{"collection":"Classics","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/cla/anide.htm","path":"cla/anide.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/cla/anide.htm","text":"19 BC\nTHE AENEID\nby Virgil\nBOOK I\nArms, and the man I sing, who, forc'd by fate,\nAnd haughty Juno's unrelenting hate,\nExpell'd and exil'd, left the Trojan shore.\nLong labors, both by sea and land, he bore,\nAnd in the doubtful war, before he won\nThe Latian realm, and built the destin'd town;\nHis banish'd gods restor'd to rites divine,\nAnd settled sure succession in his line,\nFrom whence the race of Alban fathers come,\nAnd the long glories of majestic Rome.\nO Muse! the causes and the crimes relate;\nWhat goddess was provok'd, and whence her hate;\nFor what offense the Queen of Heav'n began\nTo persecute so brave, so just a man;\nInvolv'd his anxious life in endless cares,\nExpos'd to wants, and hurried into wars!\nCan heav'nly minds such high resentment show,\nOr exercise their spite in human woe?\nAgainst the Tiber's mouth, but far away,\nAn ancient town was seated on the sea;\nA Tyrian colony; the people made\nStout for the war, and studious of their trade:\nCarthage the name; belov'd by Juno more\nThan her own Argos, or the Samian shore.\nHere stood her chariot; here, if Heav'n were kind,\nThe seat of awful empire she design'd.\nYet she had heard an ancient rumor fly,\n(Long cited by the people of the sky,)\nThat times to come should see the Trojan race\nHer Carthage ruin, and her tow'rs deface;\nNor thus confin'd, the yoke of sov'reign sway\nShould on the necks of all the nations lay.\nShe ponder'd this, and fear'd it was in fate;\nNor could forget the war she wag'd of late\nFor conqu'ring Greece against the Trojan state.\nBesides, long causes working in her mind,\nAnd secret seeds of envy, lay behind;\nDeep graven in her heart the doom remain'd\nOf partial Paris, and her form disdain'd;\nThe grace bestow'd on ravish'd Ganymed,\nElectra's glories, and her injur'd bed.\nEach was a cause alone; and all combin'd\nTo kindle vengeance in her haughty mind.\nFor this, far distant from the Latian coast\nShe drove the remnants of the Trojan host;\nAnd sev'n long years th' unhappy wand'ring train\nWere toss'd by storms, and scatter'd thro' the main.\nSuch time, such toil, requir'd the Roman name,\nSuch length of labor for so vast a frame.\nNow scarce the Trojan fleet, with sails and oars,\nHad left behind the fair Sicilian shores,\nEnt'ring with cheerful shouts the wat'ry reign,\nAnd plowing frothy furrows in the main;\nWhen, lab'ring still with endless discontent,\nThe Queen of Heav'n did thus her fury vent:\n\"Then am I vanquish'd? must I yield?\" said she,\n\"And must the Trojans reign in Italy?\nSo Fate will have it, and Jove adds his force;\nNor can my pow'r divert their happy course.\nCould angry Pallas, with revengeful spleen,\nThe Grecian navy burn, and drown the men?\nShe, for the fault of one offending foe,\nThe bolts of Jove himself presum'd to throw:\nWith whirlwinds from beneath she toss'd the ship,\nAnd bare expos'd the bosom of the deep;\nThen, as an eagle gripes the trembling game,\nThe wretch, yet hissing with her father's flame,\nShe strongly seiz'd, and with a burning wound\nTransfix'd, and naked, on a rock she bound.\nBut I, who walk in awful state above,\nThe majesty of heav'n, the sister wife of Jove,\nFor length of years my fruitless force employ\nAgainst the thin remains of ruin'd Troy!\nWhat nations now to Juno's pow'r will pray,\nOr off'rings on my slighted altars lay?\"\nThus rag'd the goddess; and, with fury fraught.\nThe restless regions of the storms she sought,\nWhere, in a spacious cave of living stone,\nThe tyrant Aeolus, from his airy throne,\nWith pow'r imperial curbs the struggling winds,\nAnd sounding tempests in dark prisons binds.\nThis way and that th' impatient captives tend,\nAnd, pressing for release, the mountains rend.\nHigh in his hall th' undaunted monarch stands,\nAnd shakes his scepter, and their rage commands;\nWhich did he not, their unresisted sway\nWould sweep the world before them in their way;\nEarth, air, and seas thro' empty space would roll,\nAnd heav'n would fly before the driving soul.\nIn fear of this, the Father of the Gods\nConfin'd their fury to those dark abodes,\nAnd lock'd 'em safe within, oppress'd with mountain loads;\nImpos'd a king, with arbitrary sway,\nTo loose their fetters, or their force allay.\nTo whom the suppliant queen her pray'rs address'd,\nAnd thus the tenor of her suit express'd:\n\"O Aeolus! for to thee the King of Heav'n\nThe pow'r of tempests and of winds has giv'n;\nThy force alone their fury can restrain,\nAnd smooth the waves, or swell the troubled main-\nA race of wand'ring slaves, abhorr'd by me,\nWith prosp'rous passage cut the Tuscan sea;\nTo fruitful Italy their course they steer,\nAnd for their vanquish'd gods design new temples there.\nRaise all thy winds; with night involve the skies;\nSink or disperse my fatal enemies.\nTwice sev'n, the charming daughters of the main,\nAround my person wait, and bear my train:\nSucceed my wish, and second my design;\nThe fairest, Deiopeia, shall be thine,\nAnd make thee father of a happy line.\"\nTo this the god: \"'T is yours, O queen, to will\nThe work which duty binds me to fulfil.\nThese airy kingdoms, and this wide command,\nAre all the presents of your bounteous hand:\nYours is my sov'reign's grace; and, as your guest,\nI sit with gods at their celestial feast;\nRaise tempests at your pleasure, or subdue;\nDispose of empire, which I hold from you.\"\nHe said, and hurl'd against the mountain side\nHis quiv'ring spear, and all the god applied.\nThe raging winds rush thro' the hollow wound,\nAnd dance aloft in air, and skim along the ground;\nThen, settling on the sea, the surges sweep,\nRaise liquid mountains, and disclose the deep.\nSouth, East, and West with mix'd confusion roar,\nAnd roll the foaming billows to the shore.\nThe cables crack; the sailors' fearful cries\nAscend; and sable night involves the skies;\nAnd heav'n itself is ravish'd from their eyes.\nLoud peals of thunder from the poles ensue;\nThen flashing fires the transient light renew;\nThe face of things a frightful image bears,\nAnd present death in various forms appears.\nStruck with unusual fright, the Trojan chief,\nWith lifted hands and eyes, invokes relief;\nAnd, \"Thrice and four times happy those,\" he cried,\n\"That under Ilian walls before their parents died!\nTydides, bravest of the Grecian train!\nWhy could not I by that strong arm be slain,\nAnd lie by noble Hector on the plain,\nOr great Sarpedon, in those bloody fields\nWhere Simois rolls the bodies and the shields\nOf heroes, whose dismember'd hands yet bear\nThe dart aloft, and clench the pointed spear!\"\nThus while the pious prince his fate bewails,\nFierce Boreas drove against his flying sails,\nAnd rent the sheets; the raging billows rise,\nAnd mount the tossing vessels to the skies:\nNor can the shiv'ring oars sustain the blow;\nThe galley gives her side, and turns her prow;\nWhile those astern, descending down the steep,\nThro' gaping waves behold the boiling deep.\nThree ships were hurried by the southern blast,\nAnd on the secret shelves with fury cast.\nThose hidden rocks th' Ausonian sailors knew:\nThey call'd them Altars, when they rose in view,\nAnd show'd their spacious backs above the flood.\nThree more fierce Eurus, in his angry mood,\nDash'd on the shallows of the moving sand,\nAnd in mid ocean left them moor'd aland.\nOrontes' bark, that bore the Lycian crew,\n(A horrid sight!) ev'n in the hero's view,\nFrom stem to stern by waves was overborne:\nThe trembling pilot, from his rudder torn,\nWas headlong hurl'd; thrice round the ship was toss'd,\nThen bulg'd at once, and in the deep was lost;\nAnd here and there above the waves were seen\nArms, pictures, precious goods, and floating men.\nThe stoutest vessel to the storm gave way,\nAnd suck'd thro' loosen'd planks the rushing sea.\nIlioneus was her chief: Alethes old,\nAchates faithful, Abas young and bold,\nEndur'd not less; their ships, with gaping seams,\nAdmit the deluge of the briny streams.\nMeantime imperial Neptune heard the sound\nOf raging billows breaking on the ground.\nDispleas'd, and fearing for his wat'ry reign,\nHe rear'd his awful head above the main,\nSerene in majesty; then roll'd his eyes\nAround the space of earth, and seas, and skies.\nHe saw the Trojan fleet dispers'd, distress'd,\nBy stormy winds and wintry heav'n oppress'd.\nFull well the god his sister's envy knew,\nAnd what her aims and what her arts pursue.\nHe summon'd Eurus and the western blast,\nAnd first an angry glance on both he cast;\nThen thus rebuk'd: \"Audacious winds! from whence\nThis bold attempt, this rebel insolence?\nIs it for you to ravage seas and land,\nUnauthoriz'd by my supreme command?\nTo raise such mountains on the troubled main?\nWhom I- but first 't is fit the billows to restrain;\nAnd then you shall be taught obedience to my reign.\nHence! to your lord my royal mandate bear-\nThe realms of ocean and the fields of air\nAre mine, not his. By fatal lot to me\nThe liquid empire fell, and trident of the sea.\nHis pow'r to hollow caverns is confin'd:\nThere let him reign, the jailer of the wind,\nWith hoarse commands his breathing subjects call,\nAnd boast and bluster in his empty hall.\"\nHe spoke; and, while he spoke, he smooth'd the sea,\nDispell'd the darkness, and restor'd the day.\nCymothoe, Triton, and the sea-green train\nOf beauteous nymphs, the daughters of the main,\nClear from the rocks the vessels with their hands:\nThe god himself with ready trident stands,\nAnd opes the deep, and spreads the moving sands;\nThen heaves them off the shoals. Where'er he guides\nHis finny coursers and in triumph rides,\nThe waves unruffle and the sea subsides.\nAs, when in tumults rise th' ignoble crowd,\nMad are their motions, and their tongues are loud;\nAnd stones and brands in rattling volleys fly,\nAnd all the rustic arms that fury can supply:\nIf then some grave and pious man appear,\nThey hush their noise, and lend a list'ning ear;\nHe soothes with sober words their angry mood,\nAnd quenches their innate desire of blood:\nSo, when the Father of the Flood appears,\nAnd o'er the seas his sov'reign trident rears,\nTheir fury falls: he skims the liquid plains,\nHigh on his chariot, and, with loosen'd reins,\nMajestic moves along, and awful peace maintains.\nThe weary Trojans ply their shatter'd oars\nTo nearest land, and make the Libyan shores.\nWithin a long recess there lies a bay:\nAn island shades it from the rolling sea,\nAnd forms a port secure for ships to ride;\nBroke by the jutting land, on either side,\nIn double streams the briny waters glide.\nBetwixt two rows of rocks a sylvan scene\nAppears above, and groves for ever green:\nA grot is form'd beneath, with mossy seats,\nTo rest the Nereids, and exclude the heats.\nDown thro' the crannies of the living walls\nThe crystal streams descend in murm'ring falls:\nNo haulsers need to bind the vessels here,\nNor bearded anchors; for no storms they fear.\nSev'n ships within this happy harbor meet,\nThe thin remainders of the scatter'd fleet.\nThe Trojans, worn with toils, and spent with woes,\nLeap on the welcome land, and seek their wish'd repose.\nFirst, good Achates, with repeated strokes\nOf clashing flints, their hidden fire provokes:\nShort flame succeeds; a bed of wither'd leaves\nThe dying sparkles in their fall receives:\nCaught into life, in fiery fumes they rise,\nAnd, fed with stronger food, invade the skies.\nThe Trojans, dropping wet, or stand around\nThe cheerful blaze, or lie along the ground:\nSome dry their corn, infected with the brine,\nThen grind with marbles, and prepare to dine.\nAeneas climbs the mountain's airy brow,\nAnd takes a prospect of the seas below,\nIf Capys thence, or Antheus he could spy,\nOr see the streamers of Caicus fly.\nNo vessels were in view; but, on the plain,\nThree beamy stags command a lordly train\nOf branching heads: the more ignoble throng\nAttend their stately steps, and slowly graze along.\nHe stood; and, while secure they fed below,\nHe took the quiver and the trusty bow\nAchates us'd to bear: the leaders first\nHe laid along, and then the vulgar pierc'd;\nNor ceas'd his arrows, till the shady plain\nSev'n mighty bodies with their blood distain.\nFor the sev'n ships he made an equal share,\nAnd to the port return'd, triumphant from the war.\nThe jars of gen'rous wine (Acestes' gift,\nWhen his Trinacrian shores the navy left)\nHe set abroach, and for the feast prepar'd,\nIn equal portions with the ven'son shar'd.\nThus while he dealt it round, the pious chief\nWith cheerful words allay'd the common grief:\n\"Endure, and conquer! Jove will soon dispose\nTo future good our past and present woes.\nWith me, the rocks of Scylla you have tried;\nTh' inhuman Cyclops and his den defied.\nWhat greater ills hereafter can you bear?\nResume your courage and dismiss your care,\nAn hour will come, with pleasure to relate\nYour sorrows past, as benefits of Fate.\nThro' various hazards and events, we move\nTo Latium and the realms foredoom'd by Jove.\nCall'd to the seat (the promise of the skies)\nWhere Trojan kingdoms once again may rise,\nEndure the hardships of your present state;\nLive, and reserve yourselves for better fate.\"\nThese words he spoke, but spoke not from his heart;\nHis outward smiles conceal'd his inward smart.\nThe jolly crew, unmindful of the past,\nThe quarry share, their plenteous dinner haste.\nSome strip the skin; some portion out the spoil;\nThe limbs, yet trembling, in the caldrons boil;\nSome on the fire the reeking entrails broil.\nStretch'd on the grassy turf, at ease they dine,\nRestore their strength with meat, and cheer their souls with\nwine.\nTheir hunger thus appeas'd, their care attends\nThe doubtful fortune of their absent friends:\nAlternate hopes and fears their minds possess,\nWhether to deem 'em dead, or in distress.\nAbove the rest, Aeneas mourns the fate\nOf brave Orontes, and th' uncertain state\nOf Gyas, Lycus, and of Amycus.\nThe day, but not their sorrows, ended thus.\nWhen, from aloft, almighty Jove surveys\nEarth, air, and shores, and navigable seas,\nAt length on Libyan realms he fix'd his eyes-\nWhom, pond'ring thus on human miseries,\nWhen Venus saw, she with a lowly look,\nNot free from tears, her heav'nly sire bespoke:\n\"O King of Gods and Men! whose awful hand\nDisperses thunder on the seas and land,\nDisposing all with absolute command;\nHow could my pious son thy pow'r incense?\nOr what, alas! is vanish'd Troy's offense?\nOur hope of Italy not only lost,\nOn various seas by various tempests toss'd,\nBut shut from ev'ry shore, and barr'd from ev'ry coast.\nYou promis'd once, a progeny divine\nOf Romans, rising from the Trojan line,\nIn after times should hold the world in awe,\nAnd to the land and ocean give the law.\nHow is your doom revers'd, which eas'd my care\nWhen Troy was ruin'd in that cruel war?\nThen fates to fates I could oppose; but now,\nWhen Fortune still pursues her former blow,\nWhat can I hope? What worse can still succeed?\nWhat end of labors has your will decreed?\nAntenor, from the midst of Grecian hosts,\nCould pass secure, and pierce th' Illyrian coasts,\nWhere, rolling down the steep, Timavus raves\nAnd thro' nine channels disembogues his waves.\nAt length he founded Padua's happy seat,\nAnd gave his Trojans a secure retreat;\nThere fix'd their arms, and there renew'd their name,\nAnd there in quiet rules, and crown'd with fame.\nBut we, descended from your sacred line,\nEntitled to your heav'n and rites divine,\nAre banish'd earth; and, for the wrath of one,\nRemov'd from Latium and the promis'd throne.\nAre these our scepters? these our due rewards?\nAnd is it thus that Jove his plighted faith regards?\"\nTo whom the Father of th' immortal race,\nSmiling with that serene indulgent face,\nWith which he drives the clouds and clears the skies,\nFirst gave a holy kiss; then thus replies:\n\"Daughter, dismiss thy fears; to thy desire\nThe fates of thine are fix'd, and stand entire.\nThou shalt behold thy wish'd Lavinian walls;\nAnd, ripe for heav'n, when fate Aeneas calls,\nThen shalt thou bear him up, sublime, to me:\nNo councils have revers'd my firm decree.\nAnd, lest new fears disturb thy happy state,\nKnow, I have search'd the mystic rolls of Fate:\nThy son (nor is th' appointed season far)\nIn Italy shall wage successful war,\nShall tame fierce nations in the bloody field,\nAnd sov'reign laws impose, and cities build,\nTill, after ev'ry foe subdued, the sun\nThrice thro' the signs his annual race shall run:\nThis is his time prefix'd. Ascanius then,\nNow call'd Iulus, shall begin his reign.\nHe thirty rolling years the crown shall wear,\nThen from Lavinium shall the seat transfer,\nAnd, with hard labor, Alba Longa build.\nThe throne with his succession shall be fill'd\nThree hundred circuits more: then shall be seen\nIlia the fair, a priestess and a queen,\nWho, full of Mars, in time, with kindly throes,\nShall at a birth two goodly boys disclose.\nThe royal babes a tawny wolf shall drain:\nThen Romulus his grandsire's throne shall gain,\nOf martial tow'rs the founder shall become,\nThe people Romans call, the city Rome.\nTo them no bounds of empire I assign,\nNor term of years to their immortal line.\nEv'n haughty Juno, who, with endless broils,\nEarth, seas, and heav'n, and Jove himself turmoils;\nAt length aton'd, her friendly pow'r shall join,\nTo cherish and advance the Trojan line.\nThe subject world shall Rome's dominion own,\nAnd, prostrate, shall adore the nation of the gown.\nAn age is ripening in revolving fate\nWhen Troy shall overturn the Grecian state,\nAnd sweet revenge her conqu'ring sons shall call,\nTo crush the people that conspir'd her fall.\nThen Caesar from the Julian stock shall rise,\nWhose empire ocean, and whose fame the skies\nAlone shall bound; whom, fraught with eastern spoils,\nOur heav'n, the just reward of human toils,\nSecurely shall repay with rites divine;\nAnd incense shall ascend before his sacred shrine.\nThen dire debate and impious war shall cease,\nAnd the stern age be soften'd into peace:\nThen banish'd Faith shall once again return,\nAnd Vestal fires in hallow'd temples burn;\nAnd Remus with Quirinus shall sustain\nThe righteous laws, and fraud and force restrain.\nJanus himself before his fane shall wait,\nAnd keep the dreadful issues of his gate,\nWith bolts and iron bars: within remains\nImprison'd Fury, bound in brazen chains;\nHigh on a trophy rais'd, of useless arms,\nHe sits, and threats the world with vain alarms.\"\nHe said, and sent Cyllenius with command\nTo free the ports, and ope the Punic land\nTo Trojan guests; lest, ignorant of fate,\nThe queen might force them from her town and state.\nDown from the steep of heav'n Cyllenius flies,\nAnd cleaves with all his wings the yielding skies.\nSoon on the Libyan shore descends the god,\nPerforms his message, and displays his rod:\nThe surly murmurs of the people cease;\nAnd, as the fates requir'd, they give the peace:\nThe queen herself suspends the rigid laws,\nThe Trojans pities, and protects their cause.\nMeantime, in shades of night Aeneas lies:\nCare seiz'd his soul, and sleep forsook his eyes.\nBut, when the sun restor'd the cheerful day,\nHe rose, the coast and country to survey,\nAnxious and eager to discover more.\nIt look'd a wild uncultivated shore;\nBut, whether humankind, or beasts alone\nPossess'd the new-found region, was unknown.\nBeneath a ledge of rocks his fleet he hides:\nTall trees surround the mountain's shady sides;\nThe bending brow above a safe retreat provides.\nArm'd with two pointed darts, he leaves his friends,\nAnd true Achates on his steps attends.\nLo! in the deep recesses of the wood,\nBefore his eyes his goddess mother stood:\nA huntress in her habit and her mien;\nHer dress a maid, her air confess'd a queen.\nBare were her knees, and knots her garments bind;\nLoose was her hair, and wanton'd in the wind;\nHer hand sustain'd a bow; her quiver hung behind.\nShe seem'd a virgin of the Spartan blood:\nWith such array Harpalyce bestrode\nHer Thracian courser and outstripp'd the rapid flood.\n\"Ho, strangers! have you lately seen,\" she said,\n\"One of my sisters, like myself array'd,\nWho cross'd the lawn, or in the forest stray'd?\nA painted quiver at her back she bore;\nVaried with spots, a lynx's hide she wore;\nAnd at full cry pursued the tusky boar.\"\nThus Venus: thus her son replied again:\n\"None of your sisters have we heard or seen,\nO virgin! or what other name you bear\nAbove that style- O more than mortal fair!