The Æneid of Virgil translated into English prose

by Virgil

BOOK X

Meantime the palace of strong Olympus is thrown open,

and the sire of gods and monarch of men summons a

council to the starry chamber, whence, throned on high,

he looks down on the length and breadth of earth, the

camp of the Dardans and the people of Latium. They 5

take their seats in the double-gated mansion; he himself

opens the court: “Mighty denizens of heaven, wherefore

is your judgment turned backward, and whence such discord

in your unkindly souls? I had forbidden that Italy

should meet the Teucrians in the shock of war. What 10

strife is this in defiance of my law? What terror has

prompted these or those to draw the sword and provoke

the fight? There shall come a rightful time for combat—no

need for you to hasten it—when fierce Carthage one

day shall launch on the hills of Rome mighty ruin and the 15

opening of Alpine barriers. Then will your rancours be

free to contend, your hands to plunder and ravage; for the

present let be, and cheerfully ratify the peace that I have

willed.”

Thus Jupiter in brief; but not brief was the answer 20

of golden Venus: “O Father! O eternal sovereignty of

man and nature! for what else can there be which is left

us to implore? Seest thou how the Rutulians insult? how

Turnus is whirled through the battle by his haughty

coursers, borne on the floodtide of war? No longer are 25

the Teucrians safe even in the shelter of their walls; within

the gates, amidst the very mounds of the ramparts combat

is waged, and the trenches overflow with carnage. Æneas

is away in his ignorance. Wilt thou never let us have

respite from siege? Once more the enemy is stooping over 30

the walls of our infant Troy, with a second army; once

more Tydeus’ son from his Ætolian Arpi is rising against

the Teucrians. Ay, my wounds, I ween, are yet in the

future, and I, thine own offspring, am delaying the destined

course of a mortal spear. If it is without your leave and 5

despite your will that the Trojans have won their way to

Italy, let them expiate the crime and withdraw from them

thine aid: but if they have but followed those many oracles

given by powers above and powers underground, how

can any now be able to reverse thine ordinance and write 10

anew the page of fate? Why should I remind thee of our

fleet consumed on Eryx’ shore? why of the monarch of the

storms and his raving winds stirred up from Æolia, or of

Iris sent down from the clouds? Now she is even rousing

the ghosts below—that portion of the world till then was 15

untried—and on a sudden Allecto is launched on upper

air, and rages through the Italian cities. It is not for

empire that I am disquieted; for that we hoped in the past,

while our star yet shone: let them conquer whom thou

wouldst have conquer. If there is no country on earth 20

which thy relentless spouse will allow the Teucrians, I adjure

thee, father, by the smoking ruins of Troy overthrown,

let me send away Ascanius safe from the war—let my

grandson survive in life. Æneas, indeed, may be tossed

on unknown waters, and follow such course as chance may 25

give him: him let me have the power to screen and withdraw

from the horrors of battle. Amathus is mine, and

lofty Paphos, and high Cythera, and the mansion of Idalia:

there let him pass his days unwarlike and inglorious. Let

it be thy will that Carthage shall bow Ausonia beneath 30

her tyrannous sway; the Tyrian cities need fear no resistance

from him. What has it advantaged him to have

escaped the plague of war and fled through the hottest of

the Argive fires, to have drained to the dregs all those

dangers by sea and on broad earth, while the Teucrians 35

are in quest of Latium and a restored Pergamus? Give

back, great sire, to our wretched nation their Xanthus and

their Simois, and let the Teucrians enact once more the old

tragedy of Ilium.” Then outspoke queenly Juno, goaded

by fierce passion: “Why force you me to break my deep

silence, and give forth in words my buried grief? Your

Æneas—was it any man or god that compelled him to

draw the sword, and come down as a foe on the Latian 5

king? Grant that he went to Italy at the instance of fate,

at the impulse, in truth, of mad Cassandra; was it our

counsel that he should leave his camp and place his life

at the mercy of the winds? that he should trust the control

of battle and his city to a boy—should tamper with 10

Tyrrhenian loyalty and stir up a quiet nation? What

god, what cruel tyranny of ours, drove him thither to his

hurt? is there a trace of Juno here, or of Iris sent down from

the clouds? Ay, it is foul shame that the Italians should

throw a belt of flame round the infant Troy—that Turnus 15

should plant a foot on the soil of his fathers, Turnus, whose

grandsire was Pilumnus, whose mother the goddess

Venilia. How call you it for the Trojans to invade

Latium with their smoking torches, to put their yoke on a

country that is none of theirs, and harry away its plunder—to 20

choose at will those whose daughters they would wed,

and drag the plighted bride from the bosom—to bear

suppliant tokens in the hand and arm their vessels to the

teeth? You have power to withdraw Æneas from the

hands of the Greeks, and offer them clouds and thin winds 25

for the man they seek—power to turn a fleet of ships into

a bevy of Nymphs; and is it utterly monstrous for us to

give the Rutulians a measure of aid in return? Æneas

is away in ignorance, and in ignorance let him bide away.

You have your Paphos, your Idalium, your lofty Cythera: 30

why meddle with a city brimming with war and with ungentle

hearts? Is it we that are labouring to overturn

from the foundation your feeble Phrygian fortunes?

We? or the gallant who brought Greece down on the

wretched Trojans? What reason was there that Europe 35

and Asia should stand up to fight, and a league be broken

by treachery? Did I lead your Dardan leman to take

Sparta by storm? did I put weapons in his hand, or fan the

flame of war with the gales of love? Then had there been

decency in your fears for your friends; now you are rising

too late with unjust complaints, and flinging idly the language

of quarrel.”

Such was the appeal of Juno: and the whole body of immortals 5

murmured assent on this side or on that, like new-born

gales when they murmur, caught in the forest, and

roll about mysterious sounds, disclosing to the sailor a

coming storm. Then begins the almighty sire, whose is

the chief sovereignty of the universe: at opening of his 10

mouth the lofty palace of the gods grows still, and earth

shakes to her foundations; silent is the height of ether; the

Zephyrs are sunk to rest, and Ocean subdues its waves to

repose. “Take then to your hearts and engrave there

these my words: since it may not be that Ausonian and 15

Teucrian should be united by treaty, and your wranglings

brook no conclusion, be each man’s fortune to-day what

it may, be the span of each man’s hope long or short,

Trojan or Rutulian, I will show favour to neither, whether

it be by destiny that the Italian leaguer encompasses the 20

camp, or by Troy’s baneful error and the warnings of hostile

intelligence. Nor leave I the Rutulians free. Each man’s

own endeavours shall yield him the harvest of labour or

fortune. Jove, as king, is alike to all. Destiny shall find

her own way.” By the river of his Stygian brother, by the 25

banks that seethe with pitch and are washed by the

murky torrent, he nodded confirmation, and with his nod

made all Olympus tremble. So ended their debate.

