Chapter 10

Meanwhile all-powerful Olympus flingsThe palace open wide: the council meets,At Jove’s command, under the starry dwellingFrom which he sees all lands, the Trojan camp,The Latin people. Between the double doorsThey find their places. Jupiter speaks first:—“Great dwellers in Heaven, why the change of heart?Why do you fight with hostile spirit? IHad said, I thought, that Italy and the TrojansWere not to meet in war. Why, then, this brawlingIn face of my command? What fear has drivenThis side or that to arms and provocation?The proper time will come—be in no hurry—When Carthage, fierce and wild, will loose destructionOn the heights of Rome, and spring the Alps wide open.Hate will be lawful then, and ravage, and battle.But now, subside; be friendly; accept my order.”So Jupiter spoke, briefly, but golden VenusWas far from brief in answer:—“O great father,Sovereign of men and destiny forever,What other power is there for us to pray to?Do you see, I ask you, these Rutulian warriorsIn all their insolence? Have you noticed TurnusRiding on horseback through their midst, all swollen,With Mars as second? The barricaded wallsNo longer shield the Trojans. The battle ragesWithin the gates, on the high towers; the trenchesSwim deep in blood. Aeneas does not know it;He is far away. Must siege go on forever?Is this your will? Another enemy threatensThe walls of Troy, new-born, another armyComes from Aetolian Arpi; DiomedesOnce more attacks the Trojans. Wounds for meAre still to come, I well believe; your daughterWaits for a mortal outrage, not the first one.The Trojans came to Italy: was the comingWith your consent, by your design? If not,Why, let them pay the penalty, do not help them!Or were they following order after orderGiven by gods above, by gods below?If so, who dares to overturn your justice,Who dares create new fates? Do I have to mentionThe fleet on fire in Sicily, the windsLet loose by Aeolus, their king, or IrisSent through the clouds? And now she is even rousing—This chance she had not yet taken—the shades of Hell,And here is Allecto, suddenly given licenseIn the upper world, and ravaging and ravingThrough the Italian cities. As for empire,I care no more about it. I was hopefulWhen fortune still existed. Let the winnersBe those you want to win: have it your way.If that tough wife of yours will give the TrojansNo land in all the world, no realm whatever,I beg you, father, by the smoking ruinsOf shattered Troy, let me spare one, Iulus,Let him, at least, be saved from war. Aeneas,Of course, will still be tossed on unknown waters,Following any course that fortune offers.Let me protect his son. I have Amathus,High Paphus and Cythera, Idalia’s groves;There he may live, laying aside his weapons,A long inglorious lifetime. Order CarthageTo crush Ausonia with her empire; nothingShall interfere with Tyrian towns. Much goodIt did him to escape the plague of war,To have fled through Argive burning, to have exhaustedAll dangers of the land and the great ocean,Looking for Latium and a new-born Troy!Much good indeed! It would have been much betterFor the very soil of Troy and her last ashesTo have been the new foundation for their dwelling.Give the poor wretches Simois and Xanthus,Father, once more; I pray you, let the TrojansLive, once again, the fall of Troy!” And JunoBurst out in anger:—“Why do you compel meTo break my silence, to make my sorrow vulgarWith words for the world’s ear? What god, what mortalForced war upon Aeneas? Who advised himTo advance, an enemy, against Latinus?He came to Italy at the fates’ command—So be it; but what about Cassandra’s ravings?Was I the one—I must have been—who told himTo leave the camp, to trust his life to the winds?Was I the one who told him to make a boyThe captain of the wall? Was it I who told himTo seek Etruscan allies, to hunt down peopleWho meant no harm? What god, what power of mineDrove him to all his cheating? What has JunoOr Iris, sent through the clouds, to do with this?Disgraceful and disgusting, that ItaliansThreaten the walls of Troy, new-born; that TurnusStay in his native land, Turnus, descendedHimself from king and goddess. What about it?What about this, that Trojans harry LatinsWith smoking brand and violence, set their yokeOn fields not theirs, and carry off the plunder?Who let them know whose daughters to wed, or ravish?Who told them to hold out the hand for peaceAnd arm the ships for war? Oh, you are able,Of course you are, to give them mist for a man,To steal Aeneas from Greek hands; you are ableTo turn their fleet to sea-nymphs, but if IHelp the Rutulians even a very little,Is that so monstrous?Aeneas does not know it;He is far away.Good. Let him still not know it;Let him still be far away. You have Amathus,High Paphus and Cythera; so why meddleWith savage hearts and a city big with war?And now, it seems, I am trying to pull overThe wobbling walls of Troy! Really! Who was it,I, or somebody else, who flung the Trojans,Poor things, in the path of the Greeks? What was the reasonFor Europe and Asia to rise in arms, break treatiesOver a piece of stealing? Was it IWho shipped the adulterer Paris out to Sparta?Was it I who armed his lust? That was the timeTo have had some fear for those poor suffering Trojans.It is too late now. You rise to the occasionWith unjust whining and shrill scolding nonsense.”So Juno argued: the company of heavenSided with one or the other, and the soundWas like the sound of winds caught in the forest,And sailors, listening, know that storms are coming.And Jupiter all-powerful, the rulerOf all the world, began, and with his wordThe lofty palace of the gods grew quiet,The earth’s foundations trembled, and the windsWere still, and the loud ocean hushed the waters.“Take these my words to heart; be sure to heed them.It is forbidden Ausonians and TrojansTo join in concord; the arguments among you,It seems, will never end. Therefore I tell you,Whether a man is Trojan or Rutulian,Whatever luck he has to-day, whateverHe hopes to have to-morrow, it does not matter.I treat them both the same. It may be fate,It may be Trojan foolishness and errorThat keeps the camp besieged: I do not judge.I hold Rutulians under obligationAs well as Trojans. In every man’s beginningHis luck resides, for good or ill. I ruleAll men alike. The fates will find the way.”And all Olympus trembled as he noddedAnd swore by the waters of his Stygian brother,The pitchy banks and the black seething torrent.There was no more talking. From his golden throneJove rose, with gods and goddesses attendingIn deferential escort.In the meantimeAt every gate Rutulians drive, determinedTo bring down men with steel, ring walls with flame.The host of Troy is held inside, blockaded,With never a hope of flight. Wretched, they standAt the high towers, in vain; they are none too manyTo stretch the circle out. Imbrasus’ son,Asius, is there; Thymoetes; two young men,Assaracus’ sons; and Castor, and old Thymbris,In the front ranks; two brothers of Sarpedon,Clarus and Thaemon, with them; they came from Lycia.One man, with every ounce of strength, is heavingTo lift a giant boulder, half a mountain:That would be Acmon, Clytius’ son: Lyrnesus,Their home, produced enormous men—a brother,Mnestheus, too, was something of a giant.So rocks are weapons of defense, and arrows,And darts, and balls of fire, and fighting menAre busy with them all, and the little Trojan,The pet of Venus, rightly so, was with them,Bare-headed, a handsome sight, a shining jewelInlaid in yellow gold, or a medallionOf ivory in terebinth or boxwood;So shone Iulus, whose white neck and shouldersSeemed whiter where the blond hair fell, and the circletOf gold made bright the golden hair. IsmarusWas there, an archer, whose shafts were dipped in poison,A warrior far from his Maeonian homelandWhere Pactolus floods the fields with yellow gold.And Mnestheus was there; he had beaten TurnusThe day before, and knew it, and was proud;And Capys fought beside him: his name was givenTo a city, later,—Capua, south of Rome.So these men had been fighting, clash and conflictIn the rough shock of warfare, as Aeneas,At midnight, cleaved the seas. He had left Evander,He had found the Tuscan camp, he had told the kingHis name, his race, his need, what help he brought him,Told Tarchon of Mezentius, of the spiritOf violence in Turnus; had given warningThat, always, men need help; had made appeal,Which Tarchon promptly answered: so the peopleWere free from fate’s injunction, free for war,Having a foreign leader. Aeneas’ shipHeaded the column, her figure-head a mountainWith lions at the base, familiar Ida,Dear to the Trojan exiles. And AeneasSailed on toward war and all those changing fortunes,And Pallas stayed beside him, asking questions:What stars were those? which was the one to guide themThrough the dark night? what fortunes had he sufferedOn land and sea?Fling wide the gates, O Muses,Inspire the song: what force rides with AeneasFrom Tuscan shores, what warships sail the ocean?Massicus leads the way in the bronzeTiger,A thousand men on board; they have come from Clusium,From Cosae’s city, archers all, with quiversLight on their shoulders, and their bows are deadly.With them is glowering Abas; a gold ApolloGleams on his bowsprit, and the vessel blazesWith men in armor; the little island Ilva,Rich in her mines, had sent them, thrice a hundred,And Populonia furnished twice as many.Third comes Asilas, priest and augur, learnèdIn all the signs, diviner of stars and lightning,Of birds and entrails; he brings a thousand spearmenFrom Pisa, on Etruscan soil. And AsturFollows, a handsome horseman, with three hundredStalwarts from Caere, Minio, and Pyrgi,Proud, confident men, with arms of many colors.And Cinyras is there, the bravest leaderOf all Ligurian captains, and Cupavo,With none too many followers; his crestIs white swan-plumage, a token of his father,Who, so they say, loved Phaethon, and grievedOver his fall from heaven, and made musicTo heal his sorrow, under the poplar treesPhaethon’s sisters haunted, and so, singing,Became a bird, all white and soft, and vanishedFrom earth, and was a crying voice in heaven,Cygnus, the swan. And now his son CupavoComes to the wars, driving his ship, theCentaur,Which towers high as a cliff; the long keel furrowsA wide wake over the sea.And Ocnus summonsMen from his native shores, Ocnus, the sonOf a Tuscan river and a woman, Manto,Gifted in prophecy; her name was givenTo Mantua, rich in ancestors, one city,Three races, each one master of four peoples,And Mantua the queen of all, her powerSecure in Tuscan strength. From here MezentiusRouses five hundred men in arms against him,And Mincius, Benacus’ son, crowned with grey rushesBrings them down to the sea. On comes Aulestes,WhoseTritonwallows heavily in the waters,With a hundred oars lashing the waves to foam,And the blue waters tremble at the sea-godRiding the prow, conch at his lips, a figureShaped like a shaggy man, as far as the belly,And then a fish or serpent, a great sea-monster,Under whose weight the water sucks and gurgles.So the bronze vessels come, thirty good shipsFor the help of Troy, and men, and chosen leadersOver the salt sea plains.And day had gone,And the dear moon in her night-wandering chariotWas halfway up the sky; Aeneas, restless,Tended the sails and rudder, holding the course,And a band of his own company