Aeneid

the mocking shadow sought to hide, but soared

visibly upward and was Iost in cloud,

while Turnus drifted o'er the waters wide

before the wind. Bewildered and amazed

he looked around him; little joy had he

in his own safety, but upraised his hands

in prayer to Heaven: “O Sire omnipotent!

Didst thou condemn me to a shame like this?

Such retribution dire? Whither now?

Whence came I here? What panic wafts away

this Turnus—if 't is he? Shall I behold

Laurentum's towers once more? But what of those

my heroes yonder, who took oath to me,

and whom—O sin and shame!—I have betrayed

to horrible destruction? Even now

I see them routed, and my ears receive

their dying groans. What is this thing I do?

Where will the yawning earth crack wide enough

beneath my feet? Ye tempests, pity me!

On rocks and reef—'t is Turnus' faithful prayer,

let this bark founder; fling it on the shoals

of wreckful isles, where no Rutulian eye

can follow me, or Rumor tell my shame.”

With such wild words his soul tossed to and fro,

not knowing if to hide his infamy

with his own sword and madly drive its blade

home to his heart, or cast him in the sea,

and, swimming to the rounded shore, renew

his battle with the Trojan foe. Three times

each fatal course he tried; but Juno's power

three times restrained, and with a pitying hand

the warrior's purpose barred. So on he sped

o'er yielding waters and propitious tides,

far as his father Daunus' ancient town.

At Jove's command Mezentius, breathing rage,

now takes the field and leads a strong assault

against victorious Troy. The Tuscan ranks

meet round him, and press hard on him alone,

on him alone with vengeance multiplied

their host of swords they draw. As some tall cliff,

projecting to the sea, receives the rage

of winds and waters, and untrembling bears

vast, frowning enmity of seas and skies,—

so he. First Dolichaon's son he slew,

Hebrus; then Latagus and Palmus, though

they fled amain; he smote with mighty stone

torn from the mountain, full upon the face

of Latagus; and Palmus he let lie

hamstrung and rolling helpless; he bestowed

the arms on his son Lausus for a prize,

another proud crest in his helm to wear;

he laid the Phrygian Euanthus Iow;

and Mimas, Paris' comrade, just his age,—

born of Theano's womb to Amycus

his sire, that night when royal Hecuba,

teeming with firebrand, gave Paris birth:

one in the city of his fathers sleeps;

and one, inglorious, on Laurentian strand.

As when a wild boar, harried from the hills

by teeth of dogs (one who for many a year

was safe in pine-clad Vesulus, or roamed

the meres of Tiber, feeding in the reeds)

falls in the toils at last, and stands at bay,

raging and bristling, and no hunter dares

defy him or come near, but darts are hurled

from far away, with cries unperilous:

not otherwise, though righteous is their wrath

against Mezentius, not a man so bold

as face him with drawn sword, but at long range

they throw their shafts and with loud cries assail;

he, all unterrified, makes frequent stand,

gnashing his teeth, and shaking off their spears.

From ancient Corythus had Acron come,

a Greek, who left half-sung his wedding-song,

and was an exile; him Mezentius saw

among long lines of foes, with flaunting plumes

and purple garments from his plighted spouse.

Then as a starving lion when he prowls

about high pasture-lands, urged on his way

by maddening hunger (if perchance he see

a flying she-goat or tall-antlered stag)

lifts up his shaggy mane, and gaping wide

his monstrous jaws, springs at the creature's side,

feeding foul-lipped, insatiable of gore:

so through his gathered foes Mezentius

flew at his prey. He stretched along the ground

ill-fated Acron, who breathed life away,

beating the dark dust with his heels, and bathed

his broken weapons in his blood. Nor deigned

Mezentius to strike Orodes down

as he took flight, nor deal a wound unseen

with far-thrown spear; but ran before his face,

fronting him man to man, nor would he win

by sleight or trick, but by a mightier sword.

Soon on the fallen foe he set his heel,

and, pushing hard, with heel and spear, cried out:

“Look ye, my men, where huge Orodes lies,

himself a dangerous portion of this war!”

With loyal, Ioud acclaim his peers reply;

but thus the dying hero: “Victor mine,