The Aeneid of Virgil

by Virgil

And the Trojan leaders heard about the slaughter,
And met, Serestus, keen in arms, and Mnestheus,
And saw their comrades wheeling and Turnus welcomed,
And Mnestheus tried to halt them:—“Where do you aim
That flight?” he cried, “What other ramparts have you?
What walls beyond these walls? Shall one man, circled,
Hemmed in on every side, deal out destruction
Unscathed through all the city? Will you let him
Send down to Hell so many brave young fighters?
What kind of cowards are you? Have you no pity,
No shame at all, for your unhappy country,
Your ancient household gods, and great Aeneas?”

That gave them courage; and the column thickened,
And they were firm, and stood. And very slowly
Turnus drew back, retreating toward the river,
And they came on, more boldly now, with yelling
And massing rank on rank, a crowd of hunters
With deadly spears, after a deadly lion,
And the beast they hunt is frightened, but still deadly,
Still dangerous, still glaring, and neither anger
Nor courage lets him turn his back, and forward
He cannot go, however much he wants to,
Through all that press of men and spears. So Turnus,
Doubtful, kept stepping back, little by little,
Burning, inside, with anger. Two more times
He made a sudden charge, sent the foe flying
Along the walls, but they came back, and Juno
Dared not assist him further; Jove had sent
Iris from heaven, with no uncertain message
If Turnus does not leave the Trojan ramparts,
He can no longer hold his own against them,
The shield and sword-arm falter; darts like hail
Rain down from everywhere. The helmet rings
Around his temples, and the brass cracks open
Under the storm of stones; the horsehair crest
Is shot away; the boss of the shield is dented;
Mnestheus, with lightning force, and other Trojans
Multiply spears. The sweat all over his body
Runs in a tarry stream; he cannot breathe.
At last, with one great leap, in all his armor,
He plunges into the stream, and Tiber takes him
On the yellow flood, held up by the buoyant water,
Washing away the stains of war, a hero,
Returning happily to his warrior-comrades.

BOOK X
ARMS
AND THE MAN

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

So Jupiter spoke, briefly, but golden Venus
Was far from brief in answer:—“O great father,
Sovereign of men and destiny forever,
What other power is there for us to pray to?
Do you see, I ask you, these Rutulian warriors
In all their insolence? Have you noticed Turnus
Riding on horseback through their midst, all swollen,
With Mars as second? The barricaded walls
No longer shield the Trojans. The battle rages
Within the gates, on the high towers; the trenches
Swim deep in blood. Aeneas does not know it;
He is far away. Must siege go on forever?
Is this your will? Another enemy threatens
The walls of Troy, new-born, another army
Comes from Aetolian Arpi; Diomedes
Once more attacks the Trojans. Wounds for me
Are still to come, I well believe; your daughter
Waits for a mortal outrage, not the first one.
The Trojans came to Italy: was the coming
With your consent, by your design? If not,
Why, let them pay the penalty, do not help them!
Or were they following order after order
Given by gods above, by gods below?
If so, who dares to overturn your justice,
Who dares create new fates? Do I have to mention
The fleet on fire in Sicily, the winds
Let loose by Aeolus, their king, or Iris
Sent through the clouds? And now she is even rousing—
This chance she had not yet taken—the shades of Hell,
And here is Allecto, suddenly given license
In the upper world, and ravaging and raving
Through the Italian cities. As for empire,
I care no more about it. I was hopeful
When fortune still existed. Let the winners
Be those you want to win: have it your way.
If that tough wife of yours will give the Trojans
No land in all the world, no realm whatever,
I beg you, father, by the smoking ruins
Of shattered Troy, let me spare one, Iulus,
Let him, at least, be saved from war. Aeneas,
Of course, will still be tossed on unknown waters,
Following any course that fortune offers.
Let me protect his son. I have Amathus,
High Paphus and Cythera, Idalia’s groves;
There he may live, laying aside his weapons,
A long inglorious lifetime. Order Carthage
To crush Ausonia with her empire; nothing
Shall interfere with Tyrian towns. Much good
It did him to escape the plague of war,
To have fled through Argive burning, to have exhausted
All dangers of the land and the great ocean,
Looking for Latium and a new-born Troy!
Much good indeed! It would have been much better
For the very soil of Troy and her last ashes
To have been the new foundation for their dwelling.
Give the poor wretches Simois and Xanthus,
Father, once more; I pray you, let the Trojans
Live, once again, the fall of Troy!” And Juno
Burst out in anger:—“Why do you compel me
To break my silence, to make my sorrow vulgar
With words for the world’s ear? What god, what mortal
Forced war upon Aeneas? Who advised him
To advance, an enemy, against Latinus?
He came to Italy at the fates’ command—
So be it; but what about Cassandra’s ravings?
Was I the one—I must have been—who told him
To leave the camp, to trust his life to the winds?
Was I the one who told him to make a boy
The captain of the wall? Was it I who told him
To seek Etruscan allies, to hunt down people
Who meant no harm? What god, what power of mine
Drove him to all his cheating? What has Juno
Or Iris, sent through the clouds, to do with this?
Disgraceful and disgusting, that Italians
Threaten the walls of Troy, new-born; that Turnus
Stay in his native land, Turnus, descended
Himself from king and goddess. What about it?
What about this, that Trojans harry Latins
With smoking brand and violence, set their yoke
On fields not theirs, and carry off the plunder?
Who let them know whose daughters to wed, or ravish?
Who told them to hold out the hand for peace
And arm the ships for war? Oh, you are able,
Of course you are, to give them mist for a man,
To steal Aeneas from Greek hands; you are able
To turn their fleet to sea-nymphs, but if I
Help the Rutulians even a very little,
Is that so monstrous? Aeneas does not know it;
He is far away. Good. Let him still not know it;
Let him still be far away. You have Amathus,
High Paphus and Cythera; so why meddle
With savage hearts and a city big with war?
And now, it seems, I am trying to pull over
The wobbling walls of Troy! Really! Who was it,
I, or somebody else, who flung the Trojans,
Poor things, in the path of the Greeks? What was the reason
For Europe and Asia to rise in arms, break treaties
Over a piece of stealing? Was it I
Who shipped the adulterer Paris out to Sparta?
Was it I who armed his lust? That was the time
To have had some fear for those poor suffering Trojans.
It is too late now. You rise to the occasion
With unjust whining and shrill scolding nonsense.”

