck the ivory sword. His comradesHail him, and gather close around, and listen:—“The greatest task is done: as for the future,Fear not, my heroes! Here are spoils and first-fruitsOf one proud king; Mezentius is in our hands.We march, now, on Latinus and his cities.Prepare your arms, your nerve; let your hopes runOnward before the war. When the gods grant usTo raise our standards and to lead our armyOut of this camp, let no delay impede usThrough ignorance, no fear retard our courage.Meanwhile, let us commit to earth the unburied bodiesOf our dear comrades, for no other honorWaits them below the world. Go, offer homage,The final rites to those whose blood has won usThis fatherland; let Pallas be sent homeTo the mourning city of Evander: PallasHad courage, and the day was black that took himTo the bitterness of death.”He spoke with tearsAnd went back to the threshold, where old Acoetes,An armor-bearer, once, to king Evander,And then, less happily, guardian over Pallas,Kept watch beside the body. A Trojan throngStood all around, an honor-guard, and the womenLoosened their hair in ceremonial mourning,And when Aeneas came, the lofty portalSounded with groaning and with lamentation,And wailing reached the stars. He looked at Pallas,The pillowed head, the face as white as snow,The jagged wound in the smooth breast, and spoke,And could not check his weeping:—“Ah, poor youngster!Fortune, a little while, was happy for usAnd then turned evil and grudging, and refused meThe joy of seeing you ride back in triumphTo your father’s house with news of our new kingdom.I have not kept my promise to Evander,Whose arms went round me when I left, who sent meTo win great empire, and who gave me warningThat these were men of spirit, tough in battle.And now, perhaps even at this very moment,The dupe of empty hope, he is making prayers,Heaping the altars high with gifts, while weIn sorrow attend his lifeless son, with honorAs empty as the father’s hope, for PallasOwes nothing more to any god in heaven.Unhappy Evander, our long-awaited triumph,Our glorious return, comes to this only,The bitter funeral of a son; and soAeneas keeps his promise!And yet, O king,You will not see him slain by shameful wounds,You will not long for a dire death to cancelThe memory of a son, safe, but a coward.We have lost a great protection, all of us,Ausonia, Iulus.”He gave ordersTo raise the pitiful body for its journey,And chose a thousand men to honor PallasWith this last escort, to share Evander’s tears,Poor comfort for so great a grief, but due him.Men weave the bier with osier and soft willowAnd shadow it over with leaves of oak, and PallasRests on his country litter, like a flowerSome girl has picked and lost, a violetOr drooping hyacinth, and all its lusterStill there, though earth is kind to it no longer.And then Aeneas brought two robes, whose crimsonWas stiff with gold, robes that the queen of CarthageHad woven for him, happy in her labor,Running the gold through crimson. Over PallasThe robes are cast, the sad and final honor,The hair is veiled for the fire, and many trophiesAre added, prizes from the Latin battles,Horses, and weapons, captured from the Latins,And human victims, offerings to the shades,Their blood to sprinkle funeral fire, are ledHands bound behind them, and the names of foemenAre cut in the trunks of trees that bear their armor.Unhappy old Acoetes trudges with them,Beating his breast, clawing his face, or flingingHis wretched body down in the dust. And chariotsFollow, Rutulian blood on wheel and axle,And Pallas’ war-horse Aethon, riderless,Without caparison, weeps for his master,The great tears rolling down. Other men carryThe spear and helmet only, for the restTurnus had taken as spoil. And then there followsA long array of mourners, Trojans, Tuscans,Arcadians, with arms reversed: so they passIn long procession, comrade after comrade,Far on and almost out of sight. AeneasHalts, and sighs deeply:—“The same grim fates of warCall us from here to other tears. ForeverHail, O great Pallas, and farewell forever!”He said no more, but turned to the high walls,Strode back to the camp.And envoys cameFrom the Latin city, veiled with boughs of olive,Asking for truce: let him return the bodiesStrewn by the sword across the battlefield,Let them be given burial. No warIs fought with vanquished men, deprived of light:Let him be merciful—had he not called themHosts at one time, and fathers? And good AeneasGranted, of right, the truce they sought, and addedBrief words:—“What evil destiny, O Latins,Involved you in such tragic war, to flee us,Your friends that might have been? You ask for peace,Peace for the dead, slain by the lot of battle.Peace? I would gladly grant it to the living.I would not be here unless fate had givenThis place, this dwelling, and I wage no warAgainst your people, but your king desertedOur friendliness; he had more confidenceIn Turnus’ weapons. Turnus, in simple justice,Should be the one to face this death. If, truly,He seeks to end the war, to drive the TrojansBy strength of hand from Italy, he should haveTaken my personal challenge: one of usWould live, to whom his own right hand or heavenHad granted life. Go now, depart in peace,Kindle the death-fires for your luckless comrades.”He spoke, and they were silent: they had nothingThat could be said; they could not face him, either,And kept their eyes and faces toward each other.And then old Drances, always bitter and hateful,Resentful of young Turnus, spoke in answer:—“O great in glory, even greater in arms,Heroic Trojan, how can I ever praise youAs highly as I should? Am I to wonderFirst at your justice or your warlike prowess?We shall be glad, indeed, to take these wordsBack to our native city and, fortune willing,Join you with king Latinus. As for Turnus,Let him seek his own alliances! Our pleasureWill be in building walls for you, as fateOrdains, that we should carry on our shouldersThe masonry of Troy.” And they all cheered him.They pledged twelve days for peace, and in the forestsTrojans and Latins walked as friends together,Over the ridges, peace among them. Ash-treesRang as the two-edged axe bit deep; the pines,Star-towering, came down; the oak, the cedar,Split by the wedges, filled the groaning wagons.And Rumor, messenger of all that mourning,Came flying to Evander’s home and city,Rumor, so short a time before the heraldOf victories in Latium for young Pallas.Out to the gates came the Arcadians; torches,Carried aloft, after the ancient custom,Marked off the fields from highway; the long roadShone with the light of fire, and the Trojans, coming,Met their lament, and when the mothers saw them,The city itself was one great fire of mourning.No force could hold Evander back: he came,Rushing, into the sad procession’s center,And where the barrow halted, clung to Pallas,Weeping and groaning, and his voice could hardlyManage its way through choking sobs:—“Ah, Pallas,You have not kept your promise to your father!You said you would be careful in the battles!I knew, I knew too well, how much new glory,How much the sweet fresh pride in the first battle,Could overpower discretion. Here are the first-fruitsOf your young manhood; here are the cruel lessonsOf war brought home; and all my prayers unheededBy any god! But my dear wife is happy,Spared, by her death, this anguish. I live on,I have overcome my fate by living so,A father who survives his son. I should haveFollowed the Trojan arms, let the RutuliansO’erwhelm me with their darts; I should have died,And this procession brought me home, not Pallas.It is not your fault, O Trojans; I do not blame you,The treaties joined, the hands we clasped, in friendship.No: this was coming to me, this was dueThe lot of my old age. An early deathTook off my son; I shall rejoice, hereafter,Knowing he led the Trojans into Latium,Slew Volscians by the thousands. He was worthy,Pallas, my son, of such a death. Aeneas,The mighty Trojans, the Etruscan captains,The Etruscan ranks, all think so. They bring trophies,Great trophies, those my son brought low; and TurnusWould be another trophy, were his years,His strength, the same as his young enemy’s.But why am I, unhappy man, delayingThe Trojan hosts from battle? Go: rememberTo tell Aeneas this: I keep on living,However hateful life may be, with PallasTaken away from me, I keep on livingBecause of his right hand: it owes me something,The death of Turnus, for the son and father.And this Aeneas knows, the one thing wantingTo make his praise and fortune sure. I askNo joy in life—that is impossible—But only this one thing, to take my son,In the shades below, one message: Turnus has fallen.”Meanwhile the dawn had brought to weary mortalsHer kindly light, and work again, and labors.Along the winding shore Aeneas, Tarchon,Set up the pyres, and all, as had their fathers,Brought bodies of their kinsmen, lit the firesThat burned, but darkly, and the light of heavenWas hidden by the blackness of that shadow.Three times, in glittering armor, they went ridingAround the funeral blaze, three times they circledThe mournful fire and cried with wailing voices.Tears fell on earth and armor; heaven heardThe groans of men, the blare of trumpet. SpoilsWent to the fire, the handsome swords, the helmets,Bridles and shining wheels, and well-known giftsFor men who died, their shields, their luckless weapons.Bullocks were slain, and bristly swine, and sheepFrom all the fields, homage to fire and death,And all along the shore, they watched their comradesBurn on the pyres, and guarded the dead embers,And could not leave till day had gone, and nightDewy with gleaming stars rolled over heaven.And elsewhere in the countryside the LatinsBuilt, as the Trojans had, pyres without number.Many were slain, and many men were buriedWhere they had fallen, and many men sent homeTo their own cities, and many no one knew,No one could mark with honor or distinction,And these were given one common pyre; the fieldsRivalled each other as the fires kept burning.Three days had gone; and over bones and ashesThey heaped the earth, still warm. Inside the walls,Within the city of that rich king Latinus,Grief swelled from murmur to wailing, to loud uproar,The greatest share of sorrow. Brides and mothers,Sisters and fatherless boys, crying and cursing,Denounced the evil war and Turnus’ marriage.They call on him, on Turnus alone, to settleThe issue with the sword; he is the one,Their accusation cries, who wants the kingdom,All Italy for himself, and the highest honors.And Drances, savage, tips the balance further:Turnus, alone, (he says) is called on, TurnusAlone is called to battle. But against themMany a man has good to say of Turnus,And the shadow of the queen’s great name protects him,And he has been a mighty man in battle.And during all this swirling burning tumult,Envoys, who came from Diomede’s great city,Brought gloomy news: nothing had been accomplishedWith all that toil and trouble; nothing gainedBy gifts or gold or pleading, and the LatinsWere left two choices, to seek for other alliesOr ask Aeneas for peace. Under the burdenOf that great grief even Latinus falters.Aeneas is called by fate, the will of heavenIs clear, the gods are angry; the fresh graves,Before their eyes, bear more than ample witness.Therefore, he calls a council; all his leadersStream through the crowded highways to the palace,And in their midst, the oldest man among them,The first in power, Latinus, far from happy,Speaks from his throne,—the messengers from ArpiShould tell what news they bring, in proper order,Sparing no single item. All were silent,Obedient to his word, and VenulusGave the report:—“O citizens, we have seenThe Argive camp, and Diomede. We madeThe journey safely through all kinds of perils.We have touched the hand by which Troy fell. That heroHas his own city now, named from his father,In Garganus’ conquered fields. We entered there,Had leave to speak, offered our gifts, and told himOur name and country, why we came to Arpi,Who made war on us. He listened to our storyAnd answered us, quite calmly. These are his words:—

