Aeneid

thou didst confound their treaty, and enlist

thy whole heart in this war. No Ionger now

thy craft divine deceives me. But what god

compelled thee, from Olympus fallen so far,

to bear these cruel burdens? Wouldst thou see

thy wretched brother slaughtered? For what else

is in my power? What flattering hazard still

holds forth deliverance? My own eyes have seen

Murranus (more than any now on earth

my chosen friend) who, calling on my name,

died like a hero by a hero's sword.

Ill-fated Ufens fell, enduring not

to Iook upon my shame; the Teucrians

divide his arms for spoil and keep his bones.

Shall I stand tamely, till my hearth and home

are levelled with the ground? For this would be

the only blow not fallen. Shall my sword

not give the lie to Drances' insolence?

Shall I take flight and let my country see

her Turnus renegade? Is death a thing

so much to weep for? O propitious dead,

O spirits of the dark, receive and bless

me whom yon gods of light have cast away!

Sacred and guiltless shall my soul descend

to join your company; I have not been

unworthy offspring of my kingly sires.”

Scarce had he said, when through the foeman's line

Saces dashed forth upon a foaming steed,

his face gashed by an arrow. He cried loud

on Turnus' name: “O Turnus, but in thee

our last hope lies. Have pity on the woe

of all thy friends and kin! Aeneas hurls

his thunderbolt of war, and menaces

to crush the strongholds of all Italy,

and lay them low; already where we dwell

his firebrands are raining. Unto thee

the Latins Iook, and for thy valor call.

The King sits dumb and helpless, even he,

in doubt which son-in-law, which cause to choose.

Yea, and the Queen, thy truest friend, is fallen

by her own hand; gone mad with grief and fear,

she fled the light of day. At yonder gates

Messapus only and Atinas bear

the brunt of battle; round us closely draw

the serried ranks; their naked blades of steel

are thick as ripening corn; wilt thou the while

speed in thy chariot o'er this empty plain?”

Dazed and bewildered by such host of ills,

Turnus stood dumb; in his pent bosom stirred

shame, frenzy, sorrow, a despairing love

goaded to fury, and a warrior's pride

of valor proven.

But when first the light

of reason to his blinded soul returned,

he strained his flaming eyeballs to behold

the distant wall, and from his chariot gazed

in wonder at the lordly citadel.

For, lo, a pointed peak of flame uprolled

from tier to tier, and surging skyward seized

a tower—the very tower his own proud hands

had built of firm-set beams and wheeled in place,

and slung its Iofty bridges high in air.

“Fate is too strong, my sister! Seek no more

to stay the stroke. But let me hence pursue

that path where Heaven and cruel Fortune call.

Aeneas I must meet; and I must bear

the bitterness of death, whate'er it be.

O sister, thou shalt look upon my shame

no longer. But first grant a madman's will!”

He spoke; and leaping from his chariot, sped

through foes and foemen's spears, not seeing now

his sister's sorrow, as in swift career

he burst from line to line. Thus headlong falls

a mountain-boulder by a whirlwind flung

from lofty peak, or loosened by much rain,

or by insidious lapse of seasons gone;

the huge, resistless crag goes plunging down

by leaps and bounds, o'erwhelming as it flies

tall forests, Bocks and herds, and mortal men:

so through the scattered legions Turnus ran

straight to the city walls, where all the ground

was drenched with blood, and every passing air

shrieked with the noise of spears. His lifted hand

made sign of silence as he loudly called:

“Refrain, Rutulians! O ye Latins all,

your spears withhold! The issue of the fray

is all my own. I only can repair

our broken truce by judgment of the sword.”

Back fell the hostile lines, and cleared the field.

But Sire Aeneas, hearing Turnus' name,

down the steep rampart from the citadel

unlingering tried, all lesser task laid by,

with joy exultant and dread-thundering arms.

Like Athos' crest he loomed, or soaring top

of Eryx, when the nodding oaks resound,

or sovereign Apennine that lifts in air

his forehead of triumphant snow. All eyes

of Troy, Rutulia, and Italy

were fixed his way; and all who kept a guard

on lofty rampart, or in siege below