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Title: The Aeneid

Author: Virgil

Translator: John Dryden


        
Release date: March 1, 1995 [eBook #228]
                Most recently updated: December 5, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/228

Credits: Anonymous Volunteers and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AENEID ***




 THE AENEID


 by Virgil

 Translated by John Dryden

      Contents

               BOOK I

               BOOK II

               BOOK III

               BOOK IV

               BOOK V

               BOOK VI

               BOOK VII

               BOOK VIII

               BOOK IX

               BOOK X

               BOOK  XI

               BOOK XII




 BOOK I

 THE ARGUMENT.


      The Trojans, after a seven years’ voyage, set sail for Italy, but
      are overtaken by a dreadful storm, which Aeolus raises at the
      request of Juno. The tempest sinks one, and scatters the rest.
      Neptune drives off the winds, and calms the sea. Aeneas, with his
      own ship and six more, arrives safe at an African port. Venus
      complains to Jupiter of her son’s misfortunes. Jupiter comforts
      her, and sends Mercury to procure him a kind reception among the
      Carthaginians. Aeneas, going out to discover the country, meets
      his mother in the shape of a huntress, who conveys him in a cloud
      to Carthage, where he sees his friends whom he thought lost, and
      receives a kind entertainment from the queen. Dido, by device of
      Venus, begins to have a passion for him, and, after some
      discourse with him, desires the history of his adventures since
      the siege of Troy, which is the subject of the two following
      books.


      Arms, and the man I sing, who, forc’d by fate,
      And haughty Juno’s unrelenting hate,
      Expell’d and exil’d, left the Trojan shore.
      Long labours, both by sea and land, he bore,
      And in the doubtful war, before he won
      The Latian realm, and built the destin’d town;
      His banish’d gods restor’d to rites divine,
      And settled sure succession in his line,
      From whence the race of Alban fathers come,
      And the long glories of majestic Rome.
      O Muse! the causes and the crimes relate;
      What goddess was provok’d, and whence her hate;
      For what offence the Queen of Heav’n began
      To persecute so brave, so just a man;
      Involv’d his anxious life in endless cares,
      Expos’d to wants, and hurried into wars!
      Can heav’nly minds such high resentment show,
      Or exercise their spite in human woe?

      Against the Tiber’s mouth, but far away,
      An ancient town was seated on the sea;
      A Tyrian colony; the people made
      Stout for the war, and studious of their trade:
      Carthage the name; belov’d by Juno more
      Than her own Argos, or the Samian shore.
      Here stood her chariot; here, if Heav’n were kind,
      The seat of awful empire she design’d.
      Yet she had heard an ancient rumour fly,
      (Long cited by the people of the sky,)
      That times to come should see the Trojan race
      Her Carthage ruin, and her tow’rs deface;
      Nor thus confin’d, the yoke of sov’reign sway
      Should on the necks of all the nations lay.
      She ponder’d this, and fear’d it was in fate;
      Nor could forget the war she wag’d of late
      For conqu’ring Greece against the Trojan state.
      Besides, long causes working in her mind,
      And secret seeds of envy, lay behind;
      Deep graven in her heart the doom remain’d
      Of partial Paris, and her form disdain’d;
      The grace bestow’d on ravish’d Ganymed,
      Electra’s glories, and her injur’d bed.
      Each was a cause alone; and all combin’d
      To kindle vengeance in her haughty mind.
      For this, far distant from the Latian coast
      She drove the remnants of the Trojan host;
      And sev’n long years th’ unhappy wand’ring train
      Were toss’d by storms, and scatter’d thro’ the main.
      Such time, such toil, requir’d the Roman name,
      Such length of labour for so vast a frame.

      Now scarce the Trojan fleet, with sails and oars,
      Had left behind the fair Sicilian shores,
      Ent’ring with cheerful shouts the wat’ry reign,
      And plowing frothy furrows in the main;
      When, lab’ring still with endless discontent,
      The Queen of Heav’n did thus her fury vent:

      “Then am I vanquish’d? must I yield?” said she,
      “And must the Trojans reign in Italy?
      So Fate will have it, and Jove adds his force;
      Nor can my pow’r divert their happy course.
      Could angry Pallas, with revengeful spleen,
      The Grecian navy burn, and drown the men?
      She, for the fault of one offending foe,
      The bolts of Jove himself presum’d to throw:
      With whirlwinds from beneath she toss’d the ship,
      And bare expos’d the bosom of the deep;
      Then, as an eagle gripes the trembling game,
      The wretch, yet hissing with her father’s flame,
      She strongly seiz’d, and with a burning wound
      Transfix’d, and naked, on a rock she bound.
      But I, who walk in awful state above,
      The majesty of heav’n, the sister wife of Jove,
      For length of years my fruitless force employ
      Against the thin remains of ruin’d Troy!
      What nations now to Juno’s pow’r will pray,
      Or off’rings on my slighted altars lay?”

      Thus rag’d the goddess; and, with fury fraught.
      The restless regions of the storms she sought,
      Where, in a spacious cave of living stone,
      The tyrant Aeolus, from his airy throne,
      With pow’r imperial curbs the struggling winds,
      And sounding tempests in dark prisons binds.
      This way and that th’ impatient captives tend,
      And, pressing for release, the mountains rend.
      High in his hall th’ undaunted monarch stands,
      And shakes his scepter, and their rage commands;
      Which did he not, their unresisted sway
      Would sweep the world before them in their way;
      Earth, air, and seas thro’ empty space would roll,
      And heav’n would fly before the driving soul.
      In fear of this, the Father of the Gods
      Confin’d their fury to those dark abodes,
      And lock’d ’em safe within, oppress’d with mountain loads;
      Impos’d a king, with arbitrary sway,
      To loose their fetters, or their force allay.
      To whom the suppliant queen her pray’rs address’d,
      And thus the tenor of her suit express’d:

      “O Aeolus! for to thee the King of Heav’n
      The pow’r of tempests and of winds has giv’n;
      Thy force alone their fury can restrain,
      And smooth the waves, or swell the troubled main.
      A race of wand’ring slaves, abhorr’d by me,
      With prosp’rous passage cut the Tuscan sea;
      To fruitful Italy their course they steer,
      And for their vanquish’d gods design new temples there.
      Raise all thy winds; with night involve the skies;
      Sink or disperse my fatal enemies.
      Twice sev’n, the charming daughters of the main,
      Around my person wait, and bear my train:
      Succeed my wish, and second my design;
      The fairest, Deiopeia, shall be thine,
      And make thee father of a happy line.”

      To this the god: “’Tis yours, O queen, to will
      The work which duty binds me to fulfil.
      These airy kingdoms, and this wide command,
      Are all the presents of your bounteous hand:
      Yours is my sov’reign’s grace; and, as your guest,
      I sit with gods at their celestial feast;
      Raise tempests at your pleasure, or subdue;
      Dispose of empire, which I hold from you.”

      He said, and hurl’d against the mountain side
      His quiv’ring spear, and all the god applied.
      The raging winds rush thro’ the hollow wound,
      And dance aloft in air, and skim along the ground;
      Then, settling on the sea, the surges sweep,
      Raise liquid mountains, and disclose the deep.
      South, East, and West with mix’d confusion roar,
      And roll the foaming billows to the shore.
      The cables crack; the sailors’ fearful cries
      Ascend; and sable night involves the skies;
      And heav’n itself is ravish’d from their eyes.
      Loud peals of thunder from the poles ensue;
      Then flashing fires the transient light renew;
      The face of things a frightful image bears,
      And present death in various forms appears.
      Struck with unusual fright, the Trojan chief,
      With lifted hands and eyes, invokes relief;
      And, “Thrice and four times happy those,” he cried,
      “That under Ilian walls before their parents died!
      Tydides, bravest of the Grecian train!
      Why could not I by that strong arm be slain,
      And lie by noble Hector on the plain,
      Or great Sarpedon, in those bloody fields
      Where Simois rolls the bodies and the shields
      Of heroes, whose dismember’d hands yet bear
      The dart aloft, and clench the pointed spear!”

      Thus while the pious prince his fate bewails,
      Fierce Boreas drove against his flying sails,
      And rent the sheets; the raging billows rise,
      And mount the tossing vessels to the skies:
      Nor can the shiv’ring oars sustain the blow;
      The galley gives her side, and turns her prow;
      While those astern, descending down the steep,
      Thro’ gaping waves behold the boiling deep.
      Three ships were hurried by the southern blast,
      And on the secret shelves with fury cast.
      Those hidden rocks th’ Ausonian sailors knew:
      They call’d them Altars, when they rose in view,
      And show’d their spacious backs above the flood.
      Three more fierce Eurus, in his angry mood,
      Dash’d on the shallows of the moving sand,
      And in mid ocean left them moor’d a-land.
      Orontes’ bark, that bore the Lycian crew,
      (A horrid sight!) ev’n in the hero’s view,
      From stem to stern by waves was overborne:
      The trembling pilot, from his rudder torn,
      Was headlong hurl’d; thrice round the ship was toss’d,
      Then bulg’d at once, and in the deep was lost;
      And here and there above the waves were seen
      Arms, pictures, precious goods, and floating men.
      The stoutest vessel to the storm gave way,
      And suck’d thro’ loosen’d planks the rushing sea.
      Ilioneus was her chief: Alethes old,
      Achates faithful, Abas young and bold,
      Endur’d not less; their ships, with gaping seams,
      Admit the deluge of the briny streams.

      Meantime imperial Neptune heard the sound
      Of raging billows breaking on the ground.
      Displeas’d, and fearing for his wat’ry reign,
      He rear’d his awful head above the main,
      Serene in majesty; then roll’d his eyes
      Around the space of earth, and seas, and skies.
      He saw the Trojan fleet dispers’d, distress’d,
      By stormy winds and wintry heav’n oppress’d.
      Full well the god his sister’s envy knew,
      And what her aims and what her arts pursue.
      He summon’d Eurus and the western blast,
      And first an angry glance on both he cast;
      Then thus rebuk’d: “Audacious winds! from whence
      This bold attempt, this rebel insolence?
      Is it for you to ravage seas and land,
      Unauthoriz’d by my supreme command?
      To raise such mountains on the troubled main?
      Whom I—but first ’tis fit the billows to restrain;
      And then you shall be taught obedience to my reign.
      Hence! to your lord my royal mandate bear,
      The realms of ocean and the fields of air
      Are mine, not his. By fatal lot to me
      The liquid empire fell, and trident of the sea.
      His pow’r to hollow caverns is confin’d:
      There let him reign, the jailer of the wind,
      With hoarse commands his breathing subjects call,
      And boast and bluster in his empty hall.”
      He spoke; and, while he spoke, he smooth’d the sea,
      Dispell’d the darkness, and restor’d the day.
      Cymothoe, Triton, and the sea-green train
      Of beauteous nymphs, the daughters of the main,
      Clear from the rocks the vessels with their hands:
      The god himself with ready trident stands,
      And opes the deep, and spreads the moving sands;
      Then heaves them off the shoals. Where’er he guides
      His finny coursers and in triumph rides,
      The waves unruffle and the sea subsides.
      As, when in tumults rise th’ ignoble crowd,
      Mad are their motions, and their tongues are loud;
      And stones and brands in rattling volleys fly,
      And all the rustic arms that fury can supply:
      If then some grave and pious man appear,
      They hush their noise, and lend a list’ning ear;
      He soothes with sober words their angry mood,
      And quenches their innate desire of blood:
      So, when the Father of the Flood appears,
      And o’er the seas his sov’reign trident rears,
      Their fury falls: he skims the liquid plains,
      High on his chariot, and, with loosen’d reins,
      Majestic moves along, and awful peace maintains.
      The weary Trojans ply their shatter’d oars
      To nearest land, and make the Libyan shores.

      Within a long recess there lies a bay:
      An island shades it from the rolling sea,
      And forms a port secure for ships to ride;
      Broke by the jutting land, on either side,
      In double streams the briny waters glide.
      Betwixt two rows of rocks a sylvan scene
      Appears above, and groves for ever green:
      A grot is form’d beneath, with mossy seats,
      To rest the Nereids, and exclude the heats.
      Down thro’ the crannies of the living walls
      The crystal streams descend in murm’ring falls:
      No haulsers need to bind the vessels here,
      Nor bearded anchors; for no storms they fear.
      Sev’n ships within this happy harbour meet,
      The thin remainders of the scatter’d fleet.
      The Trojans, worn with toils, and spent with woes,
      Leap on the welcome land, and seek their wish’d repose.

      First, good Achates, with repeated strokes
      Of clashing flints, their hidden fire provokes:
      Short flame succeeds; a bed of wither’d leaves
      The dying sparkles in their fall receives:
      Caught into life, in fiery fumes they rise,
      And, fed with stronger food, invade the skies.
      The Trojans, dropping wet, or stand around
      The cheerful blaze, or lie along the ground:
      Some dry their corn, infected with the brine,
      Then grind with marbles, and prepare to dine.
      Aeneas climbs the mountain’s airy brow,
      And takes a prospect of the seas below,
      If Capys thence, or Antheus he could spy,
      Or see the streamers of Caicus fly.
      No vessels were in view; but, on the plain,
      Three beamy stags command a lordly train
      Of branching heads: the more ignoble throng
      Attend their stately steps, and slowly graze along.
      He stood; and, while secure they fed below,
      He took the quiver and the trusty bow
      Achates us’d to bear: the leaders first
      He laid along, and then the vulgar pierc’d;
      Nor ceas’d his arrows, till the shady plain
      Sev’n mighty bodies with their blood distain.
      For the sev’n ships he made an equal share,
      And to the port return’d, triumphant from the war.
      The jars of gen’rous wine (Acestes’ gift,
      When his Trinacrian shores the navy left)
      He set abroach, and for the feast prepar’d,
      In equal portions with the ven’son shar’d.
      Thus while he dealt it round, the pious chief
      With cheerful words allay’d the common grief:
      “Endure, and conquer! Jove will soon dispose
      To future good our past and present woes.
      With me, the rocks of Scylla you have tried;
      Th’ inhuman Cyclops and his den defied.
      What greater ills hereafter can you bear?
      Resume your courage and dismiss your care,
      An hour will come, with pleasure to relate
      Your sorrows past, as benefits of Fate.
      Thro’ various hazards and events, we move
      To Latium and the realms foredoom’d by Jove.
      Call’d to the seat (the promise of the skies)
      Where Trojan kingdoms once again may rise,
      Endure the hardships of your present state;
      Live, and reserve yourselves for better fate.”

      These words he spoke, but spoke not from his heart;
      His outward smiles conceal’d his inward smart.
      The jolly crew, unmindful of the past,
      The quarry share, their plenteous dinner haste.
      Some strip the skin; some portion out the spoil;
      The limbs, yet trembling, in the caldrons boil;
      Some on the fire the reeking entrails broil.
      Stretch’d on the grassy turf, at ease they dine,
      Restore their strength with meat, and cheer their souls with
      wine.
      Their hunger thus appeas’d, their care attends
      The doubtful fortune of their absent friends:
      Alternate hopes and fears their minds possess,
      Whether to deem ’em dead, or in distress.
      Above the rest, Aeneas mourns the fate
      Of brave Orontes, and th’ uncertain state
      Of Gyas, Lycus, and of Amycus.
      The day, but not their sorrows, ended thus.

      When, from aloft, almighty Jove surveys
      Earth, air, and shores, and navigable seas,
      At length on Libyan realms he fix’d his eyes:
      Whom, pond’ring thus on human miseries,
      When Venus saw, she with a lowly look,
      Not free from tears, her heav’nly sire bespoke:

      “O King of Gods and Men! whose awful hand
      Disperses thunder on the seas and land,
      Disposing all with absolute command;
      How could my pious son thy pow’r incense?
      Or what, alas! is vanish’d Troy’s offence?
      Our hope of Italy not only lost,
      On various seas by various tempests toss’d,
      But shut from ev’ry shore, and barr’d from ev’ry coast.
      You promis’d once, a progeny divine
      Of Romans, rising from the Trojan line,
      In after times should hold the world in awe,
      And to the land and ocean give the law.
      How is your doom revers’d, which eas’d my care
      When Troy was ruin’d in that cruel war?
      Then fates to fates I could oppose; but now,
      When Fortune still pursues her former blow,
      What can I hope? What worse can still succeed?
      What end of labours has your will decreed?
      Antenor, from the midst of Grecian hosts,
      Could pass secure, and pierce th’ Illyrian coasts,
      Where, rolling down the steep, Timavus raves
      And thro’ nine channels disembogues his waves.
      At length he founded Padua’s happy seat,
      And gave his Trojans a secure retreat;
      There fix’d their arms, and there renew’d their name,
      And there in quiet rules, and crown’d with fame.
      But we, descended from your sacred line,
      Entitled to your heav’n and rites divine,
      Are banish’d earth; and, for the wrath of one,
      Remov’d from Latium and the promis’d throne.
      Are these our scepters? these our due rewards?
      And is it thus that Jove his plighted faith regards?”

      To whom the Father of th’ immortal race,
      Smiling with that serene indulgent face,
      With which he drives the clouds and clears the skies,
      First gave a holy kiss; then thus replies:

      “Daughter, dismiss thy fears; to thy desire
      The fates of thine are fix’d, and stand entire.
      Thou shalt behold thy wish’d Lavinian walls;
      And, ripe for heav’n, when fate Aeneas calls,
      Then shalt thou bear him up, sublime, to me:
      No councils have revers’d my firm decree.
      And, lest new fears disturb thy happy state,
      Know, I have search’d the mystic rolls of Fate:
      Thy son (nor is th’ appointed season far)
      In Italy shall wage successful war,
      Shall tame fierce nations in the bloody field,
      And sov’reign laws impose, and cities build,
      Till, after ev’ry foe subdued, the sun
      Thrice thro’ the signs his annual race shall run:
      This is his time prefix’d. Ascanius then,
      Now call’d Iulus, shall begin his reign.
      He thirty rolling years the crown shall wear,
      Then from Lavinium shall the seat transfer,
      And, with hard labour, Alba Longa build.
      The throne with his succession shall be fill’d
      Three hundred circuits more: then shall be seen
      Ilia the fair, a priestess and a queen,
      Who, full of Mars, in time, with kindly throes,
      Shall at a birth two goodly boys disclose.
      The royal babes a tawny wolf shall drain:
      Then Romulus his grandsire’s throne shall gain,
      Of martial tow’rs the founder shall become,
      The people Romans call, the city Rome.
      To them no bounds of empire I assign,
      Nor term of years to their immortal line.
      Ev’n haughty Juno, who, with endless broils,
      Earth, seas, and heav’n, and Jove himself turmoils;
      At length aton’d, her friendly pow’r shall join,
      To cherish and advance the Trojan line.
      The subject world shall Rome’s dominion own,
      And, prostrate, shall adore the nation of the gown.
      An age is ripening in revolving fate
      When Troy shall overturn the Grecian state,
      And sweet revenge her conqu’ring sons shall call,
      To crush the people that conspir’d her fall.
      Then Caesar from the Julian stock shall rise,
      Whose empire ocean, and whose fame the skies
      Alone shall bound; whom, fraught with eastern spoils,
      Our heav’n, the just reward of human toils,
      Securely shall repay with rites divine;
      And incense shall ascend before his sacred shrine.
      Then dire debate and impious war shall cease,
      And the stern age be soften’d into peace:
      Then banish’d Faith shall once again return,
      And Vestal fires in hallow’d temples burn;
      And Remus with Quirinus shall sustain
      The righteous laws, and fraud and force restrain.
      Janus himself before his fane shall wait,
      And keep the dreadful issues of his gate,
      With bolts and iron bars: within remains
      Imprison’d Fury, bound in brazen chains;
      High on a trophy rais’d, of useless arms,
      He sits, and threats the world with vain alarms.”

      He said, and sent Cyllenius with command
      To free the ports, and ope the Punic land
      To Trojan guests; lest, ignorant of fate,
      The queen might force them from her town and state.
      Down from the steep of heav’n Cyllenius flies,
      And cleaves with all his wings the yielding skies.
      Soon on the Libyan shore descends the god,
      Performs his message, and displays his rod:
      The surly murmurs of the people cease;
      And, as the fates requir’d, they give the peace:
      The queen herself suspends the rigid laws,
      The Trojans pities, and protects their cause.

      Meantime, in shades of night Aeneas lies:
      Care seiz’d his soul, and sleep forsook his eyes.
      But, when the sun restor’d the cheerful day,
      He rose, the coast and country to survey,
      Anxious and eager to discover more.
      It look’d a wild uncultivated shore;
      But, whether humankind, or beasts alone
      Possess’d the new-found region, was unknown.
      Beneath a ledge of rocks his fleet he hides:
      Tall trees surround the mountain’s shady sides;
      The bending brow above a safe retreat provides.
      Arm’d with two pointed darts, he leaves his friends,
      And true Achates on his steps attends.
      Lo! in the deep recesses of the wood,
      Before his eyes his goddess mother stood:
      A huntress in her habit and her mien;
      Her dress a maid, her air confess’d a queen.
      Bare were her knees, and knots her garments bind;
      Loose was her hair, and wanton’d in the wind;
      Her hand sustain’d a bow; her quiver hung behind.
      She seem’d a virgin of the Spartan blood:
      With such array Harpalyce bestrode
      Her Thracian courser and outstripp’d the rapid flood.
      “Ho, strangers! have you lately seen,” she said,
      “One of my sisters, like myself array’d,
      Who cross’d the lawn, or in the forest stray’d?
      A painted quiver at her back she bore;
      Varied with spots, a lynx’s hide she wore;
      And at full cry pursued the tusky boar.”

      Thus Venus: thus her son replied again:
      “None of your sisters have we heard or seen,
      O virgin! or what other name you bear
      Above that style; O more than mortal fair!
      Your voice and mien celestial birth betray!
      If, as you seem, the sister of the day,
      Or one at least of chaste Diana’s train,
      Let not an humble suppliant sue in vain;
      But tell a stranger, long in tempests toss’d,
      What earth we tread, and who commands the coast?
      Then on your name shall wretched mortals call,
      And offer’d victims at your altars fall.”
      “I dare not,” she replied, “assume the name
      Of goddess, or celestial honours claim:
      For Tyrian virgins bows and quivers bear,
      And purple buskins o’er their ankles wear.
      Know, gentle youth, in Libyan lands you are:
      A people rude in peace, and rough in war.
      The rising city, which from far you see,
      Is Carthage, and a Tyrian colony.
      Phoenician Dido rules the growing state,
      Who fled from Tyre, to shun her brother’s hate.
      Great were her wrongs, her story full of fate;
      Which I will sum in short. Sichaeus, known
      For wealth, and brother to the Punic throne,
      Possess’d fair Dido’s bed; and either heart
      At once was wounded with an equal dart.
      Her father gave her, yet a spotless maid;
      Pygmalion then the Tyrian scepter sway’d:
      One who condemn’d divine and human laws.
      Then strife ensued, and cursed gold the cause.
      The monarch, blinded with desire of wealth,
      With steel invades his brother’s life by stealth;
      Before the sacred altar made him bleed,
      And long from her conceal’d the cruel deed.
      Some tale, some new pretence, he daily coin’d,
      To soothe his sister, and delude her mind.
      At length, in dead of night, the ghost appears
      Of her unhappy lord: the spectre stares,
      And, with erected eyes, his bloody bosom bares.
      The cruel altars and his fate he tells,
      And the dire secret of his house reveals,
      Then warns the widow, with her household gods,
      To seek a refuge in remote abodes.
      Last, to support her in so long a way,
      He shows her where his hidden treasure lay.
      Admonish’d thus, and seiz’d with mortal fright,
      The queen provides companions of her flight:
      They meet, and all combine to leave the state,
      Who hate the tyrant, or who fear his hate.
      They seize a fleet, which ready rigg’d they find;
      Nor is Pygmalion’s treasure left behind.
      The vessels, heavy laden, put to sea
      With prosp’rous winds; a woman leads the way.
      I know not, if by stress of weather driv’n,
      Or was their fatal course dispos’d by Heav’n;
      At last they landed, where from far your eyes
      May view the turrets of new Carthage rise;
      There bought a space of ground, which Byrsa call’d,
      From the bull’s hide, they first inclos’d, and wall’d.
      But whence are you? what country claims your birth?
      What seek you, strangers, on our Libyan earth?”

      To whom, with sorrow streaming from his eyes,
      And deeply sighing, thus her son replies:
      “Could you with patience hear, or I relate,
      O nymph, the tedious annals of our fate!
      Thro’ such a train of woes if I should run,
      The day would sooner than the tale be done!
      From ancient Troy, by force expell’d, we came,
      If you by chance have heard the Trojan name.
      On various seas by various tempests toss’d,
      At length we landed on your Libyan coast.
      The good Aeneas am I call’d, a name,
      While Fortune favour’d, not unknown to fame.
      My household gods, companions of my woes,
      With pious care I rescued from our foes.
      To fruitful Italy my course was bent;
      And from the King of Heav’n is my descent.
      With twice ten sail I cross’d the Phrygian sea;
      Fate and my mother goddess led my way.
      Scarce sev’n, the thin remainders of my fleet,
      From storms preserv’d, within your harbour meet.
      Myself distress’d, an exile, and unknown,
      Debarr’d from Europe, and from Asia thrown,
      In Libyan deserts wander thus alone.”

      His tender parent could no longer bear;
      But, interposing, sought to soothe his care.
      “Whoe’er you are, not unbelov’d by Heav’n,
      Since on our friendly shore your ships are driv’n:
      Have courage: to the gods permit the rest,
      And to the queen expose your just request.
      Now take this earnest of success, for more:
      Your scatter’d fleet is join’d upon the shore;
      The winds are chang’d, your friends from danger free;
      Or I renounce my skill in augury.
      Twelve swans behold in beauteous order move,
      And stoop with closing pinions from above;
      Whom late the bird of Jove had driv’n along,
      And thro’ the clouds pursued the scatt’ring throng:
      Now, all united in a goodly team,
      They skim the ground, and seek the quiet stream.
      As they, with joy returning, clap their wings,
      And ride the circuit of the skies in rings;
      Not otherwise your ships, and ev’ry friend,
      Already hold the port, or with swift sails descend.
      No more advice is needful; but pursue
      The path before you, and the town in view.”

      Thus having said, she turn’d, and made appear
      Her neck refulgent, and dishevel’d hair,
      Which, flowing from her shoulders, reach’d the ground.
      And widely spread ambrosial scents around:
      In length of train descends her sweeping gown;
      And, by her graceful walk, the Queen of Love is known.
      The prince pursued the parting deity
      With words like these: “Ah! whither do you fly?
      Unkind and cruel! to deceive your son
      In borrow’d shapes, and his embrace to shun;
      Never to bless my sight, but thus unknown;
      And still to speak in accents not your own.”
      Against the goddess these complaints he made,
      But took the path, and her commands obey’d.
      They march, obscure; for Venus kindly shrouds
      With mists their persons, and involves in clouds,
      That, thus unseen, their passage none might stay,
      Or force to tell the causes of their way.
      This part perform’d, the goddess flies sublime
      To visit Paphos and her native clime;
      Where garlands, ever green and ever fair,
      With vows are offer’d, and with solemn pray’r:
      A hundred altars in her temple smoke;
      A thousand bleeding hearts her pow’r invoke.

      They climb the next ascent, and, looking down,
      Now at a nearer distance view the town.
      The prince with wonder sees the stately tow’rs,
      Which late were huts and shepherds’ homely bow’rs,
      The gates and streets; and hears, from ev’ry part,
      The noise and busy concourse of the mart.
      The toiling Tyrians on each other call
      To ply their labour: some extend the wall;
      Some build the citadel; the brawny throng
      Or dig, or push unwieldly stones along.
      Some for their dwellings choose a spot of ground,
      Which, first design’d, with ditches they surround.
      Some laws ordain; and some attend the choice
      Of holy senates, and elect by voice.
      Here some design a mole, while others there
      Lay deep foundations for a theatre;
      From marble quarries mighty columns hew,
      For ornaments of scenes, and future view.
      Such is their toil, and such their busy pains,
      As exercise the bees in flow’ry plains,
      When winter past, and summer scarce begun,
      Invites them forth to labour in the sun;
      Some lead their youth abroad, while some condense
      Their liquid store, and some in cells dispense;
      Some at the gate stand ready to receive
      The golden burthen, and their friends relieve;
      All with united force, combine to drive
      The lazy drones from the laborious hive:
      With envy stung, they view each other’s deeds;
      The fragrant work with diligence proceeds.
      “Thrice happy you, whose walls already rise!”
      Aeneas said, and view’d, with lifted eyes,
      Their lofty tow’rs; then, ent’ring at the gate,
      Conceal’d in clouds (prodigious to relate)
      He mix’d, unmark’d, among the busy throng,
      Borne by the tide, and pass’d unseen along.

      Full in the centre of the town there stood,
      Thick set with trees, a venerable wood.
      The Tyrians, landing near this holy ground,
      And digging here, a prosp’rous omen found:
      From under earth a courser’s head they drew,
      Their growth and future fortune to foreshew.
      This fated sign their foundress Juno gave,
      Of a soil fruitful, and a people brave.
      Sidonian Dido here with solemn state
      Did Juno’s temple build, and consecrate,
      Enrich’d with gifts, and with a golden shrine;
      But more the goddess made the place divine.
      On brazen steps the marble threshold rose,
      And brazen plates the cedar beams inclose:
      The rafters are with brazen cov’rings crown’d;
      The lofty doors on brazen hinges sound.
      What first Aeneas in this place beheld,
      Reviv’d his courage, and his fear expell’d.
      For while, expecting there the queen, he rais’d
      His wond’ring eyes, and round the temple gaz’d,
      Admir’d the fortune of the rising town,
      The striving artists, and their arts’ renown;
      He saw, in order painted on the wall,
      Whatever did unhappy Troy befall:
      The wars that fame around the world had blown,
      All to the life, and ev’ry leader known.
      There Agamemnon, Priam here, he spies,
      And fierce Achilles, who both kings defies.
      He stopp’d, and weeping said: “O friend! ev’n here
      The monuments of Trojan woes appear!
      Our known disasters fill ev’n foreign lands:
      See there, where old unhappy Priam stands!
      Ev’n the mute walls relate the warrior’s fame,
      And Trojan griefs the Tyrians’ pity claim.”
      He said, his tears a ready passage find,
      Devouring what he saw so well design’d,
      And with an empty picture fed his mind:
      For there he saw the fainting Grecians yield,
      And here the trembling Trojans quit the field,
      Pursued by fierce Achilles thro’ the plain,
      On his high chariot driving o’er the slain.
      The tents of Rhesus next, his grief renew,
      By their white sails betray’d to nightly view;
      And wakeful Diomede, whose cruel sword
      The sentries slew, nor spar’d their slumb’ring lord,
      Then took the fiery steeds, ere yet the food
      Of Troy they taste, or drink the Xanthian flood.
      Elsewhere he saw where Troilus defied
      Achilles, and unequal combat tried;
      Then, where the boy disarm’d, with loosen’d reins,
      Was by his horses hurried o’er the plains,
      Hung by the neck and hair, and dragg’d around:
      The hostile spear, yet sticking in his wound,
      With tracks of blood inscrib’d the dusty ground.
      Meantime the Trojan dames, oppress’d with woe,
      To Pallas’ fane in long procession go,
      In hopes to reconcile their heav’nly foe.
      They weep, they beat their breasts, they rend their hair,
      And rich embroider’d vests for presents bear;
      But the stern goddess stands unmov’d with pray’r.
      Thrice round the Trojan walls Achilles drew
      The corpse of Hector, whom in fight he slew.
      Here Priam sues; and there, for sums of gold,
      The lifeless body of his son is sold.
      So sad an object, and so well express’d,
      Drew sighs and groans from the griev’d hero’s breast,
      To see the figure of his lifeless friend,
      And his old sire his helpless hand extend.
      Himself he saw amidst the Grecian train,
      Mix’d in the bloody battle on the plain;
      And swarthy Memnon in his arms he knew,
      His pompous ensigns, and his Indian crew.
      Penthisilea there, with haughty grace,
      Leads to the wars an Amazonian race:
      In their right hands a pointed dart they wield;
      The left, for ward, sustains the lunar shield.
      Athwart her breast a golden belt she throws,
      Amidst the press alone provokes a thousand foes,
      And dares her maiden arms to manly force oppose.

      Thus while the Trojan prince employs his eyes,
      Fix’d on the walls with wonder and surprise,
      The beauteous Dido, with a num’rous train
      And pomp of guards, ascends the sacred fane.
      Such on Eurotas’ banks, or Cynthus’ height,
      Diana seems; and so she charms the sight,
      When in the dance the graceful goddess leads
      The choir of nymphs, and overtops their heads:
      Known by her quiver, and her lofty mien,
      She walks majestic, and she looks their queen;
      Latona sees her shine above the rest,
      And feeds with secret joy her silent breast.
      Such Dido was; with such becoming state,
      Amidst the crowd, she walks serenely great.
      Their labour to her future sway she speeds,
      And passing with a gracious glance proceeds;
      Then mounts the throne, high plac’d before the shrine:
      In crowds around, the swarming people join.
      She takes petitions, and dispenses laws,
      Hears and determines ev’ry private cause;
      Their tasks in equal portions she divides,
      And, where unequal, there by lots decides.
      Another way by chance Aeneas bends
      His eyes, and unexpected sees his friends,
      Antheus, Sergestus grave, Cloanthus strong,
      And at their backs a mighty Trojan throng,
      Whom late the tempest on the billows toss’d,
      And widely scatter’d on another coast.
      The prince, unseen, surpris’d with wonder stands,
      And longs, with joyful haste, to join their hands;
      But, doubtful of the wish’d event, he stays,
      And from the hollow cloud his friends surveys,
      Impatient till they told their present state,
      And where they left their ships, and what their fate,
      And why they came, and what was their request;
      For these were sent, commission’d by the rest,
      To sue for leave to land their sickly men,
      And gain admission to the gracious queen.
      Ent’ring, with cries they fill’d the holy fane;
      Then thus, with lowly voice, Ilioneus began:

      “O Queen! indulg’d by favour of the gods
      To found an empire in these new abodes,
      To build a town, with statutes to restrain
      The wild inhabitants beneath thy reign,
      We wretched Trojans, toss’d on ev’ry shore,
      From sea to sea, thy clemency implore.
      Forbid the fires our shipping to deface!
      Receive th’ unhappy fugitives to grace,
      And spare the remnant of a pious race!
      We come not with design of wasteful prey,
      To drive the country, force the swains away:
      Nor such our strength, nor such is our desire;
      The vanquish’d dare not to such thoughts aspire.
      A land there is, Hesperia nam’d of old;
      The soil is fruitful, and the men are bold
      Th’ Oenotrians held it once, by common fame
      Now call’d Italia, from the leader’s name.
      To that sweet region was our voyage bent,
      When winds and ev’ry warring element
      Disturb’d our course, and, far from sight of land,
      Cast our torn vessels on the moving sand:
      The sea came on; the South, with mighty roar,
      Dispers’d and dash’d the rest upon the rocky shore.
      Those few you see escap’d the storm, and fear,
      Unless you interpose, a shipwreck here.
      What men, what monsters, what inhuman race,
      What laws, what barb’rous customs of the place,
      Shut up a desert shore to drowning men,
      And drive us to the cruel seas again?
      If our hard fortune no compassion draws,
      Nor hospitable rights, nor human laws,
      The gods are just, and will revenge our cause.
      Aeneas was our prince: a juster lord,
      Or nobler warrior, never drew a sword;
      Observant of the right, religious of his word.
      If yet he lives, and draws this vital air,
      Nor we, his friends, of safety shall despair;
      Nor you, great queen, these offices repent,
      Which he will equal, and perhaps augment.
      We want not cities, nor Sicilian coasts,
      Where King Acestes Trojan lineage boasts.
      Permit our ships a shelter on your shores,
      Refitted from your woods with planks and oars,
      That, if our prince be safe, we may renew
      Our destin’d course, and Italy pursue.
      But if, O best of men, the Fates ordain
      That thou art swallow’d in the Libyan main,
      And if our young Iulus be no more,
      Dismiss our navy from your friendly shore,
      That we to good Acestes may return,
      And with our friends our common losses mourn.”
      Thus spoke Ilioneus: the Trojan crew
      With cries and clamours his request renew.

      The modest queen a while, with downcast eyes,
      Ponder’d the speech; then briefly thus replies:
      “Trojans, dismiss your fears; my cruel fate,
      And doubts attending an unsettled state,
      Force me to guard my coast from foreign foes.
      Who has not heard the story of your woes,
      The name and fortune of your native place,
      The fame and valour of the Phrygian race?
      We Tyrians are not so devoid of sense,
      Nor so remote from Phoebus’ influence.
      Whether to Latian shores your course is bent,
      Or, driv’n by tempests from your first intent,
      You seek the good Acestes’ government,
      Your men shall be receiv’d, your fleet repair’d,
      And sail, with ships of convoy for your guard:
      Or, would you stay, and join your friendly pow’rs
      To raise and to defend the Tyrian tow’rs,
      My wealth, my city, and myself are yours.
      And would to Heav’n, the Storm, you felt, would bring
      On Carthaginian coasts your wand’ring king.
      My people shall, by my command, explore
      The ports and creeks of ev’ry winding shore,
      And towns, and wilds, and shady woods, in quest
      Of so renown’d and so desir’d a guest.”

      Rais’d in his mind the Trojan hero stood,
      And long’d to break from out his ambient cloud:
      Achates found it, and thus urg’d his way:
      “From whence, O goddess-born, this long delay?
      What more can you desire, your welcome sure,
      Your fleet in safety, and your friends secure?
      One only wants; and him we saw in vain
      Oppose the Storm, and swallow’d in the main.
      Orontes in his fate our forfeit paid;
      The rest agrees with what your mother said.”
      Scarce had he spoken, when the cloud gave way,
      The mists flew upward and dissolv’d in day.

      The Trojan chief appear’d in open sight,
      August in visage, and serenely bright.
      His mother goddess, with her hands divine,
      Had form’d his curling locks, and made his temples shine,
      And giv’n his rolling eyes a sparkling grace,
      And breath’d a youthful vigour on his face;
      Like polish’d ivory, beauteous to behold,
      Or Parian marble, when enchas’d in gold:
      Thus radiant from the circling cloud he broke,
      And thus with manly modesty he spoke:

      “He whom you seek am I; by tempests toss’d,
      And sav’d from shipwreck on your Libyan coast;
      Presenting, gracious queen, before your throne,
      A prince that owes his life to you alone.
      Fair majesty, the refuge and redress
      Of those whom fate pursues, and wants oppress,
      You, who your pious offices employ
      To save the relics of abandon’d Troy;
      Receive the shipwreck’d on your friendly shore,
      With hospitable rites relieve the poor;
      Associate in your town a wand’ring train,
      And strangers in your palace entertain:
      What thanks can wretched fugitives return,
      Who, scatter’d thro’ the world, in exile mourn?
      The gods, if gods to goodness are inclin’d;
      If acts of mercy touch their heav’nly mind,
      And, more than all the gods, your gen’rous heart.
      Conscious of worth, requite its own desert!
      In you this age is happy, and this earth,
      And parents more than mortal gave you birth.
      While rolling rivers into seas shall run,
      And round the space of heav’n the radiant sun;
      While trees the mountain tops with shades supply,
      Your honour, name, and praise shall never die.
      Whate’er abode my fortune has assign’d,
      Your image shall be present in my mind.”
      Thus having said, he turn’d with pious haste,
      And joyful his expecting friends embrac’d:
      With his right hand Ilioneus was grac’d,
      Serestus with his left; then to his breast
      Cloanthus and the noble Gyas press’d;
      And so by turns descended to the rest.

      The Tyrian queen stood fix’d upon his face,
      Pleas’d with his motions, ravish’d with his grace;
      Admir’d his fortunes, more admir’d the man;
      Then recollected stood, and thus began:
      “What fate, O goddess-born; what angry pow’rs
      Have cast you shipwreck’d on our barren shores?
      Are you the great Aeneas, known to fame,
      Who from celestial seed your lineage claim?

      The same Aeneas whom fair Venus bore
      To fam’d Anchises on th’ Idaean shore?
      It calls into my mind, tho’ then a child,
      When Teucer came, from Salamis exil’d,
      And sought my father’s aid, to be restor’d:
      My father Belus then with fire and sword
      Invaded Cyprus, made the region bare,
      And, conqu’ring, finish’d the successful war.
      From him the Trojan siege I understood,
      The Grecian chiefs, and your illustrious blood.
      Your foe himself the Dardan valour prais’d,
      And his own ancestry from Trojans rais’d.
      Enter, my noble guest, and you shall find,
      If not a costly welcome, yet a kind:
      For I myself, like you, have been distress’d,
      Till Heav’n afforded me this place of rest;
      Like you, an alien in a land unknown,
      I learn to pity woes so like my own.”
      She said, and to the palace led her guest;
      Then offer’d incense, and proclaim’d a feast.
      Nor yet less careful for her absent friends,
      Twice ten fat oxen to the ships she sends;
      Besides a hundred boars, a hundred lambs,
      With bleating cries, attend their milky dams;
      And jars of gen’rous wine and spacious bowls
      She gives, to cheer the sailors’ drooping souls.
      Now purple hangings clothe the palace walls,
      And sumptuous feasts are made in splendid halls:
      On Tyrian carpets, richly wrought, they dine;
      With loads of massy plate the sideboards shine,
      And antique vases, all of gold emboss’d
      (The gold itself inferior to the cost),
      Of curious work, where on the sides were seen
      The fights and figures of illustrious men,
      From their first founder to the present queen.

      The good Aeneas, whose paternal care
      Iulus’ absence could no longer bear,
      Dispatch’d Achates to the ships in haste,
      To give a glad relation of the past,
      And, fraught with precious gifts, to bring the boy,
      Snatch’d from the ruins of unhappy Troy:
      A robe of tissue, stiff with golden wire;
      An upper vest, once Helen’s rich attire,
      From Argos by the fam’d adultress brought,
      With golden flow’rs and winding foliage wrought,
      Her mother Leda’s present, when she came
      To ruin Troy and set the world on flame;
      The scepter Priam’s eldest daughter bore,
      Her orient necklace, and the crown she wore
      Of double texture, glorious to behold,
      One order set with gems, and one with gold.
      Instructed thus, the wise Achates goes,
      And in his diligence his duty shows.

      But Venus, anxious for her son’s affairs,
      New counsels tries, and new designs prepares:
      That Cupid should assume the shape and face
      Of sweet Ascanius, and the sprightly grace;
      Should bring the presents, in her nephew’s stead,
      And in Eliza’s veins the gentle poison shed:
      For much she fear’d the Tyrians, double-tongued,
      And knew the town to Juno’s care belong’d.
      These thoughts by night her golden slumbers broke,
      And thus alarm’d, to winged Love she spoke:
      “My son, my strength, whose mighty pow’r alone
      Controls the Thund’rer on his awful throne,
      To thee thy much-afflicted mother flies,
      And on thy succour and thy faith relies.
      Thou know’st, my son, how Jove’s revengeful wife,
      By force and fraud, attempts thy brother’s life;
      And often hast thou mourn’d with me his pains.
      Him Dido now with blandishment detains;
      But I suspect the town where Juno reigns.
      For this ’tis needful to prevent her art,
      And fire with love the proud Phoenician’s heart:
      A love so violent, so strong, so sure,
      As neither age can change, nor art can cure.
      How this may be perform’d, now take my mind:
      Ascanius by his father is design’d
      To come, with presents laden, from the port,
      To gratify the queen, and gain the court.
      I mean to plunge the boy in pleasing sleep,
      And, ravish’d, in Idalian bow’rs to keep,
      Or high Cythera, that the sweet deceit
      May pass unseen, and none prevent the cheat.
      Take thou his form and shape. I beg the grace
      But only for a night’s revolving space:
      Thyself a boy, assume a boy’s dissembled face;
      That when, amidst the fervour of the feast,
      The Tyrian hugs and fonds thee on her breast,
      And with sweet kisses in her arms constrains,
      Thou may’st infuse thy venom in her veins.”
      The God of Love obeys, and sets aside
      His bow and quiver, and his plumy pride;
      He walks Iulus in his mother’s sight,
      And in the sweet resemblance takes delight.

      The goddess then to young Ascanius flies,
      And in a pleasing slumber seals his eyes:
      Lull’d in her lap, amidst a train of Loves,
      She gently bears him to her blissful groves,
      Then with a wreath of myrtle crowns his head,
      And softly lays him on a flow’ry bed.
      Cupid meantime assum’d his form and face,
      Foll’wing Achates with a shorter pace,
      And brought the gifts. The queen already sate
      Amidst the Trojan lords, in shining state,
      High on a golden bed: her princely guest
      Was next her side; in order sate the rest.
      Then canisters with bread are heap’d on high;
      Th’ attendants water for their hands supply,
      And, having wash’d, with silken towels dry.
      Next fifty handmaids in long order bore
      The censers, and with fumes the gods adore:
      Then youths, and virgins twice as many, join
      To place the dishes, and to serve the wine.
      The Tyrian train, admitted to the feast,
      Approach, and on the painted couches rest.
      All on the Trojan gifts with wonder gaze,
      But view the beauteous boy with more amaze,
      His rosy-colour’d cheeks, his radiant eyes,
      His motions, voice, and shape, and all the god’s disguise;
      Nor pass unprais’d the vest and veil divine,
      Which wand’ring foliage and rich flow’rs entwine.
      But, far above the rest, the royal dame,
      (Already doom’d to love’s disastrous flame,)
      With eyes insatiate, and tumultuous joy,
      Beholds the presents, and admires the boy.
      The guileful god about the hero long,
      With children’s play, and false embraces, hung;
      Then sought the queen: she took him to her arms
      With greedy pleasure, and devour’d his charms.
      Unhappy Dido little thought what guest,
      How dire a god, she drew so near her breast;
      But he, not mindless of his mother’s pray’r,
      Works in the pliant bosom of the fair,
      And moulds her heart anew, and blots her former care.
      The dead is to the living love resign’d;
      And all Aeneas enters in her mind.

      Now, when the rage of hunger was appeas’d,
      The meat remov’d, and ev’ry guest was pleas’d,
      The golden bowls with sparkling wine are crown’d,
      And thro’ the palace cheerful cries resound.
      From gilded roofs depending lamps display
      Nocturnal beams, that emulate the day.
      A golden bowl, that shone with gems divine,
      The queen commanded to be crown’d with wine:
      The bowl that Belus us’d, and all the Tyrian line.
      Then, silence thro’ the hall proclaim’d, she spoke:
      “O hospitable Jove! we thus invoke,
      With solemn rites, thy sacred name and pow’r;
      Bless to both nations this auspicious hour!
      So may the Trojan and the Tyrian line
      In lasting concord from this day combine.
      Thou, Bacchus, god of joys and friendly cheer,
      And gracious Juno, both be present here!
      And you, my lords of Tyre, your vows address
      To Heav’n with mine, to ratify the peace.”
      The goblet then she took, with nectar crown’d
      (Sprinkling the first libations on the ground,)
      And rais’d it to her mouth with sober grace;
      Then, sipping, offer’d to the next in place.
      ’Twas Bitias whom she call’d, a thirsty soul;
      He took the challenge, and embrac’d the bowl,
      With pleasure swill’d the gold, nor ceas’d to draw,
      Till he the bottom of the brimmer saw.
      The goblet goes around: Iopas brought
      His golden lyre, and sung what ancient Atlas taught:
      The various labours of the wand’ring moon,
      And whence proceed th’ eclipses of the sun;
      Th’ original of men and beasts; and whence
      The rains arise, and fires their warmth dispense,
      And fix’d and erring stars dispose their influence;
      What shakes the solid earth; what cause delays
      The summer nights and shortens winter days.
      With peals of shouts the Tyrians praise the song:
      Those peals are echo’d by the Trojan throng.
      Th’ unhappy queen with talk prolong’d the night,
      And drank large draughts of love with vast delight;
      Of Priam much enquir’d, of Hector more;
      Then ask’d what arms the swarthy Memnon wore,
      What troops he landed on the Trojan shore;
      The steeds of Diomede varied the discourse,
      And fierce Achilles, with his matchless force;
      At length, as fate and her ill stars requir’d,
      To hear the series of the war desir’d.
      “Relate at large, my godlike guest,” she said,
      “The Grecian stratagems, the town betray’d:
      The fatal issue of so long a war,
      Your flight, your wand’rings, and your woes, declare;
      For, since on ev’ry sea, on ev’ry coast,
      Your men have been distress’d, your navy toss’d,
      Sev’n times the sun has either tropic view’d,
      The winter banish’d, and the spring renew’d.”



 BOOK II

 THE ARGUMENT.


      Aeneas relates how the city of Troy was taken, after a ten years’
      siege, by the treachery of Sinon, and the stratagem of a wooden
      horse. He declares the fixed resolution he had taken not to
      survive the ruin of his country, and the various adventures he
      met with in defence of it. At last, having been before advised by
      Hector’s ghost, and now by the appearance of his mother Venus, he
      is prevailed upon to leave the town, and settle his household
      gods in another country. In order to this, he carries off his
      father on his shoulders, and leads his little son by the hand,
      his wife following behind. When he comes to the place appointed
      for the general rendezvous, he finds a great confluence of
      people, but misses his wife, whose ghost afterwards appears to
      him, and tells him the land which was designed for him.


      All were attentive to the godlike man,
      When from his lofty couch he thus began:
      “Great queen, what you command me to relate
      Renews the sad remembrance of our fate:
      An empire from its old foundations rent,
      And ev’ry woe the Trojans underwent;
      A peopled city made a desert place;
      All that I saw, and part of which I was:
      Not ev’n the hardest of our foes could hear,
      Nor stern Ulysses tell without a tear.
      And now the latter watch of wasting night,
      And setting stars, to kindly rest invite;
      But, since you take such int’rest in our woe,
      And Troy’s disastrous end desire to know,
      I will restrain my tears, and briefly tell
      What in our last and fatal night befell.

      “By destiny compell’d, and in despair,
      The Greeks grew weary of the tedious war,
      And by Minerva’s aid a fabric rear’d,
      Which like a steed of monstrous height appear’d:
      The sides were plank’d with pine; they feign’d it made
      For their return, and this the vow they paid.
      Thus they pretend, but in the hollow side
      Selected numbers of their soldiers hide:
      With inward arms the dire machine they load,
      And iron bowels stuff the dark abode.
      In sight of Troy lies Tenedos, an isle
      (While Fortune did on Priam’s empire smile)
      Renown’d for wealth; but, since, a faithless bay,
      Where ships expos’d to wind and weather lay.
      There was their fleet conceal’d. We thought, for Greece
      Their sails were hoisted, and our fears release.
      The Trojans, coop’d within their walls so long,
      Unbar their gates, and issue in a throng,
      Like swarming bees, and with delight survey
      The camp deserted, where the Grecians lay:
      The quarters of the sev’ral chiefs they show’d;
      Here Phoenix, here Achilles, made abode;
      Here join’d the battles; there the navy rode.
      Part on the pile their wond’ring eyes employ:
      The pile by Pallas rais’d to ruin Troy.
      Thymoetes first (’tis doubtful whether hir’d,
      Or so the Trojan destiny requir’d)
      Mov’d that the ramparts might be broken down,
      To lodge the monster fabric in the town.
      But Capys, and the rest of sounder mind,
      The fatal present to the flames designed,
      Or to the wat’ry deep; at least to bore
      The hollow sides, and hidden frauds explore.
      The giddy vulgar, as their fancies guide,
      With noise say nothing, and in parts divide.
      Laocoon, follow’d by a num’rous crowd,
      Ran from the fort, and cried, from far, aloud:
      ‘O wretched countrymen! what fury reigns?
      What more than madness has possess’d your brains?
      Think you the Grecians from your coasts are gone?
      And are Ulysses’ arts no better known?
      This hollow fabric either must inclose,
      Within its blind recess, our secret foes;
      Or ’tis an engine rais’d above the town,
      T’ o’erlook the walls, and then to batter down.
      Somewhat is sure design’d, by fraud or force:
      Trust not their presents, nor admit the horse.’
      Thus having said, against the steed he threw
      His forceful spear, which, hissing as it flew,
      Pierc’d thro’ the yielding planks of jointed wood,
      And trembling in the hollow belly stood.
      The sides, transpierc’d, return a rattling sound,
      And groans of Greeks inclos’d come issuing thro’ the wound
      And, had not Heav’n the fall of Troy design’d,
      Or had not men been fated to be blind,
      Enough was said and done t’inspire a better mind.
      Then had our lances pierc’d the treach’rous wood,
      And Ilian tow’rs and Priam’s empire stood.
      Meantime, with shouts, the Trojan shepherds bring
      A captive Greek, in bands, before the king;
      Taken to take; who made himself their prey,
      T’ impose on their belief, and Troy betray;
      Fix’d on his aim, and obstinately bent
      To die undaunted, or to circumvent.
      About the captive, tides of Trojans flow;
      All press to see, and some insult the foe.
      Now hear how well the Greeks their wiles disguis’d;
      Behold a nation in a man compris’d.
      Trembling the miscreant stood, unarm’d and bound;
      He star’d, and roll’d his haggard eyes around,
      Then said: ‘Alas! what earth remains, what sea
      Is open to receive unhappy me?
      What fate a wretched fugitive attends,
      Scorn’d by my foes, abandon’d by my friends?’
      He said, and sigh’d, and cast a rueful eye:
      Our pity kindles, and our passions die.
      We cheer the youth to make his own defence,
      And freely tell us what he was, and whence:
      What news he could impart, we long to know,
      And what to credit from a captive foe.

      “His fear at length dismiss’d, he said: ‘Whate’er
      My fate ordains, my words shall be sincere:
      I neither can nor dare my birth disclaim;
      Greece is my country, Sinon is my name.
      Tho’ plung’d by Fortune’s pow’r in misery,
      ’Tis not in Fortune’s pow’r to make me lie.
      If any chance has hither brought the name
      Of Palamedes, not unknown to fame,
      Who suffer’d from the malice of the times,
      Accus’d and sentenc’d for pretended crimes,
      Because these fatal wars he would prevent;
      Whose death the wretched Greeks too late lament;
      Me, then a boy, my father, poor and bare
      Of other means, committed to his care,
      His kinsman and companion in the war.
      While Fortune favour’d, while his arms support
      The cause, and rul’d the counsels, of the court,
      I made some figure there; nor was my name
      Obscure, nor I without my share of fame.
      But when Ulysses, with fallacious arts,
      Had made impression in the people’s hearts,
      And forg’d a treason in my patron’s name
      (I speak of things too far divulg’d by fame),
      My kinsman fell. Then I, without support,
      In private mourn’d his loss, and left the court.
      Mad as I was, I could not bear his fate
      With silent grief, but loudly blam’d the state,
      And curs’d the direful author of my woes.
      ’Twas told again; and hence my ruin rose.
      I threaten’d, if indulgent Heav’n once more
      Would land me safely on my native shore,
      His death with double vengeance to restore.
      This mov’d the murderer’s hate; and soon ensued
      Th’ effects of malice from a man so proud.
      Ambiguous rumours thro’ the camp he spread,
      And sought, by treason, my devoted head;
      New crimes invented; left unturn’d no stone,
      To make my guilt appear, and hide his own;
      Till Calchas was by force and threat’ning wrought:
      But why—why dwell I on that anxious thought?
      If on my nation just revenge you seek,
      And ’tis t’ appear a foe, t’ appear a Greek;
      Already you my name and country know;
      Assuage your thirst of blood, and strike the blow:
      My death will both the kingly brothers please,
      And set insatiate Ithacus at ease.’
      This fair unfinish’d tale, these broken starts,
      Rais’d expectations in our longing hearts:
      Unknowing as we were in Grecian arts.
      His former trembling once again renew’d,
      With acted fear, the villain thus pursued:

      “‘Long had the Grecians (tir’d with fruitless care,
      And wearied with an unsuccessful war)
      Resolv’d to raise the siege, and leave the town;
      And, had the gods permitted, they had gone;
      But oft the wintry seas and southern winds
      Withstood their passage home, and chang’d their minds.
      Portents and prodigies their souls amaz’d;
      But most, when this stupendous pile was rais’d:
      Then flaming meteors, hung in air, were seen,
      And thunders rattled thro’ a sky serene.
      Dismay’d, and fearful of some dire event,
      Eurypylus t’ enquire their fate was sent.
      He from the gods this dreadful answer brought:

      “O Grecians, when the Trojan shores you sought,
      Your passage with a virgin’s blood was bought:
      So must your safe return be bought again,
      And Grecian blood once more atone the main.”
      The spreading rumour round the people ran;
      All fear’d, and each believ’d himself the man.
      Ulysses took th’ advantage of their fright;
      Call’d Calchas, and produc’d in open sight:
      Then bade him name the wretch, ordain’d by fate
      The public victim, to redeem the state.
      Already some presag’d the dire event,
      And saw what sacrifice Ulysses meant.
      For twice five days the good old seer withstood
      Th’ intended treason, and was dumb to blood,
      Till, tir’d, with endless clamours and pursuit
      Of Ithacus, he stood no longer mute;
      But, as it was agreed, pronounc’d that I
      Was destin’d by the wrathful gods to die.
      All prais’d the sentence, pleas’d the storm should fall
      On one alone, whose fury threaten’d all.
      The dismal day was come; the priests prepare
      Their leaven’d cakes, and fillets for my hair.
      I follow’d nature’s laws, and must avow
      I broke my bonds and fled the fatal blow.
      Hid in a weedy lake all night I lay,
      Secure of safety when they sail’d away.
      But now what further hopes for me remain,
      To see my friends, or native soil, again;
      My tender infants, or my careful sire,
      Whom they returning will to death require;
      Will perpetrate on them their first design,
      And take the forfeit of their heads for mine?
      Which, O! if pity mortal minds can move,
      If there be faith below, or gods above,
      If innocence and truth can claim desert,
      Ye Trojans, from an injur’d wretch avert.’

      “False tears true pity move; the king commands
      To loose his fetters, and unbind his hands:
      Then adds these friendly words: ‘Dismiss thy fears;
      Forget the Greeks; be mine as thou wert theirs.
      But truly tell, was it for force or guile,
      Or some religious end, you rais’d the pile?’
      Thus said the king. He, full of fraudful arts,
      This well-invented tale for truth imparts:
      ‘Ye lamps of heav’n!’ he said, and lifted high
      His hands now free, ‘thou venerable sky!
      Inviolable pow’rs, ador’d with dread!
      Ye fatal fillets, that once bound this head!
      Ye sacred altars, from whose flames I fled!
      Be all of you adjur’d; and grant I may,
      Without a crime, th’ ungrateful Greeks betray,
      Reveal the secrets of the guilty state,
      And justly punish whom I justly hate!
      But you, O king, preserve the faith you gave,
      If I, to save myself, your empire save.
      The Grecian hopes, and all th’ attempts they made,
      Were only founded on Minerva’s aid.
      But from the time when impious Diomede,
      And false Ulysses, that inventive head,
      Her fatal image from the temple drew,
      The sleeping guardians of the castle slew,
      Her virgin statue with their bloody hands
      Polluted, and profan’d her holy bands;
      From thence the tide of fortune left their shore,
      And ebb’d much faster than it flow’d before:
      Their courage languish’d, as their hopes decay’d;
      And Pallas, now averse, refus’d her aid.
      Nor did the goddess doubtfully declare
      Her alter’d mind and alienated care.
      When first her fatal image touch’d the ground,
      She sternly cast her glaring eyes around,
      That sparkled as they roll’d, and seem’d to threat:
      Her heav’nly limbs distill’d a briny sweat.
      Thrice from the ground she leap’d, was seen to wield
      Her brandish’d lance, and shake her horrid shield.
      Then Calchas bade our host for flight
      And hope no conquest from the tedious war,
      Till first they sail’d for Greece; with pray’rs besought
      Her injur’d pow’r, and better omens brought.
      And now their navy plows the wat’ry main,
      Yet soon expect it on your shores again,
      With Pallas pleas’d; as Calchas did ordain.
      But first, to reconcile the blue-ey’d maid
      For her stol’n statue and her tow’r betray’d,
      Warn’d by the seer, to her offended name
      We rais’d and dedicate this wondrous frame,
      So lofty, lest thro’ your forbidden gates
      It pass, and intercept our better fates:
      For, once admitted there, our hopes are lost;
      And Troy may then a new Palladium boast;
      For so religion and the gods ordain,
      That, if you violate with hands profane
      Minerva’s gift, your town in flames shall burn,
      (Which omen, O ye gods, on Grecia turn!)
      But if it climb, with your assisting hands,
      The Trojan walls, and in the city stands;
      Then Troy shall Argos and Mycenae burn,
      And the reverse of fate on us return.’

      “With such deceits he gain’d their easy hearts,
      Too prone to credit his perfidious arts.
      What Diomede, nor Thetis’ greater son,
      A thousand ships, nor ten years’ siege, had done:
      False tears and fawning words the city won.

      “A greater omen, and of worse portent,
      Did our unwary minds with fear torment,
      Concurring to produce the dire event.
      Laocoon, Neptune’s priest by lot that year,
      With solemn pomp then sacrific’d a steer;
      When, dreadful to behold, from sea we spied
      Two serpents, rank’d abreast, the seas divide,
      And smoothly sweep along the swelling tide.
      Their flaming crests above the waves they show;
      Their bellies seem to burn the seas below;
      Their speckled tails advance to steer their course,
      And on the sounding shore the flying billows force.
      And now the strand, and now the plain they held;
      Their ardent eyes with bloody streaks were fill’d;
      Their nimble tongues they brandish’d as they came,
      And lick’d their hissing jaws, that sputter’d flame.
      We fled amaz’d; their destin’d way they take,
      And to Laocoon and his children make;
      And first around the tender boys they wind,
      Then with their sharpen’d fangs their limbs and bodies grind.
      The wretched father, running to their aid
      With pious haste, but vain, they next invade;
      Twice round his waist their winding volumes roll’d;
      And twice about his gasping throat they fold.
      The priest thus doubly chok’d, their crests divide,
      And tow’ring o’er his head in triumph ride.
      With both his hands he labours at the knots;
      His holy fillets the blue venom blots;
      His roaring fills the flitting air around.
      Thus, when an ox receives a glancing wound,
      He breaks his bands, the fatal altar flies,
      And with loud bellowings breaks the yielding skies.
      Their tasks perform’d, the serpents quit their prey,
      And to the tow’r of Pallas make their way:
      Couch’d at her feet, they lie protected there
      By her large buckler and protended spear.
      Amazement seizes all; the gen’ral cry
      Proclaims Laocoon justly doom’d to die,
      Whose hand the will of Pallas had withstood,
      And dared to violate the sacred wood.
      All vote t’ admit the steed, that vows be paid
      And incense offer’d to th’ offended maid.
      A spacious breach is made; the town lies bare;
      Some hoisting levers, some the wheels prepare
      And fasten to the horse’s feet; the rest
      With cables haul along th’ unwieldly beast.
      Each on his fellow for assistance calls;
      At length the fatal fabric mounts the walls,
      Big with destruction. Boys with chaplets crown’d,
      And choirs of virgins, sing and dance around.
      Thus rais’d aloft, and then descending down,
      It enters o’er our heads, and threats the town.
      O sacred city, built by hands divine!
      O valiant heroes of the Trojan line!
      Four times he struck: as oft the clashing sound
      Of arms was heard, and inward groans rebound.
      Yet, mad with zeal, and blinded with our fate,
      We haul along the horse in solemn state;
      Then place the dire portent within the tow’r.
      Cassandra cried, and curs’d th’ unhappy hour;
      Foretold our fate; but, by the god’s decree,
      All heard, and none believ’d the prophecy.
      With branches we the fanes adorn, and waste,
      In jollity, the day ordain’d to be the last.
      Meantime the rapid heav’ns roll’d down the light,
      And on the shaded ocean rush’d the night;
      Our men, secure, nor guards nor sentries held,
      But easy sleep their weary limbs compell’d.
      The Grecians had embark’d their naval pow’rs
      From Tenedos, and sought our well-known shores,
      Safe under covert of the silent night,
      And guided by th’ imperial galley’s light;
      When Sinon, favour’d by the partial gods,
      Unlock’d the horse, and op’d his dark abodes;
      Restor’d to vital air our hidden foes,
      Who joyful from their long confinement rose.
      Tysander bold, and Sthenelus their guide,
      And dire Ulysses down the cable slide:
      Then Thoas, Athamas, and Pyrrhus haste;
      Nor was the Podalirian hero last,
      Nor injur’d Menelaus, nor the fam’d
      Epeus, who the fatal engine fram’d.
      A nameless crowd succeed; their forces join
      T’ invade the town, oppress’d with sleep and wine.
      Those few they find awake first meet their fate;
      Then to their fellows they unbar the gate.

      “’Twas in the dead of night, when sleep repairs
      Our bodies worn with toils, our minds with cares,
      When Hector’s ghost before my sight appears:
      A bloody shroud he seem’d, and bath’d in tears;
      Such as he was, when, by Pelides slain,
      Thessalian coursers dragg’d him o’er the plain.
      Swoln were his feet, as when the thongs were thrust
      Thro’ the bor’d holes; his body black with dust;
      Unlike that Hector who return’d from toils
      Of war, triumphant, in Aeacian spoils,
      Or him who made the fainting Greeks retire,
      And launch’d against their navy Phrygian fire.
      His hair and beard stood stiffen’d with his gore;
      And all the wounds he for his country bore
      Now stream’d afresh, and with new purple ran.
      I wept to see the visionary man,
      And, while my trance continued, thus began:
      ‘O light of Trojans, and support of Troy,
      Thy father’s champion, and thy country’s joy!
      O, long expected by thy friends! from whence
      Art thou so late return’d for our defence?
      Do we behold thee, wearied as we are
      With length of labours, and with toils of war?
      After so many fun’rals of thy own
      Art thou restor’d to thy declining town?
      But say, what wounds are these? What new disgrace
      Deforms the manly features of thy face?’

      “To this the spectre no reply did frame,
      But answer’d to the cause for which he came,
      And, groaning from the bottom of his breast,
      This warning in these mournful words express’d:
      ‘O goddess-born! escape, by timely flight,
      The flames and horrors of this fatal night.
      The foes already have possess’d the wall;
      Troy nods from high, and totters to her fall.
      Enough is paid to Priam’s royal name,
      More than enough to duty and to fame.
      If by a mortal hand my father’s throne
      Could be defended, ’twas by mine alone.
      Now Troy to thee commends her future state,
      And gives her gods companions of thy fate:
      From their assistance walls expect,
      Which, wand’ring long, at last thou shalt erect.’
      He said, and brought me, from their blest abodes,
      The venerable statues of the gods,
      With ancient Vesta from the sacred choir,
      The wreaths and relics of th’ immortal fire.

      “Now peals of shouts come thund’ring from afar,
      Cries, threats, and loud laments, and mingled war:
      The noise approaches, tho’ our palace stood
      Aloof from streets, encompass’d with a wood.
      Louder, and yet more loud, I hear th’ alarms
      Of human cries distinct, and clashing arms.
      Fear broke my slumbers; I no longer stay,
      But mount the terrace, thence the town survey,
      And hearken what the frightful sounds convey.
      Thus, when a flood of fire by wind is borne,
      Crackling it rolls, and mows the standing corn;
      Or deluges, descending on the plains,
      Sweep o’er the yellow ear, destroy the pains
      Of lab’ring oxen and the peasant’s gains;
      Unroot the forest oaks, and bear away
      Flocks, folds, and trees, and undistinguish’d prey:
      The shepherd climbs the cliff, and sees from far
      The wasteful ravage of the wat’ry war.
      Then Hector’s faith was manifestly clear’d,
      And Grecian frauds in open light appear’d.
      The palace of Deiphobus ascends
      In smoky flames, and catches on his friends.
      Ucalegon burns next: the seas are bright
      With splendour not their own, and shine with Trojan light.
      New clamours and new clangours now arise,
      The sound of trumpets mix’d with fighting cries.
      With frenzy seiz’d, I run to meet th’ alarms,
      Resolv’d on death, resolv’d to die in arms,
      But first to gather friends, with them t’ oppose
      If fortune favour’d, and repel the foes;
      Spurr’d by my courage, by my country fir’d,
      With sense of honour and revenge inspir’d.

      “Pantheus, Apollo’s priest, a sacred name,
      Had scap’d the Grecian swords, and pass’d the flame:
      With relics loaden, to my doors he fled,
      And by the hand his tender grandson led.
      ‘What hope, O Pantheus? whither can we run?
      Where make a stand? and what may yet be done?’
      Scarce had I said, when Pantheus, with a groan:
      ‘Troy is no more, and Ilium was a town!
      The fatal day, th’ appointed hour, is come,
      When wrathful Jove’s irrevocable doom
      Transfers the Trojan state to Grecian hands.
      The fire consumes the town, the foe commands;
      And armed hosts, an unexpected force,
      Break from the bowels of the fatal horse.
      Within the gates, proud Sinon throws about
      The flames; and foes for entrance press without,
      With thousand others, whom I fear to name,
      More than from Argos or Mycenae came.
      To sev’ral posts their parties they divide;
      Some block the narrow streets, some scour the wide:
      The bold they kill, th’ unwary they surprise;
      Who fights finds death, and death finds him who flies.
      The warders of the gate but scarce maintain
      Th’ unequal combat, and resist in vain.’

      “I heard; and Heav’n, that well-born souls inspires,
      Prompts me thro’ lifted swords and rising fires
      To run where clashing arms and clamour calls,
      And rush undaunted to defend the walls.
      Ripheus and Iph’itas by my side engage,
      For valour one renown’d, and one for age.
      Dymas and Hypanis by moonlight knew
      My motions and my mien, and to my party drew;
      With young Coroebus, who by love was led
      To win renown and fair Cassandra’s bed,
      And lately brought his troops to Priam’s aid,
      Forewarn’d in vain by the prophetic maid.
      Whom when I saw resolv’d in arms to fall,
      And that one spirit animated all:
      ‘Brave souls!’ said I, ‘but brave, alas! in vain:
      Come, finish what our cruel fates ordain.
      You see the desp’rate state of our affairs,
      And heav’n’s protecting pow’rs are deaf to pray’rs.
      The passive gods behold the Greeks defile
      Their temples, and abandon to the spoil
      Their own abodes: we, feeble few, conspire
      To save a sinking town, involv’d in fire.
      Then let us fall, but fall amidst our foes:
      Despair of life the means of living shows.’
      So bold a speech incourag’d their desire
      Of death, and added fuel to their fire.

      “As hungry wolves, with raging appetite,
      Scour thro’ the fields, nor fear the stormy night;
      Their whelps at home expect the promis’d food,
      And long to temper their dry chaps in blood:
      So rush’d we forth at once; resolv’d to die,
      Resolv’d, in death, the last extremes to try.
      We leave the narrow lanes behind, and dare
      Th’ unequal combat in the public square:
      Night was our friend; our leader was despair.
      What tongue can tell the slaughter of that night?
      What eyes can weep the sorrows and affright?
      An ancient and imperial city falls:
      The streets are fill’d with frequent funerals;
      Houses and holy temples float in blood,
      And hostile nations make a common flood.
      Not only Trojans fall; but, in their turn,
      The vanquish’d triumph, and the victors mourn.
      Ours take new courage from despair and night:
      Confus’d the fortune is, confus’d the fight.
      All parts resound with tumults, plaints, and fears;
      And grisly Death in sundry shapes appears.
      Androgeos fell among us, with his band,
      Who thought us Grecians newly come to land.
      ‘From whence,’ said he, ‘my friends, this long delay?
      You loiter, while the spoils are borne away:
      Our ships are laden with the Trojan store;
      And you, like truants, come too late ashore.’
      He said, but soon corrected his mistake,
      Found, by the doubtful answers which we make:
      Amaz’d, he would have shunn’d th’ unequal fight;
      But we, more num’rous, intercept his flight.
      As when some peasant, in a bushy brake,
      Has with unwary footing press’d a snake;
      He starts aside, astonish’d, when he spies
      His rising crest, blue neck, and rolling eyes;
      So from our arms surpris’d Androgeos flies.
      In vain; for him and his we compass’d round,
      Possess’d with fear, unknowing of the ground,
      And of their lives an easy conquest found.
      Thus Fortune on our first endeavor smil’d.
      Coroebus then, with youthful hopes beguil’d,
      Swoln with success, and a daring mind,
      This new invention fatally design’d.
      ‘My friends,’ said he, ‘since Fortune shows the way,
      ’Tis fit we should th’ auspicious guide obey.
      For what has she these Grecian arms bestow’d,
      But their destruction, and the Trojans’ good?
      Then change we shields, and their devices bear:
      Let fraud supply the want of force in war.
      They find us arms.’ This said, himself he dress’d
      In dead Androgeos’ spoils, his upper vest,
      His painted buckler, and his plumy crest.
      Thus Ripheus, Dymas, all the Trojan train,
      Lay down their own attire, and strip the slain.
      Mix’d with the Greeks, we go with ill presage,
      Flatter’d with hopes to glut our greedy rage;
      Unknown, assaulting whom we blindly meet,
      And strew with Grecian carcasses the street.
      Thus while their straggling parties we defeat,
      Some to the shore and safer ships retreat;
      And some, oppress’d with more ignoble fear,
      Remount the hollow horse, and pant in secret there.

      “But, ah! what use of valour can be made,
      When heav’n’s propitious pow’rs refuse their aid!
      Behold the royal prophetess, the fair
      Cassandra, dragg’d by her dishevel’d hair,
      Whom not Minerva’s shrine, nor sacred bands,
      In safety could protect from sacrilegious hands:
      On heav’n she cast her eyes, she sigh’d, she cried,
      (’Twas all she could) her tender arms were tied.
      So sad a sight Coroebus could not bear;
      But, fir’d with rage, distracted with despair,
      Amid the barb’rous ravishers he flew:
      Our leader’s rash example we pursue.
      But storms of stones, from the proud temple’s height,
      Pour down, and on our batter’d helms alight:
      We from our friends receiv’d this fatal blow,
      Who thought us Grecians, as we seem’d in show.
      They aim at the mistaken crests, from high;
      And ours beneath the pond’rous ruin lie.
      Then, mov’d with anger and disdain, to see
      Their troops dispers’d, the royal virgin free,
      The Grecians rally, and their pow’rs unite,
      With fury charge us, and renew the fight.
      The brother kings with Ajax join their force,
      And the whole squadron of Thessalian horse.

      “Thus, when the rival winds their quarrel try,
      Contending for the kingdom of the sky,
      South, east, and west, on airy coursers borne;
      The whirlwind gathers, and the woods are torn:
      Then Nereus strikes the deep; the billows rise,
      And, mix’d with ooze and sand, pollute the skies.
      The troops we squander’d first again appear
      From several quarters, and enclose the rear.
      They first observe, and to the rest betray,
      Our diff’rent speech; our borrow’d arms survey.
      Oppress’d with odds, we fall; Coroebus first,
      At Pallas’ altar, by Peneleus pierc’d.
      Then Ripheus follow’d, in th’ unequal fight;
      Just of his word, observant of the right:
      Heav’n thought not so. Dymas their fate attends,
      With Hypanis, mistaken by their friends.
      Nor, Pantheus, thee, thy mitre, nor the bands
      Of awful Phoebus, sav’d from impious hands.
      Ye Trojan flames, your testimony bear,
      What I perform’d, and what I suffer’d there;
      No sword avoiding in the fatal strife,
      Expos’d to death, and prodigal of life;
      Witness, ye heavens! I live not by my fault:
      I strove to have deserv’d the death I sought.
      But, when I could not fight, and would have died,
      Borne off to distance by the growing tide,
      Old Iphitus and I were hurried thence,
      With Pelias wounded, and without defence.
      New clamours from th’ invested palace ring:
      We run to die, or disengage the king.
      So hot th’ assault, so high the tumult rose,
      While ours defend, and while the Greeks oppose
      As all the Dardan and Argolic race
      Had been contracted in that narrow space;
      Or as all Ilium else were void of fear,
      And tumult, war, and slaughter, only there.
      Their targets in a tortoise cast, the foes,
      Secure advancing, to the turrets rose:
      Some mount the scaling ladders; some, more bold,
      Swerve upwards, and by posts and pillars hold;
      Their left hand gripes their bucklers in th’ ascent,
      While with their right they seize the battlement.
      From their demolish’d tow’rs the Trojans throw
      Huge heaps of stones, that, falling, crush the foe;
      And heavy beams and rafters from the sides
      (Such arms their last necessity provides)
      And gilded roofs, come tumbling from on high,
      The marks of state and ancient royalty.
      The guards below, fix’d in the pass, attend
      The charge undaunted, and the gate defend.
      Renew’d in courage with recover’d breath,
      A second time we ran to tempt our death,
      To clear the palace from the foe, succeed
      The weary living, and revenge the dead.