Meanwhile Aurora, rising, left the ocean.Aeneas’ heart was troubled—so much dying,So great a need for funeral rites,—but firstVows must be paid for victory. At dawnHe sets an oak-trunk on a mound, the branchesStripped off on every side, and hangs upon itMezentius’ gleaming arms, the war-god’s trophy.He adds the crest, blood-stained, the broken darts,The riddled breast-plate; binds, to the left, the shield,Hangs from the neck the ivory sword. His comradesHail him, and gather close around, and listen:—“The greatest task is done: as for the future,Fear not, my heroes! Here are spoils and first-fruitsOf one proud king; Mezentius is in our hands.We march, now, on Latinus and his cities.Prepare your arms, your nerve; let your hopes runOnward before the war. When the gods grant usTo raise our standards and to lead our armyOut of this camp, let no delay impede usThrough ignorance, no fear retard our courage.Meanwhile, let us commit to earth the unburied bodiesOf our dear comrades, for no other honorWaits them below the world. Go, offer homage,The final rites to those whose blood has won usThis fatherland; let Pallas be sent homeTo the mourning city of Evander: PallasHad courage, and the day was black that took himTo the bitterness of death.”He spoke with tearsAnd went back to the threshold, where old Acoetes,An armor-bearer, once, to king Evander,And then, less happily, guardian over Pallas,Kept watch beside the body. A Trojan throngStood all around, an honor-guard, and the womenLoosened their hair in ceremonial mourning,And when Aeneas came, the lofty portalSounded with groaning and with lamentation,And wailing reached the stars. He looked at Pallas,The pillowed head, the face as white as snow,The jagged wound in the smooth breast, and spoke,And could not check his weeping:—“Ah, poor youngster!Fortune, a little while, was happy for usAnd then turned evil and grudging, and refused meThe joy of seeing you ride back in triumphTo your father’s house with news of our new kingdom.I have not kept my promise to Evander,Whose arms went round me when I left, who sent meTo win great empire, and who gave me warningThat these were men of spirit, tough in battle.And now, perhaps even at this very moment,The dupe of empty hope, he is making prayers,Heaping the altars high with gifts, while weIn sorrow attend his lifeless son, with honorAs empty as the father’s hope, for PallasOwes nothing more to any god in heaven.Unhappy Evander, our long-awaited triumph,Our glorious return, comes to this only,The bitter funeral of a son; and soAeneas keeps his promise!And yet, O king,You will not see him slain by shameful wounds,You will not long for a dire death to cancelThe memory of a son, safe, but a coward.We have lost a great protection, all of us,Ausonia, Iulus.”He gave ordersTo raise the pitiful body for its journey,And chose a thousand men to honor PallasWith this last escort, to share Evander’s tears,Poor comfort for so great a grief, but due him.Men weave the bier with osier and soft willowAnd shadow it over with leaves of oak, and PallasRests on his country litter, like a flowerSome girl has picked and lost, a violetOr drooping hyacinth, and all its lusterStill there, though earth is kind to it no longer.And then Aeneas brought two robes, whose crimsonWas stiff with gold, robes that the queen of CarthageHad woven for him, happy in her labor,Running the gold through crimson. Over PallasThe robes are cast, the sad and final honor,The hair is veiled for the fire, and many trophiesAre added, prizes from the Latin battles,Horses, and weapons, captured from the Latins,And human victims, offerings to the shades,Their blood to sprinkle funeral fire, are ledHands bound behind them, and the names of foemenAre cut in the trunks of trees that bear their armor.Unhappy old Acoetes trudges with them,Beating his breast, clawing his face, or flingingHis wretched body down in the dust. And chariotsFollow, Rutulian blood on wheel and axle,And Pallas’ war-horse Aethon, riderless,Without caparison, weeps for his master,The great tears rolling down. Other men carryThe spear and helmet only, for the restTurnus had taken as spoil. And then there followsA long array of mourners, Trojans, Tuscans,Arcadians, with arms reversed: so they passIn long procession, comrade after comrade,Far on and almost out of sight. AeneasHalts, and sighs deeply:—“The same grim fates of warCall us from here to other tears. ForeverHail, O great Pallas, and farewell forever!”He said no more, but turned to the high walls,Strode back to the camp.And envoys cameFrom the Latin city, veiled with boughs of olive,Asking for truce: let him return the bodiesStrewn by the sword across the battlefield,Let them be given burial. No warIs fought with vanquished men, deprived of light:Let him be merciful—had he not called themHosts at one time, and fathers? And good AeneasGranted, of right, the truce they sought, and addedBrief words:—“What evil destiny, O Latins,Involved you in such tragic war, to flee us,Your friends that might have been? You ask for peace,Peace for the dead, slain by the lot of battle.Peace? I would gladly grant it to the living.I would not be here unless fate had givenThis place, this dwelling, and I wage no warAgainst your people, but your king desertedOur friendliness; he had more confidenceIn Turnus’ weapons. Turnus, in simple justice,Should be the one to face this death. If, truly,He seeks to end the war, to drive the TrojansBy strength of hand from Italy, he should haveTaken my personal challenge: one of usWould live, to whom his own right hand or heavenHad granted life. Go now, depart in peace,Kindle the death-fires for your luckless comrades.”He spoke, and they were silent: they had nothingThat could be said; they could not face him, either,And kept their eyes and faces toward each other.And then old Drances, always bitter and hateful,Resentful of young Turnus, spoke in answer:—“O great in glory, even greater in arms,Heroic Trojan, how can I ever praise youAs highly as I should? Am I to wonderFirst at your justice or your warlike prowess?We shall be glad, indeed, to take these wordsBack to our native city and, fortune willing,Join you with king Latinus. As for Turnus,Let him seek his own alliances! Our pleasureWill be in building walls for you, as fateOrdains, that we should carry on our shouldersThe masonry of Troy.” And they all cheered him.They pledged twelve days for peace, and in the forestsTrojans and Latins walked as friends together,Over the ridges, peace among them. Ash-treesRang as the two-edged axe bit deep; the pines,Star-towering, came down; the oak, the cedar,Split by the wedges, filled the groaning wagons.And Rumor, messenger of all that mourning,Came flying to Evander’s home and city,Rumor, so short a time before the heraldOf victories in Latium for young Pallas.Out to the gates came the Arcadians; torches,Carried aloft, after the ancient custom,Marked off the fields from highway; the long roadShone with the light of fire, and the Trojans, coming,Met their lament, and when the mothers saw them,The city itself was one great fire of mourning.No force could hold Evander back: he came,Rushing, into the sad procession’s center,And where the barrow halted, clung to Pallas,Weeping and groaning, and his voice could hardlyManage its way through choking sobs:—“Ah, Pallas,You have not kept your promise to your father!You said you would be careful in the battles!I knew, I knew too well, how much new glory,How much the sweet fresh pride in the first battle,Could overpower discretion. Here are the first-fruitsOf your young manhood; here are the cruel lessonsOf war brought home; and all my prayers unheededBy any god! But my dear wife is happy,Spared, by her death, this anguish. I live on,I have overcome my fate by living so,A father who survives his son. I should haveFollowed the Trojan arms, let the RutuliansO’erwhelm me with their darts; I should have died,And this procession brought me home, not Pallas.It is not your fault, O Trojans; I do not blame you,The treaties joined, the hands we clasped, in friendship.No: this was coming to me, this was dueThe lot of my old age. An early deathTook off my son; I shall rejoice, hereafter,Knowing he led the Trojans into Latium,Slew Volscians by the thousands. He was worthy,Pallas, my son, of such a death. Aeneas,The mighty Trojans, the Etruscan captains,The Etruscan ranks, all think so. They bring trophies,Great trophies, those my son brought low; and TurnusWould be another trophy, were his years,His strength, the same as his young enemy’s.But why am I, unhappy man, delayingThe Trojan hosts from battle? Go: rememberTo tell Aeneas this: I keep on living,However hateful life may be, with PallasTaken away from me, I keep on livingBecause of his right hand: it owes me something,The death of Turnus, for the son and father.And this Aeneas knows, the one thing wantingTo make his praise and fortune sure. I askNo joy in life—that is impossible—But only this one thing, to take my son,In the shades below, one message: Turnus has fallen.”Meanwhile the dawn had brought to weary mortalsHer kindly light, and work again, and labors.Along the winding shore Aeneas, Tarchon,Set up the pyres, and all, as had their fathers,Brought bodies of their kinsmen, lit the firesThat burned, but darkly, and the light of heavenWas hidden by the blackness of that shadow.Three times, in glittering armor, they went ridingAround the funeral blaze, three times they circledThe mournful fire and cried with wailing voices.Tears fell on earth and armor; heaven heardThe groans of men, the blare of trumpet. SpoilsWent to the fire, the handsome swords, the helmets,Bridles and shining wheels, and well-known giftsFor men who died, their shields, their luckless weapons.Bullocks were slain, and bristly swine, and sheepFrom all the fields, homage to fire and death,And all along the shore, they watched their comradesBurn on the pyres, and guarded the dead embers,And could not leave till day had gone, and nightDewy with gleaming stars rolled over heaven.And elsewhere in the countryside the LatinsBuilt, as the Trojans had, pyres without number.Many were slain, and many men were buriedWhere they had fallen, and many men sent homeTo their own cities, and many no one knew,No one could mark with honor or distinction,And these were given one common pyre; the fieldsRivalled each other as the fires kept burning.Three days had gone; and over bones and ashesThey heaped the earth, still warm. Inside the walls,Within the city of that rich king Latinus,Grief swelled from murmur to wailing, to loud uproar,The greatest share of sorrow. Brides and mothers,Sisters and fatherless boys, crying and cursing,Denounced the evil war and Turnus’ marriage.They call on him, on Turnus alone, to settleThe issue with the sword; he is the one,Their accusation cries, who wants the kingdom,All Italy for himself, and the highest honors.And Drances, savage, tips the balance further:Turnus, alone, (he says) is called on, TurnusAlone is called to battle. But against themMany a man has good to say of Turnus,And the shadow of the queen’s great name protects him,And he has been a mighty man in battle.And during all this swirling burning tumult,Envoys, who came from Diomede’s great city,Brought gloomy news: nothing had been accomplishedWith all that toil and trouble; nothing gainedBy gifts or gold or pleading, and the LatinsWere left two choices, to seek for other alliesOr ask Aeneas for peace. Under the burdenOf that great grief even Latinus falters.Aeneas is called by fate, the will of heavenIs clear, the gods are angry; the fresh graves,Before their eyes, bear more than ample witness.Therefore, he calls a council; all his leadersStream through the crowded highways to the palace,And in their midst, the oldest man among them,The first in power, Latinus, far from happy,Speaks from his throne,—the messengers from ArpiShould tell what news they bring, in proper order,Sparing no single item. All were silent,Obedient to his word, and VenulusGave the report:—“O citizens, we have seenThe Argive camp, and Diomede. We madeThe journey safely through all kinds of perils.We have touched the hand by which Troy fell. That heroHas his own city now, named from his father,In Garganus’ conquered fields. We entered there,Had leave to speak, offered our gifts, and told himOur name and country, why we came to Arpi,Who made war on us. He listened to our storyAnd answered us, quite calmly. These are his words:—

Meanwhile Aurora, rising, left the ocean.Aeneas’ heart was troubled—so much dying,So great a need for funeral rites,—but firstVows must be paid for victory. At dawnHe sets an oak-trunk on a mound, the branchesStripped off on every side, and hangs upon itMezentius’ gleaming arms, the war-god’s trophy.He adds the crest, blood-stained, the broken darts,The riddled breast-plate; binds, to the left, the shield,Hangs from the neck the ivory sword. His comradesHail him, and gather close around, and listen:—“The greatest task is done: as for the future,Fear not, my heroes! Here are spoils and first-fruitsOf one proud king; Mezentius is in our hands.We march, now, on Latinus and his cities.Prepare your arms, your nerve; let your hopes runOnward before the war. When the gods grant usTo raise our standards and to lead our armyOut of this camp, let no delay impede usThrough ignorance, no fear retard our courage.Meanwhile, let us commit to earth the unburied bodiesOf our dear comrades, for no other honorWaits them below the world. Go, offer homage,The final rites to those whose blood has won usThis fatherland; let Pallas be sent homeTo the mourning city of Evander: PallasHad courage, and the day was black that took himTo the bitterness of death.”

He spoke with tearsAnd went back to the threshold, where old Acoetes,An armor-bearer, once, to king Evander,And then, less happily, guardian over Pallas,Kept watch beside the body. A Trojan throngStood all around, an honor-guard, and the womenLoosened their hair in ceremonial mourning,And when Aeneas came, the lofty portalSounded with groaning and with lamentation,And wailing reached the stars. He looked at Pallas,The pillowed head, the face as white as snow,The jagged wound in the smooth breast, and spoke,And could not check his weeping:—“Ah, poor youngster!Fortune, a little while, was happy for usAnd then turned evil and grudging, and refused meThe joy of seeing you ride back in triumphTo your father’s house with news of our new kingdom.I have not kept my promise to Evander,Whose arms went round me when I left, who sent meTo win great empire, and who gave me warningThat these were men of spirit, tough in battle.And now, perhaps even at this very moment,The dupe of empty hope, he is making prayers,Heaping the altars high with gifts, while weIn sorrow attend his lifeless son, with honorAs empty as the father’s hope, for PallasOwes nothing more to any god in heaven.Unhappy Evander, our long-awaited triumph,Our glorious return, comes to this only,The bitter funeral of a son; and soAeneas keeps his promise!

And yet, O king,You will not see him slain by shameful wounds,You will not long for a dire death to cancelThe memory of a son, safe, but a coward.We have lost a great protection, all of us,Ausonia, Iulus.”

He gave ordersTo raise the pitiful body for its journey,And chose a thousand men to honor PallasWith this last escort, to share Evander’s tears,Poor comfort for so great a grief, but due him.Men weave the bier with osier and soft willowAnd shadow it over with leaves of oak, and PallasRests on his country litter, like a flowerSome girl has picked and lost, a violetOr drooping hyacinth, and all its lusterStill there, though earth is kind to it no longer.And then Aeneas brought two robes, whose crimsonWas stiff with gold, robes that the queen of CarthageHad woven for him, happy in her labor,Running the gold through crimson. Over PallasThe robes are cast, the sad and final honor,The hair is veiled for the fire, and many trophiesAre added, prizes from the Latin battles,Horses, and weapons, captured from the Latins,And human victims, offerings to the shades,Their blood to sprinkle funeral fire, are ledHands bound behind them, and the names of foemenAre cut in the trunks of trees that bear their armor.Unhappy old Acoetes trudges with them,Beating his breast, clawing his face, or flingingHis wretched body down in the dust. And chariotsFollow, Rutulian blood on wheel and axle,And Pallas’ war-horse Aethon, riderless,Without caparison, weeps for his master,The great tears rolling down. Other men carryThe spear and helmet only, for the restTurnus had taken as spoil. And then there followsA long array of mourners, Trojans, Tuscans,Arcadians, with arms reversed: so they passIn long procession, comrade after comrade,Far on and almost out of sight. AeneasHalts, and sighs deeply:—“The same grim fates of warCall us from here to other tears. ForeverHail, O great Pallas, and farewell forever!”He said no more, but turned to the high walls,Strode back to the camp.

And envoys cameFrom the Latin city, veiled with boughs of olive,Asking for truce: let him return the bodiesStrewn by the sword across the battlefield,Let them be given burial. No warIs fought with vanquished men, deprived of light:Let him be merciful—had he not called themHosts at one time, and fathers? And good AeneasGranted, of right, the truce they sought, and addedBrief words:—“What evil destiny, O Latins,Involved you in such tragic war, to flee us,Your friends that might have been? You ask for peace,Peace for the dead, slain by the lot of battle.Peace? I would gladly grant it to the living.I would not be here unless fate had givenThis place, this dwelling, and I wage no warAgainst your people, but your king desertedOur friendliness; he had more confidenceIn Turnus’ weapons. Turnus, in simple justice,Should be the one to face this death. If, truly,He seeks to end the war, to drive the TrojansBy strength of hand from Italy, he should haveTaken my personal challenge: one of usWould live, to whom his own right hand or heavenHad granted life. Go now, depart in peace,Kindle the death-fires for your luckless comrades.”He spoke, and they were silent: they had nothingThat could be said; they could not face him, either,And kept their eyes and faces toward each other.

And then old Drances, always bitter and hateful,Resentful of young Turnus, spoke in answer:—“O great in glory, even greater in arms,Heroic Trojan, how can I ever praise youAs highly as I should? Am I to wonderFirst at your justice or your warlike prowess?We shall be glad, indeed, to take these wordsBack to our native city and, fortune willing,Join you with king Latinus. As for Turnus,Let him seek his own alliances! Our pleasureWill be in building walls for you, as fateOrdains, that we should carry on our shouldersThe masonry of Troy.” And they all cheered him.They pledged twelve days for peace, and in the forestsTrojans and Latins walked as friends together,Over the ridges, peace among them. Ash-treesRang as the two-edged axe bit deep; the pines,Star-towering, came down; the oak, the cedar,Split by the wedges, filled the groaning wagons.

And Rumor, messenger of all that mourning,Came flying to Evander’s home and city,Rumor, so short a time before the heraldOf victories in Latium for young Pallas.Out to the gates came the Arcadians; torches,Carried aloft, after the ancient custom,Marked off the fields from highway; the long roadShone with the light of fire, and the Trojans, coming,Met their lament, and when the mothers saw them,The city itself was one great fire of mourning.No force could hold Evander back: he came,Rushing, into the sad procession’s center,And where the barrow halted, clung to Pallas,Weeping and groaning, and his voice could hardlyManage its way through choking sobs:—“Ah, Pallas,You have not kept your promise to your father!You said you would be careful in the battles!I knew, I knew too well, how much new glory,How much the sweet fresh pride in the first battle,Could overpower discretion. Here are the first-fruitsOf your young manhood; here are the cruel lessonsOf war brought home; and all my prayers unheededBy any god! But my dear wife is happy,Spared, by her death, this anguish. I live on,I have overcome my fate by living so,A father who survives his son. I should haveFollowed the Trojan arms, let the RutuliansO’erwhelm me with their darts; I should have died,And this procession brought me home, not Pallas.It is not your fault, O Trojans; I do not blame you,The treaties joined, the hands we clasped, in friendship.No: this was coming to me, this was dueThe lot of my old age. An early deathTook off my son; I shall rejoice, hereafter,Knowing he led the Trojans into Latium,Slew Volscians by the thousands. He was worthy,Pallas, my son, of such a death. Aeneas,The mighty Trojans, the Etruscan captains,The Etruscan ranks, all think so. They bring trophies,Great trophies, those my son brought low; and TurnusWould be another trophy, were his years,His strength, the same as his young enemy’s.But why am I, unhappy man, delayingThe Trojan hosts from battle? Go: rememberTo tell Aeneas this: I keep on living,However hateful life may be, with PallasTaken away from me, I keep on livingBecause of his right hand: it owes me something,The death of Turnus, for the son and father.And this Aeneas knows, the one thing wantingTo make his praise and fortune sure. I askNo joy in life—that is impossible—But only this one thing, to take my son,In the shades below, one message: Turnus has fallen.”

Meanwhile the dawn had brought to weary mortalsHer kindly light, and work again, and labors.Along the winding shore Aeneas, Tarchon,Set up the pyres, and all, as had their fathers,Brought bodies of their kinsmen, lit the firesThat burned, but darkly, and the light of heavenWas hidden by the blackness of that shadow.Three times, in glittering armor, they went ridingAround the funeral blaze, three times they circledThe mournful fire and cried with wailing voices.Tears fell on earth and armor; heaven heardThe groans of men, the blare of trumpet. SpoilsWent to the fire, the handsome swords, the helmets,Bridles and shining wheels, and well-known giftsFor men who died, their shields, their luckless weapons.Bullocks were slain, and bristly swine, and sheepFrom all the fields, homage to fire and death,And all along the shore, they watched their comradesBurn on the pyres, and guarded the dead embers,And could not leave till day had gone, and nightDewy with gleaming stars rolled over heaven.