came to meet him,Those goddesses, whom Cybele had orderedTo rule the seas that once they sailed. They knew him,Their king, far off, circled his ships in greeting,And Cymodocea, of them all most giftedIn ways of speech, clung to the stern; one handLifted her out of the water, and the otherKept plying under the waves. She hailed Aeneas:—“Are you on watch, son of the gods? Be watchful,Crowd on full sail! We are the pines of Ida,Born from that sacred mountain. Nymphs of the sea,We used to be your fleet. But treacherous TurnusDrove us with fire and sword; against our willWe broke our bonds to you, and now we seek youOver the deep. The mother of the godsTook pity on us, and made us goddesses,Immortal under the waters. We have bad news; your sonIs under siege; walls hold him in, and trenches,And the air is filled with darts, and the wild LatinsBristle in war. The cavalry of PallasAnd the brave Etruscan allies, minding orders,Hold their appointed station. Turnus knows it,Turnus is certain to send opposing squadronsTo keep them from the camp. Hurry, then, hurry,Get the men armed by daylight; raise the shieldGiven by Vulcan, the invincible armor,Bright with its ring of gold. To-morrow morningShall see, unless I speak in foolish error,Great heaps of slain Rutulians.” She finished speaking,And as she left the ship, her right hand gave itAn expert shove, and it sped over the waterSwifter than javelin or flying arrow,And the other vessels quickened pace. AeneasMarvelled, amazed, and the portent cheered his spirit,And he looked up to the vault of heaven, praying:—“Dear mother of the gods, Idean queen,Lover of tower-crowned cities, and the lionsThat draw the chariot, be my leader nowBefore the fight begins, affirm the omen,Favor the Trojans, goddess, with your blessing.”And as he spoke, new day broke over the oceanIn a great blaze of light, and the darkness vanished.It was time for the last warnings to his comrades:Follow the signals, nerve the spirit for battle,Make every preparation!And he stood there,High on the stern, seeing, before his eyes,The Trojans and his camp, and he lifted highThe blazing shield, and the Trojans raised a clamorTo the high stars; new hope inflamed their anger,And the darts flew, as cranes come back to StrymonNoisy before the southern gales. But TurnusAnd the Rutulian leaders were dumbfounded,—What miracle was this?—looked back and sawThe sterns lined up to the shore, the whole great oceanOne mass of moving ships. The helmet burned,The crest streamed fire, the golden boss of the shieldPoured golden radiance: even so, at night-timeThe comets burn blood-red, or Sirius’ fire,Portent of drought and pestilence to mortals,Saddens the sky with evil glare.But TurnusNever lost confidence or nerve; he would beat themThere at the shore, he knew, and stop the landing.“Men, here is what you always prayed for; do it!Break through with sword-arm! Mars is in your hands.Remember, every man, his wife, his household,His fathers’ noble glories. On to meet themAt the water’s edge: they tremble there, they stagger,And luck helps men who dare.” He chose his captains,Picked men for this attack, and left to othersThe duty of the siege.Meanwhile AeneasLanded his comrades, down from the tall ships,Over the gangways. Many leapt boldly downCatching the ebb of the sea, and others vaultedOver the oar-blades. Tarchon, watching the shore-line,Saw where the shallow water was hardly breathing,Where never a breaker roared, where the smooth oceanCame gliding slowly in, and he turned his prow,Calling on comrades:—“Now is the time, bend to it,Lean on the oars, pick up the ships and lift them!Let the beaks split this hostile land, and keelsPlough a deep furrow: what does a shipwreck matter,So we take hold of land?” And as he urged themThey rose to the oars, they drove the foaming shipsTo the dry Latin fields, and every vesselCame in, unhurt, except for one. For TarchonRan up on a ledge of rock and hung there, doubtful,Tilting now back, now forward, until he brokeAbove the weary wave, and the timbers weakened,Gave way, and the men were flung in the midst of ocean,Among the broken oars and the floating cross-beams,And the drag of the undertow.No lazy dawdlingHeld Turnus back; he hurled his lines against them,He stopped them at the shore. Aeneas charged,Aeneas was the first invader, AeneasStruck down the Latin countrymen, killed Theron,The biggest of them all. That was an omen;Theron had taken extra pains to meet him,But the sword went through his mail and through his tunicAnd pierced his side and drank his blood. Next, LichasWas slain, Apollo’s devotee, at birthCut from the womb of his dead mother: the childEscaped the steel, but not the man. Two others,One of them tough, one huge, Cisseus, Gyas,Went down before Aeneas. They were fightingWith clubs, as Hercules used to, and much goodIt did them, though their father was MelampusWho had been with Hercules through many labors.Then there was Pharus, who had his mouth wide open,For boast or taunt, and got a javelin in it,Flung by Aeneas’ hand. Cydon loved Clytius,And followed him everywhere, his golden darling,And would have had a lesson in forgettingAll his beloved young men, falling a victimUnder Aeneas’ hand, but his seven brothers,The sons of Phorcus, hurried to his rescue.Each one let fly a dart: helmet and shieldTurned them aside, or they only grazed the bodyThrough Venus’ help. “Achates,” cried Aeneas,“Bring up more weapons! Any I ever landedIn bodies of the Greeks, on the plains of Ilium,Will never miss Rutulians here.” He snatchedA great spear up, and flung it; it went flyingThrough Maeon’s shield of bronze; it rent the breastplate,It tore the breast, went through, and struck AlcanorThrough the right arm around his falling brother,And pierced the arm, and kept its bloody journeyWhile the dead arm dangled from shoulder-sinew.Numitor ripped the spear from his brother’s body,Aimed at Aeneas, missed, but grazed Achates.Clausus from Cures, proud of his young body,Let fly, far off, a javelin, which caught DryopsUnder the chin and pierced the throat and robbed himOf voice—he tried to speak—and life together,And Dryops’ forehead hit the ground, and bloodPoured thick from mouth and wound. Three Thracians fell,Sons of the race of Boreas, and three others,Ismarians, sons of Idas, killed by Clausus.Halaesus came to his side, and Neptune’s son,Messapus, joined them, that famous tamer of horses.Here, there, on every side, the struggle rages:The cry isDrive them back!Here is the beach-headFor gain or loss. As warring winds in heaven,Rage at each other through that wide dominion,Equal in will and violence, the battleDoubtful and long, and nothing yields, not wind,Not cloud, not sea, in that eternal deadlock,So Troy meets Latium in the shock of fighting,Foot tramples foot, man grapples man.And inland,On ground where a raging stream had sent stones rolling,And torn the bushes from the banks, the horsemenHad to be infantry, for the rough groundForbade the use of chariots. Their nerveWas at low ebb; they fled. And Pallas saw them,And being their one hope, with scorn and prayerRallied their courage:—“Where do you flee, Arcadians?By your own brave deeds I beg you, by your king,By the old wars won in Evander’s name,By my own hopes to match my father’s praise,Trust not to flight. The sword must cut the way,And where that mass of men comes thickest toward us,That way we go, with Pallas as your leaderOur country calls; no gods pursue us: men,We are being chased by men, with no more hands,With no more lives than we have. Ocean blocks usWith his great dam; earth offers us no haven:Are we bound for Troy or the sea?” And he dashed inWhere the enemy was thickest. Lagus cameTo meet him; fate was far from kind to Lagus.He was trying to lift a stone when Pallas hit himAnd the javelin stuck in the spine between the ribsTill Pallas pulled it loose again. Then HisboHoped to surprise him and failed; he came in rushing,Reckless and angry over the death of Lagus,And Pallas was ready for him, and drove the swordDeep in the swollen lung. He went for Sthenius,Then Anchemolus, of Rhoetus’ ancient line,The consort of his stepmother in incest,And then he saw twin brothers, sons of Daucus,Named Thymber and Larides, whom their kinsmenCould never tell apart, and their own parentsMade fond mistakes about them. But Pallas madeThem different, once for all; Evander’s swordCut off the head of Thymber; Larides’ hand,Severed, looked blindly for its arm, the fingersClosed, quivering and dying, on the sword.So the Arcadians rallied; his exampleArmed them with shame and rage. Tyres and Teuthras,Arcadian brothers, started after Rhoeteus,Who fled, and that saved Ilus’ life, for PallasHad flung a spear at Ilus, but Rhoeteus, drivingInto its path, received it, rolled from the chariot,And his heels kicked the ground in death’s convulsion.And as in summer, when a shepherd kindlesFire here and there among the brush or forest,And waits for wind, and hears it rise, and swiftlyThe many fires are one great blaze, and VulcanTakes charge of all the field, above the battleWatching victorious, so Pallas’ comradesSwept in from all directions, bright and burning,Toward him, their focus and centre. And HalaesusCame on to meet them, pulling himself together,Setting himself for battle. He killed Ladon,Pheres, Demodocus: Strymonius threatenedHis throat with the gleaming sword, and for his troubleGot his right hand cut off, and then HalaesusBashed Thoas’ head in with a rock and scrambledHis skull-bones, blood and brains. Halaesus’ fatherKnew his son’s destiny and tried to spare him,Hiding him in the woodlands, but grew oldAnd could not watch forever, and when his eyesWere blind in death, the fates reached out, HalaesusCould not avoid his doom. Pallas attacked him,Praying before he flung the spear:—“O Tiber,Grant to the steel I poise and hurl good fortune,A pathway through the breast of tough Halaesus:Your oak will hold his arms and spoil as trophy.”And Tiber heard the prayer; Halaesus’ luckRan out, he had left himself exposed, to coverImaon with his shield, and the bare breastTook the Arcadian lance.Lausus, unfrightened,Himself no little portion of war, fought on,Kept up the courage of his men, found AbasAnd cut him down; when Abas fell, a clusterOf stubborn fight was broken. The young men die,Arcadians, Etruscans, Trojan fightersWho had survived Greek wounds; they come to grips,Both armies, equal in leadership and valor;Lines become columns, columns lines: all thickensInto confusion, a press too close for fighting.On one side Pallas thrusts and strains, and LaususStruggles to meet him, two young heroes, equal,Or nearly so, in years, in worth, in courage,In handsome manliness; and both deniedReturn to fatherland; and each forbiddenTo meet the other; and both assured of findingTheir fate where a greater enemy is waiting.Meanwhile the sister of Turnus brought him warning,Lausus needs aid!So, with his car, he droveSwift through the ranks. “Break off, and give me room,”He cried, “Room for my duel. I am boundTo battle Pallas; Pallas is my prize,My prize alone. I only wish his fatherWere here to watch!” Obedient, his comradesGave place, and as they yielded, Pallas stoodAstonished at this arrogance, this giant:He took the whole scene in, undaunted, proud,Fierce, high in spirit, with a ready answerFor Turnus’ taunting:—“Either