Aeneid

a crushing weight of rocks, in hope to break

th' assailing line, where roofed in serried shields

the foe each charge repels. But not for long

the siegers stand; along their dense array

the crafty Teucrians down the rampart roll

a boulder like a hill-top, laying low

the Rutule troop and crashing through their shields.

Nor may the bold Rutulian longer hope

to keep in cover, but essays to storm

only with far-flung shafts the bastion strong.

Here grim Mezentius, terrible to see,

waved an Etrurian pine, and made his war

with smoking firebrands; there, in equal rage,

Messapus, the steed-tamer, Neptune's son,

ripped down the palisade, and at the breach

strung a steep path of ladders up the wall.

Aid, O Calliope, the martial song!

Tell me what carnage and how many deaths

the sword of Turnus wrought: what peer in arms

each hero to the world of ghosts sent down.

Unroll the war's great book before these eyes.

A tower was there, well-placed and looming large,

with many a lofty bridge, which desperately

th' Italians strove to storm, and strangely plied

besieging enginery to cast it down:

the Trojans hurled back stones, or, standing close,

flung through the loopholes a swift shower of spears.

But Turnus launched a firebrand, and pierced

the wooden wall with flame, which in the wind

leaped larger, and devoured from floor to floor,

burning each beam away. The trembling guards

sought flight in vain; and while they crowded close

into the side unkindled yet, the tower

bowed its whole weight and fell, with sudden crash

that thundered through the sky. Along the ground

half dead the warriors fell (the crushing mass

piled over them) by their own pointed spears

pierced to the heart, or wounded mortally

by cruel splinters of the wreck. Two men,

Helenor one, and Lyeus at his side,

alone get free. Helenor of the twain

was a mere youth; the slave Lycymnia

bore him in secret to the Lydian King,

and, arming him by stealth, had sent away

to serve the Trojan cause. One naked sword

for arms had he, and on his virgin shield

no blazon of renown; but when he saw

the hosts of Turnus front him, and the lines

this way and that of Latins closing round, —

as a fierce, forest-creature, brought to bay

in circling pack of huntsmen, shows its teeth

against the naked spears, and scorning death

leaps upward on the javelins,—even so,

not loth to die, the youthful soldier flew

straight at the centre of his foes, and where

the shining swords looked thickest, there he sprung.

But Lyeus, swifter-footed, forced his way

past the opposing spears and made escape

far as the ciity-wall, where he would fain

clutch at the coping and climb up to clasp

some friend above: but Turnus, spear in hand,

had hotly followed, and exulting loud

thus taunted him, “Hadst thou the hope, rash fool,

beyond this grasp to fly?” So, as he clung,

he tore him down; and with him broke and fell

a huge piece of the wall: not otherwise

a frail hare, or a swan of snow-white wing,

is clutched in eagle-talons, when the bird

of Jove soars skyward with his prey; or tender lamb

from bleating mother and the broken fold

is stolen by the wolf of Mars. Wild shouts

on every side resound. In closer siege

the foe press on, and heap the trenches full,

or hurl hot-flaming torches at the towers.

Ilioneus with mountain-mass of stone

struck down Lucetius, as he crept with fire

too near the city-gate. Emathion fell

by Liger's hand, and Corynteus' death

Asilas dealt: one threw the javelin well;

th' insidious arrow was Asilas' skill.

Ortygius was slain by Caeneus, then

victorious Geneus fell by Turnus' ire.

Then smote he Dioxippus, and laid low

Itys and Promolus and Sagaris

and Clonius, and from the lofty tower

shot Idas down. The shaft of Capys pierced

Privernus, whom Themilla's javelin

but now had lightly grazed, and he, too bold,

casting his shield far from him, had outspread

his left hand on the wound: then sudden flew

the feathered arrow, and the hand lay pinned

against his left side, while the fatal barb

was buried in his breathing life. The son

of Arcens now stood forth in glittering arms.

His broidered cloak was red Iberian stain,

and beautiful was he. Arcens his sire

had sent him to the war; but he was bred

in a Sicilian forest by a stream

to his nymph-mother dear, where rose the shrine

of merciful Palicus, blest and fair.