      “A postern door, yet unobserv’d and free,
      Join’d by the length of a blind gallery,
      To the king’s closet led: a way well known
      To Hector’s wife, while Priam held the throne,
      Thro’ which she brought Astyanax, unseen,
      To cheer his grandsire and his grandsire’s queen.
      Thro’ this we pass, and mount the tow’r, from whence
      With unavailing arms the Trojans make defence.
      From this the trembling king had oft descried
      The Grecian camp, and saw their navy ride.
      Beams from its lofty height with swords we hew,
      Then, wrenching with our hands, th’ assault renew;
      And, where the rafters on the columns meet,
      We push them headlong with our arms and feet.
      The lightning flies not swifter than the fall,
      Nor thunder louder than the ruin’d wall:
      Down goes the top at once; the Greeks beneath
      Are piecemeal torn, or pounded into death.
      Yet more succeed, and more to death are sent;
      We cease not from above, nor they below relent.
      Before the gate stood Pyrrhus, threat’ning loud,
      With glitt’ring arms conspicuous in the crowd.
      So shines, renew’d in youth, the crested snake,
      Who slept the winter in a thorny brake,
      And, casting off his slough when spring returns,
      Now looks aloft, and with new glory burns;
      Restor’d with poisonous herbs, his ardent sides
      Reflect the sun; and rais’d on spires he rides;
      High o’er the grass, hissing he rolls along,
      And brandishes by fits his forky tongue.
      Proud Periphas, and fierce Automedon,
      His father’s charioteer, together run
      To force the gate; the Scyrian infantry
      Rush on in crowds, and the barr’d passage free.
      Ent’ring the court, with shouts the skies they rend;
      And flaming firebrands to the roofs ascend.
      Himself, among the foremost, deals his blows,
      And with his ax repeated strokes bestows
      On the strong doors; then all their shoulders ply,
      Till from the posts the brazen hinges fly.
      He hews apace; the double bars at length
      Yield to his ax and unresisted strength.
      A mighty breach is made: the rooms conceal’d
      Appear, and all the palace is reveal’d;
      The halls of audience, and of public state,
      And where the lonely queen in secret sate.
      Arm’d soldiers now by trembling maids are seen,
      With not a door, and scarce a space, between.
      The house is fill’d with loud laments and cries,
      And shrieks of women rend the vaulted skies;
      The fearful matrons run from place to place,
      And kiss the thresholds, and the posts embrace.
      The fatal work inhuman Pyrrhus plies,
      And all his father sparkles in his eyes;
      Nor bars, nor fighting guards, his force sustain:
      The bars are broken, and the guards are slain.
      In rush the Greeks, and all the apartments fill;
      Those few defendants whom they find, they kill.
      Not with so fierce a rage the foaming flood
      Roars, when he finds his rapid course withstood;
      Bears down the dams with unresisted sway,
      And sweeps the cattle and the cots away.
      These eyes beheld him when he march’d between
      The brother kings: I saw th’ unhappy queen,
      The hundred wives, and where old Priam stood,
      To stain his hallow’d altar with his brood.
      The fifty nuptial beds (such hopes had he,
      So large a promise, of a progeny),
      The posts, of plated gold, and hung with spoils,
      Fell the reward of the proud victor’s toils.
      Where’er the raging fire had left a space,
      The Grecians enter and possess the place.

      “Perhaps you may of Priam’s fate enquire.
      He, when he saw his regal town on fire,
      His ruin’d palace, and his ent’ring foes,
      On ev’ry side inevitable woes,
      In arms, disus’d, invests his limbs, decay’d,
      Like them, with age; a late and useless aid.
      His feeble shoulders scarce the weight sustain;
      Loaded, not arm’d, he creeps along with pain,
      Despairing of success, ambitious to be slain!
      Uncover’d but by heav’n, there stood in view
      An altar; near the hearth a laurel grew,
      Dodder’d with age, whose boughs encompass round
      The household gods, and shade the holy ground.
      Here Hecuba, with all her helpless train
      Of dames, for shelter sought, but sought in vain.
      Driv’n like a flock of doves along the sky,
      Their images they hug, and to their altars fly.
      The Queen, when she beheld her trembling lord,
      And hanging by his side a heavy sword,
      ‘What rage,’ she cried, ‘has seiz’d my husband’s mind?
      What arms are these, and to what use design’d?
      These times want other aids! Were Hector here,
      Ev’n Hector now in vain, like Priam, would appear.
      With us, one common shelter thou shalt find,
      Or in one common fate with us be join’d.’
      She said, and with a last salute embrac’d
      The poor old man, and by the laurel plac’d.
      Behold! Polites, one of Priam’s sons,
      Pursued by Pyrrhus, there for safety runs.
      Thro’ swords and foes, amaz’d and hurt, he flies
      Thro’ empty courts and open galleries.
      Him Pyrrhus, urging with his lance, pursues,
      And often reaches, and his thrusts renews.
      The youth, transfix’d, with lamentable cries,
      Expires before his wretched parent’s eyes:
      Whom gasping at his feet when Priam saw,
      The fear of death gave place to nature’s law;
      And, shaking more with anger than with age,
      ‘The gods,’ said he, ‘requite thy brutal rage!
      As sure they will, barbarian, sure they must,
      If there be gods in heav’n, and gods be just:
      Who tak’st in wrongs an insolent delight;
      With a son’s death t’ infect a father’s sight.
      Not he, whom thou and lying fame conspire
      To call thee his; not he, thy vaunted sire,
      Thus us’d my wretched age: the gods he fear’d,
      The laws of nature and of nations heard.
      He cheer’d my sorrows, and, for sums of gold,
      The bloodless carcass of my Hector sold;
      Pitied the woes a parent underwent,
      And sent me back in safety from his tent.’

      “This said, his feeble hand a javelin threw,
      Which, flutt’ring, seem’d to loiter as it flew:
      Just, and but barely, to the mark it held,
      And faintly tinkled on the brazen shield.

      “Then Pyrrhus thus: ‘Go thou from me to fate,
      And to my father my foul deeds relate.
      Now die!’ With that he dragg’d the trembling sire,
      Slidd’ring thro’ clotter’d blood and holy mire,
      (The mingled paste his murder’d son had made,)
      Haul’d from beneath the violated shade,
      And on the sacred pile the royal victim laid.
      His right hand held his bloody falchion bare,
      His left he twisted in his hoary hair;
      Then, with a speeding thrust, his heart he found:
      The lukewarm blood came rushing thro’ the wound,
      And sanguine streams distain’d the sacred ground.
      Thus Priam fell, and shar’d one common fate
      With Troy in ashes, and his ruin’d state:
      He, who the scepter of all Asia sway’d,
      Whom monarchs like domestic slaves obey’d.
      On the bleak shore now lies th’ abandon’d king,
      A headless carcass, and a nameless thing.

      “Then, not before, I felt my curdled blood
      Congeal with fear, my hair with horror stood:
      My father’s image fill’d my pious mind,
      Lest equal years might equal fortune find.
      Again I thought on my forsaken wife,
      And trembled for my son’s abandon’d life.
      I look’d about, but found myself alone,
      Deserted at my need! My friends were gone.
      Some spent with toil, some with despair oppress’d,
      Leap’d headlong from the heights; the flames consum’d the rest.
      Thus, wand’ring in my way, without a guide,
      The graceless Helen in the porch I spied
      Of Vesta’s temple; there she lurk’d alone;
      Muffled she sate, and, what she could, unknown:
      But, by the flames that cast their blaze around,
      That common bane of Greece and Troy I found.
      For Ilium burnt, she dreads the Trojan sword;
      More dreads the vengeance of her injur’d lord;
      Ev’n by those gods who refug’d her abhorr’d.
      Trembling with rage, the strumpet I regard,
      Resolv’d to give her guilt the due reward:
      ‘Shall she triumphant sail before the wind,
      And leave in flames unhappy Troy behind?
      Shall she her kingdom and her friends review,
      In state attended with a captive crew,
      While unreveng’d the good old Priam falls,
      And Grecian fires consume the Trojan walls?
      For this the Phrygian fields and Xanthian flood
      Were swell’d with bodies, and were drunk with blood?
      ’Tis true, a soldier can small honour gain,
      And boast no conquest, from a woman slain:
      Yet shall the fact not pass without applause,
      Of vengeance taken in so just a cause;
      The punish’d crime shall set my soul at ease,
      And murm’ring manes of my friends appease.’
      Thus while I rave, a gleam of pleasing light
      Spread o’er the place; and, shining heav’nly bright,
      My mother stood reveal’d before my sight
      Never so radiant did her eyes appear;
      Not her own star confess’d a light so clear:
      Great in her charms, as when on gods above
      She looks, and breathes herself into their love.
      She held my hand, the destin’d blow to break;
      Then from her rosy lips began to speak:
      ‘My son, from whence this madness, this neglect
      Of my commands, and those whom I protect?
      Why this unmanly rage? Recall to mind
      Whom you forsake, what pledges leave behind.
      Look if your helpless father yet survive,
      Or if Ascanius or Creusa live.
      Around your house the greedy Grecians err;
      And these had perish’d in the nightly war,
      But for my presence and protecting care.
      Not Helen’s face, nor Paris, was in fault;
      But by the gods was this destruction brought.
      Now cast your eyes around, while I dissolve
      The mists and films that mortal eyes involve,
      Purge from your sight the dross, and make you see
      The shape of each avenging deity.
      Enlighten’d thus, my just commands fulfil,
      Nor fear obedience to your mother’s will.
      Where yon disorder’d heap of ruin lies,
      Stones rent from stones; where clouds of dust arise,
      Amid that smother Neptune holds his place,
      Below the wall’s foundation drives his mace,
      And heaves the building from the solid base.
      Look where, in arms, imperial Juno stands
      Full in the Scaean gate, with loud commands,
      Urging on shore the tardy Grecian bands.
      See! Pallas, of her snaky buckler proud,
      Bestrides the tow’r, refulgent thro’ the cloud:
      See! Jove new courage to the foe supplies,
      And arms against the town the partial deities.
      Haste hence, my son; this fruitless labour end:
      Haste, where your trembling spouse and sire attend:
      Haste; and a mother’s care your passage shall befriend.’
      She said, and swiftly vanish’d from my sight,
      Obscure in clouds and gloomy shades of night.
      I look’d, I listen’d; dreadful sounds I hear;
      And the dire forms of hostile gods appear.
      Troy sunk in flames I saw, nor could prevent;
      And Ilium from its old foundations rent;
      Rent like a mountain ash, which dar’d the winds,
      And stood the sturdy strokes of lab’ring hinds.
      About the roots the cruel ax resounds;
      The stumps are pierc’d with oft-repeated wounds:
      The war is felt on high; the nodding crown
      Now threats a fall, and throws the leafy honours down.
      To their united force it yields, tho’ late,
      And mourns with mortal groans th’ approaching fate:
      The roots no more their upper load sustain;
      But down she falls, and spreads a ruin thro’ the plain.

      “Descending thence, I scape thro’ foes and fire:
      Before the goddess, foes and flames retire.
      Arriv’d at home, he, for whose only sake,
      Or most for his, such toils I undertake,
      The good Anchises, whom, by timely flight,
      I purpos’d to secure on Ida’s height,
      Refus’d the journey, resolute to die
      And add his fun’rals to the fate of Troy,
      Rather than exile and old age sustain.
      ‘Go you, whose blood runs warm in ev’ry vein.
      Had Heav’n decreed that I should life enjoy,
      Heav’n had decreed to save unhappy Troy.
      ’Tis, sure, enough, if not too much, for one,
      Twice to have seen our Ilium overthrown.
      Make haste to save the poor remaining crew,
      And give this useless corpse a long adieu.
      These weak old hands suffice to stop my breath;
      At least the pitying foes will aid my death,
      To take my spoils, and leave my body bare:
      As for my sepulcher, let Heav’n take care.
      ’Tis long since I, for my celestial wife
      Loath’d by the gods, have dragg’d a ling’ring life;
      Since ev’ry hour and moment I expire,
      Blasted from heav’n by Jove’s avenging fire.’
      This oft repeated, he stood fix’d to die:
      Myself, my wife, my son, my family,
      Intreat, pray, beg, and raise a doleful cry.
      ‘What, will he still persist, on death resolve,
      And in his ruin all his house involve!’
      He still persists his reasons to maintain;
      Our pray’rs, our tears, our loud laments, are vain.

      “Urg’d by despair, again I go to try
      The fate of arms, resolv’d in fight to die:
      ‘What hope remains, but what my death must give?
      Can I, without so dear a father, live?
      You term it prudence, what I baseness call:
      Could such a word from such a parent fall?
      If Fortune please, and so the gods ordain,
      That nothing should of ruin’d Troy remain,
      And you conspire with Fortune to be slain,
      The way to death is wide, th’ approaches near:
      For soon relentless Pyrrhus will appear,
      Reeking with Priam’s blood: the wretch who slew
      The son (inhuman) in the father’s view,
      And then the sire himself to the dire altar drew.
      O goddess mother, give me back to Fate;
      Your gift was undesir’d, and came too late!
      Did you, for this, unhappy me convey
      Thro’ foes and fires, to see my house a prey?
      Shall I my father, wife, and son behold,
      Welt’ring in blood, each other’s arms infold?
      Haste! gird my sword, tho’ spent and overcome:
      ’Tis the last summons to receive our doom.
      I hear thee, Fate; and I obey thy call!
      Not unreveng’d the foe shall see my fall.
      Restore me to the yet unfinish’d fight:
      My death is wanting to conclude the night.’
      Arm’d once again, my glitt’ring sword I wield,
      While th’ other hand sustains my weighty shield,
      And forth I rush to seek th’ abandon’d field.
      I went; but sad Creusa stopp’d my way,
      And cross the threshold in my passage lay,
      Embrac’d my knees, and, when I would have gone,
      Shew’d me my feeble sire and tender son:
      ‘If death be your design, at least,’ said she,
      ‘Take us along to share your destiny.
      If any farther hopes in arms remain,
      This place, these pledges of your love, maintain.
      To whom do you expose your father’s life,
      Your son’s, and mine, your now forgotten wife!’
      While thus she fills the house with clam’rous cries,
      Our hearing is diverted by our eyes:
      For, while I held my son, in the short space
      Betwixt our kisses and our last embrace;
      Strange to relate, from young Iulus’ head
      A lambent flame arose, which gently spread
      Around his brows, and on his temples fed.
      Amaz’d, with running water we prepare
      To quench the sacred fire, and slake his hair;
      But old Anchises, vers’d in omens, rear’d
      His hands to heav’n, and this request preferr’d:
      ‘If any vows, almighty Jove, can bend
      Thy will; if piety can pray’rs commend,
      Confirm the glad presage which thou art pleas’d to send.’
      Scarce had he said, when, on our left, we hear
      A peal of rattling thunder roll in air:
      There shot a streaming lamp along the sky,
      Which on the winged lightning seem’d to fly;
      From o’er the roof the blaze began to move,
      And, trailing, vanish’d in th’ Idaean grove.
      It swept a path in heav’n, and shone a guide,
      Then in a steaming stench of sulphur died.

      “The good old man with suppliant hands implor’d
      The gods’ protection, and their star ador’d.
      ‘Now, now,’ said he, ‘my son, no more delay!
      I yield, I follow where Heav’n shews the way.
      Keep, O my country gods, our dwelling place,
      And guard this relic of the Trojan race,
      This tender child! These omens are your own,
      And you can yet restore the ruin’d town.
      At least accomplish what your signs foreshow:
      I stand resign’d, and am prepar’d to go.’

      “He said. The crackling flames appear on high.
      And driving sparkles dance along the sky.
      With Vulcan’s rage the rising winds conspire,
      And near our palace roll the flood of fire.
      ‘Haste, my dear father, (’tis no time to wait,)
      And load my shoulders with a willing freight.
      Whate’er befalls, your life shall be my care;
      One death, or one deliv’rance, we will share.
      My hand shall lead our little son; and you,
      My faithful consort, shall our steps pursue.
      Next, you, my servants, heed my strict commands:
      Without the walls a ruin’d temple stands,
      To Ceres hallow’d once; a cypress nigh
      Shoots up her venerable head on high,
      By long religion kept; there bend your feet,
      And in divided parties let us meet.
      Our country gods, the relics, and the bands,
      Hold you, my father, in your guiltless hands:
      In me ’tis impious holy things to bear,
      Red as I am with slaughter, new from war,
      Till in some living stream I cleanse the guilt
      Of dire debate, and blood in battle spilt.’
      Thus, ord’ring all that prudence could provide,
      I clothe my shoulders with a lion’s hide
      And yellow spoils; then, on my bending back,
      The welcome load of my dear father take;
      While on my better hand Ascanius hung,
      And with unequal paces tripp’d along.
      Creusa kept behind; by choice we stray
      Thro’ ev’ry dark and ev’ry devious way.
      I, who so bold and dauntless just before,
      The Grecian darts and shock of lances bore,
      At ev’ry shadow now am seiz’d with fear,
      Not for myself, but for the charge I bear;
      Till, near the ruin’d gate arriv’d at last,
      Secure, and deeming all the danger past,
      A frightful noise of trampling feet we hear.
      My father, looking thro’ the shades, with fear,
      Cried out: ‘Haste, haste, my son, the foes are nigh;
      Their swords and shining armour I descry.’
      Some hostile god, for some unknown offence,
      Had sure bereft my mind of better sense;
      For, while thro’ winding ways I took my flight,
      And sought the shelter of the gloomy night,
      Alas! I lost Creusa: hard to tell
      If by her fatal destiny she fell,
      Or weary sate, or wander’d with affright;
      But she was lost for ever to my sight.
      I knew not, or reflected, till I meet
      My friends, at Ceres’ now deserted seat.
      We met: not one was wanting; only she
      Deceiv’d her friends, her son, and wretched me.

      “What mad expressions did my tongue refuse!
      Whom did I not, of gods or men, accuse!
      This was the fatal blow, that pain’d me more
      Than all I felt from ruin’d Troy before.
      Stung with my loss, and raving with despair,
      Abandoning my now forgotten care,
      Of counsel, comfort, and of hope bereft,
      My sire, my son, my country gods I left.
      In shining armour once again I sheathe
      My limbs, not feeling wounds, nor fearing death.
      Then headlong to the burning walls I run,
      And seek the danger I was forc’d to shun.
      I tread my former tracks; thro’ night explore
      Each passage, ev’ry street I cross’d before.
      All things were full of horror and affright,
      And dreadful ev’n the silence of the night.
      Then to my father’s house I make repair,
      With some small glimpse of hope to find her there.
      Instead of her, the cruel Greeks I met;
      The house was fill’d with foes, with flames beset.
      Driv’n on the wings of winds, whole sheets of fire,
      Thro’ air transported, to the roofs aspire.
      From thence to Priam’s palace I resort,
      And search the citadel and desert court.
      Then, unobserv’d, I pass by Juno’s church:
      A guard of Grecians had possess’d the porch;
      There Phoenix and Ulysses watch the prey,
      And thither all the wealth of Troy convey:
      The spoils which they from ransack’d houses brought,
      And golden bowls from burning altars caught,
      The tables of the gods, the purple vests,
      The people’s treasure, and the pomp of priests.
      A rank of wretched youths, with pinion’d hands,
      And captive matrons, in long order stands.
      Then, with ungovern’d madness, I proclaim,
      Thro’ all the silent street, Creusa’s name:
      Creusa still I call; at length she hears,
      And sudden thro’ the shades of night appears.
      Appears, no more Creusa, nor my wife,
      But a pale spectre, larger than the life.
      Aghast, astonish’d, and struck dumb with fear,
      I stood; like bristles rose my stiffen’d hair.
      Then thus the ghost began to soothe my grief
      ‘Nor tears, nor cries, can give the dead relief.
      Desist, my much-lov’d lord, t’ indulge your pain;
      You bear no more than what the gods ordain.
      My fates permit me not from hence to fly;
      Nor he, the great controller of the sky.
      Long wand’ring ways for you the pow’rs decree;
      On land hard labours, and a length of sea.
      Then, after many painful years are past,
      On Latium’s happy shore you shall be cast,
      Where gentle Tiber from his bed beholds
      The flow’ry meadows, and the feeding folds.
      There end your toils; and there your fates provide
      A quiet kingdom, and a royal bride:
      There fortune shall the Trojan line restore,
      And you for lost Creusa weep no more.
      Fear not that I shall watch, with servile shame,
      Th’ imperious looks of some proud Grecian dame;
      Or, stooping to the victor’s lust, disgrace
      My goddess mother, or my royal race.
      And now, farewell! The parent of the gods
      Restrains my fleeting soul in her abodes:
      I trust our common issue to your care.’
      She said, and gliding pass’d unseen in air.
      I strove to speak: but horror tied my tongue;
      And thrice about her neck my arms I flung,
      And, thrice deceiv’d, on vain embraces hung.
      Light as an empty dream at break of day,
      Or as a blast of wind, she rush’d away.

      “Thus having pass’d the night in fruitless pain,
      I to my longing friends return again,
      Amaz’d th’ augmented number to behold,
      Of men and matrons mix’d, of young and old;
      A wretched exil’d crew together brought,
      With arms appointed, and with treasure fraught,
      Resolv’d, and willing, under my command,
      To run all hazards both of sea and land.
      The Morn began, from Ida, to display
      Her rosy cheeks; and Phosphor led the day:
      Before the gates the Grecians took their post,
      And all pretence of late relief was lost.
      I yield to Fate, unwillingly retire,
      And, loaded, up the hill convey my sire.”



 BOOK III

 THE ARGUMENT.


      Aeneas proceeds in his relation: he gives an account of the fleet
      with which he sailed, and the success of his first voyage to
      Thrace. From thence he directs his course to Delos and asks the
      oracle what place the gods had appointed for his habitation. By a
      mistake of the oracle’s answer, he settles in Crete. His
      household gods give him the true sense of the oracle in a dream.
      He follows their advice, and makes the best of his way for Italy.
      He is cast on several shores, and meets with very surprising
      adventures, till at length he lands on Sicily, where his father
      Anchises dies. This is the place which he was sailing from, when
      the tempest rose, and threw him upon the Carthaginian coast.


      When Heav’n had overturn’d the Trojan state
      And Priam’s throne, by too severe a fate;
      When ruin’d Troy became the Grecians’ prey,
      And Ilium’s lofty tow’rs in ashes lay;
      Warn’d by celestial omens, we retreat,
      To seek in foreign lands a happier seat.
      Near old Antandros, and at Ida’s foot,
      The timber of the sacred groves we cut,
      And build our fleet; uncertain yet to find
      What place the gods for our repose assign’d.
      Friends daily flock; and scarce the kindly spring
      Began to clothe the ground, and birds to sing,
      When old Anchises summon’d all to sea:
      The crew my father and the Fates obey.
      With sighs and tears I leave my native shore,
      And empty fields, where Ilium stood before.
      My sire, my son, our less and greater gods,
      All sail at once, and cleave the briny floods.

      “Against our coast appears a spacious land,
      Which once the fierce Lycurgus did command,
      Thracia the name; the people bold in war;
      Vast are their fields, and tillage is their care,
      A hospitable realm while Fate was kind,
      With Troy in friendship and religion join’d.
      I land; with luckless omens, then adore
      Their gods, and draw a line along the shore;
      I lay the deep foundations of a wall,
      And Aenos, nam’d from me, the city call.
      To Dionaean Venus vows are paid,
      And all the pow’rs that rising labours aid;
      A bull on Jove’s imperial altar laid.
      Not far, a rising hillock stood in view;
      Sharp myrtles on the sides, and cornels grew.
      There, while I went to crop the sylvan scenes,
      And shade our altar with their leafy greens,
      I pull’d a plant; with horror I relate
      A prodigy so strange and full of fate.
      The rooted fibers rose, and from the wound
      Black bloody drops distill’d upon the ground.
      Mute and amaz’d, my hair with terror stood;
      Fear shrunk my sinews, and congeal’d my blood.
      Mann’d once again, another plant I try:
      That other gush’d with the same sanguine dye.
      Then, fearing guilt for some offence unknown,
      With pray’rs and vows the Dryads I atone,
      With all the sisters of the woods, and most
      The God of Arms, who rules the Thracian coast,
      That they, or he, these omens would avert,
      Release our fears, and better signs impart.
      Clear’d, as I thought, and fully fix’d at length
      To learn the cause, I tugged with all my strength:
      I bent my knees against the ground; once more
      The violated myrtle ran with gore.
      Scarce dare I tell the sequel: from the womb
      Of wounded earth, and caverns of the tomb,
      A groan, as of a troubled ghost, renew’d
      My fright, and then these dreadful words ensued:
      ‘Why dost thou thus my buried body rend?
      O spare the corpse of thy unhappy friend!
      Spare to pollute thy pious hands with blood:
      The tears distil not from the wounded wood;
      But ev’ry drop this living tree contains
      Is kindred blood, and ran in Trojan veins.
      O fly from this unhospitable shore,
      Warn’d by my fate; for I am Polydore!
      Here loads of lances, in my blood embrued,
      Again shoot upward, by my blood renew’d.’

      “My falt’ring tongue and shiv’ring limbs declare
      My horror, and in bristles rose my hair.
      When Troy with Grecian arms was closely pent,
      Old Priam, fearful of the war’s event,
      This hapless Polydore to Thracia sent:
      Loaded with gold, he sent his darling, far
      From noise and tumults, and destructive war,
      Committed to the faithless tyrant’s care;
      Who, when he saw the pow’r of Troy decline,
      Forsook the weaker, with the strong to join;
      Broke ev’ry bond of nature and of truth,
      And murder’d, for his wealth, the royal youth.
      O sacred hunger of pernicious gold!
      What bands of faith can impious lucre hold?
      Now, when my soul had shaken off her fears,
      I call my father and the Trojan peers;
      Relate the prodigies of Heav’n, require
      What he commands, and their advice desire.
      All vote to leave that execrable shore,
      Polluted with the blood of Polydore;
      But, ere we sail, his fun’ral rites prepare,
      Then, to his ghost, a tomb and altars rear.
      In mournful pomp the matrons walk the round,
      With baleful cypress and blue fillets crown’d,
      With eyes dejected, and with hair unbound.
      Then bowls of tepid milk and blood we pour,
      And thrice invoke the soul of Polydore.

      “Now, when the raging storms no longer reign,
      But southern gales invite us to the main,
      We launch our vessels, with a prosp’rous wind,
      And leave the cities and the shores behind.

      “An island in th’ Aegaean main appears;
      Neptune and wat’ry Doris claim it theirs.
      It floated once, till Phoebus fix’d the sides
      To rooted earth, and now it braves the tides.
      Here, borne by friendly winds, we come ashore,
      With needful ease our weary limbs restore,
      And the Sun’s temple and his town adore.

      “Anius, the priest and king, with laurel crown’d,
      His hoary locks with purple fillets bound,
      Who saw my sire the Delian shore ascend,
      Came forth with eager haste to meet his friend;
      Invites him to his palace; and, in sign
      Of ancient love, their plighted hands they join.
      Then to the temple of the god I went,
      And thus, before the shrine, my vows present:
      ‘Give, O Thymbraeus, give a resting place
      To the sad relics of the Trojan race;
      A seat secure, a region of their own,
      A lasting empire, and a happier town.
      Where shall we fix? where shall our labours end?
      Whom shall we follow, and what fate attend?
      Let not my pray’rs a doubtful answer find;
      But in clear auguries unveil thy mind.’
      Scarce had I said: he shook the holy ground,
      The laurels, and the lofty hills around;
      And from the tripos rush’d a bellowing sound.
      Prostrate we fell; confess’d the present god,
      Who gave this answer from his dark abode:
      ‘Undaunted youths, go, seek that mother earth
      From which your ancestors derive their birth.
      The soil that sent you forth, her ancient race
      In her old bosom shall again embrace.
      Through the wide world th’ Aeneian house shall reign,
      And children’s children shall the crown sustain.’
      Thus Phoebus did our future fates disclose:
      A mighty tumult, mix’d with joy, arose.

      “All are concern’d to know what place the god
      Assign’d, and where determin’d our abode.
      My father, long revolving in his mind
      The race and lineage of the Trojan kind,
      Thus answer’d their demands: ‘Ye princes, hear
      Your pleasing fortune, and dispel your fear.
      The fruitful isle of Crete, well known to fame,
      Sacred of old to Jove’s imperial name,
      In the mid ocean lies, with large command,
      And on its plains a hundred cities stand.
      Another Ida rises there, and we
      From thence derive our Trojan ancestry.
      From thence, as ’tis divulg’d by certain fame,
      To the Rhoetean shores old Teucrus came;
      There fix’d, and there the seat of empire chose,
      Ere Ilium and the Trojan tow’rs arose.
      In humble vales they built their soft abodes,
      Till Cybele, the mother of the gods,
      With tinkling cymbals charm’d th’ Idaean woods,
      She secret rites and ceremonies taught,
      And to the yoke the savage lions brought.
      Let us the land which Heav’n appoints, explore;
      Appease the winds, and seek the Gnossian shore.
      If Jove assists the passage of our fleet,
      The third propitious dawn discovers Crete.’
      Thus having said, the sacrifices, laid
      On smoking altars, to the gods he paid:
      A bull, to Neptune an oblation due,
      Another bull to bright Apollo slew;
      A milk-white ewe, the western winds to please,
      And one coal-black, to calm the stormy seas.
      Ere this, a flying rumour had been spread
      That fierce Idomeneus from Crete was fled,
      Expell’d and exil’d; that the coast was free
      From foreign or domestic enemy.

      “We leave the Delian ports, and put to sea.
      By Naxos, fam’d for vintage, make our way;
      Then green Donysa pass; and sail in sight
      Of Paros’ isle, with marble quarries white.
      We pass the scatter’d isles of Cyclades,
      That, scarce distinguish’d, seem to stud the seas.
      The shouts of sailors double near the shores;
      They stretch their canvas, and they ply their oars.
      ‘All hands aloft! for Crete! for Crete!’ they cry,
      And swiftly thro’ the foamy billows fly.
      Full on the promis’d land at length we bore,
      With joy descending on the Cretan shore.
      With eager haste a rising town I frame,
      Which from the Trojan Pergamus I name:
      The name itself was grateful; I exhort
      To found their houses, and erect a fort.
      Our ships are haul’d upon the yellow strand;
      The youth begin to till the labour’d land;
      And I myself new marriages promote,
      Give laws, and dwellings I divide by lot;
      When rising vapours choke the wholesome air,
      And blasts of noisome winds corrupt the year;
      The trees devouring caterpillars burn;
      Parch’d was the grass, and blighted was the corn:
      Nor ’scape the beasts; for Sirius, from on high,
      With pestilential heat infects the sky:
      My men, some fall, the rest in fevers fry.
      Again my father bids me seek the shore
      Of sacred Delos, and the god implore,
      To learn what end of woes we might expect,
      And to what clime our weary course direct.

      “’Twas night, when ev’ry creature, void of cares,
      The common gift of balmy slumber shares:
      The statues of my gods (for such they seem’d),
      Those gods whom I from flaming Troy redeem’d,
      Before me stood, majestically bright,
      Full in the beams of Phoebe’s ent’ring light.
      Then thus they spoke, and eas’d my troubled mind:
      ‘What from the Delian god thou go’st to find,
      He tells thee here, and sends us to relate.
      Those pow’rs are we, companions of thy fate,
      Who from the burning town by thee were brought,
      Thy fortune follow’d, and thy safety wrought.
      Thro’ seas and lands as we thy steps attend,
      So shall our care thy glorious race befriend.
      An ample realm for thee thy fates ordain,
      A town that o’er the conquer’d world shall reign.
      Thou, mighty walls for mighty nations build;
      Nor let thy weary mind to labours yield:
      But change thy seat; for not the Delian god,
      Nor we, have giv’n thee Crete for our abode.
      A land there is, Hesperia call’d of old,
      The soil is fruitful, and the natives bold.
      Th’ Oenotrians held it once, by later fame
      Now call’d Italia, from the leader’s name.
      Jasius there and Dardanus were born;
      From thence we came, and thither must return.
      Rise, and thy sire with these glad tidings greet.
      Search Italy; for Jove denies thee Crete.’

      “Astonish’d at their voices and their sight,
      (Nor were they dreams, but visions of the night;
      I saw, I knew their faces, and descried,
      In perfect view, their hair with fillets tied;)
      I started from my couch; a clammy sweat
      On all my limbs and shiv’ring body sate.
      To heav’n I lift my hands with pious haste,
      And sacred incense in the flames I cast.
      Thus to the gods their perfect honours done,
      More cheerful, to my good old sire I run,
      And tell the pleasing news. In little space
      He found his error of the double race;
      Not, as before he deem’d, deriv’d from Crete;
      No more deluded by the doubtful seat:
      Then said: ‘O son, turmoil’d in Trojan fate!
      Such things as these Cassandra did relate.
      This day revives within my mind what she
      Foretold of Troy renew’d in Italy,
      And Latian lands; but who could then have thought
      That Phrygian gods to Latium should be brought,
      Or who believ’d what mad Cassandra taught?
      Now let us go where Phoebus leads the way.’

      “He said; and we with glad consent obey,
      Forsake the seat, and, leaving few behind,
      We spread our sails before the willing wind.
      Now from the sight of land our galleys move,
      With only seas around and skies above;
      When o’er our heads descends a burst of rain,
      And night with sable clouds involves the main;
      The ruffling winds the foamy billows raise;
      The scatter’d fleet is forc’d to sev’ral ways;
      The face of heav’n is ravish’d from our eyes,
      And in redoubled peals the roaring thunder flies.
      Cast from our course, we wander in the dark.
      No stars to guide, no point of land to mark.
      Ev’n Palinurus no distinction found
      Betwixt the night and day; such darkness reign’d around.
      Three starless nights the doubtful navy strays,
      Without distinction, and three sunless days;
      The fourth renews the light, and, from our shrouds,
      We view a rising land, like distant clouds;
      The mountain-tops confirm the pleasing sight,
      And curling smoke ascending from their height.
      The canvas falls; their oars the sailors ply;
      From the rude strokes the whirling waters fly.
      At length I land upon the Strophades,
      Safe from the danger of the stormy seas.
      Those isles are compass’d by th’ Ionian main,
      The dire abode where the foul Harpies reign,
      Forc’d by the winged warriors to repair
      To their old homes, and leave their costly fare.
      Monsters more fierce offended Heav’n ne’er sent
      From hell’s abyss, for human punishment:
      With virgin faces, but with wombs obscene,
      Foul paunches, and with ordure still unclean;
      With claws for hands, and looks for ever lean.

      “We landed at the port, and soon beheld
      Fat herds of oxen graze the flow’ry field,
      And wanton goats without a keeper stray’d.
      With weapons we the welcome prey invade,
      Then call the gods for partners of our feast,
      And Jove himself, the chief invited guest.
      We spread the tables on the greensward ground;
      We feed with hunger, and the bowls go round;
      When from the mountain-tops, with hideous cry,
      And clatt’ring wings, the hungry Harpies fly;
      They snatch the meat, defiling all they find,
      And, parting, leave a loathsome stench behind.
      Close by a hollow rock, again we sit,
      New dress the dinner, and the beds refit,
      Secure from sight, beneath a pleasing shade,
      Where tufted trees a native arbour made.
      Again the holy fires on altars burn;
      And once again the rav’nous birds return,
      Or from the dark recesses where they lie,
      Or from another quarter of the sky;
      With filthy claws their odious meal repeat,
      And mix their loathsome ordures with their meat.
      I bid my friends for vengeance then prepare,
      And with the hellish nation wage the war.
      They, as commanded, for the fight provide,
      And in the grass their glitt’ring weapons hide;
      Then, when along the crooked shore we hear
      Their clatt’ring wings, and saw the foes appear,
      Misenus sounds a charge: we take th’ alarm,
      And our strong hands with swords and bucklers arm.
      In this new kind of combat all employ
      Their utmost force, the monsters to destroy.
      In vain, the fated skin is proof to wounds;
      And from their plumes the shining sword rebounds.
      At length rebuff’d, they leave their mangled prey,
      And their stretch’d pinions to the skies display.
      Yet one remain’d, the messenger of Fate:
      High on a craggy cliff Celaeno sate,
      And thus her dismal errand did relate:
      ‘What! not contented with our oxen slain,
      Dare you with Heav’n an impious war maintain,
      And drive the Harpies from their native reign?
      Heed therefore what I say; and keep in mind
      What Jove decrees, what Phoebus has design’d,
      And I, the Furies’ queen, from both relate:
      You seek th’ Italian shores, foredoom’d by fate:
      Th’ Italian shores are granted you to find,
      And a safe passage to the port assign’d.
      But know, that ere your promis’d walls you build,
      My curses shall severely be fulfill’d.
      Fierce famine is your lot for this misdeed,
      Reduc’d to grind the plates on which you feed.’
      She said, and to the neighb’ring forest flew.
      Our courage fails us, and our fears renew.
      Hopeless to win by war, to pray’rs we fall,
      And on th’ offended Harpies humbly call,
      And whether gods or birds obscene they were,
      Our vows for pardon and for peace prefer.
      But old Anchises, off’ring sacrifice,
      And lifting up to heav’n his hands and eyes,
      Ador’d the greater gods: ‘Avert,’ said he,
      ‘These omens; render vain this prophecy,
      And from th’ impending curse a pious people free!’

      “Thus having said, he bids us put to sea;
      We loose from shore our haulsers, and obey,
      And soon with swelling sails pursue the wat’ry way.
      Amidst our course, Zacynthian woods appear;
      And next by rocky Neritos we steer:
      We fly from Ithaca’s detested shore,
      And curse the land which dire Ulysses bore.
      At length Leucate’s cloudy top appears,
      And the Sun’s temple, which the sailor fears.
      Resolv’d to breathe a while from labour past,
      Our crooked anchors from the prow we cast,
      And joyful to the little city haste.
      Here, safe beyond our hopes, our vows we pay
      To Jove, the guide and patron of our way.
      The customs of our country we pursue,
      And Trojan games on Actian shores renew.
      Our youth their naked limbs besmear with oil,
      And exercise the wrastlers’ noble toil;
      Pleas’d to have sail’d so long before the wind,
      And left so many Grecian towns behind.
      The sun had now fulfill’d his annual course,
      And Boreas on the seas display’d his force:
      I fix’d upon the temple’s lofty door
      The brazen shield which vanquish’d Abas bore;
      The verse beneath my name and action speaks:
      ‘These arms Aeneas took from conqu’ring Greeks.’
      Then I command to weigh; the seamen ply
      Their sweeping oars; the smoking billows fly.
      The sight of high Phaeacia soon we lost,
      And skimm’d along Epirus’ rocky coast.

      “Then to Chaonia’s port our course we bend,
      And, landed, to Buthrotus’ heights ascend.
      Here wondrous things were loudly blaz’d fame:
      How Helenus reviv’d the Trojan name,
      And reign’d in Greece; that Priam’s captive son
      Succeeded Pyrrhus in his bed and throne;
      And fair Andromache, restor’d by fate,
      Once more was happy in a Trojan mate.
      I leave my galleys riding in the port,
      And long to see the new Dardanian court.
      By chance, the mournful queen, before the gate,
      Then solemniz’d her former husband’s fate.
      Green altars, rais’d of turf, with gifts she crown’d,
      And sacred priests in order stand around,
      And thrice the name of hapless Hector sound.
      The grove itself resembles Ida’s wood;
      And Simois seem’d the well-dissembled flood.
      But when at nearer distance she beheld
      My shining armour and my Trojan shield,
      Astonish’d at the sight, the vital heat
      Forsakes her limbs; her veins no longer beat:
      She faints, she falls, and scarce recov’ring strength,
      Thus, with a falt’ring tongue, she speaks at length:

      “‘Are you alive, O goddess-born?’ she said,
      ‘Or if a ghost, then where is Hector’s shade?’
      At this, she cast a loud and frightful cry.
      With broken words I made this brief reply:
      ‘All of me that remains appears in sight;
      I live, if living be to loathe the light.
      No phantom; but I drag a wretched life,
      My fate resembling that of Hector’s wife.
      What have you suffer’d since you lost your lord?
      By what strange blessing are you now restor’d?
      Still are you Hector’s? or is Hector fled,
      And his remembrance lost in Pyrrhus’ bed?’
      With eyes dejected, in a lowly tone,
      After a modest pause she thus begun:

      “‘O only happy maid of Priam’s race,
      Whom death deliver’d from the foes’ embrace!
      Commanded on Achilles’ tomb to die,
      Not forc’d, like us, to hard captivity,
      Or in a haughty master’s arms to lie.
      In Grecian ships unhappy we were borne,
      Endur’d the victor’s lust, sustain’d the scorn:
      Thus I submitted to the lawless pride
      Of Pyrrhus, more a handmaid than a bride.
      Cloy’d with possession, he forsook my bed,
      And Helen’s lovely daughter sought to wed;
      Then me to Trojan Helenus resign’d,
      And his two slaves in equal marriage join’d;
      Till young Orestes, pierc’d with deep despair,
      And longing to redeem the promis’d fair,
      Before Apollo’s altar slew the ravisher.
      By Pyrrhus’ death the kingdom we regain’d:
      At least one half with Helenus remain’d.
      Our part, from Chaon, he Chaonia calls,
      And names from Pergamus his rising walls.
      But you, what fates have landed on our coast?
      What gods have sent you, or what storms have toss’d?
      Does young Ascanius life and health enjoy,
      Sav’d from the ruins of unhappy Troy?
      O tell me how his mother’s loss he bears,
      What hopes are promis’d from his blooming years,
      How much of Hector in his face appears?’
      She spoke; and mix’d her speech with mournful cries,
      And fruitless tears came trickling from her eyes.

      “At length her lord descends upon the plain,
      In pomp, attended with a num’rous train;
      Receives his friends, and to the city leads,
      And tears of joy amidst his welcome sheds.
      Proceeding on, another Troy I see,
      Or, in less compass, Troy’s epitome.
      A riv’let by the name of Xanthus ran,
      And I embrace the Scaean gate again.
      My friends in porticoes were entertain’d,
      And feasts and pleasures thro’ the city reign’d.
      The tables fill’d the spacious hall around,
      And golden bowls with sparkling wine were crown’d.
      Two days we pass’d in mirth, till friendly gales,
      Blown from the south supplied our swelling sails.
      Then to the royal seer I thus began:
      ‘O thou, who know’st, beyond the reach of man,
      The laws of heav’n, and what the stars decree;
      Whom Phoebus taught unerring prophecy,
      From his own tripod, and his holy tree;
      Skill’d in the wing’d inhabitants of air,
      What auspices their notes and flights declare:
      O say; for all religious rites portend
      A happy voyage, and a prosp’rous end;
      And ev’ry power and omen of the sky
      Direct my course for destin’d Italy;
      But only dire Celaeno, from the gods,
      A dismal famine fatally forebodes:
      O say what dangers I am first to shun,
      What toils vanquish, and what course to run.’

      “The prophet first with sacrifice adores
      The greater gods; their pardon then implores;
      Unbinds the fillet from his holy head;
      To Phoebus, next, my trembling steps he led,
      Full of religious doubts and awful dread.
      Then, with his god possess’d, before the shrine,
      These words proceeded from his mouth divine:
      ‘O goddess-born, (for Heav’n’s appointed will,
      With greater auspices of good than ill,
      Foreshows thy voyage, and thy course directs;
      Thy fates conspire, and Jove himself protects,)
      Of many things some few I shall explain,
      Teach thee to shun the dangers of the main,
      And how at length the promis’d shore to gain.
      The rest the fates from Helenus conceal,
      And Juno’s angry pow’r forbids to tell.
      First, then, that happy shore, that seems so nigh,
      Will far from your deluded wishes fly;
      Long tracts of seas divide your hopes from Italy:
      For you must cruise along Sicilian shores,
      And stem the currents with your struggling oars;
      Then round th’ Italian coast your navy steer;
      And, after this, to Circe’s island veer;
      And, last, before your new foundations rise,
      Must pass the Stygian lake, and view the nether skies.
      Now mark the signs of future ease and rest,
      And bear them safely treasur’d in thy breast.
      When, in the shady shelter of a wood,
      And near the margin of a gentle flood,
      Thou shalt behold a sow upon the ground,
      With thirty sucking young encompass’d round;
      The dam and offspring white as falling snow:
      These on thy city shall their name bestow,
      And there shall end thy labours and thy woe.
      Nor let the threaten’d famine fright thy mind,
      For Phoebus will assist, and Fate the way will find.
      Let not thy course to that ill coast be bent,
      Which fronts from far th’ Epirian continent:
      Those parts are all by Grecian foes possess’d;
      The salvage Locrians here the shores infest;
      There fierce Idomeneus his city builds,
      And guards with arms the Salentinian fields;
      And on the mountain’s brow Petilia stands,
      Which Philoctetes with his troops commands.
      Ev’n when thy fleet is landed on the shore,
      And priests with holy vows the gods adore,
      Then with a purple veil involve your eyes,
      Lest hostile faces blast the sacrifice.
      These rites and customs to the rest commend,
      That to your pious race they may descend.

      ‘When, parted hence, the wind, that ready waits
      For Sicily, shall bear you to the straits
      Where proud Pelorus opes a wider way,
      Tack to the larboard, and stand off to sea:
      Veer starboard sea and land. Th’ Italian shore
      And fair Sicilia’s coast were one, before
      An earthquake caus’d the flaw: the roaring tides
      The passage broke that land from land divides;
      And where the lands retir’d, the rushing ocean rides.
      Distinguish’d by the straits, on either hand,
      Now rising cities in long order stand,
      And fruitful fields: so much can time invade
      The mould’ring work that beauteous Nature made.
      Far on the right, her dogs foul Scylla hides:
      Charybdis roaring on the left presides,
      And in her greedy whirlpool sucks the tides;
      Then spouts them from below: with fury driv’n,
      The waves mount up and wash the face of heav’n.
      But Scylla from her den, with open jaws,
      The sinking vessel in her eddy draws,
      Then dashes on the rocks. A human face,
      And virgin bosom, hides her tail’s disgrace:
      Her parts obscene below the waves descend,
      With dogs inclos’d, and in a dolphin end.
      ’Tis safer, then, to bear aloof to sea,
      And coast Pachynus, tho’ with more delay,
      Than once to view misshapen Scylla near,
      And the loud yell of wat’ry wolves to hear.

      “‘Besides, if faith to Helenus be due,
      And if prophetic Phoebus tell me true,
      Do not this precept of your friend forget,
      Which therefore more than once I must repeat:
      Above the rest, great Juno’s name adore;
      Pay vows to Juno; Juno’s aid implore.
      Let gifts be to the mighty queen design’d,
      And mollify with pray’rs her haughty mind.
      Thus, at the length, your passage shall be free,
      And you shall safe descend on Italy.
      Arriv’d at Cumae, when you view the flood
      Of black Avernus, and the sounding wood,
      The mad prophetic Sibyl you shall find,
      Dark in a cave, and on a rock reclin’d.
      She sings the fates, and, in her frantic fits,
      The notes and names, inscrib’d, to leafs commits.
      What she commits to leafs, in order laid,
      Before the cavern’s entrance are display’d:
      Unmov’d they lie; but, if a blast of wind
      Without, or vapours issue from behind,
      The leafs are borne aloft in liquid air,
      And she resumes no more her museful care,
      Nor gathers from the rocks her scatter’d verse,
      Nor sets in order what the winds disperse.
      Thus, many not succeeding, most upbraid
      The madness of the visionary maid,
      And with loud curses leave the mystic shade.

      “‘Think it not loss of time a while to stay,
      Tho’ thy companions chide thy long delay;
      Tho’ summon’d to the seas, tho’ pleasing gales
      Invite thy course, and stretch thy swelling sails:
      But beg the sacred priestess to relate
      With willing words, and not to write thy fate.
      The fierce Italian people she will show,
      And all thy wars, and all thy future woe,
      And what thou may’st avoid, and what must undergo.
      She shall direct thy course, instruct thy mind,
      And teach thee how the happy shores to find.
      This is what Heav’n allows me to relate:
      Now part in peace; pursue thy better fate,
      And raise, by strength of arms, the Trojan state.’

      “This when the priest with friendly voice declar’d,
      He gave me license, and rich gifts prepar’d:
      Bounteous of treasure, he supplied my want
      With heavy gold, and polish’d elephant;
      Then Dodonaean caldrons put on board,
      And ev’ry ship with sums of silver stor’d.
      A trusty coat of mail to me he sent,
      Thrice chain’d with gold, for use and ornament;
      The helm of Pyrrhus added to the rest,
      That flourish’d with a plume and waving crest.
      Nor was my sire forgotten, nor my friends;
      And large recruits he to my navy sends:
      Men, horses, captains, arms, and warlike stores;
      Supplies new pilots, and new sweeping oars.
      Meantime, my sire commands to hoist our sails,
      Lest we should lose the first auspicious gales.

      “The prophet bless’d the parting crew, and last,
      With words like these, his ancient friend embrac’d:
      ‘Old happy man, the care of gods above,
      Whom heav’nly Venus honour’d with her love,
      And twice preserv’d thy life, when Troy was lost,
      Behold from far the wish’d Ausonian coast:
      There land; but take a larger compass round,
      For that before is all forbidden ground.
      The shore that Phoebus has design’d for you,
      At farther distance lies, conceal’d from view.
      Go happy hence, and seek your new abodes,
      Blest in a son, and favour’d by the gods:
      For I with useless words prolong your stay,
      When southern gales have summon’d you away.’

      “Nor less the queen our parting thence deplor’d,
      Nor was less bounteous than her Trojan lord.
      A noble present to my son she brought,
      A robe with flow’rs on golden tissue wrought,
      A phrygian vest; and loads with gifts beside
      Of precious texture, and of Asian pride.
      ‘Accept,’ she said, ‘these monuments of love,
      Which in my youth with happier hands I wove:
      Regard these trifles for the giver’s sake;
      ’Tis the last present Hector’s wife can make.
      Thou call’st my lost Astyanax to mind;
      In thee his features and his form I find:
      His eyes so sparkled with a lively flame;
      Such were his motions; such was all his frame;
      And ah! had Heav’n so pleas’d, his years had been the same.’

      “With tears I took my last adieu, and said:
      ‘Your fortune, happy pair, already made,
      Leaves you no farther wish. My diff’rent state,
      Avoiding one, incurs another fate.
      To you a quiet seat the gods allow:
      You have no shores to search, no seas to plow,
      Nor fields of flying Italy to chase:
      (Deluding visions, and a vain embrace!)
      You see another Simois, and enjoy
      The labour of your hands, another Troy,
      With better auspice than her ancient tow’rs,
      And less obnoxious to the Grecian pow’rs.
      If e’er the gods, whom I with vows adore,
      Conduct my steps to Tiber’s happy shore;
      If ever I ascend the Latian throne,
      And build a city I may call my own;
      As both of us our birth from Troy derive,
      So let our kindred lines in concord live,
      And both in acts of equal friendship strive.
      Our fortunes, good or bad, shall be the same:
      The double Troy shall differ but in name;
      That what we now begin may never end,
      But long to late posterity descend.’

      “Near the Ceraunian rocks our course we bore;
      The shortest passage to th’ Italian shore.
      Now had the sun withdrawn his radiant light,
      And hills were hid in dusky shades of night:
      We land, and, on the bosom of the ground,
      A safe retreat and a bare lodging found.
      Close by the shore we lay; the sailors keep
      Their watches, and the rest securely sleep.
      The night, proceeding on with silent pace,
      Stood in her noon, and view’d with equal face
      Her steepy rise and her declining race.
      Then wakeful Palinurus rose, to spy
      The face of heav’n, and the nocturnal sky;
      And listen’d ev’ry breath of air to try;
      Observes the stars, and notes their sliding course,
      The Pleiads, Hyads, and their wat’ry force;
      And both the Bears is careful to behold,
      And bright Orion, arm’d with burnish’d gold.
      Then, when he saw no threat’ning tempest nigh,
      But a sure promise of a settled sky,
      He gave the sign to weigh; we break our sleep,
      Forsake the pleasing shore, and plow the deep.

      “And now the rising morn with rosy light
      Adorns the skies, and puts the stars to flight;
      When we from far, like bluish mists, descry
      The hills, and then the plains, of Italy.
      Achates first pronounc’d the joyful sound;
      Then, ‘Italy!’ the cheerful crew rebound.
      My sire Anchises crown’d a cup with wine,
      And, off’ring, thus implor’d the pow’rs divine:
      ‘Ye gods, presiding over lands and seas,
      And you who raging winds and waves appease,
      Breathe on our swelling sails a prosp’rous wind,
      And smooth our passage to the port assign’d!’
      The gentle gales their flagging force renew,
      And now the happy harbour is in view.
      Minerva’s temple then salutes our sight,
      Plac’d, as a landmark, on the mountain’s height.
      We furl our sails, and turn the prows to shore;
      The curling waters round the galleys roar.
      The land lies open to the raging east,
      Then, bending like a bow, with rocks compress’d,
      Shuts out the storms; the winds and waves complain,
      And vent their malice on the cliffs in vain.
      The port lies hid within; on either side
      Two tow’ring rocks the narrow mouth divide.
      The temple, which aloft we view’d before,
      To distance flies, and seems to shun the shore.
      Scarce landed, the first omens I beheld
      Were four white steeds that cropp’d the flow’ry field.
      ‘War, war is threaten’d from this foreign ground,’
      My father cried, ‘where warlike steeds are found.
      Yet, since reclaim’d to chariots they submit,
      And bend to stubborn yokes, and champ the bit,
      Peace may succeed to war.’ Our way we bend
      To Pallas, and the sacred hill ascend;
      There prostrate to the fierce Virago pray,
      Whose temple was the landmark of our way.
      Each with a Phrygian mantle veil’d his head,
      And all commands of Helenus obey’d,
      And pious rites to Grecian Juno paid.
      These dues perform’d, we stretch our sails, and stand
      To sea, forsaking that suspected land.

      “From hence Tarentum’s bay appears in view,
      For Hercules renown’d, if fame be true.
      Just opposite, Lacinian Juno stands;
      Caulonian tow’rs, and Scylacaean strands,
      For shipwrecks fear’d. Mount Aetna thence we spy,
      Known by the smoky flames which cloud the sky.
      Far off we hear the waves with surly sound
      Invade the rocks, the rocks their groans rebound.
      The billows break upon the sounding strand,
      And roll the rising tide, impure with sand.
      Then thus Anchises, in experience old:
      ‘’Tis that Charybdis which the seer foretold,
      And those the promis’d rocks! Bear off to sea!’
      With haste the frighted mariners obey.
      First Palinurus to the larboard veer’d;
      Then all the fleet by his example steer’d.
      To heav’n aloft on ridgy waves we ride,
      Then down to hell descend, when they divide;
      And thrice our galleys knock’d the stony ground,
      And thrice the hollow rocks return’d the sound,
      And thrice we saw the stars, that stood with dews around.
      The flagging winds forsook us, with the sun;
      And, wearied, on Cyclopian shores we run.
      The port capacious, and secure from wind,
      Is to the foot of thund’ring Aetna join’d.
      By turns a pitchy cloud she rolls on high;
      By turns hot embers from her entrails fly,
      And flakes of mounting flames, that lick the sky.
      Oft from her bowels massy rocks are thrown,
      And, shiver’d by the force, come piecemeal down.
      Oft liquid lakes of burning sulphur flow,
      Fed from the fiery springs that boil below.
      Enceladus, they say, transfix’d by Jove,
      With blasted limbs came tumbling from above;
      And, where he fell, th’ avenging father drew
      This flaming hill, and on his body threw.
      As often as he turns his weary sides,
      He shakes the solid isle, and smoke the heavens hides.
      In shady woods we pass the tedious night,
      Where bellowing sounds and groans our souls affright,
      Of which no cause is offer’d to the sight;
      For not one star was kindled in the sky,
      Nor could the moon her borrow’d light supply;
      For misty clouds involv’d the firmament,
      The stars were muffled, and the moon was pent.

      “Scarce had the rising sun the day reveal’d,
      Scarce had his heat the pearly dews dispell’d,
      When from the woods there bolts, before our sight,
      Somewhat betwixt a mortal and a sprite,
      So thin, so ghastly meager, and so wan,
      So bare of flesh, he scarce resembled man.
      This thing, all tatter’d, seem’d from far t’implore
      Our pious aid, and pointed to the shore.
      We look behind, then view his shaggy beard;
      His clothes were tagg’d with thorns, and filth his limbs
      besmear’d;
      The rest, in mien, in habit, and in face,
      Appear’d a Greek, and such indeed he was.
      He cast on us, from far, a frightful view,
      Whom soon for Trojans and for foes he knew;
      Stood still, and paus’d; then all at once began
      To stretch his limbs, and trembled as he ran.
      Soon as approach’d, upon his knees he falls,
      And thus with tears and sighs for pity calls:
      ‘Now, by the pow’rs above, and what we share
      From Nature’s common gift, this vital air,
      O Trojans, take me hence! I beg no more;
      But bear me far from this unhappy shore.
      ’Tis true, I am a Greek, and farther own,
      Among your foes besieg’d th’ imperial town.
      For such demerits if my death be due,
      No more for this abandon’d life I sue;
      This only favour let my tears obtain,
      To throw me headlong in the rapid main:
      Since nothing more than death my crime demands,
      I die content, to die by human hands.’
      He said, and on his knees my knees embrac’d:
      I bade him boldly tell his fortune past,
      His present state, his lineage, and his name,
      Th’ occasion of his fears, and whence he came.
      The good Anchises rais’d him with his hand;
      Who, thus encourag’d, answer’d our demand:
      ‘From Ithaca, my native soil, I came
      To Troy; and Achaemenides my name.
      Me my poor father with Ulysses sent;
      (O had I stay’d, with poverty content!)
      But, fearful for themselves, my countrymen
      Left me forsaken in the Cyclops’ den.
      The cave, tho’ large, was dark; the dismal floor
      Was pav’d with mangled limbs and putrid gore.
      Our monstrous host, of more than human size,
      Erects his head, and stares within the skies;
      Bellowing his voice, and horrid is his hue.
      Ye gods, remove this plague from mortal view!
      The joints of slaughter’d wretches are his food;
      And for his wine he quaffs the streaming blood.
      These eyes beheld, when with his spacious hand
      He seiz’d two captives of our Grecian band;
      Stretch’d on his back, he dash’d against the stones
      Their broken bodies, and their crackling bones:
      With spouting blood the purple pavement swims,
      While the dire glutton grinds the trembling limbs.

      “‘Not unreveng’d Ulysses bore their fate,
      Nor thoughtless of his own unhappy state;
      For, gorg’d with flesh, and drunk with human wine
      While fast asleep the giant lay supine,
      Snoring aloud, and belching from his maw
      His indigested foam, and morsels raw;
      We pray; we cast the lots, and then surround
      The monstrous body, stretch’d along the ground:
      Each, as he could approach him, lends a hand
      To bore his eyeball with a flaming brand.
      Beneath his frowning forehead lay his eye;
      For only one did the vast frame supply;
      But that a globe so large, his front it fill’d,
      Like the sun’s disk or like a Grecian shield.
      The stroke succeeds; and down the pupil bends:
      This vengeance follow’d for our slaughter’d friends.
      But haste, unhappy wretches, haste to fly!
      Your cables cut, and on your oars rely!
      Such, and so vast as Polypheme appears,
      A hundred more this hated island bears:
      Like him, in caves they shut their woolly sheep;
      Like him, their herds on tops of mountains keep;
      Like him, with mighty strides, they stalk from steep to steep
      And now three moons their sharpen’d horns renew,
      Since thus, in woods and wilds, obscure from view,
      I drag my loathsome days with mortal fright,
      And in deserted caverns lodge by night;
      Oft from the rocks a dreadful prospect see
      Of the huge Cyclops, like a walking tree:
      From far I hear his thund’ring voice resound,
      And trampling feet that shake the solid ground.
      Cornels and salvage berries of the wood,
      And roots and herbs, have been my meager food.
      While all around my longing eyes I cast,
      I saw your happy ships appear at last.
      On those I fix’d my hopes, to these I run;
      ’Tis all I ask, this cruel race to shun;
      What other death you please, yourselves bestow.’

      “Scarce had he said, when on the mountain’s brow
      We saw the giant shepherd stalk before
      His following flock, and leading to the shore:
      A monstrous bulk, deform’d, depriv’d of sight;
      His staff a trunk of pine, to guide his steps aright.
      His pond’rous whistle from his neck descends;
      His woolly care their pensive lord attends:
      This only solace his hard fortune sends.
      Soon as he reach’d the shore and touch’d the waves,
      From his bor’d eye the gutt’ring blood he laves:
      He gnash’d his teeth, and groan’d; thro’ seas he strides,
      And scarce the topmost billows touch’d his sides.

      “Seiz’d with a sudden fear, we run to sea,
      The cables cut, and silent haste away;
      The well-deserving stranger entertain;
      Then, buckling to the work, our oars divide the main.
      The giant harken’d to the dashing sound:
      But, when our vessels out of reach he found,
      He strided onward, and in vain essay’d
      Th’ Ionian deep, and durst no farther wade.
      With that he roar’d aloud: the dreadful cry
      Shakes earth, and air, and seas; the billows fly
      Before the bellowing noise to distant Italy.
      The neighb’ring Aetna trembling all around,
      The winding caverns echo to the sound.
      His brother Cyclops hear the yelling roar,
      And, rushing down the mountains, crowd the shore.
      We saw their stern distorted looks, from far,
      And one-eyed glance, that vainly threaten’d war:
      A dreadful council, with their heads on high;
      (The misty clouds about their foreheads fly;)
      Not yielding to the tow’ring tree of Jove,
      Or tallest cypress of Diana’s grove.
      New pangs of mortal fear our minds assail;
      We tug at ev’ry oar, and hoist up ev’ry sail,
      And take th’ advantage of the friendly gale.
      Forewarn’d by Helenus, we strive to shun
      Charybdis’ gulf, nor dare to Scylla run.
      An equal fate on either side appears:
      We, tacking to the left, are free from fears;
      For, from Pelorus’ point, the North arose,
      And drove us back where swift Pantagias flows.
      His rocky mouth we pass, and make our way
      By Thapsus and Megara’s winding bay.
      This passage Achaemenides had shown,
      Tracing the course which he before had run.

      “Right o’er against Plemmyrium’s wat’ry strand,
      There lies an isle once call’d th’ Ortygian land.
      Alpheus, as old fame reports, has found
      From Greece a secret passage under ground,
      By love to beauteous Arethusa led;
      And, mingling here, they roll in the same sacred bed.
      As Helenus enjoin’d, we next adore
      Diana’s name, protectress of the shore.
      With prosp’rous gales we pass the quiet sounds
      Of still Elorus, and his fruitful bounds.
      Then, doubling Cape Pachynus, we survey
      The rocky shore extended to the sea.
      The town of Camarine from far we see,
      And fenny lake, undrain’d by fate’s decree.
      In sight of the Geloan fields we pass,
      And the large walls, where mighty Gela was;
      Then Agragas, with lofty summits crown’d,
      Long for the race of warlike steeds renown’d.
      We pass’d Selinus, and the palmy land,
      And widely shun the Lilybaean strand,
      Unsafe, for secret rocks and moving sand.
      At length on shore the weary fleet arriv’d,
      Which Drepanum’s unhappy port receiv’d.
      Here, after endless labours, often toss’d
      By raging storms, and driv’n on ev’ry coast,
      My dear, dear father, spent with age, I lost:
      Ease of my cares, and solace of my pain,
      Sav’d thro’ a thousand toils, but sav’d in vain
      The prophet, who my future woes reveal’d,
      Yet this, the greatest and the worst, conceal’d;
      And dire Celaeno, whose foreboding skill
      Denounc’d all else, was silent of the ill.
      This my last labour was. Some friendly god
      From thence convey’d us to your blest abode.”

      Thus, to the list’ning queen, the royal guest
      His wand’ring course and all his toils express’d;
      And here concluding, he retir’d to rest.



 BOOK IV

 THE ARGUMENT.


      Dido discovers to her sister her passion for Aeneas, and her
      thoughts of marrying him. She prepares a hunting match for his
      entertainment. Juno, by Venus’ consent, raises a storm, which
      separates the hunters, and drives Aeneas and Dido into the same
      cave, where their marriage is supposed to be completed. Jupiter
      despatches Mercury to Aeneas, to warn him from Carthage. Aeneas
      secretly prepares for his voyage. Dido finds out his design, and,
      to put a stop to it, makes use of her own and her sister’s
      entreaties, and discovers all the variety of passions that are
      incident to a neglected lover. When nothing could prevail upon
      him, she contrives her own death, with which this book concludes.


      But anxious cares already seiz’d the queen:
      She fed within her veins a flame unseen;
      The hero’s valour, acts, and birth inspire
      Her soul with love, and fan the secret fire.
      His words, his looks, imprinted in her heart,
      Improve the passion, and increase the smart.
      Now, when the purple morn had chas’d away
      The dewy shadows, and restor’d the day,
      Her sister first with early care she sought,
      And thus in mournful accents eas’d her thought:

      “My dearest Anna, what new dreams affright
      My lab’ring soul! what visions of the night
      Disturb my quiet, and distract my breast
      With strange ideas of our Trojan guest!
      His worth, his actions, and majestic air,
      A man descended from the gods declare.
      Fear ever argues a degenerate kind;
      His birth is well asserted by his mind.
      Then, what he suffer’d, when by Fate betray’d!
      What brave attempts for falling Troy he made!
      Such were his looks, so gracefully he spoke,
      That, were I not resolv’d against the yoke
      Of hapless marriage, never to be curst
      With second love, so fatal was my first,
      To this one error I might yield again;
      For, since Sichaeus was untimely slain,
      This only man is able to subvert
      The fix’d foundations of my stubborn heart.
      And, to confess my frailty, to my shame,
      Somewhat I find within, if not the same,
      Too like the sparkles of my former flame.
      But first let yawning earth a passage rend,
      And let me thro’ the dark abyss descend;
      First let avenging Jove, with flames from high,
      Drive down this body to the nether sky,
      Condemn’d with ghosts in endless night to lie,
      Before I break the plighted faith I gave!
      No! he who had my vows shall ever have;
      For, whom I lov’d on earth, I worship in the grave.”

      She said: the tears ran gushing from her eyes,
      And stopp’d her speech. Her sister thus replies:
      “O dearer than the vital air I breathe,
      Will you to grief your blooming years bequeath,
      Condemn’d to waste in woes your lonely life,
      Without the joys of mother or of wife?
      Think you these tears, this pompous train of woe,
      Are known or valued by the ghosts below?
      I grant that, while your sorrows yet were green,
      It well became a woman, and a queen,
      The vows of Tyrian princes to neglect,
      To scorn Hyarbas, and his love reject,
      With all the Libyan lords of mighty name;
      But will you fight against a pleasing flame!
      This little spot of land, which Heav’n bestows,
      On ev’ry side is hemm’d with warlike foes;
      Gaetulian cities here are spread around,
      And fierce Numidians there your frontiers bound;
      Here lies a barren waste of thirsty land,
      And there the Syrtes raise the moving sand;
      Barcaean troops besiege the narrow shore,
      And from the sea Pygmalion threatens more.
      Propitious Heav’n, and gracious Juno, lead
      This wand’ring navy to your needful aid:
      How will your empire spread, your city rise,
      From such a union, and with such allies?
      Implore the favour of the pow’rs above,
      And leave the conduct of the rest to love.
      Continue still your hospitable way,
      And still invent occasions of their stay,
      Till storms and winter winds shall cease to threat,
      And planks and oars repair their shatter’d fleet.”

      These words, which from a friend and sister came,
      With ease resolv’d the scruples of her fame,
      And added fury to the kindled flame.
      Inspir’d with hope, the project they pursue;
      On ev’ry altar sacrifice renew:
      A chosen ewe of two years old they pay
      To Ceres, Bacchus, and the God of Day;
      Preferring Juno’s pow’r, for Juno ties
      The nuptial knot and makes the marriage joys.
      The beauteous queen before her altar stands,
      And holds the golden goblet in her hands.
      A milk-white heifer she with flow’rs adorns,
      And pours the ruddy wine betwixt her horns;
      And, while the priests with pray’r the gods invoke,
      She feeds their altars with Sabaean smoke,
      With hourly care the sacrifice renews,
      And anxiously the panting entrails views.
      What priestly rites, alas! what pious art,
      What vows avail to cure a bleeding heart!
      A gentle fire she feeds within her veins,
      Where the soft god secure in silence reigns.

      Sick with desire, and seeking him she loves,
      From street to street the raving Dido roves.
      So when the watchful shepherd, from the blind,
      Wounds with a random shaft the careless hind,
      Distracted with her pain she flies the woods,
      Bounds o’er the lawn, and seeks the silent floods,
      With fruitless care; for still the fatal dart
      Sticks in her side, and rankles in her heart.
      And now she leads the Trojan chief along
      The lofty walls, amidst the busy throng;
      Displays her Tyrian wealth, and rising town,
      Which love, without his labour, makes his own.
      This pomp she shows, to tempt her wand’ring guest;
      Her falt’ring tongue forbids to speak the rest.
      When day declines, and feasts renew the night,
      Still on his face she feeds her famish’d sight;
      She longs again to hear the prince relate
      His own adventures and the Trojan fate.
      He tells it o’er and o’er; but still in vain,
      For still she begs to hear it once again.
      The hearer on the speaker’s mouth depends,
      And thus the tragic story never ends.

      Then, when they part, when Phoebe’s paler light
      Withdraws, and falling stars to sleep invite,
      She last remains, when ev’ry guest is gone,
      Sits on the bed he press’d, and sighs alone;
      Absent, her absent hero sees and hears;
      Or in her bosom young Ascanius bears,
      And seeks the father’s image in the child,
      If love by likeness might be so beguil’d.

      Meantime the rising tow’rs are at a stand;
      No labours exercise the youthful band,
      Nor use of arts, nor toils of arms they know;
      The mole is left unfinish’d to the foe;
      The mounds, the works, the walls, neglected lie,
      Short of their promis’d heighth, that seem’d to threat the sky,

      But when imperial Juno, from above,
      Saw Dido fetter’d in the chains of love,
      Hot with the venom which her veins inflam’d,
      And by no sense of shame to be reclaim’d,
      With soothing words to Venus she begun:
      “High praises, endless honours, you have won,
      And mighty trophies, with your worthy son!
      Two gods a silly woman have undone!
      Nor am I ignorant, you both suspect
      This rising city, which my hands erect:
      But shall celestial discord never cease?
      ’Tis better ended in a lasting peace.
      You stand possess’d of all your soul desir’d:
      Poor Dido with consuming love is fir’d.
      Your Trojan with my Tyrian let us join;
      So Dido shall be yours, Aeneas mine:
      One common kingdom, one united line.
      Eliza shall a Dardan lord obey,
      And lofty Carthage for a dow’r convey.”
      Then Venus, who her hidden fraud descried,
      Which would the scepter of the world misguide
      To Libyan shores, thus artfully replied:
      “Who, but a fool, would wars with Juno choose,
      And such alliance and such gifts refuse,
      If Fortune with our joint desires comply?
      The doubt is all from Jove and destiny;
      Lest he forbid, with absolute command,
      To mix the people in one common land.
      Or will the Trojan and the Tyrian line
      In lasting leagues and sure succession join?
      But you, the partner of his bed and throne,
      May move his mind; my wishes are your own.”

      “Mine,” said imperial Juno, “be the care;
      Time urges, now, to perfect this affair:
      Attend my counsel, and the secret share.
      When next the Sun his rising light displays,
      And gilds the world below with purple rays,
      The queen, Aeneas, and the Tyrian court
      Shall to the shady woods, for sylvan game, resort.
      There, while the huntsmen pitch their toils around,
      And cheerful horns from side to side resound,
      A pitchy cloud shall cover all the plain
      With hail, and thunder, and tempestuous rain;
      The fearful train shall take their speedy flight,
      Dispers’d, and all involv’d in gloomy night;
      One cave a grateful shelter shall afford
      To the fair princess and the Trojan lord.
      I will myself the bridal bed prepare,
      If you, to bless the nuptials, will be there:
      So shall their loves be crown’d with due delights,
      And Hymen shall be present at the rites.”
      The Queen of Love consents, and closely smiles
      At her vain project, and discover’d wiles.

      The rosy morn was risen from the main,
      And horns and hounds awake the princely train:
      They issue early thro’ the city gate,
      Where the more wakeful huntsmen ready wait,
      With nets, and toils, and darts, beside the force
      Of Spartan dogs, and swift Massylian horse.
      The Tyrian peers and officers of state
      For the slow queen in antechambers wait;
      Her lofty courser, in the court below,
      Who his majestic rider seems to know,
      Proud of his purple trappings, paws the ground,
      And champs the golden bit, and spreads the foam around.
      The queen at length appears; on either hand
      The brawny guards in martial order stand.
      A flow’r’d simar with golden fringe she wore,
      And at her back a golden quiver bore;
      Her flowing hair a golden caul restrains,
      A golden clasp the Tyrian robe sustains.
      Then young Ascanius, with a sprightly grace,
      Leads on the Trojan youth to view the chase.
      But far above the rest in beauty shines
      The great Aeneas, the troop he joins;
      Like fair Apollo, when he leaves the frost
      Of wint’ry Xanthus, and the Lycian coast,
      When to his native Delos he resorts,
      Ordains the dances, and renews the sports;
      Where painted Scythians, mix’d with Cretan bands,
      Before the joyful altars join their hands:
      Himself, on Cynthus walking, sees below
      The merry madness of the sacred show.
      Green wreaths of bays his length of hair inclose;
      A golden fillet binds his awful brows;
      His quiver sounds: not less the prince is seen
      In manly presence, or in lofty mien.

      Now had they reach’d the hills, and storm’d the seat
      Of salvage beasts, in dens, their last retreat.
      The cry pursues the mountain goats: they bound
      From rock to rock, and keep the craggy ground;
      Quite otherwise the stags, a trembling train,
      In herds unsingled, scour the dusty plain,
      And a long chase in open view maintain.
      The glad Ascanius, as his courser guides,
      Spurs thro’ the vale, and these and those outrides.
      His horse’s flanks and sides are forc’d to feel
      The clanking lash, and goring of the steel.
      Impatiently he views the feeble prey,
      Wishing some nobler beast to cross his way,
      And rather would the tusky boar attend,
      Or see the tawny lion downward bend.

      Meantime, the gath’ring clouds obscure the skies:
      From pole to pole the forky lightning flies;
      The rattling thunders roll; and Juno pours
      A wintry deluge down, and sounding show’rs.
      The company, dispers’d, to converts ride,
      And seek the homely cots, or mountain’s hollow side.
      The rapid rains, descending from the hills,
      To rolling torrents raise the creeping rills.
      The queen and prince, as love or fortune guides,
      One common cavern in her bosom hides.
      Then first the trembling earth the signal gave,
      And flashing fires enlighten all the cave;
      Hell from below, and Juno from above,
      And howling nymphs, were conscious of their love.
      From this ill-omen’d hour in time arose
      Debate and death, and all succeeding woes.

      The queen, whom sense of honour could not move,
      No longer made a secret of her love,
      But call’d it marriage, by that specious name
      To veil the crime and sanctify the shame.

      The loud report thro’ Libyan cities goes.
      Fame, the great ill, from small beginnings grows:
      Swift from the first; and ev’ry moment brings
      New vigour to her flights, new pinions to her wings.
      Soon grows the pigmy to gigantic size;
      Her feet on earth, her forehead in the skies.
      Inrag’d against the gods, revengeful Earth
      Produc’d her last of the Titanian birth.
      Swift is her walk, more swift her winged haste:
      A monstrous phantom, horrible and vast.
      As many plumes as raise her lofty flight,
      So many piercing eyes inlarge her sight;
      Millions of opening mouths to Fame belong,
      And ev’ry mouth is furnish’d with a tongue,
      And round with list’ning ears the flying plague is hung.
      She fills the peaceful universe with cries;
      No slumbers ever close her wakeful eyes;
      By day, from lofty tow’rs her head she shews,
      And spreads thro’ trembling crowds disastrous news;
      With court informers haunts, and royal spies;
      Things done relates, not done she feigns, and mingles truth with
      lies.

      Talk is her business, and her chief delight
      To tell of prodigies and cause affright.
      She fills the people’s ears with Dido’s name,
      Who, lost to honour and the sense of shame,
      Admits into her throne and nuptial bed
      A wand’ring guest, who from his country fled:
      Whole days with him she passes in delights,
      And wastes in luxury long winter nights,
      Forgetful of her fame and royal trust,
      Dissolv’d in ease, abandon’d to her lust.

      The goddess widely spreads the loud report,
      And flies at length to King Hyarba’s court.
      When first possess’d with this unwelcome news
      Whom did he not of men and gods accuse?
      This prince, from ravish’d Garamantis born,
      A hundred temples did with spoils adorn,
      In Ammon’s honour, his celestial sire;
      A hundred altars fed with wakeful fire;
      And, thro’ his vast dominions, priests ordain’d,
      Whose watchful care these holy rites maintain’d.
      The gates and columns were with garlands crown’d,
      And blood of victim beasts enrich’d the ground.