I win my praiseFor kingly spoils or glorious death, and soon:My father can face either: spare the threats!”And he moved forward, and the blood ran chillIn all Arcadian hearts. Down from his carJumps Turnus; he comes nearer, like a lionWho sees far-off a bull, intent on battle,And stalks, and rushes; even so came Turnus,Came within spear-throw; Pallas, watching, knew it,Took a step forward, and, that chance might favorHowever uneven his strength, prayed to the heavens:—“If ever my father entertained a strangerWho proved a god, and gave him food and greeting,Aid me, O Hercules! Let Turnus see meTaking the bloody armor from his body,And his dying eyes behold me, Pallas, victor.”The young prayer touched the god: his grief was stifledDeep in his heart, and tears were vain; his fatherSpoke to him kindly:—“Every man, my son,Has his appointed time; life’s day is shortFor all men; they can never win it back,But to extend it further by noble deedsIs the task set for valor. Even my son,My own, and sons of other gods have fallenUnder Troy’s lofty walls. Sarpedon, Turnus,Fate calls alike: the years for each are measured,The goal in sight.” Jupiter, having spoken,Shifted his eyes from the Rutulian landscape.And Pallas flung the spear, full force, and drewThe flashing blade; the shaft sped on, it struckWhere mail and shoulder met; piercing the shieldIt grazed the side of Turnus. And he poisedHis long oak shaft with the sharp iron, hurled it,And a taunt went with the toss:—“Which pierces deeper,Your spear or mine?” So, through the plates of iron,The plates of bronze, the overlapping leather,Through the shield’s center drives the quivering point,Through stubborn mail, through the great breast. In vainPallas pulls out the dart, warm from the wound.His blood, his life, come with it, and he fallsDoubled upon his wound; the armor clangsOver his body; he strikes the hostile earth,Dying, with bloody mouth. Above him Turnus,Rejoicing, cries:—“Arcadians, take notice,And let Evander know, I am sending backPallas as he deserved. Whatever honorA tomb affords, whatever comfort liesIn burial, that much I grant, and freely:A costly welcome, Evander’s to Aeneas!”His left foot on the body, he ripped looseThe belt’s great weight, with the story of a murderCarved in its metal, the young men foully murderedOn the bridal night, the chamber drenched in blood,As Clonus, son of Eurytus, engraved it.And Turnus gloried in the spoil, exulting—O ignorant mortal mind, which never knowsOf fate or doom ahead, or how, in fortune,To keep in decent bounds! A time is comingWhen Turnus would pay dearly, could he purchasePallas unharmed again, would view with loathingThose spoils, that day. But now, with tears and weeping,Comrades lift Pallas to the shield and take him,Great sorrow and great glory, to his father.One day of war, one day of death, but victims,And many, for Rutulians to remember.No rumor, but a runner from the battleComes to Aeneas, of his men endangered,At the edge of death: they are giving way, the Trojans,There is not much time. Aeneas draws the sword;Aeneas, burning, cuts a pathway throughThe nearest lines; it is Turnus he is seeking,Turnus the arrogant, slaughter fresh upon him.Aeneas, all imagination, seesPallas, Evander, and the friendly tablesTo which he came, a stranger; hears the pledgeGiven and taken. For another pledgeHe seizes four young men, the sons of Sulmo,And four whom Ufens fathered; he takes them, living,For later sacrifice, to dye with bloodThe funeral pyre of Pallas. From afar,He aimed his spear at Magus, but that warriorDucked under it cleverly, and the shaft flew over,And Magus was a suppliant at his knees:—“I beg you, by the shades of great Anchises,By all the hope you have of young Iulus,Spare me, a father and a son, for sonAnd father. I have property and treasure,A lofty house, talents of gold and silverBuried in safety, crude and minted metal.One life like mine is nothing to the Trojans:What difference will it make?” “Save for your sons,”Aeneas answered, “all that gold and silver.Turnus broke off all bargain-talk, the killer,When Pallas fell. The shades of great AnchisesKnow this, my growing son, Iulus, knows it.”His left hand grasped the helmet; Magus feltHis head drawn back, he felt throat muscles tighten,And, as he pleaded still, he felt the swordDeep driven to the hilt.A son of HaemonWas standing not far off, the holy filletsAround his temples, gleaming in the robesHe wore as priest of Phoebus and Diana,Bright in his glittering arms. He fled AeneasAcross the field, in vain escape, and stumbled,And the Trojan hero, standing over his body,Struck down, and killed, and gave him a cloak of darkness,And Serestus took his armor, spoil for Mars.Caeculus, born of Vulcan’s race, and Umbro,From Marsian mountains, rallied the ranks. AeneasCame storming toward them, hot from wounding Anxur,Who had been boasting loud, hoping that wordsWould make him more aggressive: there was no limitTo promises he made himself, long years,A ripe old age—if so, he would be a cripple,A man with no left hand: Aeneas lopped itOff at the wrist, and the shield’s round circle with it.Tarquitus, son of Dryope and Faunus,Proud in his gleaming arms, stood up against himBriefly; the spear drove through the shield’s huge weightNailing it to the breastplate; all in vainTarquitus pleaded, stammering and choking.Aeneas gave his head a shove; the body,Still warm, turned halfway over under his foot.Dying, Tarquitus heard:—“Lie there, and scare me,Terrible warrior! No loving motherWill ever bury your bones, no father buildA sepulchre above them. The birds of preyWill take you, or the waters of the flood,And greedy fishes nibble your wounds and mouth them.”Four more were slaughtered, Lucas and Antaeus,Conspicuous in Turnus’ ranks, and Numa,And sun-burnt Camers, son of noble Volcens,Richest in land of all Ausonians, rulerOver Amyclae, the city known for silence.Men say there was a giant once, Aegaeon,Who had a hundred arms, and fifty mouthsFrom each of which came fire, and fifty swordsAnd fifty shields, and rattled them together,Defying Heaven’s thunderbolts and lightning,—Such was Aeneas now, a victor ragingAll up and down the field, with one sword onlyBut that one hot and red. He saw NiphaeusDriving his four swift horses, and went toward themWith terrible strides and cursing, and they bolted,Shook off the driver, dragged the car, a ruin,Down to the shore of the sea. And then two brothersBring their white chariot on, Lucagus, Liger,Of whom Lucagus whirls the sword in fighting,And Liger plies the reins; they burn with fury,More than Aeneas can stand: he rushes, monstrous,A giant with a spear. And Liger taunts him:—“Whoa! This is not Achilles’ car, these fieldsNot Troy, these horses Diomedes’.You will get it now, the end of life and battle,Here on this ground.” Poor crazy-talking Liger!Aeneas wastes no words; his lance comes flying,And while Lucagus, leaning over the chariot,Makes of his sword a whip, his left foot forward,Setting himself for action, the point comes throughThe low rim of his shield, drives on, and piercesThe groin on the left side. Lucagus topples,Writhes on the ground, and dies; and then AeneasHas words for him, and bitter ones:—“Lucagus,Your horses have not run away; they are brave,They are no traitors, shying at a shadow.You are the one, it seems, the cheap deserter,Who jump the wheels, leave the poor beasts forsaken.”He pulls the horses up; and down comes Liger,His luck all gone, his hands outstretched for mercy:—“O Trojan hero, son of mighty parents,For their remembrance, spare my life: Oh, hear me—”And there was more he would have said. AeneasBroke in:—“Liger, that’s not the way you soundedA little while ago. What? Should a brotherLeave brother in the battle? Never. Die!”And the sword went its deadly way, exposingThe spirit’s hiding-place. Such was the carnageDealt by Aeneas over the plain, a whirlwind,A flood of black destruction. And at the cityAscanius and the warriors broke the siege,Came from the threatened camp.And high in heavenJupiter spoke to Juno:—“Sister of mine,And dearest wife, it is, as you were thinking—You are not wrong—Venus, who helps the Trojans,Instead of their own right hands, war-quick, or spiritAggressive in attack, enduring in danger.”And Juno made meek answer:—“Why, dear husband,Trouble me further? I am sick at heart,I fear your sad commandments. If I onlyHad what I used to have, compelling love,You would not, all-powerful king, refuse my pleading:You would let me rescue Turnus from the battle,Restore him safely to his father Daunus.That would have been my prayer; but let him die,Let innocent blood be forfeit to the Trojans,No matter that his lineage is lofty,His origin from our stock; no matter, either,The generous offerings he has made your altars.”The king of high Olympus thus made answer:—“If it is only respite and reprieveYou ask for this doomed youth, delay, postponement,If that is all, and you realize I know it,Take Turnus off by flight, snatch him from danger.That much you are permitted. But if, beneath the prayer,Some deeper hope lies hidden, if you are thinkingThe war might change entirely, then you nourishThe silliest kind of dreaming.” Juno, weeping,Replied:—“But what if, in your heart, you grantedThe gift your speech refuses? What if TurnusMight still live on? No; heavy doom awaits him,Or else I am borne along in grievous error.I wish my fear were false and I deluded,And that the god, who has all power, would use itTo change things for the better.” And, having spoken,She veiled herself with cloud, came down from heaven,Driving a storm before her, and sought Laurentum,The Trojan line, the Latin camp, and fashionedOut of a cloud, a hollow man, a figureThin, weak, and curious to see, a phantom,A false Aeneas, dressed in Trojan armor,A mimic shield and crest, with unreal language,Voice without purpose, the image of a stride,Like the vain forms that flit when death is over,Like dreams that mock the drugged and drowsy senses.With arrogant joy this ghost went out paradingBefore the warriors’ ranks, brandishing weapons,Taunting and daring Turnus, who came on,Hurled from afar the whirring spear; the phantomTurned and made off, and Turnus, in confusion,Nourished an empty hope: Aeneas, he thought,Had turned away, was gone. “What now, Aeneas?Where do you flee? Do not desert the bride,The marriage chamber!” And he drew the swordGlittering as he challenged, and did not noticeThe winds sweep off his happiness. Near by,Moored to a shelf of rock, a ship was standing,Ladders let down, and gangplank set; a kingHad sailed therein from Clusium. The ghost,The false Aeneas, hurrying, found shelterDeep in the hold, and Turnus followed after,Hot-foot through all delays, leaped onto the deck,And had no sooner reached the bow than JunoBroke off the mooring-lines, and the ship went scuddingOver the yielding sea. The real AeneasKept calling Turnus to the fight, kept killingAny who crossed his path. But the frail imageNo longer sought a hiding-place, but sweptHigh to the darker clouds, with Turnus ridingThe gale far out to seaward. Ignorant still,Ungrateful for reprieve, he looked to shore,Raising his hands to heaven, and praying:—“Father,What have I done, to be so tricked, so sullied?What am I being punished for? Where am I?Who am I, for that matter? FugitiveAnd coward, will I ever