\nYour voice and mien celestial birth betray!\nIf, as you seem, the sister of the day,\nOr one at least of chaste Diana's train,\nLet not an humble suppliant sue in vain;\nBut tell a stranger, long in tempests toss'd,\nWhat earth we tread, and who commands the coast?\nThen on your name shall wretched mortals call,\nAnd offer'd victims at your altars fall.\"\n\"I dare not,\" she replied, \"assume the name\nOf goddess, or celestial honors claim:\nFor Tyrian virgins bows and quivers bear,\nAnd purple buskins o'er their ankles wear.\nKnow, gentle youth, in Libyan lands you are-\nA people rude in peace, and rough in war.\nThe rising city, which from far you see,\nIs Carthage, and a Tyrian colony.\nPhoenician Dido rules the growing state,\nWho fled from Tyre, to shun her brother's hate.\nGreat were her wrongs, her story full of fate;\nWhich I will sum in short. Sichaeus, known\nFor wealth, and brother to the Punic throne,\nPossess'd fair Dido's bed; and either heart\nAt once was wounded with an equal dart.\nHer father gave her, yet a spotless maid;\nPygmalion then the Tyrian scepter sway'd:\nOne who condemn'd divine and human laws.\nThen strife ensued, and cursed gold the cause.\nThe monarch, blinded with desire of wealth,\nWith steel invades his brother's life by stealth;\nBefore the sacred altar made him bleed,\nAnd long from her conceal'd the cruel deed.\nSome tale, some new pretense, he daily coin'd,\nTo soothe his sister, and delude her mind.\nAt length, in dead of night, the ghost appears\nOf her unhappy lord: the specter stares,\nAnd, with erected eyes, his bloody bosom bares.\nThe cruel altars and his fate he tells,\nAnd the dire secret of his house reveals,\nThen warns the widow, with her household gods,\nTo seek a refuge in remote abodes.\nLast, to support her in so long a way,\nHe shows her where his hidden treasure lay.\nAdmonish'd thus, and seiz'd with mortal fright,\nThe queen provides companions of her flight:\nThey meet, and all combine to leave the state,\nWho hate the tyrant, or who fear his hate.\nThey seize a fleet, which ready rigg'd they find;\nNor is Pygmalion's treasure left behind.\nThe vessels, heavy laden, put to sea\nWith prosp'rous winds; a woman leads the way.\nI know not, if by stress of weather driv'n,\nOr was their fatal course dispos'd by Heav'n;\nAt last they landed, where from far your eyes\nMay view the turrets of new Carthage rise;\nThere bought a space of ground, which (Byrsa call'd,\nFrom the bull's hide) they first inclos'd, and wall'd.\nBut whence are you? what country claims your birth?\nWhat seek you, strangers, on our Libyan earth?\"\nTo whom, with sorrow streaming from his eyes,\nAnd deeply sighing, thus her son replies:\n\"Could you with patience hear, or I relate,\nO nymph, the tedious annals of our fate!\nThro' such a train of woes if I should run,\nThe day would sooner than the tale be done!\nFrom ancient Troy, by force expell'd, we came-\nIf you by chance have heard the Trojan name.\nOn various seas by various tempests toss'd,\nAt length we landed on your Libyan coast.\nThe good Aeneas am I call'd- a name,\nWhile Fortune favor'd, not unknown to fame.\nMy household gods, companions of my woes,\nWith pious care I rescued from our foes.\nTo fruitful Italy my course was bent;\nAnd from the King of Heav'n is my descent.\nWith twice ten sail I cross'd the Phrygian sea;\nFate and my mother goddess led my way.\nScarce sev'n, the thin remainders of my fleet,\nFrom storms preserv'd, within your harbor meet.\nMyself distress'd, an exile, and unknown,\nDebarr'd from Europe, and from Asia thrown,\nIn Libyan desarts wander thus alone.\"\nHis tender parent could no longer bear;\nBut, interposing, sought to soothe his care.\n\"Whoe'er you are- not unbelov'd by Heav'n,\nSince on our friendly shore your ships are driv'n-\nHave courage: to the gods permit the rest,\nAnd to the queen expose your just request.\nNow take this earnest of success, for more:\nYour scatter'd fleet is join'd upon the shore;\nThe winds are chang'd, your friends from danger free;\nOr I renounce my skill in augury.\nTwelve swans behold in beauteous order move,\nAnd stoop with closing pinions from above;\nWhom late the bird of Jove had driv'n along,\nAnd thro' the clouds pursued the scatt'ring throng:\nNow, all united in a goodly team,\nThey skim the ground, and seek the quiet stream.\nAs they, with joy returning, clap their wings,\nAnd ride the circuit of the skies in rings;\nNot otherwise your ships, and ev'ry friend,\nAlready hold the port, or with swift sails descend.\nNo more advice is needful; but pursue\nThe path before you, and the town in view.\"\nThus having said, she turn'd, and made appear\nHer neck refulgent, and dishevel'd hair,\nWhich, flowing from her shoulders, reach'd the ground.\nAnd widely spread ambrosial scents around:\nIn length of train descends her sweeping gown;\nAnd, by her graceful walk, the Queen of Love is known.\nThe prince pursued the parting deity\nWith words like these: \"Ah! whither do you fly?\nUnkind and cruel! to deceive your son\nIn borrow'd shapes, and his embrace to shun;\nNever to bless my sight, but thus unknown;\nAnd still to speak in accents not your own.\"\nAgainst the goddess these complaints he made,\nBut took the path, and her commands obey'd.\nThey march, obscure; for Venus kindly shrouds\nWith mists their persons, and involves in clouds,\nThat, thus unseen, their passage none might stay,\nOr force to tell the causes of their way.\nThis part perform'd, the goddess flies sublime\nTo visit Paphos and her native clime;\nWhere garlands, ever green and ever fair,\nWith vows are offer'd, and with solemn pray'r:\nA hundred altars in her temple smoke;\nA thousand bleeding hearts her pow'r invoke.\nThey climb the next ascent, and, looking down,\nNow at a nearer distance view the town.\nThe prince with wonder sees the stately tow'rs,\nWhich late were huts and shepherds' homely bow'rs,\nThe gates and streets; and hears, from ev'ry part,\nThe noise and busy concourse of the mart.\nThe toiling Tyrians on each other call\nTo ply their labor: some extend the wall;\nSome build the citadel; the brawny throng\nOr dig, or push unwieldly stones along.\nSome for their dwellings choose a spot of ground,\nWhich, first design'd, with ditches they surround.\nSome laws ordain; and some attend the choice\nOf holy senates, and elect by voice.\nHere some design a mole, while others there\nLay deep foundations for a theater;\nFrom marble quarries mighty columns hew,\nFor ornaments of scenes, and future view.\nSuch is their toil, and such their busy pains,\nAs exercise the bees in flow'ry plains,\nWhen winter past, and summer scarce begun,\nInvites them forth to labor in the sun;\nSome lead their youth abroad, while some condense\nTheir liquid store, and some in cells dispense;\nSome at the gate stand ready to receive\nThe golden burthen, and their friends relieve;\nAll with united force, combine to drive\nThe lazy drones from the laborious hive:\nWith envy stung, they view each other's deeds;\nThe fragrant work with diligence proceeds.\n\"Thrice happy you, whose walls already rise!\"\nAeneas said, and view'd, with lifted eyes,\nTheir lofty tow'rs; then, entiring at the gate,\nConceal'd in clouds (prodigious to relate)\nHe mix'd, unmark'd, among the busy throng,\nBorne by the tide, and pass'd unseen along.\nFull in the center of the town there stood,\nThick set with trees, a venerable wood.\nThe Tyrians, landing near this holy ground,\nAnd digging here, a prosp'rous omen found:\nFrom under earth a courser's head they drew,\nTheir growth and future fortune to foreshew.\nThis fated sign their foundress Juno gave,\nOf a soil fruitful, and a people brave.\nSidonian Dido here with solemn state\nDid Juno's temple build, and consecrate,\nEnrich'd with gifts, and with a golden shrine;\nBut more the goddess made the place divine.\nOn brazen steps the marble threshold rose,\nAnd brazen plates the cedar beams inclose:\nThe rafters are with brazen cov'rings crown'd;\nThe lofty doors on brazen hinges sound.\nWhat first Aeneas this place beheld,\nReviv'd his courage, and his fear expell'd.\nFor while, expecting there the queen, he rais'd\nHis wond'ring eyes, and round the temple gaz'd,\nAdmir'd the fortune of the rising town,\nThe striving artists, and their arts' renown;\nHe saw, in order painted on the wall,\nWhatever did unhappy Troy befall:\nThe wars that fame around the world had blown,\nAll to the life, and ev'ry leader known.\nThere Agamemnon, Priam here, he spies,\nAnd fierce Achilles, who both kings defies.\nHe stopp'd, and weeping said: \"O friend! ev'n here\nThe monuments of Trojan woes appear!\nOur known disasters fill ev'n foreign lands:\nSee there, where old unhappy Priam stands!\nEv'n the mute walls relate the warrior's fame,\nAnd Trojan griefs the Tyrians' pity claim.\"\nHe said (his tears a ready passage find),\nDevouring what he saw so well design'd,\nAnd with an empty picture fed his mind:\nFor there he saw the fainting Grecians yield,\nAnd here the trembling Trojans quit the field,\nPursued by fierce Achilles thro' the plain,\nOn his high chariot driving o'er the slain.\nThe tents of Rhesus next his grief renew,\nBy their white sails betray'd to nightly view;\nAnd wakeful Diomede, whose cruel sword\nThe sentries slew, nor spar'd their slumb'ring lord,\nThen took the fiery steeds, ere yet the food\nOf Troy they taste, or drink the Xanthian flood.\nElsewhere he saw where Troilus defied\nAchilles, and unequal combat tried;\nThen, where the boy disarm'd, with loosen'd reins,\nWas by his horses hurried o'er the plains,\nHung by the neck and hair, and dragg'd around:\nThe hostile spear, yet sticking in his wound,\nWith tracks of blood inscrib'd the dusty ground.\nMeantime the Trojan dames, oppress'd with woe,\nTo Pallas' fane in long procession go,\nIn hopes to reconcile their heav'nly foe.\nThey weep, they beat their breasts, they rend their hair,\nAnd rich embroider'd vests for presents bear;\nBut the stern goddess stands unmov'd with pray'r.\nThrice round the Trojan walls Achilles drew\nThe corpse of Hector, whom in fight he slew.\nHere Priam sues; and there, for sums of gold,\nThe lifeless body of his son is sold.\nSo sad an object, and so well express'd,\nDrew sighs and groans from the griev'd hero's breast,\nTo see the figure of his lifeless friend,\nAnd his old sire his helpless hand extend.\nHimself he saw amidst the Grecian train,\nMix'd in the bloody battle on the plain;\nAnd swarthy Memnon in his arms he knew,\nHis pompous ensigns, and his Indian crew.\nPenthisilea there, with haughty grace,\nLeads to the wars an Amazonian race:\nIn their right hands a pointed dart they wield;\nThe left, for ward, sustains the lunar shield.\nAthwart her breast a golden belt she throws,\nAmidst the press alone provokes a thousand foes,\nAnd dares her maiden arms to manly force oppose.\nThus while the Trojan prince employs his eyes,\nFix'd on the walls with wonder and surprise,\nThe beauteous Dido, with a num'rous train\nAnd pomp of guards, ascends the sacred fane.\nSuch on Eurotas' banks, or Cynthus' height,\nDiana seems; and so she charms the sight,\nWhen in the dance the graceful goddess leads\nThe choir of nymphs, and overtops their heads:\nKnown by her quiver, and her lofty mien,\nShe walks majestic, and she looks their queen;\nLatona sees her shine above the rest,\nAnd feeds with secret joy her silent breast.\nSuch Dido was; with such becoming state,\nAmidst the crowd, she walks serenely great.\nTheir labor to her future sway she speeds,\nAnd passing with a gracious glance proceeds;\nThen mounts the throne, high plac'd before the shrine:\nIn crowds around, the swarming people join.\nShe takes petitions, and dispenses laws,\nHears and determines ev'ry private cause;\nTheir tasks in equal portions she divides,\nAnd, where unequal, there by lots decides.\nAnother way by chance Aeneas bends\nHis eyes, and unexpected sees his friends,\nAntheus, Sergestus grave, Cloanthus strong,\nAnd at their backs a mighty Trojan throng,\nWhom late the tempest on the billows toss'd,\nAnd widely scatter'd on another coast.\nThe prince, unseen, surpris'd with wonder stands,\nAnd longs, with joyful haste, to join their hands;\nBut, doubtful of the wish'd event, he stays,\nAnd from the hollow cloud his friends surveys,\nImpatient till they told their present state,\nAnd where they left their ships, and what their fate,\nAnd why they came, and what was their request;\nFor these were sent, commission'd by the rest,\nTo sue for leave to land their sickly men,\nAnd gain admission to the gracious queen.\nEnt'ring, with cries they fill'd the holy fane;\nThen thus, with lowly voice, Ilioneus began:\n\"O queen! indulg'd by favor of the gods\nTo found an empire in these new abodes,\nTo build a town, with statutes to restrain\nThe wild inhabitants beneath thy reign,\nWe wretched Trojans, toss'd on ev'ry shore,\nFrom sea to sea, thy clemency implore.\nForbid the fires our shipping to deface!\nReceive th' unhappy fugitives to grace,\nAnd spare the remnant of a pious race!\nWe come not with design of wasteful prey,\nTo drive the country, force the swains away:\nNor such our strength, nor such is our desire;\nThe vanquish'd dare not to such thoughts aspire.\nA land there is, Hesperia nam'd of old;\nThe soil is fruitful, and the men are bold-\nTh' Oenotrians held it once- by common fame\nNow call'd Italia, from the leader's name.\nTo that sweet region was our voyage bent,\nWhen winds and ev'ry warring element\nDisturb'd our course, and, far from sight of land,\nCast our torn vessels on the moving sand:\nThe sea came on; the South, with mighty roar,\nDispers'd and dash'd the rest upon the rocky shore.\nThose few you see escap'd the Storm, and fear,\nUnless you interpose, a shipwreck here.\nWhat men, what monsters, what inhuman race,\nWhat laws, what barb'rous customs of the place,\nShut up a desart shore to drowning men,\nAnd drive us to the cruel seas again?\nIf our hard fortune no compassion draws,\nNor hospitable rights, nor human laws,\nThe gods are just, and will revenge our cause.\nAeneas was our prince: a juster lord,\nOr nobler warrior, never drew a sword;\nObservant of the right, religious of his word.\nIf yet he lives, and draws this vital air,\nNor we, his friends, of safety shall despair;\nNor you, great queen, these offices repent,\nWhich he will equal, and perhaps augment.\nWe want not cities, nor Sicilian coasts,\nWhere King Acestes Trojan lineage boasts.\nPermit our ships a shelter on your shores,\nRefitted from your woods with planks and oars,\nThat, if our prince be safe, we may renew\nOur destin'd course, and Italy pursue.\nBut if, O best of men, the Fates ordain\nThat thou art swallow'd in the Libyan main,\nAnd if our young Iulus be no more,\nDismiss our navy from your friendly shore,\nThat we to good Acestes may return,\nAnd with our friends our common losses mourn.\"\nThus spoke Ilioneus: the Trojan crew\nWith cries and clamors his request renew.\nThe modest queen a while, with downcast eyes,\nPonder'd the speech; then briefly thus replies:\n\"Trojans, dismiss your fears; my cruel fate,\nAnd doubts attending an unsettled state,\nForce me to guard my coast from foreign foes.\nWho has not heard the story of your woes,\nThe name and fortune of your native place,\nThe fame and valor of the Phrygian race?\nWe Tyrians are not so devoid of sense,\nNor so remote from Phoebus' influence.\nWhether to Latian shores your course is bent,\nOr, driv'n by tempests from your first intent,\nYou seek the good Acestes' government,\nYour men shall be receiv'd, your fleet repair'd,\nAnd sail, with ships of convoy for your guard:\nOr, would you stay, and join your friendly pow'rs\nTo raise and to defend the Tyrian tow'rs,\nMy wealth, my city, and myself are yours.\nAnd would to Heav'n, the Storm, you felt, would bring\nOn Carthaginian coasts your wand'ring king.\nMy people shall, by my command, explore\nThe ports and creeks of ev'ry winding shore,\nAnd towns, and wilds, and shady woods, in quest\nOf so renown'd and so desir'd a guest.\"\nRais'd in his mind the Trojan hero stood,\nAnd long'd to break from out his ambient cloud:\nAchates found it, and thus urg'd his way:\n\"From whence, O goddess-born, this long delay?\nWhat more can you desire, your welcome sure,\nYour fleet in safety, and your friends secure?\nOne only wants; and him we saw in vain\nOppose the Storm, and swallow'd in the main.\nOrontes in his fate our forfeit paid;\nThe rest agrees with what your mother said.\"\nScarce had he spoken, when the cloud gave way,\nThe mists flew upward and dissolv'd in day.\nThe Trojan chief appear'd in open sight,\nAugust in visage, and serenely bright.\nHis mother goddess, with her hands divine,\nHad form'd his curling locks, and made his temples shine,\nAnd giv'n his rolling eyes a sparkling grace,\nAnd breath'd a youthful vigor on his face;\nLike polish'd ivory, beauteous to behold,\nOr Parian marble, when enchas'd in gold:\nThus radiant from the circling cloud he broke,\nAnd thus with manly modesty he spoke:\n\"He whom you seek am I; by tempests toss'd,\nAnd sav'd from shipwreck on your Libyan coast;\nPresenting, gracious queen, before your throne,\nA prince that owes his life to you alone.\nFair majesty, the refuge and redress\nOf those whom fate pursues, and wants oppress,\nYou, who your pious offices employ\nTo save the relics of abandon'd Troy;\nReceive the shipwreck'd on your friendly shore,\nWith hospitable rites relieve the poor;\nAssociate in your town a wand'ring train,\nAnd strangers in your palace entertain:\nWhat thanks can wretched fugitives return,\nWho, scatter'd thro' the world, in exile mourn?\nThe gods, if gods to goodness are inclin'd;\nIf acts of mercy touch their heav'nly mind,\nAnd, more than all the gods, your gen'rous heart.\nConscious of worth, requite its own desert!\nIn you this age is happy, and this earth,\nAnd parents more than mortal gave you birth.\nWhile rolling rivers into seas shall run,\nAnd round the space of heav'n the radiant sun;\nWhile trees the mountain tops with shades supply,\nYour honor, name, and praise shall never die.\nWhate'er abode my fortune has assign'd,\nYour image shall be present in my mind.\"\nThus having said, he turn'd with pious haste,\nAnd joyful his expecting friends embrac'd:\nWith his right hand Ilioneus was grac'd,\nSerestus with his left; then to his breast\nCloanthus and the noble Gyas press'd;\nAnd so by turns descended to the rest.\nThe Tyrian queen stood fix'd upon his face,\nPleas'd with his motions, ravish'd with his grace;\nAdmir'd his fortunes, more admir'd the man;\nThen recollected stood, and thus began:\n\"What fate, O goddess-born; what angry pow'rs\nHave cast you shipwrack'd on our barren shores?\nAre you the great Aeneas, known to fame,\nWho from celestial seed your lineage claim?\nThe same Aeneas whom fair Venus bore\nTo fam'd Anchises on th' Idaean shore?\nIt calls into my mind, tho' then a child,\nWhen Teucer came, from Salamis exil'd,\nAnd sought my father's aid, to be restor'd:\nMy father Belus then with fire and sword\nInvaded Cyprus, made the region bare,\nAnd, conqu'ring, finish'd the successful war.\nFrom him the Trojan siege I understood,\nThe Grecian chiefs, and your illustrious blood.\nYour foe himself the Dardan valor prais'd,\nAnd his own ancestry from Trojans rais'd.\nEnter, my noble guest, and you shall find,\nIf not a costly welcome, yet a kind:\nFor I myself, like you, have been distress'd,\nTill Heav'n afforded me this place of rest;\nLike you, an alien in a land unknown,\nI learn to pity woes so like my own.\"\nShe said, and to the palace led her guest;\nThen offer'd incense, and proclaim'd a feast.\nNor yet less careful for her absent friends,\nTwice ten fat oxen to the ships she sends;\nBesides a hundred boars, a hundred lambs,\nWith bleating cries, attend their milky dams;\nAnd jars of gen'rous wine and spacious bowls\nShe gives, to cheer the sailors' drooping souls.\nNow purple hangings clothe the palace walls,\nAnd sumptuous feasts are made in splendid halls:\nOn Tyrian carpets, richly wrought, they dine;\nWith loads of massy plate the sideboards shine,\nAnd antique vases, all of gold emboss'd\n(The gold itself inferior to the cost),\nOf curious work, where on the sides were seen\nThe fights and figures of illustrious men,\nFrom their first founder to the present queen.