The Aeneid

by Virgil

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.