see againThe camp, the walls? And all that band of heroesWho followed me and trusted me, I leave themIn death unspeakable, I see them wheeling,I hear their dying groans. What am I doing?What gulf, what chasm, is deep enough to hide me?Pity me, winds; dash this accursèd vesselOn rocks, on reefs, on any savage quicksands.I, Turnus, plead with all my heart, ah, strand meBeyond all reach, where rumor or RutulianMay neither one pursue me.” His doubting spirit,Mad with so much disgrace, was undecidedWhether to let the sword drive through the body,Or dive and swim for it, toward camp and Trojans.Three times he tried each way, three times his hand,His will, were stayed by Juno in her mercyAnd the tall ship, on wind and tide, was carriedOn to Ardea, Daunus’ lofty city.Meanwhile, at Jove’s command, Mezentius, burning,Entered the fight, swept through the cheering Trojans.The Etruscan ranks rush on; against MezentiusAll turn their hate, their weapons. But he standsFirm as a cliff, a jutting promontoryIn the great deep, exposed to the winds’ anger,Taking all violence of sky and ocean,Itself unmoved, immovable. MezentiusSlew Hebrus, son of Dolichaon, and with himLatagus and the running Palmus; PalmusHe hamstrung from behind, and left him writhing,And gave his arms to Lausus, mail for his shoulders,Plumes for the helmet. A rock brought down Latagus,Smashing his mouth, full in the face. EvanthesFell victim, and Paris’ comrade fell, that MimasWhose mother gave him birth on the same eveningWhen Hecuba was delivered of her firebrand.As a wild boar, sheltered for many yearsIn woods of pine or tracts of marshland, nourishedOn reeds thick-grown, is driven from the mountainsBy the sharp-toothed hunting-dogs, and comes to the nets,And makes a stand, and snorts in savage anger,And bristles up his shoulders, and no one daresCome any nearer, but they all assail himAt a safe distance, pelting him and shouting,And he is fierce and bold and very stubborn,Gnashing his teeth, and shaking off the weapons,Even so, like that wild boar, Mezentius held themAt bay, all those who hated him; they dared notClose with the sword; they kept their distance, shouting,Assailing him, but out of reach, with missiles.There was a youth named Acron, who had comeFrom a Greek town, leaving his bride a virginAt home in Corythus. Mezentius saw himBright in the ranks, flashing, maroon and crimson,The colors of his bride. Mezentius saw himThe way a hungry lion sees a deerAnd the jaws open and the mane is liftedAnd after one great leap the claws are fastenedDeep in the flank, and the mouth is red with slaughter.So charged Mezentius into the midst, and AcronWent down, heels drumming on the ground, and bloodStaining the broken spear. Orodes fled,Or tried to, but no spear for him; MezentiusClosed in, and struck with the sword, leaned on his spear,With one foot on the body, and cried aloud:—“Here lies Orodes, men, a mighty captain,No little bit of the war!” His comrades joined him,Shouting applause; with his last breath OrodesManaged an answer:—“Not for long, O foeman,Shall I be unavenged: exult a little.Your doom keeps watch; you will hold these fields, as I do,Before too long.” Mezentius, smiling at him,Said only, “Die; and let the sire of the gods,The king of men, look after me.” The steelCame from the body; iron sleep and heavyRepose weighed down his eyes; they closed foreverIn night’s eternal dark.Caedicus slaughtersAlcathous, Sacrator kills Hydaspes,Rapo cuts two men down, Parthenius, Orses,A tough, strong fighter; Messapus slays Clonius,Lying, defenceless, on the ground, a riderThrown when the bridle of the horse was broken,And Messapus slays another, Erichaetes,Who tried to fight on foot; and Lycian AgisAttempts to fight on foot, and meets Valerus,And finds him a stout foeman, like his fathers,And falls; and Thronius falls; his victor, Salius,Is victim of Nealces, a good fighterWith javelin and far-deceiving arrow.The scales were balanced: Trojans and Rutulians,Arcadians, Etruscans, died and slaughtered.Mars was a heavy-handed god, impartialIn dealing death and wounds. Victors and vanquishedStood firm, in death or triumph, and the godsPitied both sides and all that useless anger,That suffering which mortals take in battle.Venus is watching, and Saturnian Juno,And pale Tisiphone through the hosts goes raging.And now Mezentius, shaking his great spear,Sweeps like a whirlwind over the plain, a giantHuge as Orion, wading through the waters,Towering with his shoulders over the waves,Lugging an ancient ash-tree from the mountains,And his head hidden in the clouds of heaven,So looms Mezentius, monstrous in his armor,And, from the other side, Aeneas sees him,And moves to meet him, and Mezentius stands there,Unfrightened, heavy-set, waiting his foe.He eyes the distance that the spear may need,Indulges in mock prayer:—“Let my right hand,That is to say, my god, and the dart I balanceFavor me now! And as a trophy, Lausus,I vow yourself, my son, to carry, living,The spoil stripped from this robber.” The spear flew on,Glanced from the shield, wounded the knight AntoresBetween the side and thigh; Evander’s ally,Hercules’ comrade, a man from Argos, he falls,Killed by a wound meant for another; dying,He thinks of his dear Argos. And AeneasLets drive his spear: it penetrates the shield,The triple bronze, the layers of leather, bitingDeep in the groin, not going through. And happyAt sight of Tuscan blood, Aeneas drawsSword from his side, comes hotly on; MezentiusStaggers, and Lausus grieves; he loves his father,The tears stream down his face.Mezentius, dragging back, useless, disabled,Slowly gives ground, the hostile spear still trailing,Still fastened to the shield. Lausus runs forward,Lifts his right arm and strikes. Aeneas parries,Lausus is halted. But his comrades follow—The father, with the son’s protecting shield,Has, still, a chance of safety. Missiles showerFrom all sides at Aeneas: though he rages,He huddles under shelter, like a farmerWhen hailstones rattle down, or any travellerSeeking what he can find, a river bank,An overhanging rock, or any coverUntil the downpour stops, and the sun returnsMen to their daily labor: so Aeneas,With javelins thickening, every way, against him,Endures the storm of war, and threatens Lausus:—“What rush to death is this? What silly daringBeyond the limit of strength? O foolish youngster,You love your father, I know, but fool yourselfWith too much loving.” Lausus, in his madness,Has never a thought of stopping, and AeneasFeels anger rise against him, and the FatesTie off the ends of Lausus’ thread: the TrojanDrives with the sword; it is buried in the bodyDeep to the hilt. The little shield, frail armorAgainst so great a menace, could not hold it.The pliant tunic, woven by his motherWith golden thread, is no more help; the bloodStains it another color, and through airThe life went sorrowing to the shades. And nowAeneas changes. Looking on that faceSo pale in death, he groans in pity; he reachesAs if to touch him with his hand, in comfort,Knowing, himself, how one can love a father.“Poor boy, what tribute can Aeneas offer,What praise for so much glory? Keep the armorYou loved so much: if there is any comfortIn burial at home, know I release youTo your ancestral shades and ashes. Further,You have one solace, this, that you have fallenBy great Aeneas’ hand.” He lifted LaususFrom the bloody ground and raised the head, that dustAnd earth and blood should not defile its glory,And called the Etruscans closer, scornful of them,Over their hesitation.Meanwhile, Mezentius, by the wave of the river,Propped his slumped frame against a tree-trunk, staunchingThe wound with water. The bronze helmet hung,Inverted, from the bough; the heavy armsLay quiet on the meadow. Chosen menWere standing by. Sick, and with labored breath,He let his chin fall forward, rubbed his neck,While over his chest the flowing beard was streaming.Over and over again, he asks and sendsFor Lausus: bring him back, he tells the men,Those are the orders from his unhappy father.But they were bringing him back, a big man slainBy a big wound. Mezentius knew the soundOf sorrow from afar, before he heard it,Fouled his gray hair with dust, flung up his arms,Clung to the body. “O my son, my son,Was I so fond of living that I sentYou to the sword for me, saved by your wounds,Alive when you are dead? The wound indeedIs driven deep, the bitterness of deathComes home. I was the one, my son, my son,Who stained your name with crime, with hatred, drivenFrom throne and sceptre. I have owed too longThe debt of punishment, and here I am,Living, and never leaving men and light,But I shall leave.” He heaved his sickened weight,Pulling himself together, groin and all,Slowly. The wound was deep, but he could stand.He ordered them to bring his horse, that solace,That pride of his, on which he used to rideVictorious out of all the wars. He spoke,And the beast sorrowed with his master’s sorrow:—“Rhoebus, if anything is ever longFor mortal beings, you and I have livedFor a long time. Today you carry backThose bloody spoils, Aeneas’ arms, avengingThe pangs of Lausus with me, or we both,If no force clears the way, go down together,O bravest heart, too noble to endureThe stranger’s order and the Trojan rider.”He swung astride, shifted his weight a little,The way he always did, held in both handsA load of darts. The helmet glittered bronze,The horsehair plume was bristling as he rode,Madness and grief and shame all urging onThat singleness of purpose. He came on fast,Calling,Aeneas! Aeneas!over and over,And his voice was loud and firm. Aeneas heard,Rejoiced, and recognized, and made his prayer:—“Let this be true, O father of the gods,O high Apollo!"—then, to his foe, “Come on!”And moved to meet him with the deadly spear.Mezentius answered:—“Do you frighten meWith all that fierceness, now that my son is taken?How meaningless! That was the only wayYou could destroy me. Now I fear no death,I spare no god. Be quiet; for I comeTo die, but first of all I bring you this,A present from me,"—and he flung the dart,And flung another, and another, wheelingIn a great arc. The boss of gold held strong.Three times in circles to the left he rodeAround the steady Trojan; thrice the handLet fly the dart, and thrice the shield of bronzeWas a great forest with its load of spears.All this was wearisome,—too many darts,Too much defensiveness. Aeneas brokeOut of the watchful attitude, and flungThe spear between the charger’s hollow temples.The great beast reared with fore-hooves flailing air,Throwing the rider, and came tumbling downHead-foremost on him, shoulder out of joint.Trojan and Latin uproar swelled to heaven.Aeneas, sword-blade ready, rushes in:—“Where is the fierce Mezentius now, and whereAll that wild rage of spirit?” But the king,Raising his eyes, drank in the sky a little,Knew a brief moment of recovery,Enough to say:—“O bitter enemy,Why all the tauntings and the threats of death?There is no wrong in slaughter: neither INor Lausus ever made such battle-pledges.One thing I ask, if beaten enemiesHave any claim on mercy. Let my bodyBe granted burial. I know the hateOf my own people rages round me. KeepTheir fury from me. Let me share the graveOf my dear son.” He said no more, but welcomed,Fully aware, the sword-thrust in the throat,And poured his life in crimson over the armor.

