And round her corpse, of friends and foes a fighting
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 availed in this unhappy strife
Diana's sacred arms to save thy life.
Yet unrevenged thy goddess will not leave
Her votary's death, nor with vain sorrow grieve.
Branded the wretch and be his name abhorred;
But after-ages shall thy praise record.
The 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 Dercemus 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.
Charged with my message to Camilla go,
And say I sent thee to the shades below,
An honour undeserved from Cynthia's bow."
She said, and from her quiver chose with speed
The winged shaft predestined for the deed.
Then to the stubborn yew her strength applied
Till the far-distant horns approached on either side.
The bowstring touched her breast, so strong she drew,
Whizzing the 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 conquering damsel with expanded wings
The welcome message to her mistress brings.
Their leader lost, the Volscians quit the field,
And, unsustained, the chiefs of Turnus yield.
The frighted soldiers, when their captains fly.
More on their speed than on their strength rely.
Confused in flight, they bear each other down,
And spur their horses headlong to the town.
Driven by their foes and to their fears resigned
Not once they turn, but take their wounds behind.
These drop the shield, and those the lance forego,
Or on their shoulders bear the slackened 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 darkened walls and rampires fly.
The trembling matrons from their lofty stands
Rend heaven with female shrieks and wring their hands.
All pressing on, pursuers and pursued,
Are crushed in crowds, a mingled multitude.
Some happy few escape. The throng too late
Rush on for entrance till they choke the gate.
Even 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 vanquished 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,
Armed on the towers, the common danger share;
So much of zeal their country's cause inspired,
So much Camilla's great example fired.
Poles, sharpened 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, ambushed in the shade,
With heavy tidings came the unhappy maid.
The Volscians overthrown, Camilla killed,
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.
Inflamed 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,
Possessed, and downward issues on the plain.
Scarce was he gone, when to the straits, now freed
From secret foes, the Trojan troops succeed;
Through 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,
Not far the distance of the space between.
Both to the city bend. Æneas sees,
Through smoking fields, his hastening enemies;
And Turnus views the Trojans in array,
And hears the approaching horses proudly neigh.
Soon had their hosts in bloody battle joined,
But westward to the sea the sun declined :
Intrenched before the town both armies lie,
While night with sable wings involves the sky.
Turnus challenges Æneas to a single combat. Articles are agreed on, but broken by the Rutuli, who wound Eneas. 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 quelled,
Himself become the mark of public spite,
His honour questioned for the promised fight,
The more he was with vulgar hate oppressed,
The more his fury boiled within his breast.
He roused his vigour for the late debate,
And raised his haughty soul to meet his fate.
As when the swains the Libyan lion chase,
He makes a scur retreat, nor mends his pace;
But if the pointed javelin 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,
Through his wide nostrils clouds of smoke expire.
Trembling with rage, around the court he ran,
At length approached the King, and thus began:
"No more excuses or delays. I stand
In arms prepared 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 unconcerned 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 stored 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 freed from fraudful art.
"The gods by signs have manifestly shown
No prince, Italian born, should heir my throne.
Oft have our augurs, in prediction skilled,
And oft our priests, a foreign son revealed.
Yet, won by worth, that cannot be withstood,
Bribed by my kindness to my kindred blood,
Urged by my wife, who would not be denied,
I promised 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 waged an impious war—
With what success 'tis needless to declare,
I and my subjects feel, and you have had your share.
Twice vanquished, 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 glance the neighbouring shore.
Why put I not an end to this debate,
Still unresolved 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 heaven defend !)
How curse the cause which hastened 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 poured, but all in vain,
The proffered medicine but provoked 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.
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