And elsewhere in the countryside the LatinsBuilt, as the Trojans had, pyres without number.Many were slain, and many men were buriedWhere they had fallen, and many men sent homeTo their own cities, and many no one knew,No one could mark with honor or distinction,And these were given one common pyre; the fieldsRivalled each other as the fires kept burning.Three days had gone; and over bones and ashesThey heaped the earth, still warm. Inside the walls,Within the city of that rich king Latinus,Grief swelled from murmur to wailing, to loud uproar,The greatest share of sorrow. Brides and mothers,Sisters and fatherless boys, crying and cursing,Denounced the evil war and Turnus’ marriage.They call on him, on Turnus alone, to settleThe issue with the sword; he is the one,Their accusation cries, who wants the kingdom,All Italy for himself, and the highest honors.And Drances, savage, tips the balance further:Turnus, alone, (he says) is called on, TurnusAlone is called to battle. But against themMany a man has good to say of Turnus,And the shadow of the queen’s great name protects him,And he has been a mighty man in battle.

And during all this swirling burning tumult,Envoys, who came from Diomede’s great city,Brought gloomy news: nothing had been accomplishedWith all that toil and trouble; nothing gainedBy gifts or gold or pleading, and the LatinsWere left two choices, to seek for other alliesOr ask Aeneas for peace. Under the burdenOf that great grief even Latinus falters.Aeneas is called by fate, the will of heavenIs clear, the gods are angry; the fresh graves,Before their eyes, bear more than ample witness.Therefore, he calls a council; all his leadersStream through the crowded highways to the palace,And in their midst, the oldest man among them,The first in power, Latinus, far from happy,Speaks from his throne,—the messengers from ArpiShould tell what news they bring, in proper order,Sparing no single item. All were silent,Obedient to his word, and VenulusGave the report:—“O citizens, we have seenThe Argive camp, and Diomede. We madeThe journey safely through all kinds of perils.We have touched the hand by which Troy fell. That heroHas his own city now, named from his father,In Garganus’ conquered fields. We entered there,Had leave to speak, offered our gifts, and told himOur name and country, why we came to Arpi,Who made war on us. He listened to our storyAnd answered us, quite calmly. These are his words:—

‘O happy people of the realm of Saturn,Ancient Ausonians, what chance, what fortuneDisturbs your rest, leads you to unknown warfare?All of us, every one, who desecratedThe fields of Troy with steel—I do not mentionAll that we suffered under those high walls,Or heroes drowned in Simois—every one,All over the world, has paid and kept on payingAll kinds of punishment, all kinds of torture,A band that even Priam would have to pity.Minerva knows it, with her baleful star,Euboea’s headland knows it, and Caphereus,That cape of vengeance. From that warfare drivenUlysses faced the Cyclops; MenelausWas exiled far to the west. IdomeneusLost Crete: what need is there to mention Pyrrhus,To name the Locrians on Libya’s coastline?Even the Greeks’ great captain, Agamemnon,Met shame beyond his threshold; ClytemnestraStruck with her evil hand,—the king of men,The conqueror of Asia, fell, a cuckoldMurdered in his own palace, at Mycenae.To me the gods were kinder; they would not let meSee home again, the wife I loved, the altarsOf lovely Calydon; here I am, still hauntedBy portents horrible to see—my comradesLost, seeking heaven on their wings, or aimlessAlong the rivers, crying in shrill voicesAround the rocks, creatures of lamentationThat once were men! The gods know how to punish.This, so it seems, was what I had to hope forEver since that first moment of my madnessWhen I took steel in hand and wounded Venus.No, no; do not invite me to such battles.The walls of Troy have fallen; I have no quarrelWith any Trojans any more. Those evilsI have forgotten, or, if I remember,I find no pleasure in them. Take AeneasThe gifts you bring me from your native country.I have stood up against his terrible weapons,I have fought him hand to hand. Believe an expert,Take it from one who knows, how huge he risesAbove that shield of his, with what a whirlwindHe rifles out that spear. If Troy had onlyTwo other men as good, Greece would be mourningWith doom the other way, and the towns of ArgosAdmit the conqueror. For ten long yearsThey kept us waiting at that stubborn city,And the Greek victory was at a standstillThrough Hector and Aeneas; both were famousIn spirit, both in feats of arms, AeneasThe more devoted man. I tell you, join themIn treaty, on what terms you can. I warn you,Beware, beware, of facing them in battle.’

‘O happy people of the realm of Saturn,Ancient Ausonians, what chance, what fortuneDisturbs your rest, leads you to unknown warfare?All of us, every one, who desecratedThe fields of Troy with steel—I do not mentionAll that we suffered under those high walls,Or heroes drowned in Simois—every one,All over the world, has paid and kept on payingAll kinds of punishment, all kinds of torture,A band that even Priam would have to pity.Minerva knows it, with her baleful star,Euboea’s headland knows it, and Caphereus,That cape of vengeance. From that warfare drivenUlysses faced the Cyclops; MenelausWas exiled far to the west. IdomeneusLost Crete: what need is there to mention Pyrrhus,To name the Locrians on Libya’s coastline?Even the Greeks’ great captain, Agamemnon,Met shame beyond his threshold; ClytemnestraStruck with her evil hand,—the king of men,The conqueror of Asia, fell, a cuckoldMurdered in his own palace, at Mycenae.To me the gods were kinder; they would not let meSee home again, the wife I loved, the altarsOf lovely Calydon; here I am, still hauntedBy portents horrible to see—my comradesLost, seeking heaven on their wings, or aimlessAlong the rivers, crying in shrill voicesAround the rocks, creatures of lamentationThat once were men! The gods know how to punish.This, so it seems, was what I had to hope forEver since that first moment of my madnessWhen I took steel in hand and wounded Venus.No, no; do not invite me to such battles.The walls of Troy have fallen; I have no quarrelWith any Trojans any more. Those evilsI have forgotten, or, if I remember,I find no pleasure in them. Take AeneasThe gifts you bring me from your native country.I have stood up against his terrible weapons,I have fought him hand to hand. Believe an expert,Take it from one who knows, how huge he risesAbove that shield of his, with what a whirlwindHe rifles out that spear. If Troy had onlyTwo other men as good, Greece would be mourningWith doom the other way, and the towns of ArgosAdmit the conqueror. For ten long yearsThey kept us waiting at that stubborn city,And the Greek victory was at a standstillThrough Hector and Aeneas; both were famousIn spirit, both in feats of arms, AeneasThe more devoted man. I tell you, join themIn treaty, on what terms you can. I warn you,Beware, beware, of facing them in battle.’

‘O happy people of the realm of Saturn,Ancient Ausonians, what chance, what fortuneDisturbs your rest, leads you to unknown warfare?All of us, every one, who desecratedThe fields of Troy with steel—I do not mentionAll that we suffered under those high walls,Or heroes drowned in Simois—every one,All over the world, has paid and kept on payingAll kinds of punishment, all kinds of torture,A band that even Priam would have to pity.Minerva knows it, with her baleful star,Euboea’s headland knows it, and Caphereus,That cape of vengeance. From that warfare drivenUlysses faced the Cyclops; MenelausWas exiled far to the west. IdomeneusLost Crete: what need is there to mention Pyrrhus,To name the Locrians on Libya’s coastline?Even the Greeks’ great captain, Agamemnon,Met shame beyond his threshold; ClytemnestraStruck with her evil hand,—the king of men,The conqueror of Asia, fell, a cuckoldMurdered in his own palace, at Mycenae.To me the gods were kinder; they would not let meSee home again, the wife I loved, the altarsOf lovely Calydon; here I am, still hauntedBy portents horrible to see—my comradesLost, seeking heaven on their wings, or aimlessAlong the rivers, crying in shrill voicesAround the rocks, creatures of lamentationThat once were men! The gods know how to punish.This, so it seems, was what I had to hope forEver since that first moment of my madnessWhen I took steel in hand and wounded Venus.No, no; do not invite me to such battles.The walls of Troy have fallen; I have no quarrelWith any Trojans any more. Those evilsI have forgotten, or, if I remember,I find no pleasure in them. Take AeneasThe gifts you bring me from your native country.I have stood up against his terrible weapons,I have fought him hand to hand. Believe an expert,Take it from one who knows, how huge he risesAbove that shield of his, with what a whirlwindHe rifles out that spear. If Troy had onlyTwo other men as good, Greece would be mourningWith doom the other way, and the towns of ArgosAdmit the conqueror. For ten long yearsThey kept us waiting at that stubborn city,And the Greek victory was at a standstillThrough Hector and Aeneas; both were famousIn spirit, both in feats of arms, AeneasThe more devoted man. I tell you, join themIn treaty, on what terms you can. I warn you,Beware, beware, of facing them in battle.’

