Plucketh a stalk of dittany from Cretan Ida won,

  That with a downy leaf of grey and purple head doth grow,

  And well enough the mountain-goats the herbage of it know

  What time the winged shaft of man within them clingeth sore.

  This Venus brought, with cloudy cloak her body covered o’er,

  This in the waves of glittering rims she steepeth privily,

  Drugging the cup, and wholesome juice withal there blendeth she,

  Wrought of ambrosia; heal-all too most sweet of heavenly smell.

  So with that stream Iapis old the shaft-wound cherished well 420

  Unwitting: sudden from the flesh all grievance doth depart,

  And all the blood is staunched at once up from the wound’s deep heart,

  And comes the shaft unto the hand with nought to force it forth,

  And freshly to the king returns his ancient might and worth.

  Then cries Iapis:

  “Loiter ye? arms for the hero then!”

  And he is first against the foe to whet the hearts of men.

  “Lo, not from any help of man, nor from art’s mastery

  These things have happed, nor hath mine hand, Æneas, holpen thee.

  A great God wrought to send thee back great deeds of fame to win.”

  Then, fain of fight, on either side the king his legs shuts in 430

  With ruddy gold: he loathes delay, and high his war-shaft shakes;

  And then his left side meets the shield, his back the hauberk takes,

  And round Iulus casteth he a steel-clad man’s embrace,

  And saith, but lightly kissing him from midst the helmet’s space:

  “Child, the bare valour learn of me and very earthly toil,

  Good-hap of others; my right hand shall ward thee in the broil

  These days that are, and gain for thee exceeding great rewards;

  But thou, when ripe thine age shall grow, remember well the swords;

  Then as thine heart seeks through the past for kin to show the road,

  Well shall thy sire Æneas stir, thine uncle Hector goad.” 440

  But when these words are cast abroad, huge through the gate he goes,

  Shaking in hand a mighty spear; then in arrayment close

  Antheus and Mnestheus rush to war: the camp is left behind,

  And all the host flows forth; the fields are blent with dust-cloud blind,

  And, stirred by trample of the feet, the earth’s face trembleth sore.

  But Turnus from a facing mound beheld that coming war.

  The Ausonians looked, and through their hearts swift ran the chilly fear:

  And now before all other men first doth Jaturna hear,

  And know the sound, and, quaking sore, she fleeth back again.

  On comes he, hurrying on the host black o’er the open plain: 450

  As when a storm cast on the world from heaven asunder rent,

  Wendeth across the middle sea: out! how the dread is sent

  Deep to the field-folks’ boding hearts: — here comes the orchards’ bane,

  Here comes the acres’ utter wrack, the ruin of all the plain!

  The gale that goes before its face brings tidings to the shore:

  So ‘gainst the foe the Trojan Duke led on his hosts of war;

  And gathering in the wedge-array all knit them close around.

  Now hath Thymbræus’ battle-blade the huge Osiris found,

  And Mnestheus slays Archetius, Achates Epulo,

  And Gyas Ufens: yea, the seer Tolumnius lieth low, 460

  He who was first against the foe to hurl the war-shaft out.

  The cry goes up unto the heaven; the war-tide turns about,

  Dust-cloud of flight the Rutuli raise up across the field:

  But he, the King, thinks scorn of it to smite the backs that yield;

  Nay, those that meet him foot to foot, the wielders of the spear,

  He followeth not: Turnus alone his eyes track everywhere

  Amid the dust-cloud, him alone he crieth unto fight.

