Aeneid

with lips of rose: “O Turnus, what no god

dared give for reward of thy fondest vow,

has come unbidden on its destined day.

Behold, Aeneas, who has left behind

the city with his fleet and followers,

is gone to kingly Palatine, the home

of good Evander. Yea, his march invades

the far Etrurian towns, where now he arms

the Lydian rustics. Wilt thou longer muse?

Call for thy chariot and steeds! Away!

Take yonder tents by terror and surprise!”

She spoke; and heavenward on poising wings

soared, cleaving as she fled from cloud to cloud

a vast, resplendent bow. The warrior saw,

and, lifting both his hands, pursued with prayer

the fading glory: “Beauteous Iris, hail!

Proud ornament of heaven! who sent thee here

across yon cloud to earth, and unto me?

Whence may this sudden brightness fall? I see

the middle welkin lift, and many a star,

far-wandering in the sky. Such solemn sign

I shall obey, and thee, O god unknown!”

So saying, he turned him to a sacred stream,

took water from its brim, and offered Heaven

much prayer, with many an importuning vow.

Soon o'er the spreading fields in proud array

the gathered legions poured; no lack was there

of steeds all fire, and broidered pomp and gold.

Messapus led the van; in rearguard rode

the sons of Tyrrheus; kingly Turnus towered

from the mid-column eminent: the host

moved as great Ganges lifting silently

his seven peaceful streams, or when the flood

of fructifying Nile from many a field

back to his channel flows. A swift-blown cloud

of black, uprolling dust the Teucrians see

o'ershadowing the plain; Calcus calls

from lofty outpost: “O my countrymen,

I see a huge, black ball of rolling smoke.

Your swords and lances! Man the walls! To arms!

The foe is here! What ho!” With clamors loud

the Teucrians through the city-gates retire,

and muster on the walls. For, wise in war,

Aeneas, ere he went, had left command

they should not range in battle-line, nor dare,

whate'er might hap, to risk in open plain

the bold sortie, but keep them safe entrenched

in mounded walls. So now, though rage and shame

prick to a close fight, they defensive bar

each portal strong, and, patient of control,

from hollow towers expect th' encircling foe.

Turnus, at full speed, had outridden far

his laggard host, and, leading in his train

a score of chosen knights, dashed into view

hard by the walls. A barb of Thracian breed

dappled with white he rode; a crimson plume

flamed over his golden helmet. “Who,” he cries,

“Is foremost at the foe? Who follows me?

Behold!” And, with the word, he hurled in air

a javelin, provoking instant war:

and, towering from his horse, charged o'er the field.

With answering shout his men-at-arms pursue,

and war-cries terrible. They laugh to scorn

“the craven hearts of Troy, that cannot give

fair, equal vantage, matching man to man,

but cuddle into camp.” This way and that

Turnus careers, and stormily surveys

the frowning rampart, and where way is none

some entering breach would find: so prowls a wolf

nigh the full sheepfold, and through wind and rain

stands howling at the postern all night long;

beneath the ewes their bleating lambs lie safe;

but he, with undesisting fury, more

rages from far, made frantic for his prey

by hunger of long hours, his foaming jaws

athirst for blood: not less the envy burned

of the Rutulian, as he scanned in vain

the stronghold of his foe. Indignant scorn

thrilled all his iron frame. But how contrive

to storm the fortress or by force expel

the Trojans from the rampart, and disperse

along the plain? Straightway he spied the ships,

in hiding near the camp, defended well

by mounded river-bank and fleeting wave.

On these he fell; while his exultant crew

brought firebrands, and he with heart aflame

grasped with a vengeful hand the blazing pine.

To the wild work his followers sped; for who

could prove him craven under Turnus' eye?

The whole troop for the weapon of their rage

seized smoking coals, of many a hearth the spoil;

red glare of fuming torches burned abroad,

and Vulcan starward flung a sparkling cloud.

What god, O Muses, saved the Trojans then

from wrathful flame? Who shielded then the fleet,

I pray you tell, from bursting storm of fire?

From hoary eld the tale, but its renown

sings on forever. When Aeneas first

on Phrygian Ida hewed the sacred wood

for rib and spar, and soon would put to sea,