\nThe good Aeneas, paternal care\nIulus' absence could no longer bear,\nDispatch'd Achates to the ships in haste,\nTo give a glad relation of the past,\nAnd, fraught with precious gifts, to bring the boy,\nSnatch'd from the ruins of unhappy Troy:\nA robe of tissue, stiff with golden wire;\nAn upper vest, once Helen's rich attire,\nFrom Argos by the fam'd adultress brought,\nWith golden flow'rs and winding foliage wrought,\nHer mother Leda's present, when she came\nTo ruin Troy and set the world on flame;\nThe scepter Priam's eldest daughter bore,\nHer orient necklace, and the crown she wore\nOf double texture, glorious to behold,\nOne order set with gems, and one with gold.\nInstructed thus, the wise Achates goes,\nAnd in his diligence his duty shows.\nBut Venus, anxious for her son's affairs,\nNew counsels tries, and new designs prepares:\nThat Cupid should assume the shape and face\nOf sweet Ascanius, and the sprightly grace;\nShould bring the presents, in her nephew's stead,\nAnd in Eliza's veins the gentle poison shed:\nFor much she fear'd the Tyrians, double-tongued,\nAnd knew the town to Juno's care belong'd.\nThese thoughts by night her golden slumbers broke,\nAnd thus alarm'd, to winged Love she spoke:\n\"My son, my strength, whose mighty pow'r alone\nControls the Thund'rer on his awful throne,\nTo thee thy much-afflicted mother flies,\nAnd on thy succor and thy faith relies.\nThou know'st, my son, how Jove's revengeful wife,\nBy force and fraud, attempts thy brother's life;\nAnd often hast thou mourn'd with me his pains.\nHim Dido now with blandishment detains;\nBut I suspect the town where Juno reigns.\nFor this 't is needful to prevent her art,\nAnd fire with love the proud Phoenician's heart:\nA love so violent, so strong, so sure,\nAs neither age can change, nor art can cure.\nHow this may be perform'd, now take my mind:\nAscanius by his father is design'd\nTo come, with presents laden, from the port,\nTo gratify the queen, and gain the court.\nI mean to plunge the boy in pleasing sleep,\nAnd, ravish'd, in Idalian bow'rs to keep,\nOr high Cythera, that the sweet deceit\nMay pass unseen, and none prevent the cheat.\nTake thou his form and shape. I beg the grace\nBut only for a night's revolving space:\nThyself a boy, assume a boy's dissembled face;\nThat when, amidst the fervor of the feast,\nThe Tyrian hugs and fonds thee on her breast,\nAnd with sweet kisses in her arms constrains,\nThou may'st infuse thy venom in her veins.\"\nThe God of Love obeys, and sets aside\nHis bow and quiver, and his plumy pride;\nHe walks Iulus in his mother's sight,\nAnd in the sweet resemblance takes delight.\nThe goddess then to young Ascanius flies,\nAnd in a pleasing slumber seals his eyes:\nLull'd in her lap, amidst a train of Loves,\nShe gently bears him to her blissful groves,\nThen with a wreath of myrtle crowns his head,\nAnd softly lays him on a flow'ry bed.\nCupid meantime assum'd his form and face,\nFoll'wing Achates with a shorter pace,\nAnd brought the gifts. The queen already sate\nAmidst the Trojan lords, in shining state,\nHigh on a golden bed: her princely guest\nWas next her side; in order sate the rest.\nThen canisters with bread are heap'd on high;\nTh' attendants water for their hands supply,\nAnd, having wash'd, with silken towels dry.\nNext fifty handmaids in long order bore\nThe censers, and with fumes the gods adore:\nThen youths, and virgins twice as many, join\nTo place the dishes, and to serve the wine.\nThe Tyrian train, admitted to the feast,\nApproach, and on the painted couches rest.\nAll on the Trojan gifts with wonder gaze,\nBut view the beauteous boy with more amaze,\nHis rosy-color'd cheeks, his radiant eyes,\nHis motions, voice, and shape, and all the god's disguise;\nNor pass unprais'd the vest and veil divine,\nWhich wand'ring foliage and rich flow'rs entwine.\nBut, far above the rest, the royal dame,\n(Already doom'd to love's disastrous flame,)\nWith eyes insatiate, and tumultuous joy,\nBeholds the presents, and admires the boy.\nThe guileful god about the hero long,\nWith children's play, and false embraces, hung;\nThen sought the queen: she took him to her arms\nWith greedy pleasure, and devour'd his charms.\nUnhappy Dido little thought what guest,\nHow dire a god, she drew so near her breast;\nBut he, not mindless of his mother's pray'r,\nWorks in the pliant bosom of the fair,\nAnd molds her heart anew, and blots her former care.\nThe dead is to the living love resign'd;\nAnd all Aeneas enters in her mind.\nNow, when the rage of hunger was appeas'd,\nThe meat remov'd, and ev'ry guest was pleas'd,\nThe golden bowls with sparkling wine are crown'd,\nAnd thro' the palace cheerful cries resound.\nFrom gilded roofs depending lamps display\nNocturnal beams, that emulate the day.\nA golden bowl, that shone with gems divine,\nThe queen commanded to be crown'd with wine:\nThe bowl that Belus us'd, and all the Tyrian line.\nThen, silence thro' the hall proclaim'd, she spoke:\n\"O hospitable Jove! we thus invoke,\nWith solemn rites, thy sacred name and pow'r;\nBless to both nations this auspicious hour!\nSo may the Trojan and the Tyrian line\nIn lasting concord from this day combine.\nThou, Bacchus, god of joys and friendly cheer,\nAnd gracious Juno, both be present here!\nAnd you, my lords of Tyre, your vows address\nTo Heav'n with mine, to ratify the peace.\"\nThe goblet then she took, with nectar crown'd\n(Sprinkling the first libations on the ground,)\nAnd rais'd it to her mouth with sober grace;\nThen, sipping, offer'd to the next in place.\n'T was Bitias whom she call'd, a thirsty soul;\nHe took challenge, and embrac'd the bowl,\nWith pleasure swill'd the gold, nor ceas'd to draw,\nTill he the bottom of the brimmer saw.\nThe goblet goes around: Iopas brought\nHis golden lyre, and sung what ancient Atlas taught:\nThe various labors of the wand'ring moon,\nAnd whence proceed th' eclipses of the sun;\nTh' original of men and beasts; and whence\nThe rains arise, and fires their warmth dispense,\nAnd fix'd and erring stars dispose their influence;\nWhat shakes the solid earth; what cause delays\nThe summer nights and shortens winter days.\nWith peals of shouts the Tyrians praise the song:\nThose peals are echo'd by the Trojan throng.\nTh' unhappy queen with talk prolong'd the night,\nAnd drank large draughts of love with vast delight;\nOf Priam much enquir'd, of Hector more;\nThen ask'd what arms the swarthy Memnon wore,\nWhat troops he landed on the Trojan shore;\nThe steeds of Diomede varied the discourse,\nAnd fierce Achilles, with his matchless force;\nAt length, as fate and her ill stars requir'd,\nTo hear the series of the war desir'd.\n\"Relate at large, my godlike guest,\" she said,\n\"The Grecian stratagems, the town betray'd:\nThe fatal issue of so long a war,\nYour flight, your wand'rings, and your woes, declare;\nFor, since on ev'ry sea, on ev'ry coast,\nYour men have been distress'd, your navy toss'd,\nSev'n times the sun has either tropic view'd,\nThe winter banish'd, and the spring renew'd.\"\nBOOK II\nAll were attentive to the godlike man,\nWhen from his lofty couch he thus began:\n\"Great queen, what you command me to relate\nRenews the sad remembrance of our fate:\nAn empire from its old foundations rent,\nAnd ev'ry woe the Trojans underwent;\nA peopled city made a desart place;\nAll that I saw, and part of which I was:\nNot ev'n the hardest of our foes could hear,\nNor stern Ulysses tell without a tear.\nAnd now the latter watch of wasting night,\nAnd setting stars, to kindly rest invite;\nBut, since you take such int'rest in our woe,\nAnd Troy's disastrous end desire to know,\nI will restrain my tears, and briefly tell\nWhat in our last and fatal night befell.\n\"By destiny compell'd, and in despair,\nThe Greeks grew weary of the tedious war,\nAnd by Minerva's aid a fabric rear'd,\nWhich like a steed of monstrous height appear'd:\nThe sides were plank'd with pine; they feign'd it made\nFor their return, and this the vow they paid.\nThus they pretend, but in the hollow side\nSelected numbers of their soldiers hide:\nWith inward arms the dire machine they load,\nAnd iron bowels stuff the dark abode.\nIn sight of Troy lies Tenedos, an isle\n(While Fortune did on Priam's empire smile)\nRenown'd for wealth; but, since, a faithless bay,\nWhere ships expos'd to wind and weather lay.\nThere was their fleet conceal'd. We thought, for Greece\nTheir sails were hoisted, and our fears release.\nThe Trojans, coop'd within their walls so long,\nUnbar their gates, and issue in a throng,\nLike swarming bees, and with delight survey\nThe camp deserted, where the Grecians lay:\nThe quarters of the sev'ral chiefs they show'd;\nHere Phoenix, here Achilles, made abode;\nHere join'd the battles; there the navy rode.\nPart on the pile their wond'ring eyes employ:\nThe pile by Pallas rais'd to ruin Troy.\nThymoetes first ('t is doubtful whether hir'd,\nOr so the Trojan destiny requir'd)\nMov'd that the ramparts might be broken down,\nTo lodge the monster fabric in the town.\nBut Capys, and the rest of sounder mind,\nThe fatal present to the flames designed,\nOr to the wat'ry deep; at least to bore\nThe hollow sides, and hidden frauds explore.\nThe giddy vulgar, as their fancies guide,\nWith noise say nothing, and in parts divide.\nLaocoon, follow'd by a num'rous crowd,\nRan from the fort, and cried, from far, aloud:\n'O wretched countrymen! what fury reigns?\nWhat more than madness has possess'd your brains?\nThink you the Grecians from your coasts are gone?\nAnd are Ulysses' arts no better known?\nThis hollow fabric either must inclose,\nWithin its blind recess, our secret foes;\nOr 't is an engine rais'd above the town,\nT' o'erlook the walls, and then to batter down.\nSomewhat is sure design'd, by fraud or force:\nTrust not their presents, nor admit the horse.'\nThus having said, against the steed he threw\nHis forceful spear, which, hissing as flew,\nPierc'd thro' the yielding planks of jointed wood,\nAnd trembling in the hollow belly stood.\nThe sides, transpierc'd, return a rattling sound,\nAnd groans of Greeks inclos'd come issuing thro' the wound\nAnd, had not Heav'n the fall of Troy design'd,\nOr had not men been fated to be blind,\nEnough was said and done t'inspire a better mind.\nThen had our lances pierc'd the treach'rous wood,\nAnd Ilian tow'rs and Priam's empire stood.\nMeantime, with shouts, the Trojan shepherds bring\nA captive Greek, in bands, before the king;\nTaken to take; who made himself their prey,\nT' impose on their belief, and Troy betray;\nFix'd on his aim, and obstinately bent\nTo die undaunted, or to circumvent.\nAbout the captive, tides of Trojans flow;\nAll press to see, and some insult the foe.\nNow hear how well the Greeks their wiles disguis'd;\nBehold a nation in a man compris'd.\nTrembling the miscreant stood, unarm'd and bound;\nHe star'd, and roll'd his haggard eyes around,\nThen said: 'Alas! what earth remains, what sea\nIs open to receive unhappy me?\nWhat fate a wretched fugitive attends,\nScorn'd by my foes, abandon'd by my friends?'\nHe said, and sigh'd, and cast a rueful eye:\nOur pity kindles, and our passions die.\nWe cheer youth to make his own defense,\nAnd freely tell us what he was, and whence:\nWhat news he could impart, we long to know,\nAnd what to credit from a captive foe.\n\"His fear at length dismiss'd, he said: 'Whate'er\nMy fate ordains, my words shall be sincere:\nI neither can nor dare my birth disclaim;\nGreece is my country, Sinon is my name.\nTho' plung'd by Fortune's pow'r in misery,\n'T is not in Fortune's pow'r to make me lie.\nIf any chance has hither brought the name\nOf Palamedes, not unknown to fame,\nWho suffer'd from the malice of the times,\nAccus'd and sentenc'd for pretended crimes,\nBecause these fatal wars he would prevent;\nWhose death the wretched Greeks too late lament-\nMe, then a boy, my father, poor and bare\nOf other means, committed to his care,\nHis kinsman and companion in the war.\nWhile Fortune favor'd, while his arms support\nThe cause, and rul'd the counsels, of the court,\nI made some figure there; nor was my name\nObscure, nor I without my share of fame.\nBut when Ulysses, with fallacious arts,\nHad made impression in the people's hearts,\nAnd forg'd a treason in my patron's name\n(I speak of things too far divulg'd by fame),\nMy kinsman fell. Then I, without support,\nIn private mourn'd his loss, and left the court.\nMad as I was, I could not bear his fate\nWith silent grief, but loudly blam'd the state,\nAnd curs'd the direful author of my woes.\n'T was told again; and hence my ruin rose.\nI threaten'd, if indulgent Heav'n once more\nWould land me safely on my native shore,\nHis death with double vengeance to restore.\nThis mov'd the murderer's hate; and soon ensued\nTh' effects of malice from a man so proud.\nAmbiguous rumors thro' the camp he spread,\nAnd sought, by treason, my devoted head;\nNew crimes invented; left unturn'd no stone,\nTo make my guilt appear, and hide his own;\nTill Calchas was by force and threat'ning wrought-\nBut why- why dwell I on that anxious thought?\nIf on my nation just revenge you seek,\nAnd 't is t' appear a foe, t' appear a Greek;\nAlready you my name and country know;\nAssuage your thirst of blood, and strike the blow:\nMy death will both the kingly brothers please,\nAnd set insatiate Ithacus at ease.'\nThis fair unfinish'd tale, these broken starts,\nRais'd expectations in our longing hearts:\nUnknowing as we were in Grecian arts.\nHis former trembling once again renew'd,\nWith acted fear, the villain thus pursued:\n\"'Long had the Grecians (tir'd with fruitless care,\nAnd wearied with an unsuccessful war)\nResolv'd to raise the siege, and leave the town;\nAnd, had the gods permitted, they had gone;\nBut oft the wintry seas and southern winds\nWithstood their passage home, and chang'd their minds.\nPortents and prodigies their souls amaz'd;\nBut most, when this stupendous pile was rais'd:\nThen flaming meteors, hung in air, were seen,\nAnd thunders rattled thro' a sky serene.\nDismay'd, and fearful of some dire event,\nEurypylus t' enquire their fate was sent.\nHe from the gods this dreadful answer brought:\n\"O Grecians, when the Trojan shores you sought,\nYour passage with a virgin's blood was bought:\nSo must your safe return be bought again,\nAnd Grecian blood once more atone the main.\"\nThe spreading rumor round the people ran;\nAll fear'd, and each believ'd himself the man.\nUlysses took th' advantage of their fright;\nCall'd Calchas, and produc'd in open sight:\nThen bade him name the wretch, ordain'd by fate\nThe public victim, to redeem the state.\nAlready some presag'd the dire event,\nAnd saw what sacrifice Ulysses meant.\nFor twice five days the good old seer withstood\nTh' intended treason, and was dumb to blood,\nTill, tir'd, with endless clamors and pursuit\nOf Ithacus, he stood no longer mute;\nBut, as it was agreed, pronounc'd that I\nWas destin'd by the wrathful gods to die.\nAll prais'd the sentence, pleas'd the storm should fall\nOn one alone, whose fury threaten'd all.\nThe dismal day was come; the priests prepare\nTheir leaven'd cakes, and fillets for my hair.\nI follow'd nature's laws, and must avow\nI broke my bonds and fled the fatal blow.\nHid in a weedy lake all night I lay,\nSecure of safety when they sail'd away.\nBut now what further hopes for me remain,\nTo see my friends, or native soil, again;\nMy tender infants, or my careful sire,\nWhom they returning will to death require;\nWill perpetrate on them their first design,\nAnd take the forfeit of their heads for mine?\nWhich, O! if pity mortal minds can move,\nIf there be faith below, or gods above,\nIf innocence and truth can claim desert,\nYe Trojans, from an injur'd wretch avert.'\n\"False tears true pity move; the king commands\nTo loose his fetters, and unbind his hands:\nThen adds these friendly words: 'Dismiss thy fears;\nForget the Greeks; be mine as thou wert theirs.\nBut truly tell, was it for force or guile,\nOr some religious end, you rais'd the pile?'\nThus said the king. He, full of fraudful arts,\nThis well-invented tale for truth imparts:\n'Ye lamps of heav'n!' he said, and lifted high\nHis hands now free, 'thou venerable sky!\nInviolable pow'rs, ador'd with dread!\nYe fatal fillets, that once bound this head!\nYe sacred altars, from whose flames I fled!\nBe all of you adjur'd; and grant I may,\nWithout a crime, th' ungrateful Greeks betray,\nReveal the secrets of the guilty state,\nAnd justly punish whom I justly hate!\nBut you, O king, preserve the faith you gave,\nIf I, to save myself, your empire save.\nThe Grecian hopes, and all th' attempts they made,\nWere only founded on Minerva's aid.\nBut from the time when impious Diomede,\nAnd false Ulysses, that inventive head,\nHer fatal image from the temple drew,\nThe sleeping guardians of the castle slew,\nHer virgin statue with their bloody hands\nPolluted, and profan'd her holy bands;\nFrom thence the tide of fortune left their shore,\nAnd ebb'd much faster than it flow'd before:\nTheir courage languish'd, as their hopes decay'd;\nAnd Pallas, now averse, refus'd her aid.\nNor did the goddess doubtfully declare\nHer alter'd mind and alienated care.\nWhen first her fatal image touch'd the ground,\nShe sternly cast her glaring eyes around,\nThat sparkled as they roll'd, and seem'd to threat:\nHer heav'nly limbs distill'd a briny sweat.\nThrice from the ground she leap'd, was seen to wield\nHer brandish'd lance, and shake her horrid shield.\nThen Calchas bade our host for flight\nAnd hope no conquest from the tedious war,\nTill first they sail'd for Greece; with pray'rs besought\nHer injur'd pow'r, and better omens brought.\nAnd now their navy plows the wat'ry main,\nYet soon expect it on your shores again,\nWith Pallas pleas'd; as Calchas did ordain.\nBut first, to reconcile the blue-ey'd maid\nFor her stol'n statue and her tow'r betray'd,\nWarn'd by the seer, to her offended name\nWe rais'd and dedicate this wondrous frame,\nSo lofty, lest thro' your forbidden gates\nIt pass, and intercept our better fates:\nFor, once admitted there, our hopes are lost;\nAnd Troy may then a new Palladium boast;\nFor so religion and the gods ordain,\nThat, if you violate with hands profane\nMinerva's gift, your town in flames shall burn,\n(Which omen, O ye gods, on Graecia turn!)\nBut if it climb, with your assisting hands,\nThe Trojan walls, and in the city stands;\nThen Troy shall Argos and Mycenae burn,\nAnd the reverse of fate on us return.'\n\"With such deceits he gain'd their easy hearts,\nToo prone to credit his perfidious arts.\nWhat Diomede, nor Thetis' greater son,\nA thousand ships, nor ten years' siege, had done-\nFalse tears and fawning words the city won.\n\"A greater omen, and of worse portent,\nDid our unwary minds with fear torment,\nConcurring to produce the dire event.\nLaocoon, Neptune's priest by lot that year,\nWith solemn pomp then sacrific'd a steer;\nWhen, dreadful to behold, from sea we spied\nTwo serpents, rank'd abreast, the seas divide,\nAnd smoothly sweep along the swelling tide.\nTheir flaming crests above the waves they show;\nTheir bellies seem to burn the seas below;\nTheir speckled tails advance to steer their course,\nAnd on the sounding shore the flying billows force.\nAnd now the strand, and now the plain they held;\nTheir ardent eyes with bloody streaks were fill'd;\nTheir nimble tongues they brandish'd as they came,\nAnd lick'd their hissing jaws, that sputter'd flame.\nWe fled amaz'd; their destin'd way they take,\nAnd to Laocoon and his children make;\nAnd first around the tender boys they wind,\nThen with their sharpen'd fangs their limbs and bodies grind.\nThe wretched father, running to their aid\nWith pious haste, but vain, they next invade;\nTwice round his waist their winding volumes roll'd;\nAnd twice about his gasping throat they fold.\nThe priest thus doubly chok'd, their crests divide,\nAnd tow'ring o'er his head in triumph ride.\nWith both his hands he labors at the knots;\nHis holy fillets the blue venom blots;\nHis roaring fills the flitting air around.\nThus, when an ox receives a glancing wound,\nHe breaks his bands, the fatal altar flies,\nAnd with loud bellowings breaks the yielding skies.\nTheir tasks perform'd, the serpents quit their prey,\nAnd to the tow'r of Pallas make their way:\nCouch'd at her feet, they lie protected there\nBy her large buckler and protended spear.\nAmazement seizes all; the gen'ral cry\nProclaims Laocoon justly doom'd to die,\nWhose hand the will of Pallas had withstood,\nAnd dared to violate the sacred wood.\nAll vote t' admit the steed, that vows be paid\nAnd incense offer'd to th' offended maid.\nA spacious breach is made; the town lies bare;\nSome hoisting-levers, some the wheels prepare\nAnd fasten to the horse's feet; the rest\nWith cables haul along th' unwieldly beast.