Then from his golden throne rises Jove, and the immortals

gathering round him usher him to his chamber. 30

Meantime the Rutulians press round each and all of the

gates, eager to slaughter the soldiery and belt the ramparts

with flame. But Æneas’ army is hemmed within the

leaguered encampment, without hope of escape. In unavailing

wretchedness they stand guarding the turret’s 35

height, and form a thin circle round the walls. Asius son

of Imbrasus, and Hicetaon’s child Thymœtes, and the two

Assaraci, and Castor and aged Thymbris are their front

rank, by their side the two brethren of Sarpedon, Clarus

and Themon both, come from noble Lycia. There is one

carrying with the whole strain of his body a mighty rock,

no small portion of a mountain, Acmon of Lyrnessus, a

worthy peer of his father Clytius and his brother Menestheus. 5

Some repel the foe with javelins, some with stones:

they launch the firebrand, they fit the arrow to the string.

In the midst is he, Venus’ most rightful care, the royal boy

of Dardany, his beauteous head uncovered: see him shine

like a jewel islanded in yellow gold, an ornament for neck 10

or head, or as gleams ivory set by artist skill in box-wood or

Orician terebinth[273]: his flowing hair streams over a neck of

milky white and is gathered up by a ring of ductile gold.

Thou, too, Ismarus, wast seen by tribes of warriors dealing

wounds abroad and arming thy arrows with venom, gallant 15

branch of a Lydian house, from the land whose rich

soil is broken up by the husbandmen and washed by

Pactolus’ golden stream. Mnestheus, too, was there, whom

yesterday’s triumph over Turnus repulsed from the rampart

exalts to the stars, and Capys, who gives his name to 20

Campania’s mother city.

So they on this side and on that had waged all day the

conflict of stubborn war; and now at midnight Æneas

was ploughing the main. For soon as, leaving Evander,

he entered the Etruscan camp, accosted the king, and told 25

him of his name and his race, for what he sues and what

he offers, explains what arms Mezentius musters on his

side, and what the excess of Turnus’ violence, warns him

how little faith man can place in fortune, and seconds

reasoning by entreaty, without a moment’s pause Tarchon 30

combines his forces and strikes a truce; and at once, freed

from the spell of destiny, the Lydian race embarks according

to heaven’s ordinance, under the charge of a foreign

leader. First sails the vessel of Æneas, Phrygian lions

harnessed on the prow; above them Ida spreads her shade, 35

of happiest augury to exiled Troy. There sits great Æneas

brooding over the doubtful future of the war: and Pallas,

close cleaving to his left side, keeps questioning him,

now of the stars, the road-marks of the shadowy night,

and now of all that he has borne by land and by sea.

Now, ye goddesses, open wide your Helicon,[274] and stir up

the powers of song, to tell us what the army now following

Æneas from the Tuscan shores, equipping its ships for 5

adventure, and sailing over the sea.

First comes Massicus, cleaving the waters in his brass-sheathed

Tiger: in his train a band of a thousand warriors,

who have left the walls of Clusium and the city Cosæ;

their weapons a sheaf of arrows, light quivers for the 10

shoulder, and a bow of deadly aim. With him grim

Abas: his whole band ablaze with gleaming armour,

his vessel shining with a gilded Apollo. Populonia had

sent him six hundred of her sons, all versed in war: Ilva

three hundred, an island rich in the Chalybes’ unexhausted 15

mines. Third comes Asilas, the great interpreter

’tween gods and men, at whose bidding are the

victims’ entrails, the stars of the sky, the tongues of augurial

birds, and the flame of the prophetic lightning. With

him hurry a thousand in close array, bristling with spears—subjected 20

to his command by the town of Pisa, which,

sprung from Alpheus, took root on Etruscan soil. After

these is Astur, fairest of form, Astur, proud of his steed

and his glancing armour. Three hundred follow him, all

with one loyal soul, from those who dwell in Cære and in 25

the plains of Minio, in ancient Pyrgi, and Gravisca’s

tainted air.

I would not leave thee unsung, bravest chief of the Ligurians,

Cinyras, or Cupavo with scanty retinue, whose helmet

is surmounted by plumage of the swan: love was your 30

joint crime; for love you wear the cognizance of your

father’s form. For legend tells that Cycnus, all for grief

over his darling Phaethon, while in the poplar shade and

the leafage of the brotherless sisters he keeps singing and

consoling his sad passion by the Muses’ aid, drew over his 35

form the soft plumage of downy eld, mounting up from

earth and sending his voice before him to the stars. His

son, with a band of martial peers sailing at his side,

propels with his oars the enormous Centaur: the monster

stands lowering over the water, and threatens the billows

with a huge rock from his towering eminence, as he ploughs

the deep sea with the length of his keel.

Great Ocnus too is leading an army from the coasts of his 5

fathers, Ocnus, son of Manto the prophetess and the Etruscan

river, who bestowed on thee, Mantua, thy city walls

and the name of his mother, Mantua rich in ancestral

glories: but not all her sons of the same blood; three

races are there, and under each race range four nations: 10

herself the queen of the nations, her strength from Etruscan

blood. Hence, too, Mezentius draws against his life

five hundred unfriendly swords—Mincius, child of Benacus,

with his gray covering of reeds, ushers into the deep

their hostile bark. 15

On moves strong Aulestes, lashing the water as he rises

with the stroke of a hundred oars: the sea spouts foam

from its upturned surface. His bearer is a huge Triton,

whose shell strikes terror into the green billows; his

shaggy front, breasting the water, down to the side bespeaks 20

the man: the belly ends in a sea monster: under

the half bestial bosom the wave froths and roars.

So many chosen chiefs were journeying in thirty

vessels to the succour of Troy, and ploughing with brazen

beak the expanse of brine. 25

And now the day had withdrawn from the sky, and

gracious Dian was trampling over the cope of heaven with

her night-flying steeds: Æneas the while, for care refuses

slumber to his frame, is seated at his post, himself guiding

the rudder and trimming the sail—when lo! in the middle 30

of his voyage he is met by a fair bevy of comrades of his

own: the Nymphs whom gracious Cybele had invested

with the deity of the sea, and changed from ships to goddesses,

were swimming abreast and cleaving the billow,

a Nymph for each of the brazen prows that erst had 35

lined the shore. Far off they recognize their king, and

come dancing round him in state: Cymodoce, their skilfullest

in speech, swimming up behind, lays her right hand on

the stern, herself lifted breast high above the water,

while with her left she paddles in the noiseless wave.