      He, when he heard a fugitive could move
      The Tyrian princess, who disdain’d his love,
      His breast with fury burn’d, his eyes with fire,
      Mad with despair, impatient with desire;
      Then on the sacred altars pouring wine,
      He thus with pray’rs implor’d his sire divine:
      “Great Jove! propitious to the Moorish race,
      Who feast on painted beds, with off’rings grace
      Thy temples, and adore thy pow’r divine
      With blood of victims, and with sparkling wine,
      Seest thou not this? or do we fear in vain
      Thy boasted thunder, and thy thoughtless reign?
      Do thy broad hands the forky lightnings lance?
      Thine are the bolts, or the blind work of chance?
      A wand’ring woman builds, within our state,
      A little town, bought at an easy rate;
      She pays me homage, and my grants allow
      A narrow space of Libyan lands to plow;
      Yet, scorning me, by passion blindly led,
      Admits a banish’d Trojan to her bed!
      And now this other Paris, with his train
      Of conquer’d cowards, must in Afric reign!
      (Whom, what they are, their looks and garb confess,
      Their locks with oil perfum’d, their Lydian dress.)
      He takes the spoil, enjoys the princely dame;
      And I, rejected I, adore an empty name.”

      His vows, in haughty terms, he thus preferr’d,
      And held his altar’s horns. The mighty Thund’rer heard;
      Then cast his eyes on Carthage, where he found
      The lustful pair in lawless pleasure drown’d,
      Lost in their loves, insensible of shame,
      And both forgetful of their better fame.
      He calls Cyllenius, and the god attends,
      By whom his menacing command he sends:
      “Go, mount the western winds, and cleave the sky;
      Then, with a swift descent, to Carthage fly:
      There find the Trojan chief, who wastes his days
      In slothful riot and inglorious ease,
      Nor minds the future city, giv’n by fate.
      To him this message from my mouth relate:
      ‘Not so fair Venus hop’d, when twice she won
      Thy life with pray’rs, nor promis’d such a son.
      Hers was a hero, destin’d to command
      A martial race, and rule the Latian land,
      Who should his ancient line from Teucer draw,
      And on the conquer’d world impose the law.’
      If glory cannot move a mind so mean,
      Nor future praise from fading pleasure wean,
      Yet why should he defraud his son of fame,
      And grudge the Romans their immortal name!
      What are his vain designs! what hopes he more
      From his long ling’ring on a hostile shore,
      Regardless to redeem his honour lost,
      And for his race to gain th’ Ausonian coast!
      Bid him with speed the Tyrian court forsake;
      With this command the slumb’ring warrior wake.”

      Hermes obeys; with golden pinions binds
      His flying feet, and mounts the western winds:
      And, whether o’er the seas or earth he flies,
      With rapid force they bear him down the skies.
      But first he grasps within his awful hand
      The mark of sov’reign pow’r, his magic wand;
      With this he draws the ghosts from hollow graves;
      With this he drives them down the Stygian waves;
      With this he seals in sleep the wakeful sight,
      And eyes, tho’ clos’d in death, restores to light.
      Thus arm’d, the god begins his airy race,
      And drives the racking clouds along the liquid space;
      Now sees the tops of Atlas, as he flies,
      Whose brawny back supports the starry skies;
      Atlas, whose head, with piny forests crown’d,
      Is beaten by the winds, with foggy vapours bound.
      Snows hide his shoulders; from beneath his chin
      The founts of rolling streams their race begin;
      A beard of ice on his large breast depends.
      Here, pois’d upon his wings, the god descends:
      Then, rested thus, he from the tow’ring height
      Plung’d downward, with precipitated flight,
      Lights on the seas, and skims along the flood.
      As waterfowl, who seek their fishy food,
      Less, and yet less, to distant prospect show;
      By turns they dance aloft, and dive below:
      Like these, the steerage of his wings he plies,
      And near the surface of the water flies,
      Till, having pass’d the seas, and cross’d the sands,
      He clos’d his wings, and stoop’d on Libyan lands:
      Where shepherds once were hous’d in homely sheds,
      Now tow’rs within the clouds advance their heads.
      Arriving there, he found the Trojan prince
      New ramparts raising for the town’s defence.
      A purple scarf, with gold embroider’d o’er,
      (Queen Dido’s gift,) about his waist he wore;
      A sword, with glitt’ring gems diversified,
      For ornament, not use, hung idly by his side.

      Then thus, with winged words, the god began,
      Resuming his own shape: “Degenerate man,
      Thou woman’s property, what mak’st thou here,
      These foreign walls and Tyrian tow’rs to rear,
      Forgetful of thy own? All-pow’rful Jove,
      Who sways the world below and heav’n above,
      Has sent me down with this severe command:
      What means thy ling’ring in the Libyan land?
      If glory cannot move a mind so mean,
      Nor future praise from flitting pleasure wean,
      Regard the fortunes of thy rising heir:
      The promis’d crown let young Ascanius wear,
      To whom th’ Ausonian scepter, and the state
      Of Rome’s imperial name is ow’d by fate.”
      So spoke the god; and, speaking, took his flight,
      Involv’d in clouds, and vanish’d out of sight.

      The pious prince was seiz’d with sudden fear;
      Mute was his tongue, and upright stood his hair.
      Revolving in his mind the stern command,
      He longs to fly, and loathes the charming land.
      What should he say? or how should he begin?
      What course, alas! remains to steer between
      Th’ offended lover and the pow’rful queen?
      This way and that he turns his anxious mind,
      And all expedients tries, and none can find.
      Fix’d on the deed, but doubtful of the means,
      After long thought, to this advice he leans:
      Three chiefs he calls, commands them to repair
      The fleet, and ship their men with silent care;
      Some plausible pretence he bids them find,
      To colour what in secret he design’d.
      Himself, meantime, the softest hours would choose,
      Before the love-sick lady heard the news;
      And move her tender mind, by slow degrees,
      To suffer what the sov’reign pow’r decrees:
      Jove will inspire him, when, and what to say.
      They hear with pleasure, and with haste obey.

      But soon the queen perceives the thin disguise:
      (What arts can blind a jealous woman’s eyes!)
      She was the first to find the secret fraud,
      Before the fatal news was blaz’d abroad.
      Love the first motions of the lover hears,
      Quick to presage, and ev’n in safety fears.
      Nor impious Fame was wanting to report
      The ships repair’d, the Trojans’ thick resort,
      And purpose to forsake the Tyrian court.
      Frantic with fear, impatient of the wound,
      And impotent of mind, she roves the city round.
      Less wild the Bacchanalian dames appear,
      When, from afar, their nightly god they hear,
      And howl about the hills, and shake the wreathy spear.
      At length she finds the dear perfidious man;
      Prevents his form’d excuse, and thus began:
      “Base and ungrateful! could you hope to fly,
      And undiscover’d scape a lover’s eye?
      Nor could my kindness your compassion move.
      Nor plighted vows, nor dearer bands of love?
      Or is the death of a despairing queen
      Not worth preventing, tho’ too well foreseen?
      Ev’n when the wintry winds command your stay,
      You dare the tempests, and defy the sea.
      False as you are, suppose you were not bound
      To lands unknown, and foreign coasts to sound;
      Were Troy restor’d, and Priam’s happy reign,
      Now durst you tempt, for Troy, the raging main?
      See whom you fly! am I the foe you shun?
      Now, by those holy vows, so late begun,
      By this right hand, (since I have nothing more
      To challenge, but the faith you gave before;)
      I beg you by these tears too truly shed,
      By the new pleasures of our nuptial bed;
      If ever Dido, when you most were kind,
      Were pleasing in your eyes, or touch’d your mind;
      By these my pray’rs, if pray’rs may yet have place,
      Pity the fortunes of a falling race.
      For you I have provok’d a tyrant’s hate,
      Incens’d the Libyan and the Tyrian state;
      For you alone I suffer in my fame,
      Bereft of honour, and expos’d to shame.
      Whom have I now to trust, ungrateful guest?
      (That only name remains of all the rest!)
      What have I left? or whither can I fly?
      Must I attend Pygmalion’s cruelty,
      Or till Hyarba shall in triumph lead
      A queen that proudly scorn’d his proffer’d bed?
      Had you deferr’d, at least, your hasty flight,
      And left behind some pledge of our delight,
      Some babe to bless the mother’s mournful sight,
      Some young Aeneas, to supply your place,
      Whose features might express his father’s face;
      I should not then complain to live bereft
      Of all my husband, or be wholly left.”

      Here paus’d the queen. Unmov’d he holds his eyes,
      By Jove’s command; nor suffer’d love to rise,
      Tho’ heaving in his heart; and thus at length replies:
      “Fair queen, you never can enough repeat
      Your boundless favours, or I own my debt;
      Nor can my mind forget Eliza’s name,
      While vital breath inspires this mortal frame.
      This only let me speak in my defence:
      I never hop’d a secret flight from hence,
      Much less pretended to the lawful claim
      Of sacred nuptials, or a husband’s name.
      For, if indulgent Heav’n would leave me free,
      And not submit my life to fate’s decree,
      My choice would lead me to the Trojan shore,
      Those relics to review, their dust adore,
      And Priam’s ruin’d palace to restore.
      But now the Delphian oracle commands,
      And fate invites me to the Latian lands.
      That is the promis’d place to which I steer,
      And all my vows are terminated there.
      If you, a Tyrian, and a stranger born,
      With walls and tow’rs a Libyan town adorn,
      Why may not we, like you, a foreign race,
      Like you, seek shelter in a foreign place?
      As often as the night obscures the skies
      With humid shades, or twinkling stars arise,
      Anchises’ angry ghost in dreams appears,
      Chides my delay, and fills my soul with fears;
      And young Ascanius justly may complain
      Of his defrauded and destin’d reign.
      Ev’n now the herald of the gods appear’d:
      Waking I saw him, and his message heard.
      From Jove he came commission’d, heav’nly bright
      With radiant beams, and manifest to sight
      (The sender and the sent I both attest)
      These walls he enter’d, and those words express’d.
      Fair queen, oppose not what the gods command;
      Forc’d by my fate, I leave your happy land.”

      Thus while he spoke, already she began,
      With sparkling eyes, to view the guilty man;
      From head to foot survey’d his person o’er,
      Nor longer these outrageous threats forebore:
      “False as thou art, and, more than false, forsworn!
      Not sprung from noble blood, nor goddess-born,
      But hewn from harden’d entrails of a rock!
      And rough Hyrcanian tigers gave thee suck!
      Why should I fawn? what have I worse to fear?
      Did he once look, or lent a list’ning ear,
      Sigh’d when I sobb’d, or shed one kindly tear?
      All symptoms of a base ungrateful mind,
      So foul, that, which is worse, ’tis hard to find.
      Of man’s injustice why should I complain?
      The gods, and Jove himself, behold in vain
      Triumphant treason; yet no thunder flies,
      Nor Juno views my wrongs with equal eyes;
      Faithless is earth, and faithless are the skies!
      Justice is fled, and Truth is now no more!
      I sav’d the shipwreck’d exile on my shore;
      With needful food his hungry Trojans fed;
      I took the traitor to my throne and bed:
      Fool that I was—— ’tis little to repeat
      The rest, I stor’d and rigg’d his ruin’d fleet.
      I rave, I rave! A god’s command he pleads,
      And makes Heav’n accessary to his deeds.
      Now Lycian lots, and now the Delian god,
      Now Hermes is employ’d from Jove’s abode,
      To warn him hence; as if the peaceful state
      Of heav’nly pow’rs were touch’d with human fate!
      But go! thy flight no longer I detain;
      Go seek thy promis’d kingdom thro’ the main!
      Yet, if the heav’ns will hear my pious vow,
      The faithless waves, not half so false as thou,
      Or secret sands, shall sepulchers afford
      To thy proud vessels, and their perjur’d lord.
      Then shalt thou call on injur’d Dido’s name:
      Dido shall come in a black sulph’ry flame,
      When death has once dissolv’d her mortal frame;
      Shall smile to see the traitor vainly weep:
      Her angry ghost, arising from the deep,
      Shall haunt thee waking, and disturb thy sleep.
      At least my shade thy punishment shall know,
      And Fame shall spread the pleasing news below.”

      Abruptly here she stops; then turns away
      Her loathing eyes, and shuns the sight of day.
      Amaz’d he stood, revolving in his mind
      What speech to frame, and what excuse to find.
      Her fearful maids their fainting mistress led,
      And softly laid her on her ivory bed.

      But good Aeneas, tho’ he much desir’d
      To give that pity which her grief requir’d;
      Tho’ much he mourn’d, and labour’d with his love,
      Resolv’d at length, obeys the will of Jove;
      Reviews his forces: they with early care
      Unmoor their vessels, and for sea prepare.
      The fleet is soon afloat, in all its pride,
      And well-calk’d galleys in the harbour ride.
      Then oaks for oars they fell’d; or, as they stood,
      Of its green arms despoil’d the growing wood,
      Studious of flight. The beach is cover’d o’er
      With Trojan bands, that blacken all the shore:
      On ev’ry side are seen, descending down,
      Thick swarms of soldiers, loaden from the town.
      Thus, in battalia, march embodied ants,
      Fearful of winter, and of future wants,
      T’ invade the corn, and to their cells convey
      The plunder’d forage of their yellow prey.
      The sable troops, along the narrow tracks,
      Scarce bear the weighty burthen on their backs:
      Some set their shoulders to the pond’rous grain;
      Some guard the spoil; some lash the lagging train;
      All ply their sev’ral tasks, and equal toil sustain.

      What pangs the tender breast of Dido tore,
      When, from the tow’r, she saw the cover’d shore,
      And heard the shouts of sailors from afar,
      Mix’d with the murmurs of the wat’ry war!
      All-pow’rful Love! what changes canst thou cause
      In human hearts, subjected to thy laws!
      Once more her haughty soul the tyrant bends:
      To pray’rs and mean submissions she descends.
      No female arts or aids she left untried,
      Nor counsels unexplor’d, before she died.
      “Look, Anna! look! the Trojans crowd to sea;
      They spread their canvas, and their anchors weigh.
      The shouting crew their ships with garlands bind,
      Invoke the sea gods, and invite the wind.
      Could I have thought this threat’ning blow so near,
      My tender soul had been forewarn’d to bear.
      But do not you my last request deny;
      With yon perfidious man your int’rest try,
      And bring me news, if I must live or die.
      You are his fav’rite; you alone can find
      The dark recesses of his inmost mind:
      In all his trusted secrets you have part,
      And know the soft approaches to his heart.
      Haste then, and humbly seek my haughty foe;
      Tell him, I did not with the Grecians go,
      Nor did my fleet against his friends employ,
      Nor swore the ruin of unhappy Troy,
      Nor mov’d with hands profane his father’s dust:
      Why should he then reject a suit so just!
      Whom does he shun, and whither would he fly!
      Can he this last, this only pray’r deny!
      Let him at least his dang’rous flight delay,
      Wait better winds, and hope a calmer sea.
      The nuptials he disclaims I urge no more:
      Let him pursue the promis’d Latian shore.
      A short delay is all I ask him now;
      A pause of grief, an interval from woe,
      Till my soft soul be temper’d to sustain
      Accustom’d sorrows, and inur’d to pain.
      If you in pity grant this one request,
      My death shall glut the hatred of his breast.”
      This mournful message pious Anna bears,
      And seconds with her own her sister’s tears:
      But all her arts are still employ’d in vain;
      Again she comes, and is refus’d again.
      His harden’d heart nor pray’rs nor threat’nings move;
      Fate, and the god, had stopp’d his ears to love.

      As, when the winds their airy quarrel try,
      Justling from ev’ry quarter of the sky,
      This way and that the mountain oak they bend,
      His boughs they shatter, and his branches rend;
      With leaves and falling mast they spread the ground;
      The hollow valleys echo to the sound:
      Unmov’d, the royal plant their fury mocks,
      Or, shaken, clings more closely to the rocks;
      Far as he shoots his tow’ring head on high,
      So deep in earth his fix’d foundations lie.
      No less a storm the Trojan hero bears;
      Thick messages and loud complaints he hears,
      And bandied words, still beating on his ears.
      Sighs, groans, and tears proclaim his inward pains;
      But the firm purpose of his heart remains.

      The wretched queen, pursued by cruel fate,
      Begins at length the light of heav’n to hate,
      And loathes to live. Then dire portents she sees,
      To hasten on the death her soul decrees:
      Strange to relate! for when, before the shrine,
      She pours in sacrifice the purple wine,
      The purple wine is turn’d to putrid blood,
      And the white offer’d milk converts to mud.
      This dire presage, to her alone reveal’d,
      From all, and ev’n her sister, she conceal’d.
      A marble temple stood within the grove,
      Sacred to death, and to her murder’d love;
      That honour’d chapel she had hung around
      With snowy fleeces, and with garlands crown’d:
      Oft, when she visited this lonely dome,
      Strange voices issued from her husband’s tomb;
      She thought she heard him summon her away,
      Invite her to his grave, and chide her stay.
      Hourly ’tis heard, when with a boding note
      The solitary screech owl strains her throat,
      And, on a chimney’s top, or turret’s height,
      With songs obscene disturbs the silence of the night.
      Besides, old prophecies augment her fears;
      And stern Aeneas in her dreams appears,
      Disdainful as by day: she seems, alone,
      To wander in her sleep, thro’ ways unknown,
      Guideless and dark; or, in a desert plain,
      To seek her subjects, and to seek in vain:
      Like Pentheus, when, distracted with his fear,
      He saw two suns, and double Thebes, appear;
      Or mad Orestes, when his mother’s ghost
      Full in his face infernal torches toss’d,
      And shook her snaky locks: he shuns the sight,
      Flies o’er the stage, surpris’d with mortal fright;
      The Furies guard the door and intercept his flight.

      Now, sinking underneath a load of grief,
      From death alone she seeks her last relief;
      The time and means resolv’d within her breast,
      She to her mournful sister thus address’d
      (Dissembling hope, her cloudy front she clears,
      And a false vigour in her eyes appears):
      “Rejoice!” she said. “Instructed from above,
      My lover I shall gain, or lose my love.
      Nigh rising Atlas, next the falling sun,
      Long tracts of Ethiopian climates run:
      There a Massylian priestess I have found,
      Honour’d for age, for magic arts renown’d:
      Th’ Hesperian temple was her trusted care;
      ’Twas she supplied the wakeful dragon’s fare.
      She poppy seeds in honey taught to steep,
      Reclaim’d his rage, and sooth’d him into sleep.
      She watch’d the golden fruit; her charms unbind
      The chains of love, or fix them on the mind:
      She stops the torrents, leaves the channel dry,
      Repels the stars, and backward bears the sky.
      The yawning earth rebellows to her call,
      Pale ghosts ascend, and mountain ashes fall.
      Witness, ye gods, and thou my better part,
      How loth I am to try this impious art!
      Within the secret court, with silent care,
      Erect a lofty pile, expos’d in air:
      Hang on the topmost part the Trojan vest,
      Spoils, arms, and presents, of my faithless guest.
      Next, under these, the bridal bed be plac’d,
      Where I my ruin in his arms embrac’d:
      All relics of the wretch are doom’d to fire;
      For so the priestess and her charms require.”

      Thus far she said, and farther speech forbears;
      A mortal paleness in her face appears:
      Yet the mistrustless Anna could not find
      The secret fun’ral in these rites design’d;
      Nor thought so dire a rage possess’d her mind.
      Unknowing of a train conceal’d so well,
      She fear’d no worse than when Sichaeus fell;
      Therefore obeys. The fatal pile they rear,
      Within the secret court, expos’d in air.
      The cloven holms and pines are heap’d on high,
      And garlands on the hollow spaces lie.
      Sad cypress, vervain, yew, compose the wreath,
      And ev’ry baleful green denoting death.
      The queen, determin’d to the fatal deed,
      The spoils and sword he left, in order spread,
      And the man’s image on the nuptial bed.

      And now (the sacred altars plac’d around)
      The priestess enters, with her hair unbound,
      And thrice invokes the pow’rs below the ground.
      Night, Erebus, and Chaos she proclaims,
      And threefold Hecate, with her hundred names,
      And three Dianas: next, she sprinkles round
      With feign’d Avernian drops the hallow’d ground;
      Culls hoary simples, found by Phoebe’s light,
      With brazen sickles reap’d at noon of night;
      Then mixes baleful juices in the bowl,
      And cuts the forehead of a newborn foal,
      Robbing the mother’s love. The destin’d queen
      Observes, assisting at the rites obscene;
      A leaven’d cake in her devoted hands
      She holds, and next the highest altar stands:
      One tender foot was shod, her other bare;
      Girt was her gather’d gown, and loose her hair.
      Thus dress’d, she summon’d, with her dying breath,
      The heav’ns and planets conscious of her death,
      And ev’ry pow’r, if any rules above,
      Who minds, or who revenges, injur’d love.

      “’Twas dead of night, when weary bodies close
      Their eyes in balmy sleep and soft repose:
      The winds no longer whisper thro’ the woods,
      Nor murm’ring tides disturb the gentle floods.
      The stars in silent order mov’d around;
      And Peace, with downy wings, was brooding on the ground
      The flocks and herds, and party-colour’d fowl,
      Which haunt the woods, or swim the weedy pool,
      Stretch’d on the quiet earth, securely lay,
      Forgetting the past labours of the day.
      All else of nature’s common gift partake:
      Unhappy Dido was alone awake.
      Nor sleep nor ease the furious queen can find;
      Sleep fled her eyes, as quiet fled her mind.
      Despair, and rage, and love divide her heart;
      Despair and rage had some, but love the greater part.

      Then thus she said within her secret mind:
      “What shall I do? what succour can I find?
      Become a suppliant to Hyarba’s pride,
      And take my turn, to court and be denied?
      Shall I with this ungrateful Trojan go,
      Forsake an empire, and attend a foe?
      Himself I refug’d, and his train reliev’d;
      ’Tis true; but am I sure to be receiv’d?
      Can gratitude in Trojan souls have place!
      Laomedon still lives in all his race!
      Then, shall I seek alone the churlish crew,
      Or with my fleet their flying sails pursue?
      What force have I but those whom scarce before
      I drew reluctant from their native shore?
      Will they again embark at my desire,
      Once more sustain the seas, and quit their second Tyre?
      Rather with steel thy guilty breast invade,
      And take the fortune thou thyself hast made.
      Your pity, sister, first seduc’d my mind,
      Or seconded too well what I design’d.
      These dear-bought pleasures had I never known,
      Had I continued free, and still my own;
      Avoiding love, I had not found despair,
      But shar’d with salvage beasts the common air.
      Like them, a lonely life I might have led,
      Not mourn’d the living, nor disturb’d the dead.”
      These thoughts she brooded in her anxious breast.
      On board, the Trojan found more easy rest.
      Resolv’d to sail, in sleep he pass’d the night;
      And order’d all things for his early flight.

      To whom once more the winged god appears;
      His former youthful mien and shape he wears,
      And with this new alarm invades his ears:
      “Sleep’st thou, O goddess-born! and canst thou drown
      Thy needful cares, so near a hostile town,
      Beset with foes; nor hear’st the western gales
      Invite thy passage, and inspire thy sails?
      She harbours in her heart a furious hate,
      And thou shalt find the dire effects too late;
      Fix’d on revenge, and obstinate to die.
      Haste swiftly hence, while thou hast pow’r to fly.
      The sea with ships will soon be cover’d o’er,
      And blazing firebrands kindle all the shore.
      Prevent her rage, while night obscures the skies,
      And sail before the purple morn arise.
      Who knows what hazards thy delay may bring?
      Woman’s a various and a changeful thing.”
      Thus Hermes in the dream; then took his flight
      Aloft in air unseen, and mix’d with night.

      Twice warn’d by the celestial messenger,
      The pious prince arose with hasty fear;
      Then rous’d his drowsy train without delay:
      “Haste to your banks; your crooked anchors weigh,
      And spread your flying sails, and stand to sea.
      A god commands: he stood before my sight,
      And urg’d us once again to speedy flight.
      O sacred pow’r, what pow’r soe’er thou art,
      To thy blest orders I resign my heart.
      Lead thou the way; protect thy Trojan bands,
      And prosper the design thy will commands.”
      He said: and, drawing forth his flaming sword,
      His thund’ring arm divides the many-twisted cord.
      An emulating zeal inspires his train:
      They run; they snatch; they rush into the main.
      With headlong haste they leave the desert shores,
      And brush the liquid seas with lab’ring oars.

      Aurora now had left her saffron bed,
      And beams of early light the heav’ns o’erspread,
      When, from a tow’r, the queen, with wakeful eyes,
      Saw day point upward from the rosy skies.
      She look’d to seaward; but the sea was void,
      And scarce in ken the sailing ships descried.
      Stung with despite, and furious with despair,
      She struck her trembling breast, and tore her hair.
      “And shall th’ ungrateful traitor go,” she said,
      “My land forsaken, and my love betray’d?
      Shall we not arm? not rush from ev’ry street,
      To follow, sink, and burn his perjur’d fleet?
      Haste, haul my galleys out! pursue the foe!
      Bring flaming brands! set sail, and swiftly row!
      What have I said? where am I? Fury turns
      My brain; and my distemper’d bosom burns.
      Then, when I gave my person and my throne,
      This hate, this rage, had been more timely shown.
      See now the promis’d faith, the vaunted name,
      The pious man, who, rushing thro’ the flame,
      Preserv’d his gods, and to the Phrygian shore
      The burthen of his feeble father bore!
      I should have torn him piecemeal; strow’d in floods
      His scatter’d limbs, or left expos’d in woods;
      Destroy’d his friends and son; and, from the fire,
      Have set the reeking boy before the sire.
      Events are doubtful, which on battles wait:
      Yet where’s the doubt, to souls secure of fate?
      My Tyrians, at their injur’d queen’s command,
      Had toss’d their fires amid the Trojan band;
      At once extinguish’d all the faithless name;
      And I myself, in vengeance of my shame,
      Had fall’n upon the pile, to mend the fun’ral flame.
      Thou Sun, who view’st at once the world below;
      Thou Juno, guardian of the nuptial vow;
      Thou Hecate hearken from thy dark abodes!
      Ye Furies, fiends, and violated gods,
      All pow’rs invok’d with Dido’s dying breath,
      Attend her curses and avenge her death!
      If so the Fates ordain, Jove commands,
      Th’ ungrateful wretch should find the Latian lands,
      Yet let a race untam’d, and haughty foes,
      His peaceful entrance with dire arms oppose:
      Oppress’d with numbers in th’ unequal field,
      His men discourag’d, and himself expell’d,
      Let him for succour sue from place to place,
      Torn from his subjects, and his son’s embrace.
      First, let him see his friends in battle slain,
      And their untimely fate lament in vain;
      And when, at length, the cruel war shall cease,
      On hard conditions may he buy his peace:
      Nor let him then enjoy supreme command;
      But fall, untimely, by some hostile hand,
      And lie unburied on the barren sand!
      These are my pray’rs, and this my dying will;
      And you, my Tyrians, ev’ry curse fulfil.
      Perpetual hate and mortal wars proclaim,
      Against the prince, the people, and the name.
      These grateful off’rings on my grave bestow;
      Nor league, nor love, the hostile nations know!
      Now, and from hence, in ev’ry future age,
      When rage excites your arms, and strength supplies the rage
      Rise some avenger of our Libyan blood,
      With fire and sword pursue the perjur’d brood;
      Our arms, our seas, our shores, oppos’d to theirs;
      And the same hate descend on all our heirs!”

      This said, within her anxious mind she weighs
      The means of cutting short her odious days.
      Then to Sichaeus’ nurse she briefly said
      (For, when she left her country, hers was dead):
      “Go, Barce, call my sister. Let her care
      The solemn rites of sacrifice prepare;
      The sheep, and all th’ atoning off’rings bring,
      Sprinkling her body from the crystal spring
      With living drops; then let her come, and thou
      With sacred fillets bind thy hoary brow.
      Thus will I pay my vows to Stygian Jove,
      And end the cares of my disastrous love;
      Then cast the Trojan image on the fire,
      And, as that burns, my passions shall expire.”

      The nurse moves onward, with officious care,
      And all the speed her aged limbs can bear.
      But furious Dido, with dark thoughts involv’d,
      Shook at the mighty mischief she resolv’d.
      With livid spots distinguish’d was her face;
      Red were her rolling eyes, and discompos’d her pace;
      Ghastly she gaz’d, with pain she drew her breath,
      And nature shiver’d at approaching death.

      Then swiftly to the fatal place she pass’d,
      And mounts the fun’ral pile with furious haste;
      Unsheathes the sword the Trojan left behind
      (Not for so dire an enterprise design’d).
      But when she view’d the garments loosely spread,
      Which once he wore, and saw the conscious bed,
      She paus’d, and with a sigh the robes embrac’d;
      Then on the couch her trembling body cast,
      Repress’d the ready tears, and spoke her last:
      “Dear pledges of my love, while Heav’n so pleas’d,
      Receive a soul, of mortal anguish eas’d:
      My fatal course is finish’d; and I go,
      A glorious name, among the ghosts below.
      A lofty city by my hands is rais’d,
      Pygmalion punish’d, and my lord appeas’d.
      What could my fortune have afforded more,
      Had the false Trojan never touch’d my shore!”
      Then kiss’d the couch; and, “Must I die,” she said,
      “And unreveng’d? ’Tis doubly to be dead!
      Yet ev’n this death with pleasure I receive:
      On any terms, ’tis better than to live.
      These flames, from far, may the false Trojan view;
      These boding omens his base flight pursue!”

      She said, and struck; deep enter’d in her side
      The piercing steel, with reeking purple dyed:
      Clogg’d in the wound the cruel weapon stands;
      The spouting blood came streaming on her hands.
      Her sad attendants saw the deadly stroke,
      And with loud cries the sounding palace shook.
      Distracted, from the fatal sight they fled,
      And thro’ the town the dismal rumour spread.
      First from the frighted court the yell began;
      Redoubled, thence from house to house it ran:
      The groans of men, with shrieks, laments, and cries
      Of mixing women, mount the vaulted skies.
      Not less the clamour, than if ancient Tyre,
      Or the new Carthage, set by foes on fire,
      The rolling ruin, with their lov’d abodes,
      Involv’d the blazing temples of their gods.

      Her sister hears; and, furious with despair,
      She beats her breast, and rends her yellow hair,
      And, calling on Eliza’s name aloud,
      Runs breathless to the place, and breaks the crowd.
      “Was all that pomp of woe for this prepar’d;
      These fires, this fun’ral pile, these altars rear’d?
      Was all this train of plots contriv’d,” said she,
      “All only to deceive unhappy me?
      Which is the worst? Didst thou in death pretend
      To scorn thy sister, or delude thy friend?
      Thy summon’d sister, and thy friend, had come;
      One sword had serv’d us both, one common tomb:
      Was I to raise the pile, the pow’rs invoke,
      Not to be present at the fatal stroke?
      At once thou hast destroy’d thyself and me,
      Thy town, thy senate, and thy colony!
      Bring water; bathe the wound; while I in death
      Lay close my lips to hers, and catch the flying breath.”
      This said, she mounts the pile with eager haste,
      And in her arms the gasping queen embrac’d;
      Her temples chaf’d; and her own garments tore,
      To stanch the streaming blood, and cleanse the gore.
      Thrice Dido tried to raise her drooping head,
      And, fainting thrice, fell grov’ling on the bed;
      Thrice op’d her heavy eyes, and sought the light,
      But, having found it, sicken’d at the sight,
      And clos’d her lids at last in endless night.

      Then Juno, grieving that she should sustain
      A death so ling’ring, and so full of pain,
      Sent Iris down, to free her from the strife
      Of lab’ring nature, and dissolve her life.
      For since she died, not doom’d by Heav’n’s decree,
      Or her own crime, but human casualty,
      And rage of love, that plung’d her in despair,
      The Sisters had not cut the topmost hair,
      Which Proserpine and they can only know;
      Nor made her sacred to the shades below.
      Downward the various goddess took her flight,
      And drew a thousand colours from the light;
      Then stood above the dying lover’s head,
      And said: “I thus devote thee to the dead.
      This off’ring to th’ infernal gods I bear.”
      Thus while she spoke, she cut the fatal hair:
      The struggling soul was loos’d, and life dissolv’d in air.



 BOOK V

 THE ARGUMENT.


      Aeneas, setting sail from Afric, is driven by a storm on the
      coast of Sicily, where he is hospitably received by his friend
      Acestes, king of part of the island, and born of Trojan
      parentage. He applies himself to celebrate the memory of his
      father with divine honours, and accordingly institues funeral
      games, and appoints prizes for those who should conquer in them.
      While the ceremonies are performing, Juno sends Iris to persuade
      the Trojan woman to burn the ships, who, upon her instigation,
      set fire to them: which burned four, and would have consumed the
      rest, had not Jupiter, by a miraculous shower extinguished it.
      Upon this, Aeneas, by the advice of one of his generals, and a
      vision of his father, builds a city for the women, old men, and
      others, who were either unfit for war, or weary of the voyage,
      and sails for Italy. Venus procures of Neptune a safe voyage for
      him and all his men, excepting only his pilot Palinurus, who was
      unfortunately lost.


      Meantime the Trojan cuts his wat’ry way,
      Fix’d on his voyage, thro’ the curling sea;
      Then, casting back his eyes, with dire amaze,
      Sees on the Punic shore the mounting blaze.
      The cause unknown; yet his presaging mind
      The fate of Dido from the fire divin’d;
      He knew the stormy souls of womankind,
      What secret springs their eager passions move,
      How capable of death for injur’d love.
      Dire auguries from hence the Trojans draw;
      Till neither fires nor shining shores they saw.
      Now seas and skies their prospect only bound;
      An empty space above, a floating field around.
      But soon the heav’ns with shadows were o’erspread;
      A swelling cloud hung hov’ring o’er their head:
      Livid it look’d, the threat’ning of a storm:
      Then night and horror ocean’s face deform.
      The pilot, Palinurus, cried aloud:
      “What gusts of weather from that gath’ring cloud
      My thoughts presage! Ere yet the tempest roars,
      Stand to your tackle, mates, and stretch your oars;
      Contract your swelling sails, and luff to wind.”
      The frighted crew perform the task assign’d.
      Then, to his fearless chief: “Not Heav’n,” said he,
      “Tho’ Jove himself should promise Italy,
      Can stem the torrent of this raging sea.
      Mark how the shifting winds from west arise,
      And what collected night involves the skies!
      Nor can our shaken vessels live at sea,
      Much less against the tempest force their way.
      ’Tis fate diverts our course, and fate we must obey.
      Not far from hence, if I observ’d aright
      The southing of the stars, and polar light,
      Sicilia lies, whose hospitable shores
      In safety we may reach with struggling oars.”
      Aeneas then replied: “Too sure I find
      We strive in vain against the seas and wind:
      Now shift your sails; what place can please me more
      Than what you promise, the Sicilian shore,
      Whose hallow’d earth Anchises’ bones contains,
      And where a prince of Trojan lineage reigns?”
      The course resolv’d, before the western wind
      They scud amain, and make the port assign’d.
      Meantime Acestes, from a lofty stand,
      Beheld the fleet descending on the land;
      And, not unmindful of his ancient race,
      Down from the cliff he ran with eager pace,
      And held the hero in a strict embrace.
      Of a rough Libyan bear the spoils he wore,
      And either hand a pointed jav’lin bore.
      His mother was a dame of Dardan blood;
      His sire Crinisus, a Sicilian flood.
      He welcomes his returning friends ashore
      With plenteous country cates and homely store.

      Now, when the following morn had chas’d away
      The flying stars, and light restor’d the day,
      Aeneas call’d the Trojan troops around,
      And thus bespoke them from a rising ground:
      “Offspring of heav’n, divine Dardanian race!
      The sun, revolving thro’ th’ ethereal space,
      The shining circle of the year has fill’d,
      Since first this isle my father’s ashes held:
      And now the rising day renews the year;
      A day for ever sad, for ever dear.
      This would I celebrate with annual games,
      With gifts on altars pil’d, and holy flames,
      Tho’ banish’d to Gaetulia’s barren sands,
      Caught on the Grecian seas, or hostile lands:
      But since this happy storm our fleet has driv’n
      (Not, as I deem, without the will of Heav’n)
      Upon these friendly shores and flow’ry plains,
      Which hide Anchises and his blest remains,
      Let us with joy perform his honours due,
      And pray for prosp’rous winds, our voyage to renew;
      Pray, that in towns and temples of our own,
      The name of great Anchises may be known,
      And yearly games may spread the gods’ renown.
      Our sports Acestes, of the Trojan race,
      With royal gifts ordain’d, is pleas’d to grace:
      Two steers on ev’ry ship the king bestows;
      His gods and ours shall share your equal vows.
      Besides, if, nine days hence, the rosy morn
      Shall with unclouded light the skies adorn,
      That day with solemn sports I mean to grace:
      Light galleys on the seas shall run a wat’ry race;
      Some shall in swiftness for the goal contend,
      And others try the twanging bow to bend;
      The strong, with iron gauntlets arm’d, shall stand
      Oppos’d in combat on the yellow sand.
      Let all be present at the games prepar’d,
      And joyful victors wait the just reward.
      But now assist the rites, with garlands crown’d.”
      He said, and first his brows with myrtle bound.
      Then Helymus, by his example led,
      And old Acestes, each adorn’d his head;
      Thus young Ascanius, with a sprightly grace,
      His temples tied, and all the Trojan race.

      Aeneas then advanc’d amidst the train,
      By thousands follow’d thro’ the flow’ry plain,
      To great Anchises’ tomb; which when he found,
      He pour’d to Bacchus, on the hallow’d ground,
      Two bowls of sparkling wine, of milk two more,
      And two from offer’d bulls of purple gore,
      With roses then the sepulcher he strow’d
      And thus his father’s ghost bespoke aloud:
      “Hail, O ye holy manes! hail again,
      Paternal ashes, now review’d in vain!
      The gods permitted not, that you, with me,
      Should reach the promis’d shores of Italy,
      Or Tiber’s flood, what flood soe’er it be.”
      Scarce had he finish’d, when, with speckled pride,
      A serpent from the tomb began to glide;
      His hugy bulk on sev’n high volumes roll’d;
      Blue was his breadth of back, but streak’d with scaly gold:
      Thus riding on his curls, he seem’d to pass
      A rolling fire along, and singe the grass.
      More various colours thro’ his body run,
      Than Iris when her bow imbibes the sun.
      Betwixt the rising altars, and around,
      The sacred monster shot along the ground;
      With harmless play amidst the bowls he pass’d,
      And with his lolling tongue assay’d the taste:
      Thus fed with holy food, the wondrous guest
      Within the hollow tomb retir’d to rest.
      The pious prince, surpris’d at what he view’d,
      The fun’ral honours with more zeal renew’d,
      Doubtful if this place’s genius were,
      Or guardian of his father’s sepulcher.
      Five sheep, according to the rites, he slew;
      As many swine, and steers of sable hue;
      New gen’rous wine he from the goblets pour’d.
      And call’d his father’s ghost, from hell restor’d.
      The glad attendants in long order come,
      Off’ring their gifts at great Anchises’ tomb:
      Some add more oxen: some divide the spoil;
      Some place the chargers on the grassy soil;
      Some blow the fires, and offered entrails broil.

      Now came the day desir’d. The skies were bright
      With rosy luster of the rising light:
      The bord’ring people, rous’d by sounding fame
      Of Trojan feasts and great Acestes’ name,
      The crowded shore with acclamations fill,
      Part to behold, and part to prove their skill.
      And first the gifts in public view they place,
      Green laurel wreaths, and palm, the victors’ grace:
      Within the circle, arms and tripods lie,
      Ingots of gold and silver, heap’d on high,
      And vests embroider’d, of the Tyrian dye.
      The trumpet’s clangour then the feast proclaims,
      And all prepare for their appointed games.
      Four galleys first, which equal rowers bear,
      Advancing, in the wat’ry lists appear.
      The speedy Dolphin, that outstrips the wind,
      Bore Mnestheus, author of the Memmian kind:
      Gyas the vast Chimaera’s bulk commands,
      Which rising, like a tow’ring city stands;
      Three Trojans tug at ev’ry lab’ring oar;
      Three banks in three degrees the sailors bore;
      Beneath their sturdy strokes the billows roar.
      Sergesthus, who began the Sergian race,
      In the great Centaur took the leading place;
      Cloanthus on the sea-green Scylla stood,
      From whom Cluentius draws his Trojan blood.

      Far in the sea, against the foaming shore,
      There stands a rock: the raging billows roar
      Above his head in storms; but, when ’tis clear,
      Uncurl their ridgy backs, and at his foot appear.
      In peace below the gentle waters run;
      The cormorants above lie basking in the sun.
      On this the hero fix’d an oak in sight,
      The mark to guide the mariners aright.
      To bear with this, the seamen stretch their oars;
      Then round the rock they steer, and seek the former shores.
      The lots decide their place. Above the rest,
      Each leader shining in his Tyrian vest;
      The common crew with wreaths of poplar boughs
      Their temples crown, and shade their sweaty brows:
      Besmear’d with oil, their naked shoulders shine.
      All take their seats, and wait the sounding sign:
      They gripe their oars; and ev’ry panting breast
      Is rais’d by turns with hope, by turns with fear depress’d.
      The clangour of the trumpet gives the sign;
      At once they start, advancing in a line:
      With shouts the sailors rend the starry skies;
      Lash’d with their oars, the smoky billows rise;
      Sparkles the briny main, and the vex’d ocean fries.
      Exact in time, with equal strokes they row:
      At once the brushing oars and brazen prow
      Dash up the sandy waves, and ope the depths below.
      Not fiery coursers, in a chariot race,
      Invade the field with half so swift a pace;
      Not the fierce driver with more fury lends
      The sounding lash, and, ere the stroke descends,
      Low to the wheels his pliant body bends.
      The partial crowd their hopes and fears divide,
      And aid with eager shouts the favour’d side.
      Cries, murmurs, clamours, with a mixing sound,
      From woods to woods, from hills to hills rebound.

      Amidst the loud applauses of the shore,
      Gyas outstripp’d the rest, and sprung before:
      Cloanthus, better mann’d, pursued him fast,
      But his o’er-masted galley check’d his haste.
      The Centaur and the Dolphin brush the brine
      With equal oars, advancing in a line;
      And now the mighty Centaur seems to lead,
      And now the speedy Dolphin gets ahead;
      Now board to board the rival vessels row,
      The billows lave the skies, and ocean groans below.
      They reach’d the mark; proud Gyas and his train
      In triumph rode, the victors of the main;
      But, steering round, he charg’d his pilot stand
      More close to shore, and skim along the sand.
      “Let others bear to sea!” Menoetes heard;
      But secret shelves too cautiously he fear’d,
      And, fearing, sought the deep; and still aloof he steer’d.
      With louder cries the captain call’d again:
      “Bear to the rocky shore, and shun the main.”
      He spoke, and, speaking, at his stern he saw
      The bold Cloanthus near the shelvings draw.
      Betwixt the mark and him the Scylla stood,
      And in a closer compass plow’d the flood.
      He pass’d the mark; and, wheeling, got before:
      Gyas blasphem’d the gods, devoutly swore,
      Cried out for anger, and his hair he tore.
      Mindless of others’ lives (so high was grown
      His rising rage) and careless of his own,
      The trembling dotard to the deck he drew;
      Then hoisted up, and overboard he threw:
      This done, he seiz’d the helm; his fellows cheer’d,
      Turn’d short upon the shelfs, and madly steer’d.

      Hardly his head the plunging pilot rears,
      Clogg’d with his clothes, and cumber’d with his years:
      Now dropping wet, he climbs the cliff with pain.
      The crowd, that saw him fall and float again,
      Shout from the distant shore; and loudly laugh’d,
      To see his heaving breast disgorge the briny draught.
      The following Centaur, and the Dolphin’s crew,
      Their vanish’d hopes of victory renew;
      While Gyas lags, they kindle in the race,
      To reach the mark. Sergesthus takes the place;
      Mnestheus pursues; and while around they wind,
      Comes up, not half his galley’s length behind;
      Then, on the deck, amidst his mates appear’d,
      And thus their drooping courages he cheer’d:
      “My friends, and Hector’s followers heretofore,
      Exert your vigour; tug the lab’ring oar;
      Stretch to your strokes, my still unconquer’d crew,
      Whom from the flaming walls of Troy I drew.
      In this, our common int’rest, let me find
      That strength of hand, that courage of the mind,
      As when you stemm’d the strong Malean flood,
      And o’er the Syrtes’ broken billows row’d.
      I seek not now the foremost palm to gain;
      Tho’ yet——But, ah! that haughty wish is vain!
      Let those enjoy it whom the gods ordain.
      But to be last, the lags of all the race!
      Redeem yourselves and me from that disgrace.”
      Now, one and all, they tug amain; they row
      At the full stretch, and shake the brazen prow.
      The sea beneath ’em sinks; their lab’ring sides
      Are swell’d, and sweat runs gutt’ring down in tides.
      Chance aids their daring with unhop’d success;
      Sergesthus, eager with his beak to press
      Betwixt the rival galley and the rock,
      Shuts up th’ unwieldly Centaur in the lock.
      The vessel struck; and, with the dreadful shock,
      Her oars she shiver’d, and her head she broke.
      The trembling rowers from their banks arise,
      And, anxious for themselves, renounce the prize.
      With iron poles they heave her off the shores,
      And gather from the sea their floating oars.
      The crew of Mnestheus, with elated minds,
      Urge their success, and call the willing winds;
      Then ply their oars, and cut their liquid way
      In larger compass on the roomy sea.
      As, when the dove her rocky hold forsakes,
      Rous’d in a fright, her sounding wings she shakes;
      The cavern rings with clatt’ring; out she flies,
      And leaves her callow care, and cleaves the skies:
      At first she flutters; but at length she springs
      To smoother flight, and shoots upon her wings:
      So Mnestheus in the Dolphin cuts the sea;
      And, flying with a force, that force assists his way.
      Sergesthus in the Centaur soon he pass’d,
      Wedg’d in the rocky shoals, and sticking fast.
      In vain the victor he with cries implores,
      And practices to row with shatter’d oars.
      Then Mnestheus bears with Gyas, and outflies:
      The ship, without a pilot, yields the prize.
      Unvanquish’d Scylla now alone remains;
      Her he pursues, and all his vigour strains.
      Shouts from the fav’ring multitude arise;
      Applauding Echo to the shouts replies;
      Shouts, wishes, and applause run rattling thro’ the skies.
      These clamours with disdain the Scylla heard,
      Much grudg’d the praise, but more the robb’d reward:
      Resolv’d to hold their own, they mend their pace,
      All obstinate to die, or gain the race.
      Rais’d with success, the Dolphin swiftly ran;
      For they can conquer, who believe they can.
      Both urge their oars, and fortune both supplies,
      And both perhaps had shar’d an equal prize;
      When to the seas Cloanthus holds his hands,
      And succour from the wat’ry pow’rs demands:
      “Gods of the liquid realms, on which I row!
      If, giv’n by you, the laurel bind my brow,
      Assist to make me guilty of my vow!
      A snow-white bull shall on your shore be slain;
      His offer’d entrails cast into the main,
      And ruddy wine, from golden goblets thrown,
      Your grateful gift and my return shall own.”
      The choir of nymphs, and Phorcus, from below,
      With virgin Panopea, heard his vow;
      And old Portunus, with his breadth of hand,
      Push’d on, and sped the galley to the land.
      Swift as a shaft, or winged wind, she flies,
      And, darting to the port, obtains the prize.

      The herald summons all, and then proclaims
      Cloanthus conqu’ror of the naval games.
      The prince with laurel crowns the victor’s head,
      And three fat steers are to his vessel led,
      The ship’s reward; with gen’rous wine beside,
      And sums of silver, which the crew divide.
      The leaders are distinguish’d from the rest;
      The victor honour’d with a nobler vest,
      Where gold and purple strive in equal rows,
      And needlework its happy cost bestows.
      There Ganymede is wrought with living art,
      Chasing thro’ Ida’s groves the trembling hart:
      Breathless he seems, yet eager to pursue;
      When from aloft descends, in open view,
      The bird of Jove, and, sousing on his prey,
      With crooked talons bears the boy away.
      In vain, with lifted hands and gazing eyes,
      His guards behold him soaring thro’ the skies,
      And dogs pursue his flight with imitated cries.

      Mnestheus the second victor was declar’d;
      And, summon’d there, the second prize he shar’d.
      A coat of mail, brave Demoleus bore,
      More brave Aeneas from his shoulders tore,
      In single combat on the Trojan shore:
      This was ordain’d for Mnestheus to possess;
      In war for his defence, for ornament in peace.
      Rich was the gift, and glorious to behold,
      But yet so pond’rous with its plates of gold,
      That scarce two servants could the weight sustain;
      Yet, loaded thus, Demoleus o’er the plain
      Pursued and lightly seiz’d the Trojan train.
      The third, succeeding to the last reward,
      Two goodly bowls of massy silver shar’d,
      With figures prominent, and richly wrought,
      And two brass caldrons from Dodona brought.

      Thus all, rewarded by the hero’s hands,
      Their conqu’ring temples bound with purple bands;
      And now Sergesthus, clearing from the rock,
      Brought back his galley shatter’d with the shock.
      Forlorn she look’d, without an aiding oar,
      And, houted by the vulgar, made to shore.
      As when a snake, surpris’d upon the road,
      Is crush’d athwart her body by the load
      Of heavy wheels; or with a mortal wound
      Her belly bruis’d, and trodden to the ground:
      In vain, with loosen’d curls, she crawls along;
      Yet, fierce above, she brandishes her tongue;
      Glares with her eyes, and bristles with her scales;
      But, groveling in the dust, her parts unsound she trails:
      So slowly to the port the Centaur tends,
      But, what she wants in oars, with sails amends.
      Yet, for his galley sav’d, the grateful prince
      Is pleas’d th’ unhappy chief to recompense.
      Pholoe, the Cretan slave, rewards his care,
      Beauteous herself, with lovely twins as fair.

      From thence his way the Trojan hero bent
      Into the neighb’ring plain, with mountains pent,
      Whose sides were shaded with surrounding wood.
      Full in the midst of this fair valley stood
      A native theatre, which, rising slow
      By just degrees, o’erlook’d the ground below.
      High on a sylvan throne the leader sate;
      A num’rous train attend in solemn state.
      Here those that in the rapid course delight,
      Desire of honour and the prize invite.
      The rival runners without order stand;
      The Trojans mix’d with the Sicilian band.
      First Nisus, with Euryalus, appears;
      Euryalus a boy of blooming years,
      With sprightly grace and equal beauty crown’d;
      Nisus, for friendship to the youth renown’d.
      Diores next, of Priam’s royal race,
      Then Salius joined with Patron, took their place;
      But Patron in Arcadia had his birth,
      And Salius his from Arcananian earth;
      Then two Sicilian youths, the names of these,
      Swift Helymus, and lovely Panopes:
      Both jolly huntsmen, both in forest bred,
      And owning old Acestes for their head;
      With sev’ral others of ignobler name,
      Whom time has not deliver’d o’er to fame.

      To these the hero thus his thoughts explain’d,
      In words which gen’ral approbation gain’d:
      “One common largess is for all design’d,
      The vanquish’d and the victor shall be join’d,
      Two darts of polish’d steel and Gnosian wood,
      A silver-studded ax alike bestow’d.
      The foremost three have olive wreaths decreed:
      The first of these obtains a stately steed,
      Adorn’d with trappings; and the next in fame,
      The quiver of an Amazonian dame,
      With feather’d Thracian arrows well supplied:
      A golden belt shall gird his manly side,
      Which with a sparkling diamond shall be tied.
      The third this Grecian helmet shall content.”
      He said. To their appointed base they went;
      With beating hearts th’ expected sign receive,
      And, starting all at once, the barrier leave.
      Spread out, as on the winged winds, they flew,
      And seiz’d the distant goal with greedy view.
      Shot from the crowd, swift Nisus all o’erpass’d;
      Nor storms, nor thunder, equal half his haste.
      The next, but tho’ the next, yet far disjoin’d,
      Came Salius, and Euryalus behind;
      Then Helymus, whom young Diores plied,
      Step after step, and almost side by side,
      His shoulders pressing; and, in longer space,
      Had won, or left at least a dubious race.

      Now, spent, the goal they almost reach at last,
      When eager Nisus, hapless in his haste,
      Slipp’d first, and, slipping, fell upon the plain,
      Soak’d with the blood of oxen newly slain.
      The careless victor had not mark’d his way;
      But, treading where the treach’rous puddle lay,
      His heels flew up; and on the grassy floor
      He fell, besmear’d with filth and holy gore.
      Not mindless then, Euryalus, of thee,
      Nor of the sacred bonds of amity,
      He strove th’ immediate rival’s hope to cross,
      And caught the foot of Salius as he rose.
      So Salius lay extended on the plain;
      Euryalus springs out, the prize to gain,
      And leaves the crowd: applauding peals attend
      The victor to the goal, who vanquish’d by his friend.
      Next Helymus; and then Diores came,
      By two misfortunes made the third in fame.

      But Salius enters, and, exclaiming loud
      For justice, deafens and disturbs the crowd;
      Urges his cause may in the court be heard;
      And pleads the prize is wrongfully conferr’d.
      But favour for Euryalus appears;
      His blooming beauty, with his tender tears,
      Had brib’d the judges for the promis’d prize.
      Besides, Diores fills the court with cries,
      Who vainly reaches at the last reward,
      If the first palm on Salius be conferr’d.
      Then thus the prince: “Let no disputes arise:
      Where fortune plac’d it, I award the prize.
      But fortune’s errors give me leave to mend,
      At least to pity my deserving friend.”
      He said, and, from among the spoils, he draws
      (Pond’rous with shaggy mane and golden paws)
      A lion’s hide: to Salius this he gives.
      Nisus with envy sees the gift, and grieves.
      “If such rewards to vanquish’d men are due.”
      He said, “and falling is to rise by you,
      What prize may Nisus from your bounty claim,
      Who merited the first rewards and fame?
      In falling, both an equal fortune tried;
      Would fortune for my fall so well provide!”
      With this he pointed to his face, and show’d
      His hand and all his habit smear’d with blood.
      Th’ indulgent father of the people smil’d,
      And caus’d to be produc’d an ample shield,
      Of wondrous art, by Didymaon wrought,
      Long since from Neptune’s bars in triumph brought.
      This giv’n to Nisus, he divides the rest,
      And equal justice in his gifts express’d.

      The race thus ended, and rewards bestow’d,
      Once more the prince bespeaks th’ attentive crowd:
      “If there be here, whose dauntless courage dare
      In gauntlet fight, with limbs and body bare,
      His opposite sustain in open view,
      Stand forth the champion, and the games renew.
      Two prizes I propose, and thus divide:
      A bull with gilded horns, and fillets tied,
      Shall be the portion of the conqu’ring chief;
      A sword and helm shall cheer the loser’s grief.”

      Then haughty Dares in the lists appears;
      Stalking he strides, his head erected bears:
      His nervous arms the weighty gauntlet wield,
      And loud applauses echo thro’ the field.
      Dares alone in combat us’d to stand
      The match of mighty Paris, hand to hand;
      The same, at Hector’s fun’rals, undertook
      Gigantic Butes, of th’ Amycian stock,
      And, by the stroke of his resistless hand,
      Stretch’d the vast bulk upon the yellow sand.
      Such Dares was; and such he strode along,
      And drew the wonder of the gazing throng.
      His brawny back and ample breast he shows,
      His lifted arms around his head he throws,
      And deals in whistling air his empty blows.
      His match is sought; but, thro’ the trembling band,
      Not one dares answer to the proud demand.
      Presuming of his force, with sparkling eyes
      Already he devours the promis’d prize.
      He claims the bull with awless insolence,
      And having seiz’d his horns, accosts the prince:
      “If none my matchless valour dares oppose,
      How long shall Dares wait his dastard foes?
      Permit me, chief, permit without delay,
      To lead this uncontended gift away.”
      The crowd assents, and with redoubled cries
      For the proud challenger demands the prize.

      Acestes, fir’d with just disdain, to see
      The palm usurp’d without a victory,
      Reproach’d Entellus thus, who sate beside,
      And heard and saw, unmov’d, the Trojan’s pride:
      “Once, but in vain, a champion of renown,
      So tamely can you bear the ravish’d crown,
      A prize in triumph borne before your sight,
      And shun, for fear, the danger of the fight?
      Where is our Eryx now, the boasted name,
      The god who taught your thund’ring arm the game?
      Where now your baffled honour? Where the spoil
      That fill’d your house, and fame that fill’d our isle?”
      Entellus, thus: “My soul is still the same,
      Unmov’d with fear, and mov’d with martial fame;
      But my chill blood is curdled in my veins,
      And scarce the shadow of a man remains.
      O could I turn to that fair prime again,
      That prime of which this boaster is so vain,
      The brave, who this decrepid age defies,
      Should feel my force, without the promis’d prize.”

      He said; and, rising at the word, he threw
      Two pond’rous gauntlets down in open view;
      Gauntlets which Eryx wont in fight to wield,
      And sheathe his hands with in the listed field.
      With fear and wonder seiz’d, the crowd beholds
      The gloves of death, with sev’n distinguish’d folds
      Of tough bull hides; the space within is spread
      With iron, or with loads of heavy lead:
      Dares himself was daunted at the sight,
      Renounc’d his challenge, and refus’d to fight.
      Astonish’d at their weight, the hero stands,
      And pois’d the pond’rous engines in his hands.
      “What had your wonder,” said Entellus, “been,
      Had you the gauntlets of Alcides seen,
      Or view’d the stern debate on this unhappy green!
      These which I bear your brother Eryx bore,
      Still mark’d with batter’d brains and mingled gore.
      With these he long sustain’d th’ Herculean arm;
      And these I wielded while my blood was warm,
      This languish’d frame while better spirits fed,
      Ere age unstrung my nerves, or time o’ersnow’d my head.
      But if the challenger these arms refuse,
      And cannot wield their weight, or dare not use;
      If great Aeneas and Acestes join
      In his request, these gauntlets I resign;
      Let us with equal arms perform the fight,
      And let him leave to fear, since I resign my right.”

      This said, Entellus for the strife prepares;
      Stripp’d of his quilted coat, his body bares;
      Compos’d of mighty bones and brawn he stands,
      A goodly tow’ring object on the sands.
      Then just Aeneas equal arms supplied,
      Which round their shoulders to their wrists they tied.
      Both on the tiptoe stand, at full extent,
      Their arms aloft, their bodies inly bent;
      Their heads from aiming blows they bear afar;
      With clashing gauntlets then provoke the war.
      One on his youth and pliant limbs relies;
      One on his sinews and his giant size.
      The last is stiff with age, his motion slow;
      He heaves for breath, he staggers to and fro,
      And clouds of issuing smoke his nostrils loudly blow.
      Yet equal in success, they ward, they strike;
      Their ways are diff’rent, but their art alike.
      Before, behind, the blows are dealt; around
      Their hollow sides the rattling thumps resound.
      A storm of strokes, well meant, with fury flies,
      And errs about their temples, ears, and eyes.
      Nor always errs; for oft the gauntlet draws
      A sweeping stroke along the crackling jaws.
      Heavy with age, Entellus stands his ground,
      But with his warping body wards the wound.
      His hand and watchful eye keep even pace;
      While Dares traverses and shifts his place,
      And, like a captain who beleaguers round
      Some strong-built castle on a rising ground,
      Views all th’ approaches with observing eyes:
      This and that other part in vain he tries,
      And more on industry than force relies.
      With hands on high, Entellus threats the foe;
      But Dares watch’d the motion from below,
      And slipp’d aside, and shunn’d the long descending blow.
      Entellus wastes his forces on the wind,
      And, thus deluded of the stroke design’d,
      Headlong and heavy fell; his ample breast
      And weighty limbs his ancient mother press’d.
      So falls a hollow pine, that long had stood
      On Ida’s height, or Erymanthus’ wood,
      Torn from the roots. The diff’ring nations rise,
      And shouts and mingled murmurs rend the skies,
      Acestus runs with eager haste, to raise
      The fall’n companion of his youthful days.
      Dauntless he rose, and to the fight return’d;
      With shame his glowing cheeks, his eyes with fury burn’d.
      Disdain and conscious virtue fir’d his breast,
      And with redoubled force his foe he press’d.
      He lays on load with either hand, amain,
      And headlong drives the Trojan o’er the plain;
      Nor stops, nor stays; nor rest nor breath allows;
      But storms of strokes descend about his brows,
      A rattling tempest, and a hail of blows.
      But now the prince, who saw the wild increase
      Of wounds, commands the combatants to cease,
      And bounds Entellus’ wrath, and bids the peace.
      First to the Trojan, spent with toil, he came,
      And sooth’d his sorrow for the suffer’d shame.
      “What fury seiz’d my friend? The gods,” said he,
      “To him propitious, and averse to thee,
      Have giv’n his arm superior force to thine.
      ’Tis madness to contend with strength divine.”
      The gauntlet fight thus ended, from the shore
      His faithful friends unhappy Dares bore:
      His mouth and nostrils pour’d a purple flood,
      And pounded teeth came rushing with his blood.
      Faintly he stagger’d thro’ the hissing throng,
      And hung his head, and trail’d his legs along.
      The sword and casque are carried by his train;
      But with his foe the palm and ox remain.

      The champion, then, before Aeneas came,
      Proud of his prize, but prouder of his fame:
      “O goddess-born, and you, Dardanian host,
      Mark with attention, and forgive my boast;
      Learn what I was, by what remains; and know
      From what impending fate you sav’d my foe.”
      Sternly he spoke, and then confronts the bull;
      And, on his ample forehead aiming full,
      The deadly stroke, descending, pierc’d the skull.
      Down drops the beast, nor needs a second wound,
      But sprawls in pangs of death, and spurns the ground.
      Then, thus: “In Dares’ stead I offer this.
      Eryx, accept a nobler sacrifice;
      Take the last gift my wither’d arms can yield:
      Thy gauntlets I resign, and here renounce the field.”

      This done, Aeneas orders, for the close,
      The strife of archers with contending bows.
      The mast Sergesthus’ shatter’d galley bore
      With his own hands he raises on the shore.
      A flutt’ring dove upon the top they tie,
      The living mark at which their arrows fly.
      The rival archers in a line advance,
      Their turn of shooting to receive from chance.
      A helmet holds their names; the lots are drawn:
      On the first scroll was read Hippocoon.
      The people shout. Upon the next was found
      Young Mnestheus, late with naval honours crown’d.
      The third contain’d Eurytion’s noble name,
      Thy brother, Pandarus, and next in fame,
      Whom Pallas urg’d the treaty to confound,
      And send among the Greeks a feather’d wound.
      Acestes in the bottom last remain’d,
      Whom not his age from youthful sports restrain’d.
      Soon all with vigour bend their trusty bows,
      And from the quiver each his arrow chose.
      Hippocoon’s was the first: with forceful sway
      It flew, and, whizzing, cut the liquid way.
      Fix’d in the mast the feather’d weapon stands:
      The fearful pigeon flutters in her bands,
      And the tree trembled, and the shouting cries
      Of the pleas’d people rend the vaulted skies.
      Then Mnestheus to the head his arrow drove,
      With lifted eyes, and took his aim above,
      But made a glancing shot, and missed the dove;
      Yet miss’d so narrow, that he cut the cord
      Which fasten’d by the foot the flitting bird.
      The captive thus releas’d, away she flies,
      And beats with clapping wings the yielding skies.
      His bow already bent, Eurytion stood;
      And, having first invok’d his brother god,
      His winged shaft with eager haste he sped.
      The fatal message reach’d her as she fled:
      She leaves her life aloft; she strikes the ground,
      And renders back the weapon in the wound.
      Acestes, grudging at his lot, remains,
      Without a prize to gratify his pains.
      Yet, shooting upward, sends his shaft, to show
      An archer’s art, and boast his twanging bow.
      The feather’d arrow gave a dire portent,
      And latter augurs judge from this event.
      Chaf’d by the speed, it fir’d; and, as it flew,
      A trail of following flames ascending drew:
      Kindling they mount, and mark the shiny way;
      Across the skies as falling meteors play,
      And vanish into wind, or in a blaze decay.
      The Trojans and Sicilians wildly stare,
      And, trembling, turn their wonder into pray’r.
      The Dardan prince put on a smiling face,
      And strain’d Acestes with a close embrace;
      Then, hon’ring him with gifts above the rest,
      Turn’d the bad omen, nor his fears confess’d.
      “The gods,” said he, “this miracle have wrought,
      And order’d you the prize without the lot.
      Accept this goblet, rough with figur’d gold,
      Which Thracian Cisseus gave my sire of old:
      This pledge of ancient amity receive,
      Which to my second sire I justly give.”
      He said, and, with the trumpets’ cheerful sound,
      Proclaim’d him victor, and with laurel-crown’d.
      Nor good Eurytion envied him the prize,
      Tho’ he transfix’d the pigeon in the skies.
      Who cut the line, with second gifts was grac’d;
      The third was his whose arrow pierc’d the mast.

      The chief, before the games were wholly done,
      Call’d Periphantes, tutor to his son,
      And whisper’d thus: “With speed Ascanius find;
      And, if his childish troop be ready join’d,
      On horseback let him grace his grandsire’s day,
      And lead his equals arm’d in just array.”
      He said; and, calling out, the cirque he clears.
      The crowd withdrawn, an open plain appears.
      And now the noble youths, of form divine,
      Advance before their fathers, in a line;
      The riders grace the steeds; the steeds with glory shine.

      Thus marching on in military pride,
      Shouts of applause resound from side to side.
      Their casques adorn’d with laurel wreaths they wear,
      Each brandishing aloft a cornel spear.
      Some at their backs their gilded quivers bore;
      Their chains of burnish’d gold hung down before.
      Three graceful troops they form’d upon the green;
      Three graceful leaders at their head were seen;
      Twelve follow’d ev’ry chief, and left a space between.
      The first young Priam led; a lovely boy,
      Whose grandsire was th’ unhappy king of Troy;
      His race in after times was known to fame,
      New honours adding to the Latian name;
      And well the royal boy his Thracian steed became.
      White were the fetlocks of his feet before,
      And on his front a snowy star he bore.
      Then beauteous Atys, with Iulus bred,
      Of equal age, the second squadron led.
      The last in order, but the first in place,
      First in the lovely features of his face,
      Rode fair Ascanius on a fiery steed,
      Queen Dido’s gift, and of the Tyrian breed.
      Sure coursers for the rest the king ordains,
      With golden bits adorn’d, and purple reins.

      The pleas’d spectators peals of shouts renew,
      And all the parents in the children view;
      Their make, their motions, and their sprightly grace,
      And hopes and fears alternate in their face.

      Th’ unfledg’d commanders and their martial train
      First make the circuit of the sandy plain
      Around their sires, and, at th’ appointed sign,
      Drawn up in beauteous order, form a line.
      The second signal sounds, the troop divides
      In three distinguish’d parts, with three distinguish’d guides
      Again they close, and once again disjoin;
      In troop to troop oppos’d, and line to line.
      They meet; they wheel; they throw their darts afar
      With harmless rage and well-dissembled war.
      Then in a round the mingled bodies run:
      Flying they follow, and pursuing shun;
      Broken, they break; and, rallying, they renew
      In other forms the military shew.
      At last, in order, undiscern’d they join,
      And march together in a friendly line.
      And, as the Cretan labyrinth of old,
      With wand’ring ways and many a winding fold,
      Involv’d the weary feet, without redress,
      In a round error, which denied recess;
      So fought the Trojan boys in warlike play,
      Turn’d and return’d, and still a diff’rent way.
      Thus dolphins in the deep each other chase
      In circles, when they swim around the wat’ry race.
      This game, these carousels, Ascanius taught;
      And, building Alba, to the Latins brought;
      Shew’d what he learn’d: the Latin sires impart
      To their succeeding sons the graceful art;
      From these imperial Rome receiv’d the game,
      Which Troy, the youths the Trojan troop, they name.

      Thus far the sacred sports they celebrate:
      But Fortune soon resum’d her ancient hate;
      For, while they pay the dead his annual dues,
      Those envied rites Saturnian Juno views;
      And sends the goddess of the various bow,
      To try new methods of revenge below;
      Supplies the winds to wing her airy way,
      Where in the port secure the navy lay.
      Swiftly fair Iris down her arch descends,
      And, undiscern’d, her fatal voyage ends.
      She saw the gath’ring crowd; and, gliding thence,
      The desert shore, and fleet without defence.
      The Trojan matrons, on the sands alone,
      With sighs and tears Anchises’ death bemoan;
      Then, turning to the sea their weeping eyes,
      Their pity to themselves renews their cries.
      “Alas!” said one, “what oceans yet remain
      For us to sail! what labours to sustain!”
      All take the word, and, with a gen’ral groan,
      Implore the gods for peace, and places of their own.

      The goddess, great in mischief, views their pains,
      And in a woman’s form her heav’nly limbs restrains.
      In face and shape old Beroe she became,
      Doryclus’ wife, a venerable dame,
      Once blest with riches, and a mother’s name.
      Thus chang’d, amidst the crying crowd she ran,
      Mix’d with the matrons, and these words began:
      “O wretched we, whom not the Grecian pow’r,
      Nor flames, destroy’d, in Troy’s unhappy hour!
      O wretched we, reserv’d by cruel fate,
      Beyond the ruins of the sinking state!
      Now sev’n revolving years are wholly run,
      Since this improsp’rous voyage we begun;
      Since, toss’d from shores to shores, from lands to lands,
      Inhospitable rocks and barren sands,
      Wand’ring in exile thro’ the stormy sea,
      We search in vain for flying Italy.
      Now cast by fortune on this kindred land,
      What should our rest and rising walls withstand,
      Or hinder here to fix our banish’d band?
      O country lost, and gods redeem’d in vain,
      If still in endless exile we remain!
      Shall we no more the Trojan walls renew,
      Or streams of some dissembled Simois view!
      Haste, join with me, th’ unhappy fleet consume!
      Cassandra bids; and I declare her doom.
      In sleep I saw her; she supplied my hands
      (For this I more than dreamt) with flaming brands:
      ‘With these,’ said she, ‘these wand’ring ships destroy:
      These are your fatal seats, and this your Troy.’
      Time calls you now; the precious hour employ:
      Slack not the good presage, while Heav’n inspires
      Our minds to dare, and gives the ready fires.
      See! Neptune’s altars minister their brands:
      The god is pleas’d; the god supplies our hands.”
      Then from the pile a flaming fire she drew,
      And, toss’d in air, amidst the galleys threw.

      Wrapp’d in amaze, the matrons wildly stare:
      Then Pyrgo, reverenc’d for her hoary hair,
      Pyrgo, the nurse of Priam’s num’rous race:
      “No Beroe this, tho’ she belies her face!
      What terrors from her frowning front arise!
      Behold a goddess in her ardent eyes!
      What rays around her heav’nly face are seen!
      Mark her majestic voice, and more than mortal mien!
      Beroe but now I left, whom, pin’d with pain,
      Her age and anguish from these rites detain,”
      She said. The matrons, seiz’d with new amaze,
      Roll their malignant eyes, and on the navy gaze.
      They fear, and hope, and neither part obey:
      They hope the fated land, but fear the fatal way.
      The goddess, having done her task below,
      Mounts up on equal wings, and bends her painted bow.
      Struck with the sight, and seiz’d with rage divine,
      The matrons prosecute their mad design:
      They shriek aloud; they snatch, with impious hands,
      The food of altars; fires and flaming brands.
      Green boughs and saplings, mingled in their haste,
      And smoking torches, on the ships they cast.
      The flame, unstopp’d at first, more fury gains,
      And Vulcan rides at large with loosen’d reins:
      Triumphant to the painted sterns he soars,
      And seizes, in this way, the banks and crackling oars.
      Eumelus was the first the news to bear,
      While yet they crowd the rural theatre.
      Then, what they hear, is witness’d by their eyes:
      A storm of sparkles and of flames arise.
      Ascanius took th’ alarm, while yet he led
      His early warriors on his prancing steed,
      And, spurring on, his equals soon o’erpass’d;
      Nor could his frighted friends reclaim his haste.
      Soon as the royal youth appear’d in view,
      He sent his voice before him as he flew:
      “What madness moves you, matrons, to destroy
      The last remainders of unhappy Troy!
      Not hostile fleets, but your own hopes, you burn,
      And on your friends your fatal fury turn.
      Behold your own Ascanius!” While he said,
      He drew his glitt’ring helmet from his head,
      In which the youths to sportful arms he led.
      By this, Aeneas and his train appear;
      And now the women, seiz’d with shame and fear,
      Dispers’d, to woods and caverns take their flight,
      Abhor their actions, and avoid the light;
      Their friends acknowledge, and their error find,
      And shake the goddess from their alter’d mind.

      Not so the raging fires their fury cease,
      But, lurking in the seams, with seeming peace,
      Work on their way amid the smould’ring tow,
      Sure in destruction, but in motion slow.
      The silent plague thro’ the green timber eats,
      And vomits out a tardy flame by fits.
      Down to the keels, and upward to the sails,
      The fire descends, or mounts, but still prevails;
      Nor buckets pour’d, nor strength of human hand,
      Can the victorious element withstand.

      The pious hero rends his robe, and throws
      To heav’n his hands, and with his hands his vows.
      “O Jove,” he cried, “if pray’rs can yet have place;
      If thou abhorr’st not all the Dardan race;
      If any spark of pity still remain;
      If gods are gods, and not invok’d in vain;
      Yet spare the relics of the Trojan train!
      Yet from the flames our burning vessels free,
      Or let thy fury fall alone on me!
      At this devoted head thy thunder throw,
      And send the willing sacrifice below!”

      Scarce had he said, when southern storms arise:
      From pole to pole the forky lightning flies;
      Loud rattling shakes the mountains and the plain;
      Heav’n bellies downward, and descends in rain.
      Whole sheets of water from the clouds are sent,
      Which, hissing thro’ the planks, the flames prevent,
      And stop the fiery pest. Four ships alone
      Burn to the waist, and for the fleet atone.

      But doubtful thoughts the hero’s heart divide;
      If he should still in Sicily reside,
      Forgetful of his fates, or tempt the main,
      In hope the promis’d Italy to gain.
      Then Nautes, old and wise, to whom alone
      The will of Heav’n by Pallas was foreshown;
      Vers’d in portents, experienc’d, and inspir’d
      To tell events, and what the fates requir’d;
      Thus while he stood, to neither part inclin’d,
      With cheerful words reliev’d his lab’ring mind:
      “O goddess-born, resign’d in ev’ry state,
      With patience bear, with prudence push your fate.
      By suff’ring well, our Fortune we subdue;
      Fly when she frowns, and, when she calls, pursue.
      Your friend Acestes is of Trojan kind;
      To him disclose the secrets of your mind:
      Trust in his hands your old and useless train;
      Too num’rous for the ships which yet remain:
      The feeble, old, indulgent of their ease,
      The dames who dread the dangers of the seas,
      With all the dastard crew, who dare not stand
      The shock of battle with your foes by land.
      Here you may build a common town for all,
      And, from Acestes’ name, Acesta call.”
      The reasons, with his friend’s experience join’d,
      Encourag’d much, but more disturb’d his mind.

      ’Twas dead of night; when to his slumb’ring eyes
      His father’s shade descended from the skies,
      And thus he spoke: “O more than vital breath,
      Lov’d while I liv’d, and dear ev’n after death;
      O son, in various toils and troubles toss’d,
      The King of Heav’n employs my careful ghost
      On his commands: the god, who sav’d from fire
      Your flaming fleet, and heard your just desire.
      The wholesome counsel of your friend receive,
      And here the coward train and woman leave:
      The chosen youth, and those who nobly dare,
      Transport, to tempt the dangers of the war.
      The stern Italians will their courage try;
      Rough are their manners, and their minds are high.
      But first to Pluto’s palace you shall go,
      And seek my shade among the blest below:
      For not with impious ghosts my soul remains,
      Nor suffers with the damn’d perpetual pains,
      But breathes the living air of soft Elysian plains.
      The chaste Sibylla shall your steps convey,
      And blood of offer’d victims free the way.
      There shall you know what realms the gods assign,
      And learn the fates and fortunes of your line.
      But now, farewell! I vanish with the night,
      And feel the blast of heav’n’s approaching light.”
      He said, and mix’d with shades, and took his airy flight.
      “Whither so fast?” the filial duty cried;
      “And why, ah why, the wish’d embrace denied?”

      He said, and rose; as holy zeal inspires,
      He rakes hot embers, and renews the fires;
      His country gods and Vesta then adores
      With cakes and incense, and their aid implores.
      Next, for his friends and royal host he sent,
      Reveal’d his vision, and the gods’ intent,
      With his own purpose. All, without delay,
      The will of Jove, and his desires obey.
      They list with women each degenerate name,
      Who dares not hazard life for future fame.
      These they cashier: the brave remaining few,
      Oars, banks, and cables, half consum’d, renew.
      The prince designs a city with the plow;
      The lots their sev’ral tenements allow.
      This part is nam’d from Ilium, that from Troy,
      And the new king ascends the throne with joy;
      A chosen senate from the people draws;
      Appoints the judges, and ordains the laws.
      Then, on the top of Eryx, they begin
      A rising temple to the Paphian queen.
      Anchises, last, is honour’d as a god;
      A priest is added, annual gifts bestow’d,
      And groves are planted round his blest abode.
      Nine days they pass in feasts, their temples crown’d;
      And fumes of incense in the fanes abound.
      Then from the south arose a gentle breeze
      That curl’d the smoothness of the glassy seas;
      The rising winds a ruffling gale afford,
      And call the merry mariners aboard.