So you have heard, great king, Diomede’s answerAnd what he thinks of this great war.”The soundRose, as he ended, like the sound of waterWhen rocks delay a flood, and the banks re-echoThe stir and protest of the angry river,Confusion, argument, in swirl and eddy,—So the Ausonians brawled among each other,Muttered, and then subsided; and king LatinusSpoke from his lofty throne:—“I wish, O Latins,Decision had been taken in such mattersA long while since; that would have been much better.This is no time for councils to be summoned.The enemy is at the gate. We are wagingA most unhappy war against a peopleDescended from the gods; we cannot beat them.No battles wear them down; if they are conquered,They cannot let the sword fall from the hand.Whatever hope you had in Diomede,Forget it. All your hope is what you are,But you can see how little that amounts to.You have it all before your eyes; you have itIn your own hands, and most of it is ruin.I lay no blame on any man; what valorCould do, it has done: the body of our kingdomHas fought with all its strength. We are bled to the white.Hear, then, what I propose; I am not yet certainEntirely—here it is, in brief. We haveAn ancient tract of land, far to the west,Touching the Tuscan river, where our natives,Rutulians, Auruncans, sow and harrowThe stubborn hills, rough land and cattle country.Let all this region and its high pine-forestBe ceded to the Trojans out of friendship;Let us make fair terms and have them share our kingdom.Here they may build and settle if they want to.But if their minds are bent on other borders,On any other nation, if they are ableTo leave our soil, let us build a navy for them,Twenty good ships of oak, more if they need them.We have the timber at the water’s edge;All they need tell us is what kind, how many,For us to give them workmen, bronze, and dockyards.A hundred spokesmen from the noblest LatinsShould go with boughs of olive, bearing presents,Talents of gold and ivory, the robe,The throne, of state, symbols of our dominion.Consult together; help our weary fortunes.”Then Drances, hostile still, whom Turnus’ gloryGoaded with envy’s bitter sting, arose,A man of wealth, better than good with his tongue;If not so fierce in war, no fool in council,A trouble-maker, though; his mother was noble,His father no-one much. He spoke in anger:—“Good king, you ask our guidance in a matterObscure to none, needing no word of ours.All know, admit they know, what fortune orders,Yet mutter rather than speak. Let him abateThat bluster of his, through whose disastrous waysEvil has come upon us, and bad omens.I will speak out, however much he threaten.Let us have freedom to speak frankly. MourningHas settled on the town, the light of the leadersDies out in darkness, while that confident hero,Confident, but in flight, attacks the TrojansAnd frightens heaven with arms. To all these giftsPromised and sent the Trojans, add, O king,One more: let no one’s violence dissuade youFrom giving your daughter in a worthy marriage,An everlasting covenant between us.But if such terror holds our hearts, then let usBeseech this prince, sue for his royal favor,Let him give up his claim, for king and country.Why, Turnus, fountain-head of all our troublesConsign us, wretches that we are, to dangerOpen and often? In war there is no safety.Turnus, we ask for peace, and, to confirm it,The only proper pledge. You know I hate you,Make no mistake in that regard. But still,I, first of all, implore you, pity your people!Put off that pride: give in, give up, and leave us!We have seen enough of death and desolation.If glory moves you, you with the heart of oak,Or if the royal dowry is your passion,Be bold, have confidence,—and face Aeneas!So Turnus have his royal bride, no matterIf we, cheap souls, a herd unwept, unburied,Lie strewn across the field. O son of Mars,If son you really are, the challengerIs calling: dare you look him in the face?”And Turnus’ violence blazed out in fury,A groan or a growl and savage words erupting:—“A flow of talk is what you have, O Drances,Always, when wars need men; and you come runningThe first one there, whenever the senate gathers.But this is not the time for words, that flyFrom your big mouth in safety, in a meeting,While the walls keep off the foe, and the dry trenchesHave not yet swum in blood. As usual,Orator, thunder on! Convict me, Drances,Of cowardice, you having slain so manyTremendous heaps of Trojans, all the fieldsStacked with your trophies! Try your courage, Drances:The enemy are not far to seek, our wallsAre circled with them. Coming? Why the coyness?Will your idea of Mars be found foreverIn windy tongue and flying feet? I, beaten?Who says so? What foul liar calls me beaten,Seeing the Tiber red with blood, EvanderLaid low with all his house, and the ArcadiansStripped of their arms? Ask Pandarus and Bitias,The thousands I have sent to hell, cut offInside their walls, hedged by a ring of foemen.In war there is no safety.Sing that song,Madman, to your own cause and prince Aeneas!Keep on, don’t stop, confound confusion furtherWith panic fear, and praise those noble heroesOf that twice-beaten race, despite the armsOf King Latinus. Now the Myrmidons,Or so we hear, are trembling, and their riverRuns backward in sheer fright, and DiomedesTurns pale, and I suppose Achilles also!Now he pretends my threats, my anger, scare him—A nice artistic piece of work!—he sharpensSlander with apprehension. Listen to him!Listen to me: I tell you, you will neverLose such a life as yours by this right hand,Quit worrying, keep that great and fighting spiritForever in that breast! And now, my father,I turn to you and more important counsels.If you have hope no longer in our arms,If we are so forsaken, if we are lost,Utterly, over one repulse, if fortuneCannot retrace her steps, let us pray for peace,Let us hold out helpless hands in supplication.But still, if only some of our valor, something—Happy the men who died before they saw it!But if we still have any power, warriorsStanding unhurt, any Italian city,Any ally at all, if any TrojansHave ever died (their glory has been costlyAs well as ours, and the storm has no more spared them),Why do we fail like cowards on the edgeOf victory? Why do we shudder and trembleBefore the trumpet sounds? Many an evilHas turned to good in time; and many a mortalFate has despised and raised. Diomede, Arpi,Refuse us help; so be it. There are others,There is Messapus for one, TolumniusWhose luck is good, and all those other leadersSent by so many nations, and great gloryWill follow Latium’s pride. We have CamillaOf Volscian stock, leading her troop of horsemen,Her warriors bright in bronze. If I am summonedAlone to meet Aeneas, if I aloneAm obstinate about the common welfare,If such is your decision, my hands have neverFound victory so shrinking or elusiveThat I should fear the risk. Bring on your Trojan!Let him surpass Achilles, and wear armorMade by the hands of Vulcan! Second to no oneOf all my ancestors in pride and courage,I, Turnus, vow this life to you, Latinus,My king, my father.The challenger is calling—Well, let him call, I hope he does. No Drances,If heaven’s wrath is here, will ever appease it,No Drances take away my honor and glory.”So, in the midst of doubt, they brawled and quarreled,And all the time Aeneas’ line came forward.A messenger rushed through the royal palace,Through scenes of noise and uproar, through the cityFilling the town with panic:They are coming,He cries,they are ready for battle, all the Trojans,All the Etruscans, rank on rank, from Tiber,All over the plain!And the people’s minds are troubled,Their hearts are shaken, their passion and their angerPricked by no gentle spur. However frightened,They call for arms, they make impatient gestures,The young men shout, and the old ones moan and mutter;The noise, from every side, goes up to heavenLoud and discordant, the way jays rasp and chatterOr swans along Padusa’s fishy riverUtter their raucous clamor over the pools.And Turnus, seizing on the moment, cries:—“A fine time, citizens, to call a council,To sit there praising peace. The enemyIs up in arms against us!” That was all,And he went rushing from the lofty palace.“Volusus, arm the squadrons of the Volscians,Lead the Rutulians forth! Messapus, Coras,Deploy the horsemen over the plains! You others,Some of you, guard the city gates and towers!The rest, be ready to charge where I direct you!”So Turnus gave excited orders: quickly,The rush to the walls was on, all over the city.Latinus left the council, sorely troubledIn that sad hour, put off the plan he hoped for,Blaming himself in that he had not welcomed,More eagerly, his Trojan son AeneasFor the welfare of the city. And his menWere digging trenches, trundling stones, or settingStakes in the ground, and pitfalls; and the trumpetSounded for bloody war; and boys and mothersFilled in the gaps along the walls. Amata,The queen, with a great throng of matrons, rodeTo Pallas’ temple on the heights; beside herThe girl Lavinia, cause of all that evil,Went with head bowed and downcast eyes. The womenClimbed on, and made the temple steam with incense,And from the threshold chanted sorrowful prayers:—“O mighty power in war, Tritonian virgin,Break off his spear, lay low the Trojan robber,Stretch him in death before our lofty portals!”And Turnus, all impatience, hot for action,Buckles his armor, the ruddy breastplate gleamingBright with bronze scales, the greaves on fire with gold,The sword snapped to the baldric. Still bareheaded,A golden blaze, he runs down from the fortress,Exulting in his spirit: he has the foeBy the throat already, in imagination.You see that fire when a stallion breaks his tether,Runs from the stable, free at last, a monarchOf all the plain, and makes for the green pasturesWhere mares are grazing, or splashes into the riverOut of sheer joy, and tosses his mane, and nickers,And the light plays across his neck and shoulders.To meet him came Camilla and her Volscians,And she reined in at the gate, dismounting quickly,And all her band, at her example, followed,Listening as she spoke:—“Turnus, if courageHas any right to confidence, I promise,I dare, to meet the horsemen of Aeneas,I dare, alone, to face the Etruscan riders.Let me try, first, the dangers of the battle;You stay on guard as captain of the walls.”And Turnus, gazing at the warrior-maiden,Replied:—“O glory of Italy, no wordsOf mine can give you worthy thanks; your spiritSurpasses all the rest of them. Share with meThe work we have to do. Faithless Aeneas,So rumor says, and scouts confirm, is sendingHis cavalry, light-armed, to scour the plains,And he himself, crossing the mountain-ridges,Comes down upon the city. I am planningAn ambush for him, where the forest narrowsTo shadowy trails; I block both sides of the passWith soldiery in arms. Do you, Camilla,Take on the Etruscan horsemen, act as leader;Messapus, a sharp fighter, will be with you,And Latin squadrons and the troop from Tibur.”Messapus and the other captains listenedTo orders much like these, and they were heartened,And Turnus left them, moving toward Aeneas.There is a valley, winding, curving, fitFor stratagems of warfare, a narrow gorgeBlack with dense woods on either side; a trailWinds through it, narrow and difficult: above itThere lies an unknown plain, a safe positionWhether you charge from right or left, or stand thereHeaving great boulders down the mountain-shoulders,And Turnus knows this region well, finds cover,Picks the terrain to suit him, waits and watchesIn the dark menace of the woods.And meantime,High in the halls of heaven, Latona’s daughterWas talking to a nymph of hers, a maidenOf her devoted company, named Opis.Diana’s words were sorrowful:—“CamillaIs going forth to cruel war, O maiden,Our soldier, all in vain, and dearer to meThan all the other girls; she has loved me long;It is no impulsive whim that moves her spirit.Perhaps you know the story—how her father,Metabus, ruler of an ancient city,Became a tyrant, and his people drove himIn hatred from Privernum, and he fledThrough war and battles, taking as companionTo share his exile the little infant daughter,Camilla, she was called, after her motherWhose name was not so different, Casmilla.So he was going on, toward ridge and woodland,Long roads to loneliness, holding his daughterBefore him on his breast, and weapons flyingFrom every side against them, and the VolsciansSpreading the net of soldiers wide to catch them.But Metabus went on, and came to a riverOut of its banks, the swollen AmasenusFoaming in flood from cloudburst. Could he swim it?He thought so, but he checked himself; he fearedFor the dear load he carried. He did some thinking,And suddenly, or not quite all of a sudden,He saw the only way. There was the spearHis stout hand bore: it was strong and heavy, knottedOf seasoned oak, and he bound his daughter to it,Gently, with bark of cork-wood all around her,And carefully, to keep the missile’s balance,And let his right hand weigh its heft a little,And then made prayer:—‘O gracious woodland-dweller,Diana, virgin daughter of Latona,I consecrate my daughter to your service.These are your darts she holds, the very first onesShe ever carried; she comes to you, a suppliantWho flees her foe through pathways of the air.Accept her, O dear goddess, I implore you,Make her your own. Her father, I commit her,Now, to the dubious winds.’ The arm drew back,The whirring spear shot forward, and the watersRoared loud below, and over the rush of the riverCamilla, on the whistling spear, went flying,And Metabus, as the great host came closer,Dove into the flood, and safe across, a victorAnd happy, pulled the spear and girl togetherOut of the grassy turf, his votive offeringMade to Latona’s daughter. No city everReceived him to its walls or homes; he would not,In his wild mood, give in to any city.He lived with shepherds on the lonely mountains,And there, where wild beasts lurked, in thorn and thicketHe raised his child; his hands would squeeze the uddersOf wild mares for their milk. When she could standAnd toddle a little, he armed her with a javelin,A tiny pointed lance, and over her shoulderHung quiver and bow. There were no golden broochesTo bind her hair, no trailing gowns: her dressWas black and orange tiger-skin. Her handGrew used to tossing childish darts, or whirlingThe limber sling around her head; she learnedTo hit her targets, crane or snowy swan.And as she grew, many a Tuscan motherWanted her for this son, or that, but vainly:Diana was her goddess, and she cherished,Intact, an everlasting love—her weapons,Her maidenhood, were all she knew and cared for.I wish she had never been so possessed, so ardentFor soldiery like this, attacking TrojansInstead of meeker game; she would have beenThe one most dear of all my dear companions.But now a bitter doom weighs down upon her.Therefore, O nymph, glide down from heaven to Latium,Where, under evil omens, men join battle.Take these, my bow, my arrows; from my quiverDraw the avenging shaft. His life is forfeit,Trojan, Italian, whoever he is, whose woundProfanes the sacred body of Camilla.And when she has fallen, I will bring her homeBy hollow cloud, both warrior and armorUnspoiled, untaken, to her native country,Home to her tomb, poor girl.” And swift through airOpis, on whirring wing, came down from heavenIn the dark whirlwind’s center.And the TrojansWere drawing near the walls, with Tuscan leadersAnd all that host of cavalry, whose numbersFilled squadron after squadron, and the horsesSnorted and reared and fought the bit and bridle,Light-stepping sideways; far and wide the fieldBristled with iron harvest, and the plainBurned with the arms raised high. And here against themCome Messapus and Coras and his brother,The Latins, moving fast, Camilla’s squadron,The hands drawn back already, and lances flying:All fire and noise and heat and men and horses.They ride, keep riding, and the distance closesTo spear-cast, and they halt, and a wild clamorBreaks out, the charge is on, they spur the horsesWhich need no spur, and from all sides they showerThe darts as thick as driving snow, the shadowDarkens the sky. Tyrrhenus, wild Aconteus,Single each other out and come togetherHead on, and the spears are broken, and men are thrown,And the horses, smashing their great chests together,Come down with a crash; Aconteus is hurledLike a thunderbolt or something from an engineIncredibly far off, and dies in the air.And the lines waver, and the routed LatinsLet fall their shields behind them, head for the city,With Trojans in pursuit: Asilas leads them.They near the walls, and the Latins turn, and, shouting,Wheel to the charge, and the Trojans break and scatterWith reins let loose. You are looking at the oceanThe way it comes, one wave, and then another,Surging, receding, flooding, rushing shorewardOver the cliffs in spray and foam or smoothingThe farthest sand with the shallow curve, withdrawingFaster and faster, and undertow, slowly, slowlyDragging the shingle back, and the surface glidingSleek from the visible beaches. Twice the TuscansDrove the Rutulians routed to the city;Twice, driven back themselves, they slung behind themThe shields, reversed, quick-glancing over their shoulders.But when, for the third time, they came together,They stayed together, locked, all down the line,And each man picked his man, and each man stayed there,And the rough fight rose and thickened. Dying menGroaned, and the blood was deep, and men and armorAnd wounded horses and wounded men and bodiesOf men and horses were in it all together.Orsilochus found Remulus a warriorToo tough to take head on, and flung his spearAt the head of the horse, instead, and left the ironUnder the ear, and the great beast, wounded, rearing,Flailed the air with his forelegs, came down crashing,And the stunned rider, thrown, rolled over and over.Catillus killed Iollas, and another,Herminius, giant in body, giant in arms,Giant in spirit, a man who fought bare-headed,Bare-shouldered, a fair-haired man, so huge in statureHe feared no wound. But through his shoulders drivenThe quivering spear made way and bent him double,Writhing in pain. Dark blood flows everywhere,The sword deals death; men look to wounds for glory.In the thick of the fight Camilla rages, wearingHer quiver like an Amazon, one breastExposed: she showers javelins, she pliesThe battle-axe; she never tires; her shoulderClangs with the golden bow, Diana’s weapon.If ever, turning back, she yields, the arrowsAre loosed from over her shoulder; even in flightShe makes attack. Around her, chosen comrades,Larina, Tulla, and Tarpeia brandishAxes of bronze. She chose them as her handmaids,Good both in peace and war, Italian daughters,Italy’s pride, like Thracian AmazonsWarring in colorful armor in the countryWhere Thermodon river runs, and women warriorsHail fighting queens with battle-cries or clashThe crescent shields together.First and last,Camilla struck men down: who knows how manyShe brought to earth in death? Clytius’ son,Euneus, faced her first, and her long spearPierced his unguarded breast. Rivers of bloodPoured from his mouth; he chewed red dust, and dyingWrithed on his wound. She stabbed the horse of Liris,And the rider fell, and reached for the reins: PagasusStretched out a hand to help him, to break his fall,And Camilla slew the pair of them together:Amastrus next, Hippotas’ son: far off,Her spear caught up with four, Tereus, Chromis,Harpalycus, Demophoön. For each dartSent flying from her hand, a Trojan fell.Far off she saw the huntsman Ornytus,Riding a native pony, in strange armor.He wore a steer’s hide over his wide shoulders,A wolf’s head for a helmet, with the jaws,Wide-open, grinning above his head; he carriedA rustic kind of pike, and he was taller,By a full head, than all the others, easyTarget for any dart. She cried above him:—“What did you think, O Tuscan?—You were chasingBeasts in the woods? The day has come when boastingLike yours is answered by a woman’s weapons,But after all, you take to the shades of your fathersNo little cause for pride—Camilla killed you!”And then she slew Orsilochus and Butes,Two of the mightiest Trojans, stabbing ButesWith spear-point in the back, between the helmetAnd breastplate, where the flesh shone white, and shieldHung down from the left arm. OrsilochusShe fled from first, and, driven in a circle,Became, in turn, pursuer; and, rising higher,Brought down the battle-axe, again, again,Through armor and through bone: his pleas for mercyAvailed him nothing; the wound he suffered spatteredHis face with his warm brains. Next in her wayAnd stunned to halt by abject terror cameA son of Aunus, an expert at lyingLike all Ligurians. He could not escape her,And knew he could not, but he might outwit her,Or so he hoped. “What’s so courageous, womanAlways on horseback? Forget the hope of fleeing,Dismount; meet me on equal terms; try fightingOn foot for once. You will learn, I tell you, something,The disillusion of that windy glory.”She took the challenge, burned with angry temper,Turned her horse over to another, savageIn equal arms, confronting him undaunted,With naked sword. He leaped into the saddle,Much pleased with his sly stratagem, drove the rowelsDeep in the flanks, took off. “O vain Ligurian,Swollen with pride of heart, that slippery cunningWill never get you home to father Aunus!”So cried Camilla, and flashed like fire acrossThe horse’s path, grabbed at the bridle, hauled himTo earth and shed his blood. A hawk in heavenIs not more quick to seize a dove when, drivingFrom the dark rock toward lofty cloud, he fastensThe talons deep, and rips, and the feathers flutter,All blood-stained, down the sky.On high OlympusJupiter watched the scene of battle, rousingTarchon the Etruscan with the spur of anger,And through the slaughter and the yielding columnsThat warrior rode, calling each man by name,Driving his ranks to battle with fierce outcry,Rallying beaten men to fight:—“What terror,O Tuscans, causes you such utter panic?Will nothing ever hurt you? Does a womanChase you all over the field in this confusion?Why do we carry swords? What silly weaponsAre these in our right hands? You are swift enoughFor wrestling in the night time, or for dancesWhen the curved flute of Bacchus does the piping!You have, it seems, one pleasure and one passion,Waiting for feasts and goblets on full tablesWhen priests announce the sacrifice propitiousAnd the fat victim calls to the deep woodlands.”So Tarchon had his say, and spurred his charger,Himself not loath to die, fell like a whirlwindOn Venulus, and swept him from the saddle,And lifted him with his right hand, and held himBefore him as he rode, and all the LatinsCheered with a noisy din that reached the heaven.The arms and man in front of him, over the plainRode Tarchon, swift as fire; broke off the pointOf Venulus’ spear, and sought a place unguardedWhere he might thrust a deadly wound; the otherStruggled against him, kept the hand from the throat,Matched violence with violence. An eagle,Soaring to heaven, carries off a serpentIn just that manner, in the grip of talons,And the wounded reptile writhes the looping coilsAnd rears the scales erect and keeps on hissing,While the curved beak strikes at the struggling victim,So, from the battle-line of the Etruscans,Tarchon swept off his struggling prey in triumph,An inspiration to his rallied people.Then Arruns, as the fates would have it, startedStalking the fleet Camilla with the javelin,Ahead of her in cunning. He took no chances,Seeking the easiest way. When that wild maidenDashed fiercely into the battle, there he followedStealthily in her footsteps, or turned the reinsWhen she came back victorious. This way, that way,Wary in each approach, he circled after,The sure spear quivering as he poised and held it.It happened Chloreus, Cybele’s priest, was shiningFar off in Phrygian armor, spurring a horseCovered with leather, scales of brass and goldAnd the rider was a fire of foreign color,Launching his Cretan darts: the bow was golden,The helmet golden, and the cloak of saffron,So stiff it had a metal sound, was fastenedWith knots of yellow gold; some foreign needleHad worked embroidery into hose and tunic.Camilla picked him out from all the battle,Either to take that spoil home to the temple,Or flaunt the gold herself; she was a huntressIn blind pursuit, dazzled by spoil, a womanReckless for finery. In hiding, ArrunsCaught up his spear and prayed:—“Most high Apollo,Soracte’s warden, whose adorers feedThe pine-wood fire, and trustful tread the embers,Let me wipe out this shame. I seek no plunder,No spoil, no trophy, of Camilla beaten;I may perhaps find other ways to glory.All I ask here is that this scourge may vanishUnder a wound I give; for this I am willingTo make return, however inglorious, home.”Half of his prayer was heard: Apollo grantedThe downfall of Camilla; the returningSafe home was not to be,—the south winds carriedThat much to empty air. So the spear, whirring,Spun from his hand; the sound turned all the VolsciansWith anxious eyes and minds to watch their ruler.She heard no stir in the air, no sound, no weaponAlong the sky, till the spear went to its lodgingIn the bare breast and drank the maiden blood.Her frightened comrades hurry, catch her falling,And Arruns, frightened more than any other,Half joy, half fear, makes off: no further daringIs his, to trust the lance or face encounter.As a wolf that kills a bullock or a shepherdBefore the darts can reach him, down the mountainsGoes plunging through the brush, the sign of guiltHis tail clapped under the belly, bent on flight,So Arruns sneaks to cover through the armies.Dying, she pulls at the dart, but the point is fast,Deep in the wound between the ribs; her eyesRoll, cold in death; her color pales; her breathComes hard. She calls to Acca, her companion,Most loved, most loyal:—“I have managed, Acca,This far, but now—the bitter wound—I am done for,There are shadows all around. Hurry to Turnus.Take him this last direction, to relieve meHere in the fight, defend the town, keep off—Farewell!” The reins went slack, the earth received herYielding her body to its cold, resigningThe sagging head to death; and she let fall,For the last time, her weapons, and the spiritWent with a moan indignant to the shadows.And then indeed the golden stars were smittenBy a wild outcry; with Camilla fallen,The fight takes on new fierceness: all the TrojansRush in, Etruscan leaders, all the squadronsThat came, once, from Evander.High in the mountainsOpis, Diana’s sentinel, unfrightened,Had watched the battle, and seen, through all that fury,Camilla slain in pitiful death. She sighedAnd spoke with deep emotion:—“Cruel, cruel,The punishment you pay, poor warrior-maiden,For that attempt to battle down the Trojans!It comes to nothing, all the lonely serviceIn woodland thicket, the worship of Diana,The wearing of our arrows on the shoulder.And even so, in the last hour of dying,Your queen has not forsaken you, nor left youUnhonored altogether; through the nationsThis will be known, your death, and with it, surely,The satisfaction of vengeance. He whose woundProfaned your body will die as he deserves to.”Under the lofty mountain stood the tombOf an old king, Dercennus of Laurentum,A mound of earth under a holm-oak’s shadow.Here first the lovely goddess, sweeping downFrom heaven, paused, and from that height watched Arruns,And saw him puffed with pride, exulting vainly,And called:—“Why go so far away? Come nearer!Come to the death you merit; for CamillaReceive the due reward. Shall you die alsoUnder Diana’s weapons?” She drew an arrowSwift from the quiver of gold, drew back the bowTill the curved ends were meeting, and her handsWere even, left at arrow-tip and rightBrushing her breast as she let loose the bow-string.And as he heard the twang and the air whirring,He felt the steel strike home. Gasping and moaning,He lay there in the unknown dust; his comradesForgot, and left him where he lay, and OpisSoared upward to Olympus.Camilla’s squadronWas first to flee, their leader lost; Atinas,Keen though he was, sped off; in reel and routRutulians followed; captains and troops uncaptained,Shattered and broken, turned and wheeled their horsesOn a gallop toward the walls. No one can haltThe Trojans now, nor stand against the havoc;They carry unstrung bows on nerveless shoulders,And the horses drum in the rush in the dust of the plain.A cloud of dust, black murk, rolls toward the walls,And from the watch-towers mothers wail to heaven,Beating their breasts, screaming in lamentation.The first ones stumble through the gates; upon themThe enemy presses hard, and friend and foeAre all confused together. Men are dying,Gasping away their lives on their own threshold,In sight of home and shelter, unprotectedWithin their native walls. Some close the gates,Dare not admit their wretched comrades, pleading,Nor take them to the town. And slaughter follows,Most pitiful: the sword that guards the portalsKills citizens who try to rush in blindly.Their parents, weeping, see them shut from the city,And some, who are driven back, go rolling headlongInto the trenches, and others, dashing wildlyWith loosened rein, crash into gates and portalsLocked tight against them. Along the walls the mothersTry to be fighters (love of country taught them)And, as they saw Camilla do, fling weaponsWith trembling hands, or grasp at stakes or oak-polesTo do the work that steel should do, poor creatures,Eager to die, before the walls, in the vanguard.Meanwhile, to Turnus in his forest ambushThe terrible news is borne: Acca reports it,The Volscian ranks destroyed, Camilla fallen,The enemy, deadly, massing thick, and sweepingAll things before them in triumphant warfare,Fear at the very walls. And Turnus, raging—(As Jupiter’s relentless will commanded)Forsook the ambush in the hills, abandonedThe rugged woodland, and scarcely had he done so,Passing from sight to valley, when AeneasEntered the pass in safety, crossed the mountain,Came out of the dark woods. And both were strivingTo reach the city, swiftly, in full columnAnd almost side by side: in a single momentAeneas saw the plain and the dust risingAnd Turnus saw Aeneas, fierce for battle,And heard the stamp and snorting of the horses.There was almost time for fighting, but the Sun-god,Colored in crimson, brought his weary horsesTo bathe in the Western ocean; day was over,Night coming on. They camped before the city.

