| CX. | Dark rolls the dust-cloud, to the town-walls driven, And mothers on the watch-towers, pale with fear, Smite on their breasts, and shriek aloud to heaven. These, bursting in, their foemen in the rear Crush in the crowd, and slaughter with the spear, Slain in the gateway—miserably slain!— Their walls in sight, their happy homes so near. Those bar the gates, while comrades on the plain | 982 | |
| Stretch their imploring hands, and call to them in vain. | |||
| CXI. | Then piteous waxed the carnage by the gate, Some storming, some defending. These without, In sight of parents, weeping at their fate, Roll down the moat, swept headlong by the rout, Or charge the battered doorposts with a shout. The very matrons, at their country's call, Their javelins hurl. Charr'd stakes and oak-staves stout Serve them for swords. Forth rush they, one and all, | 991 | |
| Fir'd by Camilla's deeds, to save the town or fall. | |||
| CXII. | Meanwhile to Turnus, in the woods afar, Came Acca, and the bitter news made plain, And told the chief the tumult of the war,— The panic and the rout—the Volscian train Swept from the battle, and Camilla slain. The foemen, flushed with conquest, far and near In hot pursuit, and sweeping on amain, And all the city now aghast with fear:— | 1000 | |
| Such was the dolorous tale that filled the warrior's ear. | |||
| CXIII. | Then, mad with fury, in revengeful mood (For Jove is stern, and so the Fates ordain), He quits his mountain-ambush and the wood. Scarce, out of sight, had Turnus reached the plain, When, issuing forth, Æneas hastes to gain The pass, left open, climbs the neighbouring height, And leaves the tangled forest. Thus the twain, Each near to each,—the middle space is slight,— | 1009 | |
| Townward their troops lead on, and hail the proffered fight. | |||
| CXIV. | At once Æneas on the dusty plain Marks the Laurentine columns far away. At once, in arms, fierce Turnus knows again The dread Æneas, and he hears the neigh Of steeds, and tramp of footmen in array. Then each the fight had ventured, as they stood, But rosy Phoebus, with declining day, His steeds was bathing in the Iberian flood; | 1018 | |
| So by the walls they camp, and make the ramparts good. | |||
BOOK TWELVE
ARGUMENT
Turnus realises that he must now redeem his promise to meet Æneas in single combat, and refuses to be dissuaded either by Latinus or by Amata ([1-90]). The challenge is sent, and the two make ready. Lists are prepared and spectators gather ([91-153]). Juno warns the Nymph Juturna to aid her brother Turnus ([154-180]). After the terms of combat have been ratified by oath and sacrifice, Juturna, in disguise, by an opportune omen induces one of the assembled Latins to break the truce and kill a Trojan ([181-310]). Æneas is wounded while endeavouring to restrain his men from reprisals, and the fray becomes general. Turnus deals death among the Trojans ([311-441]). Æneas is miraculously healed, and at first pursues only Turnus—who is carried off by Juturna ([442-561]), but presently gives rein to his anger and slays indiscriminately, until by Venus' advice he attacks the city. Amata kills herself, believing Turnus dead ([562-702]). Turnus' eyes are opened. Seeing the city outworks in flames, he returns and proclaims himself ready to meet Æneas, who, welcoming the challenge, rushes forward. All eyes are riveted on the two, when Turnus' sword breaks, and once more he flees, pursued by Æneas. Juturna gives Turnus another sword, and Venus restores to Æneas his spear ([703-918]). Follows a colloquy between Jupiter and Juno.—Turnus must die. Æneas shall marry Lavinia and be king. But the new nation must keep the ancient rites and names of Latium, and be called not Trojans but Latins. Juno yields, and Jupiter warns Juturna to leave the battle ([919-1026]). Turnus, being beside himself, after a last superhuman effort, is struck down. Æneas is about to spare his life, when he sees upon his shoulder the spoils of Pallas, and kills him ([1027-1107]).
| I. | When Turnus saw the Latins faint and fly, Crushed by the War-God, and his pledge reclaimed, Himself the mark of every scornful eye, Rage unappeasable his pride inflamed. As when a lion, in the breast sore maimed In Punic fields, uprousing, shakes his mane, And snaps the shaft that felon hands had aimed, His mouth all bloody, as he roars with pain, | 1 | |
| So Turnus blazed with wrath, as thus in scornful strain | |||