      Now loud laments along the shores resound,
      Of parting friends in close embraces bound.
      The trembling women, the degenerate train,
      Who shunn’d the frightful dangers of the main,
      Ev’n those desire to sail, and take their share
      Of the rough passage and the promis’d war:
      Whom good Aeneas cheers, and recommends
      To their new master’s care his fearful friends.
      On Eryx’s altars three fat calves he lays;
      A lamb new-fallen to the stormy seas;
      Then slips his haulsers, and his anchors weighs.
      High on the deck the godlike hero stands,
      With olive crown’d, a charger in his hands;
      Then cast the reeking entrails in the brine,
      And pour’d the sacrifice of purple wine.
      Fresh gales arise; with equal strokes they vie,
      And brush the buxom seas, and o’er the billows fly.

      Meantime the mother goddess, full of fears,
      To Neptune thus address’d, with tender tears:
      “The pride of Jove’s imperious queen, the rage,
      The malice which no suff’rings can assuage,
      Compel me to these pray’rs; since neither fate,
      Nor time, nor pity, can remove her hate:
      Ev’n Jove is thwarted by his haughty wife;
      Still vanquish’d, yet she still renews the strife.
      As if ’twere little to consume the town
      Which aw’d the world, and wore th’ imperial crown,
      She prosecutes the ghost of Troy with pains,
      And gnaws, ev’n to the bones, the last remains.
      Let her the causes of her hatred tell;
      But you can witness its effects too well.
      You saw the storm she rais’d on Libyan floods,
      That mix’d the mounting billows with the clouds;
      When, bribing Aeolus, she shook the main,
      And mov’d rebellion in your wat’ry reign.
      With fury she possess’d the Dardan dames,
      To burn their fleet with execrable flames,
      And forc’d Aeneas, when his ships were lost,
      To leave his foll’wers on a foreign coast.
      For what remains, your godhead I implore,
      And trust my son to your protecting pow’r.
      If neither Jove’s nor Fate’s decree withstand,
      Secure his passage to the Latian land.”

      Then thus the mighty Ruler of the Main:
      “What may not Venus hope from Neptune’s reign?
      My kingdom claims your birth; my late defence
      Of your indanger’d fleet may claim your confidence.
      Nor less by land than sea my deeds declare
      How much your lov’d Aeneas is my care.
      Thee, Xanthus, and thee, Simois, I attest.
      Your Trojan troops when proud Achilles press’d,
      And drove before him headlong on the plain,
      And dash’d against the walls the trembling train;
      When floods were fill’d with bodies of the slain;
      When crimson Xanthus, doubtful of his way,
      Stood up on ridges to behold the sea;
      New heaps came tumbling in, and chok’d his way;
      When your Aeneas fought, but fought with odds
      Of force unequal, and unequal gods;
      I spread a cloud before the victor’s sight,
      Sustain’d the vanquish’d, and secur’d his flight;
      Ev’n then secur’d him, when I sought with joy
      The vow’d destruction of ungrateful Troy.
      My will’s the same: fair goddess, fear no more,
      Your fleet shall safely gain the Latian shore;
      Their lives are giv’n; one destin’d head alone
      Shall perish, and for multitudes atone.”
      Thus having arm’d with hopes her anxious mind,
      His finny team Saturnian Neptune join’d,
      Then adds the foamy bridle to their jaws,
      And to the loosen’d reins permits the laws.
      High on the waves his azure car he guides;
      Its axles thunder, and the sea subsides,
      And the smooth ocean rolls her silent tides.
      The tempests fly before their father’s face,
      Trains of inferior gods his triumph grace,
      And monster whales before their master play,
      And choirs of Tritons crowd the wat’ry way.
      The marshal’d pow’rs in equal troops divide
      To right and left; the gods his better side
      Inclose, and on the worse the Nymphs and Nereids ride.

      Now smiling hope, with sweet vicissitude,
      Within the hero’s mind his joys renew’d.
      He calls to raise the masts, the sheets display;
      The cheerful crew with diligence obey;
      They scud before the wind, and sail in open sea.
      Ahead of all the master pilot steers;
      And, as he leads, the following navy veers.
      The steeds of Night had travel’d half the sky,
      The drowsy rowers on their benches lie,
      When the soft God of Sleep, with easy flight,
      Descends, and draws behind a trail of light.
      Thou, Palinurus, art his destin’d prey;
      To thee alone he takes his fatal way.
      Dire dreams to thee, and iron sleep, he bears;
      And, lighting on thy prow, the form of Phorbas wears.
      Then thus the traitor god began his tale:
      “The winds, my friend, inspire a pleasing gale;
      The ships, without thy care, securely sail.
      Now steal an hour of sweet repose; and I
      Will take the rudder and thy room supply.”
      To whom the yawning pilot, half asleep:
      “Me dost thou bid to trust the treach’rous deep,
      The harlot smiles of her dissembling face,
      And to her faith commit the Trojan race?
      Shall I believe the Siren South again,
      And, oft betray’d, not know the monster main?”
      He said: his fasten’d hands the rudder keep,
      And, fix’d on heav’n, his eyes repel invading sleep.
      The god was wroth, and at his temples threw
      A branch in Lethe dipp’d, and drunk with Stygian dew:
      The pilot, vanquish’d by the pow’r divine,
      Soon clos’d his swimming eyes, and lay supine.
      Scarce were his limbs extended at their length,
      The god, insulting with superior strength,
      Fell heavy on him, plung’d him in the sea,
      And, with the stern, the rudder tore away.
      Headlong he fell, and, struggling in the main,
      Cried out for helping hands, but cried in vain.
      The victor daemon mounts obscure in air,
      While the ship sails without the pilot’s care.
      On Neptune’s faith the floating fleet relies;
      But what the man forsook, the god supplies,
      And o’er the dang’rous deep secure the navy flies;
      Glides by the Sirens’ cliffs, a shelfy coast,
      Long infamous for ships and sailors lost,
      And white with bones. Th’ impetuous ocean roars,
      And rocks rebellow from the sounding shores.
      The watchful hero felt the knocks, and found
      The tossing vessel sail’d on shoaly ground.
      Sure of his pilot’s loss, he takes himself
      The helm, and steers aloof, and shuns the shelf.
      Inly he griev’d, and, groaning from the breast,
      Deplor’d his death; and thus his pain express’d:
      “For faith repos’d on seas, and on the flatt’ring sky,
      Thy naked corpse is doom’d on shores unknown to lie.”



 BOOK VI

 THE ARGUMENT.


      The Sibyl foretells Aeneas the adventures he should meet with in
      Italy. She attends him to hell; describing to him the various
      scenes of that place, and conducting him to his father Anchises,
      who instructs him in those sublime mysteries, of the soul of the
      world, and the transmigration; and shows him that glorious race
      of heroes, which was to descend from him and his posterity.


      He said, and wept; then spread his sails before
      The winds, and reach’d at length the Cumaean shore:
      Their anchors dropp’d, his crew the vessels moor.
      They turn their heads to sea, their sterns to land,
      And greet with greedy joy th’ Italian strand.
      Some strike from clashing flints their fiery seed;
      Some gather sticks, the kindled flames to feed,
      Or search for hollow trees, and fell the woods,
      Or trace thro’ valleys the discover’d floods.
      Thus, while their sev’ral charges they fulfil,
      The pious prince ascends the sacred hill
      Where Phoebus is ador’d; and seeks the shade
      Which hides from sight his venerable maid.
      Deep in a cave the Sibyl makes abode;
      Thence full of fate returns, and of the god.
      Thro’ Trivia’s grove they walk; and now behold,
      And enter now, the temple roof’d with gold.
      When Daedalus, to fly the Cretan shore,
      His heavy limbs on jointed pinions bore,
      (The first who sail’d in air,) ’tis sung by Fame,
      To the Cumaean coast at length he came,
      And here alighting, built this costly frame.
      Inscrib’d to Phoebus, here he hung on high
      The steerage of his wings, that cut the sky:
      Then o’er the lofty gate his art emboss’d
      Androgeos’ death, and off’rings to his ghost;
      Sev’n youths from Athens yearly sent, to meet
      The fate appointed by revengeful Crete.
      And next to those the dreadful urn was plac’d,
      In which the destin’d names by lots were cast:
      The mournful parents stand around in tears,
      And rising Crete against their shore appears.
      There too, in living sculpture, might be seen
      The mad affection of the Cretan queen;
      Then how she cheats her bellowing lover’s eye;
      The rushing leap, the doubtful progeny,
      The lower part a beast, a man above,
      The monument of their polluted love.
      Not far from thence he grav’d the wondrous maze,
      A thousand doors, a thousand winding ways:
      Here dwells the monster, hid from human view,
      Not to be found, but by the faithful clue;
      Till the kind artist, mov’d with pious grief,
      Lent to the loving maid this last relief,
      And all those erring paths describ’d so well
      That Theseus conquer’d and the monster fell.
      Here hapless Icarus had found his part,
      Had not the father’s grief restrain’d his art.
      He twice assay’d to cast his son in gold;
      Twice from his hands he dropp’d the forming mould.

      All this with wond’ring eyes Aeneas view’d;
      Each varying object his delight renew’d:
      Eager to read the rest, Achates came,
      And by his side the mad divining dame,
      The priestess of the god, Deiphobe her name.
      “Time suffers not,” she said, “to feed your eyes
      With empty pleasures; haste the sacrifice.
      Sev’n bullocks, yet unyok’d, for Phoebus choose,
      And for Diana sev’n unspotted ewes.”
      This said, the servants urge the sacred rites,
      While to the temple she the prince invites.
      A spacious cave, within its farmost part,
      Was hew’d and fashion’d by laborious art
      Thro’ the hill’s hollow sides: before the place,
      A hundred doors a hundred entries grace;
      As many voices issue, and the sound
      Of Sybil’s words as many times rebound.
      Now to the mouth they come. Aloud she cries:
      “This is the time; enquire your destinies.
      He comes; behold the god!” Thus while she said,
      (And shiv’ring at the sacred entry stay’d,)
      Her colour chang’d; her face was not the same,
      And hollow groans from her deep spirit came.
      Her hair stood up; convulsive rage possess’d
      Her trembling limbs, and heav’d her lab’ring breast.
      Greater than humankind she seem’d to look,
      And with an accent more than mortal spoke.
      Her staring eyes with sparkling fury roll;
      When all the god came rushing on her soul.
      Swiftly she turn’d, and, foaming as she spoke:
      “Why this delay?” she cried; “the pow’rs invoke!
      Thy pray’rs alone can open this abode;
      Else vain are my demands, and dumb the god.”

      She said no more. The trembling Trojans hear,
      O’erspread with a damp sweat and holy fear.
      The prince himself, with awful dread possess’d,
      His vows to great Apollo thus address’d:
      “Indulgent god, propitious pow’r to Troy,
      Swift to relieve, unwilling to destroy,
      Directed by whose hand the Dardan dart
      Pierc’d the proud Grecian’s only mortal part:
      Thus far, by fate’s decrees and thy commands,
      Thro’ ambient seas and thro’ devouring sands,
      Our exil’d crew has sought th’ Ausonian ground;
      And now, at length, the flying coast is found.
      Thus far the fate of Troy, from place to place,
      With fury has pursued her wand’ring race.
      Here cease, ye pow’rs, and let your vengeance end:
      Troy is no more, and can no more offend.
      And thou, O sacred maid, inspir’d to see
      Th’ event of things in dark futurity;
      Give me what Heav’n has promis’d to my fate,
      To conquer and command the Latian state;
      To fix my wand’ring gods, and find a place
      For the long exiles of the Trojan race.
      Then shall my grateful hands a temple rear
      To the twin gods, with vows and solemn pray’r;
      And annual rites, and festivals, and games,
      Shall be perform’d to their auspicious names.
      Nor shalt thou want thy honours in my land;
      For there thy faithful oracles shall stand,
      Preserv’d in shrines; and ev’ry sacred lay,
      Which, by thy mouth, Apollo shall convey:
      All shall be treasur’d by a chosen train
      Of holy priests, and ever shall remain.
      But O! commit not thy prophetic mind
      To flitting leaves, the sport of ev’ry wind,
      Lest they disperse in air our empty fate;
      Write not, but, what the pow’rs ordain, relate.”

      Struggling in vain, impatient of her load,
      And lab’ring underneath the pond’rous god,
      The more she strove to shake him from her breast,
      With more and far superior force he press’d;
      Commands his entrance, and, without control,
      Usurps her organs and inspires her soul.
      Now, with a furious blast, the hundred doors
      Ope of themselves; a rushing whirlwind roars
      Within the cave, and Sibyl’s voice restores:
      “Escap’d the dangers of the wat’ry reign,
      Yet more and greater ills by land remain.
      The coast, so long desir’d (nor doubt th’ event),
      Thy troops shall reach, but, having reach’d, repent.
      Wars, horrid wars, I view; a field of blood,
      And Tiber rolling with a purple flood.
      Simois nor Xanthus shall be wanting there:
      A new Achilles shall in arms appear,
      And he, too, goddess-born. Fierce Juno’s hate,
      Added to hostile force, shall urge thy fate.
      To what strange nations shalt not thou resort,
      Driv’n to solicit aid at ev’ry court!
      The cause the same which Ilium once oppress’d;
      A foreign mistress, and a foreign guest.
      But thou, secure of soul, unbent with woes,
      The more thy fortune frowns, the more oppose.
      The dawnings of thy safety shall be shown
      From whence thou least shalt hope, a Grecian town.”

      Thus, from the dark recess, the Sibyl spoke,
      And the resisting air the thunder broke;
      The cave rebellow’d, and the temple shook.
      Th’ ambiguous god, who rul’d her lab’ring breast,
      In these mysterious words his mind express’d;
      Some truths reveal’d, in terms involv’d the rest.
      At length her fury fell, her foaming ceas’d,
      And, ebbing in her soul, the god decreas’d.
      Then thus the chief: “No terror to my view,
      No frightful face of danger can be new.
      Inur’d to suffer, and resolv’d to dare,
      The Fates, without my pow’r, shall be without my care.
      This let me crave, since near your grove the road
      To hell lies open, and the dark abode
      Which Acheron surrounds, th’ innavigable flood;
      Conduct me thro’ the regions void of light,
      And lead me longing to my father’s sight.
      For him, a thousand dangers I have sought,
      And, rushing where the thickest Grecians fought,
      Safe on my back the sacred burthen brought.
      He, for my sake, the raging ocean tried,
      And wrath of Heav’n, my still auspicious guide,
      And bore beyond the strength decrepid age supplied.
      Oft, since he breath’d his last, in dead of night
      His reverend image stood before my sight;
      Enjoin’d to seek, below, his holy shade;
      Conducted there by your unerring aid.
      But you, if pious minds by pray’rs are won,
      Oblige the father, and protect the son.
      Yours is the pow’r; nor Proserpine in vain
      Has made you priestess of her nightly reign.
      If Orpheus, arm’d with his enchanting lyre,
      The ruthless king with pity could inspire,
      And from the shades below redeem his wife;
      If Pollux, off’ring his alternate life,
      Could free his brother, and can daily go
      By turns aloft, by turns descend below:
      Why name I Theseus, or his greater friend,
      Who trod the downward path, and upward could ascend?
      Not less than theirs from Jove my lineage came;
      My mother greater, my descent the same.”
      So pray’d the Trojan prince, and, while he pray’d,
      His hand upon the holy altar laid.

      Then thus replied the prophetess divine:
      “O goddess-born of great Anchises’ line,
      The gates of hell are open night and day;
      Smooth the descent, and easy is the way:
      But to return, and view the cheerful skies,
      In this the task and mighty labour lies.
      To few great Jupiter imparts this grace,
      And those of shining worth and heav’nly race.
      Betwixt those regions and our upper light,
      Deep forests and impenetrable night
      Possess the middle space: th’ infernal bounds
      Cocytus, with his sable waves, surrounds.
      But if so dire a love your soul invades,
      As twice below to view the trembling shades;
      If you so hard a toil will undertake,
      As twice to pass th’ innavigable lake;
      Receive my counsel. In the neighb’ring grove
      There stands a tree; the queen of Stygian Jove
      Claims it her own; thick woods and gloomy night
      Conceal the happy plant from human sight.
      One bough it bears; but wondrous to behold!
      The ductile rind and leaves of radiant gold:
      This from the vulgar branches must be torn,
      And to fair Proserpine the present borne,
      Ere leave be giv’n to tempt the nether skies.
      The first thus rent a second will arise,
      And the same metal the same room supplies.
      Look round the wood, with lifted eyes, to see
      The lurking gold upon the fatal tree:
      Then rend it off, as holy rites command;
      The willing metal will obey thy hand,
      Following with ease, if favour’d by thy fate,
      Thou art foredoom’d to view the Stygian state:
      If not, no labour can the tree constrain;
      And strength of stubborn arms and steel are vain.
      Besides, you know not, while you here attend,
      Th’ unworthy fate of your unhappy friend:
      Breathless he lies; and his unburied ghost,
      Depriv’d of fun’ral rites, pollutes your host.
      Pay first his pious dues; and, for the dead,
      Two sable sheep around his hearse be led;
      Then, living turfs upon his body lay:
      This done, securely take the destin’d way,
      To find the regions destitute of day.”

      She said, and held her peace. Aeneas went
      Sad from the cave, and full of discontent,
      Unknowing whom the sacred Sibyl meant.
      Achates, the companion of his breast,
      Goes grieving by his side, with equal cares oppress’d.
      Walking, they talk’d, and fruitlessly divin’d
      What friend the priestess by those words design’d.
      But soon they found an object to deplore:
      Misenus lay extended on the shore;
      Son of the God of Winds: none so renown’d
      The warrior trumpet in the field to sound;
      With breathing brass to kindle fierce alarms,
      And rouse to dare their fate in honourable arms.
      He serv’d great Hector, and was ever near,
      Not with his trumpet only, but his spear.
      But by Pelides’ arms when Hector fell,
      He chose Aeneas; and he chose as well.
      Swoln with applause, and aiming still at more,
      He now provokes the sea gods from the shore;
      With envy Triton heard the martial sound,
      And the bold champion, for his challenge, drown’d;
      Then cast his mangled carcass on the strand:
      The gazing crowd around the body stand.
      All weep; but most Aeneas mourns his fate,
      And hastens to perform the funeral state.
      In altar-wise, a stately pile they rear;
      The basis broad below, and top advanc’d in air.
      An ancient wood, fit for the work design’d,
      (The shady covert of the salvage kind,)
      The Trojans found: the sounding ax is plied;
      Firs, pines, and pitch trees, and the tow’ring pride
      Of forest ashes, feel the fatal stroke,
      And piercing wedges cleave the stubborn oak.
      Huge trunks of trees, fell’d from the steepy crown
      Of the bare mountains, roll with ruin down.
      Arm’d like the rest the Trojan prince appears,
      And by his pious labour urges theirs.

      Thus while he wrought, revolving in his mind
      The ways to compass what his wish design’d,
      He cast his eyes upon the gloomy grove,
      And then with vows implor’d the Queen of Love:
      “O may thy pow’r, propitious still to me,
      Conduct my steps to find the fatal tree,
      In this deep forest; since the Sibyl’s breath
      Foretold, alas! too true, Misenus’ death.”
      Scarce had he said, when, full before his sight,
      Two doves, descending from their airy flight,
      Secure upon the grassy plain alight.
      He knew his mother’s birds; and thus he pray’d:
      “Be you my guides, with your auspicious aid,
      And lead my footsteps, till the branch be found,
      Whose glitt’ring shadow gilds the sacred ground.
      And thou, great parent, with celestial care,
      In this distress be present to my pray’r!”
      Thus having said, he stopp’d with watchful sight,
      Observing still the motions of their flight,
      What course they took, what happy signs they shew.
      They fed, and, flutt’ring, by degrees withdrew
      Still farther from the place, but still in view:
      Hopping and flying, thus they led him on
      To the slow lake, whose baleful stench to shun
      They wing’d their flight aloft; then, stooping low,
      Perch’d on the double tree that bears the golden bough.
      Thro’ the green leafs the glitt’ring shadows glow;
      As, on the sacred oak, the wintry mistletoe,
      Where the proud mother views her precious brood,
      And happier branches, which she never sow’d.
      Such was the glitt’ring; such the ruddy rind,
      And dancing leaves, that wanton’d in the wind.
      He seiz’d the shining bough with griping hold,
      And rent away, with ease, the ling’ring gold;
      Then to the Sibyl’s palace bore the prize.
      Meantime the Trojan troops, with weeping eyes,
      To dead Misenus pay his obsequies.
      First, from the ground a lofty pile they rear,
      Of pitch trees, oaks, and pines, and unctuous fir:
      The fabric’s front with cypress twigs they strew,
      And stick the sides with boughs of baleful yew.
      The topmost part his glitt’ring arms adorn;
      Warm waters, then, in brazen caldrons borne,
      Are pour’d to wash his body, joint by joint,
      And fragrant oils the stiffen’d limbs anoint.
      With groans and cries Misenus they deplore:
      Then on a bier, with purple cover’d o’er,
      The breathless body, thus bewail’d, they lay,
      And fire the pile, their faces turn’d away:
      Such reverend rites their fathers us’d to pay.
      Pure oil and incense on the fire they throw,
      And fat of victims, which his friends bestow.
      These gifts the greedy flames to dust devour;
      Then on the living coals red wine they pour;
      And, last, the relics by themselves dispose,
      Which in a brazen urn the priests inclose.
      Old Corynaeus compass’d thrice the crew,
      And dipp’d an olive branch in holy dew;
      Which thrice he sprinkled round, and thrice aloud
      Invok’d the dead, and then dismissed the crowd.
      But good Aeneas order’d on the shore
      A stately tomb, whose top a trumpet bore,
      A soldier’s falchion, and a seaman’s oar.
      Thus was his friend interr’d; and deathless fame
      Still to the lofty cape consigns his name.
      These rites perform’d, the prince, without delay,
      Hastes to the nether world his destin’d way.
      Deep was the cave; and, downward as it went
      From the wide mouth, a rocky rough descent;
      And here th’ access a gloomy grove defends,
      And there th’ unnavigable lake extends,
      O’er whose unhappy waters, void of light,
      No bird presumes to steer his airy flight;
      Such deadly stenches from the depths arise,
      And steaming sulphur, that infects the skies.
      From hence the Grecian bards their legends make,
      And give the name Avernus to the lake.
      Four sable bullocks, in the yoke untaught,
      For sacrifice the pious hero brought.
      The priestess pours the wine betwixt their horns;
      Then cuts the curling hair; that first oblation burns,
      Invoking Hecate hither to repair:
      A pow’rful name in hell and upper air.
      The sacred priests with ready knives bereave
      The beasts of life, and in full bowls receive
      The streaming blood: a lamb to Hell and Night
      (The sable wool without a streak of white)
      Aeneas offers; and, by fate’s decree,
      A barren heifer, Proserpine, to thee,
      With holocausts he Pluto’s altar fills;
      Sev’n brawny bulls with his own hand he kills;
      Then on the broiling entrails oil he pours;
      Which, ointed thus, the raging flame devours.
      Late the nocturnal sacrifice begun,
      Nor ended till the next returning sun.
      Then earth began to bellow, trees to dance,
      And howling dogs in glimm’ring light advance,
      Ere Hecate came. “Far hence be souls profane!”
      The Sibyl cried, “and from the grove abstain!
      Now, Trojan, take the way thy fates afford;
      Assume thy courage, and unsheathe thy sword.”
      She said, and pass’d along the gloomy space;
      The prince pursued her steps with equal pace.

      Ye realms, yet unreveal’d to human sight,
      Ye gods who rule the regions of the night,
      Ye gliding ghosts, permit me to relate
      The mystic wonders of your silent state!

      Obscure they went thro’ dreary shades, that led
      Along the waste dominions of the dead.
      Thus wander travelers in woods by night,
      By the moon’s doubtful and malignant light,
      When Jove in dusky clouds involves the skies,
      And the faint crescent shoots by fits before their eyes.

      Just in the gate and in the jaws of hell,
      Revengeful Cares and sullen Sorrows dwell,
      And pale Diseases, and repining Age,
      Want, Fear, and Famine’s unresisted rage;
      Here Toils, and Death, and Death’s half-brother, Sleep,
      Forms terrible to view, their sentry keep;
      With anxious Pleasures of a guilty mind,
      Deep Frauds before, and open Force behind;
      The Furies’ iron beds; and Strife, that shakes
      Her hissing tresses and unfolds her snakes.
      Full in the midst of this infernal road,
      An elm displays her dusky arms abroad:
      The God of Sleep there hides his heavy head,
      And empty dreams on ev’ry leaf are spread.
      Of various forms unnumber’d spectres more,
      Centaurs, and double shapes, besiege the door.
      Before the passage, horrid Hydra stands,
      And Briareus with all his hundred hands;
      Gorgons, Geryon with his triple frame;
      And vain Chimaera vomits empty flame.
      The chief unsheath’d his shining steel, prepar’d,
      Tho’ seiz’d with sudden fear, to force the guard,
      Off’ring his brandish’d weapon at their face;
      Had not the Sibyl stopp’d his eager pace,
      And told him what those empty phantoms were:
      Forms without bodies, and impassive air.
      Hence to deep Acheron they take their way,
      Whose troubled eddies, thick with ooze and clay,
      Are whirl’d aloft, and in Cocytus lost.
      There Charon stands, who rules the dreary coast:
      A sordid god: down from his hoary chin
      A length of beard descends, uncomb’d, unclean;
      His eyes, like hollow furnaces on fire;
      A girdle, foul with grease, binds his obscene attire.
      He spreads his canvas; with his pole he steers;
      The freights of flitting ghosts in his thin bottom bears.
      He look’d in years; yet in his years were seen
      A youthful vigour and autumnal green.
      An airy crowd came rushing where he stood,
      Which fill’d the margin of the fatal flood:
      Husbands and wives, boys and unmarried maids,
      And mighty heroes’ more majestic shades,
      And youths, intomb’d before their fathers’ eyes,
      With hollow groans, and shrieks, and feeble cries.
      Thick as the leaves in autumn strow the woods,
      Or fowls, by winter forc’d, forsake the floods,
      And wing their hasty flight to happier lands;
      Such, and so thick, the shiv’ring army stands,
      And press for passage with extended hands.
      Now these, now those, the surly boatman bore:
      The rest he drove to distance from the shore.
      The hero, who beheld with wond’ring eyes
      The tumult mix’d with shrieks, laments, and cries,
      Ask’d of his guide, what the rude concourse meant;
      Why to the shore the thronging people bent;
      What forms of law among the ghosts were us’d;
      Why some were ferried o’er, and some refus’d.

      “Son of Anchises, offspring of the gods,”
      The Sibyl said, “you see the Stygian floods,
      The sacred stream which heav’n’s imperial state
      Attests in oaths, and fears to violate.
      The ghosts rejected are th’ unhappy crew
      Depriv’d of sepulchers and fun’ral due:
      The boatman, Charon; those, the buried host,
      He ferries over to the farther coast;
      Nor dares his transport vessel cross the waves
      With such whose bones are not compos’d in graves.
      A hundred years they wander on the shore;
      At length, their penance done, are wafted o’er.”
      The Trojan chief his forward pace repress’d,
      Revolving anxious thoughts within his breast,
      He saw his friends, who, whelm’d beneath the waves,
      Their fun’ral honours claim’d, and ask’d their quiet graves.
      The lost Leucaspis in the crowd he knew,
      And the brave leader of the Lycian crew,
      Whom, on the Tyrrhene seas, the tempests met;
      The sailors master’d, and the ship o’erset.

      Amidst the spirits, Palinurus press’d,
      Yet fresh from life, a new-admitted guest,
      Who, while he steering view’d the stars, and bore
      His course from Afric to the Latian shore,
      Fell headlong down. The Trojan fix’d his view,
      And scarcely thro’ the gloom the sullen shadow knew.
      Then thus the prince: “What envious pow’r, O friend,
      Brought your lov’d life to this disastrous end?
      For Phoebus, ever true in all he said,
      Has in your fate alone my faith betray’d.
      The god foretold you should not die, before
      You reach’d, secure from seas, th’ Italian shore.
      Is this th’ unerring pow’r?” The ghost replied;
      “Nor Phoebus flatter’d, nor his answers lied;
      Nor envious gods have sent me to the deep:
      But, while the stars and course of heav’n I keep,
      My wearied eyes were seiz’d with fatal sleep.
      I fell; and, with my weight, the helm constrain’d
      Was drawn along, which yet my gripe retain’d.
      Now by the winds and raging waves I swear,
      Your safety, more than mine, was then my care;
      Lest, of the guide bereft, the rudder lost,
      Your ship should run against the rocky coast.
      Three blust’ring nights, borne by the southern blast,
      I floated, and discover’d land at last:
      High on a mounting wave my head I bore,
      Forcing my strength, and gath’ring to the shore.
      Panting, but past the danger, now I seiz’d
      The craggy cliffs, and my tir’d members eas’d.
      While, cumber’d with my dropping clothes, I lay,
      The cruel nation, covetous of prey,
      Stain’d with my blood th’ unhospitable coast;
      And now, by winds and waves, my lifeless limbs are toss’d:
      Which O avert, by yon ethereal light,
      Which I have lost for this eternal night!
      Or, if by dearer ties you may be won,
      By your dead sire, and by your living son,
      Redeem from this reproach my wand’ring ghost;
      Or with your navy seek the Velin coast,
      And in a peaceful grave my corpse compose;
      Or, if a nearer way your mother shows,
      Without whose aid you durst not undertake
      This frightful passage o’er the Stygian lake,
      Lend to this wretch your hand, and waft him o’er
      To the sweet banks of yon forbidden shore.”
      Scarce had he said, the prophetess began:
      “What hopes delude thee, miserable man?
      Think’st thou, thus unintomb’d, to cross the floods,
      To view the Furies and infernal gods,
      And visit, without leave, the dark abodes?
      Attend the term of long revolving years;
      Fate, and the dooming gods, are deaf to tears.
      This comfort of thy dire misfortune take:
      The wrath of Heav’n, inflicted for thy sake,
      With vengeance shall pursue th’ inhuman coast,
      Till they propitiate thy offended ghost,
      And raise a tomb, with vows and solemn pray’r;
      And Palinurus’ name the place shall bear.”
      This calm’d his cares; sooth’d with his future fame,
      And pleas’d to hear his propagated name.

      Now nearer to the Stygian lake they draw:
      Whom, from the shore, the surly boatman saw;
      Observ’d their passage thro’ the shady wood,
      And mark’d their near approaches to the flood.
      Then thus he call’d aloud, inflam’d with wrath:
      “Mortal, whate’er, who this forbidden path
      In arms presum’st to tread, I charge thee, stand,
      And tell thy name, and bus’ness in the land.
      Know this, the realm of night; the Stygian shore:
      My boat conveys no living bodies o’er;
      Nor was I pleas’d great Theseus once to bear,
      Who forc’d a passage with his pointed spear,
      Nor strong Alcides, men of mighty fame,
      And from th’ immortal gods their lineage came.
      In fetters one the barking porter tied,
      And took him trembling from his sov’reign’s side:
      Two sought by force to seize his beauteous bride.”
      To whom the Sibyl thus: “Compose thy mind;
      Nor frauds are here contriv’d, nor force design’d.
      Still may the dog the wand’ring troops constrain
      Of airy ghosts, and vex the guilty train,
      And with her grisly lord his lovely queen remain.
      The Trojan chief, whose lineage is from Jove,
      Much fam’d for arms, and more for filial love,
      Is sent to seek his sire in your Elysian grove.
      If neither piety, nor Heav’n’s command,
      Can gain his passage to the Stygian strand,
      This fatal present shall prevail at least.”
      Then shew’d the shining bough, conceal’d within her vest.
      No more was needful: for the gloomy god
      Stood mute with awe, to see the golden rod;
      Admir’d the destin’d off’ring to his queen;
      A venerable gift, so rarely seen.
      His fury thus appeas’d, he puts to land;
      The ghosts forsake their seats at his command:
      He clears the deck, receives the mighty freight;
      The leaky vessel groans beneath the weight.
      Slowly she sails, and scarcely stems the tides;
      The pressing water pours within her sides.
      His passengers at length are wafted o’er,
      Expos’d, in muddy weeds, upon the miry shore.

      No sooner landed, in his den they found
      The triple porter of the Stygian sound,
      Grim Cerberus, who soon began to rear
      His crested snakes, and arm’d his bristling hair.
      The prudent Sibyl had before prepar’d
      A sop, in honey steep’d, to charm the guard;
      Which, mix’d with pow’rful drugs, she cast before
      His greedy grinning jaws, just op’d to roar.
      With three enormous mouths he gapes; and straight,
      With hunger press’d, devours the pleasing bait.
      Long draughts of sleep his monstrous limbs enslave;
      He reels, and, falling, fills the spacious cave.
      The keeper charm’d, the chief without delay
      Pass’d on, and took th’ irremeable way.
      Before the gates, the cries of babes new born,
      Whom fate had from their tender mothers torn,
      Assault his ears: then those, whom form of laws
      Condemn’d to die, when traitors judg’d their cause.
      Nor want they lots, nor judges to review
      The wrongful sentence, and award a new.
      Minos, the strict inquisitor, appears;
      And lives and crimes, with his assessors, hears.
      Round in his urn the blended balls he rolls,
      Absolves the just, and dooms the guilty souls.
      The next, in place and punishment, are they
      Who prodigally throw their souls away;
      Fools, who, repining at their wretched state,
      And loathing anxious life, suborn’d their fate.
      With late repentance now they would retrieve
      The bodies they forsook, and wish to live;
      Their pains and poverty desire to bear,
      To view the light of heav’n, and breathe the vital air:
      But fate forbids; the Stygian floods oppose,
      And with circling streams the captive souls inclose.

      Not far from thence, the Mournful Fields appear
      So call’d from lovers that inhabit there.
      The souls whom that unhappy flame invades,
      In secret solitude and myrtle shades
      Make endless moans, and, pining with desire,
      Lament too late their unextinguish’d fire.
      Here Procris, Eriphyle here he found,
      Baring her breast, yet bleeding with the wound
      Made by her son. He saw Pasiphae there,
      With Phaedra’s ghost, a foul incestuous pair.
      There Laodamia, with Evadne, moves,
      Unhappy both, but loyal in their loves:
      Caeneus, a woman once, and once a man,
      But ending in the sex she first began.
      Not far from these Phoenician Dido stood,
      Fresh from her wound, her bosom bath’d in blood;
      Whom when the Trojan hero hardly knew,
      Obscure in shades, and with a doubtful view,
      (Doubtful as he who sees, thro’ dusky night,
      Or thinks he sees, the moon’s uncertain light,)
      With tears he first approach’d the sullen shade;
      And, as his love inspir’d him, thus he said:
      “Unhappy queen! then is the common breath
      Of rumour true, in your reported death,
      And I, alas! the cause? By Heav’n, I vow,
      And all the pow’rs that rule the realms below,
      Unwilling I forsook your friendly state,
      Commanded by the gods, and forc’d by fate.
      Those gods, that fate, whose unresisted might
      Have sent me to these regions void of light,
      Thro’ the vast empire of eternal night.
      Nor dar’d I to presume, that, press’d with grief,
      My flight should urge you to this dire relief.
      Stay, stay your steps, and listen to my vows:
      ’Tis the last interview that fate allows!”
      In vain he thus attempts her mind to move
      With tears, and pray’rs, and late-repenting love.
      Disdainfully she look’d; then turning round,
      But fix’d her eyes unmov’d upon the ground,
      And what he says and swears, regards no more
      Than the deaf rocks, when the loud billows roar;
      But whirl’d away, to shun his hateful sight,
      Hid in the forest and the shades of night;
      Then sought Sichaeus thro’ the shady grove,
      Who answer’d all her cares, and equal’d all her love.

      Some pious tears the pitying hero paid,
      And follow’d with his eyes the flitting shade,
      Then took the forward way, by fate ordain’d,
      And, with his guide, the farther fields attain’d,
      Where, sever’d from the rest, the warrior souls remain’d.
      Tydeus he met, with Meleager’s race,
      The pride of armies, and the soldiers’ grace;
      And pale Adrastus with his ghastly face.
      Of Trojan chiefs he view’d a num’rous train,
      All much lamented, all in battle slain;
      Glaucus and Medon, high above the rest,
      Antenor’s sons, and Ceres’ sacred priest.
      And proud Idaeus, Priam’s charioteer,
      Who shakes his empty reins, and aims his airy spear.
      The gladsome ghosts, in circling troops, attend
      And with unwearied eyes behold their friend;
      Delight to hover near, and long to know
      What bus’ness brought him to the realms below.
      But Argive chiefs, and Agamemnon’s train,
      When his refulgent arms flash’d thro’ the shady plain,
      Fled from his well-known face, with wonted fear,
      As when his thund’ring sword and pointed spear
      Drove headlong to their ships, and glean’d the routed rear.
      They rais’d a feeble cry, with trembling notes;
      But the weak voice deceiv’d their gasping throats.

      Here Priam’s son, Deiphobus, he found,
      Whose face and limbs were one continued wound:
      Dishonest, with lopp’d arms, the youth appears,
      Spoil’d of his nose, and shorten’d of his ears.
      He scarcely knew him, striving to disown
      His blotted form, and blushing to be known;
      And therefore first began: “O Teucer’s race,
      Who durst thy faultless figure thus deface?
      What heart could wish, what hand inflict, this dire disgrace?
      ’Twas fam’d, that in our last and fatal night
      Your single prowess long sustain’d the fight,
      Till tir’d, not forc’d, a glorious fate you chose,
      And fell upon a heap of slaughter’d foes.
      But, in remembrance of so brave a deed,
      A tomb and fun’ral honours I decreed;
      Thrice call’d your manes on the Trojan plains:
      The place your armour and your name retains.
      Your body too I sought, and, had I found,
      Design’d for burial in your native ground.”

      The ghost replied: “Your piety has paid
      All needful rites, to rest my wand’ring shade;
      But cruel fate, and my more cruel wife,
      To Grecian swords betray’d my sleeping life.
      These are the monuments of Helen’s love:
      The shame I bear below, the marks I bore above.
      You know in what deluding joys we pass’d
      The night that was by Heav’n decreed our last:
      For, when the fatal horse, descending down,
      Pregnant with arms, o’erwhelm’d th’ unhappy town
      She feign’d nocturnal orgies; left my bed,
      And, mix’d with Trojan dames, the dances led
      Then, waving high her torch, the signal made,
      Which rous’d the Grecians from their ambuscade.
      With watching overworn, with cares oppress’d,
      Unhappy I had laid me down to rest,
      And heavy sleep my weary limbs possess’d.
      Meantime my worthy wife our arms mislaid,
      And from beneath my head my sword convey’d;
      The door unlatch’d, and, with repeated calls,
      Invites her former lord within my walls.
      Thus in her crime her confidence she plac’d,
      And with new treasons would redeem the past.
      What need I more? Into the room they ran,
      And meanly murder’d a defenceless man.
      Ulysses, basely born, first led the way.
      Avenging pow’rs! with justice if I pray,
      That fortune be their own another day!
      But answer you; and in your turn relate,
      What brought you, living, to the Stygian state:
      Driv’n by the winds and errors of the sea,
      Or did you Heav’n’s superior doom obey?
      Or tell what other chance conducts your way,
      To view with mortal eyes our dark retreats,
      Tumults and torments of th’ infernal seats.”

      While thus in talk the flying hours they pass,
      The sun had finish’d more than half his race:
      And they, perhaps, in words and tears had spent
      The little time of stay which Heav’n had lent;
      But thus the Sibyl chides their long delay:
      “Night rushes down, and headlong drives the day:
      ’Tis here, in different paths, the way divides;
      The right to Pluto’s golden palace guides;
      The left to that unhappy region tends,
      Which to the depth of Tartarus descends;
      The seat of night profound, and punish’d fiends.”
      Then thus Deiphobus: “O sacred maid,
      Forbear to chide, and be your will obey’d!
      Lo! to the secret shadows I retire,
      To pay my penance till my years expire.
      Proceed, auspicious prince, with glory crown’d,
      And born to better fates than I have found.”
      He said; and, while he said, his steps he turn’d
      To secret shadows, and in silence mourn’d.

      The hero, looking on the left, espied
      A lofty tow’r, and strong on ev’ry side
      With treble walls, which Phlegethon surrounds,
      Whose fiery flood the burning empire bounds;
      And, press’d betwixt the rocks, the bellowing noise resounds
      Wide is the fronting gate, and, rais’d on high
      With adamantine columns, threats the sky.
      Vain is the force of man, and Heav’n’s as vain,
      To crush the pillars which the pile sustain.
      Sublime on these a tow’r of steel is rear’d;
      And dire Tisiphone there keeps the ward,
      Girt in her sanguine gown, by night and day,
      Observant of the souls that pass the downward way.
      From hence are heard the groans of ghosts, the pains
      Of sounding lashes and of dragging chains.
      The Trojan stood astonish’d at their cries,
      And ask’d his guide from whence those yells arise;
      And what the crimes, and what the tortures were,
      And loud laments that rent the liquid air.

      She thus replied: “The chaste and holy race
      Are all forbidden this polluted place.
      But Hecate, when she gave to rule the woods,
      Then led me trembling thro’ these dire abodes,
      And taught the tortures of th’ avenging gods.
      These are the realms of unrelenting fate;
      And awful Rhadamanthus rules the state.
      He hears and judges each committed crime;
      Enquires into the manner, place, and time.
      The conscious wretch must all his acts reveal,
      Loth to confess, unable to conceal,
      From the first moment of his vital breath,
      To his last hour of unrepenting death.
      Straight, o’er the guilty ghost, the Fury shakes
      The sounding whip and brandishes her snakes,
      And the pale sinner, with her sisters, takes.
      Then, of itself, unfolds th’ eternal door;
      With dreadful sounds the brazen hinges roar.
      You see, before the gate, what stalking ghost
      Commands the guard, what sentries keep the post.
      More formidable Hydra stands within,
      Whose jaws with iron teeth severely grin.
      The gaping gulf low to the centre lies,
      And twice as deep as earth is distant from the skies.
      The rivals of the gods, the Titan race,
      Here, sing’d with lightning, roll within th’ unfathom’d space.
      Here lie th’ Alaean twins, (I saw them both,)
      Enormous bodies, of gigantic growth,
      Who dar’d in fight the Thund’rer to defy,
      Affect his heav’n, and force him from the sky.
      Salmoneus, suff’ring cruel pains, I found,
      For emulating Jove; the rattling sound
      Of mimic thunder, and the glitt’ring blaze
      Of pointed lightnings, and their forky rays.
      Thro’ Elis and the Grecian towns he flew;
      Th’ audacious wretch four fiery coursers drew:
      He wav’d a torch aloft, and, madly vain,
      Sought godlike worship from a servile train.
      Ambitious fool! with horny hoofs to pass
      O’er hollow arches of resounding brass,
      To rival thunder in its rapid course,
      And imitate inimitable force!
      But he, the King of Heav’n, obscure on high,
      Bar’d his red arm, and, launching from the sky
      His writhen bolt, not shaking empty smoke,
      Down to the deep abyss the flaming felon strook.
      There Tityus was to see, who took his birth
      From heav’n, his nursing from the foodful earth.
      Here his gigantic limbs, with large embrace,
      Infold nine acres of infernal space.
      A rav’nous vulture, in his open’d side,
      Her crooked beak and cruel talons tried;
      Still for the growing liver digg’d his breast;
      The growing liver still supplied the feast;
      Still are his entrails fruitful to their pains:
      Th’ immortal hunger lasts, th’ immortal food remains.
      Ixion and Perithous I could name,
      And more Thessalian chiefs of mighty fame.
      High o’er their heads a mould’ring rock is plac’d,
      That promises a fall, and shakes at ev’ry blast.
      They lie below, on golden beds display’d;
      And genial feasts with regal pomp are made.
      The Queen of Furies by their sides is set,
      And snatches from their mouths th’ untasted meat,
      Which if they touch, her hissing snakes she rears,
      Tossing her torch, and thund’ring in their ears.
      Then they, who brothers’ better claim disown,
      Expel their parents, and usurp the throne;
      Defraud their clients, and, to lucre sold,
      Sit brooding on unprofitable gold;
      Who dare not give, and ev’n refuse to lend
      To their poor kindred, or a wanting friend.
      Vast is the throng of these; nor less the train
      Of lustful youths, for foul adult’ry slain:
      Hosts of deserters, who their honour sold,
      And basely broke their faith for bribes of gold.
      All these within the dungeon’s depth remain,
      Despairing pardon, and expecting pain.
      Ask not what pains; nor farther seek to know
      Their process, or the forms of law below.
      Some roll a weighty stone; some, laid along,
      And bound with burning wires, on spokes of wheels are hung
      Unhappy Theseus, doom’d for ever there,
      Is fix’d by fate on his eternal chair;
      And wretched Phlegyas warns the world with cries
      (Could warning make the world more just or wise):
      ‘Learn righteousness, and dread th’ avenging deities.’
      To tyrants others have their country sold,
      Imposing foreign lords, for foreign gold;
      Some have old laws repeal’d, new statutes made,
      Not as the people pleas’d, but as they paid;
      With incest some their daughters’ bed profan’d:
      All dar’d the worst of ills, and, what they dar’d, attain’d.
      Had I a hundred mouths, a hundred tongues,
      And throats of brass, inspir’d with iron lungs,
      I could not half those horrid crimes repeat,
      Nor half the punishments those crimes have met.
      But let us haste our voyage to pursue:
      The walls of Pluto’s palace are in view;
      The gate, and iron arch above it, stands
      On anvils labour’d by the Cyclops’ hands.
      Before our farther way the Fates allow,
      Here must we fix on high the golden bough.”

      She said, and thro’ the gloomy shades they pass’d,
      And chose the middle path. Arriv’d at last,
      The prince with living water sprinkled o’er
      His limbs and body; then approach’d the door,
      Possess’d the porch, and on the front above
      He fix’d the fatal bough requir’d by Pluto’s love.
      These holy rites perform’d, they took their way
      Where long extended plains of pleasure lay:
      The verdant fields with those of heav’n may vie,
      With ether vested, and a purple sky;
      The blissful seats of happy souls below.
      Stars of their own, and their own suns, they know;
      Their airy limbs in sports they exercise,
      And on the green contend the wrestler’s prize.
      Some in heroic verse divinely sing;
      Others in artful measures led the ring.
      The Thracian bard, surrounded by the rest,
      There stands conspicuous in his flowing vest;
      His flying fingers, and harmonious quill,
      Strikes sev’n distinguish’d notes, and sev’n at once they fill.
      Here found they Teucer’s old heroic race,
      Born better times and happier years to grace.
      Assaracus and Ilus here enjoy
      Perpetual fame, with him who founded Troy.
      The chief beheld their chariots from afar,
      Their shining arms, and coursers train’d to war:
      Their lances fix’d in earth, their steeds around,
      Free from their harness, graze the flow’ry ground.
      The love of horses which they had, alive,
      And care of chariots, after death survive.
      Some cheerful souls were feasting on the plain;
      Some did the song, and some the choir maintain,
      Beneath a laurel shade, where mighty Po
      Mounts up to woods above, and hides his head below.
      Here patriots live, who, for their country’s good,
      In fighting fields, were prodigal of blood:
      Priests of unblemish’d lives here make abode,
      And poets worthy their inspiring god;
      And searching wits, of more mechanic parts,
      Who grac’d their age with new-invented arts:
      Those who to worth their bounty did extend,
      And those who knew that bounty to commend.
      The heads of these with holy fillets bound,
      And all their temples were with garlands crown’d.

      To these the Sibyl thus her speech address’d,
      And first to him surrounded by the rest
      Tow’ring his height, and ample was his breast;
      “Say, happy souls, divine Musaeus, say,
      Where lives Anchises, and where lies our way
      To find the hero, for whose only sake
      We sought the dark abodes, and cross’d the bitter lake?”
      To this the sacred poet thus replied:
      “In no fix’d place the happy souls reside.
      In groves we live, and lie on mossy beds,
      By crystal streams, that murmur thro’ the meads:
      But pass yon easy hill, and thence descend;
      The path conducts you to your journey’s end.”
      This said, he led them up the mountain’s brow,
      And shews them all the shining fields below.
      They wind the hill, and thro’ the blissful meadows go.

      But old Anchises, in a flow’ry vale,
      Review’d his muster’d race, and took the tale:
      Those happy spirits, which, ordain’d by fate,
      For future beings and new bodies wait.
      With studious thought observ’d th’ illustrious throng,
      In nature’s order as they pass’d along:
      Their names, their fates, their conduct, and their care,
      In peaceful senates and successful war.
      He, when Aeneas on the plain appears,
      Meets him with open arms, and falling tears.
      “Welcome,” he said, “the gods’ undoubted race!
      O long expected to my dear embrace!
      Once more ’tis giv’n me to behold your face!
      The love and pious duty which you pay
      Have pass’d the perils of so hard a way.
      ’Tis true, computing times, I now believ’d
      The happy day approach’d; nor are my hopes deceiv’d.
      What length of lands, what oceans have you pass’d;
      What storms sustain’d, and on what shores been cast?
      How have I fear’d your fate! but fear’d it most,
      When love assail’d you, on the Libyan coast.”
      To this, the filial duty thus replies:
      “Your sacred ghost before my sleeping eyes
      Appear’d, and often urg’d this painful enterprise.
      After long tossing on the Tyrrhene sea,
      My navy rides at anchor in the bay.
      But reach your hand, O parent shade, nor shun
      The dear embraces of your longing son!”
      He said; and falling tears his face bedew:
      Then thrice around his neck his arms he threw;
      And thrice the flitting shadow slipp’d away,
      Like winds, or empty dreams that fly the day.

      Now, in a secret vale, the Trojan sees
      A sep’rate grove, thro’ which a gentle breeze
      Plays with a passing breath, and whispers thro’ the trees;
      And, just before the confines of the wood,
      The gliding Lethe leads her silent flood.
      About the boughs an airy nation flew,
      Thick as the humming bees, that hunt the golden dew;
      In summer’s heat on tops of lilies feed,
      And creep within their bells, to suck the balmy seed:
      The winged army roams the fields around;
      The rivers and the rocks remurmur to the sound.
      Aeneas wond’ring stood, then ask’d the cause
      Which to the stream the crowding people draws.
      Then thus the sire: “The souls that throng the flood
      Are those to whom, by fate, are other bodies ow’d:
      In Lethe’s lake they long oblivion taste,
      Of future life secure, forgetful of the past.
      Long has my soul desir’d this time and place,
      To set before your sight your glorious race,
      That this presaging joy may fire your mind
      To seek the shores by destiny design’d.”
      “O father, can it be, that souls sublime
      Return to visit our terrestrial clime,
      And that the gen’rous mind, releas’d by death,
      Can covet lazy limbs and mortal breath?”

      Anchises then, in order, thus begun
      To clear those wonders to his godlike son:
      “Know, first, that heav’n, and earth’s compacted frame,
      And flowing waters, and the starry flame,
      And both the radiant lights, one common soul
      Inspires and feeds, and animates the whole.
      This active mind, infus’d thro’ all the space,
      Unites and mingles with the mighty mass.
      Hence men and beasts the breath of life obtain,
      And birds of air, and monsters of the main.
      Th’ ethereal vigour is in all the same,
      And every soul is fill’d with equal flame;
      As much as earthy limbs, and gross allay
      Of mortal members, subject to decay,
      Blunt not the beams of heav’n and edge of day.
      From this coarse mixture of terrestrial parts,
      Desire and fear by turns possess their hearts,
      And grief, and joy; nor can the groveling mind,
      In the dark dungeon of the limbs confin’d,
      Assert the native skies, or own its heav’nly kind:
      Nor death itself can wholly wash their stains;
      But long-contracted filth ev’n in the soul remains.
      The relics of inveterate vice they wear,
      And spots of sin obscene in ev’ry face appear.
      For this are various penances enjoin’d;
      And some are hung to bleach upon the wind,
      Some plung’d in waters, others purg’d in fires,
      Till all the dregs are drain’d, and all the rust expires.
      All have their manes, and those manes bear:
      The few, so cleans’d, to these abodes repair,
      And breathe, in ample fields, the soft Elysian air.
      Then are they happy, when by length of time
      The scurf is worn away of each committed crime;
      No speck is left of their habitual stains,
      But the pure ether of the soul remains.
      But, when a thousand rolling years are past,
      (So long their punishments and penance last,)
      Whole droves of minds are, by the driving god,
      Compell’d to drink the deep Lethaean flood,
      In large forgetful draughts to steep the cares
      Of their past labours, and their irksome years,
      That, unrememb’ring of its former pain,
      The soul may suffer mortal flesh again.”

      Thus having said, the father spirit leads
      The priestess and his son thro’ swarms of shades,
      And takes a rising ground, from thence to see
      The long procession of his progeny.
      “Survey,” pursued the sire, “this airy throng,
      As, offer’d to thy view, they pass along.
      These are th’ Italian names, which fate will join
      With ours, and graff upon the Trojan line.
      Observe the youth who first appears in sight,
      And holds the nearest station to the light,
      Already seems to snuff the vital air,
      And leans just forward, on a shining spear:
      Silvius is he, thy last-begotten race,
      But first in order sent, to fill thy place;
      An Alban name, but mix’d with Dardan blood,
      Born in the covert of a shady wood:
      Him fair Lavinia, thy surviving wife,
      Shall breed in groves, to lead a solitary life.
      In Alba he shall fix his royal seat,
      And, born a king, a race of kings beget.
      Then Procas, honour of the Trojan name,
      Capys, and Numitor, of endless fame.
      A second Silvius after these appears;
      Silvius Aeneas, for thy name he bears;
      For arms and justice equally renown’d,
      Who, late restor’d, in Alba shall be crown’d.
      How great they look! how vig’rously they wield
      Their weighty lances, and sustain the shield!
      But they, who crown’d with oaken wreaths appear,
      Shall Gabian walls and strong Fidena rear;
      Nomentum, Bola, with Pometia, found;
      And raise Collatian tow’rs on rocky ground.
      All these shall then be towns of mighty fame,
      Tho’ now they lie obscure, and lands without a name.
      See Romulus the great, born to restore
      The crown that once his injur’d grandsire wore.
      This prince a priestess of your blood shall bear,
      And like his sire in arms he shall appear.
      Two rising crests, his royal head adorn;
      Born from a god, himself to godhead born:
      His sire already signs him for the skies,
      And marks the seat amidst the deities.
      Auspicious chief! thy race, in times to come,
      Shall spread the conquests of imperial Rome.
      Rome, whose ascending tow’rs shall heav’n invade,
      Involving earth and ocean in her shade;
      High as the Mother of the Gods in place,
      And proud, like her, of an immortal race.
      Then, when in pomp she makes the Phrygian round,
      With golden turrets on her temples crown’d;
      A hundred gods her sweeping train supply;
      Her offspring all, and all command the sky.

      “Now fix your sight, and stand intent, to see
      Your Roman race, and Julian progeny.
      The mighty Caesar waits his vital hour,
      Impatient for the world, and grasps his promis’d pow’r.
      But next behold the youth of form divine,
      Caesar himself, exalted in his line;
      Augustus, promis’d oft, and long foretold,
      Sent to the realm that Saturn rul’d of old;
      Born to restore a better age of gold.
      Afric and India shall his pow’r obey;
      He shall extend his propagated sway
      Beyond the solar year, without the starry way,
      Where Atlas turns the rolling heav’ns around,
      And his broad shoulders with their lights are crown’d.
      At his foreseen approach, already quake
      The Caspian kingdoms and Maeotian lake:
      Their seers behold the tempest from afar,
      And threat’ning oracles denounce the war.
      Nile hears him knocking at his sev’nfold gates,
      And seeks his hidden spring, and fears his nephew’s fates.
      Nor Hercules more lands or labours knew,
      Not tho’ the brazen-footed hind he slew,
      Freed Erymanthus from the foaming boar,
      And dipp’d his arrows in Lernaean gore;
      Nor Bacchus, turning from his Indian war,
      By tigers drawn triumphant in his car,
      From Nisus’ top descending on the plains,
      With curling vines around his purple reins.
      And doubt we yet thro’ dangers to pursue
      The paths of honour, and a crown in view?
      But what’s the man, who from afar appears?
      His head with olive crown’d, his hand a censer bears,
      His hoary beard and holy vestments bring
      His lost idea back: I know the Roman king.
      He shall to peaceful Rome new laws ordain,
      Call’d from his mean abode a scepter to sustain.
      Him Tullus next in dignity succeeds,
      An active prince, and prone to martial deeds.
      He shall his troops for fighting fields prepare,
      Disus’d to toils, and triumphs of the war.
      By dint of sword his crown he shall increase,
      And scour his armour from the rust of peace.
      Whom Ancus follows, with a fawning air,
      But vain within, and proudly popular.
      Next view the Tarquin kings, th’ avenging sword
      Of Brutus, justly drawn, and Rome restor’d.
      He first renews the rods and ax severe,
      And gives the consuls royal robes to wear.
      His sons, who seek the tyrant to sustain,
      And long for arbitrary lords again,
      With ignominy scourg’d, in open sight,
      He dooms to death deserv’d, asserting public right.
      Unhappy man, to break the pious laws
      Of nature, pleading in his children’s cause!
      Howe’er the doubtful fact is understood,
      ’Tis love of honour, and his country’s good:
      The consul, not the father, sheds the blood.
      Behold Torquatus the same track pursue;
      And, next, the two devoted Decii view:
      The Drusian line, Camillus loaded home
      With standards well redeem’d, and foreign foes o’ercome
      The pair you see in equal armour shine,
      Now, friends below, in close embraces join;
      But, when they leave the shady realms of night,
      And, cloth’d in bodies, breathe your upper light,
      With mortal hate each other shall pursue:
      What wars, what wounds, what slaughter shall ensue!
      From Alpine heights the father first descends;
      His daughter’s husband in the plain attends:
      His daughter’s husband arms his eastern friends.
      Embrace again, my sons, be foes no more;
      Nor stain your country with her children’s gore!
      And thou, the first, lay down thy lawless claim,
      Thou, of my blood, who bear’st the Julian name!
      Another comes, who shall in triumph ride,
      And to the Capitol his chariot guide,
      From conquer’d Corinth, rich with Grecian spoils.
      And yet another, fam’d for warlike toils,
      On Argos shall impose the Roman laws,
      And on the Greeks revenge the Trojan cause;
      Shall drag in chains their Achillean race;
      Shall vindicate his ancestors’ disgrace,
      And Pallas, for her violated place.
      Great Cato there, for gravity renown’d,
      And conqu’ring Cossus goes with laurels crown’d.
      Who can omit the Gracchi? who declare
      The Scipios’ worth, those thunderbolts of war,
      The double bane of Carthage? Who can see
      Without esteem for virtuous poverty,
      Severe Fabricius, or can cease t’ admire
      The plowman consul in his coarse attire?
      Tir’d as I am, my praise the Fabii claim;
      And thou, great hero, greatest of thy name,
      Ordain’d in war to save the sinking state,
      And, by delays, to put a stop to fate!
      Let others better mould the running mass
      Of metals, and inform the breathing brass,
      And soften into flesh a marble face;
      Plead better at the bar; describe the skies,
      And when the stars descend, and when they rise.
      But, Rome, ’tis thine alone, with awful sway,
      To rule mankind, and make the world obey,
      Disposing peace and war by thy own majestic way;
      To tame the proud, the fetter’d slave to free:
      These are imperial arts, and worthy thee.”

      He paus’d; and, while with wond’ring eyes they view’d
      The passing spirits, thus his speech renew’d:
      “See great Marcellus! how, untir’d in toils,
      He moves with manly grace, how rich with regal spoils!
      He, when his country, threaten’d with alarms,
      Requires his courage and his conqu’ring arms,
      Shall more than once the Punic bands affright;
      Shall kill the Gaulish king in single fight;
      Then to the Capitol in triumph move,
      And the third spoils shall grace Feretrian Jove.”
      Aeneas here beheld, of form divine,
      A godlike youth in glitt’ring armour shine,
      With great Marcellus keeping equal pace;
      But gloomy were his eyes, dejected was his face.
      He saw, and, wond’ring, ask’d his airy guide,
      What and of whence was he, who press’d the hero’s side:
      “His son, or one of his illustrious name?
      How like the former, and almost the same!
      Observe the crowds that compass him around;
      All gaze, and all admire, and raise a shouting sound:
      But hov’ring mists around his brows are spread,
      And night, with sable shades, involves his head.”
      “Seek not to know,” the ghost replied with tears,
      “The sorrows of thy sons in future years.
      This youth (the blissful vision of a day)
      Shall just be shown on earth, and snatch’d away.
      The gods too high had rais’d the Roman state,
      Were but their gifts as permanent as great.
      What groans of men shall fill the Martian field!
      How fierce a blaze his flaming pile shall yield!
      What fun’ral pomp shall floating Tiber see,
      When, rising from his bed, he views the sad solemnity!
      No youth shall equal hopes of glory give,
      No youth afford so great a cause to grieve;
      The Trojan honour, and the Roman boast,
      Admir’d when living, and ador’d when lost!
      Mirror of ancient faith in early youth!
      Undaunted worth, inviolable truth!
      No foe, unpunish’d, in the fighting field
      Shall dare thee, foot to foot, with sword and shield;
      Much less in arms oppose thy matchless force,
      When thy sharp spurs shall urge thy foaming horse.
      Ah! couldst thou break thro’ fate’s severe decree,
      A new Marcellus shall arise in thee!
      Full canisters of fragrant lilies bring,
      Mix’d with the purple roses of the spring;
      Let me with fun’ral flow’rs his body strow;
      This gift which parents to their children owe,
      This unavailing gift, at least, I may bestow!”
      Thus having said, he led the hero round
      The confines of the blest Elysian ground;
      Which when Anchises to his son had shown,
      And fir’d his mind to mount the promis’d throne,
      He tells the future wars, ordain’d by fate;
      The strength and customs of the Latian state;
      The prince, and people; and forearms his care
      With rules, to push his fortune, or to bear.

      Two gates the silent house of Sleep adorn;
      Of polish’d ivory this, that of transparent horn:
      True visions thro’ transparent horn arise;
      Thro’ polish’d ivory pass deluding lies.
      Of various things discoursing as he pass’d,
      Anchises hither bends his steps at last.
      Then, thro’ the gate of iv’ry, he dismiss’d
      His valiant offspring and divining guest.
      Straight to the ships Aeneas took his way,
      Embark’d his men, and skimm’d along the sea,
      Still coasting, till he gain’d Cajeta’s bay.
      At length on oozy ground his galleys moor;
      Their heads are turn’d to sea, their sterns to shore.



 BOOK VII

 THE ARGUMENT.


      King Latinus entertains Aeneas, and promises him his only
      daughter, Lavinia, the heiress of his crown. Turnus, being in
      love with her, favoured by her mother, and by Juno and Alecto,
      breaks the treaty which was made, and engages in his quarrel
      Mezentius, Camilla, Messapus, and many other of the neighbouring
      princes; whose forces, and the names of their commanders are
      particularly related.


      And thou, O matron of immortal fame,
      Here dying, to the shore hast left thy name;
      Cajeta still the place is call’d from thee,
      The nurse of great Aeneas’ infancy.
      Here rest thy bones in rich Hesperia’s plains;
      Thy name (’tis all a ghost can have) remains.

      Now, when the prince her fun’ral rites had paid,
      He plow’d the Tyrrhene seas with sails display’d.
      From land a gentle breeze arose by night,
      Serenely shone the stars, the moon was bright,
      And the sea trembled with her silver light.
      Now near the shelves of Circe’s shores they run,
      (Circe the rich, the daughter of the Sun,)
      A dang’rous coast: the goddess wastes her days
      In joyous songs; the rocks resound her lays:
      In spinning, or the loom, she spends the night,
      And cedar brands supply her father’s light.
      From hence were heard, rebellowing to the main,
      The roars of lions that refuse the chain,
      The grunts of bristled boars, and groans of bears,
      And herds of howling wolves that stun the sailors’ ears.
      These from their caverns, at the close of night,
      Fill the sad isle with horror and affright.
      Darkling they mourn their fate, whom Circe’s pow’r,
      (That watch’d the moon and planetary hour,)
      With words and wicked herbs from humankind
      Had alter’d, and in brutal shapes confin’d.
      Which monsters lest the Trojans’ pious host
      Should bear, or touch upon th’ inchanted coast,
      Propitious Neptune steer’d their course by night
      With rising gales that sped their happy flight.
      Supplied with these, they skim the sounding shore,
      And hear the swelling surges vainly roar.
      Now, when the rosy morn began to rise,
      And wav’d her saffron streamer thro’ the skies;
      When Thetis blush’d in purple not her own,
      And from her face the breathing winds were blown,
      A sudden silence sate upon the sea,
      And sweeping oars, with struggling, urge their way.
      The Trojan, from the main, beheld a wood,
      Which thick with shades and a brown horror stood:
      Betwixt the trees the Tiber took his course,
      With whirlpools dimpled; and with downward force,
      That drove the sand along, he took his way,
      And roll’d his yellow billows to the sea.
      About him, and above, and round the wood,
      The birds that haunt the borders of his flood,
      That bath’d within, or basked upon his side,
      To tuneful songs their narrow throats applied.
      The captain gives command; the joyful train
      Glide thro’ the gloomy shade, and leave the main.

      Now, Erato, thy poet’s mind inspire,
      And fill his soul with thy celestial fire!
      Relate what Latium was; her ancient kings;
      Declare the past and present state of things,
      When first the Trojan fleet Ausonia sought,
      And how the rivals lov’d, and how they fought.
      These are my theme, and how the war began,
      And how concluded by the godlike man:
      For I shall sing of battles, blood, and rage,
      Which princes and their people did engage;
      And haughty souls, that, mov’d with mutual hate,
      In fighting fields pursued and found their fate;
      That rous’d the Tyrrhene realm with loud alarms,
      And peaceful Italy involv’d in arms.
      A larger scene of action is display’d;
      And, rising hence, a greater work is weigh’d.

      Latinus, old and mild, had long possess’d
      The Latin scepter, and his people blest:
      His father Faunus; a Laurentian dame
      His mother; fair Marica was her name.
      But Faunus came from Picus: Picus drew
      His birth from Saturn, if records be true.
      Thus King Latinus, in the third degree,
      Had Saturn author of his family.
      But this old peaceful prince, as Heav’n decreed,
      Was blest with no male issue to succeed:
      His sons in blooming youth were snatch’d by fate;
      One only daughter heir’d the royal state.
      Fir’d with her love, and with ambition led,
      The neighb’ring princes court her nuptial bed.
      Among the crowd, but far above the rest,
      Young Turnus to the beauteous maid address’d.
      Turnus, for high descent and graceful mien,
      Was first, and favour’d by the Latian queen;
      With him she strove to join Lavinia’s hand,
      But dire portents the purpos’d match withstand.

      Deep in the palace, of long growth, there stood
      A laurel’s trunk, a venerable wood;
      Where rites divine were paid; whose holy hair
      Was kept and cut with superstitious care.
      This plant Latinus, when his town he wall’d,
      Then found, and from the tree Laurentum call’d;
      And last, in honour of his new abode,
      He vow’d the laurel to the laurel’s god.
      It happen’d once (a boding prodigy!)
      A swarm of bees, that cut the liquid sky,
      Unknown from whence they took their airy flight,
      Upon the topmost branch in clouds alight;
      There with their clasping feet together clung,
      And a long cluster from the laurel hung.
      An ancient augur prophesied from hence:
      “Behold on Latian shores a foreign prince!
      From the same parts of heav’n his navy stands,
      To the same parts on earth; his army lands;
      The town he conquers, and the tow’r commands.”

      Yet more, when fair Lavinia fed the fire
      Before the gods, and stood beside her sire,
      Strange to relate, the flames, involv’d in smoke
      Of incense, from the sacred altar broke,
      Caught her dishevel’d hair and rich attire;
      Her crown and jewels crackled in the fire:
      From thence the fuming trail began to spread
      And lambent glories danc’d about her head.
      This new portent the seer with wonder views,
      Then pausing, thus his prophecy renews:
      “The nymph, who scatters flaming fires around,
      Shall shine with honour, shall herself be crown’d;
      But, caus’d by her irrevocable fate,
      War shall the country waste, and change the state.”

      Latinus, frighted with this dire ostent,
      For counsel to his father Faunus went,
      And sought the shades renown’d for prophecy
      Which near Albunea’s sulph’rous fountain lie.
      To these the Latian and the Sabine land
      Fly, when distress’d, and thence relief demand.
      The priest on skins of off’rings takes his ease,
      And nightly visions in his slumber sees;
      A swarm of thin aerial shapes appears,
      And, flutt’ring round his temples, deafs his ears:
      These he consults, the future fates to know,
      From pow’rs above, and from the fiends below.
      Here, for the gods’ advice, Latinus flies,
      Off’ring a hundred sheep for sacrifice:
      Their woolly fleeces, as the rites requir’d,
      He laid beneath him, and to rest retir’d.
      No sooner were his eyes in slumber bound,
      When, from above, a more than mortal sound
      Invades his ears; and thus the vision spoke:
      “Seek not, my seed, in Latian bands to yoke
      Our fair Lavinia, nor the gods provoke.
      A foreign son upon thy shore descends,
      Whose martial fame from pole to pole extends.
      His race, in arms and arts of peace renown’d,
      Not Latium shall contain, nor Europe bound:
      ’Tis theirs whate’er the sun surveys around.”
      These answers, in the silent night receiv’d,
      The king himself divulg’d, the land believ’d:
      The fame thro’ all the neighb’ring nations flew,
      When now the Trojan navy was in view.

      Beneath a shady tree, the hero spread
      His table on the turf, with cakes of bread;
      And, with his chiefs, on forest fruits he fed.
      They sate; and, (not without the god’s command,)
      Their homely fare dispatch’d, the hungry band
      Invade their trenchers next, and soon devour,
      To mend the scanty meal, their cakes of flour.
      Ascanius this observ’d, and smiling said:
      “See, we devour the plates on which we fed.”
      The speech had omen, that the Trojan race
      Should find repose, and this the time and place.
      Aeneas took the word, and thus replies,
      Confessing fate with wonder in his eyes:
      “All hail, O earth! all hail, my household gods!
      Behold the destin’d place of your abodes!
      For thus Anchises prophesied of old,
      And this our fatal place of rest foretold:
      ‘When, on a foreign shore, instead of meat,
      By famine forc’d, your trenchers you shall eat,
      Then ease your weary Trojans will attend,
      And the long labours of your voyage end.
      Remember on that happy coast to build,
      And with a trench inclose the fruitful field.’
      This was that famine, this the fatal place
      Which ends the wand’ring of our exil’d race.
      Then, on tomorrow’s dawn, your care employ,
      To search the land, and where the cities lie,
      And what the men; but give this day to joy.
      Now pour to Jove; and, after Jove is blest,
      Call great Anchises to the genial feast:
      Crown high the goblets with a cheerful draught;
      Enjoy the present hour; adjourn the future thought.”

      Thus having said, the hero bound his brows
      With leafy branches, then perform’d his vows;
      Adoring first the genius of the place,
      Then Earth, the mother of the heav’nly race,
      The nymphs, and native godheads yet unknown,
      And Night, and all the stars that gild her sable throne,
      And ancient Cybel, and Idaean Jove,
      And last his sire below, and mother queen above.
      Then heav’n’s high monarch thunder’d thrice aloud,
      And thrice he shook aloft a golden cloud.
      Soon thro’ the joyful camp a rumour flew,
      The time was come their city to renew.
      Then ev’ry brow with cheerful green is crown’d,
      The feasts are doubled, and the bowls go round.

      When next the rosy morn disclos’d the day,
      The scouts to sev’ral parts divide their way,
      To learn the natives’ names, their towns explore,
      The coasts and trendings of the crooked shore:
      Here Tiber flows, and here Numicus stands;
      Here warlike Latins hold the happy lands.
      The pious chief, who sought by peaceful ways
      To found his empire, and his town to raise,
      A hundred youths from all his train selects,
      And to the Latian court their course directs,
      (The spacious palace where their prince resides,)
      And all their heads with wreaths of olive hides.
      They go commission’d to require a peace,
      And carry presents to procure access.
      Thus while they speed their pace, the prince designs
      His new-elected seat, and draws the lines.
      The Trojans round the place a rampire cast,
      And palisades about the trenches plac’d.

      Meantime the train, proceeding on their way,
      From far the town and lofty tow’rs survey;
      At length approach the walls. Without the gate,
      They see the boys and Latian youth debate
      The martial prizes on the dusty plain:
      Some drive the cars, and some the coursers rein;
      Some bend the stubborn bow for victory,
      And some with darts their active sinews try.
      A posting messenger, dispatch’d from hence,
      Of this fair troop advis’d their aged prince,
      That foreign men of mighty stature came;
      Uncouth their habit, and unknown their name.
      The king ordains their entrance, and ascends
      His regal seat, surrounded by his friends.

      The palace built by Picus, vast and proud,
      Supported by a hundred pillars stood,
      And round incompass’d with a rising wood.
      The pile o’erlook’d the town, and drew the sight;
      Surpris’d at once with reverence and delight.
      There kings receiv’d the marks of sov’reign pow’r;
      In state the monarchs march’d; the lictors bore
      Their awful axes and the rods before.
      Here the tribunal stood, the house of pray’r,
      And here the sacred senators repair;
      All at large tables, in long order set,
      A ram their off’ring, and a ram their meat.
      Above the portal, carv’d in cedar wood,
      Plac’d in their ranks, their godlike grandsires stood;
      Old Saturn, with his crooked scythe, on high;
      And Italus, that led the colony;
      And ancient Janus, with his double face,
      And bunch of keys, the porter of the place.
      There good Sabinus, planter of the vines,
      On a short pruning hook his head reclines,
      And studiously surveys his gen’rous wines;
      Then warlike kings, who for their country fought,
      And honourable wounds from battle brought.
      Around the posts hung helmets, darts, and spears,
      And captive chariots, axes, shields, and bars,
      And broken beaks of ships, the trophies of their wars.
      Above the rest, as chief of all the band,
      Was Picus plac’d, a buckler in his hand;
      His other wav’d a long divining wand.
      Girt in his Gabin gown the hero sate,
      Yet could not with his art avoid his fate:
      For Circe long had lov’d the youth in vain,
      Till love, refus’d, converted to disdain:
      Then, mixing pow’rful herbs, with magic art,
      She chang’d his form, who could not change his heart;
      Constrain’d him in a bird, and made him fly,
      With party-colour’d plumes, a chatt’ring pie.

      In this high temple, on a chair of state,
      The seat of audience, old Latinus sate;
      Then gave admission to the Trojan train;
      And thus with pleasing accents he began:
      “Tell me, ye Trojans, for that name you own,
      Nor is your course upon our coasts unknown;
      Say what you seek, and whither were you bound:
      Were you by stress of weather cast aground?
      Such dangers as on seas are often seen,
      And oft befall to miserable men,
      Or come, your shipping in our ports to lay,
      Spent and disabled in so long a way?
      Say what you want: the Latians you shall find
      Not forc’d to goodness, but by will inclin’d;
      For, since the time of Saturn’s holy reign,
      His hospitable customs we retain.
      I call to mind (but time the tale has worn)
      Th’ Arunci told, that Dardanus, tho’ born
      On Latian plains, yet sought the Phrygian shore,
      And Samothracia, Samos call’d before.
      From Tuscan Coritum he claim’d his birth;
      But after, when exempt from mortal earth,
      From thence ascended to his kindred skies,
      A god, and, as a god, augments their sacrifice.”

      He said. Ilioneus made this reply:
      “O king, of Faunus’ royal family!
      Nor wintry winds to Latium forc’d our way,
      Nor did the stars our wand’ring course betray.
      Willing we sought your shores; and, hither bound,
      The port, so long desir’d, at length we found;
      From our sweet homes and ancient realms expell’d;
      Great as the greatest that the sun beheld.
      The god began our line, who rules above;
      And, as our race, our king descends from Jove:
      And hither are we come, by his command,
      To crave admission in your happy land.
      How dire a tempest, from Mycenae pour’d,
      Our plains, our temples, and our town devour’d;
      What was the waste of war, what fierce alarms
      Shook Asia’s crown with European arms;
      Ev’n such have heard, if any such there be,
      Whose earth is bounded by the frozen sea;
      And such as, born beneath the burning sky
      And sultry sun, betwixt the tropics lie.
      From that dire deluge, thro’ the wat’ry waste,
      Such length of years, such various perils past,
      At last escap’d, to Latium we repair,
      To beg what you without your want may spare:
      The common water, and the common air;
      Sheds which ourselves will build, and mean abodes,
      Fit to receive and serve our banish’d gods.
      Nor our admission shall your realm disgrace,
      Nor length of time our gratitude efface.
      Besides, what endless honour you shall gain,
      To save and shelter Troy’s unhappy train!
      Now, by my sov’reign, and his fate, I swear,
      Renown’d for faith in peace, for force in war;
      Oft our alliance other lands desir’d,
      And, what we seek of you, of us requir’d.
      Despite not then, that in our hands we bear
      These holy boughs, and sue with words of pray’r.
      Fate and the gods, by their supreme command,
      Have doom’d our ships to seek the Latian land.
      To these abodes our fleet Apollo sends;
      Here Dardanus was born, and hither tends;
      Where Tuscan Tiber rolls with rapid force,
      And where Numicus opes his holy source.
      Besides, our prince presents, with his request,
      Some small remains of what his sire possess’d.
      This golden charger, snatch’d from burning Troy,
      Anchises did in sacrifice employ;
      This royal robe and this tiara wore
      Old Priam, and this golden scepter bore
      In full assemblies, and in solemn games;
      These purple vests were weav’d by Dardan dames.”