\nEach on his fellow for assistance calls;\nAt length the fatal fabric mounts the walls,\nBig with destruction. Boys with chaplets crown'd,\nAnd choirs of virgins, sing and dance around.\nThus rais'd aloft, and then descending down,\nIt enters o'er our heads, and threats the town.\nO sacred city, built by hands divine!\nO valiant heroes of the Trojan line!\nFour times he struck: as oft the clashing sound\nOf arms was heard, and inward groans rebound.\nYet, mad with zeal, and blinded with our fate,\nWe haul along the horse in solemn state;\nThen place the dire portent within the tow'r.\nCassandra cried, and curs'd th' unhappy hour;\nForetold our fate; but, by the god's decree,\nAll heard, and none believ'd the prophecy.\nWith branches we the fanes adorn, and waste,\nIn jollity, the day ordain'd to be the last.\nMeantime the rapid heav'ns roll'd down the light,\nAnd on the shaded ocean rush'd the night;\nOur men, secure, nor guards nor sentries held,\nBut easy sleep their weary limbs compell'd.\nThe Grecians had embark'd their naval pow'rs\nFrom Tenedos, and sought our well-known shores,\nSafe under covert of the silent night,\nAnd guided by th' imperial galley's light;\nWhen Sinon, favor'd by the partial gods,\nUnlock'd the horse, and op'd his dark abodes;\nRestor'd to vital air our hidden foes,\nWho joyful from their long confinement rose.\nTysander bold, and Sthenelus their guide,\nAnd dire Ulysses down the cable slide:\nThen Thoas, Athamas, and Pyrrhus haste;\nNor was the Podalirian hero last,\nNor injur'd Menelaus, nor the fam'd\nEpeus, who the fatal engine fram'd.\nA nameless crowd succeed; their forces join\nT' invade the town, oppress'd with sleep and wine.\nThose few they find awake first meet their fate;\nThen to their fellows they unbar the gate.\n\"'T was in the dead of night, when sleep repairs\nOur bodies worn with toils, our minds with cares,\nWhen Hector's ghost before my sight appears:\nA bloody shroud he seem'd, and bath'd in tears;\nSuch as he was, when, by Pelides slain,\nThessalian coursers dragg'd him o'er the plain.\nSwoln were his feet, as when the thongs were thrust\nThro' the bor'd holes; his body black with dust;\nUnlike that Hector who return'd from toils\nOf war, triumphant, in Aeacian spoils,\nOr him who made the fainting Greeks retire,\nAnd launch'd against their navy Phrygian fire.\nHis hair and beard stood stiffen'd with his gore;\nAnd all the wounds he for his country bore\nNow stream'd afresh, and with new purple ran.\nI wept to see the visionary man,\nAnd, while my trance continued, thus began:\n'O light of Trojans, and support of Troy,\nThy father's champion, and thy country's joy!\nO, long expected by thy friends! from whence\nArt thou so late return'd for our defense?\nDo we behold thee, wearied as we are\nWith length of labors, and with toils of war?\nAfter so many fun'rals of thy own\nArt thou restor'd to thy declining town?\nBut say, what wounds are these? What new disgrace\nDeforms the manly features of thy face?'\n\"To this the specter no reply did frame,\nBut answer'd to the cause for which he came,\nAnd, groaning from the bottom of his breast,\nThis warning in these mournful words express'd:\n'O goddess-born! escape, by timely flight,\nThe flames and horrors of this fatal night.\nThe foes already have possess'd the wall;\nTroy nods from high, and totters to her fall.\nEnough is paid to Priam's royal name,\nMore than enough to duty and to fame.\nIf by a mortal hand my father's throne\nCould be defended, 't was by mine alone.\nNow Troy to thee commends her future state,\nAnd gives her gods companions of thy fate:\nFrom their assistance walls expect,\nWhich, wand'ring long, at last thou shalt erect.'\nHe said, and brought me, from their blest abodes,\nThe venerable statues of the gods,\nWith ancient Vesta from the sacred choir,\nThe wreaths and relics of th' immortal fire.\n\"Now peals of shouts come thund'ring from afar,\nCries, threats, and loud laments, and mingled war:\nThe noise approaches, tho' our palace stood\nAloof from streets, encompass'd with a wood.\nLouder, and yet more loud, I hear th' alarms\nOf human cries distinct, and clashing arms.\nFear broke my slumbers; I no longer stay,\nBut mount the terrace, thence the town survey,\nAnd hearken what the frightful sounds convey.\nThus, when a flood of fire by wind is borne,\nCrackling it rolls, and mows the standing corn;\nOr deluges, descending on the plains,\nSweep o'er the yellow year, destroy the pains\nOf lab'ring oxen and the peasant's gains;\nUnroot the forest oaks, and bear away\nFlocks, folds, and trees, and undistinguish'd prey:\nThe shepherd climbs the cliff, and sees from far\nThe wasteful ravage of the wat'ry war.\nThen Hector's faith was manifestly clear'd,\nAnd Grecian frauds in open light appear'd.\nThe palace of Deiphobus ascends\nIn smoky flames, and catches on his friends.\nUcalegon burns next: the seas are bright\nWith splendor not their own, and shine with Trojan light.\nNew clamors and new clangors now arise,\nThe sound of trumpets mix'd with fighting cries.\nWith frenzy seiz'd, I run to meet th' alarms,\nResolv'd on death, resolv'd to die in arms,\nBut first to gather friends, with them t' oppose\n(If fortune favor'd) and repel the foes;\nSpurr'd by my courage, by my country fir'd,\nWith sense of honor and revenge inspir'd.\n\"Pantheus, Apollo's priest, a sacred name,\nHad scap'd the Grecian swords, and pass'd the flame:\nWith relics loaden. to my doors he fled,\nAnd by the hand his tender grandson led.\n'What hope, O Pantheus? whither can we run?\nWhere make a stand? and what may yet be done?'\nScarce had I said, when Pantheus, with a groan:\n'Troy is no more, and Ilium was a town!\nThe fatal day, th' appointed hour, is come,\nWhen wrathful Jove's irrevocable doom\nTransfers the Trojan state to Grecian hands.\nThe fire consumes the town, the foe commands;\nAnd armed hosts, an unexpected force,\nBreak from the bowels of the fatal horse.\nWithin the gates, proud Sinon throws about\nThe flames; and foes for entrance press without,\nWith thousand others, whom I fear to name,\nMore than from Argos or Mycenae came.\nTo sev'ral posts their parties they divide;\nSome block the narrow streets, some scour the wide:\nThe bold they kill, th' unwary they surprise;\nWho fights finds death, and death finds him who flies.\nThe warders of the gate but scarce maintain\nTh' unequal combat, and resist in vain.'\n\"I heard; and Heav'n, that well-born souls inspires,\nPrompts me thro' lifted swords and rising fires\nTo run where clashing arms and clamor calls,\nAnd rush undaunted to defend the walls.\nRipheus and Iph'itus by my side engage,\nFor valor one renown'd, and one for age.\nDymas and Hypanis by moonlight knew\nMy motions and my mien, and to my party drew;\nWith young Coroebus, who by love was led\nTo win renown and fair Cassandra's bed,\nAnd lately brought his troops to Priam's aid,\nForewarn'd in vain by the prophetic maid.\nWhom when I saw resolv'd in arms to fall,\nAnd that one spirit animated all:\n'Brave souls!' said I,- 'but brave, alas! in vain-\nCome, finish what our cruel fates ordain.\nYou see the desp'rate state of our affairs,\nAnd heav'n's protecting pow'rs are deaf to pray'rs.\nThe passive gods behold the Greeks defile\nTheir temples, and abandon to the spoil\nTheir own abodes: we, feeble few, conspire\nTo save a sinking town, involv'd in fire.\nThen let us fall, but fall amidst our foes:\nDespair of life the means of living shows.'\nSo bold a speech incourag'd their desire\nOf death, and added fuel to their fire.\n\"As hungry wolves, with raging appetite,\nScour thro' the fields, nor fear the stormy night-\nTheir whelps at home expect the promis'd food,\nAnd long to temper their dry chaps in blood-\nSo rush'd we forth at once; resolv'd to die,\nResolv'd, in death, the last extremes to try.\nWe leave the narrow lanes behind, and dare\nTh' unequal combat in the public square:\nNight was our friend; our leader was despair.\nWhat tongue can tell the slaughter of that night?\nWhat eyes can weep the sorrows and affright?\nAn ancient and imperial city falls:\nThe streets are fill'd with frequent funerals;\nHouses and holy temples float in blood,\nAnd hostile nations make a common flood.\nNot only Trojans fall; but, in their turn,\nThe vanquish'd triumph, and the victors mourn.\nOurs take new courage from despair and night:\nConfus'd the fortune is, confus'd the fight.\nAll parts resound with tumults, plaints, and fears;\nAnd grisly Death in sundry shapes appears.\nAndrogeos fell among us, with his band,\nWho thought us Grecians newly come to land.\n'From whence,' said he, 'my friends, this long delay?\nYou loiter, while the spoils are borne away:\nOur ships are laden with the Trojan store;\nAnd you, like truants, come too late ashore.'\nHe said, but soon corrected his mistake,\nFound, by the doubtful answers which we make:\nAmaz'd, he would have shunn'd th' unequal fight;\nBut we, more num'rous, intercept his flight.\nAs when some peasant, in a bushy brake,\nHas with unwary footing press'd a snake;\nHe starts aside, astonish'd, when he spies\nHis rising crest, blue neck, and rolling eyes;\nSo from our arms surpris'd Androgeos flies.\nIn vain; for him and his we compass'd round,\nPossess'd with fear, unknowing of the ground,\nAnd of their lives an easy conquest found.\nThus Fortune on our first endeavor smil'd.\nCoroebus then, with youthful hopes beguil'd,\nSwoln with success, and a daring mind,\nThis new invention fatally design'd.\n'My friends,' said he, 'since Fortune shows the way,\n'T is fit we should th' auspicious guide obey.\nFor what has she these Grecian arms bestow'd,\nBut their destruction, and the Trojans' good?\nThen change we shields, and their devices bear:\nLet fraud supply the want of force in war.\nThey find us arms.' This said, himself he dress'd\nIn dead Androgeos' spoils, his upper vest,\nHis painted buckler, and his plumy crest.\nThus Ripheus, Dymas, all the Trojan train,\nLay down their own attire, and strip the slain.\nMix'd with the Greeks, we go with ill presage,\nFlatter'd with hopes to glut our greedy rage;\nUnknown, assaulting whom we blindly meet,\nAnd strew with Grecian carcasses the street.\nThus while their straggling parties we defeat,\nSome to the shore and safer ships retreat;\nAnd some, oppress'd with more ignoble fear,\nRemount the hollow horse, and pant in secret there.\n\"But, ah! what use of valor can be made,\nWhen heav'n's propitious pow'rs refuse their aid!\nBehold the royal prophetess, the fair\nCassandra, dragg'd by her dishevel'd hair,\nWhom not Minerva's shrine, nor sacred bands,\nIn safety could protect from sacrilegious hands:\nOn heav'n she cast her eyes, she sigh'd, she cried-\n'T was all she could- her tender arms were tied.\nSo sad a sight Coroebus could not bear;\nBut, fir'd with rage, distracted with despair,\nAmid the barb'rous ravishers he flew:\nOur leader's rash example we pursue.\nBut storms of stones, from the proud temple's height,\nPour down, and on our batter'd helms alight:\nWe from our friends receiv'd this fatal blow,\nWho thought us Grecians, as we seem'd in show.\nThey aim at the mistaken crests, from high;\nAnd ours beneath the pond'rous ruin lie.\nThen, mov'd with anger and disdain, to see\nTheir troops dispers'd, the royal virgin free,\nThe Grecians rally, and their pow'rs unite,\nWith fury charge us, and renew the fight.\nThe brother kings with Ajax join their force,\nAnd the whole squadron of Thessalian horse.\n\"Thus, when the rival winds their quarrel try,\nContending for the kingdom of the sky,\nSouth, east, and west, on airy coursers borne;\nThe whirlwind gathers, and the woods are torn:\nThen Nereus strikes the deep; the billows rise,\nAnd, mix'd with ooze and sand, pollute the skies.\nThe troops we squander'd first again appear\nFrom several quarters, and enclose the rear.\nThey first observe, and to the rest betray,\nOur diff'rent speech; our borrow'd arms survey.\nOppress'd with odds, we fall; Coroebus first,\nAt Pallas' altar, by Peneleus pierc'd.\nThen Ripheus follow'd, in th' unequal fight;\nJust of his word, observant of the right:\nHeav'n thought not so. Dymas their fate attends,\nWith Hypanis, mistaken by their friends.\nNor, Pantheus, thee, thy miter, nor the bands\nOf awful Phoebus, sav'd from impious hands.\nYe Trojan flames, your testimony bear,\nWhat I perform'd, and what I suffer'd there;\nNo sword avoiding in the fatal strife,\nExpos'd to death, and prodigal of life;\nWitness, ye heavens! I live not by my fault:\nI strove to have deserv'd the death I sought.\nBut, when I could not fight, and would have died,\nBorne off to distance by the growing tide,\nOld Iphitus and I were hurried thence,\nWith Pelias wounded, and without defense.\nNew clamors from th' invested palace ring:\nWe run to die, or disengage the king.\nSo hot th' assault, so high the tumult rose,\nWhile ours defend, and while the Greeks oppose\nAs all the Dardan and Argolic race\nHad been contracted in that narrow space;\nOr as all Ilium else were void of fear,\nAnd tumult, war, and slaughter, only there.\nTheir targets in a tortoise cast, the foes,\nSecure advancing, to the turrets rose:\nSome mount the scaling ladders; some, more bold,\nSwerve upwards, and by posts and pillars hold;\nTheir left hand gripes their bucklers in th' ascent,\nWhile with their right they seize the battlement.\nFrom their demolish'd tow'rs the Trojans throw\nHuge heaps of stones, that, falling, crush the foe;\nAnd heavy beams and rafters from the sides\n(Such arms their last necessity provides)\nAnd gilded roofs, come tumbling from on high,\nThe marks of state and ancient royalty.\nThe guards below, fix'd in the pass, attend\nThe charge undaunted, and the gate defend.\nRenew'd in courage with recover'd breath,\nA second time we ran to tempt our death,\nTo clear the palace from the foe, succeed\nThe weary living, and revenge the dead.\n\"A postern door, yet unobserv'd and free,\nJoin'd by the length of a blind gallery,\nTo the king's closet led: a way well known\nTo Hector's wife, while Priam held the throne,\nThro' which she brought Astyanax, unseen,\nTo cheer his grandsire and his grandsire's queen.\nThro' this we pass, and mount the tow'r, from whence\nWith unavailing arms the Trojans make defense.\nFrom this the trembling king had oft descried\nThe Grecian camp, and saw their navy ride.\nBeams from its lofty height with swords we hew,\nThen, wrenching with our hands, th' assault renew;\nAnd, where the rafters on the columns meet,\nWe push them headlong with our arms and feet.\nThe lightning flies not swifter than the fall,\nNor thunder louder than the ruin'd wall:\nDown goes the top at once; the Greeks beneath\nAre piecemeal torn, or pounded into death.\nYet more succeed, and more to death are sent;\nWe cease not from above, nor they below relent.\nBefore the gate stood Pyrrhus, threat'ning loud,\nWith glitt'ring arms conspicuous in the crowd.\nSo shines, renew'd in youth, the crested snake,\nWho slept the winter in a thorny brake,\nAnd, casting off his slough when spring returns,\nNow looks aloft, and with new glory burns;\nRestor'd with poisonous herbs, his ardent sides\nReflect the sun; and rais'd on spires he rides;\nHigh o'er the grass, hissing he rolls along,\nAnd brandishes by fits his forky tongue.\nProud Periphas, and fierce Automedon,\nHis father's charioteer, together run\nTo force the gate; the Scyrian infantry\nRush on in crowds, and the barr'd passage free.\nEnt'ring the court, with shouts the skies they rend;\nAnd flaming firebrands to the roofs ascend.\nHimself, among the foremost, deals his blows,\nAnd with his ax repeated strokes bestows\nOn the strong doors; then all their shoulders ply,\nTill from the posts the brazen hinges fly.\nHe hews apace; the double bars at length\nYield to his ax and unresisted strength.\nA mighty breach is made: the rooms conceal'd\nAppear, and all the palace is reveal'd;\nThe halls of audience, and of public state,\nAnd where the lonely queen in secret sate.\nArm'd soldiers now by trembling maids are seen,\nWith not a door, and scarce a space, between.\nThe house is fill'd with loud laments and cries,\nAnd shrieks of women rend the vaulted skies;\nThe fearful matrons run from place to place,\nAnd kiss the thresholds, and the posts embrace.\nThe fatal work inhuman Pyrrhus plies,\nAnd all his father sparkles in his eyes;\nNor bars, nor fighting guards, his force sustain:\nThe bars are broken, and the guards are slain.\nIn rush the Greeks, and all the apartments fill;\nThose few defendants whom they find, they kill.\nNot with so fierce a rage the foaming flood\nRoars, when he finds his rapid course withstood;\nBears down the dams with unresisted sway,\nAnd sweeps the cattle and the cots away.\nThese eyes beheld him when he march'd between\nThe brother kings: I saw th' unhappy queen,\nThe hundred wives, and where old Priam stood,\nTo stain his hallow'd altar with his brood.\nThe fifty nuptial beds (such hopes had he,\nSo large a promise, of a progeny),\nThe posts, of plated gold, and hung with spoils,\nFell the reward of the proud victor's toils.\nWhere'er the raging fire had left a space,\nThe Grecians enter and possess the place.\n\"Perhaps you may of Priam's fate enquire.\nHe, when he saw his regal town on fire,\nHis ruin'd palace, and his ent'ring foes,\nOn ev'ry side inevitable woes,\nIn arms, disus'd, invests his limbs, decay'd,\nLike them, with age; a late and useless aid.\nHis feeble shoulders scarce the weight sustain;\nLoaded, not arm'd, he creeps along with pain,\nDespairing of success, ambitious to be slain!\nUncover'd but by heav'n, there stood in view\nAn altar; near the hearth a laurel grew,\nDodder'd with age, whose boughs encompass round\nThe household gods, and shade the holy ground.\nHere Hecuba, with all her helpless train\nOf dames, for shelter sought, but sought in vain.\nDriv'n like a flock of doves along the sky,\nTheir images they hug, and to their altars fly.\nThe Queen, when she beheld her trembling lord,\nAnd hanging by his side a heavy sword,\n'What rage,' she cried, 'has seiz'd my husband's mind?\nWhat arms are these, and to what use design'd?\nThese times want other aids! Were Hector here,\nEv'n Hector now in vain, like Priam, would appear.\nWith us, one common shelter thou shalt find,\nOr in one common fate with us be join'd.'\nShe said, and with a last salute embrac'd\nThe poor old man, and by the laurel plac'd.\nBehold! Polites, one of Priam's sons,\nPursued by Pyrrhus, there for safety runs.\nThro' swords and foes, amaz'd and hurt, he flies\nThro' empty courts and open galleries.\nHim Pyrrhus, urging with his lance, pursues,\nAnd often reaches, and his thrusts renews.\nThe youth, transfix'd, with lamentable cries,\nExpires before his wretched parent's eyes:\nWhom gasping at his feet when Priam saw,\nThe fear of death gave place to nature's law;\nAnd, shaking more with anger than with age,\n'The gods,' said he, 'requite thy brutal rage!\nAs sure they will, barbarian, sure they must,\nIf there be gods in heav'n, and gods be just-\nWho tak'st in wrongs an insolent delight;\nWith a son's death t' infect a father's sight.\nNot he, whom thou and lying fame conspire\nTo call thee his- not he, thy vaunted sire,\nThus us'd my wretched age: the gods he fear'd,\nThe laws of nature and of nations heard.\nHe cheer'd my sorrows, and, for sums of gold,\nThe bloodless carcass of my Hector sold;\nPitied the woes a parent underwent,\nAnd sent me back in safety from his tent.'\n\"This said, his feeble hand a javelin threw,\nWhich, flutt'ring, seem'd to loiter as it flew:\nJust, and but barely, to the mark it held,\nAnd faintly tinkled on the brazen shield.\n\"Then Pyrrhus thus: 'Go thou from me to fate,\nAnd to my father my foul deeds relate.\nNow die!' With that he dragg'd the trembling sire,\nSlidd'ring thro' clotter'd blood and holy mire,\n(The mingled paste his murder'd son had made,)\nHaul'd from beneath the violated shade,\nAnd on the sacred pile the royal victim laid.\nHis right hand held his bloody falchion bare,\nHis left he twisted in his hoary hair;\nThen, with a speeding thrust, his heart he found:\nThe lukewarm blood came rushing thro' the wound,\nAnd sanguine streams distain'd the sacred ground.\nThus Priam fell, and shar'd one common fate\nWith Troy in ashes, and his ruin'd state:\nHe, who the scepter of all Asia sway'd,\nWhom monarchs like domestic slaves obey'd.\nOn the bleak shore now lies th' abandon'd king,\nA headless carcass, and a nameless thing.