Meanwhile all-powerful Olympus flingsThe palace open wide: the council meets,At Jove’s command, under the starry dwellingFrom which he sees all lands, the Trojan camp,The Latin people. Between the double doorsThey find their places. Jupiter speaks first:—“Great dwellers in Heaven, why the change of heart?Why do you fight with hostile spirit? IHad said, I thought, that Italy and the TrojansWere not to meet in war. Why, then, this brawlingIn face of my command? What fear has drivenThis side or that to arms and provocation?The proper time will come—be in no hurry—When Carthage, fierce and wild, will loose destructionOn the heights of Rome, and spring the Alps wide open.Hate will be lawful then, and ravage, and battle.But now, subside; be friendly; accept my order.”So Jupiter spoke, briefly, but golden VenusWas far from brief in answer:—“O great father,Sovereign of men and destiny forever,What other power is there for us to pray to?Do you see, I ask you, these Rutulian warriorsIn all their insolence? Have you noticed TurnusRiding on horseback through their midst, all swollen,With Mars as second? The barricaded wallsNo longer shield the Trojans. The battle ragesWithin the gates, on the high towers; the trenchesSwim deep in blood. Aeneas does not know it;He is far away. Must siege go on forever?Is this your will? Another enemy threatensThe walls of Troy, new-born, another armyComes from Aetolian Arpi; DiomedesOnce more attacks the Trojans. Wounds for meAre still to come, I well believe; your daughterWaits for a mortal outrage, not the first one.The Trojans came to Italy: was the comingWith your consent, by your design? If not,Why, let them pay the penalty, do not help them!Or were they following order after orderGiven by gods above, by gods below?If so, who dares to overturn your justice,Who dares create new fates? Do I have to mentionThe fleet on fire in Sicily, the windsLet loose by Aeolus, their king, or IrisSent through the clouds? And now she is even rousing—This chance she had not yet taken—the shades of Hell,And here is Allecto, suddenly given licenseIn the upper world, and ravaging and ravingThrough the Italian cities. As for empire,I care no more about it. I was hopefulWhen fortune still existed. Let the winnersBe those you want to win: have it your way.If that tough wife of yours will give the TrojansNo land in all the world, no realm whatever,I beg you, father, by the smoking ruinsOf shattered Troy, let me spare one, Iulus,Let him, at least, be saved from war. Aeneas,Of course, will still be tossed on unknown waters,Following any course that fortune offers.Let me protect his son. I have Amathus,High Paphus and Cythera, Idalia’s groves;There he may live, laying aside his weapons,A long inglorious lifetime. Order CarthageTo crush Ausonia with her empire; nothingShall interfere with Tyrian towns. Much goodIt did him to escape the plague of war,To have fled through Argive burning, to have exhaustedAll dangers of the land and the great ocean,Looking for Latium and a new-born Troy!Much good indeed! It would have been much betterFor the very soil of Troy and her last ashesTo have been the new foundation for their dwelling.Give the poor wretches Simois and Xanthus,Father, once more; I pray you, let the TrojansLive, once again, the fall of Troy!” And JunoBurst out in anger:—“Why do you compel meTo break my silence, to make my sorrow vulgarWith words for the world’s ear? What god, what mortalForced war upon Aeneas? Who advised himTo advance, an enemy, against Latinus?He came to Italy at the fates’ command—So be it; but what about Cassandra’s ravings?Was I the one—I must have been—who told himTo leave the camp, to trust his life to the winds?Was I the one who told him to make a boyThe captain of the wall? Was it I who told himTo seek Etruscan allies, to hunt down peopleWho meant no harm? What god, what power of mineDrove him to all his cheating? What has JunoOr Iris, sent through the clouds, to do with this?Disgraceful and disgusting, that ItaliansThreaten the walls of Troy, new-born; that TurnusStay in his native land, Turnus, descendedHimself from king and goddess. What about it?What about this, that Trojans harry LatinsWith smoking brand and violence, set their yokeOn fields not theirs, and carry off the plunder?Who let them know whose daughters to wed, or ravish?Who told them to hold out the hand for peaceAnd arm the ships for war? Oh, you are able,Of course you are, to give them mist for a man,To steal Aeneas from Greek hands; you are ableTo turn their fleet to sea-nymphs, but if IHelp the Rutulians even a very little,Is that so monstrous?Aeneas does not know it;He is far away.Good. Let him still not know it;Let him still be far away. You have Amathus,High Paphus and Cythera; so why meddleWith savage hearts and a city big with war?And now, it seems, I am trying to pull overThe wobbling walls of Troy! Really! Who was it,I, or somebody else, who flung the Trojans,Poor things, in the path of the Greeks? What was the reasonFor Europe and Asia to rise in arms, break treatiesOver a piece of stealing? Was it IWho shipped the adulterer Paris out to Sparta?Was it I who armed his lust? That was the timeTo have had some fear for those poor suffering Trojans.It is too late now. You rise to the occasionWith unjust whining and shrill scolding nonsense.”So Juno argued: the company of heavenSided with one or the other, and the soundWas like the sound of winds caught in the forest,And sailors, listening, know that storms are coming.And Jupiter all-powerful, the rulerOf all the world, began, and with his wordThe lofty palace of the gods grew quiet,The earth’s foundations trembled, and the windsWere still, and the loud ocean hushed the waters.“Take these my words to heart; be sure to heed them.It is forbidden Ausonians and TrojansTo join in concord; the arguments among you,It seems, will never end. Therefore I tell you,Whether a man is Trojan or Rutulian,Whatever luck he has to-day, whateverHe hopes to have to-morrow, it does not matter.I treat them both the same. It may be fate,It may be Trojan foolishness and errorThat keeps the camp besieged: I do not judge.I hold Rutulians under obligationAs well as Trojans. In every man’s beginningHis luck resides, for good or ill. I ruleAll men alike. The fates will find the way.”And all Olympus trembled as he noddedAnd swore by the waters of his Stygian brother,The pitchy banks and the black seething torrent.There was no more talking. From his golden throneJove rose, with gods and goddesses attendingIn deferential escort.In the meantimeAt every gate Rutulians drive, determinedTo bring down men with steel, ring walls with flame.The host of Troy is held inside, blockaded,With never a hope of flight. Wretched, they standAt the high towers, in vain; they are none too manyTo stretch the circle out. Imbrasus’ son,Asius, is there; Thymoetes; two young men,Assaracus’ sons; and Castor, and old Thymbris,In the front ranks; two brothers of Sarpedon,Clarus and Thaemon, with them; they came from Lycia.One man, with every ounce of strength, is heavingTo lift a giant boulder, half a mountain:That would be Acmon, Clytius’ son: Lyrnesus,Their home, produced enormous men—a brother,Mnestheus, too, was something of a giant.So rocks are weapons of defense, and arrows,And darts, and balls of fire, and fighting menAre busy with them all, and the little Trojan,The pet of Venus, rightly so, was with them,Bare-headed, a handsome sight, a shining jewelInlaid in yellow gold, or a medallionOf ivory in terebinth or boxwood;So shone Iulus, whose white neck and shouldersSeemed whiter where the blond hair fell, and the circletOf gold made bright the golden hair. IsmarusWas there, an archer, whose shafts were dipped in poison,A warrior far from his Maeonian homelandWhere Pactolus floods the fields with yellow gold.And Mnestheus was there; he had beaten TurnusThe day before, and knew it, and was proud;And Capys fought beside him: his name was givenTo a city, later,—Capua, south of Rome.So these men had been fighting, clash and conflictIn the rough shock of warfare, as Aeneas,At midnight, cleaved the seas. He had left Evander,He had found the Tuscan camp, he had told the kingHis name, his race, his need, what help he brought him,Told Tarchon of Mezentius, of the spiritOf violence in Turnus; had given warningThat, always, men need help; had made appeal,Which Tarchon promptly answered: so the peopleWere free from fate’s injunction, free for war,Having a foreign leader. Aeneas’ shipHeaded the column, her figure-head a mountainWith lions at the base, familiar Ida,Dear to the Trojan exiles. And AeneasSailed on toward war and all those changing fortunes,And Pallas stayed beside him, asking questions:What stars were those? which was the one to guide themThrough the dark night? what fortunes had he sufferedOn land and sea?Fling wide the gates, O Muses,Inspire the song: what force rides with AeneasFrom Tuscan shores, what warships sail the ocean?Massicus leads the way in the bronzeTiger,A thousand men on board; they have come from Clusium,From Cosae’s city, archers all, with quiversLight on their shoulders, and their bows are deadly.With them is glowering Abas; a gold ApolloGleams on his bowsprit, and the vessel blazesWith men in armor; the little island Ilva,Rich in her mines, had sent them, thrice a hundred,And Populonia furnished twice as many.Third comes Asilas, priest and augur, learnèdIn all the signs, diviner of stars and lightning,Of birds and entrails; he brings a thousand spearmenFrom Pisa, on Etruscan soil. And AsturFollows, a handsome horseman, with three hundredStalwarts from Caere, Minio, and Pyrgi,Proud, confident men, with arms of many colors.And Cinyras is there, the bravest leaderOf all Ligurian captains, and Cupavo,With none too many followers; his crestIs white swan-plumage, a token of his father,Who, so they say, loved Phaethon, and grievedOver his fall from heaven, and made musicTo heal his sorrow, under the poplar treesPhaethon’s sisters haunted, and so, singing,Became a bird, all white and soft, and vanishedFrom earth, and was a crying voice in heaven,Cygnus, the swan. And now his son CupavoComes to the wars, driving his ship, theCentaur,Which towers high as a cliff; the long keel furrowsA wide wake over the sea.And Ocnus summonsMen from his native shores, Ocnus, the sonOf a Tuscan river and a woman, Manto,Gifted in prophecy; her name was givenTo Mantua, rich in ancestors, one city,Three races, each one master of four peoples,And Mantua the queen of all, her powerSecure in Tuscan strength. From here MezentiusRouses five hundred men in arms against him,And Mincius, Benacus’ son, crowned with grey rushesBrings them down to the sea. On comes Aulestes,WhoseTritonwallows heavily in the waters,With a hundred oars lashing the waves to foam,And the blue waters tremble at the sea-godRiding the prow, conch at his lips, a figureShaped like a shaggy man, as far as the belly,And then a fish or serpent, a great sea-monster,Under whose weight the water sucks and gurgles.So the bronze vessels come, thirty good shipsFor the help of Troy, and men, and chosen leadersOver the salt sea plains.And day had gone,And the dear moon in her night-wandering chariotWas halfway up the sky; Aeneas, restless,Tended the sails and rudder, holding the course,And a band of his own company came to meet him,Those goddesses, whom Cybele had orderedTo rule the seas that once they sailed. They knew him,Their king, far off, circled his ships in greeting,And Cymodocea, of them all most giftedIn ways of speech, clung to the stern; one handLifted her out of the water, and the otherKept plying under the waves. She hailed Aeneas:—“Are you on watch, son of the gods? Be watchful,Crowd on full sail! We are the pines of Ida,Born from that sacred mountain. Nymphs of the sea,We used to be your fleet. But treacherous TurnusDrove us with fire and sword; against our willWe broke our bonds to you, and now we seek youOver the deep. The mother of the godsTook pity on us, and made us goddesses,Immortal under the waters. We have bad news; your sonIs under siege; walls hold him in, and trenches,And the air is filled with darts, and the wild LatinsBristle in war. The cavalry of PallasAnd the brave Etruscan allies, minding orders,Hold their appointed station. Turnus knows it,Turnus is certain to send opposing squadronsTo keep them from the camp. Hurry, then, hurry,Get the men armed by daylight; raise the shieldGiven by Vulcan, the invincible armor,Bright with its ring of gold. To-morrow morningShall see, unless I speak in foolish error,Great heaps of slain Rutulians.” She finished speaking,And as she left the ship, her right hand gave itAn expert shove, and it sped over the waterSwifter than javelin or flying arrow,And the other vessels quickened pace. AeneasMarvelled, amazed, and the portent cheered his spirit,And he looked up to the vault of heaven, praying:—“Dear mother of the gods, Idean queen,Lover of tower-crowned cities, and the lionsThat draw the chariot, be my leader nowBefore the fight begins, affirm the omen,Favor the Trojans, goddess, with your blessing.”And as he spoke, new day broke over the oceanIn a great blaze of light, and the darkness vanished.It was time for the last warnings to his comrades:Follow the signals, nerve the spirit for battle,Make every preparation!And he stood there,High on the stern, seeing, before his eyes,The Trojans and his camp, and he lifted highThe blazing shield, and the Trojans raised a clamorTo the high stars; new hope inflamed their anger,And the darts flew, as cranes come back to StrymonNoisy before the southern gales. But TurnusAnd the Rutulian leaders were dumbfounded,—What miracle was this?—looked back and sawThe sterns lined up to the shore, the whole great oceanOne mass of moving ships. The helmet burned,The crest streamed fire, the golden boss of the shieldPoured golden radiance: even so, at night-timeThe comets burn blood-red, or Sirius’ fire,Portent of drought and pestilence to mortals,Saddens the sky with evil glare.But TurnusNever lost confidence or nerve; he would beat themThere at the shore, he knew, and stop the landing.