Then thus she breaks on his wondering ear: “Wake you,

Æneas, seed of the gods? be wakeful still, and let the sail-ropes

go. We it is you see, pines of Ida from the sacred 5

summit, Sea-nymphs now, your sometime fleet. When

the false Rutulian was hot at our backs with fire and sword,

reluctantly we burst your bonds, and are now in full quest

of you over the sea. This new shape the great mother gave

us in her pity, and granted us the state of goddesses and 10

lives to lead beneath the water. Meantime young Ascanius

is hemmed in by rampart and trench, with serried

weapons all around him, and Latians bristling with battle.

Already the Arcadian horse mixed with the brave Etruscan

has gained the appointed spot: to bar their way with an 15

intervening host and cut them off from the camp is

Turnus’ fixed intent. Rise, and with the earliest approach

of dawn bid your allies be summoned to arms, and take in

hand that shield which the Fire-god himself made to

be invincible and bordered with a marge of gold. The 20

morrow’s sun, if you will but give credence to my words,

shall survey mighty heaps of Rutulian carnage.” Her

speech was done: and as she parted she gave with her

hand an impulse to the lofty stern, well knowing the due

measure of force: on it speeds over the wave, fleeter than 25

dart and wind-swift arrow both. The rest in order mend

their speed. Wondering he pauses, the great Trojan of

Anchises’ line, yet cheers his soul with the omen. Then,

looking to the vault above, he prays in brief: “Gracious

mother of the gods, lady of Ida, whose joy is in Dindymus, 30

and in turreted cities and harnessed lions at thy

bridle-rein, be thou now to me the controller of the fight,

do thou bring the presage nigh, and walk beside the

Phrygians, mighty goddess, with favouring step.” Thus

much he said: and meanwhile day was returning at speed, 35

with its light grown to full strength, and night had vanished

before it.

First he gives orders to his comrades to obey the

heavenly token, and nerve their souls for combat, and

make ready for the fight. And now at last from his

station on the tall stern he has the Teucrians and his

camp in view, when on the instant his blazing shield is

raised high on his left arm. Up goes a shout to heaven 5

from the Dardans on their ramparts; the gleam of hope

quickens wrath to fury; they hurl a shower of javelins:

even as amid dark clouds cranes from Strymon give token,

sweeping sonorously over the sky, and flying from the

southern gale with sequacious clamour. But the Rutulian 10

king and the Ausonian generals wonder at the sight, till,

looking back, they behold the stems bearing to the shore,

and the whole water floating on with vessels. There is a

blaze on that helmet’s summit, and from the crest on

high streams the flame, and the shield’s golden boss disgorges 15

mighty fires, even as when on a clear night blood-hued

comets glare with gloomy red, or as the Sirian blaze,

that harbinger of drought and sickness to weak mortality,

breaks into birth and saddens heaven with its ill-boding

rays. 20

Yet pause was none in bold Turnus’ confidence to forestall

the landing-place, and beat off the comers from the

shore. His words are ready at the moment to encourage

and upbraid: “See here the occasion you longed for, to

break through them at the sword’s point. A brave man’s 25

hand is the War-god’s chosen seat. Now let each remember

wife and home, recall the mighty deeds that made

your fathers great. Let us meet them at once at the

water’s edge, while they are in the hurry of landing, and

the foot falters in its first tread on shore. Valour has 30

Fortune for its friend:” So saying, he ponders with himself

whom to lead to the attack, and to whom he may

trust the leaguer of the walls.

Meanwhile Æneas is landing his comrades from the tall

ship-sides by help of bridges. Many of them watch for 35

the ebb of the failing sea and venture a leap among the

shallows; others resort to the oars. Tarchon, spying out

a place on the beach where the waters seethe not nor the

broken billows roar, but ocean without let glides gently

up the shore as the tide advances, suddenly turns his

prows thither, and exhorts his crew: “Now, ye chosen

band, ply your stout oars, lift the vessels and carry them

home: cleave with your beaks this land that hates you; 5

let the keel plough its own furrow. Even from shipwreck

in a roadstead like this I would not shrink, could I once

get hold of the soil.” Tarchon having thus said, his crew

rise on their oars and bear down on the Latian plains with

vessels all foam, till the beaks have gained the dry land, 10

and every keel has come scatheless to its rest. Not so

thy ship, Tarchon: for while dashed on a sandbank it

totters on the unequal ridge, poised in suspense awhile,

and buffeting the waves, its sides give way, and its men

are set down in the midst of the water: broken oars and 15

floating benches entangle them, and their feet are carried

back by the ebb of the wave.

No sluggish delay holds Turnus from his work: with

fiery speed he sweeps his whole army against the Teucrians,

and plants them in the foe’s face on the shore. The 20

clarions sound: first dashed Æneas on the rustic ranks, a

presage of the fight’s fortune, and disarrayed the Latians,

slaying Theron, who in his giant strength is assailing

Æneas: piercing through quilted brass and tunic stiff

with gold the sword devours his unguarded side. Next 25

he strikes Lycus, who was cut from the womb of his

dead mother and consecrated to thee, Apollo, because his

baby life had been suffered to scape the peril of the steel.

Hard by, as iron Cisseus and gigantic Gyas were laying

low his host with their clubs, he casts them down in 30

death: nought availed them; the weapons of Hercules or

strong hands to wield them, or Melampus their sire,

Alicides’ constant follower, long as earth found for him

those grievous tasks. See there, as Pharus is hurling

forth words without deeds, he flings at him his javelin 35

and plants it in the bawler’s mouth. Thou, too, Cydon,

while following with ill-starred quest the blooming Clytius,

thy latest joy, hadst lain stretched on the ground by the

Dardan hand, a piteous spectacle, at rest from the passions

that were ever in thy heart; but thy brethren met

the foe in close band, the progeny of Phorcus: seven their

number, seven the darts they throw; some rebound idly

from shield and helm, some as they grazed the frame were 5

turned aside by Venus’ gentle power. Quick spoke

Æneas to true Achates: “Give me store of weapons; not

one shall my hand hurl in vain against the Rutulians, of

all that have quivered in Grecian flesh on the plains of

Troy.” With that he seizes his mighty spear and launches 10

it: flying on it crashes through the brass of Mæon’s shield

and rends breastplate and breast at once. Swift comes

his brother Alcanor and props with his hand the falling

man: piercing the arm the spear flies onward and holds

its bloody course, and the dying hand dangles by the 15

sinews from the shoulder-blade. Then Numitor, snatching

the javelin from his brother’s body, assails Æneas;

yet it might not lodge in the enemy’s front, but just

grazed the thigh of mighty Achates.