\n\"Then, not before, I felt my cruddled blood\nCongeal with fear, my hair with horror stood:\nMy father's image fill'd my pious mind,\nLest equal years might equal fortune find.\nAgain I thought on my forsaken wife,\nAnd trembled for my son's abandon'd life.\nI look'd about, but found myself alone,\nDeserted at my need! My friends were gone.\nSome spent with toil, some with despair oppress'd,\nLeap'd headlong from the heights; the flames consum'd the rest.\nThus, wand'ring in my way, without a guide,\nThe graceless Helen in the porch I spied\nOf Vesta's temple; there she lurk'd alone;\nMuffled she sate, and, what she could, unknown:\nBut, by the flames that cast their blaze around,\nThat common bane of Greece and Troy I found.\nFor Ilium burnt, she dreads the Trojan sword;\nMore dreads the vengeance of her injur'd lord;\nEv'n by those gods who refug'd her abhorr'd.\nTrembling with rage, the strumpet I regard,\nResolv'd to give her guilt the due reward:\n'Shall she triumphant sail before the wind,\nAnd leave in flames unhappy Troy behind?\nShall she her kingdom and her friends review,\nIn state attended with a captive crew,\nWhile unreveng'd the good old Priam falls,\nAnd Grecian fires consume the Trojan walls?\nFor this the Phrygian fields and Xanthian flood\nWere swell'd with bodies, and were drunk with blood?\n'T is true, a soldier can small honor gain,\nAnd boast no conquest, from a woman slain:\nYet shall the fact not pass without applause,\nOf vengeance taken in so just a cause;\nThe punish'd crime shall set my soul at ease,\nAnd murm'ring manes of my friends appease.'\nThus while I rave, a gleam of pleasing light\nSpread o'er the place; and, shining heav'nly bright,\nMy mother stood reveal'd before my sight\nNever so radiant did her eyes appear;\nNot her own star confess'd a light so clear:\nGreat in her charms, as when on gods above\nShe looks, and breathes herself into their love.\nShe held my hand, the destin'd blow to break;\nThen from her rosy lips began to speak:\n'My son, from whence this madness, this neglect\nOf my commands, and those whom I protect?\nWhy this unmanly rage? Recall to mind\nWhom you forsake, what pledges leave behind.\nLook if your helpless father yet survive,\nOr if Ascanius or Creusa live.\nAround your house the greedy Grecians err;\nAnd these had perish'd in the nightly war,\nBut for my presence and protecting care.\nNot Helen's face, nor Paris, was in fault;\nBut by the gods was this destruction brought.\nNow cast your eyes around, while I dissolve\nThe mists and films that mortal eyes involve,\nPurge from your sight the dross, and make you see\nThe shape of each avenging deity.\nEnlighten'd thus, my just commands fulfil,\nNor fear obedience to your mother's will.\nWhere yon disorder'd heap of ruin lies,\nStones rent from stones; where clouds of dust arise-\nAmid that smother Neptune holds his place,\nBelow the wall's foundation drives his mace,\nAnd heaves the building from the solid base.\nLook where, in arms, imperial Juno stands\nFull in the Scaean gate, with loud commands,\nUrging on shore the tardy Grecian bands.\nSee! Pallas, of her snaky buckler proud,\nBestrides the tow'r, refulgent thro' the cloud:\nSee! Jove new courage to the foe supplies,\nAnd arms against the town the partial deities.\nHaste hence, my son; this fruitless labor end:\nHaste, where your trembling spouse and sire attend:\nHaste; and a mother's care your passage shall befriend.'\nShe said, and swiftly vanish'd from my sight,\nObscure in clouds and gloomy shades of night.\nI look'd, I listen'd; dreadful sounds I hear;\nAnd the dire forms of hostile gods appear.\nTroy sunk in flames I saw (nor could prevent),\nAnd Ilium from its old foundations rent;\nRent like a mountain ash, which dar'd the winds,\nAnd stood the sturdy strokes of lab'ring hinds.\nAbout the roots the cruel ax resounds;\nThe stumps are pierc'd with oft-repeated wounds:\nThe war is felt on high; the nodding crown\nNow threats a fall, and throws the leafy honors down.\nTo their united force it yields, tho' late,\nAnd mourns with mortal groans th' approaching fate:\nThe roots no more their upper load sustain;\nBut down she falls, and spreads a ruin thro' the plain.\n\"Descending thence, I scape thro' foes and fire:\nBefore the goddess, foes and flames retire.\nArriv'd at home, he, for whose only sake,\nOr most for his, such toils I undertake,\nThe good Anchises, whom, by timely flight,\nI purpos'd to secure on Ida's height,\nRefus'd the journey, resolute to die\nAnd add his fun'rals to the fate of Troy,\nRather than exile and old age sustain.\n'Go you, whose blood runs warm in ev'ry vein.\nHad Heav'n decreed that I should life enjoy,\nHeav'n had decreed to save unhappy Troy.\n'T is, sure, enough, if not too much, for one,\nTwice to have seen our Ilium overthrown.\nMake haste to save the poor remaining crew,\nAnd give this useless corpse a long adieu.\nThese weak old hands suffice to stop my breath;\nAt least the pitying foes will aid my death,\nTo take my spoils, and leave my body bare:\nAs for my sepulcher, let Heav'n take care.\n'T is long since I, for my celestial wife\nLoath'd by the gods, have dragg'd a ling'ring life;\nSince ev'ry hour and moment I expire,\nBlasted from heav'n by Jove's avenging fire.'\nThis oft repeated, he stood fix'd to die:\nMyself, my wife, my son, my family,\nIntreat, pray, beg, and raise a doleful cry-\n'What, will he still persist, on death resolve,\nAnd in his ruin all his house involve!'\nHe still persists his reasons to maintain;\nOur pray'rs, our tears, our loud laments, are vain.\n\"Urg'd by despair, again I go to try\nThe fate of arms, resolv'd in fight to die:\n'What hope remains, but what my death must give?\nCan I, without so dear a father, live?\nYou term it prudence, what I baseness call:\nCould such a word from such a parent fall?\nIf Fortune please, and so the gods ordain,\nThat nothing should of ruin'd Troy remain,\nAnd you conspire with Fortune to be slain,\nThe way to death is wide, th' approaches near:\nFor soon relentless Pyrrhus will appear,\nReeking with Priam's blood- the wretch who slew\nThe son (inhuman) in the father's view,\nAnd then the sire himself to the dire altar drew.\nO goddess mother, give me back to Fate;\nYour gift was undesir'd, and came too late!\nDid you, for this, unhappy me convey\nThro' foes and fires, to see my house a prey?\nShall I my father, wife, and son behold,\nWelt'ring in blood, each other's arms infold?\nHaste! gird my sword, tho' spent and overcome:\n'T is the last summons to receive our doom.\nI hear thee, Fate; and I obey thy call!\nNot unreveng'd the foe shall see my fall.\nRestore me to the yet unfinish'd fight:\nMy death is wanting to conclude the night.'\nArm'd once again, my glitt'ring sword I wield,\nWhile th' other hand sustains my weighty shield,\nAnd forth I rush to seek th' abandon'd field.\nI went; but sad Creusa stopp'd my way,\nAnd cross the threshold in my passage lay,\nEmbrac'd my knees, and, when I would have gone,\nShew'd me my feeble sire and tender son:\n'If death be your design, at least,' said she,\n'Take us along to share your destiny.\nIf any farther hopes in arms remain,\nThis place, these pledges of your love, maintain.\nTo whom do you expose your father's life,\nYour son's, and mine, your now forgotten wife!'\nWhile thus she fills the house with clam'rous cries,\nOur hearing is diverted by our eyes:\nFor, while I held my son, in the short space\nBetwixt our kisses and our last embrace;\nStrange to relate, from young Iulus' head\nA lambent flame arose, which gently spread\nAround his brows, and on his temples fed.\nAmaz'd, with running water we prepare\nTo quench the sacred fire, and slake his hair;\nBut old Anchises, vers'd in omens, rear'd\nHis hands to heav'n, and this request preferr'd:\n'If any vows, almighty Jove, can bend\nThy will; if piety can pray'rs commend,\nConfirm the glad presage which thou art pleas'd to send.'\nScarce had he said, when, on our left, we hear\nA peal of rattling thunder roll in air:\nThere shot a streaming lamp along the sky,\nWhich on the winged lightning seem'd to fly;\nFrom o'er the roof the blaze began to move,\nAnd, trailing, vanish'd in th' Idaean grove.\nIt swept a path in heav'n, and shone a guide,\nThen in a steaming stench of sulphur died.\n\"The good old man with suppliant hands implor'd\nThe gods' protection, and their star ador'd.\n'Now, now,' said he, 'my son, no more delay!\nI yield, I follow where Heav'n shews the way.\nKeep, O my country gods, our dwelling place,\nAnd guard this relic of the Trojan race,\nThis tender child! These omens are your own,\nAnd you can yet restore the ruin'd town.\nAt least accomplish what your signs foreshow:\nI stand resign'd, and am prepar'd to go.'\n\"He said. The crackling flames appear on high.\nAnd driving sparkles dance along the sky.\nWith Vulcan's rage the rising winds conspire,\nAnd near our palace roll the flood of fire.\n'Haste, my dear father, ('t is no time to wait,)\nAnd load my shoulders with a willing freight.\nWhate'er befalls, your life shall be my care;\nOne death, or one deliv'rance, we will share.\nMy hand shall lead our little son; and you,\nMy faithful consort, shall our steps pursue.\nNext, you, my servants, heed my strict commands:\nWithout the walls a ruin'd temple stands,\nTo Ceres hallow'd once; a cypress nigh\nShoots up her venerable head on high,\nBy long religion kept; there bend your feet,\nAnd in divided parties let us meet.\nOur country gods, the relics, and the bands,\nHold you, my father, in your guiltless hands:\nIn me 't is impious holy things to bear,\nRed as I am with slaughter, new from war,\nTill in some living stream I cleanse the guilt\nOf dire debate, and blood in battle spilt.'\nThus, ord'ring all that prudence could provide,\nI clothe my shoulders with a lion's hide\nAnd yellow spoils; then, on my bending back,\nThe welcome load of my dear father take;\nWhile on my better hand Ascanius hung,\nAnd with unequal paces tripp'd along.\nCreusa kept behind; by choice we stray\nThro' ev'ry dark and ev'ry devious way.\nI, who so bold and dauntless, just before,\nThe Grecian darts and shock of lances bore,\nAt ev'ry shadow now am seiz'd with fear,\nNot for myself, but for the charge I bear;\nTill, near the ruin'd gate arriv'd at last,\nSecure, and deeming all the danger past,\nA frightful noise of trampling feet we hear.\nMy father, looking thro' the shades, with fear,\nCried out: 'Haste, haste, my son, the foes are nigh;\nTheir swords and shining armor I descry.'\nSome hostile god, for some unknown offense,\nHad sure bereft my mind of better sense;\nFor, while thro' winding ways I took my flight,\nAnd sought the shelter of the gloomy night,\nAlas! I lost Creusa: hard to tell\nIf by her fatal destiny she fell,\nOr weary sate, or wander'd with affright;\nBut she was lost for ever to my sight.\nI knew not, or reflected, till I meet\nMy friends, at Ceres' now deserted seat.\nWe met: not one was wanting; only she\nDeceiv'd her friends, her son, and wretched me.\n\"What mad expressions did my tongue refuse!\nWhom did I not, of gods or men, accuse!\nThis was the fatal blow, that pain'd me more\nThan all I felt from ruin'd Troy before.\nStung with my loss, and raving with despair,\nAbandoning my now forgotten care,\nOf counsel, comfort, and of hope bereft,\nMy sire, my son, my country gods I left.\nIn shining armor once again I sheathe\nMy limbs, not feeling wounds, nor fearing death.\nThen headlong to the burning walls I run,\nAnd seek the danger I was forc'd to shun.\nI tread my former tracks; thro' night explore\nEach passage, ev'ry street I cross'd before.\nAll things were full of horror and affright,\nAnd dreadful ev'n the silence of the night.\nThen to my father's house I make repair,\nWith some small glimpse of hope to find her there.\nInstead of her, the cruel Greeks I met;\nThe house was fill'd with foes, with flames beset.\nDriv'n on the wings of winds, whole sheets of fire,\nThro' air transported, to the roofs aspire.\nFrom thence to Priam's palace I resort,\nAnd search the citadel and desart court.\nThen, unobserv'd, I pass by Juno's church:\nA guard of Grecians had possess'd the porch;\nThere Phoenix and Ulysses watch prey,\nAnd thither all the wealth of Troy convey:\nThe spoils which they from ransack'd houses brought,\nAnd golden bowls from burning altars caught,\nThe tables of the gods, the purple vests,\nThe people's treasure, and the pomp of priests.\nA rank of wretched youths, with pinion'd hands,\nAnd captive matrons, in long order stands.\nThen, with ungovern'd madness, I proclaim,\nThro' all the silent street, Creusa's name:\nCreusa still I call; at length she hears,\nAnd sudden thro' the shades of night appears-\nAppears, no more Creusa, nor my wife,\nBut a pale specter, larger than the life.\nAghast, astonish'd, and struck dumb with fear,\nI stood; like bristles rose my stiffen'd hair.\nThen thus the ghost began to soothe my grief\n'Nor tears, nor cries, can give the dead relief.\nDesist, my much-lov'd lord,'t indulge your pain;\nYou bear no more than what the gods ordain.\nMy fates permit me not from hence to fly;\nNor he, the great controller of the sky.\nLong wand'ring ways for you the pow'rs decree;\nOn land hard labors, and a length of sea.\nThen, after many painful years are past,\nOn Latium's happy shore you shall be cast,\nWhere gentle Tiber from his bed beholds\nThe flow'ry meadows, and the feeding folds.\nThere end your toils; and there your fates provide\nA quiet kingdom, and a royal bride:\nThere fortune shall the Trojan line restore,\nAnd you for lost Creusa weep no more.\nFear not that I shall watch, with servile shame,\nTh' imperious looks of some proud Grecian dame;\nOr, stooping to the victor's lust, disgrace\nMy goddess mother, or my royal race.\nAnd now, farewell! The parent of the gods\nRestrains my fleeting soul in her abodes:\nI trust our common issue to your care.'\nShe said, and gliding pass'd unseen in air.\nI strove to speak: but horror tied my tongue;\nAnd thrice about her neck my arms I flung,\nAnd, thrice deceiv'd, on vain embraces hung.\nLight as an empty dream at break of day,\nOr as a blast of wind, she rush'd away.\n\"Thus having pass'd the night in fruitless pain,\nI to my longing friends return again,\nAmaz'd th' augmented number to behold,\nOf men and matrons mix'd, of young and old;\nA wretched exil'd crew together brought,\nWith arms appointed, and with treasure fraught,\nResolv'd, and willing, under my command,\nTo run all hazards both of sea and land.\nThe Morn began, from Ida, to display\nHer rosy cheeks; and Phosphor led the day:\nBefore the gates the Grecians took their post,\nAnd all pretense of late relief was lost.\nI yield to Fate, unwillingly retire,\nAnd, loaded, up the hill convey my sire.\"\nBOOK III\n\"When Heav'n had overturn'd the Trojan state\nAnd Priam's throne, by too severe a fate;\nWhen ruin'd Troy became the Grecians' prey,\nAnd Ilium's lofty tow'rs in ashes lay;\nWarn'd by celestial omens, we retreat,\nTo seek in foreign lands a happier seat.\nNear old Antandros, and at Ida's foot,\nThe timber of the sacred groves we cut,\nAnd build our fleet; uncertain yet to find\nWhat place the gods for our repose assign'd.\nFriends daily flock; and scarce the kindly spring\nBegan to clothe the ground, and birds to sing,\nWhen old Anchises summon'd all to sea:\nThe crew my father and the Fates obey.\nWith sighs and tears I leave my native shore,\nAnd empty fields, where Ilium stood before.\nMy sire, my son, our less and greater gods,\nAll sail at once, and cleave the briny floods.\n\"Against our coast appears a spacious land,\nWhich once the fierce Lycurgus did command,\n(Thracia the name- the people bold in war;\nVast are their fields, and tillage is their care,)\nA hospitable realm while Fate was kind,\nWith Troy in friendship and religion join'd.\nI land; with luckless omens then adore\nTheir gods, and draw a line along the shore;\nI lay the deep foundations of a wall,\nAnd Aenos, nam'd from me, the city call.\nTo Dionaean Venus vows are paid,\nAnd all the pow'rs that rising labors aid;\nA bull on Jove's imperial altar laid.\nNot far, a rising hillock stood in view;\nSharp myrtles on the sides, and cornels grew.\nThere, while I went to crop the sylvan scenes,\nAnd shade our altar with their leafy greens,\nI pull'd a plant- with horror I relate\nA prodigy so strange and full of fate.\nThe rooted fibers rose, and from the wound\nBlack bloody drops distill'd upon the ground.\nMute and amaz'd, my hair with terror stood;\nFear shrunk my sinews, and congeal'd my blood.\nMann'd once again, another plant I try:\nThat other gush'd with the same sanguine dye.\nThen, fearing guilt for some offense unknown,\nWith pray'rs and vows the Dryads I atone,\nWith all the sisters of the woods, and most\nThe God of Arms, who rules the Thracian coast,\nThat they, or he, these omens would avert,\nRelease our fears, and better signs impart.\nClear'd, as I thought, and fully fix'd at length\nTo learn the cause, I tugged with all my strength:\nI bent my knees against the ground; once more\nThe violated myrtle ran with gore.\nScarce dare I tell the sequel: from the womb\nOf wounded earth, and caverns of the tomb,\nA groan, as of a troubled ghost, renew'd\nMy fright, and then these dreadful words ensued:\n'Why dost thou thus my buried body rend?\nO spare the corpse of thy unhappy friend!\nSpare to pollute thy pious hands with blood:\nThe tears distil not from the wounded wood;\nBut ev'ry drop this living tree contains\nIs kindred blood, and ran in Trojan veins.\nO fly from this unhospitable shore,\nWarn'd by my fate; for I am Polydore!\nHere loads of lances, in my blood embrued,\nAgain shoot upward, by my blood renew'd.'\n\"My falt'ring tongue and shiv'ring limbs declare\nMy horror, and in bristles rose my hair.\nWhen Troy with Grecian arms was closely pent,\nOld Priam, fearful of the war's event,\nThis hapless Polydore to Thracia sent:\nLoaded with gold, he sent his darling, far\nFrom noise and tumults, and destructive war,\nCommitted to the faithless tyrant's care;\nWho, when he saw the pow'r of Troy decline,\nForsook the weaker, with the strong to join;\nBroke ev'ry bond of nature and of truth,\nAnd murder'd, for his wealth, the royal youth.\nO sacred hunger of pernicious gold!\nWhat bands of faith can impious lucre hold?\nNow, when my soul had shaken off her fears,\nI call my father and the Trojan peers;\nRelate the prodigies of Heav'n, require\nWhat he commands, and their advice desire.\nAll vote to leave that execrable shore,\nPolluted with the blood of Polydore;\nBut, ere we sail, his fun'ral rites prepare,\nThen, to his ghost, a tomb and altars rear.\nIn mournful pomp the matrons walk the round,\nWith baleful cypress and blue fillets crown'd,\nWith eyes dejected, and with hair unbound.\nThen bowls of tepid milk and blood we pour,\nAnd thrice invoke the soul of Polydore.\n\"Now, when the raging storms no longer reign,\nBut southern gales invite us to the main,\nWe launch our vessels, with a prosp'rous wind,\nAnd leave the cities and the shores behind.\n\"An island in th' Aegaean main appears;\nNeptune and wat'ry Doris claim it theirs.\nIt floated once, till Phoebus fix'd the sides\nTo rooted earth, and now it braves the tides.\nHere, borne by friendly winds, we come ashore,\nWith needful ease our weary limbs restore,\nAnd the Sun's temple and his town adore.\n\"Anius, the priest and king, with laurel crown'd,\nHis hoary locks with purple fillets bound,\nWho saw my sire the Delian shore ascend,\nCame forth with eager haste to meet his friend;\nInvites him to his palace; and, in sign\nOf ancient love, their plighted hands they join.\nThen to the temple of the god I went,\nAnd thus, before the shrine, my vows present:\n'Give, O Thymbraeus, give a resting place\nTo the sad relics of the Trojan race;\nA seat secure, a region of their own,\nA lasting empire, and a happier town.\nWhere shall we fix? where shall our labors end?\nWhom shall we follow, and what fate attend?\nLet not my pray'rs a doubtful answer find;\nBut in clear auguries unveil thy mind.'\nScarce had I said: he shook the holy ground,\nThe laurels, and the lofty hills around;\nAnd from the tripos rush'd a bellowing sound.\nProstrate we fell; confess'd the present god,\nWho gave this answer from his dark abode:\n'Undaunted youths, go, seek that mother earth\nFrom which your ancestors derive their birth.\nThe soil that sent you forth, her ancient race\nIn her old bosom shall again embrace.\nThro' the wide world th' Aeneian house shall reign,\nAnd children's children shall the crown sustain.'