      Thus while he spoke, Latinus roll’d around
      His eyes, and fix’d a while upon the ground.
      Intent he seem’d, and anxious in his breast;
      Not by the scepter mov’d, or kingly vest,
      But pond’ring future things of wondrous weight;
      Succession, empire, and his daughter’s fate.
      On these he mus’d within his thoughtful mind,
      And then revolv’d what Faunus had divin’d.
      This was the foreign prince, by fate decreed
      To share his scepter, and Lavinia’s bed;
      This was the race that sure portents foreshew
      To sway the world, and land and sea subdue.
      At length he rais’d his cheerful head, and spoke:
      “The pow’rs,” said he, “the pow’rs we both invoke,
      To you, and yours, and mine, propitious be,
      And firm our purpose with their augury!
      Have what you ask; your presents I receive;
      Land, where and when you please, with ample leave;
      Partake and use my kingdom as your own;
      All shall be yours, while I command the crown:
      And, if my wish’d alliance please your king,
      Tell him he should not send the peace, but bring.
      Then let him not a friend’s embraces fear;
      The peace is made when I behold him here.
      Besides this answer, tell my royal guest,
      I add to his commands my own request:
      One only daughter heirs my crown and state,
      Whom not our oracles, nor Heav’n, nor fate,
      Nor frequent prodigies, permit to join
      With any native of th’ Ausonian line.
      A foreign son-in-law shall come from far
      (Such is our doom), a chief renown’d in war,
      Whose race shall bear aloft the Latian name,
      And thro’ the conquer’d world diffuse our fame.
      Himself to be the man the fates require,
      I firmly judge, and, what I judge, desire.”

      He said, and then on each bestow’d a steed.
      Three hundred horses, in high stables fed,
      Stood ready, shining all, and smoothly dress’d:
      Of these he chose the fairest and the best,
      To mount the Trojan troop. At his command
      The steeds caparison’d with purple stand,
      With golden trappings, glorious to behold,
      And champ betwixt their teeth the foaming gold.
      Then to his absent guest the king decreed
      A pair of coursers born of heav’nly breed,
      Who from their nostrils breath’d ethereal fire;
      Whom Circe stole from her celestial sire,
      By substituting mares produc’d on earth,
      Whose wombs conceiv’d a more than mortal birth.
      These draw the chariot which Latinus sends,
      And the rich present to the prince commends.
      Sublime on stately steeds the Trojans borne,
      To their expecting lord with peace return.

      But jealous Juno, from Pachynus’ height,
      As she from Argos took her airy flight,
      Beheld with envious eyes this hateful sight.
      She saw the Trojan and his joyful train
      Descend upon the shore, desert the main,
      Design a town, and, with unhop’d success,
      Th’ embassadors return with promis’d peace.
      Then, pierc’d with pain, she shook her haughty head,
      Sigh’d from her inward soul, and thus she said:
      “O hated offspring of my Phrygian foes!
      O fates of Troy, which Juno’s fates oppose!
      Could they not fall unpitied on the plain,
      But slain revive, and, taken, scape again?
      When execrable Troy in ashes lay,
      Thro’ fires and swords and seas they forc’d their way.
      Then vanquish’d Juno must in vain contend,
      Her rage disarm’d, her empire at an end.
      Breathless and tir’d, is all my fury spent?
      Or does my glutted spleen at length relent?
      As if ’twere little from their town to chase,
      I thro’ the seas pursued their exil’d race;
      Ingag’d the heav’ns, oppos’d the stormy main;
      But billows roar’d, and tempests rag’d in vain.
      What have my Scyllas and my Syrtes done,
      When these they overpass, and those they shun?
      On Tiber’s shores they land, secure of fate,
      Triumphant o’er the storms and Juno’s hate.
      Mars could in mutual blood the Centaurs bathe,
      And Jove himself gave way to Cynthia’s wrath,
      Who sent the tusky boar to Calydon;
      What great offence had either people done?
      But I, the consort of the Thunderer,
      Have wag’d a long and unsuccessful war,
      With various arts and arms in vain have toil’d,
      And by a mortal man at length am foil’d.
      If native pow’r prevail not, shall I doubt
      To seek for needful succour from without?
      If Jove and Heav’n my just desires deny,
      Hell shall the pow’r of Heav’n and Jove supply.
      Grant that the Fates have firm’d, by their decree,
      The Trojan race to reign in Italy;
      At least I can defer the nuptial day,
      And with protracted wars the peace delay:
      With blood the dear alliance shall be bought,
      And both the people near destruction brought;
      So shall the son-in-law and father join,
      With ruin, war, and waste of either line.
      O fatal maid, thy marriage is endow’d
      With Phrygian, Latian, and Rutulian blood!
      Bellona leads thee to thy lover’s hand;
      Another queen brings forth another brand,
      To burn with foreign fires another land!
      A second Paris, diff’ring but in name,
      Shall fire his country with a second flame.”

      Thus having said, she sinks beneath the ground,
      With furious haste, and shoots the Stygian sound,
      To rouse Alecto from th’ infernal seat
      Of her dire sisters, and their dark retreat.
      This Fury, fit for her intent, she chose;
      One who delights in wars and human woes.
      Ev’n Pluto hates his own misshapen race;
      Her sister Furies fly her hideous face;
      So frightful are the forms the monster takes,
      So fierce the hissings of her speckled snakes.
      Her Juno finds, and thus inflames her spite:
      “O virgin daughter of eternal Night,
      Give me this once thy labour, to sustain
      My right, and execute my just disdain.
      Let not the Trojans, with a feign’d pretence
      Of proffer’d peace, delude the Latian prince.
      Expel from Italy that odious name,
      And let not Juno suffer in her fame.
      ’Tis thine to ruin realms, o’erturn a state,
      Betwixt the dearest friends to raise debate,
      And kindle kindred blood to mutual hate.
      Thy hand o’er towns the fun’ral torch displays,
      And forms a thousand ills ten thousand ways.
      Now shake, out thy fruitful breast, the seeds
      Of envy, discord, and of cruel deeds:
      Confound the peace establish’d, and prepare
      Their souls to hatred, and their hands to war.”

      Smear’d as she was with black Gorgonian blood,
      The Fury sprang above the Stygian flood;
      And on her wicker wings, sublime thro’ night,
      She to the Latian palace took her flight:
      There sought the queen’s apartment, stood before
      The peaceful threshold, and besieg’d the door.
      Restless Amata lay, her swelling breast
      Fir’d with disdain for Turnus dispossess’d,
      And the new nuptials of the Trojan guest.
      From her black bloody locks the Fury shakes
      Her darling plague, the fav’rite of her snakes;
      With her full force she threw the poisonous dart,
      And fix’d it deep within Amata’s heart,
      That, thus envenom’d, she might kindle rage,
      And sacrifice to strife her house and husband’s age.
      Unseen, unfelt, the fiery serpent skims
      Betwixt her linen and her naked limbs;
      His baleful breath inspiring, as he glides,
      Now like a chain around her neck he rides,
      Now like a fillet to her head repairs,
      And with his circling volumes folds her hairs.
      At first the silent venom slid with ease,
      And seiz’d her cooler senses by degrees;
      Then, ere th’ infected mass was fir’d too far,
      In plaintive accents she began the war,
      And thus bespoke her husband: “Shall,” she said,
      “A wand’ring prince enjoy Lavinia’s bed?
      If nature plead not in a parent’s heart,
      Pity my tears, and pity her desert.
      I know, my dearest lord, the time will come,
      You’d in vain, reverse your cruel doom;
      The faithless pirate soon will set to sea,
      And bear the royal virgin far away!
      A guest like him, a Trojan guest before,
      In shew of friendship sought the Spartan shore,
      And ravish’d Helen from her husband bore.
      Think on a king’s inviolable word;
      And think on Turnus, her once plighted lord:
      To this false foreigner you give your throne,
      And wrong a friend, a kinsman, and a son.
      Resume your ancient care; and, if the god
      Your sire, and you, resolve on foreign blood,
      Know all are foreign, in a larger sense,
      Not born your subjects, or deriv’d from hence.
      Then, if the line of Turnus you retrace,
      He springs from Inachus of Argive race.”

      But when she saw her reasons idly spent,
      And could not move him from his fix’d intent,
      She flew to rage; for now the snake possess’d
      Her vital parts, and poison’d all her breast;
      She raves, she runs with a distracted pace,
      And fills with horrid howls the public place.
      And, as young striplings whip the top for sport,
      On the smooth pavement of an empty court;
      The wooden engine flies and whirls about,
      Admir’d, with clamours, of the beardless rout;
      They lash aloud; each other they provoke,
      And lend their little souls at ev’ry stroke:
      Thus fares the queen; and thus her fury blows
      Amidst the crowd, and kindles as she goes.
      Nor yet content, she strains her malice more,
      And adds new ills to those contriv’d before:
      She flies the town, and, mixing with a throng
      Of madding matrons, bears the bride along,
      Wand’ring thro’ woods and wilds, and devious ways,
      And with these arts the Trojan match delays.
      She feign’d the rites of Bacchus; cried aloud,
      And to the buxom god the virgin vow’d.
      “Evoe! O Bacchus!” thus began the song;
      And “Evoe!” answer’d all the female throng.
      “O virgin! worthy thee alone!” she cried;
      “O worthy thee alone!” the crew replied.
      “For thee she feeds her hair, she leads thy dance,
      And with thy winding ivy wreathes her lance.”
      Like fury seiz’d the rest; the progress known,
      All seek the mountains, and forsake the town:
      All, clad in skins of beasts, the jav’lin bear,
      Give to the wanton winds their flowing hair,
      And shrieks and shoutings rend the suff’ring air.
      The queen herself, inspir’d with rage divine,
      Shook high above her head a flaming pine;
      Then roll’d her haggard eyes around the throng,
      And sung, in Turnus’ name, the nuptial song:
      “Io, ye Latian dames! if any here
      Hold your unhappy queen, Amata, dear;
      If there be here,” she said, “who dare maintain
      My right, nor think the name of mother vain;
      Unbind your fillets, loose your flowing hair,
      And orgies and nocturnal rites prepare.”

      Amata’s breast the Fury thus invades,
      And fires with rage, amid the sylvan shades;
      Then, when she found her venom spread so far,
      The royal house embroil’d in civil war,
      Rais’d on her dusky wings, she cleaves the skies,
      And seeks the palace where young Turnus lies.
      His town, as fame reports, was built of old
      By Danae, pregnant with almighty gold,
      Who fled her father’s rage, and, with a train
      Of following Argives, thro’ the stormy main,
      Driv’n by the southern blasts, was fated here to reign.
      ’Twas Ardua once; now Ardea’s name it bears;
      Once a fair city, now consum’d with years.
      Here, in his lofty palace, Turnus lay,
      Betwixt the confines of the night and day,
      Secure in sleep. The Fury laid aside
      Her looks and limbs, and with new methods tried
      The foulness of th’ infernal form to hide.
      Propp’d on a staff, she takes a trembling mien:
      Her face is furrow’d, and her front obscene;
      Deep-dinted wrinkles on her cheek she draws;
      Sunk are her eyes, and toothless are her jaws;
      Her hoary hair with holy fillets bound,
      Her temples with an olive wreath are crown’d.
      Old Chalybe, who kept the sacred fane
      Of Juno, now she seem’d, and thus began,
      Appearing in a dream, to rouse the careless man:
      “Shall Turnus then such endless toil sustain
      In fighting fields, and conquer towns in vain?
      Win, for a Trojan head to wear the prize,
      Usurp thy crown, enjoy thy victories?
      The bride and scepter which thy blood has bought,
      The king transfers; and foreign heirs are sought.
      Go now, deluded man, and seek again
      New toils, new dangers, on the dusty plain.
      Repel the Tuscan foes; their city seize;
      Protect the Latians in luxurious ease.
      This dream all-pow’rful Juno sends; I bear
      Her mighty mandates, and her words you hear.
      Haste; arm your Ardeans; issue to the plain;
      With fate to friend, assault the Trojan train:
      Their thoughtless chiefs, their painted ships, that lie
      In Tiber’s mouth, with fire and sword destroy.
      The Latian king, unless he shall submit,
      Own his old promise, and his new forget;
      Let him, in arms, the pow’r of Turnus prove,
      And learn to fear whom he disdains to love.
      For such is Heav’n’s command.” The youthful prince
      With scorn replied, and made this bold defence:
      “You tell me, mother, what I knew before:
      The Phrygian fleet is landed on the shore.
      I neither fear nor will provoke the war;
      My fate is Juno’s most peculiar care.
      But time has made you dote, and vainly tell
      Of arms imagin’d in your lonely cell.
      Go; be the temple and the gods your care;
      Permit to men the thought of peace and war.”

      These haughty words Alecto’s rage provoke,
      And frighted Turnus trembled as she spoke.
      Her eyes grow stiffen’d, and with sulphur burn;
      Her hideous looks and hellish form return;
      Her curling snakes with hissings fill the place,
      And open all the furies of her face:
      Then, darting fire from her malignant eyes,
      She cast him backward as he strove to rise,
      And, ling’ring, sought to frame some new replies.
      High on her head she rears two twisted snakes,
      Her chains she rattles, and her whip she shakes;
      And, churning bloody foam, thus loudly speaks:
      “Behold whom time has made to dote, and tell
      Of arms imagin’d in her lonely cell!
      Behold the Fates’ infernal minister!
      War, death, destruction, in my hand I bear.”

      Thus having said, her smould’ring torch, impress’d
      With her full force, she plung’d into his breast.
      Aghast he wak’d; and, starting from his bed,
      Cold sweat, in clammy drops, his limbs o’erspread.
      “Arms! arms!” he cries: “my sword and shield prepare!”
      He breathes defiance, blood, and mortal war.
      So, when with crackling flames a caldron fries,
      The bubbling waters from the bottom rise:
      Above the brims they force their fiery way;
      Black vapours climb aloft, and cloud the day.

      The peace polluted thus, a chosen band
      He first commissions to the Latian land,
      In threat’ning embassy; then rais’d the rest,
      To meet in arms th’ intruding Trojan guest,
      To force the foes from the Lavinian shore,
      And Italy’s indanger’d peace restore.
      Himself alone an equal match he boasts,
      To fight the Phrygian and Ausonian hosts.
      The gods invok’d, the Rutuli prepare
      Their arms, and warn each other to the war.
      His beauty these, and those his blooming age,
      The rest his house and his own fame engage.

      While Turnus urges thus his enterprise,
      The Stygian Fury to the Trojans flies;
      New frauds invents, and takes a steepy stand,
      Which overlooks the vale with wide command;
      Where fair Ascanius and his youthful train,
      With horns and hounds, a hunting match ordain,
      And pitch their toils around the shady plain.
      The Fury fires the pack; they snuff, they vent,
      And feed their hungry nostrils with the scent.
      ’Twas of a well-grown stag, whose antlers rise
      High o’er his front; his beams invade the skies.
      From this light cause th’ infernal maid prepares
      The country churls to mischief, hate, and wars.

      The stately beast the two Tyrrhidae bred,
      Snatch’d from his dams, and the tame youngling fed.
      Their father Tyrrheus did his fodder bring,
      Tyrrheus, chief ranger to the Latian king:
      Their sister Silvia cherish’d with her care
      The little wanton, and did wreaths prepare
      To hang his budding horns, with ribbons tied
      His tender neck, and comb’d his silken hide,
      And bathed his body. Patient of command
      In time he grew, and, growing us’d to hand,
      He waited at his master’s board for food;
      Then sought his salvage kindred in the wood,
      Where grazing all the day, at night he came
      To his known lodgings, and his country dame.

      This household beast, that us’d the woodland grounds,
      Was view’d at first by the young hero’s hounds,
      As down the stream he swam, to seek retreat
      In the cool waters, and to quench his heat.
      Ascanius young, and eager of his game,
      Soon bent his bow, uncertain in his aim;
      But the dire fiend the fatal arrow guides,
      Which pierc’d his bowels thro’ his panting sides.
      The bleeding creature issues from the floods,
      Possess’d with fear, and seeks his known abodes,
      His old familiar hearth and household gods.
      He falls; he fills the house with heavy groans,
      Implores their pity, and his pain bemoans.
      Young Silvia beats her breast, and cries aloud
      For succour from the clownish neighbourhood:
      The churls assemble; for the fiend, who lay
      In the close woody covert, urg’d their way.
      One with a brand yet burning from the flame,
      Arm’d with a knotty club another came:
      Whate’er they catch or find, without their care,
      Their fury makes an instrument of war.
      Tyrrheus, the foster father of the beast,
      Then clench’d a hatchet in his horny fist,
      But held his hand from the descending stroke,
      And left his wedge within the cloven oak,
      To whet their courage and their rage provoke.
      And now the goddess, exercis’d in ill,
      Who watch’d an hour to work her impious will,
      Ascends the roof, and to her crooked horn,
      Such as was then by Latian shepherds borne,
      Adds all her breath: the rocks and woods around,
      And mountains, tremble at th’ infernal sound.
      The sacred lake of Trivia from afar,
      The Veline fountains, and sulphureous Nar,
      Shake at the baleful blast, the signal of the war.
      Young mothers wildly stare, with fear possess’d,
      And strain their helpless infants to their breast.

      The clowns, a boist’rous, rude, ungovern’d crew,
      With furious haste to the loud summons flew.
      The pow’rs of Troy, then issuing on the plain,
      With fresh recruits their youthful chief sustain:
      Not theirs a raw and unexperienc’d train,
      But a firm body of embattled men.
      At first, while fortune favour’d neither side,
      The fight with clubs and burning brands was tried;
      But now, both parties reinforc’d, the fields
      Are bright with flaming swords and brazen shields.
      A shining harvest either host displays,
      And shoots against the sun with equal rays.
      Thus, when a black-brow’d gust begins to rise,
      White foam at first on the curl’d ocean fries;
      Then roars the main, the billows mount the skies;
      Till, by the fury of the storm full blown,
      The muddy bottom o’er the clouds is thrown.
      First Almon falls, old Tyrrheus’ eldest care,
      Pierc’d with an arrow from the distant war:
      Fix’d in his throat the flying weapon stood,
      And stopp’d his breath, and drank his vital blood
      Huge heaps of slain around the body rise:
      Among the rest, the rich Galesus lies;
      A good old man, while peace he preach’d in vain,
      Amidst the madness of th’ unruly train:
      Five herds, five bleating flocks, his pastures fill’d;
      His lands a hundred yoke of oxen till’d.

      Thus, while in equal scales their fortune stood
      The Fury bath’d them in each other’s blood;
      Then, having fix’d the fight, exulting flies,
      And bears fulfill’d her promise to the skies.
      To Juno thus she speaks: “Behold! It is done,
      The blood already drawn, the war begun;
      The discord is complete; nor can they cease
      The dire debate, nor you command the peace.
      Now, since the Latian and the Trojan brood
      Have tasted vengeance and the sweets of blood;
      Speak, and my pow’r shall add this office more:
      The neighbr’ing nations of th’ Ausonian shore
      Shall hear the dreadful rumour, from afar,
      Of arm’d invasion, and embrace the war.”
      Then Juno thus: “The grateful work is done,
      The seeds of discord sow’d, the war begun;
      Frauds, fears, and fury have possess’d the state,
      And fix’d the causes of a lasting hate.
      A bloody Hymen shall th’ alliance join
      Betwixt the Trojan and Ausonian line:
      But thou with speed to night and hell repair;
      For not the gods, nor angry Jove, will bear
      Thy lawless wand’ring walks in upper air.
      Leave what remains to me.” Saturnia said:
      The sullen fiend her sounding wings display’d,
      Unwilling left the light, and sought the nether shade.

      In midst of Italy, well known to fame,
      There lies a lake, Amsanctus is the name,
      Below the lofty mounts: on either side
      Thick forests the forbidden entrance hide.
      Full in the centre of the sacred wood
      An arm arises of the Stygian flood,
      Which, breaking from beneath with bellowing sound,
      Whirls the black waves and rattling stones around.
      Here Pluto pants for breath from out his cell,
      And opens wide the grinning jaws of hell.
      To this infernal lake the Fury flies;
      Here hides her hated head, and frees the lab’ring skies.

      Saturnian Juno now, with double care,
      Attends the fatal process of the war.
      The clowns, return’d, from battle bear the slain,
      Implore the gods, and to their king complain.
      The corps of Almon and the rest are shown;
      Shrieks, clamours, murmurs, fill the frighted town.
      Ambitious Turnus in the press appears,
      And, aggravating crimes, augments their fears;
      Proclaims his private injuries aloud,
      A solemn promise made, and disavow’d;
      A foreign son is sought, and a mix’d mungril brood.
      Then they, whose mothers, frantic with their fear,
      In woods and wilds the flags of Bacchus bear,
      And lead his dances with dishevel’d hair,
      Increase the clamour, and the war demand,
      (Such was Amata’s int’rest in the land,)
      Against the public sanctions of the peace,
      Against all omens of their ill success.
      With fates averse, the rout in arms resort,
      To force their monarch, and insult the court.
      But, like a rock unmov’d, a rock that braves
      The raging tempest and the rising waves,
      Propp’d on himself he stands; his solid sides
      Wash off the seaweeds, and the sounding tides:
      So stood the pious prince, unmov’d, and long
      Sustain’d the madness of the noisy throng.
      But, when he found that Juno’s pow’r prevail’d,
      And all the methods of cool counsel fail’d,
      He calls the gods to witness their offence,
      Disclaims the war, asserts his innocence.
      “Hurried by fate,” he cries, “and borne before
      A furious wind, we have the faithful shore.
      O more than madmen! you yourselves shall bear
      The guilt of blood and sacrilegious war:
      Thou, Turnus, shalt atone it by thy fate,
      And pray to Heav’n for peace, but pray too late.
      For me, my stormy voyage at an end,
      I to the port of death securely tend.
      The fun’ral pomp which to your kings you pay,
      Is all I want, and all you take away.”
      He said no more, but, in his walls confin’d,
      Shut out the woes which he too well divin’d
      Nor with the rising storm would vainly strive,
      But left the helm, and let the vessel drive.

      A solemn custom was observ’d of old,
      Which Latium held, and now the Romans hold,
      Their standard when in fighting fields they rear
      Against the fierce Hyrcanians, or declare
      The Scythian, Indian, or Arabian war;
      Or from the boasting Parthians would regain
      Their eagles, lost in Carrhae’s bloody plain.
      Two gates of steel (the name of Mars they bear,
      And still are worship’d with religious fear)
      Before his temple stand: the dire abode,
      And the fear’d issues of the furious god,
      Are fenc’d with brazen bolts; without the gates,
      The wary guardian Janus doubly waits.
      Then, when the sacred senate votes the wars,
      The Roman consul their decree declares,
      And in his robes the sounding gates unbars.
      The youth in military shouts arise,
      And the loud trumpets break the yielding skies.
      These rites, of old by sov’reign princes us’d,
      Were the king’s office; but the king refus’d,
      Deaf to their cries, nor would the gates unbar
      Of sacred peace, or loose th’ imprison’d war;
      But hid his head, and, safe from loud alarms,
      Abhorr’d the wicked ministry of arms.
      Then heav’n’s imperious queen shot down from high:
      At her approach the brazen hinges fly;
      The gates are forc’d, and ev’ry falling bar;
      And, like a tempest, issues out the war.

      The peaceful cities of th’ Ausonian shore,
      Lull’d in their ease, and undisturb’d before,
      Are all on fire; and some, with studious care,
      Their restiff steeds in sandy plains prepare;
      Some their soft limbs in painful marches try,
      And war is all their wish, and arms the gen’ral cry.
      Part scour the rusty shields with seam; and part
      New grind the blunted ax, and point the dart:
      With joy they view the waving ensigns fly,
      And hear the trumpet’s clangour pierce the sky.
      Five cities forge their arms: th’ Atinian pow’rs,
      Antemnae, Tibur with her lofty tow’rs,
      Ardea the proud, the Crustumerian town:
      All these of old were places of renown.
      Some hammer helmets for the fighting field;
      Some twine young sallows to support the shield;
      The croslet some, and some the cuishes mould,
      With silver plated, and with ductile gold.
      The rustic honours of the scythe and share
      Give place to swords and plumes, the pride of war.
      Old falchions are new temper’d in the fires;
      The sounding trumpet ev’ry soul inspires.
      The word is giv’n; with eager speed they lace
      The shining headpiece, and the shield embrace.
      The neighing steeds are to the chariot tied;
      The trusty weapon sits on ev’ry side.

      And now the mighty labour is begun
      Ye Muses, open all your Helicon.
      Sing you the chiefs that sway’d th’ Ausonian land,
      Their arms, and armies under their command;
      What warriors in our ancient clime were bred;
      What soldiers follow’d, and what heroes led.
      For well you know, and can record alone,
      What fame to future times conveys but darkly down.
      Mezentius first appear’d upon the plain:
      Scorn sate upon his brows, and sour disdain,
      Defying earth and heav’n. Etruria lost,
      He brings to Turnus’ aid his baffled host.
      The charming Lausus, full of youthful fire,
      Rode in the rank, and next his sullen sire;
      To Turnus only second in the grace
      Of manly mien, and features of the face.
      A skilful horseman, and a huntsman bred,
      With fates averse a thousand men he led:
      His sire unworthy of so brave a son;
      Himself well worthy of a happier throne.

      Next Aventinus drives his chariot round
      The Latian plains, with palms and laurels crown’d.
      Proud of his steeds, he smokes along the field;
      His father’s hydra fills his ample shield:
      A hundred serpents hiss about the brims;
      The son of Hercules he justly seems
      By his broad shoulders and gigantic limbs;
      Of heav’nly part, and part of earthly blood,
      A mortal woman mixing with a god.
      For strong Alcides, after he had slain
      The triple Geryon, drove from conquer’d Spain
      His captive herds; and, thence in triumph led,
      On Tuscan Tiber’s flow’ry banks they fed.
      Then on Mount Aventine the son of Jove
      The priestess Rhea found, and forc’d to love.
      For arms, his men long piles and jav’lins bore;
      And poles with pointed steel their foes in battle gore.
      Like Hercules himself his son appears,
      In salvage pomp; a lion’s hide he wears;
      About his shoulders hangs the shaggy skin;
      The teeth and gaping jaws severely grin.
      Thus, like the god his father, homely dress’d,
      He strides into the hall, a horrid guest.

      Then two twin brothers from fair Tibur came,
      (Which from their brother Tiburs took the name,)
      Fierce Coras and Catillus, void of fear:
      Arm’d Argive horse they led, and in the front appear.
      Like cloud-born Centaurs, from the mountain’s height
      With rapid course descending to the fight;
      They rush along; the rattling woods give way;
      The branches bend before their sweepy sway.

      Nor was Praeneste’s founder wanting there,
      Whom fame reports the son of Mulciber:
      Found in the fire, and foster’d in the plains,
      A shepherd and a king at once he reigns,
      And leads to Turnus’ aid his country swains.
      His own Praeneste sends a chosen band,
      With those who plow Saturnia’s Gabine land;
      Besides the succour which cold Anien yields,
      The rocks of Hernicus, and dewy fields,
      Anagnia fat, and Father Amasene—
      A num’rous rout, but all of naked men:
      Nor arms they wear, nor swords and bucklers wield,
      Nor drive the chariot thro’ the dusty field,
      But whirl from leathern slings huge balls of lead,
      And spoils of yellow wolves adorn their head;
      The left foot naked, when they march to fight,
      But in a bull’s raw hide they sheathe the right.
      Messapus next, (great Neptune was his sire,)
      Secure of steel, and fated from the fire,
      In pomp appears, and with his ardour warms
      A heartless train, unexercis’d in arms:
      The just Faliscans he to battle brings,
      And those who live where Lake Ciminius springs;
      And where Feronia’s grove and temple stands,
      Who till Fescennian or Flavinian lands.
      All these in order march, and marching sing
      The warlike actions of their sea-born king;
      Like a long team of snowy swans on high,
      Which clap their wings, and cleave the liquid sky,
      When, homeward from their wat’ry pastures borne,
      They sing, and Asia’s lakes their notes return.
      Not one who heard their music from afar,
      Would think these troops an army train’d to war,
      But flocks of fowl, that, when the tempests roar,
      With their hoarse gabbling seek the silent shore.

      Then Clausus came, who led a num’rous band
      Of troops embodied from the Sabine land,
      And, in himself alone, an army brought.
      ’Twas he, the noble Claudian race begot,
      The Claudian race, ordain’d, in times to come,
      To share the greatness of imperial Rome.
      He led the Cures forth, of old renown,
      Mutuscans from their olive-bearing town,
      And all th’ Eretian pow’rs; besides a band
      That follow’d from Velinum’s dewy land,
      And Amiternian troops, of mighty fame,
      And mountaineers, that from Severus came,
      And from the craggy cliffs of Tetrica,
      And those where yellow Tiber takes his way,
      And where Himella’s wanton waters play.
      Casperia sends her arms, with those that lie
      By Fabaris, and fruitful Foruli:
      The warlike aids of Horta next appear,
      And the cold Nursians come to close the rear,
      Mix’d with the natives born of Latine blood,
      Whom Allia washes with her fatal flood.
      Not thicker billows beat the Libyan main,
      When pale Orion sets in wintry rain;
      Nor thicker harvests on rich Hermus rise,
      Or Lycian fields, when Phoebus burns the skies,
      Than stand these troops: their bucklers ring around;
      Their trampling turns the turf, and shakes the solid ground.

      High in his chariot then Halesus came,
      A foe by birth to Troy’s unhappy name:
      From Agamemnon born—to Turnus’ aid
      A thousand men the youthful hero led,
      Who till the Massic soil, for wine renown’d,
      And fierce Auruncans from their hilly ground,
      And those who live by Sidicinian shores,
      And where with shoaly fords Vulturnus roars,
      Cales’ and Osca’s old inhabitants,
      And rough Saticulans, inur’d to wants:
      Light demi-lances from afar they throw,
      Fasten’d with leathern thongs, to gall the foe.
      Short crooked swords in closer fight they wear;
      And on their warding arm light bucklers bear.

      Nor Oebalus, shalt thou be left unsung,
      From nymph Semethis and old Telon sprung,
      Who then in Teleboan Capri reign’d;
      But that short isle th’ ambitious youth disdain’d,
      And o’er Campania stretch’d his ample sway,
      Where swelling Sarnus seeks the Tyrrhene sea;
      O’er Batulum, and where Abella sees,
      From her high tow’rs, the harvest of her trees.
      And these (as was the Teuton use of old)
      Wield brazen swords, and brazen bucklers hold;
      Sling weighty stones, when from afar they fight;
      Their casques are cork, a covering thick and light.

      Next these in rank, the warlike Ufens went,
      And led the mountain troops that Nursia sent.
      The rude Equicolae his rule obey’d;
      Hunting their sport, and plund’ring was their trade.
      In arms they plow’d, to battle still prepar’d:
      Their soil was barren, and their hearts were hard.

      Umbro the priest the proud Marrubians led,
      By King Archippus sent to Turnus’ aid,
      And peaceful olives crown’d his hoary head.
      His wand and holy words, the viper’s rage,
      And venom’d wounds of serpents could assuage.
      He, when he pleas’d with powerful juice to steep
      Their temples, shut their eyes in pleasing sleep.
      But vain were Marsian herbs, and magic art,
      To cure the wound giv’n by the Dardan dart:
      Yet his untimely fate th’ Angitian woods
      In sighs remurmur’d to the Fucine floods.

      The son of fam’d Hippolytus was there,
      Fam’d as his sire, and, as his mother, fair;
      Whom in Egerian groves Aricia bore,
      And nurs’d his youth along the marshy shore,
      Where great Diana’s peaceful altars flame,
      In fruitful fields; and Virbius was his name.
      Hippolytus, as old records have said,
      Was by his stepdam sought to share her bed;
      But, when no female arts his mind could move,
      She turn’d to furious hate her impious love.
      Torn by wild horses on the sandy shore,
      Another’s crimes th’ unhappy hunter bore,
      Glutting his father’s eyes with guiltless gore.
      But chaste Diana, who his death deplor’d,
      With Aesculapian herbs his life restor’d.
      Then Jove, who saw from high, with just disdain,
      The dead inspir’d with vital breath again,
      Struck to the centre, with his flaming dart,
      Th’ unhappy founder of the godlike art.
      But Trivia kept in secret shades alone
      Her care, Hippolytus, to fate unknown;
      And call’d him Virbius in th’ Egerian grove,
      Where then he liv’d obscure, but safe from Jove.
      For this, from Trivia’s temple and her wood
      Are coursers driv’n, who shed their master’s blood,
      Affrighted by the monsters of the flood.
      His son, the second Virbius, yet retain’d
      His father’s art, and warrior steeds he rein’d.

      Amid the troops, and like the leading god,
      High o’er the rest in arms the graceful Turnus rode:
      A triple of plumes his crest adorn’d,
      On which with belching flames Chimaera burn’d:
      The more the kindled combat rises high’r,
      The more with fury burns the blazing fire.
      Fair Io grac’d his shield; but Io now
      With horns exalted stands, and seems to low—
      A noble charge! Her keeper by her side,
      To watch her walks, his hundred eyes applied;
      And on the brims her sire, the wat’ry god,
      Roll’d from a silver urn his crystal flood.
      A cloud of foot succeeds, and fills the fields
      With swords, and pointed spears, and clatt’ring shields;
      Of Argives, and of old Sicanian bands,
      And those who plow the rich Rutulian lands;
      Auruncan youth, and those Sacrana yields,
      And the proud Labicans, with painted shields,
      And those who near Numician streams reside,
      And those whom Tiber’s holy forests hide,
      Or Circe’s hills from the main land divide;
      Where Ufens glides along the lowly lands,
      Or the black water of Pomptina stands.

      Last, from the Volscians fair Camilla came,
      And led her warlike troops, a warrior dame;
      Unbred to spinning, in the loom unskill’d,
      She chose the nobler Pallas of the field.
      Mix’d with the first, the fierce Virago fought,
      Sustain’d the toils of arms, the danger sought,
      Outstripp’d the winds in speed upon the plain,
      Flew o’er the fields, nor hurt the bearded grain:
      She swept the seas, and, as she skimm’d along,
      Her flying feet unbath’d on billows hung.
      Men, boys, and women, stupid with surprise,
      Where’er she passes, fix their wond’ring eyes:
      Longing they look, and, gaping at the sight,
      Devour her o’er and o’er with vast delight;
      Her purple habit sits with such a grace
      On her smooth shoulders, and so suits her face;
      Her head with ringlets of her hair is crown’d,
      And in a golden caul the curls are bound.
      She shakes her myrtle jav’lin; and, behind,
      Her Lycian quiver dances in the wind.



 BOOK VIII

 THE ARGUMENT.


      The war being now begun, both the generals make all possible
      preparations. Turnus sends to Diomedes. Aeneas goes in person to
      beg succours from Evander and the Tuscans. Evander receives him
      kindly, furnishes him with men, and sends his son Pallas with
      him. Vulcan, at the request of Venus, makes arms for her son
      Aeneas, and draws on his shield the most memorable actions of his
      posterity.


      When Turnus had assembled all his pow’rs,
      His standard planted on Laurentum’s tow’rs;
      When now the sprightly trumpet, from afar,
      Had giv’n the signal of approaching war,
      Had rous’d the neighing steeds to scour the fields,
      While the fierce riders clatter’d on their shields;
      Trembling with rage, the Latian youth prepare
      To join th’ allies, and headlong rush to war.
      Fierce Ufens, and Messapus, led the crowd,
      With bold Mezentius, who blasphem’d aloud.
      These thro’ the country took their wasteful course,
      The fields to forage, and to gather force.
      Then Venulus to Diomede they send,
      To beg his aid Ausonia to defend,
      Declare the common danger, and inform
      The Grecian leader of the growing storm:
      “Aeneas, landed on the Latian coast,
      With banish’d gods, and with a baffled host,
      Yet now aspir’d to conquest of the state,
      And claim’d a title from the gods and fate;
      What num’rous nations in his quarrel came,
      And how they spread his formidable name.
      What he design’d, what mischief might arise,
      If fortune favour’d his first enterprise,
      Was left for him to weigh, whose equal fears,
      And common interest, was involv’d in theirs.”

      While Turnus and th’ allies thus urge the war,
      The Trojan, floating in a flood of care,
      Beholds the tempest which his foes prepare.
      This way and that he turns his anxious mind;
      Thinks, and rejects the counsels he design’d;
      Explores himself in vain, in ev’ry part,
      And gives no rest to his distracted heart.
      So, when the sun by day, or moon by night,
      Strike on the polish’d brass their trembling light,
      The glitt’ring species here and there divide,
      And cast their dubious beams from side to side;
      Now on the walls, now on the pavement play,
      And to the ceiling flash the glaring day.

      ’Twas night; and weary nature lull’d asleep
      The birds of air, and fishes of the deep,
      And beasts, and mortal men. The Trojan chief
      Was laid on Tiber’s banks, oppress’d with grief,
      And found in silent slumber late relief.
      Then, thro’ the shadows of the poplar wood,
      Arose the father of the Roman flood;
      An azure robe was o’er his body spread,
      A wreath of shady reeds adorn’d his head:
      Thus, manifest to sight, the god appear’d,
      And with these pleasing words his sorrow cheer’d:
      “Undoubted offspring of ethereal race,
      O long expected in this promis’d place!
      Who thro’ the foes hast borne thy banish’d gods,
      Restor’d them to their hearths, and old abodes;
      This is thy happy home, the clime where fate
      Ordains thee to restore the Trojan state.
      Fear not! The war shall end in lasting peace,
      And all the rage of haughty Juno cease.
      And that this nightly vision may not seem
      Th’ effect of fancy, or an idle dream,
      A sow beneath an oak shall lie along,
      All white herself, and white her thirty young.
      When thirty rolling years have run their race,
      Thy son Ascanius, on this empty space,
      Shall build a royal town, of lasting fame,
      Which from this omen shall receive the name.
      Time shall approve the truth. For what remains,
      And how with sure success to crown thy pains,
      With patience next attend. A banish’d band,
      Driv’n with Evander from th’ Arcadian land,
      Have planted here, and plac’d on high their walls;
      Their town the founder Pallanteum calls,
      Deriv’d from Pallas, his great-grandsire’s name:
      But the fierce Latians old possession claim,
      With war infesting the new colony.
      These make thy friends, and on their aid rely.
      To thy free passage I submit my streams.
      Wake, son of Venus, from thy pleasing dreams;
      And, when the setting stars are lost in day,
      To Juno’s pow’r thy just devotion pay;
      With sacrifice the wrathful queen appease:
      Her pride at length shall fall, her fury cease.
      When thou return’st victorious from the war,
      Perform thy vows to me with grateful care.
      The god am I, whose yellow water flows
      Around these fields, and fattens as it goes:
      Tiber my name; among the rolling floods
      Renown’d on earth, esteem’d among the gods.
      This is my certain seat. In times to come,
      My waves shall wash the walls of mighty Rome.”

      He said, and plung’d below. While yet he spoke,
      His dream Aeneas and his sleep forsook.
      He rose, and looking up, beheld the skies
      With purple blushing, and the day arise.
      Then water in his hollow palm he took
      From Tiber’s flood, and thus the pow’rs bespoke:
      “Laurentian nymphs, by whom the streams are fed,
      And Father Tiber, in thy sacred bed
      Receive Aeneas, and from danger keep.
      Whatever fount, whatever holy deep,
      Conceals thy wat’ry stores; where’er they rise,
      And, bubbling from below, salute the skies;
      Thou, king of horned floods, whose plenteous urn
      Suffices fatness to the fruitful corn,
      For this thy kind compassion of our woes,
      Shalt share my morning song and ev’ning vows.
      But, O be present to thy people’s aid,
      And firm the gracious promise thou hast made!”
      Thus having said, two galleys from his stores,
      With care he chooses, mans, and fits with oars.
      Now on the shore the fatal swine is found.
      Wond’rous to tell!—She lay along the ground:
      Her well-fed offspring at her udders hung;
      She white herself, and white her thirty young.
      Aeneas takes the mother and her brood,
      And all on Juno’s altar are bestow’d.

      The foll’wing night, and the succeeding day,
      Propitious Tiber smooth’d his wat’ry way:
      He roll’d his river back, and pois’d he stood,
      A gentle swelling, and a peaceful flood.
      The Trojans mount their ships; they put from shore,
      Borne on the waves, and scarcely dip an oar.
      Shouts from the land give omen to their course,
      And the pitch’d vessels glide with easy force.
      The woods and waters wonder at the gleam
      Of shields, and painted ships that stem the stream.
      One summer’s night and one whole day they pass
      Betwixt the greenwood shades, and cut the liquid glass.
      The fiery sun had finish’d half his race,
      Look’d back, and doubted in the middle space,
      When they from far beheld the rising tow’rs,
      The tops of sheds, and shepherds’ lowly bow’rs,
      Thin as they stood, which, then of homely clay,
      Now rise in marble, from the Roman sway.
      These cots (Evander’s kingdom, mean and poor)
      The Trojan saw, and turn’d his ships to shore.
      ’Twas on a solemn day: th’ Arcadian states,
      The king and prince, without the city gates,
      Then paid their off’rings in a sacred grove
      To Hercules, the warrior son of Jove.
      Thick clouds of rolling smoke involve the skies,
      And fat of entrails on his altar fries.

      But, when they saw the ships that stemm’d the flood,
      And glitter’d thro’ the covert of the wood,
      They rose with fear, and left th’ unfinish’d feast,
      Till dauntless Pallas reassur’d the rest
      To pay the rites. Himself without delay
      A jav’lin seiz’d, and singly took his way;
      Then gain’d a rising ground, and call’d from far:
      “Resolve me, strangers, whence, and what you are;
      Your bus’ness here; and bring you peace or war?”
      High on the stern Aeneas took his stand,
      And held a branch of olive in his hand,
      While thus he spoke: “The Phrygians’ arms you see,
      Expell’d from Troy, provok’d in Italy
      By Latian foes, with war unjustly made;
      At first affianc’d, and at last betray’d.
      This message bear: ‘The Trojans and their chief
      Bring holy peace, and beg the king’s relief.’
      Struck with so great a name, and all on fire,
      The youth replies: “Whatever you require,
      Your fame exacts. Upon our shores descend.
      A welcome guest, and, what you wish, a friend.”
      He said, and, downward hasting to the strand,
      Embrac’d the stranger prince, and join’d his hand.

      Conducted to the grove, Aeneas broke
      The silence first, and thus the king bespoke:
      “Best of the Greeks, to whom, by fate’s command,
      I bear these peaceful branches in my hand,
      Undaunted I approach you, tho’ I know
      Your birth is Grecian, and your land my foe;
      From Atreus tho’ your ancient lineage came,
      And both the brother kings your kindred claim;
      Yet, my self-conscious worth, your high renown,
      Your virtue, thro’ the neighb’ring nations blown,
      Our fathers’ mingled blood, Apollo’s voice,
      Have led me hither, less by need than choice.
      Our founder Dardanus, as fame has sung,
      And Greeks acknowledge, from Electra sprung:
      Electra from the loins of Atlas came;
      Atlas, whose head sustains the starry frame.
      Your sire is Mercury, whom long before
      On cold Cyllene’s top fair Maia bore.
      Maia the fair, on fame if we rely,
      Was Atlas’ daughter, who sustains the sky.
      Thus from one common source our streams divide;
      Ours is the Trojan, yours th’ Arcadian side.
      Rais’d by these hopes, I sent no news before,
      Nor ask’d your leave, nor did your faith implore;
      But come, without a pledge, my own ambassador.
      The same Rutulians, who with arms pursue
      The Trojan race, are equal foes to you.
      Our host expell’d, what farther force can stay
      The victor troops from universal sway?
      Then will they stretch their pow’r athwart the land,
      And either sea from side to side command.
      Receive our offer’d faith, and give us thine;
      Ours is a gen’rous and experienc’d line:
      We want not hearts nor bodies for the war;
      In council cautious, and in fields we dare.”

      He said; and while spoke, with piercing eyes
      Evander view’d the man with vast surprise,
      Pleas’d with his action, ravish’d with his face:
      Then answer’d briefly, with a royal grace:
      “O valiant leader of the Trojan line,
      In whom the features of thy father shine,
      How I recall Anchises! how I see
      His motions, mien, and all my friend, in thee!
      Long tho’ it be, ’tis fresh within my mind,
      When Priam to his sister’s court design’d
      A welcome visit, with a friendly stay,
      And thro’ th’ Arcadian kingdom took his way.
      Then, past a boy, the callow down began
      To shade my chin, and call me first a man.
      I saw the shining train with vast delight,
      And Priam’s goodly person pleas’d my sight:
      But great Anchises, far above the rest,
      With awful wonder fir’d my youthful breast.
      I long’d to join in friendship’s holy bands
      Our mutual hearts, and plight our mutual hands.
      I first accosted him: I sued, I sought,
      And, with a loving force, to Pheneus brought.
      He gave me, when at length constrain’d to go,
      A Lycian quiver and a Gnossian bow,
      A vest embroider’d, glorious to behold,
      And two rich bridles, with their bits of gold,
      Which my son’s coursers in obedience hold.
      The league you ask, I offer, as your right;
      And, when tomorrow’s sun reveals the light,
      With swift supplies you shall be sent away.
      Now celebrate with us this solemn day,
      Whose holy rites admit no long delay.
      Honour our annual feast; and take your seat,
      With friendly welcome, at a homely treat.”
      Thus having said, the bowls remov’d (for fear)
      The youths replac’d, and soon restor’d the cheer.
      On sods of turf he set the soldiers round:
      A maple throne, rais’d higher from the ground,
      Receiv’d the Trojan chief; and, o’er the bed,
      A lion’s shaggy hide for ornament they spread.
      The loaves were serv’d in canisters; the wine
      In bowls; the priest renew’d the rites divine:
      Broil’d entrails are their food, and beef’s continued chine.

      But when the rage of hunger was repress’d,
      Thus spoke Evander to his royal guest:
      “These rites, these altars, and this feast, O king,
      From no vain fears or superstition spring,
      Or blind devotion, or from blinder chance,
      Or heady zeal, or brutal ignorance;
      But, sav’d from danger, with a grateful sense,
      The labours of a god we recompense.
      See, from afar, yon rock that mates the sky,
      About whose feet such heaps of rubbish lie;
      Such indigested ruin; bleak and bare,
      How desert now it stands, expos’d in air!
      ’Twas once a robber’s den, inclos’d around
      With living stone, and deep beneath the ground.
      The monster Cacus, more than half a beast,
      This hold, impervious to the sun, possess’d.
      The pavement ever foul with human gore;
      Heads, and their mangled members, hung the door.
      Vulcan this plague begot; and, like his sire,
      Black clouds he belch’d, and flakes of livid fire.
      Time, long expected, eas’d us of our load,
      And brought the needful presence of a god.
      Th’ avenging force of Hercules, from Spain,
      Arriv’d in triumph, from Geryon slain:
      Thrice liv’d the giant, and thrice liv’d in vain.
      His prize, the lowing herds, Alcides drove
      Near Tiber’s bank, to graze the shady grove.
      Allur’d with hope of plunder, and intent
      By force to rob, by fraud to circumvent,
      The brutal Cacus, as by chance they stray’d,
      Four oxen thence, and four fair kine convey’d;
      And, lest the printed footsteps might be seen,
      He dragg’d ’em backwards to his rocky den.
      The tracks averse a lying notice gave,
      And led the searcher backward from the cave.

      “Meantime the herdsman hero shifts his place,
      To find fresh pasture and untrodden grass.
      The beasts, who miss’d their mates, fill’d all around
      With bellowings, and the rocks restor’d the sound.
      One heifer, who had heard her love complain,
      Roar’d from the cave, and made the project vain.
      Alcides found the fraud; with rage he shook,
      And toss’d about his head his knotted oak.
      Swift as the winds, or Scythian arrows’ flight,
      He clomb, with eager haste, th’ aerial height.
      Then first we saw the monster mend his pace;
      Fear in his eyes, and paleness in his face,
      Confess’d the god’s approach. Trembling he springs,
      As terror had increas’d his feet with wings;
      Nor stay’d for stairs; but down the depth he threw
      His body, on his back the door he drew
      (The door, a rib of living rock; with pains
      His father hew’d it out, and bound with iron chains):
      He broke the heavy links, the mountain clos’d,
      And bars and levers to his foe oppos’d.
      The wretch had hardly made his dungeon fast;
      The fierce avenger came with bounding haste;
      Survey’d the mouth of the forbidden hold,
      And here and there his raging eyes he roll’d.
      He gnash’d his teeth; and thrice he compass’d round
      With winged speed the circuit of the ground.
      Thrice at the cavern’s mouth he pull’d in vain,
      And, panting, thrice desisted from his pain.
      A pointed flinty rock, all bare and black,
      Grew gibbous from behind the mountain’s back;
      Owls, ravens, all ill omens of the night,
      Here built their nests, and hither wing’d their flight.
      The leaning head hung threat’ning o’er the flood,
      And nodded to the left. The hero stood
      Adverse, with planted feet, and, from the right,
      Tugg’d at the solid stone with all his might.
      Thus heav’d, the fix’d foundations of the rock
      Gave way; heav’n echo’d at the rattling shock.
      Tumbling, it chok’d the flood: on either side
      The banks leap backward, and the streams divide;
      The sky shrunk upward with unusual dread,
      And trembling Tiber div’d beneath his bed.
      The court of Cacus stands reveal’d to sight;
      The cavern glares with new-admitted light.
      So the pent vapours, with a rumbling sound,
      Heave from below, and rend the hollow ground;
      A sounding flaw succeeds; and, from on high,
      The gods with hate beheld the nether sky:
      The ghosts repine at violated night,
      And curse th’ invading sun, and sicken at the sight.
      The graceless monster, caught in open day,
      Inclos’d, and in despair to fly away,
      Howls horrible from underneath, and fills
      His hollow palace with unmanly yells.
      The hero stands above, and from afar
      Plies him with darts, and stones, and distant war.
      He, from his nostrils huge mouth, expires
      Black clouds of smoke, amidst his father’s fires,
      Gath’ring, with each repeated blast, the night,
      To make uncertain aim, and erring sight.
      The wrathful god then plunges from above,
      And, where in thickest waves the sparkles drove,
      There lights; and wades thro’ fumes, and gropes his way,
      Half sing’d, half stifled, till he grasps his prey.
      The monster, spewing fruitless flames, he found;
      He squeez’d his throat; he writh’d his neck around,
      And in a knot his crippled members bound;
      Then from their sockets tore his burning eyes:
      Roll’d on a heap, the breathless robber lies.
      The doors, unbarr’d, receive the rushing day,
      And thoro’ lights disclose the ravish’d prey.
      The bulls, redeem’d, breathe open air again.
      Next, by the feet, they drag him from his den.
      The wond’ring neighbourhood, with glad surprise,
      Behold his shagged breast, his giant size,
      His mouth that flames no more, and his extinguish’d eyes.
      From that auspicious day, with rites divine,
      We worship at the hero’s holy shrine.
      Potitius first ordain’d these annual vows:
      As priests, were added the Pinarian house,
      Who rais’d this altar in the sacred shade,
      Where honours, ever due, for ever shall be paid.
      For these deserts, and this high virtue shown,
      Ye warlike youths, your heads with garlands crown:
      Fill high the goblets with a sparkling flood,
      And with deep draughts invoke our common god.”

      This said, a double wreath Evander twin’d,
      And poplars black and white his temples bind.
      Then brims his ample bowl. With like design
      The rest invoke the gods, with sprinkled wine.
      Meantime the sun descended from the skies,
      And the bright evening star began to rise.
      And now the priests, Potitius at their head,
      In skins of beasts involv’d, the long procession led;
      Held high the flaming tapers in their hands,
      As custom had prescrib’d their holy bands;
      Then with a second course the tables load,
      And with full chargers offer to the god.
      The Salii sing, and cense his altars round
      With Saban smoke, their heads with poplar bound
      One choir of old, another of the young,
      To dance, and bear the burthen of the song.
      The lay records the labours, and the praise,
      And all th’ immortal acts of Hercules:
      First, how the mighty babe, when swath’d in bands,
      The serpents strangled with his infant hands;
      Then, as in years and matchless force he grew,
      Th’ Oechalian walls, and Trojan, overthrew.
      Besides, a thousand hazards they relate,
      Procur’d by Juno’s and Eurystheus’ hate:
      “Thy hands, unconquer’d hero, could subdue
      The cloud-born Centaurs, and the monster crew:
      Nor thy resistless arm the bull withstood,
      Nor he, the roaring terror of the wood.
      The triple porter of the Stygian seat,
      With lolling tongue, lay fawning at thy feet,
      And, seiz’d with fear, forgot his mangled meat.
      Th’ infernal waters trembled at thy sight;
      Thee, god, no face of danger could affright;
      Not huge Typhoeus, nor th’ unnumber’d snake,
      Increas’d with hissing heads, in Lerna’s lake.
      Hail, Jove’s undoubted son! an added grace
      To heav’n and the great author of thy race!
      Receive the grateful off’rings which we pay,
      And smile propitious on thy solemn day!”
      In numbers thus they sung; above the rest,
      The den and death of Cacus crown the feast.
      The woods to hollow vales convey the sound,
      The vales to hills, and hills the notes rebound.
      The rites perform’d, the cheerful train retire.

      Betwixt young Pallas and his aged sire,
      The Trojan pass’d, the city to survey,
      And pleasing talk beguil’d the tedious way.
      The stranger cast around his curious eyes,
      New objects viewing still, with new surprise;
      With greedy joy enquires of various things,
      And acts and monuments of ancient kings.
      Then thus the founder of the Roman tow’rs:
      “These woods were first the seat of sylvan pow’rs,
      Of Nymphs and Fauns, and salvage men, who took
      Their birth from trunks of trees and stubborn oak.
      Nor laws they knew, nor manners, nor the care
      Of lab’ring oxen, or the shining share,
      Nor arts of gain, nor what they gain’d to spare.
      Their exercise the chase; the running flood
      Supplied their thirst, the trees supplied their food.
      Then Saturn came, who fled the pow’r of Jove,
      Robb’d of his realms, and banish’d from above.
      The men, dispers’d on hills, to towns he brought,
      And laws ordain’d, and civil customs taught,
      And Latium call’d the land where safe he lay
      From his unduteous son, and his usurping sway.
      With his mild empire, peace and plenty came;
      And hence the golden times deriv’d their name.
      A more degenerate and discolour’d age
      Succeeded this, with avarice and rage.
      Th’ Ausonians then, and bold Sicanians came;
      And Saturn’s empire often chang’d the name.
      Then kings, gigantic Tybris, and the rest,
      With arbitrary sway the land oppress’d:
      For Tiber’s flood was Albula before,
      Till, from the tyrant’s fate, his name it bore.
      I last arriv’d, driv’n from my native home
      By fortune’s pow’r, and fate’s resistless doom.
      Long toss’d on seas, I sought this happy land,
      Warn’d by my mother nymph, and call’d by Heav’n’s command.”

      Thus, walking on, he spoke, and shew’d the gate,
      Since call’d Carmental by the Roman state;
      Where stood an altar, sacred to the name
      Of old Carmenta, the prophetic dame,
      Who to her son foretold th’ Aenean race,
      Sublime in fame, and Rome’s imperial place:
      Then shews the forest, which, in after times,
      Fierce Romulus for perpetrated crimes
      A sacred refuge made; with this, the shrine
      Where Pan below the rock had rites divine:
      Then tells of Argus’ death, his murder’d guest,
      Whose grave and tomb his innocence attest.
      Thence, to the steep Tarpeian rock he leads;
      Now roof’d with gold, then thatch’d with homely reeds.
      A reverent fear (such superstition reigns
      Among the rude) ev’n then possess’d the swains.
      Some god, they knew—what god, they could not tell—
      Did there amidst the sacred horror dwell.
      Th’ Arcadians thought him Jove; and said they saw
      The mighty Thund’rer with majestic awe,
      Who took his shield, and dealt his bolts around,
      And scatter’d tempests on the teeming ground.
      Then saw two heaps of ruins, (once they stood
      Two stately towns, on either side the flood,)
      Saturnia’s and Janiculum’s remains;
      And either place the founder’s name retains.
      Discoursing thus together, they resort
      Where poor Evander kept his country court.
      They view’d the ground of Rome’s litigious hall;
      (Once oxen low’d, where now the lawyers bawl;)
      Then, stooping, thro’ the narrow gate they press’d,
      When thus the king bespoke his Trojan guest:
      “Mean as it is, this palace, and this door,
      Receiv’d Alcides, then a conqueror.
      Dare to be poor; accept our homely food,
      Which feasted him, and emulate a god.”
      Then underneath a lowly roof he led
      The weary prince, and laid him on a bed;
      The stuffing leaves, with hides of bears o’erspread.
      Now night had shed her silver dews around,
      And with her sable wings embrac’d the ground,
      When love’s fair goddess, anxious for her son,
      (New tumults rising, and new wars begun,)
      Couch’d with her husband in his golden bed,
      With these alluring words invokes his aid;
      And, that her pleasing speech his mind may move,
      Inspires each accent with the charms of love:
      “While cruel fate conspir’d with Grecian pow’rs,
      To level with the ground the Trojan tow’rs,
      I ask’d not aid th’ unhappy to restore,
      Nor did the succour of thy skill implore;
      Nor urg’d the labours of my lord in vain,
      A sinking empire longer to sustain,
      Tho’ much I ow’d to Priam’s house, and more
      The dangers of Aeneas did deplore.
      But now, by Jove’s command, and fate’s decree,
      His race is doom’d to reign in Italy:
      With humble suit I beg thy needful art,
      O still propitious pow’r, that rules my heart!
      A mother kneels a suppliant for her son.
      By Thetis and Aurora thou wert won
      To forge impenetrable shields, and grace
      With fated arms a less illustrious race.
      Behold, what haughty nations are combin’d
      Against the relics of the Phrygian kind,
      With fire and sword my people to destroy,
      And conquer Venus twice, in conqu’ring Troy.”
      She said; and straight her arms, of snowy hue,
      About her unresolving husband threw.
      Her soft embraces soon infuse desire;
      His bones and marrow sudden warmth inspire;
      And all the godhead feels the wonted fire.
      Not half so swift the rattling thunder flies,
      Or forky lightnings flash along the skies.
      The goddess, proud of her successful wiles,
      And conscious of her form, in secret smiles.

      Then thus the pow’r, obnoxious to her charms,
      Panting, and half dissolving in her arms:
      “Why seek you reasons for a cause so just,
      Or your own beauties or my love distrust?
      Long since, had you requir’d my helpful hand,
      Th’ artificer and art you might command,
      To labour arms for Troy: nor Jove, nor fate,
      Confin’d their empire to so short a date.
      And, if you now desire new wars to wage,
      My skill I promise, and my pains engage.
      Whatever melting metals can conspire,
      Or breathing bellows, or the forming fire,
      Is freely yours: your anxious fears remove,
      And think no task is difficult to love.”
      Trembling he spoke; and, eager of her charms,
      He snatch’d the willing goddess to his arms;
      Till in her lap infus’d, he lay possess’d
      Of full desire, and sunk to pleasing rest.
      Now when the night her middle race had rode,
      And his first slumber had refresh’d the god—
      The time when early housewives leave the bed;
      When living embers on the hearth they spread,
      Supply the lamp, and call the maids to rise;—
      With yawning mouths, and with half-open’d eyes,
      They ply the distaff by the winking light,
      And to their daily labour add the night:
      Thus frugally they earn their children’s bread,
      And uncorrupted keep the nuptial bed—
      Not less concern’d, nor at a later hour,
      Rose from his downy couch the forging pow’r.

      Sacred to Vulcan’s name, an isle there lay,
      Betwixt Sicilia’s coasts and Lipare,
      Rais’d high on smoking rocks; and, deep below,
      In hollow caves the fires of Aetna glow.
      The Cyclops here their heavy hammers deal;
      Loud strokes, and hissings of tormented steel,
      Are heard around; the boiling waters roar,
      And smoky flames thro’ fuming tunnels soar.
      Hither the Father of the Fire, by night,
      Thro’ the brown air precipitates his flight.
      On their eternal anvils here he found
      The brethren beating, and the blows go round.
      A load of pointless thunder now there lies
      Before their hands, to ripen for the skies:
      These darts, for angry Jove, they daily cast;
      Consum’d on mortals with prodigious waste.
      Three rays of writhen rain, of fire three more,
      Of winged southern winds and cloudy store
      As many parts, the dreadful mixture frame;
      And fears are added, and avenging flame.
      Inferior ministers, for Mars, repair
      His broken axletrees and blunted war,
      And send him forth again with furbish’d arms,
      To wake the lazy war with trumpets’ loud alarms.
      The rest refresh the scaly snakes that fold
      The shield of Pallas, and renew their gold.
      Full on the crest the Gorgon’s head they place,
      With eyes that roll in death, and with distorted face.

      “My sons,” said Vulcan, “set your tasks aside;
      Your strength and master-skill must now be tried.
      Arms for a hero forge; arms that require
      Your force, your speed, and all your forming fire.”
      He said. They set their former work aside,
      And their new toils with eager haste divide.
      A flood of molten silver, brass, and gold,
      And deadly steel, in the large furnace roll’d;
      Of this, their artful hands a shield prepare,
      Alone sufficient to sustain the war.
      Sev’n orbs within a spacious round they close:
      One stirs the fire, and one the bellows blows.
      The hissing steel is in the smithy drown’d;
      The grot with beaten anvils groans around.
      By turns their arms advance, in equal time;
      By turns their hands descend, and hammers chime.
      They turn the glowing mass with crooked tongs;
      The fiery work proceeds, with rustic songs.

      While, at the Lemnian god’s command, they urge
      Their labours thus, and ply th’ Aeolian forge,
      The cheerful morn salutes Evander’s eyes,
      And songs of chirping birds invite to rise.
      He leaves his lowly bed: his buskins meet
      Above his ankles; sandals sheathe his feet:
      He sets his trusty sword upon his side,
      And o’er his shoulder throws a panther’s hide.
      Two menial dogs before their master press’d.
      Thus clad, and guarded thus, he seeks his kingly guest.
      Mindful of promis’d aid, he mends his pace,
      But meets Aeneas in the middle space.
      Young Pallas did his father’s steps attend,
      And true Achates waited on his friend.
      They join their hands; a secret seat they choose;
      Th’ Arcadian first their former talk renews:
      “Undaunted prince, I never can believe
      The Trojan empire lost, while you survive.
      Command th’ assistance of a faithful friend;
      But feeble are the succours I can send.
      Our narrow kingdom here the Tiber bounds;
      That other side the Latian state surrounds,
      Insults our walls, and wastes our fruitful grounds.
      But mighty nations I prepare, to join
      Their arms with yours, and aid your just design.
      You come, as by your better genius sent,
      And fortune seems to favour your intent.
      Not far from hence there stands a hilly town,
      Of ancient building, and of high renown,
      Torn from the Tuscans by the Lydian race,
      Who gave the name of Caere to the place,
      Once Agyllina call’d. It flourish’d long,
      In pride of wealth and warlike people strong,
      Till curs’d Mezentius, in a fatal hour,
      Assum’d the crown, with arbitrary pow’r.
      What words can paint those execrable times,
      The subjects’ suff’rings, and the tyrant’s crimes!
      That blood, those murders, O ye gods, replace
      On his own head, and on his impious race!
      The living and the dead at his command
      Were coupled, face to face, and hand to hand,
      Till, chok’d with stench, in loath’d embraces tied,
      The ling’ring wretches pin’d away and died.
      Thus plung’d in ills, and meditating more—
      The people’s patience, tir’d, no longer bore
      The raging monster; but with arms beset
      His house, and vengeance and destruction threat.
      They fire his palace: while the flame ascends,
      They force his guards, and execute his friends.
      He cleaves the crowd, and, favour’d by the night,
      To Turnus’ friendly court directs his flight.
      By just revenge the Tuscans set on fire,
      With arms, their king to punishment require:
      Their num’rous troops, now muster’d on the strand,
      My counsel shall submit to your command.
      Their navy swarms upon the coasts; they cry
      To hoist their anchors, but the gods deny.
      An ancient augur, skill’d in future fate,
      With these foreboding words restrains their hate:
      ‘Ye brave in arms, ye Lydian blood, the flow’r
      Of Tuscan youth, and choice of all their pow’r,
      Whom just revenge against Mezentius arms,
      To seek your tyrant’s death by lawful arms;
      Know this: no native of our land may lead
      This pow’rful people; seek a foreign head.’
      Aw’d with these words, in camps they still abide,
      And wait with longing looks their promis’d guide.
      Tarchon, the Tuscan chief, to me has sent
      Their crown, and ev’ry regal ornament:
      The people join their own with his desire;
      And all my conduct, as their king, require.
      But the chill blood that creeps within my veins,
      And age, and listless limbs unfit for pains,
      And a soul conscious of its own decay,
      Have forc’d me to refuse imperial sway.
      My Pallas were more fit to mount the throne,
      And should, but he’s a Sabine mother’s son,
      And half a native; but, in you, combine
      A manly vigour, and a foreign line.
      Where Fate and smiling Fortune shew the way,
      Pursue the ready path to sov’reign sway.
      The staff of my declining days, my son,
      Shall make your good or ill success his own;
      In fighting fields from you shall learn to dare,
      And serve the hard apprenticeship of war;
      Your matchless courage and your conduct view,
      And early shall begin t’ admire and copy you.
      Besides, two hundred horse he shall command;
      Tho’ few, a warlike and well-chosen band.
      These in my name are listed; and my son
      As many more has added in his own.”

      Scarce had he said; Achates and his guest,
      With downcast eyes, their silent grief express’d;
      Who, short of succours, and in deep despair,
      Shook at the dismal prospect of the war.
      But his bright mother, from a breaking cloud,
      To cheer her issue, thunder’d thrice aloud;
      Thrice forky lightning flash’d along the sky,
      And Tyrrhene trumpets thrice were heard on high.
      Then, gazing up, repeated peals they hear;
      And, in a heav’n serene, refulgent arms appear:
      Redd’ning the skies, and glitt’ring all around,
      The temper’d metals clash, and yield a silver sound.
      The rest stood trembling, struck with awe divine;
      Aeneas only, conscious to the sign,
      Presag’d th’ event, and joyful view’d, above,
      Th’ accomplish’d promise of the Queen of Love.
      Then, to th’ Arcadian king: “This prodigy
      (Dismiss your fear) belongs alone to me.
      Heav’n calls me to the war: th’ expected sign
      Is giv’n of promis’d aid, and arms divine.
      My goddess mother, whose indulgent care
      Foresaw the dangers of the growing war,
      This omen gave, when bright Vulcanian arms,
      Fated from force of steel by Stygian charms,
      Suspended, shone on high: she then foreshow’d
      Approaching fights, and fields to float in blood.
      Turnus shall dearly pay for faith forsworn;
      And corps, and swords, and shields, on Tiber borne,
      Shall choke his flood: now sound the loud alarms;
      And, Latian troops, prepare your perjur’d arms.”

      He said, and, rising from his homely throne,
      The solemn rites of Hercules begun,
      And on his altars wak’d the sleeping fires;
      Then cheerful to his household gods retires;
      There offers chosen sheep. Th’ Arcadian king
      And Trojan youth the same oblations bring.
      Next, of his men and ships he makes review;
      Draws out the best and ablest of the crew.
      Down with the falling stream the refuse run,
      To raise with joyful news his drooping son.
      Steeds are prepar’d to mount the Trojan band,
      Who wait their leader to the Tyrrhene land.
      A sprightly courser, fairer than the rest,
      The king himself presents his royal guest:
      A lion’s hide his back and limbs infold,
      Precious with studded work, and paws of gold.
      Fame thro’ the little city spreads aloud
      Th’ intended march, amid the fearful crowd:
      The matrons beat their breasts, dissolve in tears,
      And double their devotion in their fears.
      The war at hand appears with more affright,
      And rises ev’ry moment to the sight.

      Then old Evander, with a close embrace,
      Strain’d his departing friend; and tears o’erflow his face.
      “Would Heav’n,” said he, “my strength and youth recall,
      Such as I was beneath Praeneste’s wall;
      Then when I made the foremost foes retire,
      And set whole heaps of conquer’d shields on fire;
      When Herilus in single fight I slew,
      Whom with three lives Feronia did endue;
      And thrice I sent him to the Stygian shore,
      Till the last ebbing soul return’d no more—
      Such if I stood renew’d, not these alarms,
      Nor death, should rend me from my Pallas’ arms;
      Nor proud Mezentius, thus unpunish’d, boast
      His rapes and murders on the Tuscan coast.
      Ye gods, and mighty Jove, in pity bring
      Relief, and hear a father and a king!
      If fate and you reserve these eyes, to see
      My son return with peace and victory;
      If the lov’d boy shall bless his father’s sight;
      If we shall meet again with more delight;
      Then draw my life in length; let me sustain,
      In hopes of his embrace, the worst of pain.
      But if your hard decrees—which, O! I dread—
      Have doom’d to death his undeserving head;
      This, O this very moment, let me die!
      While hopes and fears in equal balance lie;
      While, yet possess’d of all his youthful charms,
      I strain him close within these aged arms;
      Before that fatal news my soul shall wound!”
      He said, and, swooning, sunk upon the ground.
      His servants bore him off, and softly laid
      His languish’d limbs upon his homely bed.

      The horsemen march; the gates are open’d wide;
      Aeneas at their head, Achates by his side.
      Next these, the Trojan leaders rode along;
      Last follows in the rear th’ Arcadian throng.
      Young Pallas shone conspicuous o’er the rest;
      Gilded his arms, embroider’d was his vest.
      So, from the seas, exerts his radiant head
      The star by whom the lights of heav’n are led;
      Shakes from his rosy locks the pearly dews,
      Dispels the darkness, and the day renews.
      The trembling wives the walls and turrets crowd,
      And follow, with their eyes, the dusty cloud,
      Which winds disperse by fits, and shew from far
      The blaze of arms, and shields, and shining war.
      The troops, drawn up in beautiful array,
      O’er heathy plains pursue the ready way.
      Repeated peals of shouts are heard around;
      The neighing coursers answer to the sound,
      And shake with horny hoofs the solid ground.

      A greenwood shade, for long religion known,
      Stands by the streams that wash the Tuscan town,
      Incompass’d round with gloomy hills above,
      Which add a holy horror to the grove.
      The first inhabitants of Grecian blood,
      That sacred forest to Silvanus vow’d,
      The guardian of their flocks and fields; and pay
      Their due devotions on his annual day.
      Not far from hence, along the river’s side,
      In tents secure, the Tuscan troops abide,
      By Tarchon led. Now, from a rising ground,
      Aeneas cast his wond’ring eyes around,
      And all the Tyrrhene army had in sight,
      Stretch’d on the spacious plain from left to right.
      Thither his warlike train the Trojan led,
      Refresh’d his men, and wearied horses fed.

      Meantime the mother goddess, crown’d with charms,
      Breaks thro’ the clouds, and brings the fated arms.
      Within a winding vale she finds her son,
      On the cool river’s banks, retir’d alone.
      She shews her heav’nly form without disguise,
      And gives herself to his desiring eyes.
      “Behold,” she said, “perform’d in ev’ry part,
      My promise made, and Vulcan’s labour’d art.
      Now seek, secure, the Latian enemy,
      And haughty Turnus to the field defy.”
      She said; and, having first her son embrac’d,
      The radiant arms beneath an oak she plac’d,
      Proud of the gift, he roll’d his greedy sight
      Around the work, and gaz’d with vast delight.
      He lifts, he turns, he poises, and admires
      The crested helm, that vomits radiant fires:
      His hands the fatal sword and corslet hold,
      One keen with temper’d steel, one stiff with gold:
      Both ample, flaming both, and beamy bright;
      So shines a cloud, when edg’d with adverse light.
      He shakes the pointed spear, and longs to try
      The plated cuishes on his manly thigh;
      But most admires the shield’s mysterious mould,
      And Roman triumphs rising on the gold:
      For these, emboss’d, the heav’nly smith had wrought
      (Not in the rolls of future fate untaught)
      The wars in order, and the race divine
      Of warriors issuing from the Julian line.
      The cave of Mars was dress’d with mossy greens:
      There, by the wolf, were laid the martial twins.
      Intrepid on her swelling dugs they hung;
      The foster dam loll’d out her fawning tongue:
      They suck’d secure, while, bending back her head,
      She lick’d their tender limbs, and form’d them as they fed.
      Not far from thence new Rome appears, with games
      Projected for the rape of Sabine dames.
      The pit resounds with shrieks; a war succeeds,
      For breach of public faith, and unexampled deeds.
      Here for revenge the Sabine troops contend;
      The Romans there with arms the prey defend.
      Wearied with tedious war, at length they cease;
      And both the kings and kingdoms plight the peace.
      The friendly chiefs before Jove’s altar stand,
      Both arm’d, with each a charger in his hand:
      A fatted sow for sacrifice is led,
      With imprecations on the perjur’d head.
      Near this, the traitor Metius, stretch’d between
      Four fiery steeds, is dragg’d along the green,
      By Tullus’ doom: the brambles drink his blood,
      And his torn limbs are left the vulture’s food.
      There, Porsena to Rome proud Tarquin brings,
      And would by force restore the banish’d kings.
      One tyrant for his fellow-tyrant fights;
      The Roman youth assert their native rights.
      Before the town the Tuscan army lies,
      To win by famine, or by fraud surprise.
      Their king, half-threat’ning, half-disdaining stood,
      While Cocles broke the bridge, and stemm’d the flood.
      The captive maids there tempt the raging tide,
      Scap’d from their chains, with Cloelia for their guide.
      High on a rock heroic Manlius stood,
      To guard the temple, and the temple’s god.
      Then Rome was poor; and there you might behold
      The palace thatch’d with straw, now roof’d with gold.
      The silver goose before the shining gate
      There flew, and, by her cackle, sav’d the state.
      She told the Gauls’ approach; th’ approaching Gauls,
      Obscure in night, ascend, and seize the walls.
      The gold dissembled well their yellow hair,
      And golden chains on their white necks they wear.
      Gold are their vests; long Alpine spears they wield,
      And their left arm sustains a length of shield.
      Hard by, the leaping Salian priests advance;
      And naked thro’ the streets the mad Luperci dance,
      In caps of wool; the targets dropp’d from heav’n.
      Here modest matrons, in soft litters driv’n,
      To pay their vows in solemn pomp appear,
      And odorous gums in their chaste hands they bear.
      Far hence remov’d, the Stygian seats are seen;
      Pains of the damn’d, and punish’d Catiline
      Hung on a rock—the traitor; and, around,
      The Furies hissing from the nether ground.
      Apart from these, the happy souls he draws,
      And Cato’s holy ghost dispensing laws.

      Betwixt the quarters flows a golden sea;
      But foaming surges there in silver play.
      The dancing dolphins with their tails divide
      The glitt’ring waves, and cut the precious tide.
      Amid the main, two mighty fleets engage
      Their brazen beaks, oppos’d with equal rage.
      Actium surveys the well-disputed prize;
      Leucate’s wat’ry plain with foamy billows fries.
      Young Caesar, on the stern, in armour bright,
      Here leads the Romans and their gods to fight:
      His beamy temples shoot their flames afar,
      And o’er his head is hung the Julian star.
      Agrippa seconds him, with prosp’rous gales,
      And, with propitious gods, his foes assails:
      A naval crown, that binds his manly brows,
      The happy fortune of the fight foreshows.
      Rang’d on the line oppos’d, Antonius brings
      Barbarian aids, and troops of Eastern kings;
      Th’ Arabians near, and Bactrians from afar,
      Of tongues discordant, and a mingled war:
      And, rich in gaudy robes, amidst the strife,
      His ill fate follows him—th’ Egyptian wife.
      Moving they fight; with oars and forky prows
      The froth is gather’d, and the water glows.
      It seems, as if the Cyclades again
      Were rooted up, and justled in the main;
      Or floating mountains floating mountains meet;
      Such is the fierce encounter of the fleet.
      Fireballs are thrown, and pointed jav’lins fly;
      The fields of Neptune take a purple dye.
      The queen herself, amidst the loud alarms,
      With cymbals toss’d her fainting soldiers warms—
      Fool as she was! who had not yet divin’d
      Her cruel fate, nor saw the snakes behind.
      Her country gods, the monsters of the sky,
      Great Neptune, Pallas, and Love’s Queen defy:
      The dog Anubis barks, but barks in vain,
      Nor longer dares oppose th’ ethereal train.
      Mars in the middle of the shining shield
      Is grav’d, and strides along the liquid field.
      The Dirae souse from heav’n with swift descent;
      And Discord, dyed in blood, with garments rent,
      Divides the prease: her steps Bellona treads,
      And shakes her iron rod above their heads.
      This seen, Apollo, from his Actian height,
      Pours down his arrows; at whose winged flight
      The trembling Indians and Egyptians yield,
      And soft Sabaeans quit the wat’ry field.
      The fatal mistress hoists her silken sails,
      And, shrinking from the fight, invokes the gales.
      Aghast she looks, and heaves her breast for breath,
      Panting, and pale with fear of future death.
      The god had figur’d her as driv’n along
      By winds and waves, and scudding thro’ the throng.
      Just opposite, sad Nilus opens wide
      His arms and ample bosom to the tide,
      And spreads his mantle o’er the winding coast,
      In which he wraps his queen, and hides the flying host.
      The victor to the gods his thanks express’d,
      And Rome, triumphant, with his presence bless’d.
      Three hundred temples in the town he plac’d;
      With spoils and altars ev’ry temple grac’d.
      Three shining nights, and three succeeding days,
      The fields resound with shouts, the streets with praise,
      The domes with songs, the theatres with plays.
      All altars flame: before each altar lies,
      Drench’d in his gore, the destin’d sacrifice.
      Great Caesar sits sublime upon his throne,
      Before Apollo’s porch of Parian stone;
      Accepts the presents vow’d for victory,
      And hangs the monumental crowns on high.
      Vast crowds of vanquish’d nations march along,
      Various in arms, in habit, and in tongue.
      Here, Mulciber assigns the proper place
      For Carians, and th’ ungirt Numidian race;
      Then ranks the Thracians in the second row,
      With Scythians, expert in the dart and bow.
      And here the tam’d Euphrates humbly glides,
      And there the Rhine submits her swelling tides,
      And proud Araxes, whom no bridge could bind;
      The Danes’ unconquer’d offspring march behind,
      And Morini, the last of humankind.