So you have heard, great king, Diomede’s answerAnd what he thinks of this great war.”The soundRose, as he ended, like the sound of waterWhen rocks delay a flood, and the banks re-echoThe stir and protest of the angry river,Confusion, argument, in swirl and eddy,—So the Ausonians brawled among each other,Muttered, and then subsided; and king LatinusSpoke from his lofty throne:—“I wish, O Latins,Decision had been taken in such mattersA long while since; that would have been much better.This is no time for councils to be summoned.The enemy is at the gate. We are wagingA most unhappy war against a peopleDescended from the gods; we cannot beat them.No battles wear them down; if they are conquered,They cannot let the sword fall from the hand.Whatever hope you had in Diomede,Forget it. All your hope is what you are,But you can see how little that amounts to.You have it all before your eyes; you have itIn your own hands, and most of it is ruin.I lay no blame on any man; what valorCould do, it has done: the body of our kingdomHas fought with all its strength. We are bled to the white.Hear, then, what I propose; I am not yet certainEntirely—here it is, in brief. We haveAn ancient tract of land, far to the west,Touching the Tuscan river, where our natives,Rutulians, Auruncans, sow and harrowThe stubborn hills, rough land and cattle country.Let all this region and its high pine-forestBe ceded to the Trojans out of friendship;Let us make fair terms and have them share our kingdom.Here they may build and settle if they want to.But if their minds are bent on other borders,On any other nation, if they are ableTo leave our soil, let us build a navy for them,Twenty good ships of oak, more if they need them.We have the timber at the water’s edge;All they need tell us is what kind, how many,For us to give them workmen, bronze, and dockyards.A hundred spokesmen from the noblest LatinsShould go with boughs of olive, bearing presents,Talents of gold and ivory, the robe,The throne, of state, symbols of our dominion.Consult together; help our weary fortunes.”Then Drances, hostile still, whom Turnus’ gloryGoaded with envy’s bitter sting, arose,A man of wealth, better than good with his tongue;If not so fierce in war, no fool in council,A trouble-maker, though; his mother was noble,His father no-one much. He spoke in anger:—“Good king, you ask our guidance in a matterObscure to none, needing no word of ours.All know, admit they know, what fortune orders,Yet mutter rather than speak. Let him abateThat bluster of his, through whose disastrous waysEvil has come upon us, and bad omens.I will speak out, however much he threaten.Let us have freedom to speak frankly. MourningHas settled on the town, the light of the leadersDies out in darkness, while that confident hero,Confident, but in flight, attacks the TrojansAnd frightens heaven with arms. To all these giftsPromised and sent the Trojans, add, O king,One more: let no one’s violence dissuade youFrom giving your daughter in a worthy marriage,An everlasting covenant between us.But if such terror holds our hearts, then let usBeseech this prince, sue for his royal favor,Let him give up his claim, for king and country.Why, Turnus, fountain-head of all our troublesConsign us, wretches that we are, to dangerOpen and often? In war there is no safety.Turnus, we ask for peace, and, to confirm it,The only proper pledge. You know I hate you,Make no mistake in that regard. But still,I, first of all, implore you, pity your people!Put off that pride: give in, give up, and leave us!We have seen enough of death and desolation.If glory moves you, you with the heart of oak,Or if the royal dowry is your passion,Be bold, have confidence,—and face Aeneas!So Turnus have his royal bride, no matterIf we, cheap souls, a herd unwept, unburied,Lie strewn across the field. O son of Mars,If son you really are, the challengerIs calling: dare you look him in the face?”And Turnus’ violence blazed out in fury,A groan or a growl and savage words erupting:—“A flow of talk is what you have, O Drances,Always, when wars need men; and you come runningThe first one there, whenever the senate gathers.But this is not the time for words, that flyFrom your big mouth in safety, in a meeting,While the walls keep off the foe, and the dry trenchesHave not yet swum in blood. As usual,Orator, thunder on! Convict me, Drances,Of cowardice, you having slain so manyTremendous heaps of Trojans, all the fieldsStacked with your trophies! Try your courage, Drances:The enemy are not far to seek, our wallsAre circled with them. Coming? Why the coyness?Will your idea of Mars be found foreverIn windy tongue and flying feet? I, beaten?Who says so? What foul liar calls me beaten,Seeing the Tiber red with blood, EvanderLaid low with all his house, and the ArcadiansStripped of their arms? Ask Pandarus and Bitias,The thousands I have sent to hell, cut offInside their walls, hedged by a ring of foemen.In war there is no safety.Sing that song,Madman, to your own cause and prince Aeneas!Keep on, don’t stop, confound confusion furtherWith panic fear, and praise those noble heroesOf that twice-beaten race, despite the armsOf King Latinus. Now the Myrmidons,Or so we hear, are trembling, and their riverRuns backward in sheer fright, and DiomedesTurns pale, and I suppose Achilles also!Now he pretends my threats, my anger, scare him—A nice artistic piece of work!—he sharpensSlander with apprehension. Listen to him!Listen to me: I tell you, you will neverLose such a life as yours by this right hand,Quit worrying, keep that great and fighting spiritForever in that breast! And now, my father,I turn to you and more important counsels.If you have hope no longer in our arms,If we are so forsaken, if we are lost,Utterly, over one repulse, if fortuneCannot retrace her steps, let us pray for peace,Let us hold out helpless hands in supplication.But still, if only some of our valor, something—Happy the men who died before they saw it!But if we still have any power, warriorsStanding unhurt, any Italian city,Any ally at all, if any TrojansHave ever died (their glory has been costlyAs well as ours, and the storm has no more spared them),Why do we fail like cowards on the edgeOf victory? Why do we shudder and trembleBefore the trumpet sounds? Many an evilHas turned to good in time; and many a mortalFate has despised and raised. Diomede, Arpi,Refuse us help; so be it. There are others,There is Messapus for one, TolumniusWhose luck is good, and all those other leadersSent by so many nations, and great gloryWill follow Latium’s pride. We have CamillaOf Volscian stock, leading her troop of horsemen,Her warriors bright in bronze. If I am summonedAlone to meet Aeneas, if I aloneAm obstinate about the common welfare,If such is your decision, my hands have neverFound victory so shrinking or elusiveThat I should fear the risk. Bring on your Trojan!Let him surpass Achilles, and wear armorMade by the hands of Vulcan! Second to no oneOf all my ancestors in pride and courage,I, Turnus, vow this life to you, Latinus,My king, my father.The challenger is calling—Well, let him call, I hope he does. No Drances,If heaven’s wrath is here, will ever appease it,No Drances take away my honor and glory.”So, in the midst of doubt, they brawled and quarreled,And all the time Aeneas’ line came forward.A messenger rushed through the royal palace,Through scenes of noise and uproar, through the cityFilling the town with panic:They are coming,He cries,they are ready for battle, all the Trojans,All the Etruscans, rank on rank, from Tiber,All over the plain!And the people’s minds are troubled,Their hearts are shaken, their passion and their angerPricked by no gentle spur. However frightened,They call for arms, they make impatient gestures,The young men shout, and the old ones moan and mutter;The noise, from every side, goes up to heavenLoud and discordant, the way jays rasp and chatterOr swans along Padusa’s fishy riverUtter their raucous clamor over the pools.And Turnus, seizing on the moment, cries:—“A fine time, citizens, to call a council,To sit there praising peace. The enemyIs up in arms against us!” That was all,And he went rushing from the lofty palace.“Volusus, arm the squadrons of the Volscians,Lead the Rutulians forth! Messapus, Coras,Deploy the horsemen over the plains! You others,Some of you, guard the city gates and towers!The rest, be ready to charge where I direct you!”So Turnus gave excited orders: quickly,The rush to the walls was on, all over the city.Latinus left the council, sorely troubledIn that sad hour, put off the plan he hoped for,Blaming himself in that he had not welcomed,More eagerly, his Trojan son AeneasFor the welfare of the city. And his menWere digging trenches, trundling stones, or settingStakes in the ground, and pitfalls; and the trumpetSounded for bloody war; and boys and mothersFilled in the gaps along the walls. Amata,The queen, with a great throng of matrons, rodeTo Pallas’ temple on the heights; beside herThe girl Lavinia, cause of all that evil,Went with head bowed and downcast eyes. The womenClimbed on, and made the temple steam with incense,And from the threshold chanted sorrowful prayers:—“O mighty power in war, Tritonian virgin,Break off his spear, lay low the Trojan robber,Stretch him in death before our lofty portals!”And Turnus, all impatience, hot for action,Buckles his armor, the ruddy breastplate gleamingBright with bronze scales, the greaves on fire with gold,The sword snapped to the baldric. Still bareheaded,A golden blaze, he runs down from the fortress,Exulting in his spirit: he has the foeBy the throat already, in imagination.You see that fire when a stallion breaks his tether,Runs from the stable, free at last, a monarchOf all the plain, and makes for the green pasturesWhere mares are grazing, or splashes into the riverOut of sheer joy, and tosses his mane, and nickers,And the light plays across his neck and shoulders.To meet him came Camilla and her Volscians,And she reined in at the gate, dismounting quickly,And all her band, at her example, followed,Listening as she spoke:—“Turnus, if courageHas any right to confidence, I promise,I dare, to meet the horsemen of Aeneas,I dare, alone, to face the Etruscan riders.Let me try, first, the dangers of the battle;You stay on guard as captain of the walls.”And Turnus, gazing at the warrior-maiden,Replied:—“O glory of Italy, no wordsOf mine can give you worthy thanks; your spiritSurpasses all the rest of them. Share with meThe work we have to do. Faithless Aeneas,So rumor says, and scouts confirm, is sendingHis cavalry, light-armed, to scour the plains,And he himself, crossing the mountain-ridges,Comes down upon the city. I am planningAn ambush for him, where the forest narrowsTo shadowy trails; I block both sides of the passWith soldiery in arms. Do you, Camilla,Take on the Etruscan horsemen, act as leader;Messapus, a sharp fighter, will be with you,And Latin squadrons and the troop from Tibur.”Messapus and the other captains listenedTo orders much like these, and they were heartened,And Turnus left them, moving toward Aeneas.There is a valley, winding, curving, fitFor stratagems of warfare, a narrow gorgeBlack with dense woods on either side; a trailWinds through it, narrow and difficult: above itThere lies an unknown plain, a safe positionWhether you charge from right or left, or stand thereHeaving great boulders down the mountain-shoulders,And Turnus knows this region well, finds cover,Picks the terrain to suit him, waits and watchesIn the dark menace of the woods.And meantime,High in the halls of heaven, Latona’s daughterWas talking to a nymph of hers, a maidenOf her devoted company, named Opis.Diana’s words were sorrowful:—“CamillaIs going forth to cruel war, O maiden,Our soldier, all in vain, and dearer to meThan all the other girls; she has loved me long;It is no impulsive whim that moves her spirit.Perhaps you know the story—how her father,Metabus, ruler of an ancient city,Became a tyrant, and his people drove himIn hatred from Privernum, and he fledThrough war and battles, taking as companionTo share his exile the little infant daughter,Camilla, she was called, after her motherWhose name was not so different, Casmilla.So he was going on, toward ridge and woodland,Long roads to loneliness, holding his daughterBefore him on his breast, and weapons flyingFrom every side against them, and the VolsciansSpreading the net of soldiers wide to catch them.But Metabus went on, and came to a riverOut of its banks, the swollen AmasenusFoaming in flood from cloudburst. Could he swim it?He thought so, but he checked himself; he fearedFor the dear load he carried. He did some thinking,And suddenly, or not quite all of a sudden,He saw the only way. There was the spearHis stout hand bore: it was strong and heavy, knottedOf seasoned oak, and he bound his daughter to it,Gently, with bark of cork-wood all around her,And carefully, to keep the missile’s balance,And let his right hand weigh its heft a little,And then made prayer:—‘O gracious woodland-dweller,Diana, virgin daughter of Latona,I consecrate my daughter to your service.These are your darts she holds, the very first onesShe ever carried; she comes to you, a suppliantWho flees her foe through pathways of the air.Accept her, O dear goddess, I implore you,Make her your own. Her father, I commit her,Now, to the dubious winds.’ The arm drew back,The whirring spear shot forward, and the watersRoared loud below, and over the rush of the riverCamilla, on the whistling spear, went flying,And Metabus, as the great host came closer,Dove into the flood, and safe across, a victorAnd happy, pulled the spear and girl togetherOut of the grassy turf, his votive offeringMade to Latona’s daughter. No city everReceived him to its walls or homes; he would not,In his wild mood, give in to any city.He lived with shepherds on the lonely mountains,And there, where wild beasts lurked, in thorn and thicketHe raised his child; his hands would squeeze the uddersOf wild mares for their milk. When she could standAnd toddle a little, he armed her with a javelin,A tiny pointed lance, and over her shoulderHung quiver and bow. There were no golden broochesTo bind her hair, no trailing gowns: her dressWas black and orange tiger-skin. Her handGrew used to tossing childish darts, or whirlingThe limber sling around her head; she learnedTo hit her targets, crane or snowy swan.And as she grew, many a Tuscan motherWanted her for this son, or that, but vainly:Diana was her goddess, and she cherished,Intact, an everlasting love—her weapons,Her maidenhood, were all she knew and cared for.I wish she had never been so possessed, so ardentFor soldiery like this, attacking TrojansInstead of meeker game; she would have beenThe one most dear of all my dear companions.But now a bitter doom weighs down upon her.Therefore, O nymph, glide down from heaven to Latium,Where, under evil omens, men join battle.Take these, my bow, my arrows; from my quiverDraw the avenging shaft. His life is forfeit,Trojan, Italian, whoever he is, whose woundProfanes the sacred body of Camilla.And when she has fallen, I will bring her homeBy hollow cloud, both warrior and armorUnspoiled, untaken, to her native country,Home to her tomb, poor girl.” And swift through airOpis, on whirring wing, came down from heavenIn the dark whirlwind’s center.And the TrojansWere drawing near the walls, with Tuscan leadersAnd all that host of cavalry, whose numbersFilled squadron after squadron, and the horsesSnorted and reared and fought the bit and bridle,Light-stepping sideways; far and wide the fieldBristled with iron harvest, and the plainBurned with the arms raised high. And here against themCome Messapus and Coras and his brother,The Latins, moving fast, Camilla’s squadron,The hands drawn back already, and lances flying:All fire and noise and heat and men and horses.They ride, keep riding, and the distance closesTo spear-cast, and they halt, and a wild clamorBreaks out, the charge is on, they spur the horsesWhich need no spur, and from all sides they showerThe darts as thick as driving snow, the shadowDarkens the sky. Tyrrhenus, wild Aconteus,Single each other out and come togetherHead on, and the spears are broken, and men are thrown,And the horses, smashing their great chests together,Come down with a crash; Aconteus is hurledLike a thunderbolt or something from an engineIncredibly far off, and dies in the air.And the lines waver, and the routed LatinsLet fall their shields behind them, head for the city,With Trojans in pursuit: Asilas leads them.They near the walls, and the Latins turn, and, shouting,Wheel to the charge, and the Trojans break and scatterWith reins let loose. You are looking at the oceanThe way it comes, one wave, and then another,Surging, receding, flooding, rushing shorewardOver the cliffs in spray and foam or smoothingThe farthest sand with the shallow curve, withdrawingFaster and faster, and undertow, slowly, slowlyDragging the shingle back, and the surface glidingSleek from the visible beaches. Twice the TuscansDrove the Rutulians routed to the city;Twice, driven back themselves, they slung behind themThe shields, reversed, quick-glancing over their shoulders.But when, for the third time, they came together,They stayed together, locked, all down the line,And each man picked his man, and each man stayed there,And the rough fight rose and thickened. Dying menGroaned, and the blood was deep, and men and armorAnd wounded horses and wounded men and bodiesOf men and horses were in it all together.Orsilochus found Remulus a warriorToo tough to take head on, and flung his spearAt the head of the horse, instead, and left the ironUnder the ear, and the great beast, wounded, rearing,Flailed the air with his forelegs, came down crashing,And the stunned rider, thrown, rolled over and over.Catillus killed Iollas, and another,Herminius, giant in body, giant in arms,Giant in spirit, a man who fought bare-headed,Bare-shouldered, a fair-haired man, so huge in statureHe feared no wound. But through his shoulders drivenThe quivering spear made way and bent him double,Writhing in pain. Dark blood flows everywhere,The sword deals death; men look to wounds for glory.In the thick of the fight Camilla rages, wearingHer quiver like an Amazon, one breastExposed: she showers javelins, she pliesThe battle-axe; she never tires; her shoulderClangs with the golden bow, Diana’s weapon.If ever, turning back, she yields, the arrowsAre loosed from over her shoulder; even in flightShe makes attack. Around her, chosen comrades,Larina, Tulla, and Tarpeia brandishAxes of bronze. She chose them as her handmaids,Good both in peace and war, Italian daughters,Italy’s pride, like Thracian AmazonsWarring in colorful armor in the countryWhere Thermodon river runs, and women warriorsHail fighting queens with battle-cries or clashThe crescent shields together.First and last,Camilla struck men down: who knows how manyShe brought to earth in death? Clytius’ son,Euneus, faced her first, and her long spearPierced his unguarded breast. Rivers of bloodPoured from his mouth; he chewed red dust, and dyingWrithed on his wound. She stabbed the horse of Liris,And the rider fell, and reached for the reins: PagasusStretched out a hand to help him, to break his fall,And Camilla slew the pair of them together:Amastrus next, Hippotas’ son: far off,Her spear caught up with four, Tereus, Chromis,Harpalycus, Demophoön. For each dartSent flying from her hand, a Trojan fell.Far off she saw the huntsman Ornytus,Riding a native pony, in strange armor.He wore a steer’s hide over his wide shoulders,A wolf’s head for a helmet, with the jaws,Wide-open, grinning above his head; he carriedA rustic kind of pike, and he was taller,By a full head, than all the others, easyTarget for any dart. She cried above him:—“What did you think, O Tuscan?—You were chasingBeasts in the woods? The day has come when boastingLike yours is answered by a woman’s weapons,But after all, you take to the shades of your fathersNo little cause for pride—Camilla killed you!”And then she slew Orsilochus and Butes,Two of the mightiest Trojans, stabbing ButesWith spear-point in the back, between the helmetAnd breastplate, where the flesh shone white, and shieldHung down from the left arm. OrsilochusShe fled from first, and, driven in a circle,Became, in turn, pursuer; and, rising higher,Brought down the battle-axe, again, again,Through armor and through bone: his pleas for mercyAvailed him nothing; the wound he suffered spatteredHis face with his warm brains. Next in her wayAnd stunned to halt by abject terror cameA son of Aunus, an expert at lyingLike all Ligurians. He could not escape her,And knew he could not, but he might outwit her,Or so he hoped. “What’s so courageous, womanAlways on horseback? Forget the hope of fleeing,Dismount; meet me on equal terms; try fightingOn foot for once. You will learn, I tell you, something,The disillusion of that windy glory.”She took the challenge, burned with angry temper,Turned her horse over to another, savageIn equal arms, confronting him undaunted,With naked sword. He leaped into the saddle,Much pleased with his sly stratagem, drove the rowelsDeep in the flanks, took off. “O vain Ligurian,Swollen with pride of heart, that slippery cunningWill never get you home to father Aunus!”So cried Camilla, and flashed like fire acrossThe horse’s path, grabbed at the bridle, hauled himTo earth and shed his blood. A hawk in heavenIs not more quick to seize a dove when, drivingFrom the dark rock toward lofty cloud, he fastensThe talons deep, and rips, and the feathers flutter,All blood-stained, down the sky.On high OlympusJupiter watched the scene of battle, rousingTarchon the Etruscan with the spur of anger,And through the slaughter and the yielding columnsThat warrior rode, calling each man by name,Driving his ranks to battle with fierce outcry,Rallying beaten men to fight:—“What terror,O Tuscans, causes you such utter panic?Will nothing ever hurt you? Does a womanChase you all over the field in this confusion?Why do we carry swords? What silly weaponsAre these in our right hands? You are swift enoughFor wrestling in the night time, or for dancesWhen the curved flute of Bacchus does the piping!You have, it seems, one pleasure and one passion,Waiting for feasts and goblets on full tablesWhen priests announce the sacrifice propitiousAnd the fat victim calls to the deep woodlands.”So Tarchon had his say, and spurred his charger,Himself not loath to die, fell like a whirlwindOn Venulus, and swept him from the saddle,And lifted him with his right hand, and held himBefore him as he rode, and all the LatinsCheered with a noisy din that reached the heaven.The arms and man in front of him, over the plainRode Tarchon, swift as fire; broke off the pointOf Venulus’ spear, and sought a place unguardedWhere he might thrust a deadly wound; the otherStruggled against him, kept the hand from the throat,Matched violence with violence. An eagle,Soaring to heaven, carries off a serpentIn just that manner, in the grip of talons,And the wounded reptile writhes the looping coilsAnd rears the scales erect and keeps on hissing,While the curved beak strikes at the struggling victim,So, from the battle-line of the Etruscans,Tarchon swept off his struggling prey in triumph,An inspiration to his rallied people.Then Arruns, as the fates would have it, startedStalking the fleet Camilla with the javelin,Ahead of her in cunning. He took no chances,Seeking the easiest way. When that wild maidenDashed fiercely into the battle, there he followedStealthily in her footsteps, or turned the reinsWhen she came back victorious. This way, that way,Wary in each approach, he circled after,The sure spear quivering as he poised and held it.It happened Chloreus, Cybele’s priest, was shiningFar off in Phrygian armor, spurring a horseCovered with leather, scales of brass and goldAnd the rider was a fire of foreign color,Launching his Cretan darts: the bow was golden,The helmet golden, and the cloak of saffron,So stiff it had a metal sound, was fastenedWith knots of yellow gold; some foreign needleHad worked embroidery into hose and tunic.Camilla picked him out from all the battle,Either to take that spoil home to the temple,Or flaunt the gold herself; she was a huntressIn blind pursuit, dazzled by spoil, a womanReckless for finery. In hiding, ArrunsCaught up his spear and prayed:—“Most high Apollo,Soracte’s warden, whose adorers feedThe pine-wood fire, and trustful tread the embers,Let me wipe out this shame. I seek no plunder,No spoil, no trophy, of Camilla beaten;I may perhaps find other ways to glory.All I ask here is that this scourge may vanishUnder a wound I give; for this I am willingTo make return, however inglorious, home.”Half of his prayer was heard: Apollo grantedThe downfall of Camilla; the returningSafe home was not to be,—the south winds carriedThat much to empty air. So the spear, whirring,Spun from his hand; the sound turned all the VolsciansWith anxious eyes and minds to watch their ruler.She heard no stir in the air, no sound, no weaponAlong the sky, till the spear went to its lodgingIn the bare breast and drank the maiden blood.Her frightened comrades hurry, catch her falling,And Arruns, frightened more than any other,Half joy, half fear, makes off: no further daringIs his, to trust the lance or face encounter.As a wolf that kills a bullock or a shepherdBefore the darts can reach him, down the mountainsGoes plunging through the brush, the sign of guiltHis tail clapped under the belly, bent on flight,So Arruns sneaks to cover through the armies.Dying, she pulls at the dart, but the point is fast,Deep in the wound between the ribs; her eyesRoll, cold in death; her color pales; her breathComes hard. She calls to Acca, her companion,Most loved, most loyal:—“I have managed, Acca,This far, but now—the bitter wound—I am done for,There are shadows all around. Hurry to Turnus.Take him this last direction, to relieve meHere in the fight, defend the town, keep off—Farewell!” The reins went slack, the earth received herYielding her body to its cold, resigningThe sagging head to death; and she let fall,For the last time, her weapons, and the spiritWent with a moan indignant to the shadows.And then indeed the golden stars were smittenBy a wild outcry; with Camilla fallen,The fight takes on new fierceness: all the TrojansRush in, Etruscan leaders, all the squadronsThat came, once, from Evander.High in the mountainsOpis, Diana’s sentinel, unfrightened,Had watched the battle, and seen, through all that fury,Camilla slain in pitiful death. She sighedAnd spoke with deep emotion:—“Cruel, cruel,The punishment you pay, poor warrior-maiden,For that attempt to battle down the Trojans!It comes to nothing, all the lonely serviceIn woodland thicket, the worship of Diana,The wearing of our arrows on the shoulder.And even so, in the last hour of dying,Your queen has not forsaken you, nor left youUnhonored altogether; through the nationsThis will be known, your death, and with it, surely,The satisfaction of vengeance. He whose woundProfaned your body will die as he deserves to.”Under the lofty mountain stood the tombOf an old king, Dercennus of Laurentum,A mound of earth under a holm-oak’s shadow.Here first the lovely goddess, sweeping downFrom heaven, paused, and from that height watched Arruns,And saw him puffed with pride, exulting vainly,And called:—“Why go so far away? Come nearer!Come to the death you merit; for CamillaReceive the due reward. Shall you die alsoUnder Diana’s weapons?” She drew an arrowSwift from the quiver of gold, drew back the bowTill the curved ends were meeting, and her handsWere even, left at arrow-tip and rightBrushing her breast as she let loose the bow-string.And as he heard the twang and the air whirring,He felt the steel strike home. Gasping and moaning,He lay there in the unknown dust; his comradesForgot, and left him where he lay, and OpisSoared upward to Olympus.Camilla’s squadronWas first to flee, their leader lost; Atinas,Keen though he was, sped off; in reel and routRutulians followed; captains and troops uncaptained,Shattered and broken, turned and wheeled their horsesOn a gallop toward the walls. No one can haltThe Trojans now, nor stand against the havoc;They carry unstrung bows on nerveless shoulders,And the horses drum in the rush in the dust of the plain.A cloud of dust, black murk, rolls toward the walls,And from the watch-towers mothers wail to heaven,Beating their breasts, screaming in lamentation.The first ones stumble through the gates; upon themThe enemy presses hard, and friend and foeAre all confused together. Men are dying,Gasping away their lives on their own threshold,In sight of home and shelter, unprotectedWithin their native walls. Some close the gates,Dare not admit their wretched comrades, pleading,Nor take them to the town. And slaughter follows,Most pitiful: the sword that guards the portalsKills citizens who try to rush in blindly.Their parents, weeping, see them shut from the city,And some, who are driven back, go rolling headlongInto the trenches, and others, dashing wildlyWith loosened rein, crash into gates and portalsLocked tight against them. Along the walls the mothersTry to be fighters (love of country taught them)And, as they saw Camilla do, fling weaponsWith trembling hands, or grasp at stakes or oak-polesTo do the work that steel should do, poor creatures,Eager to die, before the walls, in the vanguard.Meanwhile, to Turnus in his forest ambushThe terrible news is borne: Acca reports it,The Volscian ranks destroyed, Camilla fallen,The enemy, deadly, massing thick, and sweepingAll things before them in triumphant warfare,Fear at the very walls. And Turnus, raging—(As Jupiter’s relentless will commanded)Forsook the ambush in the hills, abandonedThe rugged woodland, and scarcely had he done so,Passing from sight to valley, when AeneasEntered the pass in safety, crossed the mountain,Came out of the dark woods. And both were strivingTo reach the city, swiftly, in full columnAnd almost side by side: in a single momentAeneas saw the plain and the dust risingAnd Turnus saw Aeneas, fierce for battle,And heard the stamp and snorting of the horses.There was almost time for fighting, but the Sun-god,Colored in crimson, brought his weary horsesTo bathe in the Western ocean; day was over,Night coming on. They camped before the city.