\nThus Phoebus did our future fates disclose:\nA mighty tumult, mix'd with joy, arose.\n\"All are concern'd to know what place the god\nAssign'd, and where determin'd our abode.\nMy father, long revolving in his mind\nThe race and lineage of the Trojan kind,\nThus answer'd their demands: 'Ye princes, hear\nYour pleasing fortune, and dispel your fear.\nThe fruitful isle of Crete, well known to fame,\nSacred of old to Jove's imperial name,\nIn the mid ocean lies, with large command,\nAnd on its plains a hundred cities stand.\nAnother Ida rises there, and we\nFrom thence derive our Trojan ancestry.\nFrom thence, as 't is divulg'd by certain fame,\nTo the Rhoetean shores old Teucrus came;\nThere fix'd, and there the seat of empire chose,\nEre Ilium and the Trojan tow'rs arose.\nIn humble vales they built their soft abodes,\nTill Cybele, the mother of the gods,\nWith tinkling cymbals charm'd th' Idaean woods,\nShe secret rites and ceremonies taught,\nAnd to the yoke the savage lions brought.\nLet us the land which Heav'n appoints, explore;\nAppease the winds, and seek the Gnossian shore.\nIf Jove assists the passage of our fleet,\nThe third propitious dawn discovers Crete.'\nThus having said, the sacrifices, laid\nOn smoking altars, to the gods he paid:\nA bull, to Neptune an oblation due,\nAnother bull to bright Apollo slew;\nA milk-white ewe, the western winds to please,\nAnd one coal-black, to calm the stormy seas.\nEre this, a flying rumor had been spread\nThat fierce Idomeneus from Crete was fled,\nExpell'd and exil'd; that the coast was free\nFrom foreign or domestic enemy.\n\"We leave the Delian ports, and put to sea;\nBy Naxos, fam'd for vintage, make our way;\nThen green Donysa pass; and sail in sight\nOf Paros' isle, with marble quarries white.\nWe pass the scatter'd isles of Cyclades,\nThat, scarce distinguish'd, seem to stud the seas.\nThe shouts of sailors double near the shores;\nThey stretch their canvas, and they ply their oars.\n'All hands aloft! for Crete! for Crete!' they cry,\nAnd swiftly thro' the foamy billows fly.\nFull on the promis'd land at length we bore,\nWith joy descending on the Cretan shore.\nWith eager haste a rising town I frame,\nWhich from the Trojan Pergamus I name:\nThe name itself was grateful; I exhort\nTo found their houses, and erect a fort.\nOur ships are haul'd upon the yellow strand;\nThe youth begin to till the labor'd land;\nAnd I myself new marriages promote,\nGive laws, and dwellings I divide by lot;\nWhen rising vapors choke the wholesome air,\nAnd blasts of noisome winds corrupt the year;\nThe trees devouring caterpillars burn;\nParch'd was the grass, and blighted was the corn:\nNor 'scape the beasts; for Sirius, from on high,\nWith pestilential heat infects the sky:\nMy men- some fall, the rest in fevers fry.\nAgain my father bids me seek the shore\nOf sacred Delos, and the god implore,\nTo learn what end of woes we might expect,\nAnd to what clime our weary course direct.\n\"'T was night, when ev'ry creature, void of cares,\nThe common gift of balmy slumber shares:\nThe statues of my gods (for such they seem'd),\nThose gods whom I from flaming Troy redeem'd,\nBefore me stood, majestically bright,\nFull in the beams of Phoebe's ent'ring light.\nThen thus they spoke, and eas'd my troubled mind:\n'What from the Delian god thou go'st to find,\nHe tells thee here, and sends us to relate.\nThose pow'rs are we, companions of thy fate,\nWho from the burning town by thee were brought,\nThy fortune follow'd, and thy safety wrought.\nThro' seas and lands as we thy steps attend,\nSo shall our care thy glorious race befriend.\nAn ample realm for thee thy fates ordain,\nA town that o'er the conquer'd world shall reign.\nThou, mighty walls for mighty nations build;\nNor let thy weary mind to labors yield:\nBut change thy seat; for not the Delian god,\nNor we, have giv'n thee Crete for our abode.\nA land there is, Hesperia call'd of old,\n(The soil is fruitful, and the natives bold-\nTh' Oenotrians held it once,) by later fame\nNow call'd Italia, from the leader's name.\nlasius there and Dardanus were born;\nFrom thence we came, and thither must return.\nRise, and thy sire with these glad tidings greet.\nSearch Italy; for Jove denies thee Crete.'\n\"Astonish'd at their voices and their sight,\n(Nor were they dreams, but visions of the night;\nI saw, I knew their faces, and descried,\nIn perfect view, their hair with fillets tied;)\nI started from my couch; a clammy sweat\nOn all my limbs and shiv'ring body sate.\nTo heav'n I lift my hands with pious haste,\nAnd sacred incense in the flames I cast.\nThus to the gods their perfect honors done,\nMore cheerful, to my good old sire I run,\nAnd tell the pleasing news. In little space\nHe found his error of the double race;\nNot, as before he deem'd, deriv'd from Crete;\nNo more deluded by the doubtful seat:\nThen said: 'O son, turmoil'd in Trojan fate!\nSuch things as these Cassandra did relate.\nThis day revives within my mind what she\nForetold of Troy renew'd in Italy,\nAnd Latian lands; but who could then have thought\nThat Phrygian gods to Latium should be brought,\nOr who believ'd what mad Cassandra taught?\nNow let us go where Phoebus leads the way.'\n\"He said; and we with glad consent obey,\nForsake the seat, and, leaving few behind,\nWe spread our sails before the willing wind.\nNow from the sight of land our galleys move,\nWith only seas around and skies above;\nWhen o'er our heads descends a burst of rain,\nAnd night with sable clouds involves the main;\nThe ruffling winds the foamy billows raise;\nThe scatter'd fleet is forc'd to sev'ral ways;\nThe face of heav'n is ravish'd from our eyes,\nAnd in redoubled peals the roaring thunder flies.\nCast from our course, we wander in the dark.\nNo stars to guide, no point of land to mark.\nEv'n Palinurus no distinction found\nBetwixt the night and day; such darkness reign'd around.\nThree starless nights the doubtful navy strays,\nWithout distinction, and three sunless days;\nThe fourth renews the light, and, from our shrouds,\nWe view a rising land, like distant clouds;\nThe mountain-tops confirm the pleasing sight,\nAnd curling smoke ascending from their height.\nThe canvas falls; their oars the sailors ply;\nFrom the rude strokes the whirling waters fly.\nAt length I land upon the Strophades,\nSafe from the danger of the stormy seas.\nThose isles are compass'd by th' Ionian main,\nThe dire abode where the foul Harpies reign,\nForc'd by the winged warriors to repair\nTo their old homes, and leave their costly fare.\nMonsters more fierce offended Heav'n ne'er sent\nFrom hell's abyss, for human punishment:\nWith virgin faces, but with wombs obscene,\nFoul paunches, and with ordure still unclean;\nWith claws for hands, and looks for ever lean.\n\"We landed at the port, and soon beheld\nFat herds of oxen graze the flow'ry field,\nAnd wanton goats without a keeper stray'd.\nWith weapons we the welcome prey invade,\nThen call the gods for partners of our feast,\nAnd Jove himself, the chief invited guest.\nWe spread the tables on the greensward ground;\nWe feed with hunger, and the bowls go round;\nWhen from the mountain-tops, with hideous cry,\nAnd clatt'ring wings, the hungry Harpies fly;\nThey snatch the meat, defiling all they find,\nAnd, parting, leave a loathsome stench behind.\nClose by a hollow rock, again we sit,\nNew dress the dinner, and the beds refit,\nSecure from sight, beneath a pleasing shade,\nWhere tufted trees a native arbor made.\nAgain the holy fires on altars burn;\nAnd once again the rav'nous birds return,\nOr from the dark recesses where they lie,\nOr from another quarter of the sky;\nWith filthy claws their odious meal repeat,\nAnd mix their loathsome ordures with their meat.\nI bid my friends for vengeance then prepare,\nAnd with the hellish nation wage the war.\nThey, as commanded, for the fight provide,\nAnd in the grass their glitt'ring weapons hide;\nThen, when along the crooked shore we hear\nTheir clatt'ring wings, and saw the foes appear,\nMisenus sounds a charge: we take th' alarm,\nAnd our strong hands with swords and bucklers arm.\nIn this new kind of combat all employ\nTheir utmost force, the monsters to destroy.\nIn vain- the fated skin is proof to wounds;\nAnd from their plumes the shining sword rebounds.\nAt length rebuff'd, they leave their mangled prey,\nAnd their stretch'd pinions to the skies display.\nYet one remain'd- the messenger of Fate:\nHigh on a craggy cliff Celaeno sate,\nAnd thus her dismal errand did relate:\n'What! not contented with our oxen slain,\nDare you with Heav'n an impious war maintain,\nAnd drive the Harpies from their native reign?\nHeed therefore what I say; and keep in mind\nWhat Jove decrees, what Phoebus has design'd,\nAnd I, the Furies' queen, from both relate-\nYou seek th' Italian shores, foredoom'd by fate:\nTh' Italian shores are granted you to find,\nAnd a safe passage to the port assign'd.\nBut know, that ere your promis'd walls you build,\nMy curses shall severely be fulfill'd.\nFierce famine is your lot for this misdeed,\nReduc'd to grind the plates on which you feed.'\nShe said, and to the neighb'ring forest flew.\nOur courage fails us, and our fears renew.\nHopeless to win by war, to pray'rs we fall,\nAnd on th' offended Harpies humbly call,\nAnd whether gods or birds obscene they were,\nOur vows for pardon and for peace prefer.\nBut old Anchises, off'ring sacrifice,\nAnd lifting up to heav'n his hands and eyes,\nAdor'd the greater gods: 'Avert,' said he,\n'These omens; render vain this prophecy,\nAnd from th' impending curse a pious people free!'\n\"Thus having said, he bids us put to sea;\nWe loose from shore our haulsers, and obey,\nAnd soon with swelling sails pursue the wat'ry way.\nAmidst our course, Zacynthian woods appear;\nAnd next by rocky Neritos we steer:\nWe fly from Ithaca's detested shore,\nAnd curse the land which dire Ulysses bore.\nAt length Leucate's cloudy top appears,\nAnd the Sun's temple, which the sailor fears.\nResolv'd to breathe a while from labor past,\nOur crooked anchors from the prow we cast,\nAnd joyful to the little city haste.\nHere, safe beyond our hopes, our vows we pay\nTo Jove, the guide and patron of our way.\nThe customs of our country we pursue,\nAnd Trojan games on Actian shores renew.\nOur youth their naked limbs besmear with oil,\nAnd exercise the wrastlers' noble toil;\nPleas'd to have sail'd so long before the wind,\nAnd left so many Grecian towns behind.\nThe sun had now fulfill'd his annual course,\nAnd Boreas on the seas display'd his force:\nI fix'd upon the temple's lofty door\nThe brazen shield which vanquish'd Abas bore;\nThe verse beneath my name and action speaks:\n'These arms Aeneas took from conqu'ring Greeks.'\nThen I command to weigh; the seamen ply\nTheir sweeping oars; the smoking billows fly.\nThe sight of high Phaeacia soon we lost,\nAnd skimm'd along Epirus' rocky coast.\n\"Then to Chaonia's port our course we bend,\nAnd, landed, to Buthrotus' heights ascend.\nHere wondrous things were loudly blaz'd fame:\nHow Helenus reviv'd the Trojan name,\nAnd reign'd in Greece; that Priam's captive son\nSucceeded Pyrrhus in his bed and throne;\nAnd fair Andromache, restor'd by fate,\nOnce more was happy in a Trojan mate.\nI leave my galleys riding in the port,\nAnd long to see the new Dardanian court.\nBy chance, the mournful queen, before the gate,\nThen solemniz'd her former husband's fate.\nGreen altars, rais'd of turf, with gifts she crown'd,\nAnd sacred priests in order stand around,\nAnd thrice the name of hapless Hector sound.\nThe grove itself resembles Ida's wood;\nAnd Simois seem'd the well-dissembled flood.\nBut when at nearer distance she beheld\nMy shining armor and my Trojan shield,\nAstonish'd at the sight, the vital heat\nForsakes her limbs; her veins no longer beat:\nShe faints, she falls, and scarce recov'ring strength,\nThus, with a falt'ring tongue, she speaks at length:\n\"'Are you alive, O goddess-born ?' she said,\n'Or if a ghost, then where is Hector's shade?'\nAt this, she cast a loud and frightful cry.\nWith broken words I made this brief reply:\n'All of me that remains appears in sight;\nI live, if living be to loathe the light.\nNo phantom; but I drag a wretched life,\nMy fate resembling that of Hector's wife.\nWhat have you suffer'd since you lost your lord?\nBy what strange blessing are you now restor'd?\nStill are you Hector's? or is Hector fled,\nAnd his remembrance lost in Pyrrhus' bed?'\nWith eyes dejected, in a lowly tone,\nAfter a modest pause she thus begun:\n\"'O only happy maid of Priam's race,\nWhom death deliver'd from the foes' embrace!\nCommanded on Achilles' tomb to die,\nNot forc'd, like us, to hard captivity,\nOr in a haughty master's arms to lie.\nIn Grecian ships unhappy we were borne,\nEndur'd the victor's lust, sustain'd the scorn:\nThus I submitted to the lawless pride\nOf Pyrrhus, more a handmaid than a bride.\nCloy'd with possession, he forsook my bed,\nAnd Helen's lovely daughter sought to wed;\nThen me to Trojan Helenus resign'd,\nAnd his two slaves in equal marriage join'd;\nTill young Orestes, pierc'd with deep despair,\nAnd longing to redeem the promis'd fair,\nBefore Apollo's altar slew the ravisher.\nBy Pyrrhus' death the kingdom we regain'd:\nAt least one half with Helenus remain'd.\nOur part, from Chaon, he Chaonia calls,\nAnd names from Pergamus his rising walls.\nBut you, what fates have landed on our coast?\nWhat gods have sent you, or what storms have toss'd?\nDoes young Ascanius life and health enjoy,\nSav'd from the ruins of unhappy Troy?\nO tell me how his mother's loss he bears,\nWhat hopes are promis'd from his blooming years,\nHow much of Hector in his face appears?'\nShe spoke; and mix'd her speech with mournful cries,\nAnd fruitless tears came trickling from her eyes.\n\"At length her lord descends upon the plain,\nIn pomp, attended with a num'rous train;\nReceives his friends, and to the city leads,\nAnd tears of joy amidst his welcome sheds.\nProceeding on, another Troy I see,\nOr, in less compass, Troy's epitome.\nA riv'let by the name of Xanthus ran,\nAnd I embrace the Scaean gate again.\nMy friends in porticoes were entertain'd,\nAnd feasts and pleasures thro' the city reign'd.\nThe tables fill'd the spacious hall around,\nAnd golden bowls with sparkling wine were crown'd.\nTwo days we pass'd in mirth, till friendly gales,\nBlown from the supplied our swelling sails.\nThen to the royal seer I thus began:\n'O thou, who know'st, beyond the reach of man,\nThe laws of heav'n, and what the stars decree;\nWhom Phoebus taught unerring prophecy,\nFrom his own tripod, and his holy tree;\nSkill'd in the wing'd inhabitants of air,\nWhat auspices their notes and flights declare:\nO say- for all religious rites portend\nA happy voyage, and a prosp'rous end;\nAnd ev'ry power and omen of the sky\nDirect my course for destin'd Italy;\nBut only dire Celaeno, from the gods,\nA dismal famine fatally forebodes-\nO say what dangers I am first to shun,\nWhat toils vanquish, and what course to run.'\n\"The prophet first with sacrifice adores\nThe greater gods; their pardon then implores;\nUnbinds the fillet from his holy head;\nTo Phoebus, next, my trembling steps he led,\nFull of religious doubts and awful dread.\nThen, with his god possess'd, before the shrine,\nThese words proceeded from his mouth divine:\n'O goddess-born, (for Heav'n's appointed will,\nWith greater auspices of good than ill,\nForeshows thy voyage, and thy course directs;\nThy fates conspire, and Jove himself protects,)\nOf many things some few I shall explain,\nTeach thee to shun the dangers of the main,\nAnd how at length the promis'd shore to gain.\nThe rest the fates from Helenus conceal,\nAnd Juno's angry pow'r forbids to tell.\nFirst, then, that happy shore, that seems so nigh,\nWill far from your deluded wishes fly;\nLong tracts of seas divide your hopes from Italy:\nFor you must cruise along Sicilian shores,\nAnd stem the currents with your struggling oars;\nThen round th' Italian coast your navy steer;\nAnd, after this, to Circe's island veer;\nAnd, last, before your new foundations rise,\nMust pass the Stygian lake, and view the nether skies.\nNow mark the signs of future ease and rest,\nAnd bear them safely treasur'd in thy breast.\nWhen, in the shady shelter of a wood,\nAnd near the margin of a gentle flood,\nThou shalt behold a sow upon the ground,\nWith thirty sucking young encompass'd round;\nThe dam and offspring white as falling snow-\nThese on thy city shall their name bestow,\nAnd there shall end thy labors and thy woe.\nNor let the threaten'd famine fright thy mind,\nFor Phoebus will assist, and Fate the way will find.\nLet not thy course to that ill coast be bent,\nWhich fronts from far th' Epirian continent:\nThose parts are all by Grecian foes possess'd;\nThe salvage Locrians here the shores infest;\nThere fierce Idomeneus his city builds,\nAnd guards with arms the Salentinian fields;\nAnd on the mountain's brow Petilia stands,\nWhich Philoctetes with his troops commands.\nEv'n when thy fleet is landed on the shore,\nAnd priests with holy vows the gods adore,\nThen with a purple veil involve your eyes,\nLest hostile faces blast the sacrifice.\nThese rites and customs to the rest commend,\nThat to your pious race they may descend.\n \"'When, parted hence, the wind, that ready waits\nFor Sicily, shall bear you to the straits\nWhere proud Pelorus opes a wider way,\nTack to the larboard, and stand off to sea:\nVeer starboard sea and land. Th' Italian shore\nAnd fair Sicilia's coast were one, before\nAn earthquake caus'd the flaw: the roaring tides\nThe passage broke that land from land divides;\nAnd where the lands retir'd, the rushing ocean rides.\nDistinguish'd by the straits, on either hand,\nNow rising cities in long order stand,\nAnd fruitful fields: so much can time invade\nThe mold'ring work that beauteous Nature made.\nFar on the right, her dogs foul Scylla hides:\nCharybdis roaring on the left presides,\nAnd in her greedy whirlpool sucks the tides;\nThen spouts them from below: with fury driv'n,\nThe waves mount up and wash the face of heav'n.\nBut Scylla from her den, with open jaws,\nThe sinking vessel in her eddy draws,\nThen dashes on the rocks. A human face,\nAnd virgin bosom, hides her tail's disgrace:\nHer parts obscene below the waves descend,\nWith dogs inclos'd, and in a dolphin end.\n'T is safer, then, to bear aloof to sea,\nAnd coast Pachynus, tho' with more delay,\nThan once to view misshapen Scylla near,\nAnd the loud yell of wat'ry wolves to hear.\n\"'Besides, if faith to Helenus be due,\nAnd if prophetic Phoebus tell me true,\nDo not this precept of your friend forget,\nWhich therefore more than once I must repeat:\nAbove the rest, great Juno's name adore;\nPay vows to Juno; Juno's aid implore.\nLet gifts be to the mighty queen design'd,\nAnd mollify with pray'rs her haughty mind.\nThus, at the length, your passage shall be free,\nAnd you shall safe descend on Italy.\nArriv'd at Cumae, when you view the flood\nOf black Avernus, and the sounding wood,\nThe mad prophetic Sibyl you shall find,\nDark in a cave, and on a rock reclin'd.\nShe sings the fates, and, in her frantic fits,\nThe notes and names, inscrib'd, to leafs commits.\nWhat she commits to leafs, in order laid,\nBefore the cavern's entrance are display'd:\nUnmov'd they lie; but, if a blast of wind\nWithout, or vapors issue from behind,\nThe leafs are borne aloft in liquid air,\nAnd she resumes no more her museful care,\nNor gathers from the rocks her scatter'd verse,\nNor sets in order what the winds disperse.\nThus, many not succeeding, most upbraid\nThe madness of the visionary maid,\nAnd with loud curses leave the mystic shade.\n\"'Think it not loss of time a while to stay,\nTho' thy companions chide thy long delay;\nTho' summon'd to the seas, tho' pleasing gales\nInvite thy course, and stretch thy swelling sails:\nBut beg the sacred priestess to relate\nWith willing words, and not to write thy fate.\nThe fierce Italian people she will show,\nAnd all thy wars, and all thy future woe,\nAnd what thou may'st avoid, and what must undergo.\nShe shall direct thy course, instruct thy mind,\nAnd teach thee how the happy shores to find.\nThis is what Heav'n allows me to relate:\nNow part in peace; pursue thy better fate,\nAnd raise, by strength of arms, the Trojan state.'\n\"This when the priest with friendly voice declar'd,\nHe gave me license, and rich gifts prepar'd:\nBounteous of treasure, he supplied my want\nWith heavy gold, and polish'd elephant;\nThen Dodonaean caldrons put on board,\nAnd ev'ry ship with sums of silver stor'd.