Aeneid

far round us glisten with their bleaching bones.

Why tell it o'er and o'er? What maddening dream

perverts my mind? If after Turnus slain

I must for friendship of the Trojan sue,

were it not better to suspend the fray

while Turnus lives? For what will be the word

of thy Rutulian kindred—yea, of all

Italia, if to death I give thee o'er—

(Which Heaven avert!) because thou fain wouldst win

my daughter and be sworn my friend and son?

Bethink thee what a dubious work is war;

have pity on thy father's reverend years,

who even now thy absence daily mourns

in Ardea, his native land and thine.”

But to this pleading Turnus' frenzied soul

yields not at all, but rather blazes forth

more wildly, and his fever fiercer burns

beneath the healer's hand. In answer he,

soon as his passion gathered voice, began:

“This keen solicitude for love of me,

I pray, good sire, for love of me put by!

And let me traffic in the just exchange

of death for glory. This right hand, O King,

can scatter shafts not few, nor do I wield

untempered steel. Whene'er I make a wound

blood follows. For my foeman when we meet

will find no goddess-mother near, with hand

to hide him in her woman's skirt of cloud,

herself in dim, deluding shade concealed.”

But now the Queen, whose whole heart shrank in fear

from these new terms of duel, wept aloud,

and like one dying clasped her fiery son:

“O Turnus, by these tears-if in thy heart

thou honorest Amata still—O thou

who art of our distressful, dark old age

the only hope and peace, the kingly name

and glory of Latinus rests in thee;

thou art the mighty prop whereon is stayed

our falling house. One favor I implore:

give o'er this fight with Trojans. In such strife

thy destined doom is destined to be mine

by the same fatal stroke. For in that hour

this hated life shall cease, nor will I look

with slave's eyes on Aeneas as my son.”

Lavinia heard her mother's voice, and tears

o'erflowed her scarlet cheek, where blushes spread

like flame along her warm, young face and brow:

as when the Indian ivory must wear

ensanguined crimson stain, or lilies pale

mingled with roses seem to blush, such hues

her virgin features bore; and love's desire

disturbed his breast, as, gazing on the maid,

his martial passion fiercer flamed; whereon

in brief speech he addressed the Queen: “No tears!

No evil omen, mother, I implore!

Make me no sad farewells, as I depart

to the grim war-god's game! Can Turnus' hand

delay death's necessary coming? Go,

Idmon, my herald, to the Phrygian King,

and tell him this—a word not framed to please:

soon as Aurora from her crimson car

flushes to-morrow's sky, let him no more

against the Rutule lead the Teucrian line;

let Teucrian swords and Rutule take repose,

while with our own spilt blood we twain will make

an end of war; on yonder mortal field

let each man woo Lavinia for his bride.”

So saying, he hied him to his lordly halls,

summoned his steeds, and with pleased eye surveyed

their action proud: them Orithyia, bride

of Boreas, to Sire Pilumnus gave,

which in their whiteness did surpass the snow

in speed the wind. The nimble charioteers

stood by and smote with hollowed hand and palm

the sounding chests, or combed the necks and manes.

But he upon his kingly shoulders clasped

his corselet, thick o'erlaid with blazoned gold

and silvery orichalch; he fitted him

with falchion, shield, and helm of purple plume,

that falchion which the Lord of Fire had made

for Daunus, tempering in the Stygian wave

when white it glowed; next grasped he the good spear

which leaned its weight against a column tall

in the mid-court, Auruncan Actor's spoil,

and waved it wide in air with mighty cry:

“O spear, that ne'er did fail me when I called,

the hour is come! Once mighty Actor's hand,

but now the hand of Turnus is thy lord.

Grant me to strike that carcase to the ground,

and with strong hand the corselet rip and rend

from off that Phrygian eunuch: let the dust

befoul those tresses, tricked to curl so fine

with singeing steel and sleeked with odorous oil.”

Such frenzy goads him: his impassioned brow

is all on flame, the wild eyes flash with fire.

Thus, bellowing loud before the fearful fray,

some huge bull proves the fury of his horns,

pushing against a tree-trunk; his swift thrusts

would tear the winds in pieces; while his hoofs

toss up the turf and sand, rehearsing war.