“Men, here is what you always prayed for; do it!Break through with sword-arm! Mars is in your hands.Remember, every man, his wife, his household,His fathers’ noble glories. On to meet themAt the water’s edge: they tremble there, they stagger,And luck helps men who dare.” He chose his captains,Picked men for this attack, and left to othersThe duty of the siege.Meanwhile AeneasLanded his comrades, down from the tall ships,Over the gangways. Many leapt boldly downCatching the ebb of the sea, and others vaultedOver the oar-blades. Tarchon, watching the shore-line,Saw where the shallow water was hardly breathing,Where never a breaker roared, where the smooth oceanCame gliding slowly in, and he turned his prow,Calling on comrades:—“Now is the time, bend to it,Lean on the oars, pick up the ships and lift them!Let the beaks split this hostile land, and keelsPlough a deep furrow: what does a shipwreck matter,So we take hold of land?” And as he urged themThey rose to the oars, they drove the foaming shipsTo the dry Latin fields, and every vesselCame in, unhurt, except for one. For TarchonRan up on a ledge of rock and hung there, doubtful,Tilting now back, now forward, until he brokeAbove the weary wave, and the timbers weakened,Gave way, and the men were flung in the midst of ocean,Among the broken oars and the floating cross-beams,And the drag of the undertow.No lazy dawdlingHeld Turnus back; he hurled his lines against them,He stopped them at the shore. Aeneas charged,Aeneas was the first invader, AeneasStruck down the Latin countrymen, killed Theron,The biggest of them all. That was an omen;Theron had taken extra pains to meet him,But the sword went through his mail and through his tunicAnd pierced his side and drank his blood. Next, LichasWas slain, Apollo’s devotee, at birthCut from the womb of his dead mother: the childEscaped the steel, but not the man. Two others,One of them tough, one huge, Cisseus, Gyas,Went down before Aeneas. They were fightingWith clubs, as Hercules used to, and much goodIt did them, though their father was MelampusWho had been with Hercules through many labors.Then there was Pharus, who had his mouth wide open,For boast or taunt, and got a javelin in it,Flung by Aeneas’ hand. Cydon loved Clytius,And followed him everywhere, his golden darling,And would have had a lesson in forgettingAll his beloved young men, falling a victimUnder Aeneas’ hand, but his seven brothers,The sons of Phorcus, hurried to his rescue.Each one let fly a dart: helmet and shieldTurned them aside, or they only grazed the bodyThrough Venus’ help. “Achates,” cried Aeneas,“Bring up more weapons! Any I ever landedIn bodies of the Greeks, on the plains of Ilium,Will never miss Rutulians here.” He snatchedA great spear up, and flung it; it went flyingThrough Maeon’s shield of bronze; it rent the breastplate,It tore the breast, went through, and struck AlcanorThrough the right arm around his falling brother,And pierced the arm, and kept its bloody journeyWhile the dead arm dangled from shoulder-sinew.Numitor ripped the spear from his brother’s body,Aimed at Aeneas, missed, but grazed Achates.Clausus from Cures, proud of his young body,Let fly, far off, a javelin, which caught DryopsUnder the chin and pierced the throat and robbed himOf voice—he tried to speak—and life together,And Dryops’ forehead hit the ground, and bloodPoured thick from mouth and wound. Three Thracians fell,Sons of the race of Boreas, and three others,Ismarians, sons of Idas, killed by Clausus.Halaesus came to his side, and Neptune’s son,Messapus, joined them, that famous tamer of horses.Here, there, on every side, the struggle rages:The cry isDrive them back!Here is the beach-headFor gain or loss. As warring winds in heaven,Rage at each other through that wide dominion,Equal in will and violence, the battleDoubtful and long, and nothing yields, not wind,Not cloud, not sea, in that eternal deadlock,So Troy meets Latium in the shock of fighting,Foot tramples foot, man grapples man.And inland,On ground where a raging stream had sent stones rolling,And torn the bushes from the banks, the horsemenHad to be infantry, for the rough groundForbade the use of chariots. Their nerveWas at low ebb; they fled. And Pallas saw them,And being their one hope, with scorn and prayerRallied their courage:—“Where do you flee, Arcadians?By your own brave deeds I beg you, by your king,By the old wars won in Evander’s name,By my own hopes to match my father’s praise,Trust not to flight. The sword must cut the way,And where that mass of men comes thickest toward us,That way we go, with Pallas as your leaderOur country calls; no gods pursue us: men,We are being chased by men, with no more hands,With no more lives than we have. Ocean blocks usWith his great dam; earth offers us no haven:Are we bound for Troy or the sea?” And he dashed inWhere the enemy was thickest. Lagus cameTo meet him; fate was far from kind to Lagus.He was trying to lift a stone when Pallas hit himAnd the javelin stuck in the spine between the ribsTill Pallas pulled it loose again. Then HisboHoped to surprise him and failed; he came in rushing,Reckless and angry over the death of Lagus,And Pallas was ready for him, and drove the swordDeep in the swollen lung. He went for Sthenius,Then Anchemolus, of Rhoetus’ ancient line,The consort of his stepmother in incest,And then he saw twin brothers, sons of Daucus,Named Thymber and Larides, whom their kinsmenCould never tell apart, and their own parentsMade fond mistakes about them. But Pallas madeThem different, once for all; Evander’s swordCut off the head of Thymber; Larides’ hand,Severed, looked blindly for its arm, the fingersClosed, quivering and dying, on the sword.So the Arcadians rallied; his exampleArmed them with shame and rage. Tyres and Teuthras,Arcadian brothers, started after Rhoeteus,Who fled, and that saved Ilus’ life, for PallasHad flung a spear at Ilus, but Rhoeteus, drivingInto its path, received it, rolled from the chariot,And his heels kicked the ground in death’s convulsion.And as in summer, when a shepherd kindlesFire here and there among the brush or forest,And waits for wind, and hears it rise, and swiftlyThe many fires are one great blaze, and VulcanTakes charge of all the field, above the battleWatching victorious, so Pallas’ comradesSwept in from all directions, bright and burning,Toward him, their focus and centre. And HalaesusCame on to meet them, pulling himself together,Setting himself for battle. He killed Ladon,Pheres, Demodocus: Strymonius threatenedHis throat with the gleaming sword, and for his troubleGot his right hand cut off, and then HalaesusBashed Thoas’ head in with a rock and scrambledHis skull-bones, blood and brains. Halaesus’ fatherKnew his son’s destiny and tried to spare him,Hiding him in the woodlands, but grew oldAnd could not watch forever, and when his eyesWere blind in death, the fates reached out, HalaesusCould not avoid his doom. Pallas attacked him,Praying before he flung the spear:—“O Tiber,Grant to the steel I poise and hurl good fortune,A pathway through the breast of tough Halaesus:Your oak will hold his arms and spoil as trophy.”And Tiber heard the prayer; Halaesus’ luckRan out, he had left himself exposed, to coverImaon with his shield, and the bare breastTook the Arcadian lance.Lausus, unfrightened,Himself no little portion of war, fought on,Kept up the courage of his men, found AbasAnd cut him down; when Abas fell, a clusterOf stubborn fight was broken. The young men die,Arcadians, Etruscans, Trojan fightersWho had survived Greek wounds; they come to grips,Both armies, equal in leadership and valor;Lines become columns, columns lines: all thickensInto confusion, a press too close for fighting.On one side Pallas thrusts and strains, and LaususStruggles to meet him, two young heroes, equal,Or nearly so, in years, in worth, in courage,In handsome manliness; and both deniedReturn to fatherland; and each forbiddenTo meet the other; and both assured of findingTheir fate where a greater enemy is waiting.Meanwhile the sister of Turnus brought him warning,Lausus needs aid!So, with his car, he droveSwift through the ranks. “Break off, and give me room,”He cried, “Room for my duel. I am boundTo battle Pallas; Pallas is my prize,My prize alone. I only wish his fatherWere here to watch!” Obedient, his comradesGave place, and as they yielded, Pallas stoodAstonished at this arrogance, this giant:He took the whole scene in, undaunted, proud,Fierce, high in spirit, with a ready answerFor Turnus’ taunting:—“Either I win my praiseFor kingly spoils or glorious death, and soon:My father can face either: spare the threats!”And he moved forward, and the blood ran chillIn all Arcadian hearts. Down from his carJumps Turnus; he comes nearer, like a lionWho sees far-off a bull, intent on battle,And stalks, and rushes; even so came Turnus,Came within spear-throw; Pallas, watching, knew it,Took a step forward, and, that chance might favorHowever uneven his strength, prayed to the heavens:—“If ever my father entertained a strangerWho proved a god, and gave him food and greeting,Aid me, O Hercules! Let Turnus see meTaking the bloody armor from his body,And his dying eyes behold me, Pallas, victor.”The young prayer touched the god: his grief was stifledDeep in his heart, and tears were vain; his fatherSpoke to him kindly:—“Every man, my son,Has his appointed time; life’s day is shortFor all men; they can never win it back,But to extend it further by noble deedsIs the task set for valor. Even my son,My own, and sons of other gods have fallenUnder Troy’s lofty walls. Sarpedon, Turnus,Fate calls alike: the years for each are measured,The goal in sight.” Jupiter, having spoken,Shifted his eyes from the Rutulian landscape.And Pallas flung the spear, full force, and drewThe flashing blade; the shaft sped on, it struckWhere mail and shoulder met; piercing the shieldIt grazed the side of Turnus. And he poisedHis long oak shaft with the sharp iron, hurled it,And a taunt went with the toss:—“Which pierces deeper,Your spear or mine?” So, through the plates of iron,The plates of bronze, the overlapping leather,Through the shield’s center drives the quivering point,Through stubborn mail, through the great breast. In vainPallas pulls out the dart, warm from the wound.His blood, his life, come with it, and he fallsDoubled upon his wound; the armor clangsOver his body; he strikes the hostile earth,Dying, with bloody mouth. Above him Turnus,Rejoicing, cries:—“Arcadians, take notice,And let Evander know, I am sending backPallas as he deserved. Whatever honorA tomb affords, whatever comfort liesIn burial, that much I grant, and freely:A costly welcome, Evander’s to Aeneas!”His left foot on the body, he ripped looseThe belt’s great weight, with the story of a murderCarved in its metal, the young men foully murderedOn the bridal night, the chamber drenched in blood,As Clonus, son of Eurytus, engraved it.And Turnus gloried in the spoil, exulting—O ignorant mortal mind, which never knowsOf fate or doom ahead, or how, in fortune,To keep in decent bounds! A time is comingWhen Turnus would pay dearly, could he purchasePallas unharmed again, would view with loathingThose spoils, that day. But now, with tears and weeping,Comrades lift Pallas to the shield and take him,Great sorrow and great glory, to his father.One day of war, one day of death, but victims,And many, for Rutulians to remember.No rumor, but a runner from the battleComes to Aeneas, of his men endangered,At the edge of death: they are giving way, the Trojans,There is not much time. Aeneas draws the sword;Aeneas, burning, cuts a pathway throughThe nearest lines; it is Turnus he is seeking,Turnus the arrogant, slaughter fresh upon him.Aeneas, all imagination, seesPallas, Evander, and the friendly tablesTo which he came, a stranger; hears the pledgeGiven and taken. For another pledgeHe seizes four young men, the sons of Sulmo,And four whom Ufens fathered; he takes them, living,For later sacrifice, to dye with bloodThe funeral pyre of Pallas. From afar,He aimed his spear at Magus, but that warriorDucked under it cleverly, and the shaft flew over,And Magus was a suppliant at his knees:—“I beg you, by the shades of great Anchises,By all the hope you have of young Iulus,Spare me, a father and a son, for sonAnd father. I have property and treasure,A lofty house, talents of gold and silverBuried in safety, crude and minted metal.One life like mine is nothing to the Trojans:What difference will it make?” “Save for your sons,”Aeneas answered, “all that gold and silver.Turnus broke off all bargain-talk, the killer,When Pallas fell. The shades of great AnchisesKnow this, my growing son, Iulus, knows it.”His left hand grasped the helmet; Magus feltHis head drawn back, he felt throat muscles tighten,And, as he pleaded still, he felt the swordDeep driven to the hilt.A son of HaemonWas standing not far off, the holy filletsAround his temples, gleaming in the robesHe wore as priest of Phoebus and Diana,Bright in his glittering arms. He fled AeneasAcross the field, in vain escape, and stumbled,And the Trojan hero, standing over his body,Struck down, and killed, and gave him a cloak of darkness,And Serestus took his armor, spoil for Mars.Caeculus, born of Vulcan’s race, and Umbro,From Marsian mountains, rallied the ranks. AeneasCame storming toward them, hot from wounding Anxur,Who had been boasting loud, hoping that wordsWould make him more aggressive: there was no limitTo promises he made himself, long years,A ripe old age—if so, he would be a cripple,A man with no left hand: Aeneas lopped itOff at the wrist, and the shield’s round circle with it.Tarquitus, son of Dryope and Faunus,Proud in his gleaming arms, stood up against himBriefly; the spear drove through the shield’s huge weightNailing it to the breastplate; all in vainTarquitus pleaded, stammering and choking.Aeneas gave his head a shove; the body,Still warm, turned halfway over under his foot.Dying, Tarquitus heard:—“Lie there, and scare me,Terrible warrior! No loving motherWill ever bury your bones, no father buildA sepulchre above them. The birds of preyWill take you, or the waters of the flood,And greedy fishes nibble your wounds and mouth them.”Four more were slaughtered, Lucas and Antaeus,Conspicuous in Turnus’ ranks, and Numa,And sun-burnt Camers, son of noble Volcens,Richest in land of all Ausonians, rulerOver Amyclae, the city known for silence.Men say there was a giant once, Aegaeon,Who had a hundred arms, and fifty mouthsFrom each of which came fire, and fifty swordsAnd fifty shields, and rattled them together,Defying Heaven’s thunderbolts and lightning,—Such was Aeneas now, a victor ragingAll up and down the field, with one sword onlyBut that one hot and red. He saw NiphaeusDriving his four swift horses, and went toward themWith terrible strides and cursing, and they bolted,Shook off the driver, dragged the car, a ruin,Down to the shore of the sea. And then two brothersBring their white chariot on, Lucagus, Liger,Of whom Lucagus whirls the sword in fighting,And Liger plies the reins; they burn with fury,More than Aeneas can stand: he rushes, monstrous,A giant with a spear. And Liger taunts him:—“Whoa! This is not Achilles’ car, these fieldsNot Troy, these horses Diomedes’.You will get it now, the end of life and battle,Here on this ground.” Poor crazy-talking Liger!Aeneas wastes no words; his lance comes flying,And while Lucagus, leaning over the chariot,Makes of his sword a whip, his left foot forward,Setting himself for action, the point comes throughThe low rim of his shield, drives on, and piercesThe groin on the left side. Lucagus topples,Writhes on the ground, and dies; and then AeneasHas words for him, and bitter ones:—“Lucagus,Your horses have not run away; they are brave,They are no traitors, shying at a shadow.You are the one, it seems, the cheap deserter,Who jump the wheels, leave the poor beasts forsaken.”He pulls the horses up; and down comes Liger,His luck all gone, his hands outstretched for mercy:—“O Trojan hero, son of mighty parents,For their remembrance, spare