\nA trusty coat of mail to me he sent,\nThrice chain'd with gold, for use and ornament;\nThe helm of Pyrrhus added to the rest,\nThat flourish'd with a plume and waving crest.\nNor was my sire forgotten, nor my friends;\nAnd large recruits he to my navy sends:\nMen, horses, captains, arms, and warlike stores;\nSupplies new pilots, and new sweeping oars.\nMeantime, my sire commands to hoist our sails,\nLest we should lose the first auspicious gales.\n\"The prophet bless'd the parting crew, and last,\nWith words like these, his ancient friend embrac'd:\n'Old happy man, the care of gods above,\nWhom heav'nly Venus honor'd with her love,\nAnd twice preserv'd thy life, when Troy was lost,\nBehold from far the wish'd Ausonian coast:\nThere land; but take a larger compass round,\nFor that before is all forbidden ground.\nThe shore that Phoebus has design'd for you,\nAt farther distance lies, conceal'd from view.\nGo happy hence, and seek your new abodes,\nBlest in a son, and favor'd by the gods:\nFor I with useless words prolong your stay,\nWhen southern gales have summon'd you away.'\n\"Nor less the queen our parting thence deplor'd,\nNor was less bounteous than her Trojan lord.\nA noble present to my son she brought,\nA robe with flow'rs on golden tissue wrought,\nA phrygian vest; and loads with gifts beside\nOf precious texture, and of Asian pride.\n'Accept,' she said, 'these monuments of love,\nWhich in my youth with happier hands I wove:\nRegard these trifles for the giver's sake;\n'T is the last present Hector's wife can make.\nThou call'st my lost Astyanax to mind;\nIn thee his features and his form I find:\nHis eyes so sparkled with a lively flame;\nSuch were his motions; such was all his frame;\nAnd ah! had Heav'n so pleas'd, his years had been the same.'\n\"With tears I took my last adieu, and said:\n'Your fortune, happy pair, already made,\nLeaves you no farther wish. My diff'rent state,\nAvoiding one, incurs another fate.\nTo you a quiet seat the gods allow:\nYou have no shores to search, no seas to plow,\nNor fields of flying Italy to chase:\n(Deluding visions, and a vain embrace!)\nYou see another Simois, and enjoy\nThe labor of your hands, another Troy,\nWith better auspice than her ancient tow'rs,\nAnd less obnoxious to the Grecian pow'rs.\nIf e'er the gods, whom I with vows adore,\nConduct my steps to Tiber's happy shore;\nIf ever I ascend the Latian throne,\nAnd build a city I may call my own;\nAs both of us our birth from Troy derive,\nSo let our kindred lines in concord live,\nAnd both in acts of equal friendship strive.\nOur fortunes, good or bad, shall be the same:\nThe double Troy shall differ but in name;\nThat what we now begin may never end,\nBut long to late posterity descend.'\n\"Near the Ceraunian rocks our course we bore;\nThe shortest passage to th' Italian shore.\nNow had the sun withdrawn his radiant light,\nAnd hills were hid in dusky shades of night:\nWe land, and, on the bosom Of the ground,\nA safe retreat and a bare lodging found.\nClose by the shore we lay; the sailors keep\nTheir watches, and the rest securely sleep.\nThe night, proceeding on with silent pace,\nStood in her noon, and view'd with equal face\nHer steepy rise and her declining race.\nThen wakeful Palinurus rose, to spy\nThe face of heav'n, and the nocturnal sky;\nAnd listen'd ev'ry breath of air to try;\nObserves the stars, and notes their sliding course,\nThe Pleiads, Hyads, and their wat'ry force;\nAnd both the Bears is careful to behold,\nAnd bright Orion, arm'd with burnish'd gold.\nThen, when he saw no threat'ning tempest nigh,\nBut a sure promise of a settled sky,\nHe gave the sign to weigh; we break our sleep,\nForsake the pleasing shore, and plow the deep.\n\"And now the rising morn with rosy light\nAdorns the skies, and puts the stars to flight;\nWhen we from far, like bluish mists, descry\nThe hills, and then the plains, of Italy.\nAchates first pronounc'd the joyful sound;\nThen, 'Italy!' the cheerful crew rebound.\nMy sire Anchises crown'd a cup with wine,\nAnd, off'ring, thus implor'd the pow'rs divine:\n'Ye gods, presiding over lands and seas,\nAnd you who raging winds and waves appease,\nBreathe on our swelling sails a prosp'rous wind,\nAnd smooth our passage to the port assign'd!'\nThe gentle gales their flagging force renew,\nAnd now the happy harbor is in view.\nMinerva's temple then salutes our sight,\nPlac'd, as a landmark, on the mountain's height.\nWe furl our sails, and turn the prows to shore;\nThe curling waters round the galleys roar.\nThe land lies open to the raging east,\nThen, bending like a bow, with rocks compress'd,\nShuts out the storms; the winds and waves complain,\nAnd vent their malice on the cliffs in vain.\nThe port lies hid within; on either side\nTwo tow'ring rocks the narrow mouth divide.\nThe temple, which aloft we view'd before,\nTo distance flies, and seems to shun the shore.\nScarce landed, the first omens I beheld\nWere four white steeds that cropp'd the flow'ry field.\n'War, war is threaten'd from this foreign ground,'\nMy father cried, 'where warlike steeds are found.\nYet, since reclaim'd to chariots they submit,\nAnd bend to stubborn yokes, and champ the bit,\nPeace may succeed to war.' Our way we bend\nTo Pallas, and the sacred hill ascend;\nThere prostrate to the fierce virago pray,\nWhose temple was the landmark of our way.\nEach with a Phrygian mantle veil'd his head,\nAnd all commands of Helenus obey'd,\nAnd pious rites to Grecian Juno paid.\nThese dues perform'd, we stretch our sails, and stand\nTo sea, forsaking that suspected land.\n\"From hence Tarentum's bay appears in view,\nFor Hercules renown'd, if fame be true.\nJust opposite, Lacinian Juno stands;\nCaulonian tow'rs, and Scylacaean strands,\nFor shipwrecks fear'd. Mount Aetna thence we spy,\nKnown by the smoky flames which cloud the sky.\nFar off we hear the waves with surly sound\nInvade the rocks, the rocks their groans rebound.\nThe billows break upon the sounding strand,\nAnd roll the rising tide, impure with sand.\nThen thus Anchises, in experience old:\n''T is that Charybdis which the seer foretold,\nAnd those the promis'd rocks! Bear off to sea!'\nWith haste the frighted mariners obey.\nFirst Palinurus to the larboard veer'd;\nThen all the fleet by his example steer'd.\nTo heav'n aloft on ridgy waves we ride,\nThen down to hell descend, when they divide;\nAnd thrice our galleys knock'd the stony ground,\nAnd thrice the hollow rocks return'd the sound,\nAnd thrice we saw the stars, that stood with dews around.\nThe flagging winds forsook us, with the sun;\nAnd, wearied, on Cyclopian shores we run.\nThe port capacious, and secure from wind,\nIs to the foot of thund'ring Aetna join'd.\nBy turns a pitchy cloud she rolls on high;\nBy turns hot embers from her entrails fly,\nAnd flakes of mounting flames, that lick the sky.\nOft from her bowels massy rocks are thrown,\nAnd, shiver'd by the force, come piecemeal down.\nOft liquid lakes of burning sulphur flow,\nFed from the fiery springs that boil below.\nEnceladus, they say, transfix'd by Jove,\nWith blasted limbs came tumbling from above;\nAnd, where he fell, th' avenging father drew\nThis flaming hill, and on his body threw.\nAs often as he turns his weary sides,\nHe shakes the solid isle, and smoke the heavens hides.\nIn shady woods we pass the tedious night,\nWhere bellowing sounds and groans our souls affright,\nOf which no cause is offer'd to the sight;\nFor not one star was kindled in the sky,\nNor could the moon her borrow'd light supply;\nFor misty clouds involv'd the firmament,\nThe stars were muffled, and the moon was pent.\n\"Scarce had the rising sun the day reveal'd,\nScarce had his heat the pearly dews dispell'd,\nWhen from the woods there bolts, before our sight,\nSomewhat betwixt a mortal and a sprite,\nSo thin, so ghastly meager, and so wan,\nSo bare of flesh, he scarce resembled man.\nThis thing, all tatter'd, seem'd from far t' implore\nOur pious aid, and pointed to the shore.\nWe look behind, then view his shaggy beard;\nHis clothes were tagg'd with thorns, and filth his limbs\nbesmear'd;\nThe rest, in mien, in habit, and in face,\nAppear'd a Greek, and such indeed he was.\nHe cast on us, from far, a frightful view,\nWhom soon for Trojans and for foes he knew;\nStood still, and paus'd; then all at once began\nTo stretch his limbs, and trembled as he ran.\nSoon as approach'd, upon his knees he falls,\nAnd thus with tears and sighs for pity calls:\n'Now, by the pow'rs above, and what we share\nFrom Nature's common gift, this vital air,\nO Trojans, take me hence! I beg no more;\nBut bear me far from this unhappy shore.\n'T is true, I am a Greek, and farther own,\nAmong your foes besieg'd th' imperial town.\nFor such demerits if my death be due,\nNo more for this abandon'd life I sue;\nThis only favor let my tears obtain,\nTo throw me headlong in the rapid main:\nSince nothing more than death my crime demands,\nI die content, to die by human hands.'\nHe said, and on his knees my knees embrac'd:\nI bade him boldly tell his fortune past,\nHis present state, his lineage, and his name,\nTh' occasion of his fears, and whence he came.\nThe good Anchises rais'd him with his hand;\nWho, thus encourag'd, answer'd our demand:\n'From Ithaca, my native soil, I came\nTo Troy; and Achaemenides my name.\nMe my poor father with Ulysses sent;\n(O had I stay'd, with poverty content!)\nBut, fearful for themselves, my countrymen\nLeft me forsaken in the Cyclops' den.\nThe cave, tho' large, was dark; the dismal floor\nWas pav'd with mangled limbs and putrid gore.\nOur monstrous host, of more than human size,\nErects his head, and stares within the skies;\nBellowing his voice, and horrid is his hue.\nYe gods, remove this plague from mortal view!\nThe joints of slaughter'd wretches are his food;\nAnd for his wine he quaffs the streaming blood.\nThese eyes beheld, when with his spacious hand\nHe seiz'd two captives of our Grecian band;\nStretch'd on his back, he dash'd against the stones\nTheir broken bodies, and their crackling bones:\nWith spouting blood the purple pavement swims,\nWhile the dire glutton grinds the trembling limbs.\n\"'Not unreveng'd Ulysses bore their fate,\nNor thoughtless of his own unhappy state;\nFor, gorg'd with flesh, and drunk with human wine\nWhile fast asleep the giant lay supine,\nSnoring aloud, and belching from his maw\nHis indigested foam, and morsels raw;\nWe pray; we cast the lots, and then surround\nThe monstrous body, stretch'd along the ground:\nEach, as he could approach him, lends a hand\nTo bore his eyeball with a flaming brand.\nBeneath his frowning forehead lay his eye;\nFor only one did the vast frame supply-\nBut that a globe so large, his front it fill'd,\nLike the sun's disk or like a Grecian shield.\nThe stroke succeeds; and down the pupil bends:\nThis vengeance follow'd for our slaughter'd friends.\nBut haste, unhappy wretches, haste to fly!\nYour cables cut, and on your oars rely!\nSuch, and so vast as Polypheme appears,\nA hundred more this hated island bears:\nLike him, in caves they shut their woolly sheep;\nLike him, their herds on tops of mountains keep;\nLike him, with mighty strides, they stalk from steep to steep\nAnd now three moons their sharpen'd horns renew,\nSince thus, in woods and wilds, obscure from view,\nI drag my loathsome days with mortal fright,\nAnd in deserted caverns lodge by night;\nOft from the rocks a dreadful prospect see\nOf the huge Cyclops, like a walking tree:\nFrom far I hear his thund'ring voice resound,\nAnd trampling feet that shake the solid ground.\nCornels and salvage berries of the wood,\nAnd roots and herbs, have been my meager food.\nWhile all around my longing eyes I cast,\nI saw your happy ships appear at last.\nOn those I fix'd my hopes, to these I run;\n'T is all I ask, this cruel race to shun;\nWhat other death you please, yourselves bestow.'\n\"Scarce had he said, when on the mountain's brow\nWe saw the giant shepherd stalk before\nHis following flock, and leading to the shore:\nA monstrous bulk, deform'd, depriv'd of sight;\nHis staff a trunk of pine, to guide his steps aright.\nHis pond'rous whistle from his neck descends;\nHis woolly care their pensive lord attends:\nThis only solace his hard fortune sends.\nSoon as he reach'd the shore and touch'd the waves,\nFrom his bor'd eye the gutt'ring blood he laves:\nHe gnash'd his teeth, and groan'd; thro' seas he strides,\nAnd scarce the topmost billows touch'd his sides.\n\"Seiz'd with a sudden fear, we run to sea,\nThe cables cut, and silent haste away;\nThe well-deserving stranger entertain;\nThen, buckling to the work, our oars divide the main.\nThe giant harken'd to the dashing sound:\nBut, when our vessels out of reach he found,\nHe strided onward, and in vain essay'd\nTh' Ionian deep, and durst no farther wade.\nWith that he roar'd aloud: the dreadful cry\nShakes earth, and air, and seas; the billows fly\nBefore the bellowing noise to distant Italy.\nThe neigh'ring Aetna trembling all around,\nThe winding caverns echo to the sound.\nHis brother Cyclops hear the yelling roar,\nAnd, rushing down the mountains, crowd the shore.\nWe saw their stern distorted looks, from far,\nAnd one-eyed glance, that vainly threaten'd war:\nA dreadful council, with their heads on high;\n(The misty clouds about their foreheads fly;)\nNot yielding to the tow'ring tree of Jove,\nOr tallest cypress of Diana's grove.\nNew pangs of mortal fear our minds assail;\nWe tug at ev'ry oar, and hoist up ev'ry sail,\nAnd take th' advantage of the friendly gale.\nForewarn'd by Helenus, we strive to shun\nCharybdis' gulf, nor dare to Scylla run.\nAn equal fate on either side appears:\nWe, tacking to the left, are free from fears;\nFor, from Pelorus' point, the North arose,\nAnd drove us back where swift Pantagias flows.\nHis rocky mouth we pass, and make our way\nBy Thapsus and Megara's winding bay.\nThis passage Achaemenides had shown,\nTracing the course which he before had run.\n\"Right o'er against Plemmyrium's wat'ry strand,\nThere lies an isle once call'd th' Ortygian land.\nAlpheus, as old fame reports, has found\nFrom Greece a secret passage under ground,\nBy love to beauteous Arethusa led;\nAnd, mingling here, they roll in the same sacred bed.\nAs Helenus enjoin'd, we next adore\nDiana's name, protectress of the shore.\nWith prosp'rous gales we pass the quiet sounds\nOf still Elorus, and his fruitful bounds.\nThen, doubling Cape Pachynus, we survey\nThe rocky shore extended to the sea.\nThe town of Camarine from far we see,\nAnd fenny lake, undrain'd by fate's decree.\nIn sight of the Geloan fields we pass,\nAnd the large walls, where mighty Gela was;\nThen Agragas, with lofty summits crown'd,\nLong for the race of warlike steeds renown'd.\nWe pass'd Selinus, and the palmy land,\nAnd widely shun the Lilybaean strand,\nUnsafe, for secret rocks and moving sand.\nAt length on shore the weary fleet arriv'd,\nWhich Drepanum's unhappy port receiv'd.\nHere, after endless labors, often toss'd\nBy raging storms, and driv'n on ev'ry coast,\nMy dear, dear father, spent with age, I lost:\nEase of my cares, and solace of my pain,\nSav'd thro' a thousand toils, but sav'd in vain\nThe prophet, who my future woes reveal'd,\nYet this, the greatest and the worst, conceal'd;\nAnd dire Celaeno, whose foreboding skill\nDenounc'd all else, was silent of the ill.\nThis my last labor was. Some friendly god\nFrom thence convey'd us to your blest abode.\"\nThus, to the list'ning queen, the royal guest\nHis wand'ring course and all his toils express'd;\nAnd here concluding, he retir'd to rest.\nBOOK IV\nBut anxious cares already seiz'd the queen:\nShe fed within her veins a flame unseen;\nThe hero's valor, acts, and birth inspire\nHer soul with love, and fan the secret fire.\nHis words, his looks, imprinted in her heart,\nImprove the passion, and increase the smart.\nNow, when the purple morn had chas'd away\nThe dewy shadows, and restor'd the day,\nHer sister first with early care she sought,\nAnd thus in mournful accents eas'd her thought:\n\"My dearest Anna, what new dreams affright\nMy lab'ring soul! what visions of the night\nDisturb my quiet, and distract my breast\nWith strange ideas of our Trojan guest!\nHis worth, his actions, and majestic air,\nA man descended from the gods declare.\nFear ever argues a degenerate kind;\nHis birth is well asserted by his mind.\nThen, what he suffer'd, when by Fate betray'd!\nWhat brave attempts for falling Troy he made!\nSuch were his looks, so gracefully he spoke,\nThat, were I not resolv'd against the yoke\nOf hapless marriage, never to be curst\nWith second love, so fatal was my first,\nTo this one error I might yield again;\nFor, since Sichaeus was untimely slain,\nThis only man is able to subvert\nThe fix'd foundations of my stubborn heart.\nAnd, to confess my frailty, to my shame,\nSomewhat I find within, if not the same,\nToo like the sparkles of my former flame.\nBut first let yawning earth a passage rend,\nAnd let me thro' the dark abyss descend;\nFirst let avenging Jove, with flames from high,\nDrive down this body to the nether sky,\nCondemn'd with ghosts in endless night to lie,\nBefore I break the plighted faith I gave!\nNo! he who had my vows shall ever have;\nFor, whom I lov'd on earth, I worship in the grave.\"\nShe said: the tears ran gushing from her eyes,\nAnd stopp'd her speech. Her sister thus replies:\n\"O dearer than the vital air I breathe,\nWill you to grief your blooming years bequeath,\nCondemn'd to waste in woes your lonely life,\nWithout the joys of mother or of wife?\nThink you these tears, this pompous train of woe,\nAre known or valued by the ghosts below?\nI grant that, while your sorrows yet were green,\nIt well became a woman, and a queen,\nThe vows of Tyrian princes to neglect,\nTo scorn Hyarbas, and his love reject,\nWith all the Libyan lords of mighty name;\nBut will you fight against a pleasing flame!\nThis little spot of land, which Heav'n bestows,\nOn ev'ry side is hemm'd with warlike foes;\nGaetulian cities here are spread around,\nAnd fierce Numidians there your frontiers bound;\nHere lies a barren waste of thirsty land,\nAnd there the Syrtes raise the moving sand;\nBarcaean troops besiege the narrow shore,\nAnd from the sea Pygmalion threatens more.\nPropitious Heav'n, and gracious Juno, lead\nThis wand'ring navy to your needful aid:\nHow will your empire spread, your city rise,\nFrom such a union, and with such allies?\nImplore the favor of the pow'rs above,\nAnd leave the conduct of the rest to love.\nContinue still your hospitable way,\nAnd still invent occasions of their stay,\nTill storms and winter winds shall cease to threat,\nAnd planks and oars repair their shatter'd fleet.\"\nThese words, which from a friend and sister came,\nWith ease resolv'd the scruples of her fame,\nAnd added fury to the kindled flame.\nInspir'd with hope, the project they pursue;\nOn ev'ry altar sacrifice renew:\nA chosen ewe of two years old they pay\nTo Ceres, Bacchus, and the God of Day;\nPreferring Juno's pow'r, for Juno ties\nThe nuptial knot and makes the marriage joys.\nThe beauteous queen before her altar stands,\nAnd holds the golden goblet in her hands.\nA milk-white heifer she with flow'rs adorns,\nAnd pours the ruddy wine betwixt her horns;\nAnd, while the priests with pray'r the gods invoke,\nShe feeds their altars with Sabaean smoke,\nWith hourly care the sacrifice renews,\nAnd anxiously the panting entrails views.\nWhat priestly rites, alas! what pious art,\nWhat vows avail to cure a bleeding heart!\nA gentle fire she feeds within her veins,\nWhere the soft god secure in silence reigns.\nSick with desire, and seeking him she loves,\nFrom street to street the raving Dido roves.\nSo when the watchful shepherd, from the blind,\nWounds with a random shaft the careless hind,\nDistracted with her pain she flies the woods,\nBounds o'er the lawn, and seeks the silent floods,\nWith fruitless care; for still the fatal dart\nSticks in her side, and rankles in her heart.\nAnd now she leads the Trojan chief along\nThe lofty walls, amidst the busy throng;\nDisplays her Tyrian wealth, and rising town,\nWhich love, without his labor, makes his own.\nThis pomp she shows, to tempt her wand'ring guest;\nHer falt'ring tongue forbids to speak the rest.\nWhen day declines, and feasts renew the night,\nStill on his face she feeds her famish'd sight;\nShe longs again to hear the prince relate\nHis own adventures and the Trojan fate.\nHe tells it o'er and o'er; but still in vain,\nFor still she begs to hear it once again.\nThe hearer on the speaker's mouth depends,\nAnd thus the tragic story never ends.