The Aeneid
Virgil, John Dryden
- 431 pages
- English
- ePUB (adapté aux mobiles)
- Disponible sur iOS et Android
The Aeneid
Virgil, John Dryden
Ă propos de ce livre
The ancient epic of adventure, war, passion, and tragedy that follows a Trojan warrior on his journey to the land that will become Rome. A work of epic poetry that has survived for over two thousand years, The Aeneid is the story of Aeneas. Born to a goddess and a mortal man, Aeneas leads a fleet on the Mediterranean; is beset by a great storm; becomes entangled in a romance with Dido, the queen of Carthage; and visits the underworld. His true destiny, though, awaits him in Italy, and he engages in bloody battle as he makes his way thereâunder the watchful gaze of the gods and goddesses who frequently intervene. A fundamental classic of Western literature, The Aeneid is a majestic blend of myth, legend, and history that continues to transport modern readers into a long-lost world.
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Informations
Book XII
The Argument
Their armies broken, and their courage quellâd,
Himself become the mark of public spite,
His honour questionâd for the promisâd fight;
The more he was with vulgar hate oppressâd,
The more his fury boilâd within his breast:
He rousâd his vigour for the last debate,
And raisâd his haughty soul to meet his fate.
He makes a sour retreat, nor mends his pace;
But, if the pointed javâlin pierce his side,
The lordly beast returns with double pride:
He wrenches out the steel, he roars for pain;
His sides he lashes, and erects his mane:
So Turnus fares; his eyeballs flash with fire,
Throâ his wide nostrils clouds of smoke expire.
At length approachâd the king, and thus began:
âNo more excuses or delays: I stand
In arms preparâd to combat, hand to hand,
This base deserter of his native land.
The Trojan, by his word, is bound to take
The same conditions which himself did make.
Renew the truce; the solemn rites prepare,
And to my single virtue trust the war.
The Latians unconcernâd shall see the fight;
This arm unaided shall assert your right:
Then, if my prostrate body press the plain,
To him the crown and beauteous bride remain.â
âBrave youth, the more your valour has been tried,
The more becomes it us, with due respect,
To weigh the chance of war, which you neglect.
You want not wealth, or a successive throne,
Or cities which your arms have made your own:
My towns and treasures are at your command,
And storâd with blooming beauties is my land;
Laurentum more than one Lavinia sees,
Unmarried, fair, of noble families.
Now let me speak, and you with patience hear,
Things which perhaps may grate a loverâs ear,
But sound advice, proceeding from a heart
Sincerely yours, and free from fraudful art.
The gods, by signs, have manifestly shown,
No prince Italian born should heir my throne:
Oft have our augurs, in prediction skillâd,
And oft our priests, a foreign son revealâd.
Yet, won by worth that cannot be withstood,
Bribâd by my kindness to my kindred blood,
Urgâd by my wife, who would not be denied,
I promisâd my Lavinia for your bride:
Her from her plighted lord by force I took;
All ties of treaties, and of honour, broke:
On your account I wagâd an impious warâ
With what success, âtis needless to declare;
I and my subjects feel, and you have had your share.
Twice vanquishâd while in bloody fields we strive,
Scarce in our walls we keep our hopes alive:
The rolling flood runs warm with human gore;
The bones of Latians blanch the neighbâring shore.
Why put I not an end to this debate,
Still unresolvâd, and still a slave to fate?
If Turnusâ death a lasting peace can give,
Why should I not procure it whilst you live?
Should I to doubtful arms your youth betray,
What would my kinsmen, the Rutulians, say?
And, should you fall in fight, (which Heavân defend!)
How curse the cause which hastenâd to his end
The daughterâs lover and the fatherâs friend?
Weigh in your mind the various chance of war;
Pity your parentâs age, and ease his care.â
The profferâd medâcine but provokâd the pain.
The wrathful youth, disdaining the relief,
With intermitting sobs thus vents his grief:
âThe care, O best of fathers, which you take
For my concerns, at my desire forsake.
Permit me not to languish out my days,
But make the best exchange of life for praise.
This arm, this lance, can well dispute the prize;
And the blood follows, where the weapon flies.
His goddess mother is not near, to shroud
The flying coward with an empty cloud.â
And loathâd the hard conditions of the strife,
Held him by force; and, dying in his death,
In these sad accents gave her sorrow breath:
âO Turnus, I adjure thee by these tears,
And whateâer price Amataâs honour bears
Within thy breast, since thou art all my hope,
My sickly mindâs repose, my sinking ageâs prop;
Since on the safety of thy life alone
Depends Latinus, and the Latian throne:
Refuse me not this one, this only prayâr,
To waive the combat, and pursue the war.
Whatever chance attends this fatal strife,
Think it includes, in thine, Amataâs life.
I cannot live a slave, or see my throne
Usurpâd by strangers or a Trojan son.â
A crimson blush her beauteous face oâerspread,
Varying her cheeks by turns with white and red.