my life: Oh, hear me—”And there was more he would have said. AeneasBroke in:—“Liger, that’s not the way you soundedA little while ago. What? Should a brotherLeave brother in the battle? Never. Die!”And the sword went its deadly way, exposingThe spirit’s hiding-place. Such was the carnageDealt by Aeneas over the plain, a whirlwind,A flood of black destruction. And at the cityAscanius and the warriors broke the siege,Came from the threatened camp.And high in heavenJupiter spoke to Juno:—“Sister of mine,And dearest wife, it is, as you were thinking—You are not wrong—Venus, who helps the Trojans,Instead of their own right hands, war-quick, or spiritAggressive in attack, enduring in danger.”And Juno made meek answer:—“Why, dear husband,Trouble me further? I am sick at heart,I fear your sad commandments. If I onlyHad what I used to have, compelling love,You would not, all-powerful king, refuse my pleading:You would let me rescue Turnus from the battle,Restore him safely to his father Daunus.That would have been my prayer; but let him die,Let innocent blood be forfeit to the Trojans,No matter that his lineage is lofty,His origin from our stock; no matter, either,The generous offerings he has made your altars.”The king of high Olympus thus made answer:—“If it is only respite and reprieveYou ask for this doomed youth, delay, postponement,If that is all, and you realize I know it,Take Turnus off by flight, snatch him from danger.That much you are permitted. But if, beneath the prayer,Some deeper hope lies hidden, if you are thinkingThe war might change entirely, then you nourishThe silliest kind of dreaming.” Juno, weeping,Replied:—“But what if, in your heart, you grantedThe gift your speech refuses? What if TurnusMight still live on? No; heavy doom awaits him,Or else I am borne along in grievous error.I wish my fear were false and I deluded,And that the god, who has all power, would use itTo change things for the better.” And, having spoken,She veiled herself with cloud, came down from heaven,Driving a storm before her, and sought Laurentum,The Trojan line, the Latin camp, and fashionedOut of a cloud, a hollow man, a figureThin, weak, and curious to see, a phantom,A false Aeneas, dressed in Trojan armor,A mimic shield and crest, with unreal language,Voice without purpose, the image of a stride,Like the vain forms that flit when death is over,Like dreams that mock the drugged and drowsy senses.With arrogant joy this ghost went out paradingBefore the warriors’ ranks, brandishing weapons,Taunting and daring Turnus, who came on,Hurled from afar the whirring spear; the phantomTurned and made off, and Turnus, in confusion,Nourished an empty hope: Aeneas, he thought,Had turned away, was gone. “What now, Aeneas?Where do you flee? Do not desert the bride,The marriage chamber!” And he drew the swordGlittering as he challenged, and did not noticeThe winds sweep off his happiness. Near by,Moored to a shelf of rock, a ship was standing,Ladders let down, and gangplank set; a kingHad sailed therein from Clusium. The ghost,The false Aeneas, hurrying, found shelterDeep in the hold, and Turnus followed after,Hot-foot through all delays, leaped onto the deck,And had no sooner reached the bow than JunoBroke off the mooring-lines, and the ship went scuddingOver the yielding sea. The real AeneasKept calling Turnus to the fight, kept killingAny who crossed his path. But the frail imageNo longer sought a hiding-place, but sweptHigh to the darker clouds, with Turnus ridingThe gale far out to seaward. Ignorant still,Ungrateful for reprieve, he looked to shore,Raising his hands to heaven, and praying:—“Father,What have I done, to be so tricked, so sullied?What am I being punished for? Where am I?Who am I, for that matter? FugitiveAnd coward, will I ever see againThe camp, the walls? And all that band of heroesWho followed me and trusted me, I leave themIn death unspeakable, I see them wheeling,I hear their dying groans. What am I doing?What gulf, what chasm, is deep enough to hide me?Pity me, winds; dash this accursèd vesselOn rocks, on reefs, on any savage quicksands.I, Turnus, plead with all my heart, ah, strand meBeyond all reach, where rumor or RutulianMay neither one pursue me.” His doubting spirit,Mad with so much disgrace, was undecidedWhether to let the sword drive through the body,Or dive and swim for it, toward camp and Trojans.Three times he tried each way, three times his hand,His will, were stayed by Juno in her mercyAnd the tall ship, on wind and tide, was carriedOn to Ardea, Daunus’ lofty city.Meanwhile, at Jove’s command, Mezentius, burning,Entered the fight, swept through the cheering Trojans.The Etruscan ranks rush on; against MezentiusAll turn their hate, their weapons. But he standsFirm as a cliff, a jutting promontoryIn the great deep, exposed to the winds’ anger,Taking all violence of sky and ocean,Itself unmoved, immovable. MezentiusSlew Hebrus, son of Dolichaon, and with himLatagus and the running Palmus; PalmusHe hamstrung from behind, and left him writhing,And gave his arms to Lausus, mail for his shoulders,Plumes for the helmet. A rock brought down Latagus,Smashing his mouth, full in the face. EvanthesFell victim, and Paris’ comrade fell, that MimasWhose mother gave him birth on the same eveningWhen Hecuba was delivered of her firebrand.As a wild boar, sheltered for many yearsIn woods of pine or tracts of marshland, nourishedOn reeds thick-grown, is driven from the mountainsBy the sharp-toothed hunting-dogs, and comes to the nets,And makes a stand, and snorts in savage anger,And bristles up his shoulders, and no one daresCome any nearer, but they all assail himAt a safe distance, pelting him and shouting,And he is fierce and bold and very stubborn,Gnashing his teeth, and shaking off the weapons,Even so, like that wild boar, Mezentius held themAt bay, all those who hated him; they dared notClose with the sword; they kept their distance, shouting,Assailing him, but out of reach, with missiles.There was a youth named Acron, who had comeFrom a Greek town, leaving his bride a virginAt home in Corythus. Mezentius saw himBright in the ranks, flashing, maroon and crimson,The colors of his bride. Mezentius saw himThe way a hungry lion sees a deerAnd the jaws open and the mane is liftedAnd after one great leap the claws are fastenedDeep in the flank, and the mouth is red with slaughter.So charged Mezentius into the midst, and AcronWent down, heels drumming on the ground, and bloodStaining the broken spear. Orodes fled,Or tried to, but no spear for him; MezentiusClosed in, and struck with the sword, leaned on his spear,With one foot on the body, and cried aloud:—“Here lies Orodes, men, a mighty captain,No little bit of the war!” His comrades joined him,Shouting applause; with his last breath OrodesManaged an answer:—“Not for long, O foeman,Shall I be unavenged: exult a little.Your doom keeps watch; you will hold these fields, as I do,Before too long.” Mezentius, smiling at him,Said only, “Die; and let the sire of the gods,The king of men, look after me.” The steelCame from the body; iron sleep and heavyRepose weighed down his eyes; they closed foreverIn night’s eternal dark.Caedicus slaughtersAlcathous, Sacrator kills Hydaspes,Rapo cuts two men down, Parthenius, Orses,A tough, strong fighter; Messapus slays Clonius,Lying, defenceless, on the ground, a riderThrown when the bridle of the horse was broken,And Messapus slays another, Erichaetes,Who tried to fight on foot; and Lycian AgisAttempts to fight on foot, and meets Valerus,And finds him a stout foeman, like his fathers,And falls; and Thronius falls; his victor, Salius,Is victim of Nealces, a good fighterWith javelin and far-deceiving arrow.The scales were balanced: Trojans and Rutulians,Arcadians, Etruscans, died and slaughtered.Mars was a heavy-handed god, impartialIn dealing death and wounds. Victors and vanquishedStood firm, in death or triumph, and the godsPitied both sides and all that useless anger,That suffering which mortals take in battle.Venus is watching, and Saturnian Juno,And pale Tisiphone through the hosts goes raging.And now Mezentius, shaking his great spear,Sweeps like a whirlwind over the plain, a giantHuge as Orion, wading through the waters,Towering with his shoulders over the waves,Lugging an ancient ash-tree from the mountains,And his head hidden in the clouds of heaven,So looms Mezentius, monstrous in his armor,And, from the other side, Aeneas sees him,And moves to meet him, and Mezentius stands there,Unfrightened, heavy-set, waiting his foe.He eyes the distance that the spear may need,Indulges in mock prayer:—“Let my right hand,That is to say, my god, and the dart I balanceFavor me now! And as a trophy, Lausus,I vow yourself, my son, to carry, living,The spoil stripped from this robber.” The spear flew on,Glanced from the shield, wounded the knight AntoresBetween the side and thigh; Evander’s ally,Hercules’ comrade, a man from Argos, he falls,Killed by a wound meant for another; dying,He thinks of his dear Argos. And AeneasLets drive his spear: it penetrates the shield,The triple bronze, the layers of leather, bitingDeep in the groin, not going through. And happyAt sight of Tuscan blood, Aeneas drawsSword from his side, comes hotly on; MezentiusStaggers, and Lausus grieves; he loves his father,The tears stream down his face.Mezentius, dragging back, useless, disabled,Slowly gives ground, the hostile spear still trailing,Still fastened to the shield. Lausus runs forward,Lifts his right arm and strikes. Aeneas parries,Lausus is halted. But his comrades follow—The father, with the son’s protecting shield,Has, still, a chance of safety. Missiles showerFrom all sides at Aeneas: though he rages,He huddles under shelter, like a farmerWhen hailstones rattle down, or any travellerSeeking what he can find, a river bank,An overhanging rock, or any coverUntil the downpour stops, and the sun returnsMen to their daily labor: so Aeneas,With javelins thickening, every way, against him,Endures the storm of war, and threatens Lausus:—“What rush to death is this? What silly daringBeyond the limit of strength? O foolish youngster,You love your father, I know, but fool yourselfWith too much loving.” Lausus, in his madness,Has never a thought of stopping, and AeneasFeels anger rise against him, and the FatesTie off the ends of Lausus’ thread: the TrojanDrives with the sword; it is buried in the bodyDeep to the hilt. The little shield, frail armorAgainst so great a menace, could not hold it.The pliant tunic, woven by his motherWith golden thread, is no more help; the bloodStains it another color, and through airThe life went sorrowing to the shades. And nowAeneas changes. Looking on that faceSo pale in death, he groans in pity; he reachesAs if to touch him with his hand, in comfort,Knowing, himself, how one can love a father.“Poor boy, what tribute can Aeneas offer,What praise for so much glory? Keep the armorYou loved so much: if there is any comfortIn burial at home, know I release youTo your ancestral shades and ashes. Further,You have one solace, this, that you have fallenBy great Aeneas’ hand.” He lifted LaususFrom the bloody ground and raised the head, that dustAnd earth and blood should not defile its glory,And called the Etruscans closer, scornful of them,Over their hesitation.Meanwhile, Mezentius, by the wave of the river,Propped his slumped frame against a tree-trunk, staunchingThe wound with water. The bronze helmet hung,Inverted, from the bough; the heavy armsLay quiet on the meadow. Chosen menWere standing by. Sick, and with labored breath,He let his chin fall forward, rubbed his neck,While over his chest the flowing beard was streaming.Over and over again, he asks and sendsFor Lausus: bring him back, he tells the men,Those are the orders from his unhappy father.But they were bringing him back, a big man slainBy a big wound. Mezentius knew the soundOf sorrow from afar, before he heard it,Fouled his gray hair with dust, flung up his arms,Clung to the body. “O my son, my son,Was I so fond of living that I sentYou to the sword for me, saved by your wounds,Alive when you are dead? The wound indeedIs driven deep, the bitterness of deathComes home. I was the one, my son, my son,Who stained your name with crime, with hatred, drivenFrom throne and sceptre. I have owed too longThe debt of punishment, and here I am,Living, and never leaving men and light,But I shall leave.” He heaved his sickened weight,Pulling himself together, groin and all,Slowly. The wound was deep, but he could stand.He ordered them to bring his horse, that solace,That pride of his, on which he used to rideVictorious out of all the wars. He spoke,And the beast sorrowed with his master’s sorrow:—“Rhoebus, if anything is ever longFor mortal beings, you and I have livedFor a long time. Today you carry backThose bloody spoils, Aeneas’ arms, avengingThe pangs of Lausus with me, or we both,If no force clears the way, go down together,O bravest heart, too noble to endureThe stranger’s order and the Trojan rider.”He swung astride, shifted his weight a little,The way he always did, held in both handsA load of darts. The helmet glittered bronze,The horsehair plume was bristling as he rode,Madness and grief and shame all urging onThat singleness of purpose. He came on fast,Calling,Aeneas! Aeneas!over and over,And his voice was loud and firm. Aeneas heard,Rejoiced, and recognized, and made his prayer:—“Let this be true, O father of the gods,O high Apollo!"—then, to his foe, “Come on!”And moved to meet him with the deadly spear.Mezentius answered:—“Do you frighten meWith all that fierceness, now that my son is taken?How meaningless! That was the only wayYou could destroy me. Now I fear no death,I spare no god. Be quiet; for I comeTo die, but first of all I bring you this,A present from me,"—and he flung the dart,And flung another, and another, wheelingIn a great arc. The boss of gold held strong.Three times in circles to the left he rodeAround the steady Trojan; thrice the handLet fly the dart, and thrice the shield of bronzeWas a great forest with its load of spears.All this was wearisome,—too many darts,Too much defensiveness. Aeneas brokeOut of the watchful attitude, and flungThe spear between the charger’s hollow temples.The great beast reared with fore-hooves flailing air,Throwing the rider, and came tumbling downHead-foremost on him, shoulder out of joint.Trojan and Latin uproar swelled to heaven.Aeneas, sword-blade ready, rushes in:—“Where is the fierce Mezentius now, and whereAll that wild rage of spirit?” But the king,Raising his eyes, drank in the sky a little,Knew a brief moment of recovery,Enough to say:—“O bitter enemy,Why all the tauntings and the threats of death?There is no wrong in slaughter: neither INor Lausus ever made such battle-pledges.One thing I ask, if beaten enemiesHave any claim on mercy. Let my bodyBe granted burial. I know the hateOf my own people rages round me. KeepTheir fury from me. Let me share the graveOf my dear son.” He said no more, but welcomed,Fully aware, the sword-thrust in the throat,And poured his life in crimson over the armor.