      These figures, on the shield divinely wrought,
      By Vulcan labour’d, and by Venus brought,
      With joy and wonder fill the hero’s thought.
      Unknown the names, he yet admires the grace,
      And bears aloft the fame and fortune of his race.



 BOOK IX

 THE ARGUMENT.


      Turnus takes advantage of Aeneas’s absence, fires some of his
      ships (which are transformed into sea nymphs,) and assaults his
      camp. The Trojans, reduced to the last extremities, send Ninus
      and Euryalus to recall Aeneas; which furnishes the poet with that
      admirable episode of their friendship, generosity, and the
      conclusion of their adventure.


      While these affairs in distant places pass’d,
      The various Iris Juno sends with haste,
      To find bold Turnus, who, with anxious thought,
      The secret shade of his great grandsire sought.
      Retir’d alone she found the daring man,
      And op’d her rosy lips, and thus began:
      “What none of all the gods could grant thy vows,
      That, Turnus, this auspicious day bestows.
      Aeneas, gone to seek th’ Arcadian prince,
      Has left the Trojan camp without defence;
      And, short of succours there, employs his pains
      In parts remote to raise the Tuscan swains.
      Now snatch an hour that favours thy designs;
      Unite thy forces, and attack their lines.”
      This said, on equal wings she pois’d her weight,
      And form’d a radiant rainbow in her flight.

      The Daunian hero lifts his hands and eyes,
      And thus invokes the goddess as she flies:
      “Iris, the grace of heav’n, what pow’r divine
      Has sent thee down, thro’ dusky clouds to shine?
      See, they divide; immortal day appears,
      And glitt’ring planets dancing in their spheres!
      With joy, these happy omens I obey,
      And follow to the war the god that leads the way.”
      Thus having said, as by the brook he stood,
      He scoop’d the water from the crystal flood;
      Then with his hands the drops to heav’n he throws,
      And loads the pow’rs above with offer’d vows.

      Now march the bold confed’rates thro’ the plain,
      Well hors’d, well clad; a rich and shining train.
      Messapus leads the van; and, in the rear,
      The sons of Tyrrheus in bright arms appear.
      In the main battle, with his flaming crest,
      The mighty Turnus tow’rs above the rest.
      Silent they move, majestically slow,
      Like ebbing Nile, or Ganges in his flow.
      The Trojans view the dusty cloud from far,
      And the dark menace of the distant war.
      Caicus from the rampire saw it rise,
      Black’ning the fields, and thick’ning thro’ the skies.
      Then to his fellows thus aloud he calls:
      “What rolling clouds, my friends, approach the walls?
      Arm! arm! and man the works! prepare your spears
      And pointed darts! the Latian host appears.”

      Thus warn’d, they shut their gates; with shouts ascend
      The bulwarks, and, secure, their foes attend:
      For their wise gen’ral, with foreseeing care,
      Had charg’d them not to tempt the doubtful war,
      Nor, tho’ provok’d, in open fields advance,
      But close within their lines attend their chance.
      Unwilling, yet they keep the strict command,
      And sourly wait in arms the hostile band.
      The fiery Turnus flew before the rest:
      A piebald steed of Thracian strain he press’d;
      His helm of massy gold, and crimson was his crest.
      With twenty horse to second his designs,
      An unexpected foe, he fac’d the lines.
      “Is there,” he said, “in arms, who bravely dare
      His leader’s honour and his danger share?”
      Then spurring on, his brandish’d dart he threw,
      In sign of war: applauding shouts ensue.

      Amaz’d to find a dastard race, that run
      Behind the rampires and the battle shun,
      He rides around the camp, with rolling eyes,
      And stops at ev’ry post, and ev’ry passage tries.
      So roams the nightly wolf about the fold:
      Wet with descending show’rs, and stiff with cold,
      He howls for hunger, and he grins for pain,
      (His gnashing teeth are exercis’d in vain,)
      And, impotent of anger, finds no way
      In his distended paws to grasp the prey.
      The mothers listen; but the bleating lambs
      Securely swig the dug, beneath the dams.
      Thus ranges eager Turnus o’er the plain.
      Sharp with desire, and furious with disdain;
      Surveys each passage with a piercing sight,
      To force his foes in equal field to fight.
      Thus while he gazes round, at length he spies,
      Where, fenc’d with strong redoubts, their navy lies,
      Close underneath the walls; the washing tide
      Secures from all approach this weaker side.
      He takes the wish’d occasion, fills his hand
      With ready fires, and shakes a flaming brand.
      Urg’d by his presence, ev’ry soul is warm’d,
      And ev’ry hand with kindled fires is arm’d.
      From the fir’d pines the scatt’ring sparkles fly;
      Fat vapours, mix’d with flames, involve the sky.
      What pow’r, O Muses, could avert the flame
      Which threaten’d, in the fleet, the Trojan name?
      Tell: for the fact, thro’ length of time obscure,
      Is hard to faith; yet shall the fame endure.

      ’Tis said that, when the chief prepar’d his flight,
      And fell’d his timber from Mount Ida’s height,
      The grandam goddess then approach’d her son,
      And with a mother’s majesty begun:
      “Grant me,” she said, “the sole request I bring,
      Since conquer’d heav’n has own’d you for its king.
      On Ida’s brows, for ages past, there stood,
      With firs and maples fill’d, a shady wood;
      And on the summit rose a sacred grove,
      Where I was worship’d with religious love.
      Those woods, that holy grove, my long delight,
      I gave the Trojan prince, to speed his flight.
      Now, fill’d with fear, on their behalf I come;
      Let neither winds o’erset, nor waves intomb
      The floating forests of the sacred pine;
      But let it be their safety to be mine.”
      Then thus replied her awful son, who rolls
      The radiant stars, and heav’n and earth controls:
      “How dare you, mother, endless date demand
      For vessels moulded by a mortal hand?
      What then is fate? Shall bold Aeneas ride,
      Of safety certain, on th’ uncertain tide?
      Yet, what I can, I grant; when, wafted o’er,
      The chief is landed on the Latian shore,
      Whatever ships escape the raging storms,
      At my command shall change their fading forms
      To nymphs divine, and plow the wat’ry way,
      Like Dotis and the daughters of the sea.”
      To seal his sacred vow, by Styx he swore,
      The lake of liquid pitch, the dreary shore,
      And Phlegethon’s innavigable flood,
      And the black regions of his brother god.
      He said; and shook the skies with his imperial nod.

      And now at length the number’d hours were come,
      Prefix’d by fate’s irrevocable doom,
      When the great Mother of the Gods was free
      To save her ships, and finish Jove’s decree.
      First, from the quarter of the morn, there sprung
      A light that sign’d the heav’ns, and shot along;
      Then from a cloud, fring’d round with golden fires,
      Were timbrels heard, and Berecynthian choirs;
      And, last, a voice, with more than mortal sounds,
      Both hosts, in arms oppos’d, with equal horror wounds:
      “O Trojan race, your needless aid forbear,
      And know, my ships are my peculiar care.
      With greater ease the bold Rutulian may,
      With hissing brands, attempt to burn the sea,
      Than singe my sacred pines. But you, my charge,
      Loos’d from your crooked anchors, launch at large,
      Exalted each a nymph: forsake the sand,
      And swim the seas, at Cybele’s command.”
      No sooner had the goddess ceas’d to speak,
      When, lo! th’ obedient ships their haulsers break;
      And, strange to tell, like dolphins, in the main
      They plunge their prows, and dive, and spring again:
      As many beauteous maids the billows sweep,
      As rode before tall vessels on the deep.

      The foes, surpris’d with wonder, stood aghast;
      Messapus curb’d his fiery courser’s haste;
      Old Tiber roar’d, and, raising up his head,
      Call’d back his waters to their oozy bed.
      Turnus alone, undaunted, bore the shock,
      And with these words his trembling troops bespoke:
      “These monsters for the Trojans’ fate are meant,
      And are by Jove for black presages sent.
      He takes the cowards’ last relief away;
      For fly they cannot, and, constrain’d to stay,
      Must yield unfought, a base inglorious prey.
      The liquid half of all the globe is lost;
      Heav’n shuts the seas, and we secure the coast.
      Theirs is no more than that small spot of ground
      Which myriads of our martial men surround.
      Their fates I fear not, or vain oracles.
      ’Twas giv’n to Venus they should cross the seas,
      And land secure upon the Latian plains:
      Their promis’d hour is pass’d, and mine remains.
      ’Tis in the fate of Turnus to destroy,
      With sword and fire, the faithless race of Troy.
      Shall such affronts as these alone inflame
      The Grecian brothers, and the Grecian name?
      My cause and theirs is one; a fatal strife,
      And final ruin, for a ravish’d wife.
      Was ’t not enough, that, punish’d for the crime,
      They fell; but will they fall a second time?
      One would have thought they paid enough before,
      To curse the costly sex, and durst offend no more.
      Can they securely trust their feeble wall,
      A slight partition, a thin interval,
      Betwixt their fate and them; when Troy, tho’ built
      By hands divine, yet perish’d by their guilt?
      Lend me, for once, my friends, your valiant hands,
      To force from out their lines these dastard bands.
      Less than a thousand ships will end this war,
      Nor Vulcan needs his fated arms prepare.
      Let all the Tuscans, all th’ Arcadians, join!
      Nor these, nor those, shall frustrate my design.
      Let them not fear the treasons of the night,
      The robb’d Palladium, the pretended flight:
      Our onset shall be made in open light.
      No wooden engine shall their town betray;
      Fires they shall have around, but fires by day.
      No Grecian babes before their camp appear,
      Whom Hector’s arms detain’d to the tenth tardy year.
      Now, since the sun is rolling to the west,
      Give we the silent night to needful rest:
      Refresh your bodies, and your arms prepare;
      The morn shall end the small remains of war.”

      The post of honour to Messapus falls,
      To keep the nightly guard, to watch the walls,
      To pitch the fires at distances around,
      And close the Trojans in their scanty ground.
      Twice seven Rutulian captains ready stand,
      And twice seven hundred horse these chiefs command;
      All clad in shining arms the works invest,
      Each with a radiant helm and waving crest.
      Stretch’d at their length, they press the grassy ground;
      They laugh, they sing, (the jolly bowls go round,)
      With lights and cheerful fires renew the day,
      And pass the wakeful night in feasts and play.

      The Trojans, from above, their foes beheld,
      And with arm’d legions all the rampires fill’d.
      Seiz’d with affright, their gates they first explore;
      Join works to works with bridges, tow’r to tow’r:
      Thus all things needful for defence abound.
      Mnestheus and brave Seresthus walk the round,
      Commission’d by their absent prince to share
      The common danger, and divide the care.
      The soldiers draw their lots, and, as they fall,
      By turns relieve each other on the wall.

      Nigh where the foes their utmost guards advance,
      To watch the gate was warlike Nisus’ chance.
      His father Hyrtacus of noble blood;
      His mother was a huntress of the wood,
      And sent him to the wars. Well could he bear
      His lance in fight, and dart the flying spear,
      But better skill’d unerring shafts to send.
      Beside him stood Euryalus, his friend:
      Euryalus, than whom the Trojan host
      No fairer face, or sweeter air, could boast.
      Scarce had the down to shade his cheeks begun.
      One was their care, and their delight was one:
      One common hazard in the war they shar’d,
      And now were both by choice upon the guard.

      Then Nisus thus: “Or do the gods inspire
      This warmth, or make we gods of our desire?
      A gen’rous ardour boils within my breast,
      Eager of action, enemy to rest:
      This urges me to fight, and fires my mind
      To leave a memorable name behind.
      Thou see’st the foe secure; how faintly shine
      Their scatter’d fires! the most, in sleep supine
      Along the ground, an easy conquest lie:
      The wakeful few the fuming flagon ply;
      All hush’d around. Now hear what I revolve—
      A thought unripe—and scarcely yet resolve.
      Our absent prince both camp and council mourn;
      By message both would hasten his return:
      If they confer what I demand on thee,
      (For fame is recompense enough for me,)
      Methinks, beneath yon hill, I have espied
      A way that safely will my passage guide.”

      Euryalus stood list’ning while he spoke,
      With love of praise and noble envy struck;
      Then to his ardent friend expos’d his mind:
      “All this, alone, and leaving me behind!
      Am I unworthy, Nisus, to be join’d?
      Think’st thou I can my share of glory yield,
      Or send thee unassisted to the field?
      Not so my father taught my childhood arms;
      Born in a siege, and bred among alarms!
      Nor is my youth unworthy of my friend,
      Nor of the heav’n-born hero I attend.
      The thing call’d life, with ease I can disclaim,
      And think it over-sold to purchase fame.”

      Then Nisus thus: “Alas! thy tender years
      Would minister new matter to my fears.
      So may the gods, who view this friendly strife,
      Restore me to thy lov’d embrace with life,
      Condemn’d to pay my vows, (as sure I trust,)
      This thy request is cruel and unjust.
      But if some chance—as many chances are,
      And doubtful hazards, in the deeds of war—
      If one should reach my head, there let it fall,
      And spare thy life; I would not perish all.
      Thy bloomy youth deserves a longer date:
      Live thou to mourn thy love’s unhappy fate;
      To bear my mangled body from the foe,
      Or buy it back, and fun’ral rites bestow.
      Or, if hard fortune shall those dues deny,
      Thou canst at least an empty tomb supply.
      O let not me the widow’s tears renew!
      Nor let a mother’s curse my name pursue:
      Thy pious parent, who, for love of thee,
      Forsook the coasts of friendly Sicily,
      Her age committing to the seas and wind,
      When ev’ry weary matron stay’d behind.”
      To this, Euryalus: “You plead in vain,
      And but protract the cause you cannot gain.
      No more delays, but haste!” With that, he wakes
      The nodding watch; each to his office takes.
      The guard reliev’d, the gen’rous couple went
      To find the council at the royal tent.

      All creatures else forgot their daily care,
      And sleep, the common gift of nature, share;
      Except the Trojan peers, who wakeful sate
      In nightly council for th’ indanger’d state.
      They vote a message to their absent chief,
      Shew their distress, and beg a swift relief.
      Amid the camp a silent seat they chose,
      Remote from clamour, and secure from foes.
      On their left arms their ample shields they bear,
      The right reclin’d upon the bending spear.
      Now Nisus and his friend approach the guard,
      And beg admission, eager to be heard:
      Th’ affair important, not to be deferr’d.
      Ascanius bids ’em be conducted in,
      Ord’ring the more experienc’d to begin.
      Then Nisus thus: “Ye fathers, lend your ears;
      Nor judge our bold attempt beyond our years.
      The foe, securely drench’d in sleep and wine,
      Neglect their watch; the fires but thinly shine;
      And where the smoke in cloudy vapours flies,
      Cov’ring the plain, and curling to the skies,
      Betwixt two paths, which at the gate divide,
      Close by the sea, a passage we have spied,
      Which will our way to great Aeneas guide.
      Expect each hour to see him safe again,
      Loaded with spoils of foes in battle slain.
      Snatch we the lucky minute while we may;
      Nor can we be mistaken in the way;
      For, hunting in the vale, we both have seen
      The rising turrets, and the stream between,
      And know the winding course, with ev’ry ford.”

      He ceas’d; and old Alethes took the word:
      “Our country gods, in whom our trust we place,
      Will yet from ruin save the Trojan race,
      While we behold such dauntless worth appear
      In dawning youth, and souls so void of fear.”
      Then into tears of joy the father broke;
      Each in his longing arms by turns he took;
      Panted and paus’d; and thus again he spoke:
      “Ye brave young men, what equal gifts can we,
      In recompense of such desert, decree?
      The greatest, sure, and best you can receive,
      The gods and your own conscious worth will give.
      The rest our grateful gen’ral will bestow,
      And young Ascanius till his manhood owe.”

      “And I, whose welfare in my father lies,”
      Ascanius adds, “by the great deities,
      By my dear country, by my household gods,
      By hoary Vesta’s rites and dark abodes,
      Adjure you both, (on you my fortune stands;
      That and my faith I plight into your hands,)
      Make me but happy in his safe return,
      Whose wanted presence I can only mourn;
      Your common gift shall two large goblets be
      Of silver, wrought with curious imagery,
      And high emboss’d, which, when old Priam reign’d,
      My conqu’ring sire at sack’d Arisba gain’d;
      And more, two tripods cast in antique mould,
      With two great talents of the finest gold;
      Beside a costly bowl, ingrav’d with art,
      Which Dido gave, when first she gave her heart.
      But, if in conquer’d Italy we reign,
      When spoils by lot the victor shall obtain—
      Thou saw’st the courser by proud Turnus press’d:
      That, Nisus, and his arms, and nodding crest,
      And shield, from chance exempt, shall be thy share:
      Twelve lab’ring slaves, twelve handmaids young and fair
      All clad in rich attire, and train’d with care;
      And, last, a Latian field with fruitful plains,
      And a large portion of the king’s domains.
      But thou, whose years are more to mine allied,
      No fate my vow’d affection shall divide
      From thee, heroic youth! Be wholly mine;
      Take full possession; all my soul is thine.
      One faith, one fame, one fate, shall both attend;
      My life’s companion, and my bosom friend:
      My peace shall be committed to thy care,
      And to thy conduct my concerns in war.”

      Then thus the young Euryalus replied:
      “Whatever fortune, good or bad, betide,
      The same shall be my age, as now my youth;
      No time shall find me wanting to my truth.
      This only from your goodness let me gain
      (And, this ungranted, all rewards are vain)
      Of Priam’s royal race my mother came—
      And sure the best that ever bore the name—
      Whom neither Troy nor Sicily could hold
      From me departing, but, o’erspent and old,
      My fate she follow’d. Ignorant of this
      (Whatever) danger, neither parting kiss,
      Nor pious blessing taken, her I leave,
      And in this only act of all my life deceive.
      By this right hand and conscious night I swear,
      My soul so sad a farewell could not bear.
      Be you her comfort; fill my vacant place
      (Permit me to presume so great a grace)
      Support her age, forsaken and distress’d.
      That hope alone will fortify my breast
      Against the worst of fortunes, and of fears.”
      He said. The mov’d assistants melt in tears.

      Then thus Ascanius, wonderstruck to see
      That image of his filial piety:
      “So great beginnings, in so green an age,
      Exact the faith which I again engage.
      Thy mother all the dues shall justly claim,
      Creusa had, and only want the name.
      Whate’er event thy bold attempt shall have,
      ’Tis merit to have borne a son so brave.
      Now by my head, a sacred oath, I swear,
      (My father us’d it,) what, returning here
      Crown’d with success, I for thyself prepare,
      That, if thou fail, shall thy lov’d mother share.”

      He said, and weeping, while he spoke the word,
      From his broad belt he drew a shining sword,
      Magnificent with gold. Lycaon made,
      And in an ivory scabbard sheath’d the blade.
      This was his gift. Great Mnestheus gave his friend
      A lion’s hide, his body to defend;
      And good Alethes furnish’d him, beside,
      With his own trusty helm, of temper tried.

      Thus arm’d they went. The noble Trojans wait
      Their issuing forth, and follow to the gate
      With prayers and vows. Above the rest appears
      Ascanius, manly far beyond his years,
      And messages committed to their care,
      Which all in winds were lost, and flitting air.

      The trenches first they pass’d; then took their way
      Where their proud foes in pitch’d pavilions lay;
      To many fatal, ere themselves were slain.
      They found the careless host dispers’d upon the plain,
      Who, gorg’d, and drunk with wine, supinely snore.
      Unharness’d chariots stand along the shore:
      Amidst the wheels and reins, the goblet by,
      A medley of debauch and war, they lie.
      Observing Nisus shew’d his friend the sight:
      “Behold a conquest gain’d without a fight.
      Occasion offers, and I stand prepar’d;
      There lies our way; be thou upon the guard,
      And look around, while I securely go,
      And hew a passage thro’ the sleeping foe.”
      Softly he spoke; then striding took his way,
      With his drawn sword, where haughty Rhamnes lay;
      His head rais’d high on tapestry beneath,
      And heaving from his breast, he drew his breath;
      A king and prophet, by King Turnus lov’d:
      But fate by prescience cannot be remov’d.
      Him and his sleeping slaves he slew; then spies
      Where Remus, with his rich retinue, lies.
      His armour-bearer first, and next he kills
      His charioteer, intrench’d betwixt the wheels
      And his lov’d horses; last invades their lord;
      Full on his neck he drives the fatal sword:
      The gasping head flies off; a purple flood
      Flows from the trunk, that welters in the blood,
      Which, by the spurning heels dispers’d around,
      The bed besprinkles and bedews the ground.
      Lamus the bold, and Lamyrus the strong,
      He slew, and then Serranus fair and young.
      From dice and wine the youth retir’d to rest,
      And puff’d the fumy god from out his breast:
      Ev’n then he dreamt of drink and lucky play—
      More lucky, had it lasted till the day.
      The famish’d lion thus, with hunger bold,
      O’erleaps the fences of the nightly fold,
      And tears the peaceful flocks: with silent awe
      Trembling they lie, and pant beneath his paw.

      Nor with less rage Euryalus employs
      The wrathful sword, or fewer foes destroys;
      But on th’ ignoble crowd his fury flew;
      He Fadus, Hebesus, and Rhoetus slew.
      Oppress’d with heavy sleep the former fell,
      But Rhoetus wakeful, and observing all:
      Behind a spacious jar he slink’d for fear;
      The fatal iron found and reach’d him there;
      For, as he rose, it pierc’d his naked side,
      And, reeking, thence return’d in crimson dyed.
      The wound pours out a stream of wine and blood;
      The purple soul comes floating in the flood.

      Now, where Messapus quarter’d, they arrive.
      The fires were fainting there, and just alive;
      The warrior-horses, tied in order, fed.
      Nisus observ’d the discipline, and said:
      “Our eager thirst of blood may both betray;
      And see the scatter’d streaks of dawning day,
      Foe to nocturnal thefts. No more, my friend;
      Here let our glutted execution end.
      A lane thro’ slaughter’d bodies we have made.”
      The bold Euryalus, tho’ loth, obey’d.
      Of arms, and arras, and of plate, they find
      A precious load; but these they leave behind.
      Yet, fond of gaudy spoils, the boy would stay
      To make the rich caparison his prey,
      Which on the steed of conquer’d Rhamnes lay.
      Nor did his eyes less longingly behold
      The girdle-belt, with nails of burnish’d gold.
      This present Caedicus the rich bestow’d
      On Remulus, when friendship first they vow’d,
      And, absent, join’d in hospitable ties:
      He, dying, to his heir bequeath’d the prize;
      Till, by the conqu’ring Ardean troops oppress’d,
      He fell; and they the glorious gift possess’d.
      These glitt’ring spoils (now made the victor’s gain)
      He to his body suits, but suits in vain:
      Messapus’ helm he finds among the rest,
      And laces on, and wears the waving crest.
      Proud of their conquest, prouder of their prey,
      They leave the camp, and take the ready way.

      But far they had not pass’d, before they spied
      Three hundred horse, with Volscens for their guide.
      The queen a legion to King Turnus sent;
      But the swift horse the slower foot prevent,
      And now, advancing, sought the leader’s tent.
      They saw the pair; for, thro’ the doubtful shade,
      His shining helm Euryalus betray’d,
      On which the moon with full reflection play’d.
      “’Tis not for naught,” cried Volscens from the crowd,
      “These men go there;” then rais’d his voice aloud:
      “Stand! stand! why thus in arms? And whither bent?
      From whence, to whom, and on what errand sent?”
      Silent they scud away, and haste their flight
      To neighb’ring woods, and trust themselves to night.
      The speedy horse all passages belay,
      And spur their smoking steeds to cross their way,
      And watch each entrance of the winding wood.
      Black was the forest: thick with beech it stood,
      Horrid with fern, and intricate with thorn;
      Few paths of human feet, or tracks of beasts, were worn.
      The darkness of the shades, his heavy prey,
      And fear, misled the younger from his way.
      But Nisus hit the turns with happier haste,
      And, thoughtless of his friend, the forest pass’d,
      And Alban plains, from Alba’s name so call’d,
      Where King Latinus then his oxen stall’d;
      Till, turning at the length, he stood his ground,
      And miss’d his friend, and cast his eyes around:
      “Ah wretch!” he cried, “where have I left behind
      Th’ unhappy youth? where shall I hope to find?
      Or what way take?” Again he ventures back,
      And treads the mazes of his former track.
      He winds the wood, and, list’ning, hears the noise
      Of tramping coursers, and the riders’ voice.
      The sound approach’d; and suddenly he view’d
      The foes inclosing, and his friend pursued,
      Forelaid and taken, while he strove in vain
      The shelter of the friendly shades to gain.
      What should he next attempt? what arms employ,
      What fruitless force, to free the captive boy?
      Or desperate should he rush and lose his life,
      With odds oppress’d, in such unequal strife?

      Resolv’d at length, his pointed spear he shook;
      And, casting on the moon a mournful look:
      “Guardian of groves, and goddess of the night,
      Fair queen,” he said, “direct my dart aright.
      If e’er my pious father, for my sake,
      Did grateful off’rings on thy altars make,
      Or I increas’d them with my sylvan toils,
      And hung thy holy roofs with savage spoils,
      Give me to scatter these.” Then from his ear
      He pois’d, and aim’d, and launch’d the trembling spear.
      The deadly weapon, hissing from the grove,
      Impetuous on the back of Sulmo drove;
      Pierc’d his thin armour, drank his vital blood,
      And in his body left the broken wood.
      He staggers round; his eyeballs roll in death,
      And with short sobs he gasps away his breath.
      All stand amaz’d—a second jav’lin flies
      With equal strength, and quivers thro’ the skies.
      This thro’ thy temples, Tagus, forc’d the way,
      And in the brainpan warmly buried lay.
      Fierce Volscens foams with rage, and, gazing round,
      Descried not him who gave the fatal wound,
      Nor knew to fix revenge: “But thou,” he cries,
      “Shalt pay for both,” and at the pris’ner flies
      With his drawn sword. Then, struck with deep despair,
      That cruel sight the lover could not bear;
      But from his covert rush’d in open view,
      And sent his voice before him as he flew:
      “Me! me!” he cried—“turn all your swords alone
      On me—the fact confess’d, the fault my own.
      He neither could nor durst, the guiltless youth:
      Ye moon and stars, bear witness to the truth!
      His only crime (if friendship can offend)
      Is too much love to his unhappy friend.”
      Too late he speaks: the sword, which fury guides,
      Driv’n with full force, had pierc’d his tender sides.
      Down fell the beauteous youth: the yawning wound
      Gush’d out a purple stream, and stain’d the ground.
      His snowy neck reclines upon his breast,
      Like a fair flow’r by the keen share oppress’d;
      Like a white poppy sinking on the plain,
      Whose heavy head is overcharg’d with rain.
      Despair, and rage, and vengeance justly vow’d,
      Drove Nisus headlong on the hostile crowd.
      Volscens he seeks; on him alone he bends:
      Borne back and bor’d by his surrounding friends,
      Onward he press’d, and kept him still in sight;
      Then whirl’d aloft his sword with all his might:
      Th’ unerring steel descended while he spoke,
      Pierc’d his wide mouth, and thro’ his weazon broke.
      Dying, he slew; and, stagg’ring on the plain,
      With swimming eyes he sought his lover slain;
      Then quiet on his bleeding bosom fell,
      Content, in death, to be reveng’d so well.

      O happy friends! for, if my verse can give
      Immortal life, your fame shall ever live,
      Fix’d as the Capitol’s foundation lies,
      And spread, where’er the Roman eagle flies!

      The conqu’ring party first divide the prey,
      Then their slain leader to the camp convey.
      With wonder, as they went, the troops were fill’d,
      To see such numbers whom so few had kill’d.
      Serranus, Rhamnes, and the rest, they found:
      Vast crowds the dying and the dead surround;
      And the yet reeking blood o’erflows the ground.
      All knew the helmet which Messapus lost,
      But mourn’d a purchase that so dear had cost.
      Now rose the ruddy morn from Tithon’s bed,
      And with the dawn of day the skies o’erspread;
      Nor long the sun his daily course withheld,
      But added colours to the world reveal’d:
      When early Turnus, wak’ning with the light,
      All clad in armour, calls his troops to fight.
      His martial men with fierce harangue he fir’d,
      And his own ardour in their souls inspir’d.
      This done—to give new terror to his foes,
      The heads of Nisus and his friend he shows,
      Rais’d high on pointed spears—a ghastly sight:
      Loud peals of shouts ensue, and barbarous delight.

      Meantime the Trojans run, where danger calls;
      They line their trenches, and they man their walls.
      In front extended to the left they stood;
      Safe was the right, surrounded by the flood.
      But, casting from their tow’rs a frightful view,
      They saw the faces, which too well they knew,
      Tho’ then disguis’d in death, and smear’d all o’er
      With filth obscene, and dropping putrid gore.
      Soon hasty fame thro’ the sad city bears
      The mournful message to the mother’s ears.
      An icy cold benumbs her limbs; she shakes;
      Her cheeks the blood, her hand the web forsakes.
      She runs the rampires round amidst the war,
      Nor fears the flying darts; she rends her hair,
      And fills with loud laments the liquid air.
      “Thus, then, my lov’d Euryalus appears!
      Thus looks the prop of my declining years!
      Was’t on this face my famish’d eyes I fed?
      Ah! how unlike the living is the dead!
      And could’st thou leave me, cruel, thus alone?
      Not one kind kiss from a departing son!
      No look, no last adieu before he went,
      In an ill-boding hour to slaughter sent!
      Cold on the ground, and pressing foreign clay,
      To Latian dogs and fowls he lies a prey!
      Nor was I near to close his dying eyes,
      To wash his wounds, to weep his obsequies,
      To call about his corpse his crying friends,
      Or spread the mantle (made for other ends)
      On his dear body, which I wove with care,
      Nor did my daily pains or nightly labour spare.
      Where shall I find his corpse? what earth sustains
      His trunk dismember’d, and his cold remains?
      For this, alas! I left my needful ease,
      Expos’d my life to winds and winter seas!
      If any pity touch Rutulian hearts,
      Here empty all your quivers, all your darts;
      Or, if they fail, thou, Jove, conclude my woe,
      And send me thunderstruck to shades below!”
      Her shrieks and clamours pierce the Trojans’ ears,
      Unman their courage, and augment their fears;
      Nor young Ascanius could the sight sustain,
      Nor old Ilioneus his tears restrain,
      But Actor and Idaeus jointly sent,
      To bear the madding mother to her tent.

      And now the trumpets terribly, from far,
      With rattling clangour, rouse the sleepy war.
      The soldiers’ shouts succeed the brazen sounds;
      And heav’n, from pole to pole, the noise rebounds.
      The Volscians bear their shields upon their head,
      And, rushing forward, form a moving shed.
      These fill the ditch; those pull the bulwarks down:
      Some raise the ladders; others scale the town.
      But, where void spaces on the walls appear,
      Or thin defence, they pour their forces there.
      With poles and missive weapons, from afar,
      The Trojans keep aloof the rising war.
      Taught, by their ten years’ siege, defensive fight,
      They roll down ribs of rocks, an unresisted weight,
      To break the penthouse with the pond’rous blow,
      Which yet the patient Volscians undergo:
      But could not bear th’ unequal combat long;
      For, where the Trojans find the thickest throng,
      The ruin falls: their shatter’d shields give way,
      And their crush’d heads become an easy prey.
      They shrink for fear, abated of their rage,
      Nor longer dare in a blind fight engage;
      Contented now to gall them from below
      With darts and slings, and with the distant bow.

      Elsewhere Mezentius, terrible to view,
      A blazing pine within the trenches threw.
      But brave Messapus, Neptune’s warlike son,
      Broke down the palisades, the trenches won,
      And loud for ladders calls, to scale the town.

      Calliope, begin! Ye sacred Nine,
      Inspire your poet in his high design,
      To sing what slaughter manly Turnus made,
      What souls he sent below the Stygian shade,
      What fame the soldiers with their captain share,
      And the vast circuit of the fatal war;
      For you in singing martial facts excel;
      You best remember, and alone can tell.

      There stood a tow’r, amazing to the sight,
      Built up of beams, and of stupendous height:
      Art, and the nature of the place, conspir’d
      To furnish all the strength that war requir’d.
      To level this, the bold Italians join;
      The wary Trojans obviate their design;
      With weighty stones o’erwhelm their troops below,
      Shoot thro’ the loopholes, and sharp jav’lins throw.
      Turnus, the chief, toss’d from his thund’ring hand
      Against the wooden walls, a flaming brand:
      It stuck, the fiery plague; the winds were high;
      The planks were season’d, and the timber dry.
      Contagion caught the posts; it spread along,
      Scorch’d, and to distance drove the scatter’d throng.
      The Trojans fled; the fire pursued amain,
      Still gath’ring fast upon the trembling train;
      Till, crowding to the corners of the wall,
      Down the defence and the defenders fall.
      The mighty flaw makes heav’n itself resound:
      The dead and dying Trojans strew the ground.
      The tow’r, that follow’d on the fallen crew,
      Whelm’d o’er their heads, and buried whom it slew:
      Some stuck upon the darts themselves had sent;
      All the same equal ruin underwent.

      Young Lycus and Helenor only scape;
      Sav’d—how, they know not—from the steepy leap.
      Helenor, elder of the two: by birth,
      On one side royal, one a son of earth,
      Whom to the Lydian king Licymnia bare,
      And sent her boasted bastard to the war
      (A privilege which none but freemen share).
      Slight were his arms, a sword and silver shield:
      No marks of honour charg’d its empty field.
      Light as he fell, so light the youth arose,
      And rising, found himself amidst his foes;
      Nor flight was left, nor hopes to force his way.
      Embolden’d by despair, he stood at bay;
      And, like a stag, whom all the troop surrounds
      Of eager huntsmen and invading hounds
      Resolv’d on death, he dissipates his fears,
      And bounds aloft against the pointed spears:
      So dares the youth, secure of death; and throws
      His dying body on his thickest foes.
      But Lycus, swifter of his feet by far,
      Runs, doubles, winds and turns, amidst the war;
      Springs to the walls, and leaves his foes behind,
      And snatches at the beam he first can find;
      Looks up, and leaps aloft at all the stretch,
      In hopes the helping hand of some kind friend to reach.
      But Turnus follow’d hard his hunted prey
      (His spear had almost reach’d him in the way,
      Short of his reins, and scarce a span behind)
      “Fool!” said the chief, “tho’ fleeter than the wind,
      Couldst thou presume to scape, when I pursue?”
      He said, and downward by the feet he drew
      The trembling dastard; at the tug he falls;
      Vast ruins come along, rent from the smoking walls.
      Thus on some silver swan, or tim’rous hare,
      Jove’s bird comes sousing down from upper air;
      Her crooked talons truss the fearful prey:
      Then out of sight she soars, and wings her way.
      So seizes the grim wolf the tender lamb,
      In vain lamented by the bleating dam.

      Then rushing onward with a barb’rous cry,
      The troops of Turnus to the combat fly.
      The ditch with fagots fill’d, the daring foe
      Toss’d firebrands to the steepy turrets throw.

      Ilioneus, as bold Lucetius came
      To force the gate, and feed the kindling flame,
      Roll’d down the fragment of a rock so right,
      It crush’d him double underneath the weight.
      Two more young Liger and Asylas slew:
      To bend the bow young Liger better knew;
      Asylas best the pointed jav’lin threw.
      Brave Caeneus laid Ortygius on the plain;
      The victor Caeneus was by Turnus slain.
      By the same hand, Clonius and Itys fall,
      Sagar, and Ida, standing on the wall.
      From Capys’ arms his fate Privernus found:
      Hurt by Themilla first—but slight the wound—
      His shield thrown by, to mitigate the smart,
      He clapp’d his hand upon the wounded part:
      The second shaft came swift and unespied,
      And pierc’d his hand, and nail’d it to his side,
      Transfix’d his breathing lungs and beating heart:
      The soul came issuing out, and hiss’d against the dart.

      The son of Arcens shone amid the rest,
      In glitt’ring armour and a purple vest,
      (Fair was his face, his eyes inspiring love,)
      Bred by his father in the Martian grove,
      Where the fat altars of Palicus flame,
      And send in arms to purchase early fame.
      Him when he spied from far, the Tuscan king
      Laid by the lance, and took him to the sling,
      Thrice whirl’d the thong around his head, and threw:
      The heated lead half melted as it flew;
      It pierc’d his hollow temples and his brain;
      The youth came tumbling down, and spurn’d the plain.

      Then young Ascanius, who, before this day,
      Was wont in woods to shoot the savage prey,
      First bent in martial strife the twanging bow,
      And exercis’d against a human foe—
      With this bereft Numanus of his life,
      Who Turnus’ younger sister took to wife.
      Proud of his realm, and of his royal bride,
      Vaunting before his troops, and lengthen’d with a stride,
      In these insulting terms the Trojans he defied:

      “Twice-conquer’d cowards, now your shame is shown—
      Coop’d up a second time within your town!
      Who dare not issue forth in open field,
      But hold your walls before you for a shield.
      Thus treat you war? thus our alliance force?
      What gods, what madness, hither steer’d your course?
      You shall not find the sons of Atreus here,
      Nor need the frauds of sly Ulysses fear.
      Strong from the cradle, of a sturdy brood,
      We bear our newborn infants to the flood;
      There bath’d amid the stream, our boys we hold,
      With winter harden’d, and inur’d to cold.
      They wake before the day to range the wood,
      Kill ere they eat, nor taste unconquer’d food.
      No sports, but what belong to war, they know:
      To break the stubborn colt, to bend the bow.
      Our youth, of labour patient, earn their bread;
      Hardly they work, with frugal diet fed.
      From plows and harrows sent to seek renown,
      They fight in fields, and storm the shaken town.
      No part of life from toils of war is free,
      No change in age, or diff’rence in degree.
      We plow and till in arms; our oxen feel,
      Instead of goads, the spur and pointed steel;
      Th’ inverted lance makes furrows in the plain.
      Ev’n time, that changes all, yet changes us in vain:
      The body, not the mind; nor can control
      Th’ immortal vigour, or abate the soul.
      Our helms defend the young, disguise the gray:
      We live by plunder, and delight in prey.
      Your vests embroider’d with rich purple shine;
      In sloth you glory, and in dances join.
      Your vests have sweeping sleeves; with female pride
      Your turbans underneath your chins are tied.
      Go, Phrygians, to your Dindymus again!
      Go, less than women, in the shapes of men!
      Go, mix’d with eunuchs, in the Mother’s rites,
      Where with unequal sound the flute invites;
      Sing, dance, and howl, by turns, in Ida’s shade:
      Resign the war to men, who know the martial trade!”

      This foul reproach Ascanius could not hear
      With patience, or a vow’d revenge forbear.
      At the full stretch of both his hands he drew,
      And almost join’d the horns of the tough yew.
      But, first, before the throne of Jove he stood,
      And thus with lifted hands invok’d the god:
      “My first attempt, great Jupiter, succeed!
      An annual off’ring in thy grove shall bleed;
      A snow-white steer, before thy altar led,
      Who, like his mother, bears aloft his head,
      Butts with his threat’ning brows, and bellowing stands,
      And dares the fight, and spurns the yellow sands.”

      Jove bow’d the heav’ns, and lent a gracious ear,
      And thunder’d on the left, amidst the clear.
      Sounded at once the bow; and swiftly flies
      The feather’d death, and hisses thro’ the skies.
      The steel thro’ both his temples forc’d the way:
      Extended on the ground, Numanus lay.
      “Go now, vain boaster, and true valour scorn!
      The Phrygians, twice subdued, yet make this third return.”
      Ascanius said no more. The Trojans shake
      The heav’ns with shouting, and new vigour take.

      Apollo then bestrode a golden cloud,
      To view the feats of arms, and fighting crowd;
      And thus the beardless victor he bespoke aloud:
      “Advance, illustrious youth, increase in fame,
      And wide from east to west extend thy name;
      Offspring of gods thyself; and Rome shall owe
      To thee a race of demigods below.
      This is the way to heav’n: the pow’rs divine
      From this beginning date the Julian line.
      To thee, to them, and their victorious heirs,
      The conquer’d war is due, and the vast world is theirs.
      Troy is too narrow for thy name.” He said,
      And plunging downward shot his radiant head;
      Dispell’d the breathing air, that broke his flight:
      Shorn of his beams, a man to mortal sight.
      Old Butes’ form he took, Anchises’ squire,
      Now left, to rule Ascanius, by his sire:
      His wrinkled visage, and his hoary hairs,
      His mien, his habit, and his arms, he wears,
      And thus salutes the boy, too forward for his years:
      “Suffice it thee, thy father’s worthy son,
      The warlike prize thou hast already won.
      The god of archers gives thy youth a part
      Of his own praise, nor envies equal art.
      Now tempt the war no more.” He said, and flew
      Obscure in air, and vanish’d from their view.
      The Trojans, by his arms, their patron know,
      And hear the twanging of his heav’nly bow.
      Then duteous force they use, and Phoebus’ name,
      To keep from fight the youth too fond of fame.
      Undaunted, they themselves no danger shun;
      From wall to wall the shouts and clamours run.
      They bend their bows; they whirl their slings around;
      Heaps of spent arrows fall, and strew the ground;
      And helms, and shields, and rattling arms resound.
      The combat thickens, like the storm that flies
      From westward, when the show’ry Kids arise;
      Or patt’ring hail comes pouring on the main,
      When Jupiter descends in harden’d rain,
      Or bellowing clouds burst with a stormy sound,
      And with an armed winter strew the ground.

      Pand’rus and Bitias, thunderbolts of war,
      Whom Hiera to bold Alcanor bare
      On Ida’s top, two youths of height and size
      Like firs that on their mother mountain rise,
      Presuming on their force, the gates unbar,
      And of their own accord invite the war.
      With fates averse, against their king’s command,
      Arm’d, on the right and on the left they stand,
      And flank the passage: shining steel they wear,
      And waving crests above their heads appear.
      Thus two tall oaks, that Padus’ banks adorn,
      Lift up to heav’n their leafy heads unshorn,
      And, overpress’d with nature’s heavy load,
      Dance to the whistling winds, and at each other nod.
      In flows a tide of Latians, when they see
      The gate set open, and the passage free;
      Bold Quercens, with rash Tmarus, rushing on,
      Equicolus, that in bright armour shone,
      And Haemon first; but soon repuls’d they fly,
      Or in the well-defended pass they die.
      These with success are fir’d, and those with rage,
      And each on equal terms at length engage.
      Drawn from their lines, and issuing on the plain,
      The Trojans hand to hand the fight maintain.

      Fierce Turnus in another quarter fought,
      When suddenly th’ unhop’d-for news was brought,
      The foes had left the fastness of their place,
      Prevail’d in fight, and had his men in chase.
      He quits th’ attack, and, to prevent their fate,
      Runs where the giant brothers guard the gate.
      The first he met, Antiphates the brave,
      But base-begotten on a Theban slave,
      Sarpedon’s son, he slew: the deadly dart
      Found passage thro’ his breast, and pierc’d his heart.
      Fix’d in the wound th’ Italian cornel stood,
      Warm’d in his lungs, and in his vital blood.
      Aphidnus next, and Erymanthus dies,
      And Meropes, and the gigantic size
      Of Bitias, threat’ning with his ardent eyes.
      Not by the feeble dart he fell oppress’d
      (A dart were lost within that roomy breast),
      But from a knotted lance, large, heavy, strong,
      Which roar’d like thunder as it whirl’d along:
      Not two bull hides th’ impetuous force withhold,
      Nor coat of double mail, with scales of gold.
      Down sunk the monster bulk and press’d the ground;
      His arms and clatt’ring shield on the vast body sound,
      Not with less ruin than the Bajan mole,
      Rais’d on the seas, the surges to control—
      At once comes tumbling down the rocky wall;
      Prone to the deep, the stones disjointed fall
      Of the vast pile; the scatter’d ocean flies;
      Black sands, discolour’d froth, and mingled mud arise:
      The frighted billows roll, and seek the shores;
      Then trembles Prochyta, then Ischia roars:
      Typhoeus, thrown beneath, by Jove’s command,
      Astonish’d at the flaw that shakes the land,
      Soon shifts his weary side, and, scarce awake,
      With wonder feels the weight press lighter on his back.

      The warrior god the Latian troops inspir’d,
      New strung their sinews, and their courage fir’d,
      But chills the Trojan hearts with cold affright:
      Then black despair precipitates their flight.

      When Pandarus beheld his brother kill’d,
      The town with fear and wild confusion fill’d,
      He turns the hinges of the heavy gate
      With both his hands, and adds his shoulders to the weight
      Some happier friends within the walls inclos’d;
      The rest shut out, to certain death expos’d:
      Fool as he was, and frantic in his care,
      T’ admit young Turnus, and include the war!
      He thrust amid the crowd, securely bold,
      Like a fierce tiger pent amid the fold.
      Too late his blazing buckler they descry,
      And sparkling fires that shot from either eye,
      His mighty members, and his ample breast,
      His rattling armour, and his crimson crest.

      Far from that hated face the Trojans fly,
      All but the fool who sought his destiny.
      Mad Pandarus steps forth, with vengeance vow’d
      For Bitias’ death, and threatens thus aloud:
      “These are not Ardea’s walls, nor this the town
      Amata proffers with Lavinia’s crown:
      ’Tis hostile earth you tread. Of hope bereft,
      No means of safe return by flight are left.”
      To whom, with count’nance calm, and soul sedate,
      Thus Turnus: “Then begin, and try thy fate:
      My message to the ghost of Priam bear;
      Tell him a new Achilles sent thee there.”

      A lance of tough ground ash the Trojan threw,
      Rough in the rind, and knotted as it grew:
      With his full force he whirl’d it first around;
      But the soft yielding air receiv’d the wound:
      Imperial Juno turn’d the course before,
      And fix’d the wand’ring weapon in the door.

      “But hope not thou,” said Turnus, “when I strike,
      To shun thy fate: our force is not alike,
      Nor thy steel temper’d by the Lemnian god.”
      Then rising, on his utmost stretch he stood,
      And aim’d from high: the full descending blow
      Cleaves the broad front and beardless cheeks in two.
      Down sinks the giant with a thund’ring sound:
      His pond’rous limbs oppress the trembling ground;
      Blood, brains, and foam gush from the gaping wound:
      Scalp, face, and shoulders the keen steel divides,
      And the shar’d visage hangs on equal sides.
      The Trojans fly from their approaching fate;
      And, had the victor then secur’d the gate,
      And to his troops without unclos’d the bars,
      One lucky day had ended all his wars.
      But boiling youth, and blind desire of blood,
      Push’d on his fury, to pursue the crowd.
      Hamstring’d behind, unhappy Gyges died;
      Then Phalaris is added to his side.
      The pointed jav’lins from the dead he drew,
      And their friends’ arms against their fellows threw.
      Strong Halys stands in vain; weak Phlegys flies;
      Saturnia, still at hand, new force and fire supplies.
      Then Halius, Prytanis, Alcander fall—
      Engag’d against the foes who scal’d the wall:
      But, whom they fear’d without, they found within.
      At last, tho’ late, by Lynceus he was seen.
      He calls new succours, and assaults the prince:
      But weak his force, and vain is their defence.
      Turn’d to the right, his sword the hero drew,
      And at one blow the bold aggressor slew.
      He joints the neck; and, with a stroke so strong,
      The helm flies off, and bears the head along.
      Next him, the huntsman Amycus he kill’d,
      In darts envenom’d and in poison skill’d.
      Then Clytius fell beneath his fatal spear,
      And Creteus, whom the Muses held so dear:
      He fought with courage, and he sung the fight;
      Arms were his bus’ness, verses his delight.

      The Trojan chiefs behold, with rage and grief,
      Their slaughter’d friends, and hasten their relief.
      Bold Mnestheus rallies first the broken train,
      Whom brave Seresthus and his troop sustain.
      To save the living, and revenge the dead,
      Against one warrior’s arms all Troy they led.
      “O, void of sense and courage!” Mnestheus cried,
      “Where can you hope your coward heads to hide?
      Ah! where beyond these rampires can you run?
      One man, and in your camp inclos’d, you shun!
      Shall then a single sword such slaughter boast,
      And pass unpunish’d from a num’rous host?
      Forsaking honour, and renouncing fame,
      Your gods, your country, and your king you shame!”
      This just reproach their virtue does excite:
      They stand, they join, they thicken to the fight.

      Now Turnus doubts, and yet disdains to yield,
      But with slow paces measures back the field,
      And inches to the walls, where Tiber’s tide,
      Washing the camp, defends the weaker side.
      The more he loses, they advance the more,
      And tread in ev’ry step he trod before.
      They shout: they bear him back; and, whom by might
      They cannot conquer, they oppress with weight.

      As, compass’d with a wood of spears around,
      The lordly lion still maintains his ground;
      Grins horrible, retires, and turns again;
      Threats his distended paws, and shakes his mane;
      He loses while in vain he presses on,
      Nor will his courage let him dare to run:
      So Turnus fares, and, unresolved of flight,
      Moves tardy back, and just recedes from fight.
      Yet twice, enrag’d, the combat he renews,
      Twice breaks, and twice his broken foes pursues.
      But now they swarm, and, with fresh troops supplied,
      Come rolling on, and rush from ev’ry side:
      Nor Juno, who sustain’d his arms before,
      Dares with new strength suffice th’ exhausted store;
      For Jove, with sour commands, sent Iris down,
      To force th’ invader from the frighted town.

      With labour spent, no longer can he wield
      The heavy falchion, or sustain the shield,
      O’erwhelm’d with darts, which from afar they fling:
      The weapons round his hollow temples ring;
      His golden helm gives way, with stony blows
      Batter’d, and flat, and beaten to his brows.
      His crest is rash’d away; his ample shield
      Is falsified, and round with jav’lins fill’d.

      The foe, now faint, the Trojans overwhelm;
      And Mnestheus lays hard load upon his helm.
      Sick sweat succeeds; he drops at ev’ry pore;
      With driving dust his cheeks are pasted o’er;
      Shorter and shorter ev’ry gasp he takes;
      And vain efforts and hurtless blows he makes.
      Plung’d in the flood, and made the waters fly.
      The yellow god the welcome burthen bore,
      And wip’d the sweat, and wash’d away the gore;
      Then gently wafts him to the farther coast,
      And sends him safe to cheer his anxious host.



 BOOK X

 THE ARGUMENT.


      Jupiter, calling a council of the gods, forbids them to engage in
      either party. At Aeneas’ return there is a bloody battle: Turnus
      killing Pallas; Aeneas, Lausus, and Mezentius. Mezentius is
      described as an atheist; Lausus as a pious and virtuous youth.
      The different actions and death of these two are the subject of a
      noble episode.


      The gates of heav’n unfold: Jove summons all
      The gods to council in the common hall.
      Sublimely seated, he surveys from far
      The fields, the camp, the fortune of the war,
      And all th’ inferior world. From first to last,
      The sov’reign senate in degrees are plac’d.

      Then thus th’ almighty sire began: “Ye gods,
      Natives or denizens of blest abodes,
      From whence these murmurs, and this change of mind,
      This backward fate from what was first design’d?
      Why this protracted war, when my commands
      Pronounc’d a peace, and gave the Latian lands?
      What fear or hope on either part divides
      Our heav’ns, and arms our powers on diff’rent sides?
      A lawful time of war at length will come,
      (Nor need your haste anticipate the doom),
      When Carthage shall contend the world with Rome,
      Shall force the rigid rocks and Alpine chains,
      And, like a flood, come pouring on the plains.
      Then is your time for faction and debate,
      For partial favour, and permitted hate.
      Let now your immature dissension cease;
      Sit quiet, and compose your souls to peace.”

      Thus Jupiter in few unfolds the charge;
      But lovely Venus thus replies at large:
      “O pow’r immense, eternal energy,
      (For to what else protection can we fly?)
      Seest thou the proud Rutulians, how they dare
      In fields, unpunish’d, and insult my care?
      How lofty Turnus vaunts amidst his train,
      In shining arms, triumphant on the plain?
      Ev’n in their lines and trenches they contend,
      And scarce their walls the Trojan troops defend:
      The town is fill’d with slaughter, and o’erfloats,
      With a red deluge, their increasing moats.
      Aeneas, ignorant, and far from thence,
      Has left a camp expos’d, without defence.
      This endless outrage shall they still sustain?
      Shall Troy renew’d be forc’d and fir’d again?
      A second siege my banish’d issue fears,
      And a new Diomede in arms appears.
      One more audacious mortal will be found;
      And I, thy daughter, wait another wound.
      Yet, if with fates averse, without thy leave,
      The Latian lands my progeny receive,
      Bear they the pains of violated law,
      And thy protection from their aid withdraw.
      But, if the gods their sure success foretell;
      If those of heav’n consent with those of hell,
      To promise Italy; who dare debate
      The pow’r of Jove, or fix another fate?
      What should I tell of tempests on the main,
      Of Aeolus usurping Neptune’s reign?
      Of Iris sent, with Bacchanalian heat
      T’ inspire the matrons, and destroy the fleet?
      Now Juno to the Stygian sky descends,
      Solicits hell for aid, and arms the fiends.
      That new example wanted yet above:
      An act that well became the wife of Jove!
      Alecto, rais’d by her, with rage inflames
      The peaceful bosoms of the Latian dames.
      Imperial sway no more exalts my mind;
      (Such hopes I had indeed, while Heav’n was kind;)
      Now let my happier foes possess my place,
      Whom Jove prefers before the Trojan race;
      And conquer they, whom you with conquest grace.
      Since you can spare, from all your wide command,
      No spot of earth, no hospitable land,
      Which may my wand’ring fugitives receive;
      (Since haughty Juno will not give you leave;)
      Then, father, (if I still may use that name,)
      By ruin’d Troy, yet smoking from the flame,
      I beg you, let Ascanius, by my care,
      Be freed from danger, and dismiss’d the war:
      Inglorious let him live, without a crown.
      The father may be cast on coasts unknown,
      Struggling with fate; but let me save the son.
      Mine is Cythera, mine the Cyprian tow’rs:
      In those recesses, and those sacred bow’rs,
      Obscurely let him rest; his right resign
      To promis’d empire, and his Julian line.
      Then Carthage may th’ Ausonian towns destroy,
      Nor fear the race of a rejected boy.
      What profits it my son to scape the fire,
      Arm’d with his gods, and loaded with his sire;
      To pass the perils of the seas and wind;
      Evade the Greeks, and leave the war behind;
      To reach th’ Italian shores; if, after all,
      Our second Pergamus is doom’d to fall?
      Much better had he curb’d his high desires,
      And hover’d o’er his ill-extinguish’d fires.
      To Simois’ banks the fugitives restore,
      And give them back to war, and all the woes before.”

      Deep indignation swell’d Saturnia’s heart:
      “And must I own,” she said, “my secret smart—
      What with more decence were in silence kept,
      And, but for this unjust reproach, had slept?
      Did god or man your fav’rite son advise,
      With war unhop’d the Latians to surprise?
      By fate, you boast, and by the gods’ decree,
      He left his native land for Italy!
      Confess the truth; by mad Cassandra, more
      Than Heav’n inspir’d, he sought a foreign shore!
      Did I persuade to trust his second Troy
      To the raw conduct of a beardless boy,
      With walls unfinish’d, which himself forsakes,
      And thro’ the waves a wand’ring voyage takes?
      When have I urg’d him meanly to demand
      The Tuscan aid, and arm a quiet land?
      Did I or Iris give this mad advice,
      Or made the fool himself the fatal choice?
      You think it hard, the Latians should destroy
      With swords your Trojans, and with fires your Troy!
      Hard and unjust indeed, for men to draw
      Their native air, nor take a foreign law!
      That Turnus is permitted still to live,
      To whom his birth a god and goddess give!
      But yet is just and lawful for your line
      To drive their fields, and force with fraud to join;
      Realms, not your own, among your clans divide,
      And from the bridegroom tear the promis’d bride;
      Petition, while you public arms prepare;
      Pretend a peace, and yet provoke a war!
      ’Twas giv’n to you, your darling son to shroud,
      To draw the dastard from the fighting crowd,
      And, for a man, obtend an empty cloud.
      From flaming fleets you turn’d the fire away,
      And chang’d the ships to daughters of the sea.
      But is my crime—the Queen of Heav’n offends,
      If she presume to save her suff’ring friends!
      Your son, not knowing what his foes decree,
      You say, is absent: absent let him be.
      Yours is Cythera, yours the Cyprian tow’rs,
      The soft recesses, and the sacred bow’rs.
      Why do you then these needless arms prepare,
      And thus provoke a people prone to war?
      Did I with fire the Trojan town deface,
      Or hinder from return your exil’d race?
      Was I the cause of mischief, or the man
      Whose lawless lust the fatal war began?
      Think on whose faith th’ adult’rous youth relied;
      Who promis’d, who procur’d, the Spartan bride?
      When all th’ united states of Greece combin’d,
      To purge the world of the perfidious kind,
      Then was your time to fear the Trojan fate:
      Your quarrels and complaints are now too late.”

      Thus Juno. Murmurs rise, with mix’d applause,
      Just as they favour or dislike the cause.
      So winds, when yet unfledg’d in woods they lie,
      In whispers first their tender voices try,
      Then issue on the main with bellowing rage,
      And storms to trembling mariners presage.

      Then thus to both replied th’ imperial god,
      Who shakes heav’n’s axles with his awful nod.
      (When he begins, the silent senate stand
      With rev’rence, list’ning to the dread command:
      The clouds dispel; the winds their breath restrain;
      And the hush’d waves lie flatted on the main.)
      “Celestials, your attentive ears incline!
      Since,” said the god, “the Trojans must not join
      In wish’d alliance with the Latian line;
      Since endless jarrings and immortal hate
      Tend but to discompose our happy state;
      The war henceforward be resign’d to fate:
      Each to his proper fortune stand or fall;
      Equal and unconcern’d I look on all.
      Rutulians, Trojans, are the same to me;
      And both shall draw the lots their fates decree.
      Let these assault, if Fortune be their friend;
      And, if she favours those, let those defend:
      The Fates will find their way.” The Thund’rer said,
      And shook the sacred honours of his head,
      Attesting Styx, th’ inviolable flood,
      And the black regions of his brother god.
      Trembled the poles of heav’n, and earth confess’d the nod.
      This end the sessions had: the senate rise,
      And to his palace wait their sov’reign thro’ the skies.

      Meantime, intent upon their siege, the foes
      Within their walls the Trojan host inclose:
      They wound, they kill, they watch at ev’ry gate;
      Renew the fires, and urge their happy fate.

      Th’ Aeneans wish in vain their wanted chief,
      Hopeless of flight, more hopeless of relief.
      Thin on the tow’rs they stand; and ev’n those few
      A feeble, fainting, and dejected crew.
      Yet in the face of danger some there stood:
      The two bold brothers of Sarpedon’s blood,
      Asius and Acmon; both th’ Assaraci;
      Young Haemon, and tho’ young, resolv’d to die.
      With these were Clarus and Thymoetes join’d;
      Tibris and Castor, both of Lycian kind.
      From Acmon’s hands a rolling stone there came,
      So large, it half deserv’d a mountain’s name:
      Strong-sinew’d was the youth, and big of bone;
      His brother Mnestheus could not more have done,
      Or the great father of th’ intrepid son.
      Some firebrands throw, some flights of arrows send;
      And some with darts, and some with stones defend.

      Amid the press appears the beauteous boy,
      The care of Venus, and the hope of Troy.
      His lovely face unarm’d, his head was bare;
      In ringlets o’er his shoulders hung his hair.
      His forehead circled with a diadem;
      Distinguish’d from the crowd, he shines a gem,
      Enchas’d in gold, or polish’d iv’ry set,
      Amidst the meaner foil of sable jet.

      Nor Ismarus was wanting to the war,
      Directing pointed arrows from afar,
      And death with poison arm’d—in Lydia born,
      Where plenteous harvests the fat fields adorn;
      Where proud Pactolus floats the fruitful lands,
      And leaves a rich manure of golden sands.
      There Capys, author of the Capuan name,
      And there was Mnestheus too, increas’d in fame,
      Since Turnus from the camp he cast with shame.

      Thus mortal war was wag’d on either side.
      Meantime the hero cuts the nightly tide:
      For, anxious, from Evander when he went,
      He sought the Tyrrhene camp, and Tarchon’s tent;
      Expos’d the cause of coming to the chief;
      His name and country told, and ask’d relief;
      Propos’d the terms; his own small strength declar’d;
      What vengeance proud Mezentius had prepar’d:
      What Turnus, bold and violent, design’d;
      Then shew’d the slipp’ry state of humankind,
      And fickle fortune; warn’d him to beware,
      And to his wholesome counsel added pray’r.
      Tarchon, without delay, the treaty signs,
      And to the Trojan troops the Tuscan joins.

      They soon set sail; nor now the fates withstand;
      Their forces trusted with a foreign hand.
      Aeneas leads; upon his stern appear
      Two lions carv’d, which rising Ida bear—
      Ida, to wand’ring Trojans ever dear.
      Under their grateful shade Aeneas sate,
      Revolving war’s events, and various fate.
      His left young Pallas kept, fix’d to his side,
      And oft of winds enquir’d, and of the tide;
      Oft of the stars, and of their wat’ry way;
      And what he suffer’d both by land and sea.

      Now, sacred sisters, open all your spring!
      The Tuscan leaders, and their army sing,
      Which follow’d great Aeneas to the war:
      Their arms, their numbers, and their names declare.

      A thousand youths brave Massicus obey,
      Borne in the Tiger thro’ the foaming sea;
      From Asium brought, and Cosa, by his care:
      For arms, light quivers, bows and shafts, they bear.
      Fierce Abas next: his men bright armour wore;
      His stern Apollo’s golden statue bore.
      Six hundred Populonia sent along,
      All skill’d in martial exercise, and strong.
      Three hundred more for battle Ilva joins,
      An isle renown’d for steel, and unexhausted mines.
      Asylas on his prow the third appears,
      Who heav’n interprets, and the wand’ring stars;
      From offer’d entrails prodigies expounds,
      And peals of thunder, with presaging sounds.
      A thousand spears in warlike order stand,
      Sent by the Pisans under his command.

      Fair Astur follows in the wat’ry field,
      Proud of his manag’d horse and painted shield.
      Gravisca, noisome from the neighb’ring fen,
      And his own Caere, sent three hundred men;
      With those which Minio’s fields and Pyrgi gave,
      All bred in arms, unanimous, and brave.

      Thou, Muse, the name of Cinyras renew,
      And brave Cupavo follow’d but by few;
      Whose helm confess’d the lineage of the man,
      And bore, with wings display’d, a silver swan.
      Love was the fault of his fam’d ancestry,
      Whose forms and fortunes in his ensigns fly.
      For Cycnus lov’d unhappy Phaeton,
      And sung his loss in poplar groves, alone,
      Beneath the sister shades, to soothe his grief.
      Heav’n heard his song, and hasten’d his relief,
      And chang’d to snowy plumes his hoary hair,
      And wing’d his flight, to chant aloft in air.
      His son Cupavo brush’d the briny flood:
      Upon his stern a brawny Centaur stood,
      Who heav’d a rock, and, threat’ning still to throw,
      With lifted hands alarm’d the seas below:
      They seem’d to fear the formidable sight,
      And roll’d their billows on, to speed his flight.

      Ocnus was next, who led his native train
      Of hardy warriors thro’ the wat’ry plain:
      The son of Manto by the Tuscan stream,
      From whence the Mantuan town derives the name—
      An ancient city, but of mix’d descent:
      Three sev’ral tribes compose the government;
      Four towns are under each; but all obey
      The Mantuan laws, and own the Tuscan sway.

      Hate to Mezentius arm’d five hundred more,
      Whom Mincius from his sire Benacus bore:
      Mincius, with wreaths of reeds his forehead cover’d o’er.
      These grave Auletes leads: a hundred sweep
      With stretching oars at once the glassy deep.
      Him and his martial train the Triton bears;
      High on his poop the sea-green god appears:
      Frowning he seems his crooked shell to sound,
      And at the blast the billows dance around.
      A hairy man above the waist he shows;
      A porpoise tail beneath his belly grows;
      And ends a fish: his breast the waves divides,
      And froth and foam augment the murm’ring tides.

      Full thirty ships transport the chosen train
      For Troy’s relief, and scour the briny main.

      Now was the world forsaken by the sun,
      And Phoebe half her nightly race had run.
      The careful chief, who never clos’d his eyes,
      Himself the rudder holds, the sails supplies.
      A choir of Nereids meet him on the flood,
      Once his own galleys, hewn from Ida’s wood;
      But now, as many nymphs, the sea they sweep,
      As rode, before, tall vessels on the deep.
      They know him from afar; and in a ring
      Enclose the ship that bore the Trojan king.
      Cymodoce, whose voice excell’d the rest,
      Above the waves advanc’d her snowy breast;
      Her right hand stops the stern; her left divides
      The curling ocean, and corrects the tides.
      She spoke for all the choir, and thus began
      With pleasing words to warn th’ unknowing man:
      “Sleeps our lov’d lord? O goddess-born, awake!
      Spread ev’ry sail, pursue your wat’ry track,
      And haste your course. Your navy once were we,
      From Ida’s height descending to the sea;
      Till Turnus, as at anchor fix’d we stood,
      Presum’d to violate our holy wood.
      Then, loos’d from shore, we fled his fires profane
      (Unwillingly we broke our master’s chain),
      And since have sought you thro’ the Tuscan main.
      The mighty Mother chang’d our forms to these,
      And gave us life immortal in the seas.
      But young Ascanius, in his camp distress’d,
      By your insulting foes is hardly press’d.
      Th’ Arcadian horsemen, and Etrurian host,
      Advance in order on the Latian coast:
      To cut their way the Daunian chief designs,
      Before their troops can reach the Trojan lines.
      Thou, when the rosy morn restores the light,
      First arm thy soldiers for th’ ensuing fight:
      Thyself the fated sword of Vulcan wield,
      And bear aloft th’ impenetrable shield.
      Tomorrow’s sun, unless my skill be vain,
      Shall see huge heaps of foes in battle slain.”
      Parting, she spoke; and with immortal force
      Push’d on the vessel in her wat’ry course;
      For well she knew the way. Impell’d behind,
      The ship flew forward, and outstripp’d the wind.
      The rest make up. Unknowing of the cause,
      The chief admires their speed, and happy omens draws.

      Then thus he pray’d, and fix’d on heav’n his eyes:
      “Hear thou, great Mother of the deities.
      With turrets crown’d! (on Ida’s holy hill
      Fierce tigers, rein’d and curb’d, obey thy will.)
      Firm thy own omens; lead us on to fight;
      And let thy Phrygians conquer in thy right.”

      He said no more. And now renewing day
      Had chas’d the shadows of the night away.
      He charg’d the soldiers, with preventing care,
      Their flags to follow, and their arms prepare;
      Warn’d of th’ ensuing fight, and bade ’em hope the war.
      Now, his lofty poop, he view’d below
      His camp incompass’d, and th’ inclosing foe.
      His blazing shield, imbrac’d, he held on high;
      The camp receive the sign, and with loud shouts reply.
      Hope arms their courage: from their tow’rs they throw
      Their darts with double force, and drive the foe.
      Thus, at the signal giv’n, the cranes arise
      Before the stormy south, and blacken all the skies.

      King Turnus wonder’d at the fight renew’d,
      Till, looking back, the Trojan fleet he view’d,
      The seas with swelling canvas cover’d o’er,
      And the swift ships descending on the shore.
      The Latians saw from far, with dazzled eyes,
      The radiant crest that seem’d in flames to rise,
      And dart diffusive fires around the field,
      And the keen glitt’ring of the golden shield.
      Thus threat’ning comets, when by night they rise,
      Shoot sanguine streams, and sadden all the skies:
      So Sirius, flashing forth sinister lights,
      Pale humankind with plagues and with dry famine fright:

      Yet Turnus with undaunted mind is bent
      To man the shores, and hinder their descent,
      And thus awakes the courage of his friends:
      “What you so long have wish’d, kind Fortune sends;
      In ardent arms to meet th’ invading foe:
      You find, and find him at advantage now.
      Yours is the day: you need but only dare;
      Your swords will make you masters of the war.
      Your sires, your sons, your houses, and your lands,
      And dearest wifes, are all within your hands.
      Be mindful of the race from whence you came,
      And emulate in arms your fathers’ fame.
      Now take the time, while stagg’ring yet they stand
      With feet unfirm, and prepossess the strand:
      Fortune befriends the bold.” Nor more he said,
      But balanc’d whom to leave, and whom to lead;
      Then these elects, the landing to prevent;
      And those he leaves, to keep the city pent.

      Meantime the Trojan sends his troops ashore:
      Some are by boats expos’d, by bridges more.
      With lab’ring oars they bear along the strand,
      Where the tide languishes, and leap a-land.
      Tarchon observes the coast with careful eyes,
      And, where no ford he finds, no water fries,
      Nor billows with unequal murmurs roar,
      But smoothly slide along, and swell the shore,
      That course he steer’d, and thus he gave command:
      “Here ply your oars, and at all hazard land:
      Force on the vessel, that her keel may wound
      This hated soil, and furrow hostile ground.
      Let me securely land—I ask no more;
      Then sink my ships, or shatter on the shore.”

      This fiery speech inflames his fearful friends:
      They tug at ev’ry oar, and ev’ry stretcher bends;
      They run their ships aground; the vessels knock,
      (Thus forc’d ashore,) and tremble with the shock.
      Tarchon’s alone was lost, that stranded stood,
      Stuck on a bank, and beaten by the flood:
      She breaks her back; the loosen’d sides give way,
      And plunge the Tuscan soldiers in the sea.
      Their broken oars and floating planks withstand
      Their passage, while they labour to the land,
      And ebbing tides bear back upon th’ uncertain sand.

      Now Turnus leads his troops without delay,
      Advancing to the margin of the sea.
      The trumpets sound: Aeneas first assail’d
      The clowns new-rais’d and raw, and soon prevail’d.
      Great Theron fell, an omen of the fight;
      Great Theron, large of limbs, of giant height.
      He first in open field defied the prince:
      But armour scal’d with gold was no defence
      Against the fated sword, which open’d wide
      His plated shield, and pierc’d his naked side.
      Next, Lichas fell, who, not like others born,
      Was from his wretched mother ripp’d and torn;
      Sacred, O Phoebus, from his birth to thee;
      For his beginning life from biting steel was free.
      Not far from him was Gyas laid along,
      Of monstrous bulk; with Cisseus fierce and strong:
      Vain bulk and strength! for, when the chief assail’d,
      Nor valour nor Herculean arms avail’d,
      Nor their fam’d father, wont in war to go
      With great Alcides, while he toil’d below.
      The noisy Pharos next receiv’d his death:
      Aeneas writh’d his dart, and stopp’d his bawling breath.
      Then wretched Cydon had receiv’d his doom,
      Who courted Clytius in his beardless bloom,
      And sought with lust obscene polluted joys:
      The Trojan sword had curd his love of boys,
      Had not his sev’n bold brethren stopp’d the course
      Of the fierce champions, with united force.
      Sev’n darts were thrown at once; and some rebound
      From his bright shield, some on his helmet sound:
      The rest had reach’d him; but his mother’s care
      Prevented those, and turn’d aside in air.

      The prince then call’d Achates, to supply
      The spears that knew the way to victory—
      “Those fatal weapons, which, inur’d to blood,
      In Grecian bodies under Ilium stood:
      Not one of those my hand shall toss in vain
      Against our foes, on this contended plain.”
      He said; then seiz’d a mighty spear, and threw;
      Which, wing’d with fate, thro’ Maeon’s buckler flew,
      Pierc’d all the brazen plates, and reach’d his heart:
      He stagger’d with intolerable smart.
      Alcanor saw; and reach’d, but reach’d in vain,
      His helping hand, his brother to sustain.
      A second spear, which kept the former course,
      From the same hand, and sent with equal force,
      His right arm pierc’d, and holding on, bereft
      His use of both, and pinion’d down his left.
      Then Numitor from his dead brother drew
      Th’ ill-omen’d spear, and at the Trojan threw:
      Preventing fate directs the lance awry,
      Which, glancing, only mark’d Achates’ thigh.

      In pride of youth the Sabine Clausus came,
      And, from afar, at Dryops took his aim.
      The spear flew hissing thro’ the middle space,
      And pierc’d his throat, directed at his face;
      It stopp’d at once the passage of his wind,
      And the free soul to flitting air resign’d:
      His forehead was the first that struck the ground;
      Lifeblood and life rush’d mingled thro’ the wound.
      He slew three brothers of the Borean race,
      And three, whom Ismarus, their native place,
      Had sent to war, but all the sons of Thrace.
      Halesus, next, the bold Aurunci leads:
      The son of Neptune to his aid succeeds,
      Conspicuous on his horse. On either hand,
      These fight to keep, and those to win, the land.
      With mutual blood th’ Ausonian soil is dyed,
      While on its borders each their claim decide.
      As wintry winds, contending in the sky,
      With equal force of lungs their titles try:
      They rage, they roar; the doubtful rack of heav’n
      Stands without motion, and the tide undriv’n:
      Each bent to conquer, neither side to yield,
      They long suspend the fortune of the field.
      Both armies thus perform what courage can;
      Foot set to foot, and mingled man to man.

      But, in another part, th’ Arcadian horse
      With ill success engage the Latin force:
      For, where th’ impetuous torrent, rushing down,
      Huge craggy stones and rooted trees had thrown,
      They left their coursers, and, unus’d to fight
      On foot, were scatter’d in a shameful flight.
      Pallas, who with disdain and grief had view’d
      His foes pursuing, and his friends pursued,
      Us’d threat’nings mix’d with pray’rs, his last resource,
      With these to move their minds, with those to fire their force
      “Which way, companions? whether would you run?
      By you yourselves, and mighty battles won,
      By my great sire, by his establish’d name,
      And early promise of my future fame;
      By my youth, emulous of equal right
      To share his honours—shun ignoble flight!
      Trust not your feet: your hands must hew way
      Thro’ yon black body, and that thick array:
      ’Tis thro’ that forward path that we must come;
      There lies our way, and that our passage home.
      Nor pow’rs above, nor destinies below
      Oppress our arms: with equal strength we go,
      With mortal hands to meet a mortal foe.
      See on what foot we stand: a scanty shore,
      The sea behind, our enemies before;
      No passage left, unless we swim the main;
      Or, forcing these, the Trojan trenches gain.”
      This said, he strode with eager haste along,
      And bore amidst the thickest of the throng.
      Lagus, the first he met, with fate to foe,
      Had heav’d a stone of mighty weight, to throw:
      Stooping, the spear descended on his chine,
      Just where the bone distinguished either loin:
      It stuck so fast, so deeply buried lay,
      That scarce the victor forc’d the steel away.
      Hisbon came on: but, while he mov’d too slow
      To wish’d revenge, the prince prevents his blow;
      For, warding his at once, at once he press’d,
      And plung’d the fatal weapon in his breast.
      Then lewd Anchemolus he laid in dust,
      Who stain’d his stepdam’s bed with impious lust.
      And, after him, the Daucian twins were slain,
      Laris and Thymbrus, on the Latian plain;
      So wondrous like in feature, shape, and size,
      As caus’d an error in their parents’ eyes—
      Grateful mistake! but soon the sword decides
      The nice distinction, and their fate divides:
      For Thymbrus’ head was lopp’d; and Laris’ hand,
      Dismember’d, sought its owner on the strand:
      The trembling fingers yet the falchion strain,
      And threaten still th’ intended stroke in vain.

