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Book XII
WHEN TURNUS SAW the Latins foiled in war,
Shattered and spent, his promise claimed, himself
Marked of all eyes, his swelling soul burst out
In quenchless flame. As when on Punic leas
The lion, chased and wounded to the heart,
Shows fight at last, and on his brawny neck
Tosses his mane with joy, and dauntless bites
The spoiler’s spear, and roars with bloody jaws:
So fury swelled in Turnus’ kindling soul.
Then thus the King, thus headstrong, he bespake:
“Turnus delays not! Cause to waive their words,
Or break their bond, our dastard foe hath none!
I meet him. Sanctify and frame the bond!
This hand to Hell shall send the Dardan down,
Troy’s runagate, (let Latins sit and see!)
This single sword refute the blame of all,
Or he may rule, Lavinia’s conquering lord!”
To whom Latinus answered, calm in soul.
“O bold! the more thy fiery spirit swells,
More deeply must I ponder, and with fear
Weigh every risk. Thy father Daunus’ realms,
And many towns are thine thy hand hath won.
Latinus, too, hath gold and gratitude.
More maids in Latium and Laurentum dwell,
Not meanly born. Thus harshly let me speak
Without disguise, and deeply drink my words!
To none of yore who wooed her might I wed
My child unblamed; so augured gods and men.
Won by my love for thee, by ties of blood,
Won by my sad wife’s tears, I broke all bonds,
Stole his betrothed and drew a traitor’s sword!
Thou see’st what woes, what wars pursue me since,
What labours, Turnus, thou art chief to bear.
Twice in pitched battle conquered, scarce we save
Italian hopes: the Tiber with our blood
Flows hot; and plains are whitened with our bones.
Where drifts my mind so oft by madness warped?
If I would welcome them with Turnus slain,
Why end I not the strife with Turnus whole?
What will Italians, what will thine own kin,
Rutulians, say, if I (which heaven forfend!)
Give thee to death, the suitor of my child?
Think on war’s changes! Pity him who mourns,
Thine age-worn father in his Ardean home
Far hence!”
But Turnus by no words is bent:
His fury swells, and sickens at the cure.
At last, when speak he could, he thus began:
“Thy care for me, good father, for my sake
Lay down, and let me barter life for fame.
We, too, throw spears; no feeble steel our hand
Scatters, and bloodshed follows on our blow.
No mother will be near, in shadows hid,
To cloak his fleeing with her woman’s cloud.”
But weeping, awed by that new turn of war,
The death-marked Queen to fiery Turnus clung.
“O by these tears, if thou regard at all
Amata, O Son, sole hope, sole solace now
Of our sad age! Latinus’ pride and power
Lie in thine hand: the House leans all on thee!
I only pray, clash not with Trojan men!
Whate’er await thee, Turnus, in such strife,
Waits me. I, too, shall leave the hateful light,
Nor captured see Aeneas son of mine!”
Lavinia heard her mother, and the tears
Dewed her hot face; a mantling rose of flame
Ran o‘er her glowing cheeks; as when a man
Incarnadines the Indian ivory
With crimson stain, or as pale lilies blent
With roses flush; so flushed her maiden cheek.
On her he fixed his gaze, o’erwhelmed by love,
And burning more for battle answered brief:
“O not with tears, not with such omens, pray,
To War’s stern field, O Mother, send me forth!
For Turnus is not free to give Death pause.
Haste, Idmon! to the Phrygian despot bear
These words unwelcome. When the morrow’s Dawn
Glows from her rosy chariot, let him lead
No troops to war: let Troy’s, Rutulia’s arms
Rest; let the War be settled by our blood,
And on yon field Lavinia wooed and won!”
Thence homeward speeding for his steeds he calls,
And joys to see them whinnying at his look,
Those snow-bright steeds which Orithyia’s self
Gave proud Pilumnus to outrace the winds.
The busy grooms all round with hollow palms
Pat their loud chests and comb the flowing hair.
Then on his back he throws the hauberk rough
With gold and orichalc, and dons in place
His sword and shield and crimson-crested helm, —
The sword of Daunus, which the Fire God’s self
Forged white and tempered in the Stygian wave;
Then grasps the spear which stands within his halls
Leaning against a column, Actor’s spoil
The Auruncan, and the quivering weapon shakes
Crying, “O Spear, that never failed my call!