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

So Jupiter spoke, briefly, but golden VenusWas far from brief in answer:—“O great father,Sovereign of men and destiny forever,What other power is there for us to pray to?Do you see, I ask you, these Rutulian warriorsIn all their insolence? Have you noticed TurnusRiding on horseback through their midst, all swollen,With Mars as second? The barricaded wallsNo longer shield the Trojans. The battle ragesWithin the gates, on the high towers; the trenchesSwim deep in blood. Aeneas does not know it;He is far away. Must siege go on forever?Is this your will? Another enemy threatensThe walls of Troy, new-born, another armyComes from Aetolian Arpi; DiomedesOnce more attacks the Trojans. Wounds for meAre still to come, I well believe; your daughterWaits for a mortal outrage, not the first one.The Trojans came to Italy: was the comingWith your consent, by your design? If not,Why, let them pay the penalty, do not help them!Or were they following order after orderGiven by gods above, by gods below?If so, who dares to overturn your justice,Who dares create new fates? Do I have to mentionThe fleet on fire in Sicily, the windsLet loose by Aeolus, their king, or IrisSent through the clouds? And now she is even rousing—This chance she had not yet taken—the shades of Hell,And here is Allecto, suddenly given licenseIn the upper world, and ravaging and ravingThrough the Italian cities. As for empire,I care no more about it. I was hopefulWhen fortune still existed. Let the winnersBe those you want to win: have it your way.If that tough wife of yours will give the TrojansNo land in all the world, no realm whatever,I beg you, father, by the smoking ruinsOf shattered Troy, let me spare one, Iulus,Let him, at least, be saved from war. Aeneas,Of course, will still be tossed on unknown waters,Following any course that fortune offers.Let me protect his son. I have Amathus,High Paphus and Cythera, Idalia’s groves;There he may live, laying aside his weapons,A long inglorious lifetime. Order CarthageTo crush Ausonia with her empire; nothingShall interfere with Tyrian towns. Much goodIt did him to escape the plague of war,To have fled through Argive burning, to have exhaustedAll dangers of the land and the great ocean,Looking for Latium and a new-born Troy!Much good indeed! It would have been much betterFor the very soil of Troy and her last ashesTo have been the new foundation for their dwelling.Give the poor wretches Simois and Xanthus,Father, once more; I pray you, let the TrojansLive, once again, the fall of Troy!” And JunoBurst out in anger:—“Why do you compel meTo break my silence, to make my sorrow vulgarWith words for the world’s ear? What god, what mortalForced war upon Aeneas? Who advised himTo advance, an enemy, against Latinus?He came to Italy at the fates’ command—So be it; but what about Cassandra’s ravings?Was I the one—I must have been—who told himTo leave the camp, to trust his life to the winds?Was I the one who told him to make a boyThe captain of the wall? Was it I who told himTo seek Etruscan allies, to hunt down peopleWho meant no harm? What god, what power of mineDrove him to all his cheating? What has JunoOr Iris, sent through the clouds, to do with this?Disgraceful and disgusting, that ItaliansThreaten the walls of Troy, new-born; that TurnusStay in his native land, Turnus, descendedHimself from king and goddess. What about it?What about this, that Trojans harry LatinsWith smoking brand and violence, set their yokeOn fields not theirs, and carry off the plunder?Who let them know whose daughters to wed, or ravish?Who told them to hold out the hand for peaceAnd arm the ships for war? Oh, you are able,Of course you are, to give them mist for a man,To steal Aeneas from Greek hands; you are ableTo turn their fleet to sea-nymphs, but if IHelp the Rutulians even a very little,Is that so monstrous?Aeneas does not know it;He is far away.Good. Let him still not know it;Let him still be far away. You have Amathus,High Paphus and Cythera; so why meddleWith savage hearts and a city big with war?And now, it seems, I am trying to pull overThe wobbling walls of Troy! Really! Who was it,I, or somebody else, who flung the Trojans,Poor things, in the path of the Greeks? What was the reasonFor Europe and Asia to rise in arms, break treatiesOver a piece of stealing? Was it IWho shipped the adulterer Paris out to Sparta?Was it I who armed his lust? That was the timeTo have had some fear for those poor suffering Trojans.It is too late now. You rise to the occasionWith unjust whining and shrill scolding nonsense.”

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

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

So these men had been fighting, clash and conflictIn the rough shock of warfare, as Aeneas,At midnight, cleaved the seas. He had left Evander,He had found the Tuscan camp, he had told the kingHis name, his race, his need, what help he brought him,Told Tarchon of Mezentius, of the spiritOf violence in Turnus; had given warningThat, always, men need help; had made appeal,Which Tarchon promptly answered: so the peopleWere free from fate’s injunction, free for war,Having a foreign leader. Aeneas’ shipHeaded the column, her figure-head a mountainWith lions at the base, familiar Ida,Dear to the Trojan exiles. And AeneasSailed on toward war and all those changing fortunes,And Pallas stayed beside him, asking questions:What stars were those? which was the one to guide themThrough the dark night? what fortunes had he sufferedOn land and sea?

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

Massicus leads the way in the bronzeTiger,A thousand men on board; they have come from Clusium,From Cosae’s city, archers all, with quiversLight on their shoulders, and their bows are deadly.With them is glowering Abas; a gold ApolloGleams on his bowsprit, and the vessel blazesWith men in armor; the little island Ilva,Rich in her mines, had sent them, thrice a hundred,And Populonia furnished twice as many.Third comes Asilas, priest and augur, learnèdIn all the signs, diviner of stars and lightning,Of birds and entrails; he brings a thousand spearmenFrom Pisa, on Etruscan soil. And AsturFollows, a handsome horseman, with three hundredStalwarts from Caere, Minio, and Pyrgi,Proud, confident men, with arms of many colors.And Cinyras is there, the bravest leaderOf all Ligurian captains, and Cupavo,With none too many followers; his crestIs white swan-plumage, a token of his father,Who, so they say, loved Phaethon, and grievedOver his fall from heaven, and made musicTo heal his sorrow, under the poplar treesPhaethon’s sisters haunted, and so, singing,Became a bird, all white and soft, and vanishedFrom earth, and was a crying voice in heaven,Cygnus, the swan. And now his son CupavoComes to the wars, driving his ship, theCentaur,Which towers high as a cliff; the long keel furrowsA wide wake over the sea.

And Ocnus summonsMen from his native shores, Ocnus, the sonOf a Tuscan river and a woman, Manto,Gifted in prophecy; her name was givenTo Mantua, rich in ancestors, one city,Three races, each one master of four peoples,And Mantua the queen of all, her powerSecure in Tuscan strength. From here MezentiusRouses five hundred men in arms against him,And Mincius, Benacus’ son, crowned with grey rushesBrings them down to the sea. On comes Aulestes,WhoseTritonwallows heavily in the waters,With a hundred oars lashing the waves to foam,And the blue waters tremble at the sea-godRiding the prow, conch at his lips, a figureShaped like a shaggy man, as far as the belly,And then a fish or serpent, a great sea-monster,Under whose weight the water sucks and gurgles.So the bronze vessels come, thirty good shipsFor the help of Troy, and men, and chosen leadersOver the salt sea plains.

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

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

But TurnusNever lost confidence or nerve; he would beat themThere at the shore, he knew, and stop the landing.“Men, here is what you always prayed for; do it!Break through with sword-arm! Mars is in your hands.Remember, every man, his wife, his household,His fathers’ noble glories. On to meet themAt the water’s edge: they tremble there, they stagger,And luck helps men who dare.” He chose his captains,Picked men for this attack, and left to othersThe duty of the siege.

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

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

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

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

So the Arcadians rallied; his exampleArmed them with shame and rage. Tyres and Teuthras,Arcadian brothers, started after Rhoeteus,Who fled, and that saved Ilus’ life, for PallasHad flung a spear at Ilus, but Rhoeteus, drivingInto its path, received it, rolled from the chariot,And his heels kicked the ground in death’s convulsion.And as in summer, when a shepherd kindlesFire here and there among the brush or forest,And waits for wind, and hears it rise, and swiftlyThe many fires are one great blaze, and VulcanTakes charge of all the field, above the battleWatching victorious, so Pallas’ comradesSwept in from all directions, bright and burning,Toward him, their focus and centre. And HalaesusCame on to meet them, pulling himself together,Setting himself for battle. He killed Ladon,Pheres, Demodocus: Strymonius threatenedHis throat with the gleaming sword, and for his troubleGot his right hand cut off, and then HalaesusBashed Thoas’ head in with a rock and scrambledHis skull-bones, blood and brains. Halaesus’ fatherKnew his son’s destiny and tried to spare him,Hiding him in the woodlands, but grew oldAnd could not watch forever, and when his eyesWere blind in death, the fates reached out, HalaesusCould not avoid his doom. Pallas attacked him,Praying before he flung the spear:—“O Tiber,Grant to the steel I poise and hurl good fortune,A pathway through the breast of tough Halaesus:Your oak will hold his arms and spoil as trophy.”And Tiber heard the prayer; Halaesus’ luckRan out, he had left himself exposed, to coverImaon with his shield, and the bare breastTook the Arcadian lance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile, at Jove’s command, Mezentius, burning,Entered the fight, swept through the cheering Trojans.The Etruscan ranks rush on; against MezentiusAll turn their hate, their weapons. But he standsFirm as a cliff, a jutting promontoryIn the great deep, exposed to the winds’ anger,Taking all violence of sky and ocean,Itself unmoved, immovable. MezentiusSlew Hebrus, son of Dolichaon, and with himLatagus and the running Palmus; PalmusHe hamstrung from behind, and left him writhing,And gave his arms to Lausus, mail for his shoulders,Plumes for the helmet. A rock brought down Latagus,Smashing his mouth, full in the face. EvanthesFell victim, and Paris’ comrade fell, that MimasWhose mother gave him birth on the same eveningWhen Hecuba was delivered of her firebrand.As a wild boar, sheltered for many yearsIn woods of pine or tracts of marshland, nourishedOn reeds thick-grown, is driven from the mountainsBy the sharp-toothed hunting-dogs, and comes to the nets,And makes a stand, and snorts in savage anger,And bristles up his shoulders, and no one daresCome any nearer, but they all assail himAt a safe distance, pelting him and shouting,And he is fierce and bold and very stubborn,Gnashing his teeth, and shaking off the weapons,Even so, like that wild boar, Mezentius held themAt bay, all those who hated him; they dared notClose with the sword; they kept their distance, shouting,Assailing him, but out of reach, with missiles.

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

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

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

Meanwhile, Mezentius, by the wave of the river,Propped his slumped frame against a tree-trunk, staunchingThe wound with water. The bronze helmet hung,Inverted, from the bough; the heavy armsLay quiet on the meadow. Chosen menWere standing by. Sick, and with labored breath,He let his chin fall forward, rubbed his neck,While over his chest the flowing beard was streaming.Over and over again, he asks and sendsFor Lausus: bring him back, he tells the men,Those are the orders from his unhappy father.But they were bringing him back, a big man slainBy a big wound. Mezentius knew the soundOf sorrow from afar, before he heard it,Fouled his gray hair with dust, flung up his arms,Clung to the body. “O my son, my son,Was I so fond of living that I sentYou to the sword for me, saved by your wounds,Alive when you are dead? The wound indeedIs driven deep, the bitterness of deathComes home. I was the one, my son, my son,Who stained your name with crime, with hatred, drivenFrom throne and sceptre. I have owed too longThe debt of punishment, and here I am,Living, and never leaving men and light,But I shall leave.” He heaved his sickened weight,Pulling himself together, groin and all,Slowly. The wound was deep, but he could stand.He ordered them to bring his horse, that solace,That pride of his, on which he used to rideVictorious out of all the wars. He spoke,And the beast sorrowed with his master’s sorrow:—“Rhoebus, if anything is ever longFor mortal beings, you and I have livedFor a long time. Today you carry backThose bloody spoils, Aeneas’ arms, avengingThe pangs of Lausus with me, or we both,If no force clears the way, go down together,O bravest heart, too noble to endureThe stranger’s order and the Trojan rider.”He swung astride, shifted his weight a little,The way he always did, held in both handsA load of darts. The helmet glittered bronze,The horsehair plume was bristling as he rode,Madness and grief and shame all urging onThat singleness of purpose. He came on fast,Calling,Aeneas! Aeneas!over and over,And his voice was loud and firm. Aeneas heard,Rejoiced, and recognized, and made his prayer:—“Let this be true, O father of the gods,O high Apollo!"—then, to his foe, “Come on!”And moved to meet him with the deadly spear.Mezentius answered:—“Do you frighten meWith all that fierceness, now that my son is taken?How meaningless! That was the only wayYou could destroy me. Now I fear no death,I spare no god. Be quiet; for I comeTo die, but first of all I bring you this,A present from me,"—and he flung the dart,And flung another, and another, wheelingIn a great arc. The boss of gold held strong.Three times in circles to the left he rodeAround the steady Trojan; thrice the handLet fly the dart, and thrice the shield of bronzeWas a great forest with its load of spears.All this was wearisome,—too many darts,Too much defensiveness. Aeneas brokeOut of the watchful attitude, and flungThe spear between the charger’s hollow temples.The great beast reared with fore-hooves flailing air,Throwing the rider, and came tumbling downHead-foremost on him, shoulder out of joint.Trojan and Latin uproar swelled to heaven.Aeneas, sword-blade ready, rushes in:—“Where is the fierce Mezentius now, and whereAll that wild rage of spirit?” But the king,Raising his eyes, drank in the sky a little,Knew a brief moment of recovery,Enough to say:—“O bitter enemy,Why all the tauntings and the threats of death?There is no wrong in slaughter: neither INor Lausus ever made such battle-pledges.One thing I ask, if beaten enemiesHave any claim on mercy. Let my bodyBe granted burial. I know the hateOf my own people rages round me. KeepTheir fury from me. Let me share the graveOf my dear son.” He said no more, but welcomed,Fully aware, the sword-thrust in the throat,And poured his life in crimson over the armor.

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