      Now, to renew the charge, th’ Arcadians came:
      Sight of such acts, and sense of honest shame,
      And grief, with anger mix’d, their minds inflame.
      Then, with a casual blow was Rhoeteus slain,
      Who chanc’d, as Pallas threw, to cross the plain:
      The flying spear was after Ilus sent;
      But Rhoeteus happen’d on a death unmeant:
      From Teuthras and from Tyres while he fled,
      The lance, athwart his body, laid him dead:
      Roll’d from his chariot with a mortal wound,
      And intercepted fate, he spurn’d the ground.
      As when, in summer, welcome winds arise,
      The watchful shepherd to the forest flies,
      And fires the midmost plants; contagion spreads,
      And catching flames infect the neighb’ring heads;
      Around the forest flies the furious blast,
      And all the leafy nation sinks at last,
      And Vulcan rides in triumph o’er the waste;
      The pastor, pleas’d with his dire victory,
      Beholds the satiate flames in sheets ascend the sky:
      So Pallas’ troops their scatter’d strength unite,
      And, pouring on their foes, their prince delight.

      Halesus came, fierce with desire of blood;
      But first collected in his arms he stood:
      Advancing then, he plied the spear so well,
      Ladon, Demodocus, and Pheres fell.
      Around his head he toss’d his glitt’ring brand,
      And from Strymonius hew’d his better hand,
      Held up to guard his throat; then hurl’d a stone
      At Thoas’ ample front, and pierc’d the bone:
      It struck beneath the space of either eye;
      And blood, and mingled brains, together fly.
      Deep skill’d in future fates, Halesus’ sire
      Did with the youth to lonely groves retire:
      But, when the father’s mortal race was run,
      Dire destiny laid hold upon the son,
      And haul’d him to the war, to find, beneath
      Th’ Evandrian spear, a memorable death.
      Pallas th’ encounter seeks, but, ere he throws,
      To Tuscan Tiber thus address’d his vows:
      “O sacred stream, direct my flying dart,
      And give to pass the proud Halesus’ heart!
      His arms and spoils thy holy oak shall bear.”
      Pleas’d with the bribe, the god receiv’d his pray’r:
      For, while his shield protects a friend distress’d,
      The dart came driving on, and pierc’d his breast.

      But Lausus, no small portion of the war,
      Permits not panic fear to reign too far,
      Caus’d by the death of so renown’d a knight;
      But by his own example cheers the fight.
      Fierce Abas first he slew; Abas, the stay
      Of Trojan hopes, and hindrance of the day.
      The Phrygian troops escap’d the Greeks in vain:
      They, and their mix’d allies, now load the plain.
      To the rude shock of war both armies came;
      Their leaders equal, and their strength the same.
      The rear so press’d the front, they could not wield
      Their angry weapons, to dispute the field.
      Here Pallas urges on, and Lausus there:
      Of equal youth and beauty both appear,
      But both by fate forbid to breathe their native air.
      Their congress in the field great Jove withstands:
      Both doom’d to fall, but fall by greater hands.

      Meantime Juturna warns the Daunian chief
      Of Lausus’ danger, urging swift relief.
      With his driv’n chariot he divides the crowd,
      And, making to his friends, thus calls aloud:
      “Let none presume his needless aid to join;
      Retire, and clear the field; the fight is mine:
      To this right hand is Pallas only due;
      O were his father here, my just revenge to view!”
      From the forbidden space his men retir’d.
      Pallas their awe, and his stern words, admir’d;
      Survey’d him o’er and o’er with wond’ring sight,
      Struck with his haughty mien, and tow’ring height.
      Then to the king: “Your empty vaunts forbear;
      Success I hope, and fate I cannot fear;
      Alive or dead, I shall deserve a name;
      Jove is impartial, and to both the same.”
      He said, and to the void advanc’d his pace:
      Pale horror sate on each Arcadian face.
      Then Turnus, from his chariot leaping light,
      Address’d himself on foot to single fight.
      And, as a lion—when he spies from far
      A bull that seems to meditate the war,
      Bending his neck, and spurning back the sand—
      Runs roaring downward from his hilly stand:
      Imagine eager Turnus not more slow,
      To rush from high on his unequal foe.

      Young Pallas, when he saw the chief advance
      Within due distance of his flying lance,
      Prepares to charge him first, resolv’d to try
      If fortune would his want of force supply;
      And thus to Heav’n and Hercules address’d:
      “Alcides, once on earth Evander’s guest,
      His son adjures you by those holy rites,
      That hospitable board, those genial nights;
      Assist my great attempt to gain this prize,
      And let proud Turnus view, with dying eyes,
      His ravish’d spoils.” ’Twas heard, the vain request;
      Alcides mourn’d, and stifled sighs within his breast.
      Then Jove, to soothe his sorrow, thus began:
      “Short bounds of life are set to mortal man.
      ’Tis virtue’s work alone to stretch the narrow span.
      So many sons of gods, in bloody fight,
      Around the walls of Troy, have lost the light:
      My own Sarpedon fell beneath his foe;
      Nor I, his mighty sire, could ward the blow.
      Ev’n Turnus shortly shall resign his breath,
      And stands already on the verge of death.”
      This said, the god permits the fatal fight,
      But from the Latian fields averts his sight.

      Now with full force his spear young Pallas threw,
      And, having thrown, his shining falchion drew
      The steel just graz’d along the shoulder joint,
      And mark’d it slightly with the glancing point,
      Fierce Turnus first to nearer distance drew,
      And pois’d his pointed spear, before he threw:
      Then, as the winged weapon whizz’d along,
      “See now,” said he, “whose arm is better strung.”
      The spear kept on the fatal course, unstay’d
      By plates of ir’n, which o’er the shield were laid:
      Thro’ folded brass and tough bull hides it pass’d,
      His corslet pierc’d, and reach’d his heart at last.
      In vain the youth tugs at the broken wood;
      The soul comes issuing with the vital blood:
      He falls; his arms upon his body sound;
      And with his bloody teeth he bites the ground.

      Turnus bestrode the corpse: “Arcadians, hear,”
      Said he; “my message to your master bear:
      Such as the sire deserv’d, the son I send;
      It costs him dear to be the Phrygians’ friend.
      The lifeless body, tell him, I bestow,
      Unask’d, to rest his wand’ring ghost below.”
      He said, and trampled down with all the force
      Of his left foot, and spurn’d the wretched corse;
      Then snatch’d the shining belt, with gold inlaid;
      The belt Eurytion’s artful hands had made,
      Where fifty fatal brides, express’d to sight,
      All in the compass of one mournful night,
      Depriv’d their bridegrooms of returning light.

      In an ill hour insulting Turnus tore
      Those golden spoils, and in a worse he wore.
      O mortals, blind in fate, who never know
      To bear high fortune, or endure the low!
      The time shall come, when Turnus, but in vain,
      Shall wish untouch’d the trophies of the slain;
      Shall wish the fatal belt were far away,
      And curse the dire remembrance of the day.

      The sad Arcadians, from th’ unhappy field,
      Bear back the breathless body on a shield.
      O grace and grief of war! at once restor’d,
      With praises, to thy sire, at once deplor’d!
      One day first sent thee to the fighting field,
      Beheld whole heaps of foes in battle kill’d;
      One day beheld thee dead, and borne upon thy shield.
      This dismal news, not from uncertain fame,
      But sad spectators, to the hero came:
      His friends upon the brink of ruin stand,
      Unless reliev’d by his victorious hand.
      He whirls his sword around, without delay,
      And hews thro’ adverse foes an ample way,
      To find fierce Turnus, of his conquest proud:
      Evander, Pallas, all that friendship ow’d
      To large deserts, are present to his eyes;
      His plighted hand, and hospitable ties.

      Four sons of Sulmo, four whom Ufens bred,
      He took in fight, and living victims led,
      To please the ghost of Pallas, and expire,
      In sacrifice, before his fun’ral fire.
      At Magus next he threw: he stoop’d below
      The flying spear, and shunn’d the promis’d blow;
      Then, creeping, clasp’d the hero’s knees, and pray’d:
      “By young Iulus, by thy father’s shade,
      O spare my life, and send me back to see
      My longing sire, and tender progeny!
      A lofty house I have, and wealth untold,
      In silver ingots, and in bars of gold:
      All these, and sums besides, which see no day,
      The ransom of this one poor life shall pay.
      If I survive, will Troy the less prevail?
      A single soul’s too light to turn the scale.”
      He said. The hero sternly thus replied:
      “Thy bars and ingots, and the sums beside,
      Leave for thy children’s lot. Thy Turnus broke
      All rules of war by one relentless stroke,
      When Pallas fell: so deems, nor deems alone
      My father’s shadow, but my living son.”
      Thus having said, of kind remorse bereft,
      He seiz’d his helm, and dragg’d him with his left;
      Then with his right hand, while his neck he wreath’d,
      Up to the hilts his shining falchion sheath’d.

      Apollo’s priest, Emonides, was near;
      His holy fillets on his front appear;
      Glitt’ring in arms, he shone amidst the crowd;
      Much of his god, more of his purple, proud.
      Him the fierce Trojan follow’d thro’ the field:
      The holy coward fell; and, forc’d to yield,
      The prince stood o’er the priest, and, at one blow,
      Sent him an off’ring to the shades below.
      His arms Seresthus on his shoulders bears,
      Design’d a trophy to the God of Wars.

      Vulcanian Caeculus renews the fight,
      And Umbro, born upon the mountains’ height.
      The champion cheers his troops t’ encounter those,
      And seeks revenge himself on other foes.
      At Anxur’s shield he drove; and, at the blow,
      Both shield and arm to ground together go.
      Anxur had boasted much of magic charms,
      And thought he wore impenetrable arms,
      So made by mutter’d spells; and, from the spheres,
      Had life secur’d, in vain, for length of years.
      Then Tarquitus the field in triumph trod;
      A nymph his mother, his sire a god.
      Exulting in bright arms, he braves the prince:
      With his protended lance he makes defence;
      Bears back his feeble foe; then, pressing on,
      Arrests his better hand, and drags him down;
      Stands o’er the prostrate wretch, and, as he lay,
      Vain tales inventing, and prepar’d to pray,
      Mows off his head: the trunk a moment stood,
      Then sunk, and roll’d along the sand in blood.
      The vengeful victor thus upbraids the slain:
      “Lie there, proud man, unpitied, on the plain;
      Lie there, inglorious, and without a tomb,
      Far from thy mother and thy native home,
      Exposed to savage beasts, and birds of prey,
      Or thrown for food to monsters of the sea.”

      On Lycas and Antaeus next he ran,
      Two chiefs of Turnus, and who led his van.
      They fled for fear; with these, he chas’d along
      Camers the yellow-lock’d, and Numa strong;
      Both great in arms, and both were fair and young.
      Camers was son to Volscens lately slain,
      In wealth surpassing all the Latian train,
      And in Amycla fix’d his silent easy reign.
      And, as Aegaeon, when with heav’n he strove,
      Stood opposite in arms to mighty Jove;
      Mov’d all his hundred hands, provok’d the war,
      Defied the forky lightning from afar;
      At fifty mouths his flaming breath expires,
      And flash for flash returns, and fires for fires;
      In his right hand as many swords he wields,
      And takes the thunder on as many shields:
      With strength like his, the Trojan hero stood;
      And soon the fields with falling corps were strow’d,
      When once his falchion found the taste of blood.
      With fury scarce to be conceiv’d, he flew
      Against Niphaeus, whom four coursers drew.
      They, when they see the fiery chief advance,
      And pushing at their chests his pointed lance,
      Wheel’d with so swift a motion, mad with fear,
      They threw their master headlong from the chair.
      They stare, they start, nor stop their course, before
      They bear the bounding chariot to the shore.

      Now Lucagus and Liger scour the plains,
      With two white steeds; but Liger holds the reins,
      And Lucagus the lofty seat maintains:
      Bold brethren both. The former wav’d in air
      His flaming sword: Aeneas couch’d his spear,
      Unus’d to threats, and more unus’d to fear.
      Then Liger thus: “Thy confidence is vain
      To scape from hence, as from the Trojan plain:
      Nor these the steeds which Diomede bestrode,
      Nor this the chariot where Achilles rode;
      Nor Venus’ veil is here, near Neptune’s shield;
      Thy fatal hour is come, and this the field.”
      Thus Liger vainly vaunts: the Trojan peer
      Return’d his answer with his flying spear.
      As Lucagus, to lash his horses, bends,
      Prone to the wheels, and his left foot protends,
      Prepar’d for fight; the fatal dart arrives,
      And thro’ the borders of his buckler drives;
      Pass’d thro’ and pierc’d his groin: the deadly wound,
      Cast from his chariot, roll’d him on the ground.
      Whom thus the chief upbraids with scornful spite:
      “Blame not the slowness of your steeds in flight;
      Vain shadows did not force their swift retreat;
      But you yourself forsake your empty seat.”
      He said, and seiz’d at once the loosen’d rein;
      For Liger lay already on the plain,
      By the same shock: then, stretching out his hands,
      The recreant thus his wretched life demands:
      “Now, by thyself, O more than mortal man!
      By her and him from whom thy breath began,
      Who form’d thee thus divine, I beg thee, spare
      This forfeit life, and hear thy suppliant’s pray’r.”
      Thus much he spoke, and more he would have said;
      But the stern hero turn’d aside his head,
      And cut him short: “I hear another man;
      You talk’d not thus before the fight began.
      Now take your turn; and, as a brother should,
      Attend your brother to the Stygian flood.”
      Then thro’ his breast his fatal sword he sent,
      And the soul issued at the gaping vent.

      As storms the skies, and torrents tear the ground,
      Thus rag’d the prince, and scatter’d deaths around.
      At length Ascanius and the Trojan train
      Broke from the camp, so long besieg’d in vain.

      Meantime the King of Gods and Mortal Man
      Held conference with his queen, and thus began:
      “My sister goddess, and well-pleasing wife,
      Still think you Venus’ aid supports the strife—
      Sustains her Trojans—or themselves, alone,
      With inborn valour force their fortune on?
      How fierce in fight, with courage undecay’d!
      Judge if such warriors want immortal aid.”
      To whom the goddess with the charming eyes,
      Soft in her tone, submissively replies:
      “Why, O my sov’reign lord, whose frown I fear,
      And cannot, unconcern’d, your anger bear;
      Why urge you thus my grief? when, if I still
      (As once I was) were mistress of your will,
      From your almighty pow’r your pleasing wife
      Might gain the grace of length’ning Turnus’ life,
      Securely snatch him from the fatal fight,
      And give him to his aged father’s sight.
      Now let him perish, since you hold it good,
      And glut the Trojans with his pious blood.
      Yet from our lineage he derives his name,
      And, in the fourth degree, from god Pilumnus came;
      Yet he devoutly pays you rites divine,
      And offers daily incense at your shrine.”

      Then shortly thus the sov’reign god replied:
      “Since in my pow’r and goodness you confide,
      If for a little space, a lengthen’d span,
      You beg reprieve for this expiring man,
      I grant you leave to take your Turnus hence
      From instant fate, and can so far dispense.
      But, if some secret meaning lies beneath,
      To save the short-liv’d youth from destin’d death,
      Or if a farther thought you entertain,
      To change the fates; you feed your hopes in vain.”
      To whom the goddess thus, with weeping eyes:
      “And what if that request, your tongue denies,
      Your heart should grant; and not a short reprieve,
      But length of certain life, to Turnus give?
      Now speedy death attends the guiltless youth,
      If my presaging soul divines with truth;
      Which, O! I wish, might err thro’ causeless fears,
      And you (for you have pow’r) prolong his years!”

      Thus having said, involv’d in clouds, she flies,
      And drives a storm before her thro’ the skies.
      Swift she descends, alighting on the plain,
      Where the fierce foes a dubious fight maintain.
      Of air condens’d a spectre soon she made;
      And, what Aeneas was, such seem’d the shade.
      Adorn’d with Dardan arms, the phantom bore
      His head aloft; a plumy crest he wore;
      This hand appear’d a shining sword to wield,
      And that sustain’d an imitated shield.
      With manly mien he stalk’d along the ground,
      Nor wanted voice belied, nor vaunting sound.
      (Thus haunting ghosts appear to waking sight,
      Or dreadful visions in our dreams by night.)
      The spectre seems the Daunian chief to dare,
      And flourishes his empty sword in air.
      At this, advancing, Turnus hurl’d his spear:
      The phantom wheel’d, and seem’d to fly for fear.
      Deluded Turnus thought the Trojan fled,
      And with vain hopes his haughty fancy fed.
      “Whether, O coward?” (thus he calls aloud,
      Nor found he spoke to wind, and chas’d a cloud,)
      “Why thus forsake your bride! Receive from me
      The fated land you sought so long by sea.”
      He said, and, brandishing at once his blade,
      With eager pace pursued the flying shade.
      By chance a ship was fasten’d to the shore,
      Which from old Clusium King Osinius bore:
      The plank was ready laid for safe ascent;
      For shelter there the trembling shadow bent,
      And skipp’t and skulk’d, and under hatches went.
      Exulting Turnus, with regardless haste,
      Ascends the plank, and to the galley pass’d.
      Scarce had he reach’d the prow: Saturnia’s hand
      The haulsers cuts, and shoots the ship from land.
      With wind in poop, the vessel plows the sea,
      And measures back with speed her former way.
      Meantime Aeneas seeks his absent foe,
      And sends his slaughter’d troops to shades below.

      The guileful phantom now forsook the shroud,
      And flew sublime, and vanish’d in a cloud.
      Too late young Turnus the delusion found,
      Far on the sea, still making from the ground.
      Then, thankless for a life redeem’d by shame,
      With sense of honour stung, and forfeit fame,
      Fearful besides of what in fight had pass’d,
      His hands and haggard eyes to heav’n he cast;
      “O Jove!” he cried, “for what offence have I
      Deserv’d to bear this endless infamy?
      Whence am I forc’d, and whether am I borne?
      How, and with what reproach, shall I return?
      Shall ever I behold the Latian plain,
      Or see Laurentum’s lofty tow’rs again?
      What will they say of their deserting chief
      The war was mine: I fly from their relief;
      I led to slaughter, and in slaughter leave;
      And ev’n from hence their dying groans receive.
      Here, overmatch’d in fight, in heaps they lie;
      There, scatter’d o’er the fields, ignobly fly.
      Gape wide, O earth, and draw me down alive!
      Or, O ye pitying winds, a wretch relieve!
      On sands or shelves the splitting vessel drive;
      Or set me shipwreck’d on some desert shore,
      Where no Rutulian eyes may see me more,
      Unknown to friends, or foes, or conscious Fame,
      Lest she should follow, and my flight proclaim.”

      Thus Turnus rav’d, and various fates revolv’d:
      The choice was doubtful, but the death resolv’d.
      And now the sword, and now the sea took place,
      That to revenge, and this to purge disgrace.
      Sometimes he thought to swim the stormy main,
      By stretch of arms the distant shore to gain.
      Thrice he the sword assay’d, and thrice the flood;
      But Juno, mov’d with pity, both withstood.
      And thrice repress’d his rage; strong gales supplied,
      And push’d the vessel o’er the swelling tide.
      At length she lands him on his native shores,
      And to his father’s longing arms restores.

      Meantime, by Jove’s impulse, Mezentius arm’d,
      Succeeding Turnus, with his ardour warm’d
      His fainting friends, reproach’d their shameful flight,
      Repell’d the victors, and renew’d the fight.
      Against their king the Tuscan troops conspire;
      Such is their hate, and such their fierce desire
      Of wish’d revenge: on him, and him alone,
      All hands employ’d, and all their darts are thrown.
      He, like a solid rock by seas inclos’d,
      To raging winds and roaring waves oppos’d,
      From his proud summit looking down, disdains
      Their empty menace, and unmov’d remains.

      Beneath his feet fell haughty Hebrus dead,
      Then Latagus, and Palmus as he fled.
      At Latagus a weighty stone he flung:
      His face was flatted, and his helmet rung.
      But Palmus from behind receives his wound;
      Hamstring’d he falls, and grovels on the ground:
      His crest and armour, from his body torn,
      Thy shoulders, Lausus, and thy head adorn.
      Evas and Mimas, both of Troy, he slew.
      Mimas his birth from fair Theano drew,
      Born on that fatal night, when, big with fire,
      The queen produc’d young Paris to his sire:
      But Paris in the Phrygian fields was slain,
      Unthinking Mimas on the Latian plain.

      And, as a savage boar, on mountains bred,
      With forest mast and fatt’ning marshes fed,
      When once he sees himself in toils inclos’d,
      By huntsmen and their eager hounds oppos’d,
      He whets his tusks, and turns, and dares the war;
      Th’ invaders dart their jav’lins from afar:
      All keep aloof, and safely shout around;
      But none presumes to give a nearer wound:
      He frets and froths, erects his bristled hide,
      And shakes a grove of lances from his side:
      Not otherwise the troops, with hate inspir’d,
      And just revenge against the tyrant fir’d,
      Their darts with clamour at a distance drive,
      And only keep the languish’d war alive.

      From Coritus came Acron to the fight,
      Who left his spouse betroth’d, and unconsummate night.
      Mezentius sees him thro’ the squadrons ride,
      Proud of the purple favours of his bride.
      Then, as a hungry lion, who beholds
      A gamesome goat, who frisks about the folds,
      Or beamy stag, that grazes on the plain—
      He runs, he roars, he shakes his rising mane,
      He grins, and opens wide his greedy jaws;
      The prey lies panting underneath his paws:
      He fills his famish’d maw; his mouth runs o’er
      With unchew’d morsels, while he churns the gore:
      So proud Mezentius rushes on his foes,
      And first unhappy Acron overthrows:
      Stretch’d at his length, he spurns the swarthy ground;
      The lance, besmear’d with blood, lies broken in the wound.
      Then with disdain the haughty victor view’d
      Orodes flying, nor the wretch pursued,
      Nor thought the dastard’s back deserv’d a wound,
      But, running, gain’d th’ advantage of the ground:
      Then turning short, he met him face to face,
      To give his victory the better grace.
      Orodes falls, in equal fight oppress’d:
      Mezentius fix’d his foot upon his breast,
      And rested lance; and thus aloud he cries:
      “Lo! here the champion of my rebels lies!”
      The fields around with Io Paean! ring;
      And peals of shouts applaud the conqu’ring king.
      At this the vanquish’d, with his dying breath,
      Thus faintly spoke, and prophesied in death:
      “Nor thou, proud man, unpunish’d shalt remain:
      Like death attends thee on this fatal plain.”
      Then, sourly smiling, thus the king replied:
      “For what belongs to me, let Jove provide;
      But die thou first, whatever chance ensue.”
      He said, and from the wound the weapon drew.
      A hov’ring mist came swimming o’er his sight,
      And seal’d his eyes in everlasting night.

      By Caedicus, Alcathous was slain;
      Sacrator laid Hydaspes on the plain;
      Orses the strong to greater strength must yield;
      He, with Parthenius, were by Rapo kill’d.
      Then brave Messapus Ericetes slew,
      Who from Lycaon’s blood his lineage drew.
      But from his headstrong horse his fate he found,
      Who threw his master, as he made a bound:
      The chief, alighting, stuck him to the ground;
      Then Clonius, hand to hand, on foot assails:
      The Trojan sinks, and Neptune’s son prevails.
      Agis the Lycian, stepping forth with pride,
      To single fight the boldest foe defied;
      Whom Tuscan Valerus by force o’ercame,
      And not belied his mighty father’s fame.
      Salius to death the great Antronius sent:
      But the same fate the victor underwent,
      Slain by Nealces’ hand, well-skill’d to throw
      The flying dart, and draw the far-deceiving bow.

      Thus equal deaths are dealt with equal chance;
      By turns they quit their ground, by turns advance:
      Victors and vanquish’d, in the various field,
      Nor wholly overcome, nor wholly yield.
      The gods from heav’n survey the fatal strife,
      And mourn the miseries of human life.
      Above the rest, two goddesses appear
      Concern’d for each: here Venus, Juno there.
      Amidst the crowd, infernal Ate shakes
      Her scourge aloft, and crest of hissing snakes.

      Once more the proud Mezentius, with disdain,
      Brandish’d his spear, and rush’d into the plain,
      Where tow’ring in the midmost rank he stood,
      Like tall Orion stalking o’er the flood.
      (When with his brawny breast he cuts the waves,
      His shoulders scarce the topmost billow laves),
      Or like a mountain ash, whose roots are spread,
      Deep fix’d in earth; in clouds he hides his head.

      The Trojan prince beheld him from afar,
      And dauntless undertook the doubtful war.
      Collected in his strength, and like a rock,
      Pois’d on his base, Mezentius stood the shock.
      He stood, and, measuring first with careful eyes
      The space his spear could reach, aloud he cries:
      “My strong right hand, and sword, assist my stroke!
      (Those only gods Mezentius will invoke.)
      His armour, from the Trojan pirate torn,
      By my triumphant Lausus shall be worn.”
      He said; and with his utmost force he threw
      The massy spear, which, hissing as it flew,
      Reach’d the celestial shield, that stopp’d the course;
      But, glancing thence, the yet unbroken force
      Took a new bent obliquely, and betwixt
      The side and bowels fam’d Anthores fix’d.
      Anthores had from Argos travel’d far,
      Alcides’ friend, and brother of the war;
      Till, tir’d with toils, fair Italy he chose,
      And in Evander’s palace sought repose.
      Now, falling by another’s wound, his eyes
      He cast to heav’n, on Argos thinks, and dies.

      The pious Trojan then his jav’lin sent;
      The shield gave way; thro’ treble plates it went
      Of solid brass, of linen trebly roll’d,
      And three bull hides which round the buckler fold.
      All these it pass’d, resistless in the course,
      Transpierc’d his thigh, and spent its dying force.
      The gaping wound gush’d out a crimson flood.
      The Trojan, glad with sight of hostile blood,
      His falchion drew, to closer fight address’d,
      And with new force his fainting foe oppress’d.

      His father’s peril Lausus view’d with grief;
      He sigh’d, he wept, he ran to his relief.
      And here, heroic youth, ’tis here I must
      To thy immortal memory be just,
      And sing an act so noble and so new,
      Posterity will scarce believe ’tis true.
      Pain’d with his wound, and useless for the fight,
      The father sought to save himself by flight:
      Encumber’d, slow he dragg’d the spear along,
      Which pierc’d his thigh, and in his buckler hung.
      The pious youth, resolv’d on death, below
      The lifted sword springs forth to face the foe;
      Protects his parent, and prevents the blow.
      Shouts of applause ran ringing thro’ the field,
      To see the son the vanquish’d father shield.
      All, fir’d with gen’rous indignation, strive,
      And with a storm of darts to distance drive
      The Trojan chief, who, held at bay from far,
      On his Vulcanian orb sustain’d the war.

      As, when thick hail comes rattling in the wind,
      The plowman, passenger, and lab’ring hind
      For shelter to the neighb’ring covert fly,
      Or hous’d, or safe in hollow caverns lie;
      But, that o’erblown, when heav’n above ’em smiles,
      Return to travel, and renew their toils:
      Aeneas thus, o’erwhelmed on ev’ry side,
      The storm of darts, undaunted, did abide;
      And thus to Lausus loud with friendly threat’ning cried:
      “Why wilt thou rush to certain death, and rage
      In rash attempts, beyond thy tender age,
      Betray’d by pious love?” Nor, thus forborne,
      The youth desists, but with insulting scorn
      Provokes the ling’ring prince, whose patience, tir’d,
      Gave place; and all his breast with fury fir’d.
      For now the Fates prepar’d their sharpen’d shears;
      And lifted high the flaming sword appears,
      Which, full descending with a frightful sway,
      Thro’ shield and corslet forc’d th’ impetuous way,
      And buried deep in his fair bosom lay.
      The purple streams thro’ the thin armour strove,
      And drench’d th’ imbroider’d coat his mother wove;
      And life at length forsook his heaving heart,
      Loth from so sweet a mansion to depart.

      But when, with blood and paleness all o’erspread,
      The pious prince beheld young Lausus dead,
      He griev’d; he wept; the sight an image brought
      Of his own filial love, a sadly pleasing thought:
      Then stretch’d his hand to hold him up, and said:
      “Poor hapless youth! what praises can be paid
      To love so great, to such transcendent store
      Of early worth, and sure presage of more?
      Accept whate’er Aeneas can afford;
      Untouch’d thy arms, untaken be thy sword;
      And all that pleas’d thee living, still remain
      Inviolate, and sacred to the slain.
      Thy body on thy parents I bestow,
      To rest thy soul, at least, if shadows know,
      Or have a sense of human things below.
      There to thy fellow ghosts with glory tell:
      ‘’Twas by the great Aeneas hand I fell.’”
      With this, his distant friends he beckons near,
      Provokes their duty, and prevents their fear:
      Himself assists to lift him from the ground,
      With clotted locks, and blood that well’d from out the wound.

      Meantime, his father, now no father, stood,
      And wash’d his wounds by Tiber’s yellow flood:
      Oppress’d with anguish, panting, and o’erspent,
      His fainting limbs against an oak he leant.
      A bough his brazen helmet did sustain;
      His heavier arms lay scatter’d on the plain:
      A chosen train of youth around him stand;
      His drooping head was rested on his hand:
      His grisly beard his pensive bosom sought;
      And all on Lausus ran his restless thought.
      Careful, concern’d his danger to prevent,
      He much enquir’d, and many a message sent
      To warn him from the field—alas! in vain!
      Behold, his mournful followers bear him slain!
      O’er his broad shield still gush’d the yawning wound,
      And drew a bloody trail along the ground.
      Far off he heard their cries, far off divin’d
      The dire event, with a foreboding mind.
      With dust he sprinkled first his hoary head;
      Then both his lifted hands to heav’n he spread;
      Last, the dear corpse embracing, thus he said:
      “What joys, alas! could this frail being give,
      That I have been so covetous to live?
      To see my son, and such a son, resign
      His life, a ransom for preserving mine!
      And am I then preserv’d, and art thou lost?
      How much too dear has that redemption cost!
      ’Tis now my bitter banishment I feel:
      This is a wound too deep for time to heal.
      My guilt thy growing virtues did defame;
      My blackness blotted thy unblemish’d name.
      Chas’d from a throne, abandon’d, and exil’d
      For foul misdeeds, were punishments too mild:
      I ow’d my people these, and, from their hate,
      With less resentment could have borne my fate.
      And yet I live, and yet sustain the sight
      Of hated men, and of more hated light:
      But will not long.” With that he rais’d from ground
      His fainting limbs, that stagger’d with his wound;
      Yet, with a mind resolv’d, and unappall’d
      With pains or perils, for his courser call’d
      Well-mouth’d, well-manag’d, whom himself did dress
      With daily care, and mounted with success;
      His aid in arms, his ornament in peace.

      Soothing his courage with a gentle stroke,
      The steed seem’d sensible, while thus he spoke:
      “O Rhoebus, we have liv’d too long for me—
      If life and long were terms that could agree!
      This day thou either shalt bring back the head
      And bloody trophies of the Trojan dead;
      This day thou either shalt revenge my woe,
      For murder’d Lausus, on his cruel foe;
      Or, if inexorable fate deny
      Our conquest, with thy conquer’d master die:
      For, after such a lord, I rest secure,
      Thou wilt no foreign reins, or Trojan load endure.”
      He said; and straight th’ officious courser kneels,
      To take his wonted weight. His hands he fills
      With pointed jav’lins; on his head he lac’d
      His glitt’ring helm, which terribly was grac’d
      With waving horsehair, nodding from afar;
      Then spurr’d his thund’ring steed amidst the war.
      Love, anguish, wrath, and grief, to madness wrought,
      Despair, and secret shame, and conscious thought
      Of inborn worth, his lab’ring soul oppress’d,
      Roll’d in his eyes, and rag’d within his breast.
      Then loud he call’d Aeneas thrice by name:
      The loud repeated voice to glad Aeneas came.
      “Great Jove,” he said, “and the far-shooting god,
      Inspire thy mind to make thy challenge good!”
      He spoke no more; but hasten’d, void of fear,
      And threaten’d with his long protended spear.

      To whom Mezentius thus: “Thy vaunts are vain.
      My Lausus lies extended on the plain:
      He’s lost! thy conquest is already won;
      The wretched sire is murder’d in the son.
      Nor fate I fear, but all the gods defy.
      Forbear thy threats: my bus’ness is to die;
      But first receive this parting legacy.”
      He said; and straight a whirling dart he sent;
      Another after, and another went.
      Round in a spacious ring he rides the field,
      And vainly plies th’ impenetrable shield.
      Thrice rode he round; and thrice Aeneas wheel’d,
      Turn’d as he turn’d: the golden orb withstood
      The strokes, and bore about an iron wood.
      Impatient of delay, and weary grown,
      Still to defend, and to defend alone,
      To wrench the darts which in his buckler light,
      Urg’d and o’er-labour’d in unequal fight;
      At length resolv’d, he throws with all his force
      Full at the temples of the warrior horse.
      Just where the stroke was aim’d, th’ unerring spear
      Made way, and stood transfix’d thro’ either ear.
      Seiz’d with unwonted pain, surpris’d with fright,
      The wounded steed curvets, and, rais’d upright,
      Lights on his feet before; his hoofs behind
      Spring up in air aloft, and lash the wind.
      Down comes the rider headlong from his height:
      His horse came after with unwieldy weight,
      And, flound’ring forward, pitching on his head,
      His lord’s encumber’d shoulder overlaid.

      From either host, the mingled shouts and cries
      Of Trojans and Rutulians rend the skies.
      Aeneas, hast’ning, wav’d his fatal sword
      High o’er his head, with this reproachful word:
      “Now; where are now thy vaunts, the fierce disdain
      Of proud Mezentius, and the lofty strain?”

      Struggling, and wildly staring on the skies,
      With scarce recover’d sight he thus replies:
      “Why these insulting words, this waste of breath,
      To souls undaunted, and secure of death?
      ’Tis no dishonour for the brave to die,
      Nor came I here with hope of victory;
      Nor ask I life, nor fought with that design:
      As I had us’d my fortune, use thou thine.
      My dying son contracted no such band;
      The gift is hateful from his murd’rer’s hand.
      For this, this only favour let me sue,
      If pity can to conquer’d foes be due:
      Refuse it not; but let my body have
      The last retreat of humankind, a grave.
      Too well I know th’ insulting people’s hate;
      Protect me from their vengeance after fate:
      This refuge for my poor remains provide,
      And lay my much-lov’d Lausus by my side.”
      He said, and to the sword his throat applied.
      The crimson stream distain’d his arms around,
      And the disdainful soul came rushing thro’ the wound.



 BOOK XI

 THE ARGUMENT.


      Aeneas erects a trophy of the spoils of Mezentius, grants a truce
      for burying the dead, and sends home the body of Pallas with
      great solemnity. Latinus calls a council, to propose offers of
      peace to Aeneas; which occasions great animosity betwixt Turnus
      and Drances. In the mean time there is a sharp engagement of the
      horse; wherein Camilla signalizes herself, is killed, and the
      Latine troops are entirely defeated.


      Scarce had the rosy Morning rais’d her head
      Above the waves, and left her wat’ry bed;
      The pious chief, whom double cares attend
      For his unburied soldiers and his friend,
      Yet first to Heav’n perform’d a victor’s vows:
      He bar’d an ancient oak of all her boughs;
      Then on a rising ground the trunk he plac’d,
      Which with the spoils of his dead foe he grac’d.
      The coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn,
      Now on a naked snag in triumph borne,
      Was hung on high, and glitter’d from afar,
      A trophy sacred to the God of War.
      Above his arms, fix’d on the leafless wood,
      Appear’d his plumy crest, besmear’d with blood:
      His brazen buckler on the left was seen;
      Truncheons of shiver’d lances hung between;
      And on the right was placed his corslet, bor’d;
      And to the neck was tied his unavailing sword.

      A crowd of chiefs inclose the godlike man,
      Who thus, conspicuous in the midst, began:
      “Our toils, my friends, are crown’d with sure success;
      The greater part perform’d, achieve the less.
      Now follow cheerful to the trembling town;
      Press but an entrance, and presume it won.
      Fear is no more, for fierce Mezentius lies,
      As the first fruits of war, a sacrifice.
      Turnus shall fall extended on the plain,
      And, in this omen, is already slain.
      Prepar’d in arms, pursue your happy chance;
      That none unwarn’d may plead his ignorance,
      And I, at Heav’n’s appointed hour, may find
      Your warlike ensigns waving in the wind.
      Meantime the rites and fun’ral pomps prepare,
      Due to your dead companions of the war:
      The last respect the living can bestow,
      To shield their shadows from contempt below.
      That conquer’d earth be theirs, for which they fought,
      And which for us with their own blood they bought;
      But first the corpse of our unhappy friend
      To the sad city of Evander send,
      Who, not inglorious, in his age’s bloom,
      Was hurried hence by too severe a doom.”

      Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way,
      Where, new in death, lamented Pallas lay.
      Acoetes watch’d the corpse; whose youth deserv’d
      The father’s trust; and now the son he serv’d
      With equal faith, but less auspicious care.
      Th’ attendants of the slain his sorrow share.
      A troop of Trojans mix’d with these appear,
      And mourning matrons with dishevel’d hair.
      Soon as the prince appears, they raise a cry;
      All beat their breasts, and echoes rend the sky.
      They rear his drooping forehead from the ground;
      But, when Aeneas view’d the grisly wound
      Which Pallas in his manly bosom bore,
      And the fair flesh distain’d with purple gore;
      First, melting into tears, the pious man
      Deplor’d so sad a sight, then thus began:
      “Unhappy youth! when Fortune gave the rest
      Of my full wishes, she refus’d the best!
      She came; but brought not thee along, to bless
      My longing eyes, and share in my success:
      She grudg’d thy safe return, the triumphs due
      To prosp’rous valour, in the public view.
      Not thus I promis’d, when thy father lent
      Thy needless succour with a sad consent;
      Embrac’d me, parting for th’ Etrurian land,
      And sent me to possess a large command.
      He warn’d, and from his own experience told,
      Our foes were warlike, disciplin’d, and bold.
      And now perhaps, in hopes of thy return,
      Rich odors on his loaded altars burn,
      While we, with vain officious pomp, prepare
      To send him back his portion of the war,
      A bloody breathless body, which can owe
      No farther debt, but to the pow’rs below.
      The wretched father, ere his race is run,
      Shall view the fun’ral honours of his son.
      These are my triumphs of the Latian war,
      Fruits of my plighted faith and boasted care!
      And yet, unhappy sire, thou shalt not see
      A son whose death disgrac’d his ancestry;
      Thou shalt not blush, old man, however griev’d:
      Thy Pallas no dishonest wound receiv’d.
      He died no death to make thee wish, too late,
      Thou hadst not liv’d to see his shameful fate:
      But what a champion has th’ Ausonian coast,
      And what a friend hast thou, Ascanius, lost!”

      Thus having mourn’d, he gave the word around,
      To raise the breathless body from the ground;
      And chose a thousand horse, the flow’r of all
      His warlike troops, to wait the funeral,
      To bear him back and share Evander’s grief:
      A well-becoming, but a weak relief.
      Of oaken twigs they twist an easy bier,
      Then on their shoulders the sad burden rear.
      The body on this rural hearse is borne:
      Strew’d leaves and funeral greens the bier adorn.
      All pale he lies, and looks a lovely flow’r,
      New cropp’d by virgin hands, to dress the bow’r:
      Unfaded yet, but yet unfed below,
      No more to mother earth or the green stern shall owe.
      Then two fair vests, of wondrous work and cost,
      Of purple woven, and with gold emboss’d,
      For ornament the Trojan hero brought,
      Which with her hands Sidonian Dido wrought.
      One vest array’d the corpse; and one they spread
      O’er his clos’d eyes, and wrapp’d around his head,
      That, when the yellow hair in flame should fall,
      The catching fire might burn the golden caul.
      Besides, the spoils of foes in battle slain,
      When he descended on the Latian plain;
      Arms, trappings, horses, by the hearse are led
      In long array—th’ achievements of the dead.
      Then, pinion’d with their hands behind, appear
      Th’ unhappy captives, marching in the rear,
      Appointed off’rings in the victor’s name,
      To sprinkle with their blood the fun’ral flame.
      Inferior trophies by the chiefs are borne;
      Gauntlets and helms their loaded hands adorn;
      And fair inscriptions fix’d, and titles read
      Of Latian leaders conquer’d by the dead.

      Acoetes on his pupil’s corpse attends,
      With feeble steps, supported by his friends.
      Pausing at ev’ry pace, in sorrow drown’d,
      Betwixt their arms he sinks upon the ground;
      Where grov’ling while he lies in deep despair,
      He beats his breast, and rends his hoary hair.
      The champion’s chariot next is seen to roll,
      Besmear’d with hostile blood, and honourably foul.
      To close the pomp, Aethon, the steed of state,
      Is led, the fun’rals of his lord to wait.
      Stripp’d of his trappings, with a sullen pace
      He walks; and the big tears run rolling down his face.
      The lance of Pallas, and the crimson crest,
      Are borne behind: the victor seiz’d the rest.
      The march begins: the trumpets hoarsely sound;
      The pikes and lances trail along the ground.
      Thus while the Trojan and Arcadian horse
      To Pallantean tow’rs direct their course,
      In long procession rank’d, the pious chief
      Stopp’d in the rear, and gave a vent to grief:
      “The public care,” he said, “which war attends,
      Diverts our present woes, at least suspends.
      Peace with the manes of great Pallas dwell!
      Hail, holy relics! and a last farewell!”
      He said no more, but, inly thro’ he mourn’d,
      Restrained his tears, and to the camp return’d.

      Now suppliants, from Laurentum sent, demand
      A truce, with olive branches in their hand;
      Obtest his clemency, and from the plain
      Beg leave to draw the bodies of their slain.
      They plead, that none those common rites deny
      To conquer’d foes that in fair battle die.
      All cause of hate was ended in their death;
      Nor could he war with bodies void of breath.
      A king, they hop’d, would hear a king’s request,
      Whose son he once was call’d, and once his guest.

      Their suit, which was too just to be denied,
      The hero grants, and farther thus replied:
      “O Latian princes, how severe a fate
      In causeless quarrels has involv’d your state,
      And arm’d against an unoffending man,
      Who sought your friendship ere the war began!
      You beg a truce, which I would gladly give,
      Not only for the slain, but those who live.
      I came not hither but by Heav’n’s command,
      And sent by fate to share the Latian land.
      Nor wage I wars unjust: your king denied
      My proffer’d friendship, and my promis’d bride;
      Left me for Turnus. Turnus then should try
      His cause in arms, to conquer or to die.
      My right and his are in dispute: the slain
      Fell without fault, our quarrel to maintain.
      In equal arms let us alone contend;
      And let him vanquish, whom his fates befriend.
      This is the way (so tell him) to possess
      The royal virgin, and restore the peace.
      Bear this message back, with ample leave,
      That your slain friends may fun’ral rites receive.”

      Thus having said—th’ embassadors, amaz’d,
      Stood mute a while, and on each other gaz’d.
      Drances, their chief, who harbour’d in his breast
      Long hate to Turnus, as his foe profess’d,
      Broke silence first, and to the godlike man,
      With graceful action bowing, thus began:
      “Auspicious prince, in arms a mighty name,
      But yet whose actions far transcend your fame;
      Would I your justice or your force express,
      Thought can but equal; and all words are less.
      Your answer we shall thankfully relate,
      And favours granted to the Latian state.
      If wish’d success our labour shall attend,
      Think peace concluded, and the king your friend:
      Let Turnus leave the realm to your command,
      And seek alliance in some other land:
      Build you the city which your fates assign;
      We shall be proud in the great work to join.”

      Thus Drances; and his words so well persuade
      The rest impower’d, that soon a truce is made.
      Twelve days the term allow’d: and, during those,
      Latians and Trojans, now no longer foes,
      Mix’d in the woods, for fun’ral piles prepare
      To fell the timber, and forget the war.
      Loud axes thro’ the groaning groves resound;
      Oak, mountain ash, and poplar spread the ground;
      First fall from high; and some the trunks receive
      In loaden wains; with wedges some they cleave.

      And now the fatal news by Fame is blown
      Thro’ the short circuit of th’ Arcadian town,
      Of Pallas slain—by Fame, which just before
      His triumphs on distended pinions bore.
      Rushing from out the gate, the people stand,
      Each with a fun’ral flambeau in his hand.
      Wildly they stare, distracted with amaze:
      The fields are lighten’d with a fiery blaze,
      That cast a sullen splendour on their friends,
      The marching troop which their dead prince attends.
      Both parties meet: they raise a doleful cry;
      The matrons from the walls with shrieks reply,
      And their mix’d mourning rends the vaulted sky.
      The town is fill’d with tumult and with tears,
      Till the loud clamours reach Evander’s ears:
      Forgetful of his state, he runs along,
      With a disorder’d pace, and cleaves the throng;
      Falls on the corpse; and groaning there he lies,
      With silent grief, that speaks but at his eyes.
      Short sighs and sobs succeed; till sorrow breaks
      A passage, and at once he weeps and speaks:

      “O Pallas! thou hast fail’d thy plighted word,
      To fight with caution, not to tempt the sword!
      I warn’d thee, but in vain; for well I knew
      What perils youthful ardour would pursue,
      That boiling blood would carry thee too far,
      Young as thou wert in dangers, raw to war!
      O curst essay of arms, disastrous doom,
      Prelude of bloody fields, and fights to come!
      Hard elements of unauspicious war,
      Vain vows to Heav’n, and unavailing care!
      Thrice happy thou, dear partner of my bed,
      Whose holy soul the stroke of Fortune fled,
      Prescious of ills, and leaving me behind,
      To drink the dregs of life by fate assign’d!
      Beyond the goal of nature I have gone:
      My Pallas late set out, but reach’d too soon.
      If, for my league against th’ Ausonian state,
      Amidst their weapons I had found my fate,
      (Deserv’d from them,) then I had been return’d
      A breathless victor, and my son had mourn’d.
      Yet will I not my Trojan friend upbraid,
      Nor grudge th’ alliance I so gladly made.
      ’Twas not his fault, my Pallas fell so young,
      But my own crime, for having liv’d too long.
      Yet, since the gods had destin’d him to die,
      At least he led the way to victory:
      First for his friends he won the fatal shore,
      And sent whole herds of slaughter’d foes before;
      A death too great, too glorious to deplore.
      Nor will I add new honours to thy grave,
      Content with those the Trojan hero gave:
      That funeral pomp thy Phrygian friends design’d,
      In which the Tuscan chiefs and army join’d.
      Great spoils and trophies, gain’d by thee, they bear:
      Then let thy own achievements be thy share.
      Even thou, O Turnus, hadst a trophy stood,
      Whose mighty trunk had better grac’d the wood,
      If Pallas had arriv’d, with equal length
      Of years, to match thy bulk with equal strength.
      But why, unhappy man, dost thou detain
      These troops, to view the tears thou shedd’st in vain?
      Go, friends, this message to your lord relate:
      Tell him, that, if I bear my bitter fate,
      And, after Pallas’ death, live ling’ring on,
      ’Tis to behold his vengeance for my son.
      I stay for Turnus, whose devoted head
      Is owing to the living and the dead.
      My son and I expect it from his hand;
      ’Tis all that he can give, or we demand.
      Joy is no more; but I would gladly go,
      To greet my Pallas with such news below.”

      The morn had now dispell’d the shades of night,
      Restoring toils, when she restor’d the light.
      The Trojan king and Tuscan chief command
      To raise the piles along the winding strand.
      Their friends convey the dead fun’ral fires;
      Black smould’ring smoke from the green wood expires;
      The light of heav’n is chok’d, and the new day retires.
      Then thrice around the kindled piles they go
      (For ancient custom had ordain’d it so)
      Thrice horse and foot about the fires are led;
      And thrice, with loud laments, they hail the dead.
      Tears, trickling down their breasts, bedew the ground,
      And drums and trumpets mix their mournful sound.
      Amid the blaze, their pious brethren throw
      The spoils, in battle taken from the foe:
      Helms, bits emboss’d, and swords of shining steel;
      One casts a target, one a chariot wheel;
      Some to their fellows their own arms restore:
      The falchions which in luckless fight they bore,
      Their bucklers pierc’d, their darts bestow’d in vain,
      And shiver’d lances gather’d from the plain.
      Whole herds of offer’d bulls, about the fire,
      And bristled boars, and woolly sheep expire.
      Around the piles a careful troop attends,
      To watch the wasting flames, and weep their burning friends;
      Ling’ring along the shore, till dewy night
      New decks the face of heav’n with starry light.

      The conquer’d Latians, with like pious care,
      Piles without number for their dead prepare.
      Part in the places where they fell are laid;
      And part are to the neighb’ring fields convey’d.
      The corps of kings, and captains of renown,
      Borne off in state, are buried in the town;
      The rest, unhonour’d, and without a name,
      Are cast a common heap to feed the flame.
      Trojans and Latians vie with like desires
      To make the field of battle shine with fires,
      And the promiscuous blaze to heav’n aspires.

      Now had the morning thrice renew’d the light,
      And thrice dispell’d the shadows of the night,
      When those who round the wasted fires remain,
      Perform the last sad office to the slain.
      They rake the yet warm ashes from below;
      These, and the bones unburn’d, in earth bestow;
      These relics with their country rites they grace,
      And raise a mount of turf to mark the place.

      But, in the palace of the king, appears
      A scene more solemn, and a pomp of tears.
      Maids, matrons, widows, mix their common moans;
      Orphans their sires, and sires lament their sons.
      All in that universal sorrow share,
      And curse the cause of this unhappy war:
      A broken league, a bride unjustly sought,
      A crown usurp’d, which with their blood is bought!
      These are the crimes with which they load the name
      Of Turnus, and on him alone exclaim:
      “Let him who lords it o’er th’ Ausonian land
      Engage the Trojan hero hand to hand:
      His is the gain; our lot is but to serve;
      ’Tis just, the sway he seeks, he should deserve.”
      This Drances aggravates; and adds, with spite:
      “His foe expects, and dares him to the fight.”
      Nor Turnus wants a party, to support
      His cause and credit in the Latian court.
      His former acts secure his present fame,
      And the queen shades him with her mighty name.

      While thus their factious minds with fury burn,
      The legates from th’ Aetolian prince return:
      Sad news they bring, that, after all the cost
      And care employ’d, their embassy is lost;
      That Diomedes refus’d his aid in war,
      Unmov’d with presents, and as deaf to pray’r.
      Some new alliance must elsewhere be sought,
      Or peace with Troy on hard conditions bought.

      Latinus, sunk in sorrow, finds too late,
      A foreign son is pointed out by fate;
      And, till Aeneas shall Lavinia wed,
      The wrath of Heav’n is hov’ring o’er his head.
      The gods, he saw, espous’d the juster side,
      When late their titles in the field were tried:
      Witness the fresh laments, and fun’ral tears undried.
      Thus, full of anxious thought, he summons all
      The Latian senate to the council hall.
      The princes come, commanded by their head,
      And crowd the paths that to the palace lead.
      Supreme in pow’r, and reverenc’d for his years,
      He takes the throne, and in the midst appears.
      Majestically sad, he sits in state,
      And bids his envoys their success relate.

      When Venulus began, the murmuring sound
      Was hush’d, and sacred silence reign’d around.
      “We have,” said he, “perform’d your high command,
      And pass’d with peril a long tract of land:
      We reach’d the place desir’d; with wonder fill’d,
      The Grecian tents and rising tow’rs beheld.
      Great Diomede has compass’d round with walls
      The city, which Argyripa he calls,
      From his own Argos nam’d. We touch’d, with joy,
      The royal hand that raz’d unhappy Troy.
      When introduc’d, our presents first we bring,
      Then crave an instant audience from the king.
      His leave obtain’d, our native soil we name,
      And tell th’ important cause for which we came.
      Attentively he heard us, while we spoke;
      Then, with soft accents, and a pleasing look,
      Made this return: ‘Ausonian race, of old
      Renown’d for peace, and for an age of gold,
      What madness has your alter’d minds possess’d,
      To change for war hereditary rest,
      Solicit arms unknown, and tempt the sword,
      A needless ill your ancestors abhorr’d?
      We—for myself I speak, and all the name
      Of Grecians, who to Troy’s destruction came,
      (Omitting those who were in battle slain,
      Or borne by rolling Simois to the main)
      Not one but suffer’d, and too dearly bought
      The prize of honour which in arms he sought;
      Some doom’d to death, and some in exile driv’n.
      Outcasts, abandon’d by the care of Heav’n;
      So worn, so wretched, so despis’d a crew,
      As ev’n old Priam might with pity view.
      Witness the vessels by Minerva toss’d
      In storms; the vengeful Capharean coast;
      Th’ Euboean rocks! the prince, whose brother led
      Our armies to revenge his injur’d bed,
      In Egypt lost! Ulysses with his men
      Have seen Charybdis and the Cyclops’ den.
      Why should I name Idomeneus, in vain
      Restor’d to scepters, and expell’d again?
      Or young Achilles, by his rival slain?
      Ev’n he, the King of Men, the foremost name
      Of all the Greeks, and most renown’d by fame,
      The proud revenger of another’s wife,
      Yet by his own adult’ress lost his life;
      Fell at his threshold; and the spoils of Troy
      The foul polluters of his bed enjoy.
      The gods have envied me the sweets of life,
      My much lov’d country, and my more lov’d wife:
      Banish’d from both, I mourn; while in the sky,
      Transform’d to birds, my lost companions fly:
      Hov’ring about the coasts, they make their moan,
      And cuff the cliffs with pinions not their own.
      What squalid spectres, in the dead of night,
      Break my short sleep, and skim before my sight!
      I might have promis’d to myself those harms,
      Mad as I was, when I, with mortal arms,
      Presum’d against immortal pow’rs to move,
      And violate with wounds the Queen of Love.
      Such arms this hand shall never more employ;
      No hate remains with me to ruin’d Troy.
      I war not with its dust; nor am I glad
      To think of past events, or good or bad.
      Your presents I return: whate’er you bring
      To buy my friendship, send the Trojan king.
      We met in fight; I know him, to my cost:
      With what a whirling force his lance he toss’d!
      Heav’ns! what a spring was in his arm, to throw!
      How high he held his shield, and rose at ev’ry blow!
      Had Troy produc’d two more his match in might,
      They would have chang’d the fortune of the fight:
      Th’ invasion of the Greeks had been return’d,
      Our empire wasted, and our cities burn’d.
      The long defence the Trojan people made,
      The war protracted, and the siege delay’d,
      Were due to Hector’s and this hero’s hand:
      Both brave alike, and equal in command;
      Aeneas, not inferior in the field,
      In pious reverence to the gods excell’d.
      Make peace, ye Latians, and avoid with care
      Th’ impending dangers of a fatal war.’
      He said no more; but, with this cold excuse,
      Refus’d th’ alliance, and advis’d a truce.”

      Thus Venulus concluded his report.
      A jarring murmur fill’d the factious court:
      As, when a torrent rolls with rapid force,
      And dashes o’er the stones that stop the course,
      The flood, constrain’d within a scanty space,
      Roars horrible along th’ uneasy race;
      White foam in gath’ring eddies floats around;
      The rocky shores rebellow to the sound.

      The murmur ceas’d: then from his lofty throne
      The king invok’d the gods, and thus begun:
      “I wish, ye Latins, what we now debate
      Had been resolv’d before it was too late.
      Much better had it been for you and me,
      Unforc’d by this our last necessity,
      To have been earlier wise, than now to call
      A council, when the foe surrounds the wall.
      O citizens, we wage unequal war,
      With men not only Heav’n’s peculiar care,
      But Heav’n’s own race; unconquer’d in the field,
      Or, conquer’d, yet unknowing how to yield.
      What hopes you had in Diomedes, lay down:
      Our hopes must centre on ourselves alone.
      Yet those how feeble, and, indeed, how vain,
      You see too well; nor need my words explain.
      Vanquish’d without resource; laid flat by fate;
      Factions within, a foe without the gate!
      Not but I grant that all perform’d their parts
      With manly force, and with undaunted hearts:
      With our united strength the war we wag’d;
      With equal numbers, equal arms, engag’d.
      You see th’ event.—Now hear what I propose,
      To save our friends, and satisfy our foes.
      A tract of land the Latins have possess’d
      Along the Tiber, stretching to the west,
      Which now Rutulians and Auruncans till,
      And their mix’d cattle graze the fruitful hill.
      Those mountains fill’d with firs, that lower land,
      If you consent, the Trojan shall command,
      Call’d into part of what is ours; and there,
      On terms agreed, the common country share.
      There let them build and settle, if they please;
      Unless they choose once more to cross the seas,
      In search of seats remote from Italy,
      And from unwelcome inmates set us free.
      Then twice ten galleys let us build with speed,
      Or twice as many more, if more they need.
      Materials are at hand; a well-grown wood
      Runs equal with the margin of the flood:
      Let them the number and the form assign;
      The care and cost of all the stores be mine.
      To treat the peace, a hundred senators
      Shall be commission’d hence with ample pow’rs,
      With olive the presents they shall bear,
      A purple robe, a royal iv’ry chair,
      And all the marks of sway that Latian monarchs wear,
      And sums of gold. Among yourselves debate
      This great affair, and save the sinking state.”

      Then Drances took the word, who grudg’d, long since,
      The rising glories of the Daunian prince.
      Factious and rich, bold at the council board,
      But cautious in the field, he shunn’d the sword;
      A close caballer, and tongue-valiant lord.
      Noble his mother was, and near the throne;
      But, what his father’s parentage, unknown.
      He rose, and took th’ advantage of the times,
      To load young Turnus with invidious crimes.
      “Such truths, O king,” said he, “your words contain,
      As strike the sense, and all replies are vain;
      Nor are your loyal subjects now to seek
      What common needs require, but fear to speak.
      Let him give leave of speech, that haughty man,
      Whose pride this unauspicious war began;
      For whose ambition (let me dare to say,
      Fear set apart, tho’ death is in my way)
      The plains of Latium run with blood around.
      So many valiant heroes bite the ground;
      Dejected grief in ev’ry face appears;
      A town in mourning, and a land in tears;
      While he, th’ undoubted author of our harms,
      The man who menaces the gods with arms,
      Yet, after all his boasts, forsook the fight,
      And sought his safety in ignoble flight.
      Now, best of kings, since you propose to send
      Such bounteous presents to your Trojan friend;
      Add yet a greater at our joint request,
      One which he values more than all the rest:
      Give him the fair Lavinia for his bride;
      With that alliance let the league be tied,
      And for the bleeding land a lasting peace provide.
      Let insolence no longer awe the throne;
      But, with a father’s right, bestow your own.
      For this maligner of the general good,
      If still we fear his force, he must be woo’d;
      His haughty godhead we with pray’rs implore,
      Your scepter to release, and our just rights restore.
      O cursed cause of all our ills, must we
      Wage wars unjust, and fall in fight, for thee!
      What right hast thou to rule the Latian state,
      And send us out to meet our certain fate?
      ’Tis a destructive war: from Turnus’ hand
      Our peace and public safety we demand.
      Let the fair bride to the brave chief remain;
      If not, the peace, without the pledge, is vain.
      Turnus, I know you think me not your friend,
      Nor will I much with your belief contend:
      I beg your greatness not to give the law
      In others’ realms, but, beaten, to withdraw.
      Pity your own, or pity our estate;
      Nor twist our fortunes with your sinking fate.
      Your interest is, the war should never cease;
      But we have felt enough to wish the peace:
      A land exhausted to the last remains,
      Depopulated towns, and driven plains.
      Yet, if desire of fame, and thirst of pow’r,
      A beauteous princess, with a crown in dow’r,
      So fire your mind, in arms assert your right,
      And meet your foe, who dares you to the fight.
      Mankind, it seems, is made for you alone;
      We, but the slaves who mount you to the throne:
      A base ignoble crowd, without a name,
      Unwept, unworthy, of the fun’ral flame,
      By duty bound to forfeit each his life,
      That Turnus may possess a royal wife.
      Permit not, mighty man, so mean a crew
      Should share such triumphs, and detain from you
      The post of honour, your undoubted due.
      Rather alone your matchless force employ,
      To merit what alone you must enjoy.”

      These words, so full of malice mix’d with art,
      Inflam’d with rage the youthful hero’s heart.
      Then, groaning from the bottom of his breast,
      He heav’d for wind, and thus his wrath express’d:
      “You, Drances, never want a stream of words,
      Then, when the public need requires our swords.
      First in the council hall to steer the state,
      And ever foremost in a tongue-debate,
      While our strong walls secure us from the foe,
      Ere yet with blood our ditches overflow:
      But let the potent orator declaim,
      And with the brand of coward blot my name;
      Free leave is giv’n him, when his fatal hand
      Has cover’d with more corps the sanguine strand,
      And high as mine his tow’ring trophies stand.
      If any doubt remains, who dares the most,
      Let us decide it at the Trojan’s cost,
      And issue both abreast, where honour calls—
      (Foes are not far to seek without the walls)
      Unless his noisy tongue can only fight,
      And feet were giv’n him but to speed his flight.
      I beaten from the field? I forc’d away?
      Who, but so known a dastard, dares to say?
      Had he but ev’n beheld the fight, his eyes
      Had witness’d for me what his tongue denies:
      What heaps of Trojans by this hand were slain,
      And how the bloody Tiber swell’d the main.
      All saw, but he, th’ Arcadian troops retire
      In scatter’d squadrons, and their prince expire.
      The giant brothers, in their camp, have found,
      I was not forc’d with ease to quit my ground.
      Not such the Trojans tried me, when, inclos’d,
      I singly their united arms oppos’d:
      First forc’d an entrance thro’ their thick array;
      Then, glutted with their slaughter, freed my way.
      ’Tis a destructive war? So let it be,
      But to the Phrygian pirate, and to thee!
      Meantime proceed to fill the people’s ears
      With false reports, their minds with panic fears:
      Extol the strength of a twice-conquer’d race;
      Our foes encourage, and our friends debase.
      Believe thy fables, and the Trojan town
      Triumphant stands; the Grecians are o’erthrown;
      Suppliant at Hector’s feet Achilles lies,
      And Diomede from fierce Aeneas flies.
      Say rapid Aufidus with awful dread
      Runs backward from the sea, and hides his head,
      When the great Trojan on his bank appears;
      For that’s as true as thy dissembled fears
      Of my revenge. Dismiss that vanity:
      Thou, Drances, art below a death from me.
      Let that vile soul in that vile body rest;
      The lodging is well worthy of the guest.

      “Now, royal father, to the present state
      Of our affairs, and of this high debate:
      If in your arms thus early you diffide,
      And think your fortune is already tried;
      If one defeat has brought us down so low,
      As never more in fields to meet the foe;
      Then I conclude for peace: ’tis time to treat,
      And lie like vassals at the victor’s feet.
      But, O! if any ancient blood remains,
      One drop of all our fathers’, in our veins,
      That man would I prefer before the rest,
      Who dar’d his death with an undaunted breast;
      Who comely fell, by no dishonest wound,
      To shun that sight, and, dying, gnaw’d the ground.
      But, if we still have fresh recruits in store,
      If our confederates can afford us more;
      If the contended field we bravely fought,
      And not a bloodless victory was bought;
      Their losses equal’d ours; and, for their slain,
      With equal fires they fill’d the shining plain;
      Why thus, unforc’d, should we so tamely yield,
      And, ere the trumpet sounds, resign the field?
      Good unexpected, evils unforeseen,
      Appear by turns, as fortune shifts the scene:
      Some, rais’d aloft, come tumbling down amain;
      Then fall so hard, they bound and rise again.
      If Diomede refuse his aid to lend,
      The great Messapus yet remains our friend:
      Tolumnius, who foretells events, is ours;
      Th’ Italian chiefs and princes join their pow’rs:
      Nor least in number, nor in name the last,
      Your own brave subjects have your cause embrac’d
      Above the rest, the Volscian Amazon
      Contains an army in herself alone,
      And heads a squadron, terrible to sight,
      With glitt’ring shields, in brazen armour bright.
      Yet, if the foe a single fight demand,
      And I alone the public peace withstand;
      If you consent, he shall not be refus’d,
      Nor find a hand to victory unus’d.
      This new Achilles, let him take the field,
      With fated armour, and Vulcanian shield!
      For you, my royal father, and my fame,
      I, Turnus, not the least of all my name,
      Devote my soul. He calls me hand to hand,
      And I alone will answer his demand.
      Drances shall rest secure, and neither share
      The danger, nor divide the prize of war.”

      While they debate, nor these nor those will yield,
      Aeneas draws his forces to the field,
      And moves his camp. The scouts with flying speed
      Return, and thro’ the frighted city spread
      Th’ unpleasing news, the Trojans are descried,
      In battle marching by the river side,
      And bending to the town. They take th’ alarm:
      Some tremble, some are bold; all in confusion arm.
      Th’ impetuous youth press forward to the field;
      They clash the sword, and clatter on the shield:
      The fearful matrons raise a screaming cry;
      Old feeble men with fainter groans reply;
      A jarring sound results, and mingles in the sky,
      Like that of swans remurm’ring to the floods,
      Or birds of diff’ring kinds in hollow woods.

      Turnus th’ occasion takes, and cries aloud:
      “Talk on, ye quaint haranguers of the crowd:
      Declaim in praise of peace, when danger calls,
      And the fierce foes in arms approach the walls.”
      He said, and, turning short, with speedy pace,
      Casts back a scornful glance, and quits the place:
      “Thou, Volusus, the Volscian troops command
      To mount; and lead thyself our Ardean band.
      Messapus and Catillus, post your force
      Along the fields, to charge the Trojan horse.
      Some guard the passes, others man the wall;
      Drawn up in arms, the rest attend my call.”

      They swarm from ev’ry quarter of the town,
      And with disorder’d haste the rampires crown.
      Good old Latinus, when he saw, too late,
      The gath’ring storm just breaking on the state,
      Dismiss’d the council till a fitter time,
      And own’d his easy temper as his crime,
      Who, forc’d against his reason, had complied
      To break the treaty for the promis’d bride.

      Some help to sink new trenches; others aid
      To ram the stones, or raise the palisade.
      Hoarse trumpets sound th’ alarm; around the walls
      Runs a distracted crew, whom their last labour calls.
      A sad procession in the streets is seen,
      Of matrons, that attend the mother queen:
      High in her chair she sits, and, at her side,
      With downcast eyes, appears the fatal bride.
      They mount the cliff, where Pallas’ temple stands;
      Pray’rs in their mouths, and presents in their hands,
      With censers first they fume the sacred shrine,
      Then in this common supplication join:
      “O patroness of arms, unspotted maid,
      Propitious hear, and lend thy Latins aid!
      Break short the pirate’s lance; pronounce his fate,
      And lay the Phrygian low before the gate.”

      Now Turnus arms for fight. His back and breast
      Well-temper’d steel and scaly brass invest:
      The cuishes which his brawny thighs infold
      Are mingled metal damask’d o’er with gold.
      His faithful falchion sits upon his side;
      Nor casque, nor crest, his manly features hide:
      But, bare to view, amid surrounding friends,
      With godlike grace, he from the tow’r descends.
      Exulting in his strength, he seems to dare
      His absent rival, and to promise war.
      Freed from his keepers, thus, with broken reins,
      The wanton courser prances o’er the plains,
      Or in the pride of youth o’erleaps the mounds,
      And snuffs the females in forbidden grounds.
      Or seeks his wat’ring in the well-known flood,
      To quench his thirst, and cool his fiery blood:
      He swims luxuriant in the liquid plain,
      And o’er his shoulder flows his waving mane:
      He neighs, he snorts, he bears his head on high;
      Before his ample chest the frothy waters fly.

      Soon as the prince appears without the gate,
      The Volscians, with their virgin leader, wait
      His last commands. Then, with a graceful mien,
      Lights from her lofty steed the warrior queen:
      Her squadron imitates, and each descends;
      Whose common suit Camilla thus commends:
      “If sense of honour, if a soul secure
      Of inborn worth, that can all tests endure,
      Can promise aught, or on itself rely
      Greatly to dare, to conquer or to die;
      Then, I alone, sustain’d by these, will meet
      The Tyrrhene troops, and promise their defeat.
      Ours be the danger, ours the sole renown:
      You, gen’ral, stay behind, and guard the town.”

      Turnus a while stood mute, with glad surprise,
      And on the fierce Virago fix’d his eyes;
      Then thus return’d: “O grace of Italy,
      With what becoming thanks can I reply?
      Not only words lie lab’ring in my breast,
      But thought itself is by thy praise oppress’d.
      Yet rob me not of all; but let me join
      My toils, my hazard, and my fame, with thine.
      The Trojan, not in stratagem unskill’d,
      Sends his light horse before to scour the field:
      Himself, thro’ steep ascents and thorny brakes,
      A larger compass to the city takes.
      This news my scouts confirm, and I prepare
      To foil his cunning, and his force to dare;
      With chosen foot his passage to forelay,
      And place an ambush in the winding way.
      Thou, with thy Volscians, face the Tuscan horse;
      The brave Messapus shall thy troops enforce
      With those of Tibur, and the Latian band,
      Subjected all to thy supreme command.”
      This said, he warns Messapus to the war,
      Then ev’ry chief exhorts with equal care.
      All thus encourag’d, his own troops he joins,
      And hastes to prosecute his deep designs.

      Inclos’d with hills, a winding valley lies,
      By nature form’d for fraud, and fitted for surprise.
      A narrow track, by human steps untrode,
      Leads, thro’ perplexing thorns, to this obscure abode.
      High o’er the vale a steepy mountain stands,
      Whence the surveying sight the nether ground commands.
      The top is level, an offensive seat
      Of war; and from the war a safe retreat:
      For, on the right and left, is room to press
      The foes at hand, or from afar distress;
      To drive ’em headlong downward, and to pour
      On their descending backs a stony show’r.
      Thither young Turnus took the well-known way,
      Possess’d the pass, and in blind ambush lay.

      Meantime Latonian Phoebe, from the skies,
      Beheld th’ approaching war with hateful eyes,
      And call’d the light-foot Opis to her aid,
      Her most belov’d and ever-trusty maid;
      Then with a sigh began: “Camilla goes
      To meet her death amidst her fatal foes:
      The nymphs I lov’d of all my mortal train,
      Invested with Diana’s arms, in vain.
      Nor is my kindness for the virgin new:
      ’Twas born with her; and with her years it grew.
      Her father Metabus, when forc’d away
      From old Privernum, for tyrannic sway,
      Snatch’d up, and sav’d from his prevailing foes,
      This tender babe, companion of his woes.
      Casmilla was her mother; but he drown’d
      One hissing letter in a softer sound,
      And call’d Camilla. Thro’ the woods he flies;
      Wrapp’d in his robe the royal infant lies.
      His foes in sight, he mends his weary pace;
      With shout and clamours they pursue the chase.
      The banks of Amasene at length he gains:

      The raging flood his farther flight restrains,
      Rais’d o’er the borders with unusual rains.
      Prepar’d to plunge into the stream, he fears,
      Not for himself, but for the charge he bears.
      Anxious, he stops a while, and thinks in haste;
      Then, desp’rate in distress, resolves at last.
      A knotty lance of well-boil’d oak he bore;
      The middle part with cork he cover’d o’er:
      He clos’d the child within the hollow space;
      With twigs of bending osier bound the case;
      Then pois’d the spear, heavy with human weight,
      And thus invok’d my favour for the freight:
      ‘Accept, great goddess of the woods,’ he said,
      ‘Sent by her sire, this dedicated maid!
      Thro’ air she flies a suppliant to thy shrine;
      And the first weapons that she knows, are thine.’
      He said; and with full force the spear he threw:
      Above the sounding waves Camilla flew.
      Then, press’d by foes, he stemm’d the stormy tide,
      And gain’d, by stress of arms, the farther side.
      His fasten’d spear he pull’d from out the ground,
      And, victor of his vows, his infant nymph unbound;
      Nor, after that, in towns which walls inclose,
      Would trust his hunted life amidst his foes;
      But, rough, in open air he chose to lie;
      Earth was his couch, his cov’ring was the sky.
      On hills unshorn, or in a desert den,
      He shunn’d the dire society of men.
      A shepherd’s solitary life he led;
      His daughter with the milk of mares he fed.
      The dugs of bears, and ev’ry salvage beast,
      He drew, and thro’ her lips the liquor press’d.
      The little Amazon could scarcely go:
      He loads her with a quiver and a bow;
      And, that she might her stagg’ring steps command,
      He with a slender jav’lin fills her hand.
      Her flowing hair no golden fillet bound;
      Nor swept her trailing robe the dusty ground.
      Instead of these, a tiger’s hide o’erspread
      Her back and shoulders, fasten’d to her head.
      The flying dart she first attempts to fling,
      And round her tender temples toss’d the sling;
      Then, as her strength with years increas’d, began
      To pierce aloft in air the soaring swan,
      And from the clouds to fetch the heron and the crane.
      The Tuscan matrons with each other vied,
      To bless their rival sons with such a bride;
      But she disdains their love, to share with me
      The sylvan shades and vow’d virginity.
      And, O! I wish, contented with my cares
      Of salvage spoils, she had not sought the wars!
      Then had she been of my celestial train,
      And shunn’d the fate that dooms her to be slain.
      But since, opposing Heav’n’s decree, she goes
      To find her death among forbidden foes,
      Haste with these arms, and take thy steepy flight.
      Where, with the gods, averse, the Latins fight.
      This bow to thee, this quiver I bequeath,
      This chosen arrow, to revenge her death:
      By whate’er hand Camilla shall be slain,
      Or of the Trojan or Italian train,
      Let him not pass unpunish’d from the plain.
      Then, in a hollow cloud, myself will aid
      To bear the breathless body of my maid:
      Unspoil’d shall be her arms, and unprofan’d
      Her holy limbs with any human hand,
      And in a marble tomb laid in her native land.”

      She said. The faithful nymph descends from high
      With rapid flight, and cuts the sounding sky:
      Black clouds and stormy winds around her body fly.

      By this, the Trojan and the Tuscan horse,
      Drawn up in squadrons, with united force,
      Approach the walls: the sprightly coursers bound,
      Press forward on their bits, and shift their ground.
      Shields, arms, and spears flash horribly from far;
      And the fields glitter with a waving war.
      Oppos’d to these, come on with furious force
      Messapus, Coras, and the Latian horse;
      These in the body plac’d, on either hand
      Sustain’d and clos’d by fair Camilla’s band.
      Advancing in a line, they couch their spears;
      And less and less the middle space appears.
      Thick smoke obscures the field; and scarce are seen
      The neighing coursers, and the shouting men.
      In distance of their darts they stop their course;
      Then man to man they rush, and horse to horse.
      The face of heav’n their flying jav’lins hide,
      And deaths unseen are dealt on either side.
      Tyrrhenus, and Aconteus, void of fear,
      By mettled coursers borne in full career,
      Meet first oppos’d; and, with a mighty shock,
      Their horses’ heads against each other knock.
      Far from his steed is fierce Aconteus cast,
      As with an engine’s force, or lightning’s blast:
      He rolls along in blood, and breathes his last.
      The Latin squadrons take a sudden fright,
      And sling their shields behind, to save their backs in flight
      Spurring at speed to their own walls they drew;
      Close in the rear the Tuscan troops pursue,
      And urge their flight: Asylas leads the chase;
      Till, seiz’d, with shame, they wheel about and face,
      Receive their foes, and raise a threat’ning cry.
      The Tuscans take their turn to fear and fly.
      So swelling surges, with a thund’ring roar,
      Driv’n on each other’s backs, insult the shore,
      Bound o’er the rocks, incroach upon the land,
      And far upon the beach eject the sand;
      Then backward, with a swing, they take their way,
      Repuls’d from upper ground, and seek their mother sea;
      With equal hurry quit th’ invaded shore,
      And swallow back the sand and stones they spew’d before.

      Twice were the Tuscans masters of the field,
      Twice by the Latins, in their turn, repell’d.
      Asham’d at length, to the third charge they ran;
      Both hosts resolv’d, and mingled man to man.
      Now dying groans are heard; the fields are strow’d
      With falling bodies, and are drunk with blood.
      Arms, horses, men, on heaps together lie:
      Confus’d the fight, and more confus’d the cry.
      Orsilochus, who durst not press too near
      Strong Remulus, at distance drove his spear,
      And stuck the steel beneath his horse’s ear.
      The fiery steed, impatient of the wound,
      Curvets, and, springing upward with a bound,
      His helpless lord cast backward on the ground.
      Catillus pierc’d Iolas first; then drew
      His reeking lance, and at Herminius threw,
      The mighty champion of the Tuscan crew.
      His neck and throat unarm’d, his head was bare,
      But shaded with a length of yellow hair:
      Secure, he fought, expos’d on ev’ry part,
      A spacious mark for swords, and for the flying dart.
      Across the shoulders came the feather’d wound;
      Transfix’d he fell, and doubled to the ground.
      The sands with streaming blood are sanguine dyed,
      And death with honour sought on either side.

      Resistless thro’ the war Camilla rode,
      In danger unappall’d, and pleas’d with blood.
      One side was bare for her exerted breast;
      One shoulder with her painted quiver press’d.
      Now from afar her fatal jav’lins play;
      Now with her ax’s edge she hews her way:
      Diana’s arms upon her shoulder sound;
      And when, too closely press’d, she quits the ground,
      From her bent bow she sends a backward wound.
      Her maids, in martial pomp, on either side,
      Larina, Tulla, fierce Tarpeia, ride:
      Italians all; in peace, their queen’s delight;
      In war, the bold companions of the fight.
      So march’d the Thracian Amazons of old,
      When Thermodon with bloody billows roll’d:
      Such troops as these in shining arms were seen,
      When Theseus met in fight their maiden queen:
      Such to the field Penthesilea led,
      From the fierce virgin when the Grecians fled;
      With such, return’d triumphant from the war,
      Her maids with cries attend the lofty car;
      They clash with manly force their moony shields;
      With female shouts resound the Phrygian fields.