Now comes Clausus of Cures in the pride of his youthful 20

frame, and strikes Dryops from a distance under the

chin with the strong impact of his stark spear, and piercing

his throat, robs him even as he speaks of life and

breath alike: the wounded man strikes the earth with

his forehead and vomits from his lips clotted blood. 25

Three, too, from Thrace, of Boreas’ noblest lineage, and

three sent to battle by Idas their sire and Ismarus their

country, he lays low by this chance or that. To his side

runs Halesus and the Auruncan bands; comes to his aid,

too, the seed of Neptune, steed-famed Messapus. Now 30

these, now those, strain to win the ground: the struggle is

on Ausonia’s very threshold. As in the spacious heaven

jarring winds meet in battle, alike in spirit and in strength,

winds, storm-clouds, and ocean, neither yields to the

other: long doubtful hangs the fight; all stand in death 35

grips, front to front: even such the meeting of the army

of Troy and the army of Latium: foot is set close to foot,

and man massed with man.

But in another part of the field, where a torrent had

scattered wide whirling stones and trees uprooted from its

banks, soon as Pallas saw his Arcadians, unused to wage

war on foot, flying before the chase of Latium, in that the

cragginess of the soil had driven them to discard their 5

steeds, he tries the one remedy in sore distress, and now

with prayers, now with bitter speeches, inflames their

valour: “Whither fly ye, mates? By your gallant deeds

I conjure you—by your chief Evander’s name and victories

won at his bidding—by my own promise, now 10

shooting up in rivalry with my father’s glory—trust not

to your feet. It is the sword that must hew us a way

through the foe. Where yonder host of men presses in

thickest mass is the path by which our noble country is

calling you and your general Pallas back to her arms. 15

No deities sit heavy on us: by a mortal foe we are pressed,

mortals ourselves: we have as many lives, as many hands

as they. Lo there! the sea hems us in with mighty

ocean-barrier; earth is closed to our flight: shall the sea

or Troy be our goal?” This said, he dashes at the midst 20

of the hostile throng. The first that meets him is Lagus,

brought to the spot by fates unkind; him, while tugging

a stone of enormous weight, he pierces with his whirled

javelin, just where the spine running down the back was

parting the ribs, and recovers the weapon from its lodgment 25

among the bones. Nor can Hisbo surprise him in

the fact, spite of his hopes; for Pallas catches him rushing

on in blind fury for the pain of his comrade’s death,

and buries the sword in his distended lungs. Next his

blow lights on Sthenelus, and Anchemolus of Rhœtus’ 30

ancient line, who dared pollute his stepdame’s couch.

You, too, twin brethren, fell on those Rutulian plains,

Larides and Thymber, Daucus’ resemblant offspring, undistinguished

even by your kin, a sweet perplexity to

those who bore you: but now Pallas has marked you with 35

a cruel difference; for you, poor Thymber, have your

head shorn off by the Evandrian sword; your hand,

Larides, severed from the arm, is looking in vain for you

its master; the fingers, half alive, are quivering yet and

closing again on the steel.

Arcadia’s sons, stung by their chief’s rebuke and gazing

on his glorious deeds, rush on the foe, strong in the

armour of mingled rage and shame. Then Pallas strikes 5

through Rhœtus as he flies past him on his car. So

much space and respite from his end did Ilus gain; for

’twas at Ilus he had launched from the distance his stalwart

spear: Rhœtus comes between and catches it, flying

from thee, noble Teuthras, and Tyres thy brother; and 10

tumbled from his car he beats with his dying heel the

Rutulian plains. Even as when the winds have risen at

his wish on a summer’s day, a shepherd lets loose his

scattered flames among the woods, in a moment catching

all that comes between, the Fire-god’s army in one bristling 15

line stretches over the broad plains: he from his seat

beholds the triumphant blaze with a conqueror’s pride:

even so the valour of thy friends musters from all sides on

one point to aid thee, Pallas. But Halesus, that fiery

warrior, moves against their opposing ranks, gathering 20

himself up into his arms. Ladon he massacres, and

Pheres, and Demodocus: Strymonius’ right hand, raised

against his throat, he lops away with his gleaming sword;

with a stone he strikes the front of Thoas, and has crushed

the bones mixed with gory brain. Halesus had been 25

hidden in the woods by his prophetic sire; when the

old man closed his whitening eyes in death, the Fates

claimed their victim, and devoted him to Evander’s darts.

And now Pallas aims at him, after these words of prayer:

“Grant, Father Tiber, to the flying steel poised in my 30

hand a prosperous passage through Halesus’ hardy breast;

thine oak shall have his arms and his warrior spoils.”

The god gave ear: while Halesus shielded Imaon, he gives

his own breast in evil hour unarmed to the Arcadian

lance. 35

But Lausus, himself a mighty portion of the war, suffers

not his troops to be dismayed by the hero’s dreadful

carnage: first he slays Abas, who had met him front to

front, the breakwater and barrier of fight. Down go the

sons of Arcadia, down go the Etruscans, and ye, too

Teucrians, whose frames Greece could not destroy. The

armies clash, their leaders and their powers the same.

The rear ranks close up the battle; nor weapon nor hand 5

can be moved for the crowd. Here is Pallas pushing and

pressing, there Lausus over against him: their years

scarcely differ; each has a comely form; but Fortune had

already written that neither should return to his home.

Yet were they not suffered to meet man to man by great 10

Olympus’ lord: each has his fate assigned him ere long at

the hand of a mightier enemy.

Turnus meanwhile is warned by his gracious sister to

come to Lausus’ aid; and with his flying car he cleaves

the intervening ranks. Soon as he met his comrades’ 15

eye: “You may rest from battle now; I alone am coming

against Pallas. Pallas is my due, and mine alone;

would that his sire were here to see us fight.” He said;

and his friends retired from the interdicted space. But

as the Rutulians withdraw, the young warrior, marvelling 20

at the haughty command, gazes astonished on Turnus,

rolls his eyes over that giant frame, and sweeps the whole

man from afar with fiery glance, and with words like

these meets the words of the monarch: “I shall soon be

famous either for kingly trophies won or for an illustrious 25

death; my sire is equal to either event; a truce to menace.”