Now comes mine hour! Thee greatest Actor bare;
Now Turnus bears thee. Grant me to lay dead
This Phrygian eunuch, and with stalwart hand
Shred his rent mail, and soil in dust his locks
Curled with the heated iron and drenched in myrrh!”
Such madness goads him: all his sparkling face
Flames, and fire flashes from his furious eyes.
As when a bull wakes his dread battle roar,
And calling to his horns the gathering wrath
Butts at a tree, and shocks the air with blows,
Or sheds the scattered sand, preluding war.
And in his mother’s armour not less fierce
Aeneas whets with rage his martial soul,
Full glad that proffered truce should lull the war.
He calms his friends and sad lulus’ fear,
Teaching his Doom; and bids men take the King
His firm response, and name the terms of peace.
The morrow morn scarce strewed the hills with light,
And the Sun’s horses from the seething sea
Leapt up, and from their nostrils blew the day,
When Trojans and Rutulians measured out
By the great city’s wall the field of fight,
And hearths and altars for their common Gods
There made of grass. Some clad in linen bear
Water and fire, with vervain round their brows.
Ausonia’s legions from the streaming gates
March out in serried ranks; and all the force
Of Troy and Tuscany diversely armed
Pour forth arrayed in steel, as if grim War
To battle called. In gold and purples proud
Midmost the Captains flash, Asilas bold,
Mnestheus the Assaracan, Messapus fierce,
The Sea God’s son, the Tamer of the Steed.
The signal given, both armies take their ground,
And plant their spears in earth and pile their shields;
And eager rushing mothers, unarmed folk,
Old feeble men, fill tower and roof, or stand
By the tall gates.
But Juno from the Mount
Now Alban named, (no name it had, no praise
Nor glory then,) looked out upon the field,
And saw both Trojan and Laurentine lines,
And the King’s city; and thus the Goddess then
To Turnus’ sister spake, herself divine, —
Queen of the pools and murmuring streams was she,
Her with such grace the King of Heaven had dowered
For her lost maidenhood.
“O Nymph most dear!
O Splendour of the Streams! Thee more than all
The Latin maids who climbed the ungrateful bed
Of high-souled Jove I loved, thou knowest well,
And in thy Heavenly place set thee with joy.
Juturna, learn thy grief, and blame not me.
While Fate and Fortune let the Latian weal
Prosper, I shielded Turnus and thy walls.
Now him I see confronting fate ill-matched:
His day of doom draws near, his stringent foe.
This fight, this league I cannot watch. If more
Thou darest for a brother, ’tis for thee!
Go. Happier days may tread on Sorrow’s trail!”
She scarce had said, when fair Juturna smote
Thrice and four times her bosom, shedding tears.
“No time is this for tears,” Saturnia said.
“Speed! Wrest from death thy brother, if thou may’st,
Or waken war, and break the purposed league;
I warrant the bold act!” She urged, but left
Uncertain still her sorrow-clouded mind.
Now came the Kings with pomp. In four-horsed car
Latinus rode, about whose gleaming brow
Shone twelve gilt rays, the badge of his great Sire
The golden Sun; and drawn by two white steeds
Turnus, whose hand two steel-bound lances shook;
Then, bright with starry Shield and Heaven-sent arms,
Aeneas, Rome’s original great Sire,
Fast by Ascanius rode, Rome’s second hope.
Then to the altars went the clear-stoled Priests,
With sheep unshorn and young of bristled swine,
And set them by the flame. They turned their eyes
To face the rising sun, and from their hands
Gave the salt meal, and branded with the steel
The victims’ foreheads, pouring out the bowls.
And good Aeneas drew his sword and prayed:
“Be witness now, O Sun! Give ear, O Land!
Land for whose sake such pains I could endure!
Almighty Sire, and Juno thou, his Queen,
Now, Goddess, now more kind! And thou, great Mars,
Whose will sways all men’s strife! Rivers and Springs,
Etherial Virtues, and whatever Powers
Dwell in the dark blue Sea, on you I call!
If conquest crown the Ausonian, homeward then
To Evander’s walls the vanquished men shall go,
lulus leave the land, Aeneas’ seed
Not draw rebell...
