Aeneid

Aeneas straightway from his lofty ships

lets down his troop by bridges. Some await

the ebbing of slack seas, and boldly leap

into the shallows; others ply the oar.

Tarchon a beach discovers, where the sands

sing not, nor waves with broken murmur fall,

but full and silent swells the gentle sea.

Steering in haste that way, he called his crews:

“Now bend to your stout oars, my chosen brave.

Lift each ship forward, till her beak shall cleave

yon hostile shore; and let her keel's full weight

the furrow drive. I care not if we break

our ship's side in so sure an anchorage,

if once we land.” While Tarchon urged them thus,

the crews bent all together to their blades

and sped their foaming barks to Latium's plain,

till each beak gripped the sand and every keel

lay on dry land unscathed:—all save thine own,

O Tarchon! dashed upon a sand-bar, she!

Long poised upon the cruel ridge she hung,

tilted this way or that and beat the waves,

then split, and emptied forth upon the tide

her warriors; and now the drifting wreck

of shattered oars and thwarts entangles them,

or ebb of swirling waters sucks them down.

Turnus no lingering knows, but fiercely hurls

his whole line on the Teucrians, and makes stand

along the shore. Now peals the trumpet's call.

Aeneas in the van led on his troop

against the rustic foe, bright augury

for opening war, and laid the Latins low,

slaughtering Theron, a huge chief who dared

offer Aeneas battle; through the scales

of brazen mail and corselet stiff with gold

the sword drove deep, and gored the gaping side.

Then smote he Lichas, from his mother's womb

ripped in her dying hour, and unto thee,

O Phoebus, vowed, because his infant days

escaped the fatal steel. Hard by him fell

stout Cisseus and gigantic Gyas; these

to death were hurled, while with their knotted clubs

they slew opposing hosts; but naught availed

Herculean weapons, nor their mighty hands,

or that Melampus was their sire, a peer

of Hercules, what time in heavy toils

through earth he roved. See next how Pharon boasts!

But while he vainly raves, the whirling spear

smites full on his loud mouth. And also thou,

Cydon, wast by the Trojan stroke o'erthrown,

while following in ill-omened haste the steps

of Clytius, thy last joy, whose round cheek wore

its youthful golden down: soon hadst thou lain

in death, unheeding of thy fancies fond

which ever turned to youth;—but now arose

the troop of all thy brothers, Phorcus' sons,

a close array of seven, and seven spears

they hurled: some from Aeneas' helm or shield

glanced off in vain; some Venus' kindly power,

just as they touched his body, turned away.

Aeneas then to true Achates cried:

“Bring on my spears: not one shall fruitless fly

against yon Rutules, even as they pierced

the breasts of Greeks upon the Ilian plain.”

Then one great shaft he seized and threw; it sped

straight into Maeon's brazen shield, and clove

his mail-clad heart. Impetuous to his aid

brother Alcanor came, and lifted up

with strong right hand his brother as he fell:

but through his arm a second skilful shaft

made bloody way, and by the sinews held

the lifeless right hand from the shoulder swung.

Then from his brother's body Numitor

the weapon plucked and hurled it, furious,

upon Aeneas; but it could not strike

the hero's self, and grazed along the thigh

of great Achates. Next into the fight

Clausus of Cures came, in youthful bloom

exulting, and with far-thrown javelin

struck Dryops at the chin, and took away

from the gashed, shrieking throat both life and voice;

the warrior's fallen forehead smote the dust;

his lips poured forth thick blood. There also fell

three Thracians, odspring of the lordly stem

of Boreas, and three of Idas' sons

from Ismara, by various doom struck down.

Halaesus here his wild Auruncans brings;

and flying to the fight comes Neptune's son,

Messapus, famous horseman. On both sides

each charges on the foe. Ausonia's strand

is one wide strife. As when o'er leagues of air

the envious winds give battle to their peers,

well-matched in rage and power; and neither they

nor clouds above, nor plunging seas below

will end the doubtful war, but each withstands

the onset of the whole—in such wild way

the line of Trojans on the Latian line

hurls itself, limb on limb and man on man.

But at a distance where the river's flood

had scattered rolling boulders and torn trees

uprooted from the shore, young Pallas spied