So you have heard, great king, Diomede’s answerAnd what he thinks of this great war.”

The soundRose, as he ended, like the sound of waterWhen rocks delay a flood, and the banks re-echoThe stir and protest of the angry river,Confusion, argument, in swirl and eddy,—So the Ausonians brawled among each other,Muttered, and then subsided; and king LatinusSpoke from his lofty throne:—“I wish, O Latins,Decision had been taken in such mattersA long while since; that would have been much better.This is no time for councils to be summoned.The enemy is at the gate. We are wagingA most unhappy war against a peopleDescended from the gods; we cannot beat them.No battles wear them down; if they are conquered,They cannot let the sword fall from the hand.Whatever hope you had in Diomede,Forget it. All your hope is what you are,But you can see how little that amounts to.You have it all before your eyes; you have itIn your own hands, and most of it is ruin.I lay no blame on any man; what valorCould do, it has done: the body of our kingdomHas fought with all its strength. We are bled to the white.Hear, then, what I propose; I am not yet certainEntirely—here it is, in brief. We haveAn ancient tract of land, far to the west,Touching the Tuscan river, where our natives,Rutulians, Auruncans, sow and harrowThe stubborn hills, rough land and cattle country.Let all this region and its high pine-forestBe ceded to the Trojans out of friendship;Let us make fair terms and have them share our kingdom.Here they may build and settle if they want to.But if their minds are bent on other borders,On any other nation, if they are ableTo leave our soil, let us build a navy for them,Twenty good ships of oak, more if they need them.We have the timber at the water’s edge;All they need tell us is what kind, how many,For us to give them workmen, bronze, and dockyards.A hundred spokesmen from the noblest LatinsShould go with boughs of olive, bearing presents,Talents of gold and ivory, the robe,The throne, of state, symbols of our dominion.Consult together; help our weary fortunes.”

Then Drances, hostile still, whom Turnus’ gloryGoaded with envy’s bitter sting, arose,A man of wealth, better than good with his tongue;If not so fierce in war, no fool in council,A trouble-maker, though; his mother was noble,His father no-one much. He spoke in anger:—“Good king, you ask our guidance in a matterObscure to none, needing no word of ours.All know, admit they know, what fortune orders,Yet mutter rather than speak. Let him abateThat bluster of his, through whose disastrous waysEvil has come upon us, and bad omens.I will speak out, however much he threaten.Let us have freedom to speak frankly. MourningHas settled on the town, the light of the leadersDies out in darkness, while that confident hero,Confident, but in flight, attacks the TrojansAnd frightens heaven with arms. To all these giftsPromised and sent the Trojans, add, O king,One more: let no one’s violence dissuade youFrom giving your daughter in a worthy marriage,An everlasting covenant between us.But if such terror holds our hearts, then let usBeseech this prince, sue for his royal favor,Let him give up his claim, for king and country.Why, Turnus, fountain-head of all our troublesConsign us, wretches that we are, to dangerOpen and often? In war there is no safety.Turnus, we ask for peace, and, to confirm it,The only proper pledge. You know I hate you,Make no mistake in that regard. But still,I, first of all, implore you, pity your people!Put off that pride: give in, give up, and leave us!We have seen enough of death and desolation.If glory moves you, you with the heart of oak,Or if the royal dowry is your passion,Be bold, have confidence,—and face Aeneas!So Turnus have his royal bride, no matterIf we, cheap souls, a herd unwept, unburied,Lie strewn across the field. O son of Mars,If son you really are, the challengerIs calling: dare you look him in the face?”

And Turnus’ violence blazed out in fury,A groan or a growl and savage words erupting:—“A flow of talk is what you have, O Drances,Always, when wars need men; and you come runningThe first one there, whenever the senate gathers.But this is not the time for words, that flyFrom your big mouth in safety, in a meeting,While the walls keep off the foe, and the dry trenchesHave not yet swum in blood. As usual,Orator, thunder on! Convict me, Drances,Of cowardice, you having slain so manyTremendous heaps of Trojans, all the fieldsStacked with your trophies! Try your courage, Drances:The enemy are not far to seek, our wallsAre circled with them. Coming? Why the coyness?Will your idea of Mars be found foreverIn windy tongue and flying feet? I, beaten?Who says so? What foul liar calls me beaten,Seeing the Tiber red with blood, EvanderLaid low with all his house, and the ArcadiansStripped of their arms? Ask Pandarus and Bitias,The thousands I have sent to hell, cut offInside their walls, hedged by a ring of foemen.In war there is no safety.Sing that song,Madman, to your own cause and prince Aeneas!Keep on, don’t stop, confound confusion furtherWith panic fear, and praise those noble heroesOf that twice-beaten race, despite the armsOf King Latinus. Now the Myrmidons,Or so we hear, are trembling, and their riverRuns backward in sheer fright, and DiomedesTurns pale, and I suppose Achilles also!Now he pretends my threats, my anger, scare him—A nice artistic piece of work!—he sharpensSlander with apprehension. Listen to him!Listen to me: I tell you, you will neverLose such a life as yours by this right hand,Quit worrying, keep that great and fighting spiritForever in that breast! And now, my father,I turn to you and more important counsels.If you have hope no longer in our arms,If we are so forsaken, if we are lost,Utterly, over one repulse, if fortuneCannot retrace her steps, let us pray for peace,Let us hold out helpless hands in supplication.But still, if only some of our valor, something—Happy the men who died before they saw it!But if we still have any power, warriorsStanding unhurt, any Italian city,Any ally at all, if any TrojansHave ever died (their glory has been costlyAs well as ours, and the storm has no more spared them),Why do we fail like cowards on the edgeOf victory? Why do we shudder and trembleBefore the trumpet sounds? Many an evilHas turned to good in time; and many a mortalFate has despised and raised. Diomede, Arpi,Refuse us help; so be it. There are others,There is Messapus for one, TolumniusWhose luck is good, and all those other leadersSent by so many nations, and great gloryWill follow Latium’s pride. We have CamillaOf Volscian stock, leading her troop of horsemen,Her warriors bright in bronze. If I am summonedAlone to meet Aeneas, if I aloneAm obstinate about the common welfare,If such is your decision, my hands have neverFound victory so shrinking or elusiveThat I should fear the risk. Bring on your Trojan!Let him surpass Achilles, and wear armorMade by the hands of Vulcan! Second to no oneOf all my ancestors in pride and courage,I, Turnus, vow this life to you, Latinus,My king, my father.The challenger is calling—Well, let him call, I hope he does. No Drances,If heaven’s wrath is here, will ever appease it,No Drances take away my honor and glory.”

So, in the midst of doubt, they brawled and quarreled,And all the time Aeneas’ line came forward.A messenger rushed through the royal palace,Through scenes of noise and uproar, through the cityFilling the town with panic:They are coming,He cries,they are ready for battle, all the Trojans,All the Etruscans, rank on rank, from Tiber,All over the plain!And the people’s minds are troubled,Their hearts are shaken, their passion and their angerPricked by no gentle spur. However frightened,They call for arms, they make impatient gestures,The young men shout, and the old ones moan and mutter;The noise, from every side, goes up to heavenLoud and discordant, the way jays rasp and chatterOr swans along Padusa’s fishy riverUtter their raucous clamor over the pools.And Turnus, seizing on the moment, cries:—“A fine time, citizens, to call a council,To sit there praising peace. The enemyIs up in arms against us!” That was all,And he went rushing from the lofty palace.“Volusus, arm the squadrons of the Volscians,Lead the Rutulians forth! Messapus, Coras,Deploy the horsemen over the plains! You others,Some of you, guard the city gates and towers!The rest, be ready to charge where I direct you!”

So Turnus gave excited orders: quickly,The rush to the walls was on, all over the city.Latinus left the council, sorely troubledIn that sad hour, put off the plan he hoped for,Blaming himself in that he had not welcomed,More eagerly, his Trojan son AeneasFor the welfare of the city. And his menWere digging trenches, trundling stones, or settingStakes in the ground, and pitfalls; and the trumpetSounded for bloody war; and boys and mothersFilled in the gaps along the walls. Amata,The queen, with a great throng of matrons, rodeTo Pallas’ temple on the heights; beside herThe girl Lavinia, cause of all that evil,Went with head bowed and downcast eyes. The womenClimbed on, and made the temple steam with incense,And from the threshold chanted sorrowful prayers:—“O mighty power in war, Tritonian virgin,Break off his spear, lay low the Trojan robber,Stretch him in death before our lofty portals!”

And Turnus, all impatience, hot for action,Buckles his armor, the ruddy breastplate gleamingBright with bronze scales, the greaves on fire with gold,The sword snapped to the baldric. Still bareheaded,A golden blaze, he runs down from the fortress,Exulting in his spirit: he has the foeBy the throat already, in imagination.You see that fire when a stallion breaks his tether,Runs from the stable, free at last, a monarchOf all the plain, and makes for the green pasturesWhere mares are grazing, or splashes into the riverOut of sheer joy, and tosses his mane, and nickers,And the light plays across his neck and shoulders.

To meet him came Camilla and her Volscians,And she reined in at the gate, dismounting quickly,And all her band, at her example, followed,Listening as she spoke:—“Turnus, if courageHas any right to confidence, I promise,I dare, to meet the horsemen of Aeneas,I dare, alone, to face the Etruscan riders.Let me try, first, the dangers of the battle;You stay on guard as captain of the walls.”And Turnus, gazing at the warrior-maiden,Replied:—“O glory of Italy, no wordsOf mine can give you worthy thanks; your spiritSurpasses all the rest of them. Share with meThe work we have to do. Faithless Aeneas,So rumor says, and scouts confirm, is sendingHis cavalry, light-armed, to scour the plains,And he himself, crossing the mountain-ridges,Comes down upon the city. I am planningAn ambush for him, where the forest narrowsTo shadowy trails; I block both sides of the passWith soldiery in arms. Do you, Camilla,Take on the Etruscan horsemen, act as leader;Messapus, a sharp fighter, will be with you,And Latin squadrons and the troop from Tibur.”Messapus and the other captains listenedTo orders much like these, and they were heartened,And Turnus left them, moving toward Aeneas.

There is a valley, winding, curving, fitFor stratagems of warfare, a narrow gorgeBlack with dense woods on either side; a trailWinds through it, narrow and difficult: above itThere lies an unknown plain, a safe positionWhether you charge from right or left, or stand thereHeaving great boulders down the mountain-shoulders,And Turnus knows this region well, finds cover,Picks the terrain to suit him, waits and watchesIn the dark menace of the woods.

And meantime,High in the halls of heaven, Latona’s daughterWas talking to a nymph of hers, a maidenOf her devoted company, named Opis.Diana’s words were sorrowful:—“CamillaIs going forth to cruel war, O maiden,Our soldier, all in vain, and dearer to meThan all the other girls; she has loved me long;It is no impulsive whim that moves her spirit.Perhaps you know the story—how her father,Metabus, ruler of an ancient city,Became a tyrant, and his people drove himIn hatred from Privernum, and he fledThrough war and battles, taking as companionTo share his exile the little infant daughter,Camilla, she was called, after her motherWhose name was not so different, Casmilla.So he was going on, toward ridge and woodland,Long roads to loneliness, holding his daughterBefore him on his breast, and weapons flyingFrom every side against them, and the VolsciansSpreading the net of soldiers wide to catch them.But Metabus went on, and came to a riverOut of its banks, the swollen AmasenusFoaming in flood from cloudburst. Could he swim it?He thought so, but he checked himself; he fearedFor the dear load he carried. He did some thinking,And suddenly, or not quite all of a sudden,He saw the only way. There was the spearHis stout hand bore: it was strong and heavy, knottedOf seasoned oak, and he bound his daughter to it,Gently, with bark of cork-wood all around her,And carefully, to keep the missile’s balance,And let his right hand weigh its heft a little,And then made prayer:—‘O gracious woodland-dweller,Diana, virgin daughter of Latona,I consecrate my daughter to your service.These are your darts she holds, the very first onesShe ever carried; she comes to you, a suppliantWho flees her foe through pathways of the air.Accept her, O dear goddess, I implore you,Make her your own. Her father, I commit her,Now, to the dubious winds.’ The arm drew back,The whirring spear shot forward, and the watersRoared loud below, and over the rush of the riverCamilla, on the whistling spear, went flying,And Metabus, as the great host came closer,Dove into the flood, and safe across, a victorAnd happy, pulled the spear and girl togetherOut of the grassy turf, his votive offeringMade to Latona’s daughter. No city everReceived him to its walls or homes; he would not,In his wild mood, give in to any city.He lived with shepherds on the lonely mountains,And there, where wild beasts lurked, in thorn and thicketHe raised his child; his hands would squeeze the uddersOf wild mares for their milk. When she could standAnd toddle a little, he armed her with a javelin,A tiny pointed lance, and over her shoulderHung quiver and bow. There were no golden broochesTo bind her hair, no trailing gowns: her dressWas black and orange tiger-skin. Her handGrew used to tossing childish darts, or whirlingThe limber sling around her head; she learnedTo hit her targets, crane or snowy swan.And as she grew, many a Tuscan motherWanted her for this son, or that, but vainly:Diana was her goddess, and she cherished,Intact, an everlasting love—her weapons,Her maidenhood, were all she knew and cared for.I wish she had never been so possessed, so ardentFor soldiery like this, attacking TrojansInstead of meeker game; she would have beenThe one most dear of all my dear companions.But now a bitter doom weighs down upon her.Therefore, O nymph, glide down from heaven to Latium,Where, under evil omens, men join battle.Take these, my bow, my arrows; from my quiverDraw the avenging shaft. His life is forfeit,Trojan, Italian, whoever he is, whose woundProfanes the sacred body of Camilla.And when she has fallen, I will bring her homeBy hollow cloud, both warrior and armorUnspoiled, untaken, to her native country,Home to her tomb, poor girl.” And swift through airOpis, on whirring wing, came down from heavenIn the dark whirlwind’s center.