  Hereby Jaturna’s manly mind is shaken with affright;

  Metiscus, Turnus’ charioteer, she plucketh from the rein,

  And leaveth him fallen down afar from yoking pole and wain: 470

  But she mounts up, and with her hand the waving bridle guides,

  The while Metiscus’ voice, and limbs, and war-gear with her bides:

  As when amid a lordling’s house there flits a swallow black,

  On skimming wings she seeks to still her noisy nestlings’ lack,

  And wandering through the lofty halls but little feast doth get,

  Then soundeth through the empty porch, and round the fish-pools wet,

  So is Jaturna borne on wheels amidmost of the foe,

  And flying on in hurrying chase by everything doth go,

  Now here, now there, her brother shows all flushed with victory,

  But still refrains him from the press; far o’er the waste they fly. 480

  No less Æneas picks his way amid the winding road,

  Tracking the man, and through the rout cries ever high and loud;

  But e’en as oftentimes as he his foeman caught with eye,

  And ‘gainst the flight of wingèd steeds his running feet would try,

  So oft the speedy wain of war Jaturna turned aside.

  Ah, what to do? In vain he went, borne on a shifting tide,

  While diverse cares to clashing ways the soul within him drave.

  But lo, Messapus, speedy-light, who chanced in hand to have

  Two light and limber shafts of tree, each with its iron head,

  Now whirling one, a shot well aimed unto the hero sped: 490

  Ænesis stayed, and gathered him behind his shielding-gear,

  And sank upon his knee; no less the eager-driven spear

  Smote on his helm, and shore away the topmost of his crest

  Then verily his wrath arose; by all that guile oppressed,

  When he beheld the steeds and car far from his battle borne,

  He bade Jove witness, and the hearths of troth-plight wronged and torn:

  He breaks at last amidst of them with Mars to help him on,

  And fearful speedeth work of death wherein he spareth none,

  And casteth every rein aside that held his anger in.

  What God shall tell me all the woe, what God the song shall win 500

  Of shifting death and Dukes undone, and all those many dead,

  By Turnus and by him of Troy about the fight-field spread?

  O Jupiter, was this thy will, that nations doomed to live

  In peace hereafter, on that day in such a broil should strive?

  Rutulian Sucro was the first that Trojan onset stayed;

  Æneas met him, and forsooth no long delay he made,

  But smote his side, and through his ribs and fencing of the breast

  Drave on his bitter naked sword where way was easiest.

  Turnus afoot met Amycus, cast down from off his horse,

  His brother, swift Diores, too: the first amidst his course 510

  The long spear smote, the sword the last; the heads of both the twain

  He hangeth up and beareth on shedding a bloody rain.

  Talon and Tanais therewith, Cethegus stout to do,

  All three at once the Trojan sped, and sad Onytes slew,

  Whom to the name of Echion Peridia’s womb did yield.

  Then Turnus slew the brethren sent from Phoebus’ Lycian field:

  Menates, too, of Arcady, who loathed the war in vain;

  By fruitful fishy Lerna’s flood was once his life and gain,

  And unrich house, and nought he knew of mighty men’s abode,

  And hired for a price of men the earth his father sowed. 520

  As when two fires, that on a while are sped from diverse ways,

  Run through the dry and tinder wood, and crackling twigs of bays;

  As when from off the mountain-tops two hurrying rivers speed,

  And foaming, roaring, as they rush, drive down to ocean’s mead,

  And each one wastes his proper road; no slothfuller than these,

  Æneas, Turnus, fare afield; swell up the anger-seas

  In both their hearts; torn are their breasts that know not how to yield,

  In speeding of the wounding-craft their utter might they wield.

  Murranus, as his sires of sires and ancient name he sings,

  And boasts his blood come far adown the line of Latin kings, 530

  Æneas, with a mighty rock and whirlwind of a stone,

  O’erthrows, and stretches on the earth; the wain-wheels roll him on,

  Amid the bridle and the yoke, whom there upon the sward

  The hurrying hoofs of horses pound, remembering not their lord.

  Then Hyllus’ onset, and his heart with fury all aglow,

  Doth Turnus meet; who hurls a shaft against his golden brow,

  And through the helm the war-spear flies, and in the brain is stayed.

  Thee, Cretheus, bravest of the Greeks, thine hands did nothing aid

  To snatch from Turnus.