This said, he marches into the middle space; while the

Arcadians’ blood chills and curdles about their hearts.

Down from his car leaps Turnus, and addresses himself to

fight on foot. And as when a lion has seen from a high 30

watch-tower a bull standing at distance in the field and

meditating fight, he flies to the spot, even thus looks

Turnus as he bounds along.

Soon as he judged his foe would be within reach of his

spear-throw, Pallas begins the combat, in hope that Fortune 35

may help the venture of unequal powers, and utters

these words to the mighty heaven: “By my sire’s hospitality

and the board where thou satest as a stranger, I

pray thee, Alcides, stand by me in my great endeavour.

Let Turnus see me strip the bloody arms from his dying

frame, and may his glazing eyes endure the sight of

a conqueror.” Alcides heard the youth, and stifled a

heavy groan deep down in his breast, and shed forth unavailing 5

tears. Then the Almighty Father bespeaks

his son with kindly words: “Each has his fixed day:

short and irretrievable is the span of all men; but to propagate

glory by great deeds, this is what worth can do.

Think of those many sons of gods who fell beneath Troy’s 10

lofty walls: among whom died even Sarpedon, my own

offspring. For Turnus, too, the call of his destiny has

gone forth, and he has reached the term of his allotted

days.” So he speaks, and turns away his eyes from the

Rutulian plain. 15

But Pallas with a mighty effort sends forth his spear,

and plucks from the hollow scabbard his flashing sword.

On flies the weapon, strikes where the margin of the

harness rises toward the shoulder, and forcing its way

through the buckler’s edge, at last even grazed the mighty 20

frame of Turnus. Then Turnus, long poising his beam

with its point of sharp steel, hurls it at Pallas, with these

words: “See whether our weapon be not the keener.”

So he: while cleaving those many plates of iron and

brass, spite of the bull-hides wound oft and oft about, 25

the point strikes through the shield’s midst with quivering

impact, and pierces the corselet’s barrier and the

mighty breast beyond. In vain the youth tears the

reeking dart from the wound: as it parts, blood and life

follow on its track. He falls forward on his wound: his 30

arms resound upon him, and with his bloody jaws in death

he bites the hostile earth. Standing over him, Turnus

began: “Men of Arcady, take heed and carry my words

to Evander: I send back Pallas handled as his sire deserves.

If there be any honour in a tomb, any solace in 35

burial, let him take it freely; his welcome of Æneas will

be costly notwithstanding.” Then with his left foot as

he spoke, he trod on the dead, tearing away the belt’s

huge weight and the crime thereon engraved[o]: that band

of youths slain foully all on one wedding night, and the

chambers dabbled with blood: Clonus Eurytides had

chased it on the broad field of gold: and now Turnus

triumphs in the prize, and exults in his winning. Blind 5

are the eyes of man’s soul to destiny and doom to be, nor

knows it to respect the limit, when upborne by prosperous

fortune! Turnus shall see the day when he will fain

have paid a high price for Pallas unharmed, when he will

hate the spoils and the hour he won them! But Pallas’ 10

followers, with many a groan and tear, are bearing off

their chief on his shield in long procession. Oh, vision of

sorrow and great glory, soon to meet thy father’s eye!

this day first gave thee to battle, this day withdraws the

gift, yet vast are the heaps thou leavest of Rutulian 15

carnage!

And now not the mere rumour of a blow so dreadful,

but surer intelligence flies to Æneas, that his army is but

a hand-breadth’s remove from death—that it is high

time to succour the routed Teucrians. With his sword he 20

mows down all that crosses him, and all on fire hews a

broad pathway through the ranks with the steel, seeking

thee, Turnus, fresh flushed with slaughter. Pallas, Evander,

the whole scene stands before his eyes—the board

where he had first sate as a stranger, the outstretched 25

hands of fellowship. At once he takes alive four youths

born of Sulmo, and other four reared by Ufens, that he

may offer them as victims to the dead, and sprinkle the

funeral flame with their captive gore. Next he had

levelled his spear from afar at Magus. Magus deftly runs 30

beneath, while the quivering spear flies over his head,

and clasping the enemy’s knees, utters these words of

suppliance: “By your dead father’s soul, and the dawning

promise of Iulus, I pray you spare my poor life for

my son and my sire. I have a lofty palace: deep in its 35

vaults lie talents of chased silver; masses of gold are

mine, wrought and unwrought both. The victory of Troy

hangs not on my fortunes, nor can a single life make

difference so great.” He spoke, and Æneas thus makes

reply: “Those many talents you name of silver and gold,

keep them for your sons. Turnus was the first to put an

end to such trading usages of war at the moment when he

slew Pallas. My sire Anchises’ ghost, and my son Iulus, 5

speak their thoughts through me.” This said, with his

left hand he grasps the helmet and drives his sword hilt-deep

through the suppliant’s back-drawn neck. Hard by

was Hæmonides, priest of Phœbus and Trivia, his temples

wreathed with the fillet’s sacred band, glittering all over 10

with gay raiment and goodly armour. Him he meets,

drives over the plain, stands over him fallen, sacrifices

the victim, and whelms him in a mighty shade; the arms

are stripped and carried off on Serestus’ shoulders, a trophy

to thee, royal Gradivus. The ranks are rallied by Cæculus, 15

scion of Vulcan’s stock, and Umbro, who comes from the

Volscian hills. The Dardan chief puts forth his rage

against them. Already had he mowed down with his

sword Anxur’s left hand and the whole orb of the shield

he bore—that foe, I ween, had uttered a haughty boast, 20

and deemed that his hand would second his tongue, and

was swelling in spirit to the stars, with an assured hope

of gray hairs and length of days—when Tarquitus, in the

pride of gleaming armour, borne by the nymph Dryope

to woodland Faunus, crossed his fiery path. Drawing 25

back his spear, he hampers the corselet and the buckler’s

weighty mass; then he sweeps to the ground the head,

as the lips were vainly praying and essaying to say a

thousand things, and dashing before him the reeking trunk,

utters thus the fierceness of his heart: “Lie there, doughty 30

warrior! never shall your tender mother give you burial,

or pile your father’s tomb above your limbs; no, you

will be left to savage birds, or the river will carry you

whelmed by its eddies, and hungry fish will lick your

wounds.” Next he hunts down Antæus and Lucas, of 35

Turnus’ first rank, and gallant Numa, and yellow Camers,

son of noble Volscens, who was wealthiest in land of

Ausonia’s children, and reigned over voiceless Amyclæ.