      Who foremost, and who last, heroic maid,
      On the cold earth were by thy courage laid?
      Thy spear, of mountain ash, Eumenius first,
      With fury driv’n, from side to side transpierc’d:
      A purple stream came spouting from the wound;
      Bath’d in his blood he lies, and bites the ground.
      Liris and Pegasus at once she slew:
      The former, as the slacken’d reins he drew
      Of his faint steed; the latter, as he stretch’d
      His arm to prop his friend, the jav’lin reach’d.
      By the same weapon, sent from the same hand,
      Both fall together, and both spurn the sand.
      Amastrus next is added to the slain:
      The rest in rout she follows o’er the plain:
      Tereus, Harpalycus, Demophoon,
      And Chromis, at full speed her fury shun.
      Of all her deadly darts, not one she lost;
      Each was attended with a Trojan ghost.
      Young Ornithus bestrode a hunter steed,
      Swift for the chase, and of Apulian breed.
      Him from afar she spied, in arms unknown:
      O’er his broad back an ox’s hide was thrown;
      His helm a wolf, whose gaping jaws were spread
      A cov’ring for his cheeks, and grinn’d around his head,
      He clench’d within his hand an iron prong,
      And tower’d above the rest, conspicuous in the throng.
      Him soon she singled from the flying train,
      And slew with ease; then thus insults the slain:
      “Vain hunter, didst thou think thro’ woods to chase
      The savage herd, a vile and trembling race?
      Here cease thy vaunts, and own my victory:
      A woman warrior was too strong for thee.
      Yet, if the ghosts demand the conqu’ror’s name,
      Confessing great Camilla, save thy shame.”
      Then Butes and Orsilochus she slew,
      The bulkiest bodies of the Trojan crew;
      But Butes breast to breast: the spear descends
      Above the gorget, where his helmet ends,
      And o’er the shield which his left side defends.
      Orsilochus and she their courses ply:
      He seems to follow, and she seems to fly;
      But in a narrower ring she makes the race;
      And then he flies, and she pursues the chase.
      Gath’ring at length on her deluded foe,
      She swings her ax, and rises to the blow
      Full on the helm behind, with such a sway
      The weapon falls, the riven steel gives way:
      He groans, he roars, he sues in vain for grace;
      Brains, mingled with his blood, besmear his face.

      Astonish’d Aunus just arrives by chance,
      To see his fall; nor farther dares advance;
      But, fixing on the horrid maid his eye,
      He stares, and shakes, and finds it vain to fly;
      Yet, like a true Ligurian, born to cheat,
      (At least while fortune favour’d his deceit,)
      Cries out aloud: “What courage have you shown,
      Who trust your courser’s strength, and not your own?
      Forego the vantage of your horse, alight,
      And then on equal terms begin the fight:
      It shall be seen, weak woman, what you can,
      When, foot to foot, you combat with a man,”
      He said. She glows with anger and disdain,
      Dismounts with speed to dare him on the plain,
      And leaves her horse at large among her train;
      With her drawn sword defies him to the field,
      And, marching, lifts aloft her maiden shield.
      The youth, who thought his cunning did succeed,
      Reins round his horse, and urges all his speed;
      Adds the remembrance of the spur, and hides
      The goring rowels in his bleeding sides.
      “Vain fool, and coward!” cries the lofty maid,
      “Caught in the train which thou thyself hast laid!
      On others practice thy Ligurian arts;
      Thin stratagems and tricks of little hearts
      Are lost on me: nor shalt thou safe retire,
      With vaunting lies, to thy fallacious sire.”
      At this, so fast her flying feet she sped,
      That soon she strain’d beyond his horse’s head:
      Then turning short, at once she seiz’d the rein,
      And laid the boaster grov’ling on the plain.
      Not with more ease the falcon, from above,
      Trusses in middle air the trembling dove,
      Then plumes the prey, in her strong pounces bound:
      The feathers, foul with blood, come tumbling to the ground.

      Now mighty Jove, from his superior height,
      With his broad eye surveys th’ unequal fight.
      He fires the breast of Tarchon with disdain,
      And sends him to redeem th’ abandon’d plain.
      Betwixt the broken ranks the Tuscan rides,
      And these encourages, and those he chides;
      Recalls each leader, by his name, from flight;
      Renews their ardour, and restores the fight.
      “What panic fear has seiz’d your souls? O shame,
      O brand perpetual of th’ Etrurian name!
      Cowards incurable, a woman’s hand
      Drives, breaks, and scatters your ignoble band!
      Now cast away the sword, and quit the shield!
      What use of weapons which you dare not wield?
      Not thus you fly your female foes by night,
      Nor shun the feast, when the full bowls invite;
      When to fat off’rings the glad augur calls,
      And the shrill hornpipe sounds to bacchanals.
      These are your studied cares, your lewd delight:
      Swift to debauch, but slow to manly fight.”
      Thus having said, he spurs amid the foes,
      Not managing the life he meant to lose.
      The first he found he seiz’d with headlong haste,
      In his strong gripe, and clasp’d around the waist;
      ’Twas Venulus, whom from his horse he tore,
      And, laid athwart his own, in triumph bore.
      Loud shouts ensue; the Latins turn their eyes,
      And view th’ unusual sight with vast surprise.
      The fiery Tarchon, flying o’er the plains,
      Press’d in his arms the pond’rous prey sustains;
      Then, with his shorten’d spear, explores around
      His jointed arms, to fix a deadly wound.
      Nor less the captive struggles for his life:
      He writhes his body to prolong the strife,
      And, fencing for his naked throat, exerts
      His utmost vigour, and the point averts.
      So stoops the yellow eagle from on high,
      And bears a speckled serpent thro’ the sky,
      Fast’ning his crooked talons on the prey:
      The pris’ner hisses thro’ the liquid way;
      Resists the royal hawk; and, tho’ oppress’d,
      She fights in volumes, and erects her crest:
      Turn’d to her foe, she stiffens ev’ry scale,
      And shoots her forky tongue, and whisks her threat’ning tail.
      Against the victor, all defence is weak:
      Th’ imperial bird still plies her with his beak;
      He tears her bowels, and her breast he gores;
      Then claps his pinions, and securely soars.
      Thus, thro’ the midst of circling enemies,
      Strong Tarchon snatch’d and bore away his prize.
      The Tyrrhene troops, that shrunk before, now press
      The Latins, and presume the like success.

      Then Aruns, doom’d to death, his arts assay’d,
      To murder, unespied, the Volscian maid:
      This way and that his winding course he bends,
      And, whereso’er she turns, her steps attends.
      When she retires victorious from the chase,
      He wheels about with care, and shifts his place;
      When, rushing on, she seeks her foes in fight,
      He keeps aloof, but keeps her still in sight:
      He threats, and trembles, trying ev’ry way,
      Unseen to kill, and safely to betray.
      Chloreus, the priest of Cybele, from far,
      Glitt’ring in Phrygian arms amidst the war,
      Was by the virgin view’d. The steed he press’d
      Was proud with trappings, and his brawny chest
      With scales of gilded brass was cover’d o’er;
      A robe of Tyrian dye the rider wore.
      With deadly wounds he gall’d the distant foe;
      Gnossian his shafts, and Lycian was his bow:
      A golden helm his front and head surrounds
      A gilded quiver from his shoulder sounds.
      Gold, weav’d with linen, on his thighs he wore,
      With flowers of needlework distinguish’d o’er,
      With golden buckles bound, and gather’d up before.
      Him the fierce maid beheld with ardent eyes,
      Fond and ambitious of so rich a prize,
      Or that the temple might his trophies hold,
      Or else to shine herself in Trojan gold.
      Blind in her haste, she chases him alone.
      And seeks his life, regardless of her own.

      This lucky moment the sly traitor chose:
      Then, starting from his ambush, up he rose,
      And threw, but first to Heav’n address’d his vows:
      “O patron of Socrates’ high abodes,
      Phoebus, the ruling pow’r among the gods,
      Whom first we serve, whole woods of unctuous pine
      Are fell’d for thee, and to thy glory shine;
      By thee protected with our naked soles,
      Thro’ flames unsing’d we march, and tread the kindled coals
      Give me, propitious pow’r, to wash away
      The stains of this dishonourable day:
      Nor spoils, nor triumph, from the fact I claim,
      But with my future actions trust my fame.
      Let me, by stealth, this female plague o’ercome,
      And from the field return inglorious home.”
      Apollo heard, and, granting half his pray’r,
      Shuffled in winds the rest, and toss’d in empty air.
      He gives the death desir’d; his safe return
      By southern tempests to the seas is borne.

      Now, when the jav’lin whizz’d along the skies,
      Both armies on Camilla turn’d their eyes,
      Directed by the sound. Of either host,
      Th’ unhappy virgin, tho’ concern’d the most,
      Was only deaf; so greedy was she bent
      On golden spoils, and on her prey intent;
      Till in her pap the winged weapon stood
      Infix’d, and deeply drunk the purple blood.
      Her sad attendants hasten to sustain
      Their dying lady, drooping on the plain.
      Far from their sight the trembling Aruns flies,
      With beating heart, and fear confus’d with joys;
      Nor dares he farther to pursue his blow,
      Or ev’n to bear the sight of his expiring foe.
      As, when the wolf has torn a bullock’s hide
      At unawares, or ranch’d a shepherd’s side,
      Conscious of his audacious deed, he flies,
      And claps his quiv’ring tail between his thighs:
      So, speeding once, the wretch no more attends,
      But, spurring forward, herds among his friends.

      She wrench’d the jav’lin with her dying hands,
      But wedg’d within her breast the weapon stands;
      The wood she draws, the steely point remains;
      She staggers in her seat with agonizing pains:
      (A gath’ring mist o’erclouds her cheerful eyes,
      And from her cheeks the rosy colour flies:)
      Then turns to her, whom of her female train
      She trusted most, and thus she speaks with pain:
      “Acca, ’tis past! he swims before my sight,
      Inexorable Death; and claims his right.
      Bear my last words to Turnus; fly with speed,
      And bid him timely to my charge succeed,
      Repel the Trojans, and the town relieve:
      Farewell! and in this kiss my parting breath receive.”
      She said, and, sliding, sunk upon the plain:
      Dying, her open’d hand forsakes the rein;
      Short, and more short, she pants; by slow degrees
      Her mind the passage from her body frees.
      She drops her sword; she nods her plumy crest,
      Her drooping head declining on her breast:
      In the last sigh her struggling soul expires,
      And, murm’ring with disdain, to Stygian sounds retires.

      A shout, that struck the golden stars, ensued;
      Despair and rage the languish’d fight renew’d.
      The Trojan troops and Tuscans, in a line,
      Advance to charge; the mix’d Arcadians join.

      But Cynthia’s maid, high seated, from afar
      Surveys the field, and fortune of the war,
      Unmov’d a while, till, prostrate on the plain,
      Welt’ring in blood, she sees Camilla slain,
      And, round her corpse, of friends and foes a fighting train.
      Then, from the bottom of her breast, she drew
      A mournful sigh, and these sad words ensue:
      “Too dear a fine, ah, much lamented maid,
      For warring with the Trojans, thou hast paid!
      Nor aught avail’d, in this unhappy strife,
      Diana’s sacred arms, to save thy life.
      Yet unreveng’d thy goddess will not leave
      Her vot’ry’s death, nor; with vain sorrow grieve.
      Branded the wretch, and be his name abhorr’d;
      But after ages shall thy praise record.
      Th’ inglorious coward soon shall press the plain:
      Thus vows thy queen, and thus the Fates ordain.”

      High o’er the field there stood a hilly mound,
      Sacred the place, and spread with oaks around,
      Where, in a marble tomb, Dercennus lay,
      A king that once in Latium bore the sway.
      The beauteous Opis thither bent her flight,
      To mark the traitor Aruns from the height.
      Him in refulgent arms she soon espied,
      Swoln with success; and loudly thus she cried:
      “Thy backward steps, vain boaster, are too late;
      Turn like a man, at length, and meet thy fate.
      Charg’d with my message, to Camilla go,
      And say I sent thee to the shades below,
      An honour undeserv’d from Cynthia’s bow.”

      She said, and from her quiver chose with speed
      The winged shaft, predestin’d for the deed;
      Then to the stubborn yew her strength applied,
      Till the far distant horns approach’d on either side.
      The bowstring touch’d her breast, so strong she drew;
      Whizzing in air the fatal arrow flew.
      At once the twanging bow and sounding dart
      The traitor heard, and felt the point within his heart.
      Him, beating with his heels in pangs of death,
      His flying friends to foreign fields bequeath.
      The conqu’ring damsel, with expanded wings,
      The welcome message to her mistress brings.

      Their leader lost, the Volscians quit the field,
      And, unsustain’d, the chiefs of Turnus yield.
      The frighted soldiers, when their captains fly,
      More on their speed than on their strength rely.
      Confus’d in flight, they bear each other down,
      And spur their horses headlong to the town.
      Driv’n by their foes, and to their fears resign’d,
      Not once they turn, but take their wounds behind.
      These drop the shield, and those the lance forego,
      Or on their shoulders bear the slacken’d bow.
      The hoofs of horses, with a rattling sound,
      Beat short and thick, and shake the rotten ground.
      Black clouds of dust come rolling in the sky,
      And o’er the darken’d walls and rampires fly.
      The trembling matrons, from their lofty stands,
      Rend heav’n with female shrieks, and wring their hands.
      All pressing on, pursuers and pursued,
      Are crush’d in crowds, a mingled multitude.
      Some happy few escape: the throng too late
      Rush on for entrance, till they choke the gate.
      Ev’n in the sight of home, the wretched sire
      Looks on, and sees his helpless son expire.
      Then, in a fright, the folding gates they close,
      But leave their friends excluded with their foes.
      The vanquish’d cry; the victors loudly shout;
      ’Tis terror all within, and slaughter all without.
      Blind in their fear, they bounce against the wall,
      Or, to the moats pursued, precipitate their fall.

      The Latian virgins, valiant with despair,
      Arm’d on the tow’rs, the common danger share:
      So much of zeal their country’s cause inspir’d;
      So much Camilla’s great example fir’d.
      Poles, sharpen’d in the flames, from high they throw,
      With imitated darts, to gall the foe.
      Their lives for godlike freedom they bequeath,
      And crowd each other to be first in death.
      Meantime to Turnus, ambush’d in the shade,
      With heavy tidings came th’ unhappy maid:
      “The Volscians overthrown, Camilla kill’d;
      The foes, entirely masters of the field,
      Like a resistless flood, come rolling on:
      The cry goes off the plain, and thickens to the town.”

      Inflam’d with rage, (for so the Furies fire
      The Daunian’s breast, and so the Fates require,)
      He leaves the hilly pass, the woods in vain
      Possess’d, and downward issues on the plain.
      Scarce was he gone, when to the straits, now freed
      From secret foes, the Trojan troops succeed.
      Thro’ the black forest and the ferny brake,
      Unknowingly secure, their way they take;
      From the rough mountains to the plain descend,
      And there, in order drawn, their line extend.
      Both armies now in open fields are seen;
      Nor far the distance of the space between.
      Both to the city bend. Aeneas sees,
      Thro’ smoking fields, his hast’ning enemies;
      And Turnus views the Trojans in array,
      And hears th’ approaching horses proudly neigh.
      Soon had their hosts in bloody battle join’d;
      But westward to the sea the sun declin’d.
      Intrench’d before the town both armies lie,
      While night with sable wings involves the sky.



 BOOK XII

 THE ARGUMENT.


      Turnus challenges Aeneas to a single combat: articles are agreed
      on, but broken by the Rutuli, who wound Aeneas. He is
      miraculously cured by Venus, forces Turnus to a duel, and
      concludes the poem with his death.


      When Turnus saw the Latins leave the field,
      Their armies broken, and their courage quell’d,
      Himself become the mark of public spite,
      His honour question’d for the promis’d fight;
      The more he was with vulgar hate oppress’d,
      The more his fury boil’d within his breast:
      He rous’d his vigour for the last debate,
      And rais’d his haughty soul to meet his fate.

      As, when the swains the Libyan lion chase,
      He makes a sour retreat, nor mends his pace;
      But, if the pointed jav’lin pierce his side,
      The lordly beast returns with double pride:
      He wrenches out the steel, he roars for pain;
      His sides he lashes, and erects his mane:
      So Turnus fares; his eyeballs flash with fire,
      Thro’ his wide nostrils clouds of smoke expire.

      Trembling with rage, around the court he ran,
      At length approach’d the king, and thus began:
      “No more excuses or delays: I stand
      In arms prepar’d to combat, hand to hand,
      This base deserter of his native land.
      The Trojan, by his word, is bound to take
      The same conditions which himself did make.
      Renew the truce; the solemn rites prepare,
      And to my single virtue trust the war.
      The Latians unconcern’d shall see the fight;
      This arm unaided shall assert your right:
      Then, if my prostrate body press the plain,
      To him the crown and beauteous bride remain.”

      To whom the king sedately thus replied:
      “Brave youth, the more your valour has been tried,
      The more becomes it us, with due respect,
      To weigh the chance of war, which you neglect.
      You want not wealth, or a successive throne,
      Or cities which your arms have made your own:
      My towns and treasures are at your command,
      And stor’d with blooming beauties is my land;
      Laurentum more than one Lavinia sees,
      Unmarried, fair, of noble families.
      Now let me speak, and you with patience hear,
      Things which perhaps may grate a lover’s ear,
      But sound advice, proceeding from a heart
      Sincerely yours, and free from fraudful art.
      The gods, by signs, have manifestly shown,
      No prince Italian born should heir my throne:
      Oft have our augurs, in prediction skill’d,
      And oft our priests, a foreign son reveal’d.
      Yet, won by worth that cannot be withstood,
      Brib’d by my kindness to my kindred blood,
      Urg’d by my wife, who would not be denied,
      I promis’d my Lavinia for your bride:
      Her from her plighted lord by force I took;
      All ties of treaties, and of honour, broke:
      On your account I wag’d an impious war—
      With what success, ’tis needless to declare;
      I and my subjects feel, and you have had your share.
      Twice vanquish’d while in bloody fields we strive,
      Scarce in our walls we keep our hopes alive:
      The rolling flood runs warm with human gore;
      The bones of Latians blanch the neighb’ring shore.
      Why put I not an end to this debate,
      Still unresolv’d, and still a slave to fate?
      If Turnus’ death a lasting peace can give,
      Why should I not procure it whilst you live?
      Should I to doubtful arms your youth betray,
      What would my kinsmen, the Rutulians, say?
      And, should you fall in fight, (which Heav’n defend!)
      How curse the cause which hasten’d to his end
      The daughter’s lover and the father’s friend?
      Weigh in your mind the various chance of war;
      Pity your parent’s age, and ease his care.”

      Such balmy words he pour’d, but all in vain:
      The proffer’d med’cine but provok’d the pain.
      The wrathful youth, disdaining the relief,
      With intermitting sobs thus vents his grief:
      “The care, O best of fathers, which you take
      For my concerns, at my desire forsake.
      Permit me not to languish out my days,
      But make the best exchange of life for praise.
      This arm, this lance, can well dispute the prize;
      And the blood follows, where the weapon flies.
      His goddess mother is not near, to shroud
      The flying coward with an empty cloud.”

      But now the queen, who fear’d for Turnus’ life,
      And loath’d the hard conditions of the strife,
      Held him by force; and, dying in his death,
      In these sad accents gave her sorrow breath:
      “O Turnus, I adjure thee by these tears,
      And whate’er price Amata’s honour bears
      Within thy breast, since thou art all my hope,
      My sickly mind’s repose, my sinking age’s prop;
      Since on the safety of thy life alone
      Depends Latinus, and the Latian throne:
      Refuse me not this one, this only pray’r,
      To waive the combat, and pursue the war.
      Whatever chance attends this fatal strife,
      Think it includes, in thine, Amata’s life.
      I cannot live a slave, or see my throne
      Usurp’d by strangers or a Trojan son.”

      At this, a flood of tears Lavinia shed;
      A crimson blush her beauteous face o’erspread,
      Varying her cheeks by turns with white and red.
      The driving colours, never at a stay,
      Run here and there, and flush, and fade away.
      Delightful change! Thus Indian iv’ry shows,
      Which with the bord’ring paint of purple glows;
      Or lilies damask’d by the neighb’ring rose.

      The lover gaz’d, and, burning with desire,
      The more he look’d, the more he fed the fire:
      Revenge, and jealous rage, and secret spite,
      Roll in his breast, and rouse him to the fight.
      Then fixing on the queen his ardent eyes,
      Firm to his first intent, he thus replies:
      “O mother, do not by your tears prepare
      Such boding omens, and prejudge the war.
      Resolv’d on fight, I am no longer free
      To shun my death, if Heav’n my death decree.”
      Then turning to the herald, thus pursues:
      “Go, greet the Trojan with ungrateful news;
      Denounce from me, that, when tomorrow’s light
      Shall gild the heav’ns, he need not urge the fight;
      The Trojan and Rutulian troops no more
      Shall dye, with mutual blood, the Latian shore:
      Our single swords the quarrel shall decide,
      And to the victor be the beauteous bride.”

      He said, and striding on, with speedy pace,
      He sought his coursers of the Thracian race.
      At his approach they toss their heads on high,
      And, proudly neighing, promise victory.
      The sires of these Orythia sent from far,
      To grace Pilumnus, when he went to war.
      The drifts of Thracian snows were scarce so white,
      Nor northern winds in fleetness match’d their flight.
      Officious grooms stand ready by his side;
      And some with combs their flowing manes divide,
      And others stroke their chests and gently soothe their pride.

      He sheath’d his limbs in arms; a temper’d mass
      Of golden metal those, and mountain brass.
      Then to his head his glitt’ring helm he tied,
      And girt his faithful falchion to his side.
      In his Aetnaean forge, the God of Fire
      That falchion labour’d for the hero’s sire;
      Immortal keenness on the blade bestow’d,
      And plung’d it hissing in the Stygian flood.
      Propp’d on a pillar, which the ceiling bore,
      Was plac’d the lance Auruncan Actor wore;
      Which with such force he brandish’d in his hand,
      The tough ash trembled like an osier wand:
      Then cried: “O pond’rous spoil of Actor slain,
      And never yet by Turnus toss’d in vain,
      Fail not this day thy wonted force; but go,
      Sent by this hand, to pierce the Trojan foe!
      Give me to tear his corslet from his breast,
      And from that eunuch head to rend the crest;
      Dragg’d in the dust, his frizzled hair to soil,
      Hot from the vexing ir’n, and smear’d with fragrant oil!”

      Thus while he raves, from his wide nostrils flies
      A fiery steam, and sparkles from his eyes.
      So fares the bull in his lov’d female’s sight:
      Proudly he bellows, and preludes the fight;
      He tries his goring horns against a tree,
      And meditates his absent enemy;
      He pushes at the winds; he digs the strand
      With his black hoofs, and spurns the yellow sand.

      Nor less the Trojan, in his Lemnian arms,
      To future fight his manly courage warms:
      He whets his fury, and with joy prepares
      To terminate at once the ling’ring wars;
      To cheer his chiefs and tender son, relates
      What Heav’n had promis’d, and expounds the fates.
      Then to the Latian king he sends, to cease
      The rage of arms, and ratify the peace.

      The morn ensuing, from the mountain’s height,
      Had scarcely spread the skies with rosy light;
      Th’ ethereal coursers, bounding from the sea,
      From out their flaming nostrils breath’d the day;
      When now the Trojan and Rutulian guard,
      In friendly labour join’d, the list prepar’d.
      Beneath the walls they measure out the space;
      Then sacred altars rear, on sods of grass,
      Where, with religious rites their common gods they place.
      In purest white the priests their heads attire;
      And living waters bear, and holy fire;
      And, o’er their linen hoods and shaded hair,
      Long twisted wreaths of sacred vervain wear.

      In order issuing from the town appears
      The Latin legion, arm’d with pointed spears;
      And from the fields, advancing on a line,
      The Trojan and the Tuscan forces join:
      Their various arms afford a pleasing sight;
      A peaceful train they seem, in peace prepar’d for fight.
      Betwixt the ranks the proud commanders ride,
      Glitt’ring with gold, and vests in purple dyed;
      Here Mnestheus, author of the Memmian line,
      And there Messapus, born of seed divine.
      The sign is giv’n; and, round the listed space,
      Each man in order fills his proper place.
      Reclining on their ample shields, they stand,
      And fix their pointed lances in the sand.
      Now, studious of the sight, a num’rous throng
      Of either sex promiscuous, old and young,
      Swarm the town: by those who rest behind,
      The gates and walls and houses’ tops are lin’d.
      Meantime the Queen of Heav’n beheld the sight,
      With eyes unpleas’d, from Mount Albano’s height
      (Since call’d Albano by succeeding fame,
      But then an empty hill, without a name).
      She thence survey’d the field, the Trojan pow’rs,
      The Latian squadrons, and Laurentine tow’rs.
      Then thus the goddess of the skies bespoke,
      With sighs and tears, the goddess of the lake,
      King Turnus’ sister, once a lovely maid,
      Ere to the lust of lawless Jove betray’d:
      Compress’d by force, but, by the grateful god,
      Now made the Nais of the neighb’ring flood.
      “O nymph, the pride of living lakes,” said she,
      “O most renown’d, and most belov’d by me,
      Long hast thou known, nor need I to record,
      The wanton sallies of my wand’ring lord.
      Of ev’ry Latian fair whom Jove misled
      To mount by stealth my violated bed,
      To thee alone I grudg’d not his embrace,
      But gave a part of heav’n, and an unenvied place.
      Now learn from me thy near approaching grief,
      Nor think my wishes want to thy relief.
      While fortune favour’d, nor Heav’n’s King denied
      To lend my succour to the Latian side,
      I sav’d thy brother, and the sinking state:
      But now he struggles with unequal fate,
      And goes, with gods averse, o’ermatch’d in might,
      To meet inevitable death in fight;
      Nor must I break the truce, nor can sustain the sight.
      Thou, if thou dar’st thy present aid supply;
      It well becomes a sister’s care to try.”

      At this the lovely nymph, with grief oppress’d,
      Thrice tore her hair, and beat her comely breast.
      To whom Saturnia thus: “Thy tears are late:
      Haste, snatch him, if he can be snatch’d from fate:
      New tumults kindle; violate the truce:
      Who knows what changeful fortune may produce?
      ’Tis not a crime t’ attempt what I decree;
      Or, if it were, discharge the crime on me.”
      She said, and, sailing on the winged wind,
      Left the sad nymph suspended in her mind.

      And now in pomp the peaceful kings appear:
      Four steeds the chariot of Latinus bear;
      Twelve golden beams around his temples play,
      To mark his lineage from the God of Day.
      Two snowy coursers Turnus’ chariot yoke,
      And in his hand two massy spears he shook:
      Then issued from the camp, in arms divine,
      Aeneas, author of the Roman line;
      And by his side Ascanius took his place,
      The second hope of Rome’s immortal race.
      Adorn’d in white, a rev’rend priest appears,
      And off’rings to the flaming altars bears;
      A porket, and a lamb that never suffer’d shears.
      Then to the rising sun he turns his eyes,
      And strews the beasts, design’d for sacrifice,
      With salt and meal: with like officious care
      He marks their foreheads, and he clips their hair.
      Betwixt their horns the purple wine he sheds;
      With the same gen’rous juice the flame he feeds.

      Aeneas then unsheath’d his shining sword,
      And thus with pious pray’rs the gods ador’d:
      “All-seeing sun, and thou, Ausonian soil,
      For which I have sustain’d so long a toil,
      Thou, King of Heav’n, and thou, the Queen of Air,
      Propitious now, and reconcil’d by pray’r;
      Thou, God of War, whose unresisted sway
      The labours and events of arms obey;
      Ye living fountains, and ye running floods,
      All pow’rs of ocean, all ethereal gods,
      Hear, and bear record: if I fall in field,
      Or, recreant in the fight, to Turnus yield,
      My Trojans shall encrease Evander’s town;
      Ascanius shall renounce th’ Ausonian crown:
      All claims, all questions of debate, shall cease;
      Nor he, nor they, with force infringe the peace.
      But, if my juster arms prevail in fight,
      (As sure they shall, if I divine aright,)
      My Trojans shall not o’er th’ Italians reign:
      Both equal, both unconquer’d shall remain,
      Join’d in their laws, their lands, and their abodes;
      I ask but altars for my weary gods.
      The care of those religious rites be mine;
      The crown to King Latinus I resign:
      His be the sov’reign sway. Nor will I share
      His pow’r in peace, or his command in war.
      For me, my friends another town shall frame,
      And bless the rising tow’rs with fair Lavinia’s name.”

      Thus he. Then, with erected eyes and hands,
      The Latian king before his altar stands.
      “By the same heav’n,” said he, “and earth, and main,
      And all the pow’rs that all the three contain;
      By hell below, and by that upper god
      Whose thunder signs the peace, who seals it with his nod;
      So let Latona’s double offspring hear,
      And double-fronted Janus, what I swear:
      I touch the sacred altars, touch the flames,
      And all those pow’rs attest, and all their names;
      Whatever chance befall on either side,
      No term of time this union shall divide:
      No force, no fortune, shall my vows unbind,
      Or shake the steadfast tenor of my mind;
      Not tho’ the circling seas should break their bound,
      O’erflow the shores, or sap the solid ground;
      Not tho’ the lamps of heav’n their spheres forsake,
      Hurl’d down, and hissing in the nether lake:
      Ev’n as this royal scepter” (for he bore
      A scepter in his hand) “shall never more
      Shoot out in branches, or renew the birth:
      An orphan now, cut from the mother earth
      By the keen ax, dishonour’d of its hair,
      And cas’d in brass, for Latian kings to bear.”

      When thus in public view the peace was tied
      With solemn vows, and sworn on either side,
      All dues perform’d which holy rites require;
      The victim beasts are slain before the fire,
      The trembling entrails from their bodies torn,
      And to the fatten’d flames in chargers borne.

      Already the Rutulians deem their man
      O’ermatch’d in arms, before the fight began.
      First rising fears are whisper’d thro’ the crowd;
      Then, gath’ring sound, they murmur more aloud.
      Now, side to side, they measure with their eyes
      The champions’ bulk, their sinews, and their size:
      The nearer they approach, the more is known
      Th’ apparent disadvantage of their own.
      Turnus himself appears in public sight
      Conscious of fate, desponding of the fight.
      Slowly he moves, and at his altar stands
      With eyes dejected, and with trembling hands;
      And, while he mutters undistinguish’d pray’rs,
      A livid deadness in his cheeks appears.

      With anxious pleasure when Juturna view’d
      Th’ increasing fright of the mad multitude,
      When their short sighs and thick’ning sobs she heard,
      And found their ready minds for change prepar’d;
      Dissembling her immortal form, she took
      Camertus’ mien, his habit, and his look;
      A chief of ancient blood; in arms well known
      Was his great sire, and he his greater son.
      His shape assum’d, amid the ranks she ran,
      And humoring their first motions, thus began:
      “For shame, Rutulians, can you bear the sight
      Of one expos’d for all, in single fight?
      Can we, before the face of heav’n, confess
      Our courage colder, or our numbers less?
      View all the Trojan host, th’ Arcadian band,
      And Tuscan army; count ’em as they stand:
      Undaunted to the battle if we go,
      Scarce ev’ry second man will share a foe.
      Turnus, ’tis true, in this unequal strife,
      Shall lose, with honour, his devoted life,
      Or change it rather for immortal fame,
      Succeeding to the gods, from whence he came:
      But you, a servile and inglorious band,
      For foreign lords shall sow your native land,
      Those fruitful fields your fighting fathers gain’d,
      Which have so long their lazy sons sustain’d.”
      With words like these, she carried her design:
      A rising murmur runs along the line.
      Then ev’n the city troops, and Latians, tir’d
      With tedious war, seem with new souls inspir’d:
      Their champion’s fate with pity they lament,
      And of the league, so lately sworn, repent.

      Nor fails the goddess to foment the rage
      With lying wonders, and a false presage;
      But adds a sign, which, present to their eyes,
      Inspires new courage, and a glad surprise.
      For, sudden, in the fiery tracts above,
      Appears in pomp th’ imperial bird of Jove:
      A plump of fowl he spies, that swim the lakes,
      And o’er their heads his sounding pinions shakes;
      Then, stooping on the fairest of the train,
      In his strong talons truss’d a silver swan.
      Th’ Italians wonder at th’ unusual sight;
      But, while he lags, and labours in his flight,
      Behold, the dastard fowl return anew,
      And with united force the foe pursue:
      Clam’rous around the royal hawk they fly,
      And, thick’ning in a cloud, o’ershade the sky.
      They cuff, they scratch, they cross his airy course;
      Nor can th’ incumber’d bird sustain their force;
      But vex’d, not vanquish’d, drops the pond’rous prey,
      And, lighten’d of his burthen, wings his way.

      Th’ Ausonian bands with shouts salute the sight,
      Eager of action, and demand the fight.
      Then King Tolumnius, vers’d in augurs’ arts,
      Cries out, and thus his boasted skill imparts:
      “At length ’tis granted, what I long desir’d!
      This, this is what my frequent vows requir’d.
      Ye gods, I take your omen, and obey.
      Advance, my friends, and charge! I lead the way.
      These are the foreign foes, whose impious band,
      Like that rapacious bird, infest our land:
      But soon, like him, they shall be forc’d to sea
      By strength united, and forego the prey.
      Your timely succour to your country bring,
      Haste to the rescue, and redeem your king.”

      He said; and, pressing onward thro’ the crew,
      Pois’d in his lifted arm, his lance he threw.
      The winged weapon, whistling in the wind,
      Came driving on, nor miss’d the mark design’d.
      At once the cornel rattled in the skies;
      At once tumultuous shouts and clamours rise.
      Nine brothers in a goodly band there stood,
      Born of Arcadian mix’d with Tuscan blood,
      Gylippus’ sons: the fatal jav’lin flew,
      Aim’d at the midmost of the friendly crew.
      A passage thro’ the jointed arms it found,
      Just where the belt was to the body bound,
      And struck the gentle youth extended on the ground.
      Then, fir’d with pious rage, the gen’rous train
      Run madly forward to revenge the slain.
      And some with eager haste their jav’lins throw;
      And some with sword in hand assault the foe.

      The wish’d insult the Latine troops embrace,
      And meet their ardour in the middle space.
      The Trojans, Tuscans, and Arcadian line,
      With equal courage obviate their design.
      Peace leaves the violated fields, and hate
      Both armies urges to their mutual fate.
      With impious haste their altars are o’erturn’d,
      The sacrifice half-broil’d, and half-unburn’d.
      Thick storms of steel from either army fly,
      And clouds of clashing darts obscure the sky;
      Brands from the fire are missive weapons made,
      With chargers, bowls, and all the priestly trade.
      Latinus, frighted, hastens from the fray,
      And bears his unregarded gods away.
      These on their horses vault; those yoke the car;
      The rest, with swords on high, run headlong to the war.

      Messapus, eager to confound the peace,
      Spurr’d his hot courser thro’ the fighting press,
      At King Aulestes, by his purple known
      A Tuscan prince, and by his regal crown;
      And, with a shock encount’ring, bore him down.
      Backward he fell; and, as his fate design’d,
      The ruins of an altar were behind:
      There, pitching on his shoulders and his head,
      Amid the scatt’ring fires he lay supinely spread.
      The beamy spear, descending from above,
      His cuirass pierc’d, and thro’ his body drove.
      Then, with a scornful smile, the victor cries:
      “The gods have found a fitter sacrifice.”
      Greedy of spoils, th’ Italians strip the dead
      Of his rich armour, and uncrown his head.

      Priest Corynaeus, arm’d his better hand,
      From his own altar, with a blazing brand;
      And, as Ebusus with a thund’ring pace
      Advanc’d to battle, dash’d it on his face:
      His bristly beard shines out with sudden fires;
      The crackling crop a noisome scent expires.
      Following the blow, he seiz’d his curling crown
      With his left hand; his other cast him down.
      The prostrate body with his knees he press’d,
      And plung’d his holy poniard in his breast.

      While Podalirius, with his sword, pursued
      The shepherd Alsus thro’ the flying crowd,
      Swiftly he turns, and aims a deadly blow
      Full on the front of his unwary foe.
      The broad ax enters with a crashing sound,
      And cleaves the chin with one continued wound;
      Warm blood, and mingled brains, besmear his arms around
      An iron sleep his stupid eyes oppress’d,
      And seal’d their heavy lids in endless rest.

      But good Aeneas rush’d amid the bands;
      Bare was his head, and naked were his hands,
      In sign of truce: then thus he cries aloud:
      “What sudden rage, what new desire of blood,
      Inflames your alter’d minds? O Trojans, cease
      From impious arms, nor violate the peace!
      By human sanctions, and by laws divine,
      The terms are all agreed; the war is mine.
      Dismiss your fears, and let the fight ensue;
      This hand alone shall right the gods and you:
      Our injur’d altars, and their broken vow,
      To this avenging sword the faithless Turnus owe.”

      Thus while he spoke, unmindful of defence,
      A winged arrow struck the pious prince.
      But, whether from some human hand it came,
      Or hostile god, is left unknown by fame:
      No human hand or hostile god was found,
      To boast the triumph of so base a wound.

      When Turnus saw the Trojan quit the plain,
      His chiefs dismay’d, his troops a fainting train,
      Th’ unhop’d event his heighten’d soul inspires:
      At once his arms and coursers he requires;
      Then, with a leap, his lofty chariot gains,
      And with a ready hand assumes the reins.
      He drives impetuous, and, where’er he goes,
      He leaves behind a lane of slaughter’d foes.
      These his lance reaches; over those he rolls
      His rapid car, and crushes out their souls:
      In vain the vanquish’d fly; the victor sends
      The dead men’s weapons at their living friends.
      Thus, on the banks of Hebrus’ freezing flood,
      The God of Battles, in his angry mood,
      Clashing his sword against his brazen shield,
      Let loose the reins, and scours along the field:
      Before the wind his fiery coursers fly;
      Groans the sad earth, resounds the rattling sky.
      Wrath, Terror, Treason, Tumult, and Despair
      (Dire faces, and deform’d) surround the car;
      Friends of the god, and followers of the war.
      With fury not unlike, nor less disdain,
      Exulting Turnus flies along the plain:
      His smoking horses, at their utmost speed,
      He lashes on, and urges o’er the dead.
      Their fetlocks run with blood; and, when they bound,
      The gore and gath’ring dust are dash’d around.
      Thamyris and Pholus, masters of the war,
      He kill’d at hand, but Sthenelus afar:
      From far the sons of Imbracus he slew,
      Glaucus and Lades, of the Lycian crew;
      Both taught to fight on foot, in battle join’d,
      Or mount the courser that outstrips the wind.

      Meantime Eumedes, vaunting in the field,
      New fir’d the Trojans, and their foes repell’d.
      This son of Dolon bore his grandsire’s name,
      But emulated more his father’s fame;
      His guileful father, sent a nightly spy,
      The Grecian camp and order to descry:
      Hard enterprise! and well he might require
      Achilles’ car and horses, for his hire:
      But, met upon the scout, th’ Aetolian prince
      In death bestow’d a juster recompense.
      Fierce Turnus view’d the Trojan from afar,
      And launch’d his jav’lin from his lofty car;
      Then lightly leaping down, pursued the blow,
      And, pressing with his foot his prostrate foe,
      Wrench’d from his feeble hold the shining sword,
      And plung’d it in the bosom of its lord.
      “Possess,” said he, “the fruit of all thy pains,
      And measure, at thy length, our Latian plains.
      Thus are my foes rewarded by my hand;
      Thus may they build their town, and thus enjoy the land!”

      Then Dares, Butes, Sybaris he slew,
      Whom o’er his neck his flound’ring courser threw.
      As when loud Boreas, with his blust’ring train,
      Stoops from above, incumbent on the main;
      Where’er he flies, he drives the rack before,
      And rolls the billows on th’ Aegaean shore:
      So, where resistless Turnus takes his course,
      The scatter’d squadrons bend before his force;
      His crest of horses’ hair is blown behind
      By adverse air, and rustles in the wind.

      This haughty Phegeus saw with high disdain,
      And, as the chariot roll’d along the plain,
      Light from the ground he leapt, and seiz’d the rein.
      Thus hung in air, he still retain’d his hold,
      The coursers frighted, and their course controll’d.
      The lance of Turnus reach’d him as he hung,
      And pierc’d his plated arms, but pass’d along,
      And only raz’d the skin. He turn’d, and held
      Against his threat’ning foe his ample shield;
      Then call’d for aid: but, while he cried in vain,
      The chariot bore him backward on the plain.
      He lies revers’d; the victor king descends,
      And strikes so justly where his helmet ends,
      He lops the head. The Latian fields are drunk
      With streams that issue from the bleeding trunk.

      While he triumphs, and while the Trojans yield,
      The wounded prince is forc’d to leave the field:
      Strong Mnestheus, and Achates often tried,
      And young Ascanius, weeping by his side,
      Conduct him to his tent. Scarce can he rear
      His limbs from earth, supported on his spear.
      Resolv’d in mind, regardless of the smart,
      He tugs with both his hands, and breaks the dart.
      The steel remains. No readier way he found
      To draw the weapon, than t’ inlarge the wound.
      Eager of fight, impatient of delay,
      He begs; and his unwilling friends obey.

      Iapis was at hand to prove his art,
      Whose blooming youth so fir’d Apollo’s heart,
      That, for his love, he proffer’d to bestow
      His tuneful harp and his unerring bow.
      The pious youth, more studious how to save
      His aged sire, now sinking to the grave,
      Preferr’d the pow’r of plants, and silent praise
      Of healing arts, before Phoebean bays.

      Propp’d on his lance the pensive hero stood,
      And heard and saw, unmov’d, the mourning crowd.
      The fam’d physician tucks his robes around
      With ready hands, and hastens to the wound.
      With gentle touches he performs his part,
      This way and that, soliciting the dart,
      And exercises all his heav’nly art.
      All soft’ning simples, known of sov’reign use,
      He presses out, and pours their noble juice.
      These first infus’d, to lenify the pain,
      He tugs with pincers, but he tugs in vain.
      Then to the patron of his art he pray’d:
      The patron of his art refus’d his aid.

      Meantime the war approaches to the tents;
      Th’ alarm grows hotter, and the noise augments:
      The driving dust proclaims the danger near;
      And first their friends, and then their foes appear:
      Their friends retreat; their foes pursue the rear.
      The camp is fill’d with terror and affright:
      The hissing shafts within the trench alight;
      An undistinguish’d noise ascends the sky,
      The shouts of those who kill, and groans of those who die.

      But now the goddess mother, mov’d with grief,
      And pierc’d with pity, hastens her relief.
      A branch of healing dittany she brought,
      Which in the Cretan fields with care she sought:
      Rough is the stem, which woolly leafs surround;
      The leafs with flow’rs, the flow’rs with purple crown’d,
      Well known to wounded goats; a sure relief
      To draw the pointed steel, and ease the grief.
      This Venus brings, in clouds involv’d, and brews
      Th’ extracted liquor with ambrosian dews,
      And odorous panacee. Unseen she stands,
      Temp’ring the mixture with her heav’nly hands,
      And pours it in a bowl, already crown’d
      With juice of med’c’nal herbs prepar’d to bathe the wound.
      The leech, unknowing of superior art
      Which aids the cure, with this foments the part;
      And in a moment ceas’d the raging smart.
      Stanch’d is the blood, and in the bottom stands:
      The steel, but scarcely touch’d with tender hands,
      Moves up, and follows of its own accord,
      And health and vigour are at once restor’d.
      Iapis first perceiv’d the closing wound,
      And first the footsteps of a god he found.
      “Arms! arms!” he cries; “the sword and shield prepare,
      And send the willing chief, renew’d, to war.
      This is no mortal work, no cure of mine,
      Nor art’s effect, but done by hands divine.
      Some god our general to the battle sends;
      Some god preserves his life for greater ends.”

      The hero arms in haste; his hands infold
      His thighs with cuishes of refulgent gold:
      Inflam’d to fight, and rushing to the field,
      That hand sustaining the celestial shield,
      This gripes the lance, and with such vigour shakes,
      That to the rest the beamy weapon quakes.
      Then with a close embrace he strain’d his son,
      And, kissing thro’ his helmet, thus begun:
      “My son, from my example learn the war,
      In camps to suffer, and in fields to dare;
      But happier chance than mine attend thy care!
      This day my hand thy tender age shall shield,
      And crown with honours of the conquer’d field:
      Thou, when thy riper years shall send thee forth
      To toils of war, be mindful of my worth;
      Assert thy birthright, and in arms be known,
      For Hector’s nephew, and Aeneas’ son.”
      He said; and, striding, issued on the plain.
      Anteus and Mnestheus, and a num’rous train,
      Attend his steps; the rest their weapons take,
      And, crowding to the field, the camp forsake.
      A cloud of blinding dust is rais’d around,
      Labours beneath their feet the trembling ground.

      Now Turnus, posted on a hill, from far
      Beheld the progress of the moving war:
      With him the Latins view’d the cover’d plains,
      And the chill blood ran backward in their veins.
      Juturna saw th’ advancing troops appear,
      And heard the hostile sound, and fled for fear.
      Aeneas leads; and draws a sweeping train,
      Clos’d in their ranks, and pouring on the plain.
      As when a whirlwind, rushing to the shore
      From the mid ocean, drives the waves before;
      The painful hind with heavy heart foresees
      The flatted fields, and slaughter of the trees;
      With like impetuous rage the prince appears
      Before his doubled front, nor less destruction bears.
      And now both armies shock in open field;
      Osiris is by strong Thymbraeus kill’d.
      Archetius, Ufens, Epulon, are slain
      (All fam’d in arms, and of the Latian train)
      By Gyas’, Mnestheus’, and Achates’ hand.
      The fatal augur falls, by whose command
      The truce was broken, and whose lance, embrued
      With Trojan blood, th’ unhappy fight renew’d.
      Loud shouts and clamours rend the liquid sky,
      And o’er the field the frighted Latins fly.
      The prince disdains the dastards to pursue,
      Nor moves to meet in arms the fighting few;
      Turnus alone, amid the dusky plain,
      He seeks, and to the combat calls in vain.
      Juturna heard, and, seiz’d with mortal fear,
      Forc’d from the beam her brother’s charioteer;
      Assumes his shape, his armour, and his mien,
      And, like Metiscus, in his seat is seen.

      As the black swallow near the palace plies;
      O’er empty courts, and under arches, flies;
      Now hawks aloft, now skims along the flood,
      To furnish her loquacious nest with food:
      So drives the rapid goddess o’er the plains;
      The smoking horses run with loosen’d reins.
      She steers a various course among the foes;
      Now here, now there, her conqu’ring brother shows;
      Now with a straight, now with a wheeling flight,
      She turns, and bends, but shuns the single fight.
      Aeneas, fir’d with fury, breaks the crowd,
      And seeks his foe, and calls by name aloud:
      He runs within a narrower ring, and tries
      To stop the chariot; but the chariot flies.
      If he but gain a glimpse, Juturna fears,
      And far away the Daunian hero bears.

      What should he do! Nor arts nor arms avail;
      And various cares in vain his mind assail.
      The great Messapus, thund’ring thro’ the field,
      In his left hand two pointed jav’lins held:
      Encount’ring on the prince, one dart he drew,
      And with unerring aim and utmost vigour threw.
      Aeneas saw it come, and, stooping low
      Beneath his buckler, shunn’d the threat’ning blow.
      The weapon hiss’d above his head, and tore
      The waving plume which on his helm he wore.
      Forced by this hostile act, and fir’d with spite,
      That flying Turnus still declin’d the fight,
      The Prince, whose piety had long repell’d
      His inborn ardour, now invades the field;
      Invokes the pow’rs of violated peace,
      Their rites and injur’d altars to redress;
      Then, to his rage abandoning the rein,
      With blood and slaughter’d bodies fills the plain.

      What god can tell, what numbers can display,
      The various labours of that fatal day;
      What chiefs and champions fell on either side,
      In combat slain, or by what deaths they died;
      Whom Turnus, whom the Trojan hero kill’d;
      Who shar’d the fame and fortune of the field!
      Jove, could’st thou view, and not avert thy sight,
      Two jarring nations join’d in cruel fight,
      Whom leagues of lasting love so shortly shall unite!

      Aeneas first Rutulian Sucro found,
      Whose valour made the Trojans quit their ground;
      Betwixt his ribs the jav’lin drove so just,
      It reach’d his heart, nor needs a second thrust.
      Now Turnus, at two blows, two brethren slew;
      First from his horse fierce Amycus he threw:
      Then, leaping on the ground, on foot assail’d
      Diores, and in equal fight prevail’d.
      Their lifeless trunks he leaves upon the place;
      Their heads, distilling gore, his chariot grace.

      Three cold on earth the Trojan hero threw,
      Whom without respite at one charge he slew:
      Cethegus, Tanais, Tagus, fell oppress’d,
      And sad Onythes, added to the rest,
      Of Theban blood, whom Peridia bore.

      Turnus two brothers from the Lycian shore,
      And from Apollo’s fane to battle sent,
      O’erthrew; nor Phoebus could their fate prevent.
      Peaceful Menoetes after these he kill’d,
      Who long had shunn’d the dangers of the field:
      On Lerna’s lake a silent life he led,
      And with his nets and angle earn’d his bread;
      Nor pompous cares, nor palaces, he knew,
      But wisely from th’ infectious world withdrew:
      Poor was his house; his father’s painful hand
      Discharg’d his rent, and plow’d another’s land.

      As flames among the lofty woods are thrown
      On diff’rent sides, and both by winds are blown;
      The laurels crackle in the sputt’ring fire;
      The frighted sylvans from their shades retire:
      Or as two neighb’ring torrents fall from high;
      Rapid they run; the foamy waters fry;
      They roll to sea with unresisted force,
      And down the rocks precipitate their course:
      Not with less rage the rival heroes take
      Their diff’rent ways, nor less destruction make.
      With spears afar, with swords at hand, they strike;
      And zeal of slaughter fires their souls alike.
      Like them, their dauntless men maintain the field;
      And hearts are pierc’d, unknowing how to yield:
      They blow for blow return, and wound for wound;
      And heaps of bodies raise the level ground.

      Murranus, boasting of his blood, that springs
      From a long royal race of Latian kings,
      Is by the Trojan from his chariot thrown,
      Crush’d with the weight of an unwieldy stone:
      Betwixt the wheels he fell; the wheels, that bore
      His living load, his dying body tore.
      His starting steeds, to shun the glitt’ring sword,
      Paw down his trampled limbs, forgetful of their lord.

      Fierce Hyllus threaten’d high, and, face to face,
      Affronted Turnus in the middle space:
      The prince encounter’d him in full career,
      And at his temples aim’d the deadly spear;
      So fatally the flying weapon sped,
      That thro’ his brazen helm it pierc’d his head.
      Nor, Cisseus, couldst thou scape from Turnus’ hand,
      In vain the strongest of th’ Arcadian band:
      Nor to Cupentus could his gods afford
      Availing aid against th’ Aenean sword,
      Which to his naked heart pursued the course;
      Nor could his plated shield sustain the force.

      Iolas fell, whom not the Grecian pow’rs,
      Nor great subverter of the Trojan tow’rs,
      Were doom’d to kill, while Heav’n prolong’d his date;
      But who can pass the bounds, prefix’d by fate?
      In high Lyrnessus, and in Troy, he held
      Two palaces, and was from each expell’d:
      Of all the mighty man, the last remains
      A little spot of foreign earth contains.

      And now both hosts their broken troops unite
      In equal ranks, and mix in mortal fight.
      Seresthus and undaunted Mnestheus join
      The Trojan, Tuscan, and Arcadian line:
      Sea-born Messapus, with Atinas, heads
      The Latin squadrons, and to battle leads.
      They strike, they push, they throng the scanty space,
      Resolv’d on death, impatient of disgrace;
      And, where one falls, another fills his place.

      The Cyprian goddess now inspires her son
      To leave th’ unfinish’d fight, and storm the town:
      For, while he rolls his eyes around the plain
      In quest of Turnus, whom he seeks in vain,
      He views th’ unguarded city from afar,
      In careless quiet, and secure of war.
      Occasion offers, and excites his mind
      To dare beyond the task he first design’d.
      Resolv’d, he calls his chiefs; they leave the fight:
      Attended thus, he takes a neighb’ring height;
      The crowding troops about their gen’ral stand,
      All under arms, and wait his high command.
      Then thus the lofty prince: “Hear and obey,
      Ye Trojan bands, without the least delay
      Jove is with us; and what I have decreed
      Requires our utmost vigour, and our speed.
      Your instant arms against the town prepare,
      The source of mischief, and the seat of war.
      This day the Latian tow’rs, that mate the sky,
      Shall level with the plain in ashes lie:
      The people shall be slaves, unless in time
      They kneel for pardon, and repent their crime.
      Twice have our foes been vanquish’d on the plain:
      Then shall I wait till Turnus will be slain?
      Your force against the perjur’d city bend.
      There it began, and there the war shall end.
      The peace profan’d our rightful arms requires;
      Cleanse the polluted place with purging fires.”

      He finish’d; and, one soul inspiring all,
      Form’d in a wedge, the foot approach the wall.
      Without the town, an unprovided train
      Of gaping, gazing citizens are slain.
      Some firebrands, others scaling ladders bear,
      And those they toss aloft, and these they rear:
      The flames now launch’d, the feather’d arrows fly,
      And clouds of missive arms obscure the sky.
      Advancing to the front, the hero stands,
      And, stretching out to heav’n his pious hands,
      Attests the gods, asserts his innocence,
      Upbraids with breach of faith th’ Ausonian prince;
      Declares the royal honour doubly stain’d,
      And twice the rites of holy peace profan’d.

      Dissenting clamours in the town arise;
      Each will be heard, and all at once advise.
      One part for peace, and one for war contends;
      Some would exclude their foes, and some admit their friends.
      The helpless king is hurried in the throng,
      And, whate’er tide prevails, is borne along.
      Thus, when the swain, within a hollow rock,
      Invades the bees with suffocating smoke,
      They run around, or labour on their wings,
      Disus’d to flight, and shoot their sleepy stings;
      To shun the bitter fumes in vain they try;
      Black vapours, issuing from the vent, involve the sky.

      But fate and envious fortune now prepare
      To plunge the Latins in the last despair.
      The queen, who saw the foes invade the town,
      And brands on tops of burning houses thrown,
      Cast round her eyes, distracted with her fear—
      No troops of Turnus in the field appear.
      Once more she stares abroad, but still in vain,
      And then concludes the royal youth is slain.
      Mad with her anguish, impotent to bear
      The mighty grief, she loathes the vital air.
      She calls herself the cause of all this ill,
      And owns the dire effects of her ungovern’d will;
      She raves against the gods; she beats her breast;
      She tears with both her hands her purple vest:
      Then round a beam a running noose she tied,
      And, fasten’d by the neck, obscenely died.

      Soon as the fatal news by Fame was blown,
      And to her dames and to her daughter known,
      The sad Lavinia rends her yellow hair
      And rosy cheeks; the rest her sorrow share:
      With shrieks the palace rings, and madness of despair.
      The spreading rumour fills the public place:
      Confusion, fear, distraction, and disgrace,
      And silent shame, are seen in ev’ry face.
      Latinus tears his garments as he goes,
      Both for his public and his private woes;
      With filth his venerable beard besmears,
      And sordid dust deforms his silver hairs.
      And much he blames the softness of his mind,
      Obnoxious to the charms of womankind,
      And soon seduc’d to change what he so well design’d;
      To break the solemn league so long desir’d,
      Nor finish what his fates, and those of Troy, requir’d.

      Now Turnus rolls aloof o’er empty plains,
      And here and there some straggling foes he gleans.
      His flying coursers please him less and less,
      Asham’d of easy fight and cheap success.
      Thus half-contented, anxious in his mind,
      The distant cries come driving in the wind,
      Shouts from the walls, but shouts in murmurs drown’d;
      A jarring mixture, and a boding sound.
      “Alas!” said he, “what mean these dismal cries?
      What doleful clamours from the town arise?”
      Confus’d, he stops, and backward pulls the reins.
      She who the driver’s office now sustains,
      Replies: “Neglect, my lord, these new alarms;
      Here fight, and urge the fortune of your arms:
      There want not others to defend the wall.
      If by your rival’s hand th’ Italians fall,
      So shall your fatal sword his friends oppress,
      In honour equal, equal in success.”

      To this, the prince: “O sister—for I knew
      The peace infring’d proceeded first from you;
      I knew you, when you mingled first in fight;
      And now in vain you would deceive my sight—
      Why, goddess, this unprofitable care?
      Who sent you down from heav’n, involv’d in air,
      Your share of mortal sorrows to sustain,
      And see your brother bleeding on the plain?
      For to what pow’r can Turnus have recourse,
      Or how resist his fate’s prevailing force?
      These eyes beheld Murranus bite the ground:
      Mighty the man, and mighty was the wound.
      I heard my dearest friend, with dying breath,
      My name invoking to revenge his death.
      Brave Ufens fell with honour on the place,
      To shun the shameful sight of my disgrace.
      On earth supine, a manly corpse he lies;
      His vest and armour are the victor’s prize.
      Then, shall I see Laurentum in a flame,
      Which only wanted, to complete my shame?
      How will the Latins hoot their champion’s flight!
      How Drances will insult and point them to the sight!
      Is death so hard to bear? Ye gods below,
      (Since those above so small compassion show,)
      Receive a soul unsullied yet with shame,
      Which not belies my great forefather’s name!”

      He said; and while he spoke, with flying speed
      Came Sages urging on his foamy steed:
      Fix’d on his wounded face a shaft he bore,
      And, seeking Turnus, sent his voice before:
      “Turnus, on you, on you alone, depends
      Our last relief: compassionate your friends!
      Like lightning, fierce Aeneas, rolling on,
      With arms invests, with flames invades the town:
      The brands are toss’d on high; the winds conspire
      To drive along the deluge of the fire.
      All eyes are fix’d on you: your foes rejoice;
      Ev’n the king staggers, and suspends his choice;
      Doubts to deliver or defend the town,
      Whom to reject, or whom to call his son.
      The queen, on whom your utmost hopes were plac’d,
      Herself suborning death, has breath’d her last.
      ’Tis true, Messapus, fearless of his fate,
      With fierce Atinas’ aid, defends the gate:
      On ev’ry side surrounded by the foe,
      The more they kill, the greater numbers grow;
      An iron harvest mounts, and still remains to mow.
      You, far aloof from your forsaken bands,
      Your rolling chariot drive o’er empty sands.

      Stupid he sate, his eyes on earth declin’d,
      And various cares revolving in his mind:
      Rage, boiling from the bottom of his breast,
      And sorrow mix’d with shame, his soul oppress’d;
      And conscious worth lay lab’ring in his thought,
      And love by jealousy to madness wrought.
      By slow degrees his reason drove away
      The mists of passion, and resum’d her sway.
      Then, rising on his car, he turn’d his look,
      And saw the town involv’d in fire and smoke.
      A wooden tow’r with flames already blaz’d,
      Which his own hands on beams and rafters rais’d;
      And bridges laid above to join the space,
      And wheels below to roll from place to place.
      “Sister, the Fates have vanquish’d: let us go
      The way which Heav’n and my hard fortune show.
      The fight is fix’d; nor shall the branded name
      Of a base coward blot your brother’s fame.
      Death is my choice; but suffer me to try
      My force, and vent my rage before I die.”
      He said; and, leaping down without delay,
      Thro’ crowds of scatter’d foes he freed his way.
      Striding he pass’d, impetuous as the wind,
      And left the grieving goddess far behind.
      As when a fragment, from a mountain torn
      By raging tempests, or by torrents borne,
      Or sapp’d by time, or loosen’d from the roots—
      Prone thro’ the void the rocky ruin shoots,
      Rolling from crag to crag, from steep to steep;
      Down sink, at once, the shepherds and their sheep:
      Involv’d alike, they rush to nether ground;
      Stunn’d with the shock they fall, and stunn’d from earth rebound:
      So Turnus, hasting headlong to the town,
      Should’ring and shoving, bore the squadrons down.
      Still pressing onward, to the walls he drew,
      Where shafts, and spears, and darts promiscuous flew,
      And sanguine streams the slipp’ry ground embrue.
      First stretching out his arm, in sign of peace,
      He cries aloud, to make the combat cease:
      “Rutulians, hold; and Latin troops, retire!
      The fight is mine; and me the gods require.
      ’Tis just that I should vindicate alone
      The broken truce, or for the breach atone.
      This day shall free from wars th’ Ausonian state,
      Or finish my misfortunes in my fate.”

      Both armies from their bloody work desist,
      And, bearing backward, form a spacious list.
      The Trojan hero, who receiv’d from fame
      The welcome sound, and heard the champion’s name,
      Soon leaves the taken works and mounted walls,
      Greedy of war where greater glory calls.
      He springs to fight, exulting in his force
      His jointed armour rattles in the course.
      Like Eryx, or like Athos, great he shows,
      Or Father Apennine, when, white with snows,
      His head divine obscure in clouds he hides,
      And shakes the sounding forest on his sides.
      The nations, overaw’d, surcease the fight;
      Immovable their bodies, fix’d their sight.
      Ev’n death stands still; nor from above they throw
      Their darts, nor drive their batt’ring-rams below.
      In silent order either army stands,
      And drop their swords, unknowing, from their hands.
      Th’ Ausonian king beholds, with wond’ring sight,
      Two mighty champions match’d in single fight,
      Born under climes remote, and brought by fate,
      With swords to try their titles to the state.

      Now, in clos’d field, each other from afar
      They view; and, rushing on, begin the war.
      They launch their spears; then hand to hand they meet;
      The trembling soil resounds beneath their feet:
      Their bucklers clash; thick blows descend from high,
      And flakes of fire from their hard helmets fly.
      Courage conspires with chance, and both engage
      With equal fortune yet, and mutual rage.
      As when two bulls for their fair female fight
      In Sila’s shades, or on Taburnus’ height;
      With horns adverse they meet; the keeper flies;
      Mute stands the herd; the heifers roll their eyes,
      And wait th’ event; which victor they shall bear,
      And who shall be the lord, to rule the lusty year:
      With rage of love the jealous rivals burn,
      And push for push, and wound for wound return;
      Their dewlaps gor’d, their sides are lav’d in blood;
      Loud cries and roaring sounds rebellow thro’ the wood:
      Such was the combat in the listed ground;
      So clash their swords, and so their shields resound.

      Jove sets the beam; in either scale he lays
      The champions’ fate, and each exactly weighs.
      On this side, life and lucky chance ascends;
      Loaded with death, that other scale descends.
      Rais’d on the stretch, young Turnus aims a blow
      Full on the helm of his unguarded foe:
      Shrill shouts and clamours ring on either side,
      As hopes and fears their panting hearts divide.
      But all in pieces flies the traitor sword,
      And, in the middle stroke, deserts his lord.
      Now is but death, or flight; disarm’d he flies,
      When in his hand an unknown hilt he spies.
      Fame says that Turnus, when his steeds he join’d,
      Hurrying to war, disorder’d in his mind,
      Snatch’d the first weapon which his haste could find.
      ’Twas not the fated sword his father bore,
      But that his charioteer Metiscus wore.
      This, while the Trojans fled, the toughness held;
      But, vain against the great Vulcanian shield,
      The mortal-temper’d steel deceiv’d his hand:
      The shiver’d fragments shone amid the sand.

      Surpris’d with fear, he fled along the field,
      And now forthright, and now in orbits wheel’d;
      For here the Trojan troops the list surround,
      And there the pass is clos’d with pools and marshy ground.
      Aeneas hastens, tho’ with heavier pace—
      His wound, so newly knit, retards the chase,
      And oft his trembling knees their aid refuse—
      Yet, pressing foot by foot, his foe pursues.

      Thus, when a fearful stag is clos’d around
      With crimson toils, or in a river found,
      High on the bank the deep-mouth’d hound appears,
      Still opening, following still, where’er he steers;
      The persecuted creature, to and fro,
      Turns here and there, to scape his Umbrian foe:
      Steep is th’ ascent, and, if he gains the land,
      The purple death is pitch’d along the strand.
      His eager foe, determin’d to the chase,
      Stretch’d at his length, gains ground at ev’ry pace;
      Now to his beamy head he makes his way,
      And now he holds, or thinks he holds, his prey:
      Just at the pinch, the stag springs out with fear;
      He bites the wind, and fills his sounding jaws with air:
      The rocks, the lakes, the meadows ring with cries;
      The mortal tumult mounts, and thunders in the skies.
      Thus flies the Daunian prince, and, flying, blames
      His tardy troops, and, calling by their names,
      Demands his trusty sword. The Trojan threats
      The realm with ruin, and their ancient seats
      To lay in ashes, if they dare supply
      With arms or aid his vanquish’d enemy:
      Thus menacing, he still pursues the course,
      With vigour, tho’ diminish’d of his force.
      Ten times already round the listed place
      One chief had fled, and t’ other giv’n the chase:
      No trivial prize is play’d; for on the life
      Or death of Turnus now depends the strife.

      Within the space, an olive tree had stood,
      A sacred shade, a venerable wood,
      For vows to Faunus paid, the Latins’ guardian god.
      Here hung the vests, and tablets were engrav’d,
      Of sinking mariners from shipwreck sav’d.
      With heedless hands the Trojans fell’d the tree,
      To make the ground enclos’d for combat free.
      Deep in the root, whether by fate, or chance,
      Or erring haste, the Trojan drove his lance;
      Then stoop’d, and tugg’d with force immense, to free
      Th’ incumber’d spear from the tenacious tree;
      That, whom his fainting limbs pursued in vain,
      His flying weapon might from far attain.

      Confus’d with fear, bereft of human aid,
      Then Turnus to the gods, and first to Faunus pray’d:
      “O Faunus, pity! and thou Mother Earth,
      Where I thy foster son receiv’d my birth,
      Hold fast the steel! If my religious hand
      Your plant has honour’d, which your foes profan’d,
      Propitious hear my pious pray’r!” He said,
      Nor with successless vows invok’d their aid.
      Th’ incumbent hero wrench’d, and pull’d, and strain’d;
      But still the stubborn earth the steel detain’d.
      Juturna took her time; and, while in vain
      He strove, assum’d Meticus’ form again,
      And, in that imitated shape, restor’d
      To the despairing prince his Daunian sword.
      The Queen of Love, who, with disdain and grief,
      Saw the bold nymph afford this prompt relief,
      T’ assert her offspring with a greater deed,
      From the tough root the ling’ring weapon freed.

      Once more erect, the rival chiefs advance:
      One trusts the sword, and one the pointed lance;
      And both resolv’d alike to try their fatal chance.

      Meantime imperial Jove to Juno spoke,
      Who from a shining cloud beheld the shock:
      “What new arrest, O Queen of Heav’n, is sent
      To stop the Fates now lab’ring in th’ event?
      What farther hopes are left thee to pursue?
      Divine Aeneas, (and thou know’st it too,)
      Foredoom’d, to these celestial seats are due.
      What more attempts for Turnus can be made,
      That thus thou ling’rest in this lonely shade?
      Is it becoming of the due respect
      And awful honour of a god elect,
      A wound unworthy of our state to feel,
      Patient of human hands and earthly steel?
      Or seems it just, the sister should restore
      A second sword, when one was lost before,
      And arm a conquer’d wretch against his conqueror?
      For what, without thy knowledge and avow,
      Nay more, thy dictate, durst Juturna do?
      At last, in deference to my love, forbear
      To lodge within thy soul this anxious care;
      Reclin’d upon my breast, thy grief unload:
      Who should relieve the goddess, but the god?
      Now all things to their utmost issue tend,
      Push’d by the Fates to their appointed end.
      While leave was giv’n thee, and a lawful hour
      For vengeance, wrath, and unresisted pow’r,
      Toss’d on the seas, thou couldst thy foes distress,
      And, driv’n ashore, with hostile arms oppress;
      Deform the royal house; and, from the side
      Of the just bridegroom, tear the plighted bride:
      Now cease at my command.” The Thund’rer said;
      And, with dejected eyes, this answer Juno made:
      “Because your dread decree too well I knew,
      From Turnus and from earth unwilling I withdrew.
      Else should you not behold me here, alone,
      Involv’d in empty clouds, my friends bemoan,
      But, girt with vengeful flames, in open sight
      Engag’d against my foes in mortal fight.
      ’Tis true, Juturna mingled in the strife
      By my command, to save her brother’s life,
      At least to try; but, by the Stygian lake,
      (The most religious oath the gods can take,)
      With this restriction, not to bend the bow,
      Or toss the spear, or trembling dart to throw.
      And now, resign’d to your superior might,
      And tir’d with fruitless toils, I loathe the fight.
      This let me beg (and this no fates withstand)
      Both for myself and for your father’s land,
      That, when the nuptial bed shall bind the peace,
      (Which I, since you ordain, consent to bless,)
      The laws of either nation be the same;
      But let the Latins still retain their name,
      Speak the same language which they spoke before,
      Wear the same habits which their grandsires wore.
      Call them not Trojans: perish the renown
      And name of Troy, with that detested town.
      Latium be Latium still; let Alba reign
      And Rome’s immortal majesty remain.”

      Then thus the founder of mankind replies
      (Unruffled was his front, serene his eyes)
      “Can Saturn’s issue, and heav’n’s other heir,
      Such endless anger in her bosom bear?
      Be mistress, and your full desires obtain;
      But quench the choler you foment in vain.
      From ancient blood th’ Ausonian people sprung,
      Shall keep their name, their habit, and their tongue.
      The Trojans to their customs shall be tied:
      I will, myself, their common rites provide;
      The natives shall command, the foreigners subside.
      All shall be Latium; Troy without a name;
      And her lost sons forget from whence they came.
      From blood so mix’d, a pious race shall flow,
      Equal to gods, excelling all below.
      No nation more respect to you shall pay,
      Or greater off’rings on your altars lay.”
      Juno consents, well pleas’d that her desires
      Had found success, and from the cloud retires.

      The peace thus made, the Thund’rer next prepares
      To force the wat’ry goddess from the wars.
      Deep in the dismal regions void of light,
      Three daughters at a birth were born to Night:
      These their brown mother, brooding on her care,
      Indued with windy wings to flit in air,
      With serpents girt alike, and crown’d with hissing hair.
      In heav’n the Dirae call’d, and still at hand,
      Before the throne of angry Jove they stand,
      His ministers of wrath, and ready still
      The minds of mortal men with fears to fill,
      Whene’er the moody sire, to wreak his hate
      On realms or towns deserving of their fate,
      Hurls down diseases, death and deadly care,
      And terrifies the guilty world with war.
      One sister plague if these from heav’n he sent,
      To fright Juturna with a dire portent.
      The pest comes whirling down: by far more slow
      Springs the swift arrow from the Parthian bow,
      Or Cydon yew, when, traversing the skies,
      And drench’d in pois’nous juice, the sure destruction flies.
      With such a sudden and unseen a flight
      Shot thro’ the clouds the daughter of the night.
      Soon as the field inclos’d she had in view,
      And from afar her destin’d quarry knew,
      Contracted, to the boding bird she turns,
      Which haunts the ruin’d piles and hallow’d urns,
      And beats about the tombs with nightly wings,
      Where songs obscene on sepulchers she sings.
      Thus lessen’d in her form, with frightful cries
      The Fury round unhappy Turnus flies,
      Flaps on his shield, and flutters o’er his eyes.

      A lazy chillness crept along his blood;
      Chok’d was his voice; his hair with horror stood.
      Juturna from afar beheld her fly,
      And knew th’ ill omen, by her screaming cry
      And stridor of her wings. Amaz’d with fear,
      Her beauteous breast she beat, and rent her flowing hair.

      “Ah me!” she cries, “in this unequal strife
      What can thy sister more to save thy life?
      Weak as I am, can I, alas! contend
      In arms with that inexorable fiend?
      Now, now, I quit the field! forbear to fright
      My tender soul, ye baleful birds of night;
      The lashing of your wings I know too well,
      The sounding flight, and fun’ral screams of hell!
      These are the gifts you bring from haughty Jove,
      The worthy recompense of ravish’d love!
      Did he for this exempt my life from fate?
      O hard conditions of immortal state,
      Tho’ born to death, not privileg’d to die,
      But forc’d to bear impos’d eternity!
      Take back your envious bribes, and let me go
      Companion to my brother’s ghost below!
      The joys are vanish’d: nothing now remains,
      Of life immortal, but immortal pains.
      What earth will open her devouring womb,
      To rest a weary goddess in the tomb!”
      She drew a length of sighs; nor more she said,
      But in her azure mantle wrapp’d her head,
      Then plung’d into her stream, with deep despair,
      And her last sobs came bubbling up in air.

      Now stern Aeneas waves his weighty spear
      Against his foe, and thus upbraids his fear:
      “What farther subterfuge can Turnus find?
      What empty hopes are harbour’d in his mind?
      ’Tis not thy swiftness can secure thy flight;
      Not with their feet, but hands, the valiant fight.
      Vary thy shape in thousand forms, and dare
      What skill and courage can attempt in war;
      Wish for the wings of winds, to mount the sky;
      Or hid, within the hollow earth to lie!”
      The champion shook his head, and made this short reply:
      “No threats of thine my manly mind can move;
      ’Tis hostile heav’n I dread, and partial Jove.”
      He said no more, but, with a sigh, repress’d
      The mighty sorrow in his swelling breast.

      Then, as he roll’d his troubled eyes around,
      An antique stone he saw, the common bound
      Of neighb’ring fields, and barrier of the ground;
      So vast, that twelve strong men of modern days
      Th’ enormous weight from earth could hardly raise.
      He heav’d it at a lift, and, pois’d on high,
      Ran stagg’ring on against his enemy,
      But so disorder’d, that he scarcely knew
      His way, or what unwieldly weight he threw.
      His knocking knees are bent beneath the load,
      And shiv’ring cold congeals his vital blood.
      The stone drops from his arms, and, falling short
      For want of vigour, mocks his vain effort.
      And as, when heavy sleep has clos’d the sight,
      The sickly fancy labours in the night;
      We seem to run; and, destitute of force,
      Our sinking limbs forsake us in the course:
      In vain we heave for breath; in vain we cry;
      The nerves, unbrac’d, their usual strength deny;
      And on the tongue the falt’ring accents die:
      So Turnus far’d; whatever means he tried,
      All force of arms and points of art employ’d,
      The Fury flew athwart, and made th’ endeavor void.

      A thousand various thoughts his soul confound;
      He star’d about, nor aid nor issue found;
      His own men stop the pass, and his own walls surround.
      Once more he pauses, and looks out again,
      And seeks the goddess charioteer in vain.
      Trembling he views the thund’ring chief advance,
      And brandishing aloft the deadly lance:
      Amaz’d he cow’rs beneath his conqu’ring foe,
      Forgets to ward, and waits the coming blow.
      Astonish’d while he stands, and fix’d with fear,
      Aim’d at his shield he sees th’ impending spear.

      The hero measur’d first, with narrow view,
      The destin’d mark; and, rising as he threw,
      With its full swing the fatal weapon flew.
      Not with less rage the rattling thunder falls,
      Or stones from batt’ring-engines break the walls:
      Swift as a whirlwind, from an arm so strong,
      The lance drove on, and bore the death along.
      Naught could his sev’nfold shield the prince avail,
      Nor aught, beneath his arms, the coat of mail:
      It pierc’d thro’ all, and with a grisly wound
      Transfix’d his thigh, and doubled him to ground.
      With groans the Latins rend the vaulted sky:
      Woods, hills, and valleys, to the voice reply.

      Now low on earth the lofty chief is laid,
      With eyes cast upward, and with arms display’d,
      And, recreant, thus to the proud victor pray’d:
      “I know my death deserv’d, nor hope to live:
      Use what the gods and thy good fortune give.
      Yet think, O think, if mercy may be shown,
      Thou hadst a father once, and hast a son.
      Pity my sire, now sinking to the grave;
      And for Anchises’ sake old Daunus save!
      Or, if thy vow’d revenge pursue my death,
      Give to my friends my body void of breath!
      The Latian chiefs have seen me beg my life;
      Thine is the conquest, thine the royal wife:
      Against a yielded man, ’tis mean ignoble strife.”

      In deep suspense the Trojan seem’d to stand,
      And, just prepar’d to strike, repress’d his hand.
      He roll’d his eyes, and ev’ry moment felt
      His manly soul with more compassion melt;
      When, casting down a casual glance, he spied
      The golden belt that glitter’d on his side,
      The fatal spoils which haughty Turnus tore
      From dying Pallas, and in triumph wore.
      Then, rous’d anew to wrath, he loudly cries
      (Flames, while he spoke, came flashing from his eyes)
      “Traitor, dost thou, dost thou to grace pretend,
      Clad, as thou art, in trophies of my friend?
      To his sad soul a grateful off’ring go!
      ’Tis Pallas, Pallas gives this deadly blow.”
      He rais’d his arm aloft, and, at the word,
      Deep in his bosom drove the shining sword.
      The streaming blood distain’d his arms around;
      And the disdainful soul came rushing through the wound.




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