Aeneid

were battering the foundations, now laid by

their implements and arms. Latinus too

stood awestruck to behold such champions, born

in lands far-sundered, met upon one field

for one decisive stroke of sword with sword.

Swift striding forth where spread the vacant plain,

they hurled their spears from far; then in close fight

the brazen shields rang. Beneath their tread

Earth groaned aloud, as with redoubling blows

their falchions fell; nor could a mortal eye

'twixt chance and courage the dread work divide.

As o'er Taburnus' top, or spacious hills

of Sila, in relentless shock of war,

two bulls rush brow to brow, while terror-pale

the herdsmen fly; the herd is hushed with fear;

the heifers dumbly marvel which shall be

true monarch of the grove, whom all the kine

obedient follow; but the rival twain,

commingling mightily wound after wound,

thrust with opposing horns, and bathe their necks

in streams of blood; the forest far and wide

repeats their bellowing rage: not otherwise

Trojan Aeneas and King Daunus' son

clashed shield on shield, till all the vaulted sky

felt the tremendous sound. The hand of Jove

held scales in equipoise, and threw thereon

th' unequal fortunes of the heroes twain:

one to vast labors doomed and one to die.

Soon Turnus, reckless of the risk, leaped forth,

upreached his whole height to his lifted sword,

and struck: the Trojans and the Latins pale

cried mightily, and all eyes turned one way

expectant. But the weak, perfidious sword

broke off, and as the blow descended, failed

its furious master, whose sole succor now

was flight; and swifter than the wind he flew.

But, lo! a hilt of form and fashion strange

lay in his helpless hand. For in his haste,

when to the battle-field his team he drove,

his father's sword forgotten (such the tale),

he snatched Metiscus' weapon. This endured

to strike at Trojan backs, as he pursued,

but when on Vulcan's armory divine

its earthly metal smote, the brittle blade

broke off like ice, and o'er the yellow sands

in flashing fragments scattered. Turnus now

takes mad flight o'er the distant plain, and winds

in wavering gyration round and round;

for Troy's close ring confines him, and one way

a wide swamp lies, one way a frowning wall.

But lo! Aeneas—though the arrow's wound

still slackens him and oft his knees refuse

their wonted step—pursues infuriate

his quailing foe, and dogs him stride for stride.

As when a stag-hound drives the baffled roe

to torrent's edge (or where the flaunting snare

of crimson feathers fearfully confines)

and with incessant barking swift pursues;

while through the snared copse or embankment high

the frightened creature by a thousand ways

doubles and turns; but that keen Umbrian hound

with wide jaws, undesisting, grasps his prey,

or, thinking that he grasps it, snaps his teeth

cracking together, and deludes his rage,

devouring empty air: then peal on peal

the cry of hunters bursts; the lake and shore

reecho, and confusion fills the sky:—

such was the flight of Turnus, who reviled

the Rutules as he fled, and loudly sued

of each by name to fetch his own lost sword.

Aeneas vowed destruction and swift death

to all who dared come near, and terrified

their trembling souls with menace that his power

would raze their city to the ground. Straightway,

though wounded, he gave chase, and five times round

in circles ran; then winding left and right

coursed the swift circles o'er. For, lo! the prize

is no light laurel or a youthful game:

for Turnus' doom and death their race is run.

But haply in that place a sacred tree,

a bitter-leaved wild-olive, once had grown,

to Faunus dear, and venerated oft

by mariners safe-rescued from the waves,

who nailed their gifts thereon, or hung in air

their votive garments to Laurentum's god.

But, heeding not, the Teucrians had shorn

the stem away, to clear the field for war.

'T was here Aeneas' lance stuck fast; its speed

had driven it firmly inward, and it clave

to the hard, clinging root. Anchises' son

bent o'er it, and would wrench his weapon free,

and follow with a far-flung javelin

the swift out-speeding foe. But Turnus then,

bewildered and in terror, cried aloud:

“O Faunus, pity me and heed my prayer!

Hold fast his weapon, O benignant Earth!

If ere these hands have rendered offering due,

where yon polluting Teucrians fight and slay.”

He spoke; invoking succor of the god,

with no Iost prayer. For tugging valiantly