Even as Ægæon, who, fable tells, had a hundred arms

and a hundred hands, and flashed fire through fifty mouths

from the depths of fifty bosoms, what time against Jove’s

lightning he thundered on fifty strong shields, and drew

forth fifty sharp swords, so Æneas slakes his victorious 5

fury the whole field over, when once his blade had grown

warm with blood. See! he is advancing against Niphæus’

four harnessed steeds, and setting his breast

against theirs. At once they, soon as they saw his lofty

stride and his fierce gestures, turn round affrighted, and, 10

rushing backward, unseat their master and hurry the car

to the beach. Meanwhile Lucagus forces his way into

the midst, drawn by two white horses, with Liger his

brother; but the brother guides the steeds with the rein,

while Lucagus sweeps fiercely round his naked sword. 15

Æneas brooked not the fury of their fiery onset, but

rushed against them, and stood fronting them in his giant

bulk with threatening spear. To him cried Liger: “These

are not Diomede’s steeds you see, nor this Achilles’ chariot,

nor are these the Phrygian plains; your warfare and 20

your life shall end here on Italian ground.” So fly abroad

the random words of frantic Liger. The chief of Troy

seeks not to meet him with words, but hurls his javelin

at the foe. Even as Lucagus, bending forward over the

stroke, pricked on his horses with the steel, and advancing 25

his left foot prepares himself for fight, the spear

pierces the last margin of the radiant shield and enters

the groin at the left: down he falls from the car and

wallows in death on the plain; while good Æneas bespeaks

him with words of gall: “So, Lucagus, it is no 30

craven flight of your steeds that has played your car false;

no empty shadow cast by the foe has turned them; no,

it is you that spring down from the wheels, and leave the

horses to their fate.” With these words he laid hold of

the bridles, while the wretched brother, gliding down 35

from the car, was stretching his recreant hands: “Oh, by

yourself, by the parents that gave such greatness birth,

spare this poor life, brave hero of Troy, and let prayer

find compassion.” Æneas cut short his entreaties; “Not

such were your words a moment ago; die, and forsake

not your brother, as brother should:” and cleaving the

bosom with his sword, he laid bare the seat of breath.

Such were the deaths that the Dardan leader dealt about 5

the plains, storming along like torrent wave or murky

tempest. At length the prisoners burst forth and leave

their camp, the young Ascanius and the soldiery beleaguered

in vain.

Jupiter meanwhile first addresses Juno: “Sister mine 10

and sweetest wife in one, Venus it is, even as thou didst

suppose—for thy judgment is never at fault—that upholds

the powers of the Trojans, not the warriors’ own

keen right hand and the courageous soul that braves

every peril.” Juno returned, meekly: “Why, my fairest 15

lord, dost thou vex a sick spirit that quails before thy

cruel speeches? Had my love the force it once had, and

which should still be its own, this at least thou wouldst

not deny me, almighty as thou art, the power to withdraw

Turnus from the fight and preserve him in safety 20

for Daunus his father. As it is, let him perish, and glut

the Teucrian vengeance with his righteous blood. Yet

he draws his name from our lineage, and Pilumnus is his

grandsire’s grandsire: and often has thy temple been

loaded with store of offerings from his bounteous hand.” 25

To whom, in brief reply, the lord of skyey Olympus: “If

thy prayer for the doomed youth is respite and breathing

space from present death, and so thou readest my will,

bear thou Turnus away in flight, and snatch him from

the destiny that presses on his heels. Thus far is room 30

for compliance. But if any deeper favour be hidden

under these prayers of thine, and thou deemest that the

war’s whole course can be moved or changed, thou art

nursing an empty hope.” Juno answered with tears:

“What if thy heart were to grant what thy tongue grudges, 35

and Turnus’ life were pledged to continue? As it is, a

heavy doom hangs over his guiltless head, or I am void

of truth and wandering in delusion. But oh, that I

might rather be the sport of lying terrors, and thou, who

canst, lead back thy counsels by a better road!”

This said, from the lofty sky she shot forthwith, driving

storm before her through the air and girt with the rain-cloud,

and sought the army of Ilium and the camp of 5

Laurentum. Then, as goddesses may, she fashions a

thin, strengthless shadow of hollow cloud in the likeness

of Æneas, a marvel to the eyes, accoutres it with Dardan

weapons, and counterfeits the shield and the crest of the

god-like head, gives it empty words and tones without 10

soul, and renders to the life the step and the gait: even

as the shapes that are said to flit when death is past, or

the dreams that mock the sense of slumber. So the

phantom strides triumphant in the van, goading the enemy

with brandished weapons and defiant speech. Turnus 15

comes on, and hurls from far his hurtling spear; it turns

its back and retires. Then, when Turnus thought Æneas

flying in retreat, and snatched in the vehemence of his

soul at the empty hope: “Whither so fast, Æneas?”

cries he: “nay, leave not your promised bridal; this 20

hand shall give you the soil you have sought for the

ocean over.” So with loud shouts he follows, waving his

drawn sword, nor sees that the winds are bearing off his

triumph. It chanced that a ship was standing moored to

the edge of a lofty rock, its ladder let down, its bridge 25

ready to cross—the ship which had carried king Osinius

from the borders of Clusium. Hither, as in haste, the

semblance of the flying Æneas plunged for shelter. Turnus

follows as fast, bounds over all obstacles, and springs

across the high-raised bridge. Scarce had he touched the 30

prow when Saturn’s daughter breaks the mooring and

sweeps the sundered ship along the receding flood. Æneas

meanwhile is claiming the combat with his absent foe,

and sending down to death many a warrior frame that

crosses his way. Then the airy phantom seeks shelter no 35

longer, but soaring aloft blends with the murky atmosphere,

while Turnus is borne by the wind down the middle

of the tide. Ignorant of the event, and unthankful for

escape, he looks back, his hands and his voice addressed

to the sky: “Almighty sire! hast thou judged me worthy

of an infliction like this, and sentenced me to this depth

of suffering? Whither am I bound? whence have I

come? what is this flight that is bearing me home, and 5

what does it make of me? Shall I look again on Laurentum’s

camp and city? what of that warrior troop who

followed me and my standard? Are they not those

whom I left—horror to tell—all of them in the jaws

of a cruel death—whom I now see scattered in rout, and 10

hear their groans as they fall? What can I do? what

lowest depth of earth will yawn for me? Nay, do you,

ye winds, have compassion—on reef, on rock—see, it

is I, Turnus, who am fain to plead—dash me this vessel,

and lodge it on the sandbank’s ruthless shoal, where none 15

that know my shame, Rutuli or rumour, may find me

out!” So speaking, he sways in spirit to this side and to

that: should he for disgrace so foul impale his frenzied

breast on the sword’s point, and drive the stark blade

through his ribs, or fling himself into the midst of the 20

waves, and make by swimming for the winding shore,

and place himself again among the Teucrian swords?