The driving colours, never at a stay,
Run here and there, and flush, and fade away.
Delightful change! Thus Indian ivâry shows,
Which with the bordâring paint of purple glows;
Or lilies damaskâd by the neighbâring rose.
The more he lookâd, the more he fed the fire:
Revenge, and jealous rage, and secret spite,
Roll in his breast, and rouse him to the fight.
Then fixing on the queen his ardent eyes,
Firm to his first intent, he thus replies:
âO mother, do not by your tears prepare
Such boding omens, and prejudge the war.
Resolvâd on fight, I am no longer free
To shun my death, if Heavân my death decree.â
Then turning to the herald, thus pursues:
âGo, greet the Trojan with ungrateful news;
Denounce from me, that, when tomorrowâs light
Shall gild the heavâns, he need not urge the fight;
The Trojan and Rutulian troops no more
Shall dye, with mutual blood, the Latian shore:
Our single swords the quarrel shall decide,
And to the victor be the beauteous bride.â
He sought his coursers of the Thracian race.
At his approach they toss their heads on high,
And, proudly neighing, promise victory.
The sires of these Orythia sent from far,
To grace Pilumnus, when he went to war.
The drifts of Thracian snows were scarce so white,
Nor northern winds in fleetness matchâd their flight.
Officious grooms stand ready by his side;
And some with combs their flowing manes divide,
And others stroke their chests and gently soothe their pride.
Of golden metal those, and mountain brass.
Then to his head his glittâring helm he tied,
And girt his faithful falchion to his side.
In his Aetnaean forge, the God of Fire
That falchion labourâd for the heroâs sire;
Immortal keenness on the blade bestowâd,
And plungâd it hissing in the Stygian flood.
Proppâd on a pillar, which the ceiling bore,
Was placâd the lance Auruncan Actor wore;
Which with such force he brandishâd in his hand,
The tough ash trembled like an osier wand:
Then cried: âO pondârous spoil of Actor slain,
And never yet by Turnus tossâd in vain,
Fail not this day thy wonted force; but go,
Sent by this hand, to pierce the Trojan foe!
Give me to tear his corslet from his breast,
And from that eunuch head to rend the crest;
Draggâd in the dust, his frizzled hair to soil,
Hot from the vexing irân, and smearâd with fragrant oil!â
A fiery steam, and sparkles from his eyes.
So fares the bull in his lovâd femaleâs sight:
Proudly he bellows, and preludes the fight;
He tries his goring horns against a tree,
And meditates his absent enemy;
He pushes at the winds; he digs the strand
With his black hoofs, and spurns the yellow sand.
To future fight his manly courage warms:
He whets his fury, and with joy prepares
To terminate at once the lingâring wars;
To cheer his chiefs and tender son, relates
What Heavân had promisâd, and expounds the fates.
Then to the Latian king he sends, to cease
The rage of arms, and ratify the peace.
Had scarcely spread the skies with rosy light;
Thâ ethereal coursers, bounding from the sea,
From out their flaming nostrils breathâd the day;
When now the Trojan and Rutulian guard,
In friendly labour joinâd, the list preparâd.
Beneath the walls they measure out the space;
Then sacred altars rear, on sods of grass,
Where, with religious their common gods they place.
In purest white the priests their heads attire;
And living waters bear, and holy fire;
And, oâer their linen hoods and shaded hair,
Long twisted wreaths of sacred vervain wear.
The Latin legion, armâd with pointed spears;
And from the fields, advancing on a line,
The Trojan and the Tuscan forces join:
Their various arms afford a pleasing sight;
A peaceful train they seem, in peace preparâd for fight.
Betwixt the ranks the proud commanders ride,
Glittâring with gold, and vests in purple dyed;
Here Mnestheus, author of the Memmian line,
And there Messapus, born of seed divine.
The sign is givân; and, round the listed space,
Each man in order fills his proper place.
Reclining on their ample shields, they stand,
And fix their pointed lances in the sand.
Now, studious of the sight, a numârous throng
Of either sex promiscuous, old and young,
Swarm the town: by those who rest behind,
The gates and walls and housesâ tops are linâd.
Meantime the Queen of Heavân beheld the sight,
With eyes unpleasâd, from Mount Albanoâs height
(Since callâd Albano by succeeding fame,
But then an empty hill, without a name).
She thence surveyâd the field, the Trojan powârs,
The Latian squadrons, and Laurentine towârs.
Then thus the goddess of the skies bespoke,
With sighs and tears, the goddess of the lake,
King Turnusâ sister, once a lovely maid,
Ere to the lust of lawless Jove betrayâd:
Compressâd by force, but, by the grateful god,
Now made the Nais of the neighbâring flood.
âO nymph, the pride of living lakes,â said she,
âO most renownâd, and most belovâd by me,
Long...