Aeneid

the Trojan hero in his brazen shield

the sheaf of spears upbore. But such slow fight,

such plucking of spent shafts from out his shield,

the Trojan liked not, vexed and sorely tried

in duel so ill-matched. With wrathful soul

at length he strode forth, and between the brows

of the wild war-horse planted his Iong spear.

Up reared the creature, beating at the air

with quivering feet, then o'er his fallen lord

entangling dropped, and prone above him lay,

pinning with ponderous shoulder to the ground.

The Trojans and the Latins rouse the skies

with clamor Ioud. Aeneas hastening forth

unsheathes his sword, and looming o'er him cries:

“Where now is fierce Mezentius, and his soul's

wild pulse of rage?” The Tuscan in reply

with eyes uprolled, and gasping as he gave

long looks at heaven, recalled his fading mind:

“Why frown at me and fume, O bitterest foe?

Why threaten death? To slay me is no sin.

Not to take quarter came I to this war,

not truce with thee did my lost Lausus crave,

yet this one boon I pray,—if mercy be

for fallen foes: O, suffer me when dead

in covering earth to hide! Full well I know

what curses of my people ring me round.

Defend me from that rage! I pray to be

my son's companion in our common tomb.”

He spoke: then offered with unshrinking eye

his veined throat to the sword. O'er the bright mail

his vital breath gushed forth in streaming gore.

Up from the sea now soared the dawning day:

Aeneas, though his sorrow bids him haste

to burial of the slain, and his sad soul

is clouded with the sight of death, fulfils,

for reward to his gods, a conqueror's vow,

at morning's earliest beam. A mighty oak

shorn of its limbs he sets upon a hill

and clothes it o'er with glittering arms, the spoil

of King Mezentius, and a trophy proud

to thee, great lord of war. The hero's plumes

bedewed with blood are there, and splintered spears;

there hangs the corselet, by the thrusting steel

twelve times gored through; upon the left he binds

the brazen shield, and from the neck suspends

the ivory-hilted sword. Aeneas thus,

as crowding close his train of captains throng,

addressed his followers: “Ye warriors mine,

our largest work is done. Bid fear begone

of what is left to do. Behold the spoils!

Yon haughty King was firstfruits of our war.

See this Mezentius my hands have made!

Now to the Latin town and King we go.

Arm you in soul! With heart of perfect hope

prepare the war! So when the gods give sign

to open battle and lead forth our brave

out of this stronghold, no bewilderment,

nor tarrying, nor fearful, faltering mind

shall slack our march. Meanwhile in earth we lay

our comrades fallen; for no honor else

in Acheron have they. Go forth,” said he,

“bring gifts of honor and of last farewell

to those high hearts by shedding of whose blood

our country lives. To sad Evander's town

bear Pallas first; who, though he did not fail

of virtue's crown, was seized by doom unblest,

and to the bitterness of death consigned.”

Weeping he spoke, and slowly backward drew

to the tent-door, where by the breathless clay

of Pallas stood Acoetes, aged man,

once bearer of Evander's arms, but now

under less happy omens set to guard

his darling child. Around him is a throng

of slaves, with all the Trojan multitude,

and Ilian women, who the wonted way

let sorrow's tresses loosely flow. When now

Aeneas to the lofty doors drew near,

all these from smitten bosoms raised to heaven

a mighty moaning, till the King's abode

was loud with anguish. There Aeneas viewed

the pillowed head of Pallas cold and pale,

the smooth young breast that bore the gaping wound

of that Ausonian spear, and weeping said:

“Did Fortune's envy, smiling though she came,

refuse me, hapless boy, that thou shouldst see

my throne established, and victorious ride

beside me to thy father's house? Not this

my parting promise to thy King and sire,

Evander, when with friendly, fond embrace

to win imperial power he bade me go;

yet warned me anxiously I must resist

bold warriors and a stubborn breed of foes.

And haply even now he cheats his heart

with expectation vain, and offers vows,

heaping with gifts the altars of his gods.

But we with unavailing honors bring

this lifeless youth, who owes the gods of heaven

no more of gift and vow. O ill-starred King!

Soon shalt thou see thy son's unpitying doom!

What a home-coming! This is glory's day