Aeneid

holds tight and rips,—while through celestial air

the torn, ensanguined plumage floats along.

But now not blindly from Olympian throne

the Sire of gods and men observant saw

how sped the day. Then to the conflict dire

the god thrust Tarchon forth, the Tyrrhene King,

goading the warrior's rage. So Tarchon rode

through slaughter wide and legions in retreat,

and roused the ranks with many a wrathful cry:

he called each man by name, and toward the foe

drove back the routed lines. “What terrors now,

Tuscan cowards, dead to noble rage,

have seized ye? or what laggard sloth and vile

unmans your hearts, that now a woman's arm

pursues ye and this scattered host confounds?

Why dressed in steel, or to what purpose wear

your futile swords? Not slackly do ye join

the ranks of Venus in a midnight war;

or when fantastic pipes of Bacchus call

your dancing feet, right venturesome ye fly

to banquets and the flowing wine—what zeal,

what ardor then! Or if your flattering priest

begins the revel, and to Iofty groves

fat flesh of victims bids ye haste away!”

So saying, his steed he spurred, and scorning death

dashed into the mid-fray, where, frenzy-driven,

he sought out Venulus, and, grappling him

with one hand, from the saddle snatched his foe,

and, clasping strongly to his giant breast,

exultant bore away. The shouting rose

to heaven, and all the Latins gazed his way,

as o'er the plain the fiery Tarchon flew

bearing the full-armed man; then, breaking off

the point of his own spear, he pried a way

through the seam'd armor for the mortal wound;

the other, struggling, thrust back from his throat

the griping hand, full force to force opposing.

As when a golden eagle high in air

knits to a victim—snake his clinging feet

and deeply-thrusting claws; but, coiling back,

the wounded serpent roughens his stiff scales

and stretches high his hissing head; whereat

the eagle with hooked beak the more doth rend

her writhing foe, and with swift stroke of wing

lashes the air: so Tarchon, from the ranks

of Tibur's sons, triumphant snatched his prey.

The Tuscans rallied now, well pleased to view

their king's example and successful war.

Then Arruns, marked for doom, made circling line

around Camilla's path, his crafty spear

seeking its lucky chance. Where'er the maid

sped furious to the battle, Arruns there

in silence dogged her footsteps and pursued;

or where triumphant from her fallen foes

she backward drew, the warrior stealthily

turned his swift reins that way: from every side

he circled her, and scanned his vantage here

or vantage there, his skilful javelin

stubbornly shaking. But it soon befell

that Chloreus, once a priest of Cybele,

shone forth in far-resplendent Phrygian arms,

and urged a foaming steed, which wore a robe

o'erwrought with feathery scales of bronze and gold;

while he, in purples of fine foreign stain,

bore light Gortynian shafts and Lycian bow;

his bow was gold; a golden casque he wore

upon his priestly brow; the saffron cloak,

all folds of rustling cambric, was enclasped

in glittering gold; his skirts and tunics gay

were broidered, and the oriental garb

swathed his whole leg. Him when the maiden spied,

(Perchance she fain on temple walls would hang

the Trojan prize, or in such captured gold

her own fair shape array), she gave mad chase,

and reckless through the ranks her prey pursued,

desiring, woman-like, the splendid spoil.

Then from his ambush Arruns seized at last

the fatal moment and let speed his shaft,

thus uttering his vow to heavenly powers:

“Chief of the gods, Apollo, who dost guard

Soracte's hallowed steep, whom we revere

first of thy worshippers, for thee is fed

the heap of burning pine; for thee we pass

through the mid-blaze in sacred zeal secure,

and deep in glowing embers plant our feet.

O Sire Omnipotent, may this my spear

our foul disgrace put by. I do not ask

for plunder, spoils, or trophies in my name,

when yonder virgin falls; let honor's crown

be mine for other deeds. But if my stroke

that curse and plague destroy, may I unpraised

safe to the cities of my sires return.”

Apollo heard and granted half the prayer,

but half upon the passing breeze he threw:

granting his votary he should confound

Camilla by swift death; but 't was denied

the mountain-fatherland once more to see,

or safe return,—that prayer th' impetuous winds

swept stormfully away. Soon as the spear

whizzed from his hand, straight-speeding on the air,