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

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

So these men had been fighting, clash and conflict
In the rough shock of warfare, as Aeneas,
At midnight, cleaved the seas. He had left Evander,
He had found the Tuscan camp, he had told the king
His name, his race, his need, what help he brought him,
Told Tarchon of Mezentius, of the spirit
Of violence in Turnus; had given warning
That, always, men need help; had made appeal,
Which Tarchon promptly answered: so the people
Were free from fate’s injunction, free for war,
Having a foreign leader. Aeneas’ ship
Headed the column, her figure-head a mountain
With lions at the base, familiar Ida,
Dear to the Trojan exiles. And Aeneas
Sailed on toward war and all those changing fortunes,
And Pallas stayed beside him, asking questions:
What stars were those? which was the one to guide them
Through the dark night? what fortunes had he suffered
On land and sea?

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

Massicus leads the way in the bronze Tiger,
A thousand men on board; they have come from Clusium,
From Cosae’s city, archers all, with quivers
Light on their shoulders, and their bows are deadly.
With them is glowering Abas; a gold Apollo
Gleams on his bowsprit, and the vessel blazes
With men in armor; the little island Ilva,
Rich in her mines, had sent them, thrice a hundred,
And Populonia furnished twice as many.
Third comes Asilas, priest and augur, learnèd
In all the signs, diviner of stars and lightning,
Of birds and entrails; he brings a thousand spearmen
From Pisa, on Etruscan soil. And Astur
Follows, a handsome horseman, with three hundred
Stalwarts from Caere, Minio, and Pyrgi,
Proud, confident men, with arms of many colors.
And Cinyras is there, the bravest leader
Of all Ligurian captains, and Cupavo,
With none too many followers; his crest
Is white swan-plumage, a token of his father,
Who, so they say, loved Phaethon, and grieved
Over his fall from heaven, and made music
To heal his sorrow, under the poplar trees
Phaethon’s sisters haunted, and so, singing,
Became a bird, all white and soft, and vanished
From earth, and was a crying voice in heaven,
Cygnus, the swan. And now his son Cupavo
Comes to the wars, driving his ship, the Centaur,
Which towers high as a cliff; the long keel furrows
A wide wake over the sea.