Thrice he essayed either way: thrice mighty Juno kept

him back, and of her great pity withheld the youth from

action. On he flies, ploughing the deep with wave and 25

tide to speed him, and is borne safely to the ancient town

of Daunus his sire.

Prompted meanwhile by Jove, Mezentius, all on fire,

takes up the war, and charges the triumphant Teucrians.

The Tyrrhene host flocks to the spot, bending all their 30

fury, all their showering darts on one, one only man.

Even as a rock which juts into the mighty deep, exposed

to the rage of the wind and braving the sea, bears all the

violence and menace of heaven and ocean, itself unshaken,

he stands unmoved; now he lays low Hebrus, Dolichaon’s 35

child, and with him Latagus and craven Palmus: Latagus

he strikes on the face and front with a stone, a hill’s

enormous fragment, Palmus he suffers to roll ham-strung

in his cowardice; their harness he gives to Lausus to

wear on his shoulders, their crests to adorn his head.

Euanthes, too, the Phrygian, and Mimas, Paris’ playmate,

borne by Theano to Amycus his sire, the self-same night

when Cisseus’ royal daughter, teeming with a firebrand, 5

gave birth to Paris; he sleeps beneath his father’s walls,

while Mimas has his rest on Laurentum’s unknown shore.

Like as the mighty boar driven by fangs of hounds from

mountain heights, the boar whom pine-crowned Vesulus

or Laurentum’s pool shelters these many years, pastured 10

on the reedy jungle, soon as he finds himself among the

nets, stands at bay, snorting with fury and bristling his

back; none has the courage to flame forth and come near

him; at safe distance they press him with their darts

and their cries; even so of them who hate Mezentius with 15

a righteous hate, none has the heart to face him with

drawn steel; with missiles and deafening shouts they

assail him from afar; while he, undaunted, is pausing

now here, now there, gnashing his teeth, and shakes off

the javelins from his buckler’s hide. There was one 20

Acron from Corythus’ ancient borders, a Grecian wight,

who had fled forth leaving his nuptials yet to celebrate;

him, when Mezentius saw at distance scattering the intervening

ranks, in pride of crimson plumage and the purple

of his plighted bride, even as oft a famished lion ranging 25

through high-built stalls—for frantic hunger is his

prompter—if he chance to mark a flying goat or towering-antlered

deer, grins with huge delight, sets up his

mane, and hangs over the rent flesh, while loathly blood

laves his insatiate jaws—so joyfully springs Mezentius 30

on the foe’s clustering mass. Down goes ill-starred Acron,

spurns the blackened ground in the pangs of death, and

dyes with blood the broken spear. Nor did the chief

deign to strike down Orodes as he fled, or deal from a

spear-throw a wound unseen; full in front he meets him, 35

and engages him as man should man, prevailing not by

guile but by sheer force of steel. Then with foot and

lance planted on the back-flung body: “See, gallants, a

bulwark of the war has fallen in tall Orodes,” and his

comrades shout in unison, taking up the triumphal pæan.

The dying man returns: “Whoever thou art, thy victorious

boasting shall not be long or unavenged; for thee,

too, a like fate is watching, and thou shalt soon lie on 5

these self-same fields.” Mezentius answers, with hate

mantling in his smile: “Die now. The sire of gods and

king of men shall make his account with me.” So saying,

he drew forth the spear from the body: the heavy rest

of iron slumber settles down on its eyes, and their beams 10

are curtained in everlasting night.

Cædicus slaughters Alcathous, Sacrator Hydaspes, Rapo

kills Parthenius and Orses of iron frame, Messapus slays

Clonius and Ericetes, Lycaon’s son, that grovelling on the

ground by a fall from his unbridled steed, this encountered 15

foot to foot. Prancing forward came Agis of Lycia; but

Valerus, no unworthy heir of his grandsire’s prowess,

hurls him down; Thronius falls by Salius, and Salius by

Nealces, hero of the javelin and the shaft that surprises

from far. 20

And now the War-god’s heavy hand was dealing out to

each equal measures of agony and carnage; alike they

were slaying, alike falling dead, victors and vanquished

by turns, flight unthought of both by these and by those.

The gods in Jove’s palace look pityingly on the idle rage 25

of the warring hosts—alas, that death-doomed men

should suffer so terribly! Here Venus sits spectator,

there over against her Saturnian Juno. Tisiphone, ashy

pale, is raving among thousands down below. But see!

Mezentius, shaking his giant spear, is striding into the 30

field, an angry presence. Think of the stature of Orion,

as he overtops the billows with his shoulders, when he

stalks on foot through the very heart of Nereus’ mighty

depths that part before him, or as carrying an aged ash

in triumph from the hill-top he plants his tread on the 35

ground, and hides his head among the clouds above:

thus it is that Mezentius in enormous bulk shoulders his

way. Æneas spies him along the length of the battle,

and makes haste to march against him. He abides undismayed,

waiting for his gallant foe, and stands like

column on its base; then, measuring with his eye the

distance that may suffice for his spear, “Now let my right

hand, the god of my worship, and the missile dart I am 5

poising, vouchsafe their aid! I vow that you, my Lausus,

clad in spoils torn from yonder robber’s carcase, shall

stand in your own person the trophy of Æneas.” He

said, and threw from far his hurtling lance: flying onward,

it glances aside from the shield, and strikes in the 10

distance noble Antores twixt side and flank, Antores,

comrade of Hercules, who, sent from Argos, had cloven to

Evander’s fortunes and sat him down in an Italian home.

Now he falls, ill-fated, by a wound meant for other, and

gazes on the sky, and dreams in death of his darling Argos. 15

Then good Æneas hurls his spear; through the hollow

disk with its triple plating of brass, through the folds of

linen and the texture wherein three bulls joined, it won

its way and lodged low down in the groin, but its force

held not on. In a moment Æneas, gladdened by the sight 20

of the Tuscan’s blood, plucks his sword from his thigh

and presses hotly on his unnerved foe.

Soon as Lausus saw, he gave a heavy groan of tenderness

for the sire he loved, and tears trickled down his

face. And here, gallant youth, neither the cruel chance 25

of thy death, nor thy glorious deeds, if antiquity may

gain credence for so great a sacrifice, nor thine own most

worthy memory shall be unsung through fault of mine.