  Nought his Gods did their Cupencus cloak

  Against Æneas’ rush of war; breast-on he met the stroke, 540

  And nought availed that hapless one the tarrying golden shield.

  Thee also, warring Æolus, did that Laurentine field

  See fallen, and cumbering the earth with body laid alow;

  Thou diest, whom the Argive hosts might never overthrow,

  Nor that Achilles’ hand that wrought the Priam’s realm its wrack.

  Here was thy meted mortal doom; high house ‘neath Ida’s back,

  High house within Lyrnessus’ garth, grave in Laurentine lea.

  Now all the hosts to fight are turned, and blent in battle’s sea,

  All Latin folk, all Dardan sons, Mnestheus, Serestus keen,

  Messapus tamer of the horse, Asylas fame-beseen, 550

  The Tuscan host, Evander’s men, the Arcadian wings of fight,

  Each for himself the warriors play, and strive with utter might;

  No tarrying, no rest, they strain in contest measureless.

  But now a thought his mother sent Æneas’ mind to bless.

  That he should wend unto the walls, and townward turn his host,

  And blend amid destruction swift the Latin people lost.

  For he, now marking Turnus’ ways through many a company,

  Hither and thither turns his eyes, and sees the city lie

  At peace amid the mighty stir, unharmed amid the fight,

  And image of a greater war set all his soul alight. 560

  Mnestheus, Sergestus then he calls, Serestus battle-strong,

  The Dukes of war; he mounts a knoll; thither the Teucrians throng

  In serried ranks, yet lay not by the battle-spear and shield:

  So there from off the mound he speaks amidmost of the field:

  “Let none hang back from these my words, for Jove is standing by;

  Let none be dull herein because it cometh suddenly:

  Today the town, the cause of war, the king Latinus’ home,

  Unless they cry them craven men, and ‘neath the yoke they come,

  Will I o’erthrow; the smoking towers upon the ground will lay.

  What! must I wait till Turnus grows fain of the battle-play? 570

  And shall he, conquered, take his ease to fight me o’er and o’er?

  O fellows, this is head and well of all the wicked war.

  Haste with the torches, set we forth the troth with fire to find!”

  He spake; but all they set to work, and striving with one mind

  Knit close their ranks, and on the town a world of battle bear:

  Unlooked-for ladders are at hand, and sudden fires appear;

  While some they run unto the gates, and there the out-guards slay,

  Or hurl the spears, and with their cloud dim down the light of day.

  Æneas, in the front of men, lifts hand unto the walls,

  And in a great and mighty voice guilt on Latinus calls, 580

  And bids the Gods to witness him twice to the battle driven,

  Italians twice become his foes, and twice the treaty riven.

  But mid the turmoiled city-folk arose the bickering then,

  Some bade unbar and open gates unto the Dardan men;

  Yea, some unto the walls would drag their very king and lord;

  But some bear arms and go their ways the walls of war to ward:

  E’en as the shepherd finds the bees shut in, a fencèd folk,

  In chinky pumice rock, and fills their house with bitter smoke;

  But they, all busy-fearful grown within their waxen wall,

  Run here and there and whet their wrath with mighty humming call: 590

  The black stink rolleth through their house, and with a murmuring blind

  The stony hollows moan: the reek the empty air doth find.

  Here on the weary Latins fell another stroke of fate,

  That moved the city deep adown with sorrow sore and great;

  For when the Queen from house aloft beheld the foe draw nigh,

  The walls beset, the flaming brands unto the house-roofs fly,

  And nowhere the Rutulian ranks or Turnus’ warring host,

  The hapless woman deems the youth in stress of battle lost,

  And, all bewildered in her mind by these so sudden woes,

  Curses herself for head and spring whence all the evil flows; 600

  And crying many a bitter word, and mad with sorrow grown,

  She riveth with her dying hand the queenly purple gown,

  And knits the knot of loathly death from lofty beam on high.