And the TrojansWere drawing near the walls, with Tuscan leadersAnd all that host of cavalry, whose numbersFilled squadron after squadron, and the horsesSnorted and reared and fought the bit and bridle,Light-stepping sideways; far and wide the fieldBristled with iron harvest, and the plainBurned with the arms raised high. And here against themCome Messapus and Coras and his brother,The Latins, moving fast, Camilla’s squadron,The hands drawn back already, and lances flying:All fire and noise and heat and men and horses.They ride, keep riding, and the distance closesTo spear-cast, and they halt, and a wild clamorBreaks out, the charge is on, they spur the horsesWhich need no spur, and from all sides they showerThe darts as thick as driving snow, the shadowDarkens the sky. Tyrrhenus, wild Aconteus,Single each other out and come togetherHead on, and the spears are broken, and men are thrown,And the horses, smashing their great chests together,Come down with a crash; Aconteus is hurledLike a thunderbolt or something from an engineIncredibly far off, and dies in the air.And the lines waver, and the routed LatinsLet fall their shields behind them, head for the city,With Trojans in pursuit: Asilas leads them.They near the walls, and the Latins turn, and, shouting,Wheel to the charge, and the Trojans break and scatterWith reins let loose. You are looking at the oceanThe way it comes, one wave, and then another,Surging, receding, flooding, rushing shorewardOver the cliffs in spray and foam or smoothingThe farthest sand with the shallow curve, withdrawingFaster and faster, and undertow, slowly, slowlyDragging the shingle back, and the surface glidingSleek from the visible beaches. Twice the TuscansDrove the Rutulians routed to the city;Twice, driven back themselves, they slung behind themThe shields, reversed, quick-glancing over their shoulders.But when, for the third time, they came together,They stayed together, locked, all down the line,And each man picked his man, and each man stayed there,And the rough fight rose and thickened. Dying menGroaned, and the blood was deep, and men and armorAnd wounded horses and wounded men and bodiesOf men and horses were in it all together.Orsilochus found Remulus a warriorToo tough to take head on, and flung his spearAt the head of the horse, instead, and left the ironUnder the ear, and the great beast, wounded, rearing,Flailed the air with his forelegs, came down crashing,And the stunned rider, thrown, rolled over and over.Catillus killed Iollas, and another,Herminius, giant in body, giant in arms,Giant in spirit, a man who fought bare-headed,Bare-shouldered, a fair-haired man, so huge in statureHe feared no wound. But through his shoulders drivenThe quivering spear made way and bent him double,Writhing in pain. Dark blood flows everywhere,The sword deals death; men look to wounds for glory.

In the thick of the fight Camilla rages, wearingHer quiver like an Amazon, one breastExposed: she showers javelins, she pliesThe battle-axe; she never tires; her shoulderClangs with the golden bow, Diana’s weapon.If ever, turning back, she yields, the arrowsAre loosed from over her shoulder; even in flightShe makes attack. Around her, chosen comrades,Larina, Tulla, and Tarpeia brandishAxes of bronze. She chose them as her handmaids,Good both in peace and war, Italian daughters,Italy’s pride, like Thracian AmazonsWarring in colorful armor in the countryWhere Thermodon river runs, and women warriorsHail fighting queens with battle-cries or clashThe crescent shields together.

First and last,Camilla struck men down: who knows how manyShe brought to earth in death? Clytius’ son,Euneus, faced her first, and her long spearPierced his unguarded breast. Rivers of bloodPoured from his mouth; he chewed red dust, and dyingWrithed on his wound. She stabbed the horse of Liris,And the rider fell, and reached for the reins: PagasusStretched out a hand to help him, to break his fall,And Camilla slew the pair of them together:Amastrus next, Hippotas’ son: far off,Her spear caught up with four, Tereus, Chromis,Harpalycus, Demophoön. For each dartSent flying from her hand, a Trojan fell.Far off she saw the huntsman Ornytus,Riding a native pony, in strange armor.He wore a steer’s hide over his wide shoulders,A wolf’s head for a helmet, with the jaws,Wide-open, grinning above his head; he carriedA rustic kind of pike, and he was taller,By a full head, than all the others, easyTarget for any dart. She cried above him:—“What did you think, O Tuscan?—You were chasingBeasts in the woods? The day has come when boastingLike yours is answered by a woman’s weapons,But after all, you take to the shades of your fathersNo little cause for pride—Camilla killed you!”And then she slew Orsilochus and Butes,Two of the mightiest Trojans, stabbing ButesWith spear-point in the back, between the helmetAnd breastplate, where the flesh shone white, and shieldHung down from the left arm. OrsilochusShe fled from first, and, driven in a circle,Became, in turn, pursuer; and, rising higher,Brought down the battle-axe, again, again,Through armor and through bone: his pleas for mercyAvailed him nothing; the wound he suffered spatteredHis face with his warm brains. Next in her wayAnd stunned to halt by abject terror cameA son of Aunus, an expert at lyingLike all Ligurians. He could not escape her,And knew he could not, but he might outwit her,Or so he hoped. “What’s so courageous, womanAlways on horseback? Forget the hope of fleeing,Dismount; meet me on equal terms; try fightingOn foot for once. You will learn, I tell you, something,The disillusion of that windy glory.”She took the challenge, burned with angry temper,Turned her horse over to another, savageIn equal arms, confronting him undaunted,With naked sword. He leaped into the saddle,Much pleased with his sly stratagem, drove the rowelsDeep in the flanks, took off. “O vain Ligurian,Swollen with pride of heart, that slippery cunningWill never get you home to father Aunus!”So cried Camilla, and flashed like fire acrossThe horse’s path, grabbed at the bridle, hauled himTo earth and shed his blood. A hawk in heavenIs not more quick to seize a dove when, drivingFrom the dark rock toward lofty cloud, he fastensThe talons deep, and rips, and the feathers flutter,All blood-stained, down the sky.

On high OlympusJupiter watched the scene of battle, rousingTarchon the Etruscan with the spur of anger,And through the slaughter and the yielding columnsThat warrior rode, calling each man by name,Driving his ranks to battle with fierce outcry,Rallying beaten men to fight:—“What terror,O Tuscans, causes you such utter panic?Will nothing ever hurt you? Does a womanChase you all over the field in this confusion?Why do we carry swords? What silly weaponsAre these in our right hands? You are swift enoughFor wrestling in the night time, or for dancesWhen the curved flute of Bacchus does the piping!You have, it seems, one pleasure and one passion,Waiting for feasts and goblets on full tablesWhen priests announce the sacrifice propitiousAnd the fat victim calls to the deep woodlands.”So Tarchon had his say, and spurred his charger,Himself not loath to die, fell like a whirlwindOn Venulus, and swept him from the saddle,And lifted him with his right hand, and held himBefore him as he rode, and all the LatinsCheered with a noisy din that reached the heaven.The arms and man in front of him, over the plainRode Tarchon, swift as fire; broke off the pointOf Venulus’ spear, and sought a place unguardedWhere he might thrust a deadly wound; the otherStruggled against him, kept the hand from the throat,Matched violence with violence. An eagle,Soaring to heaven, carries off a serpentIn just that manner, in the grip of talons,And the wounded reptile writhes the looping coilsAnd rears the scales erect and keeps on hissing,While the curved beak strikes at the struggling victim,So, from the battle-line of the Etruscans,Tarchon swept off his struggling prey in triumph,An inspiration to his rallied people.

Then Arruns, as the fates would have it, startedStalking the fleet Camilla with the javelin,Ahead of her in cunning. He took no chances,Seeking the easiest way. When that wild maidenDashed fiercely into the battle, there he followedStealthily in her footsteps, or turned the reinsWhen she came back victorious. This way, that way,Wary in each approach, he circled after,The sure spear quivering as he poised and held it.It happened Chloreus, Cybele’s priest, was shiningFar off in Phrygian armor, spurring a horseCovered with leather, scales of brass and goldAnd the rider was a fire of foreign color,Launching his Cretan darts: the bow was golden,The helmet golden, and the cloak of saffron,So stiff it had a metal sound, was fastenedWith knots of yellow gold; some foreign needleHad worked embroidery into hose and tunic.Camilla picked him out from all the battle,Either to take that spoil home to the temple,Or flaunt the gold herself; she was a huntressIn blind pursuit, dazzled by spoil, a womanReckless for finery. In hiding, ArrunsCaught up his spear and prayed:—“Most high Apollo,Soracte’s warden, whose adorers feedThe pine-wood fire, and trustful tread the embers,Let me wipe out this shame. I seek no plunder,No spoil, no trophy, of Camilla beaten;I may perhaps find other ways to glory.All I ask here is that this scourge may vanishUnder a wound I give; for this I am willingTo make return, however inglorious, home.”Half of his prayer was heard: Apollo grantedThe downfall of Camilla; the returningSafe home was not to be,—the south winds carriedThat much to empty air. So the spear, whirring,Spun from his hand; the sound turned all the VolsciansWith anxious eyes and minds to watch their ruler.She heard no stir in the air, no sound, no weaponAlong the sky, till the spear went to its lodgingIn the bare breast and drank the maiden blood.Her frightened comrades hurry, catch her falling,And Arruns, frightened more than any other,Half joy, half fear, makes off: no further daringIs his, to trust the lance or face encounter.As a wolf that kills a bullock or a shepherdBefore the darts can reach him, down the mountainsGoes plunging through the brush, the sign of guiltHis tail clapped under the belly, bent on flight,So Arruns sneaks to cover through the armies.Dying, she pulls at the dart, but the point is fast,Deep in the wound between the ribs; her eyesRoll, cold in death; her color pales; her breathComes hard. She calls to Acca, her companion,Most loved, most loyal:—“I have managed, Acca,This far, but now—the bitter wound—I am done for,There are shadows all around. Hurry to Turnus.Take him this last direction, to relieve meHere in the fight, defend the town, keep off—Farewell!” The reins went slack, the earth received herYielding her body to its cold, resigningThe sagging head to death; and she let fall,For the last time, her weapons, and the spiritWent with a moan indignant to the shadows.And then indeed the golden stars were smittenBy a wild outcry; with Camilla fallen,The fight takes on new fierceness: all the TrojansRush in, Etruscan leaders, all the squadronsThat came, once, from Evander.

High in the mountainsOpis, Diana’s sentinel, unfrightened,Had watched the battle, and seen, through all that fury,Camilla slain in pitiful death. She sighedAnd spoke with deep emotion:—“Cruel, cruel,The punishment you pay, poor warrior-maiden,For that attempt to battle down the Trojans!It comes to nothing, all the lonely serviceIn woodland thicket, the worship of Diana,The wearing of our arrows on the shoulder.And even so, in the last hour of dying,Your queen has not forsaken you, nor left youUnhonored altogether; through the nationsThis will be known, your death, and with it, surely,The satisfaction of vengeance. He whose woundProfaned your body will die as he deserves to.”Under the lofty mountain stood the tombOf an old king, Dercennus of Laurentum,A mound of earth under a holm-oak’s shadow.Here first the lovely goddess, sweeping downFrom heaven, paused, and from that height watched Arruns,And saw him puffed with pride, exulting vainly,And called:—“Why go so far away? Come nearer!Come to the death you merit; for CamillaReceive the due reward. Shall you die alsoUnder Diana’s weapons?” She drew an arrowSwift from the quiver of gold, drew back the bowTill the curved ends were meeting, and her handsWere even, left at arrow-tip and rightBrushing her breast as she let loose the bow-string.And as he heard the twang and the air whirring,He felt the steel strike home. Gasping and moaning,He lay there in the unknown dust; his comradesForgot, and left him where he lay, and OpisSoared upward to Olympus.

Camilla’s squadronWas first to flee, their leader lost; Atinas,Keen though he was, sped off; in reel and routRutulians followed; captains and troops uncaptained,Shattered and broken, turned and wheeled their horsesOn a gallop toward the walls. No one can haltThe Trojans now, nor stand against the havoc;They carry unstrung bows on nerveless shoulders,And the horses drum in the rush in the dust of the plain.A cloud of dust, black murk, rolls toward the walls,And from the watch-towers mothers wail to heaven,Beating their breasts, screaming in lamentation.The first ones stumble through the gates; upon themThe enemy presses hard, and friend and foeAre all confused together. Men are dying,Gasping away their lives on their own threshold,In sight of home and shelter, unprotectedWithin their native walls. Some close the gates,Dare not admit their wretched comrades, pleading,Nor take them to the town. And slaughter follows,Most pitiful: the sword that guards the portalsKills citizens who try to rush in blindly.Their parents, weeping, see them shut from the city,And some, who are driven back, go rolling headlongInto the trenches, and others, dashing wildlyWith loosened rein, crash into gates and portalsLocked tight against them. Along the walls the mothersTry to be fighters (love of country taught them)And, as they saw Camilla do, fling weaponsWith trembling hands, or grasp at stakes or oak-polesTo do the work that steel should do, poor creatures,Eager to die, before the walls, in the vanguard.

Meanwhile, to Turnus in his forest ambushThe terrible news is borne: Acca reports it,The Volscian ranks destroyed, Camilla fallen,The enemy, deadly, massing thick, and sweepingAll things before them in triumphant warfare,Fear at the very walls. And Turnus, raging—(As Jupiter’s relentless will commanded)Forsook the ambush in the hills, abandonedThe rugged woodland, and scarcely had he done so,Passing from sight to valley, when AeneasEntered the pass in safety, crossed the mountain,Came out of the dark woods. And both were strivingTo reach the city, swiftly, in full columnAnd almost side by side: in a single momentAeneas saw the plain and the dust risingAnd Turnus saw Aeneas, fierce for battle,And heard the stamp and snorting of the horses.There was almost time for fighting, but the Sun-god,Colored in crimson, brought his weary horsesTo bathe in the Western ocean; day was over,Night coming on. They camped before the city.

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