The father, dragging back his foot, disabled and entangled,

was quitting the field, his enemy’s spearshaft trailing 30

from his buckler. Forth dashed the youth and mingled

in the duel, and even as Æneas was rising with hand and

body and bringing down a blow from above, met the

shock of the sword, and gave the swordsman pause; his

comrades second him with a mighty shout, covering the 35

father’s retreat as sheltered by his son’s shield he withdraws

from the fray, hurl a rain of darts, and strive with

distant missiles to dislodge the foe. Æneas glows with

anger, and keeps within the covert of his arms. Even as

on a time when storm-clouds sweep down in a burst of

hail, every ploughman, every husbandman has fled scattering

from the field, and the traveller lies hid in a stronghold

of safety, either some river bank or vault of lofty 5

rock, while the rain is pelting on the lands, in the hope

that with the returning sun they may task the day once

more; even so, stormed on by javelins from all sides,

Æneas endures the thunder-cloud of war till all its artillery

be spent, and keeps chiding Lausus and threatening 10

Lausus: “Whither are you rushing on your death, with

aims beyond your strength? Your duteous heart blinds

your reckless valour.” Yet he bates not a jot in his

frantic onslaught: and now the Dardan leader’s wrath

surges into fury, and the fatal sisters are gathering up 15

Lausus’ last thread, for Æneas drives his forceful blade

sheer through the youth’s body, and buries it wholly

within him. Pierced is the shield by the edge, the light

armour he carried so threateningly, and the tunic embroidered

by his mother with delicate golden thread, and 20

his bosom is deluged with blood; and anon the life flits

through the air regretfully to the shades and the body is

left tenantless. But when the son of Anchises saw the

look and countenance of the dying—the countenance

with its strange and varying hues of pallor—heavily he 25

groaned for pity and stretched forth his hand, and the

portraiture of filial love stood before his soul. “What

now, hapless boy, what shall the good Æneas give you

worthy of your merit and of a heart like yours? Let the

arms wherein you took pride be your own still; yourself 30

I restore to the company of your ancestors, their shades

and their ashes, if that be aught to you now. This at

least, ill-starred as you are, shall solace the sadness of

your death: it is great Æneas’ hand that brings you low.”

Then without more ado he chides the slackness of his 35

comrades, and lifts their young chief from the earth, as

he lay dabbling his trim locks with gore.

Meanwhile the father at the wave of Tiber’s flood was

stanching his wounds with water, and giving ease to his

frame, leaning on a tree’s trunk. His brazen helmet is hanging

from a distant bough, and his heavy arms are resting

on the mead. Round him stand his bravest warriors: he,

sick and panting, is relieving his neck, while his flowing 5

beard scatters over his bosom: many a question asks he

about Lausus, many a messenger he sends to call him off

and convey to him the charge of his grieving sire. But

Lausus the while was being carried breathless on his shield

by a train of weeping comrades, a mighty spirit quelled by 10

a mighty wound. The distant groan told its tale to that

ill-boding heart. He defiles his gray hairs with a shower

of dust, stretches his two palms to heaven, and clings to

the body. “My son! and was I enthralled by so strong a

love of life as to suffer you, mine own offspring, to meet the 15

foeman’s hand in my stead? Are these your wounds

preserving your sire? is he living through your death?

Alas! now at length I know the misery of banishment!

now the iron is driven home! Aye, it was I, my son, that

stained your name with guilt, driven by the hate I gendered 20

from the throne and realm of my father! Retribution

was due to my country and to my subjects’ wrath: would

that I had let out my forfeit life through all the death-wounds

they aimed! And now I live on, nor as yet leave

daylight and humankind—but leave them I will.” So 25

saying, he raises himself on his halting thigh, and though

the deep wound makes his strength flag, calls for his war-horse

with no downcast mien. This was ever his glory

and his solace: this still carried him victorious from every

battle-field. He addresses the grieving creature and bespeaks 30

it thus: “Long, Rhæbus, have we twain lived, if

aught be long to those who must die. To-day you shall

either bear in victory the bloody spoils and head of Æneas

yonder, and join with me to avenge my Lausus’ sufferings,

or if our force suffice not to clear the way, we will lie down 35

together in death: for never, I ween, my gallant one, will

you stoop to a stranger’s bidding and endure a Teucrian

lord.” He said, and mounting on its back settled his limbs

as he was wont, and charged his two hands with pointed

javelins, his head shining with brass and shaggy with

horse-hair crest. So he bounded into the midst—his

heart glowing at once with mighty shame, madness and

agony commingled. Then with a loud voice he thrice 5

called on Æneas: aye, and Æneas knew it, and prays in

ecstasy: “May the great father of the gods, may royal

Apollo grant that you come to the encounter!” So

much said, he marches to meet him with brandished spear.

The other replies: “Why terrify me, fellest of foes, now 10

you have robbed me of my son? this was the only way by

which you could work my ruin. I fear not death, nor give

quarter to any deity. Enough: I am coming to die, and

send you this my present first.” He said, and flung a

javelin at his enemy: then he sends another and another 15

to its mark, wheeling round in a vast ring: but the golden

shield bides the blow. Three times, wheeling from right

to left, he rode round the foe that faced him, flinging

darts from his hand: three times the hero of Troy moves

round, carrying with him a vast grove planted on his 20

brazen plate. Then, when he begins to tire of the long

delay and the incessant plucking out of darts, and feels the

unequal combat press him hard, meditating many things,

at last he springs from his covert, and hurls his spear full

between the hollow temples of the warrior-steed. The 25

gallant beast rears itself upright, lashes the air with its

heels, and, flinging the rider, falls on and encumbers him,

and itself bowed to earth presses with its shoulder the prostrate

chief. Up flies Æneas, plucks forth his sword from

its scabbard, and bespeaks the fallen: “Where now is 30

fierce Mezentius and that his savage vehemence of spirit?”

To whom the Tuscan, soon as opening his eyes on the light

he drank in the heaven and regained his sense: “Insulting

foe, why reproach me and menace me with death? You

may kill me without crime: I came not to battle to be 35

spared, nor was that the league which my Lausus ratified

with you for his father. One boon I ask, in the name of

that grace, if any there be, which is due to a vanquished

enemy: suffer my corpse to be interred. The hot hatred

of my subjects, well I know, is blazing all round me: screen

me, I pray, from their fury, and vouchsafe me a share in

the tomb of my son.” So saying, with full resolve he welcomes

the sword to his throat, and spreads his life over his 5

armour in broad streams of blood.