Aeneid

to close in battle, but each hero found

a later doom at hands of mightier foes.

Now Turnus' goddess-sister bids him haste

to Lausus' help. So he, in wheeling car,

cut through the lines; and when his friends he saw,

“Let the fight stop! “ he cried, “for none but I

may strike at Pallas; unto me alone

the prize of Pallas falls. I would his sire

stood by to see.” He spake: his troop withdrew

a fitting space. But as they made him room,

the young prince, wondering at the scornful words,

looked upon Turnus, glancing up and down

that giant frame, and with fierce-frowning brows

scanned him from far, hurling defiant words

in answer to the King's. “My honor now

shall have the royal trophy of this war,

or glorious death. For either fortune fair

my sire is ready. Threaten me no more!”

So saying, to the midmost space he strode,

and in Arcadian hearts the blood stood still.

Swift from his chariot Turnus leaped, and ran

to closer fight. As when some lion sees

from his far mountain-lair a raging bull

that sniffs the battle from the grassy field,

and down the steep he flies—such picture showed

grim Turnus as he came. But when he seemed

within a spear's cast, Pallas opened fight,

expecting Fortune's favor to the brave

in such unequal match; and thus he prayed:

“O, by my hospitable father's roof,

where thou didst enter as a stranger-guest,

hear me, Alcides, and give aid divine

to this great deed. Let Turnus see these hands

strip from his half-dead breast the bloody spoil!

and let his eyes in death endure to see

his conqueror!” Alcides heard the youth:

but prisoned in his heart a deep-drawn sigh,

and shed vain tears; for Jove, the King and Sire, .

spoke with benignant accents to his son:

“To each his day is given. Beyond recall

man's little time runs by: but to prolong

life's glory by great deeds is virtue's power.

Beneath the lofty walls of fallen Troy

fell many a son of Heaven. Yea, there was slain

Sarpedon, my own offspring. Turnus too

is summoned to his doom, and nears the bounds

of his appointed span.” So speaking, Jove

turned from Rutulia's war his eyes away.

But Pallas hurled his lance with might and main,

and from its hollow scabbard flashed his sword.

The flying shaft touched where the plated steel

over the shoulders rose, and worked its way

through the shield's rim—then falling, glanced aside

from Turnus' giant body. Turnus then

poised, without haste, his iron-pointed spear,

and, launching it on Pallas, cried, “Look now

will not this shaft a good bit deeper drive?”

He said: and through the mid-boss of the shield,

steel scales and brass with bull's-hide folded round,

the quivering spear-point crashed resistlessly,

and through the corselet's broken barrier

pierced Pallas' heart. The youth plucked out in vain

the hot shaft from the wound; his life and blood

together ebbed away, as sinking prone

on his rent side he fell; above him rang

his armor; and from lips with blood defiled

he breathed his last upon his foeman's ground.

Over him Turnus stood: “Arcadians all,”

He cried, “take tidings of this feat of arms

to King Evander. With a warrior's wage

his Pallas I restore, and freely grant

what glory in a hero's tomb may lie,

or comfort in a grave. They dearly pay

who bid Aeneas welcome at their board.”

So saying, with his left foot he held down

the lifeless form, and raised the heavy weight

of graven belt, which pictured forth that crime

of youthful company by treason slain,

all on their wedding night, in bridal bowers

to horrid murder given,—which Clonus, son

of Eurytus, had wrought in lavish gold;

this Turnus in his triumph bore away,

exulting in the spoil. O heart of man,

not knowing doom, nor of events to be!

Nor, being lifted up, to keep thy bounds

in prosperous days! To Turnus comes the hour

when he would fain a prince's ransom give

had Pallas passed unscathed, and will bewail

cuch spoil of victory. With weeping now

and lamentations Ioud his comrades lay

young Pallas on his shield, and thronging close

carry him homeward with a mournful song:

alas! the sorrow and the glorious gain

thy sire shall have in thee. For one brief day

bore thee to battle and now bears away;

yet leavest thou full tale of foemen slain.

No doubtful rumor to Aeneas breaks

the direful news, but a sure messenger

tells him his followers' peril, and implores

prompt help for routed Troy. His ready sword