  But when the wretched Latin wives know all this misery,

  Her daughter first, Lavinia, wastes the blossom of her hair,

  And wounds her rosy cheeks; then they that stood about her there

  Run wild about, and all the house resoundeth with their wail.

  Thence through the city flies the sound of that unhappy tale,

  And all hearts sink: Latinus goes with raiment rent and torn,

  Stunned by his wife’s unhappy lot, and city lost and lorn, 610

  And scattering o’er his hoariness defilement of the dust;

  And often he upbraids himself that he took not to trust

  That Dardan lord, nor willingly had hallowed him his son.

  Meanwhile across the outer plain war-Turnus followeth on

  The last few stragglers, duller grown, and less and less his heart

  Rejoices in his hurrying steed and their victorious part.

  The air bore to him noise of men with doubtful terror blent,

  And round about his hearkening ears confusèd murmur sent;

  The noise of that turmoilèd town, a sound of nought but woe:

  “Ah, me!” he cried, “what mighty grief stirs up the city so? 620

  Why from the walls now goeth up this cry and noise afar?”

  He spake, and, wildered, drew the rein and stayed the battle-car:

  His sister met his questioning, as she in seeming clad

  Of that Metiscus, all the rule of battle-chariot had,

  And steeds and bridle:

  “Hereaway, O Turnus, drive we on

  The sons of Troy; where victory shows a road that may be won:

  For other hands there are, belike, the houses to defend.

  Æneas falls on Italy, and there doth battle blend;

  So let our hands give cruel death to Teucrian men this day,

  No less in tale: so shalt thou hold thine honour in the fray.” 630

  But Turnus sayeth thereunto:

  “Sister, I knew thee long ago, when first by art and craft

  Thou brok’st the troth-plight, and therewith amidst the battle went;

  And now thou hidest God in vain. But whose will thee hath sent

  From high Olympus’ house to bear such troubles, and so great?

  Was it to see thy brother’s end and most unhappy fate?

  For what do I? What heal is left in aught that may befall?

  Mine eyes beheld Murranus die, on me I heard him call:

  No dearer man in all the world is left me for a friend:

  Woe’s me I that mighty man of men a mighty death must end. 640

  Ufens is dead, unhappy too lest he our shame behold;

  E’en as I speak the Teucrians ward his arms and body cold.

  And now — the one shame wanting yet — shall I stand deedless by

  Their houses’ wrack, nor let my sword cast back that Drances’ lie?

  Shall I give back, and shall this land see craven Turnus fled?

  Is death, then, such a misery? O rulers of the dead,

  Be kind! since now the high God’s heart is turned away from me;

  A hallowed soul I go adown, guiltless of infamy,

  Not all unworthy of the great, my sires of long ago.”

  Scarce had he said when, here behold, from midmost of the foe, 650

  Comes Saces on his foaming steed, an arrow in his face,

  Who, crying prayers on Turnus’ name, onrusheth to the place:

  “Turnus, in thee our last hope lies! pity thy wretched folk!

  Æneas thundereth battle there, and threateneth with his stroke

  The overthrow of tower and town, and wrack of Italy.

  The flames are flying toward the roofs; all mouths of Latins cry

  On thee; all eyes are turned to thee: yea, the king wavereth there,

  Whom shall he call his son-in-law, to whom for friendship fare.

  The Queen to wit, thy faithfullest, is dead by her own hand,

  And, fearful of the things to come, hath left the daylight land. 660

  Messapus and Atinas keen alone upbear our might

  Before the gates: round each of them are gathered hosts of fight

  Thick-thronging, and a harvest-tide that bristles with the sword;

  While here thou wendest car about the man-deserted sward.”

  Bewildered then with images of diverse things he stood

  In silent stare; and in his heart upswelled a mighty flood

  Of mingled shame and maddening grief: the Furies goaded sore

 

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