\nThen, when they part, when Phoebe's paler light\nWithdraws, and falling stars to sleep invite,\nShe last remains, when ev'ry guest is gone,\nSits on the bed he press'd, and sighs alone;\nAbsent, her absent hero sees and hears;\nOr in her bosom young Ascanius bears,\nAnd seeks the father's image in the child,\nIf love by likeness might be so beguil'd.\nMeantime the rising tow'rs are at a stand;\nNo labors exercise the youthful band,\nNor use of arts, nor toils of arms they know;\nThe mole is left unfinish'd to the foe;\nThe mounds, the works, the walls, neglected lie,\nShort of their promis'd heighth, that seem'd to threat the sky,\nBut when imperial Juno, from above,\nSaw Dido fetter'd in the chains of love,\nHot with the venom which her veins inflam'd,\nAnd by no sense of shame to be reclaim'd,\nWith soothing words to Venus she begun:\n\"High praises, endless honors, you have won,\nAnd mighty trophies, with your worthy son!\nTwo gods a silly woman have undone!\nNor am I ignorant, you both suspect\nThis rising city, which my hands erect:\nBut shall celestial discord never cease?\n'T is better ended in a lasting peace.\nYou stand possess'd of all your soul desir'd:\nPoor Dido with consuming love is fir'd.\nYour Trojan with my Tyrian let us join;\nSo Dido shall be yours, Aeneas mine:\nOne common kingdom, one united line.\nEliza shall a Dardan lord obey,\nAnd lofty Carthage for a dow'r convey.\"\nThen Venus, who her hidden fraud descried,\nWhich would the scepter of the world misguide\nTo Libyan shores, thus artfully replied:\n\"Who, but a fool, would wars with Juno choose,\nAnd such alliance and such gifts refuse,\nIf Fortune with our joint desires comply?\nThe doubt is all from Jove and destiny;\nLest he forbid, with absolute command,\nTo mix the people in one common land-\nOr will the Trojan and the Tyrian line\nIn lasting leagues and sure succession join?\nBut you, the partner of his bed and throne,\nMay move his mind; my wishes are your own.\"\n\"Mine,\" said imperial Juno, \"be the care;\nTime urges, now, to perfect this affair:\nAttend my counsel, and the secret share.\nWhen next the Sun his rising light displays,\nAnd gilds the world below with purple rays,\nThe queen, Aeneas, and the Tyrian court\nShall to the shady woods, for sylvan game, resort.\nThere, while the huntsmen pitch their toils around,\nAnd cheerful horns from side to side resound,\nA pitchy cloud shall cover all the plain\nWith hail, and thunder, and tempestuous rain;\nThe fearful train shall take their speedy flight,\nDispers'd, and all involv'd in gloomy night;\nOne cave a grateful shelter shall afford\nTo the fair princess and the Trojan lord.\nI will myself the bridal bed prepare,\nIf you, to bless the nuptials, will be there:\nSo shall their loves be crown'd with due delights,\nAnd Hymen shall be present at the rites.\"\nThe Queen of Love consents, and closely smiles\nAt her vain project, and discover'd wiles.\nThe rosy morn was risen from the main,\nAnd horns and hounds awake the princely train:\nThey issue early thro' the city gate,\nWhere the more wakeful huntsmen ready wait,\nWith nets, and toils, and darts, beside the force\nOf Spartan dogs, and swift Massylian horse.\nThe Tyrian peers and officers of state\nFor the slow queen in antechambers wait;\nHer lofty courser, in the court below,\nWho his majestic rider seems to know,\nProud of his purple trappings, paws the ground,\nAnd champs the golden bit, and spreads the foam around.\nThe queen at length appears; on either hand\nThe brawny guards in martial order stand.\nA flow'r'd simar with golden fringe she wore,\nAnd at her back a golden quiver bore;\nHer flowing hair a golden caul restrains,\nA golden clasp the Tyrian robe sustains.\nThen young Ascanius, with a sprightly grace,\nLeads on the Trojan youth to view the chase.\nBut far above the rest in beauty shines\nThe great Aeneas, the troop he joins;\nLike fair Apollo, when he leaves the frost\nOf wint'ry Xanthus, and the Lycian coast,\nWhen to his native Delos he resorts,\nOrdains the dances, and renews the sports;\nWhere painted Scythians, mix'd with Cretan bands,\nBefore the joyful altars join their hands:\nHimself, on Cynthus walking, sees below\nThe merry madness of the sacred show.\nGreen wreaths of bays his length of hair inclose;\nA golden fillet binds his awful brows;\nHis quiver sounds: not less the prince is seen\nIn manly presence, or in lofty mien.\nNow had they reach'd the hills, and storm'd the seat\nOf salvage beasts, in dens, their last retreat.\nThe cry pursues the mountain goats: they bound\nFrom rock to rock, and keep the craggy ground;\nQuite otherwise the stags, a trembling train,\nIn herds unsingled, scour the dusty plain,\nAnd a long chase in open view maintain.\nThe glad Ascanius, as his courser guides,\nSpurs thro' the vale, and these and those outrides.\nHis horse's flanks and sides are forc'd to feel\nThe clanking lash, and goring of the steel.\nImpatiently he views the feeble prey,\nWishing some nobler beast to cross his way,\nAnd rather would the tusky boar attend,\nOr see the tawny lion downward bend.\nMeantime, the gath'ring clouds obscure the skies:\nFrom pole to pole the forky lightning flies;\nThe rattling thunders roll; and Juno pours\nA wintry deluge down, and sounding show'rs.\nThe company, dispers'd, to converts ride,\nAnd seek the homely cots, or mountain's hollow side.\nThe rapid rains, descending from the hills,\nTo rolling torrents raise the creeping rills.\nThe queen and prince, as love or fortune guides,\nOne common cavern in her bosom hides.\nThen first the trembling earth the signal gave,\nAnd flashing fires enlighten all the cave;\nHell from below, and Juno from above,\nAnd howling nymphs, were conscious of their love.\nFrom this ill-omen'd hour in time arose\nDebate and death, and all succeeding woes.\nThe queen, whom sense of honor could not move,\nNo longer made a secret of her love,\nBut call'd it marriage, by that specious name\nTo veil the crime and sanctify the shame.\nThe loud report thro' Libyan cities goes.\nFame, the great ill, from small beginnings grows:\nSwift from the first; and ev'ry moment brings\nNew vigor to her flights, new pinions to her wings.\nSoon grows the pigmy to gigantic size;\nHer feet on earth, her forehead in the skies.\nInrag'd against the gods, revengeful Earth\nProduc'd her last of the Titanian birth.\nSwift is her walk, more swift her winged haste:\nA monstrous phantom, horrible and vast.\nAs many plumes as raise her lofty flight,\nSo many piercing eyes inlarge her sight;\nMillions of opening mouths to Fame belong,\nAnd ev'ry mouth is furnish'd with a tongue,\nAnd round with list'ning ears the flying plague is hung.\nShe fills the peaceful universe with cries;\nNo slumbers ever close her wakeful eyes;\nBy day, from lofty tow'rs her head she shews,\nAnd spreads thro' trembling crowds disastrous news;\nWith court informers haunts, and royal spies;\nThings done relates, not done she feigns, and mingles truth with\nlies.\nTalk is her business, and her chief delight\nTo tell of prodigies and cause affright.\nShe fills the people's ears with Dido's name,\nWho, lost to honor and the sense of shame,\nAdmits into her throne and nuptial bed\nA wand'ring guest, who from his country fled:\nWhole days with him she passes in delights,\nAnd wastes in luxury long winter nights,\nForgetful of her fame and royal trust,\nDissolv'd in ease, abandon'd to her lust.\nThe goddess widely spreads the loud report,\nAnd flies at length to King Hyarba's court.\nWhen first possess'd with this unwelcome news\nWhom did he not of men and gods accuse?\nThis prince, from ravish'd Garamantis born,\nA hundred temples did with spoils adorn,\nIn Ammon's honor, his celestial sire;\nA hundred altars fed with wakeful fire;\nAnd, thro' his vast dominions, priests ordain'd,\nWhose watchful care these holy rites maintain'd.\nThe gates and columns were with garlands crown'd,\nAnd blood of victim beasts enrich'd the ground.\nHe, when he heard a fugitive could move\nThe Tyrian princess, who disdain'd his love,\nHis breast with fury burn'd, his eyes with fire,\nMad with despair, impatient with desire;\nThen on the sacred altars pouring wine,\nHe thus with pray'rs implor'd his sire divine:\n\"Great Jove! propitious to the Moorish race,\nWho feast on painted beds, with off'rings grace\nThy temples, and adore thy pow'r divine\nWith blood of victims, and with sparkling wine,\nSeest thou not this? or do we fear in vain\nThy boasted thunder, and thy thoughtless reign?\nDo thy broad hands the forky lightnings lance?\nThine are the bolts, or the blind work of chance?\nA wand'ring woman builds, within our state,\nA little town, bought at an easy rate;\nShe pays me homage, and my grants allow\nA narrow space of Libyan lands to plow;\nYet, scorning me, by passion blindly led,\nAdmits a banish'd Trojan to her bed!\nAnd now this other Paris, with his train\nOf conquer'd cowards, must in Afric reign!\n(Whom, what they are, their looks and garb confess,\nTheir locks with oil perfum'd, their Lydian dress.)\nHe takes the spoil, enjoys the princely dame;\nAnd I, rejected I, adore an empty name.\"\nHis vows, in haughty terms, he thus preferr'd,\nAnd held his altar's horns. The mighty Thund'rer heard;\nThen cast his eyes on Carthage, where he found\nThe lustful pair in lawless pleasure drown'd,\nLost in their loves, insensible of shame,\nAnd both forgetful of their better fame.\nHe calls Cyllenius, and the god attends,\nBy whom his menacing command he sends:\n\"Go, mount the western winds, and cleave the sky;\nThen, with a swift descent, to Carthage fly:\nThere find the Trojan chief, who wastes his days\nIn slothful not and inglorious ease,\nNor minds the future city, giv'n by fate.\nTo him this message from my mouth relate:\n'Not so fair Venus hop'd, when twice she won\nThy life with pray'rs, nor promis'd such a son.\nHers was a hero, destin'd to command\nA martial race, and rule the Latian land,\nWho should his ancient line from Teucer draw,\nAnd on the conquer'd world impose the law.'\nIf glory cannot move a mind so mean,\nNor future praise from fading pleasure wean,\nYet why should he defraud his son of fame,\nAnd grudge the Romans their immortal name!\nWhat are his vain designs! what hopes he more\nFrom his long ling'ring on a hostile shore,\nRegardless to redeem his honor lost,\nAnd for his race to gain th' Ausonian coast!\nBid him with speed the Tyrian court forsake;\nWith this command the slumb'ring warrior wake.\"\nHermes obeys; with golden pinions binds\nHis flying feet, and mounts the western winds:\nAnd, whether o'er the seas or earth he flies,\nWith rapid force they bear him down the skies.\nBut first he grasps within his awful hand\nThe mark of sov'reign pow'r, his magic wand;\nWith this he draws the ghosts from hollow graves;\nWith this he drives them down the Stygian waves;\nWith this he seals in sleep the wakeful sight,\nAnd eyes, tho' clos'd in death, restores to light.\nThus arm'd, the god begins his airy race,\nAnd drives the racking clouds along the liquid space;\nNow sees the tops of Atlas, as he flies,\nWhose brawny back supports the starry skies;\nAtlas, whose head, with piny forests crown'd,\nIs beaten by the winds, with foggy vapors bound.\nSnows hide his shoulders; from beneath his chin\nThe founts of rolling streams their race begin;\nA beard of ice on his large breast depends.\nHere, pois'd upon his wings, the god descends:\nThen, rested thus, he from the tow'ring height\nPlung'd downward, with precipitated flight,\nLights on the seas, and skims along the flood.\nAs waterfowl, who seek their fishy food,\nLess, and yet less, to distant prospect show;\nBy turns they dance aloft, and dive below:\nLike these, the steerage of his wings he plies,\nAnd near the surface of the water flies,\nTill, having pass'd the seas, and cross'd the sands,\nHe clos'd his wings, and stoop'd on Libyan lands:\nWhere shepherds once were hous'd in homely sheds,\nNow tow'rs within the clouds advance their heads.\nArriving there, he found the Trojan prince\nNew ramparts raising for the town's defense.\nA purple scarf, with gold embroider'd o'er,\n(Queen Dido's gift,) about his waist he wore;\nA sword, with glitt'ring gems diversified,\nFor ornament, not use, hung idly by his side.\nThen thus, with winged words, the god began,\nResuming his own shape: \"Degenerate man,\nThou woman's property, what mak'st thou here,\nThese foreign walls and Tyrian tow'rs to rear,\nForgetful of thy own? All-pow'rful Jove,\nWho sways the world below and heav'n above,\nHas sent me down with this severe command:\nWhat means thy ling'ring in the Libyan land?\nIf glory cannot move a mind so mean,\nNor future praise from flitting pleasure wean,\nRegard the fortunes of thy rising heir:\nThe promis'd crown let young Ascanius wear,\nTo whom th' Ausonian scepter, and the state\nOf Rome's imperial name is ow'd by fate.\"\nSo spoke the god; and, speaking, took his flight,\nInvolv'd in clouds, and vanish'd out of sight.\nThe pious prince was seiz'd with sudden fear;\nMute was his tongue, and upright stood his hair.\nRevolving in his mind the stern command,\nHe longs to fly, and loathes the charming land.\nWhat should he say? or how should he begin?\nWhat course, alas! remains to steer between\nTh' offended lover and the pow'rful queen?\nThis way and that he turns his anxious mind,\nAnd all expedients tries, and none can find.\nFix'd on the deed, but doubtful of the means,\nAfter long thought, to this advice he leans:\nThree chiefs he calls, commands them to repair\nThe fleet, and ship their men with silent care;\nSome plausible pretense he bids them find,\nTo color what in secret he design'd.\nHimself, meantime, the softest hours would choose,\nBefore the love-sick lady heard the news;\nAnd move her tender mind, by slow degrees,\nTo suffer what the sov'reign pow'r decrees:\nJove will inspire him, when, and what to say.\nThey hear with pleasure, and with haste obey.\nBut soon the queen perceives the thin disguise:\n(What arts can blind a jealous woman's eyes!)\nShe was the first to find the secret fraud,\nBefore the fatal news was blaz'd abroad.\nLove the first motions of the lover hears,\nQuick to presage, and ev'n in safety fears.\nNor impious Fame was wanting to report\nThe ships repair'd, the Trojans' thick resort,\nAnd purpose to forsake the Tyrian court.\nFrantic with fear, impatient of the wound,\nAnd impotent of mind, she roves the city round.\nLess wild the Bacchanalian dames appear,\nWhen, from afar, their nightly god they hear,\nAnd howl about the hills, and shake the wreathy spear.\nAt length she finds the dear perfidious man;\nPrevents his form'd excuse, and thus began:\n\"Base and ungrateful! could you hope to fly,\nAnd undiscover'd scape a lover's eye?\nNor could my kindness your compassion move.\nNor plighted vows, nor dearer bands of love?\nOr is the death of a despairing queen\nNot worth preventing, tho' too well foreseen?\nEv'n when the wintry winds command your stay,\nYou dare the tempests, and defy the sea.\nFalse as you are, suppose you were not bound\nTo lands unknown, and foreign coasts to sound;\nWere Troy restor'd, and Priam's happy reign,\nNow durst you tempt, for Troy, the raging main?\nSee whom you fly! am I the foe you shun?\nNow, by those holy vows, so late begun,\nBy this right hand, (since I have nothing more\nTo challenge, but the faith you gave before;)\nI beg you by these tears too truly shed,\nBy the new pleasures of our nuptial bed;\nIf ever Dido, when you most were kind,\nWere pleasing in your eyes, or touch'd your mind;\nBy these my pray'rs, if pray'rs may yet have place,\nPity the fortunes of a falling race.\nFor you I have provok'd a tyrant's hate,\nIncens'd the Libyan and the Tyrian state;\nFor you alone I suffer in my fame,\nBereft of honor, and expos'd to shame.\nWhom have I now to trust, ungrateful guest?\n(That only name remains of all the rest!)\nWhat have I left? or whither can I fly?\nMust I attend Pygmalion's cruelty,\nOr till Hyarba shall in triumph lead\nA queen that proudly scorn'd his proffer'd bed?\nHad you deferr'd, at least, your hasty flight,\nAnd left behind some pledge of our delight,\nSome babe to bless the mother's mournful sight,\nSome young Aeneas, to supply your place,\nWhose features might express his father's face;\nI should not then complain to live bereft\nOf all my husband, or be wholly left.\"\nHere paus'd the queen. Unmov'd he holds his eyes,\nBy Jove's command; nor suffer'd love to rise,\nTho' heaving in his heart; and thus at length replies:\n\"Fair queen, you never can enough repeat\nYour boundless favors, or I own my debt;\nNor can my mind forget Eliza's name,\nWhile vital breath inspires this mortal frame.\nThis only let me speak in my defense:\nI never hop'd a secret flight from hence,\nMuch less pretended to the lawful claim\nOf sacred nuptials, or a husband's name.\nFor, if indulgent Heav'n would leave me free,\nAnd not submit my life to fate's decree,\nMy choice would lead me to the Trojan shore,\nThose relics to review, their dust adore,\nAnd Priam's ruin'd palace to restore.\nBut now the Delphian oracle commands,\nAnd fate invites me to the Latian lands.\nThat is the promis'd place to which I steer,\nAnd all my vows are terminated there.\nIf you, a Tyrian, and a stranger born,\nWith walls and tow'rs a Libyan town adorn,\nWhy may not we- like you, a foreign race-\nLike you, seek shelter in a foreign place?\nAs often as the night obscures the skies\nWith humid shades, or twinkling stars arise,\nAnchises' angry ghost in dreams appears,\nChides my delay, and fills my soul with fears;\nAnd young Ascanius justly may complain\nOf his defrauded and destin'd reign.\nEv'n now the herald of the gods appear'd:\nWaking I saw him, and his message heard.\nFrom Jove he came commission'd, heav'nly bright\nWith radiant beams, and manifest to sight\n(The sender and the sent I both attest)\nThese walls he enter'd, and those words express'd.\nFair queen, oppose not what the gods command;\nForc'd by my fate, I leave your happy land.\"\nThus while he spoke, already she began,\nWith sparkling eyes, to view the guilty man;\nFrom head to foot survey'd his person o'er,\nNor longer these outrageous threats forebore:\n\"False as thou art, and, more than false, forsworn!\nNot sprung from noble blood, nor goddess-born,\nBut hewn from harden'd entrails of a rock!\nAnd rough Hyrcanian tigers gave thee suck!\nWhy should I fawn? what have I worse to fear?\nDid he once look, or lent a list'ning ear,\nSigh'd when I sobb'd, or shed one kindly tear?-\nAll symptoms of a base ungrateful mind,\nSo foul, that, which is worse, 'tis hard to find.\nOf man's injustice why should I complain?\nThe gods, and Jove himself, behold in vain\nTriumphant treason; yet no thunder flies,\nNor Juno views my wrongs with equal eyes;\nFaithless is earth, and faithless are the skies!\nJustice is fled, and Truth is now no more!\nI sav'd the shipwrack'd exile on my shore;\nWith needful food his hungry Trojans fed;\nI took the traitor to my throne and bed:\nFool that I was- 't is little to repeat\nThe rest- I stor'd and rigg'd his ruin'd fleet.\nI rave, I rave! A god's command he pleads,\nAnd makes Heav'n accessary to his deeds.\nNow Lycian lots, and now the Delian god,\nNow Hermes is employ'd from Jove's abode,\nTo warn him hence; as if the peaceful state\nOf heav'nly pow'rs were touch'd with human fate!\nBut go! thy flight no longer I detain-\nGo seek thy promis'd kingdom thro' the main!\nYet, if the heav'ns will hear my pious vow,\nThe faithless waves, not half so false as thou,\nOr secret sands, shall sepulchers afford\nTo thy proud vessels, and their perjur'd lord.\nThen shalt thou call on injur'd Dido's name:\nDido shall come in a black sulph'ry flame,\nWhen death has once dissolv'd her mortal frame;\nShall smile to see the traitor vainly weep:\nHer angry ghost, arising from the deep,\nShall haunt thee waking, and disturb thy sleep.\nAt least my shade thy punishment shall know,\nAnd Fame shall spread the pleasing news below.\"\nAbruptly here she stops; then turns away\nHer loathing eyes, and shuns the sight of day.\nAmaz'd he stood, revolving in his mind\nWhat speech to frame, and what excuse to find.\nHer fearful maids their fainting mistress led,\nAnd softly laid her on her ivory bed.\nBut good Aeneas, tho' he much desir'd\nTo give that pity which her grief requir'd;\nTho' much he mourn'd, and labor'd with his love,\nResolv'd at length, obeys the will of Jove;\nReviews his forces: they with early care\nUnmoor their vessels, and for sea prepare.\nThe fleet is soon afloat, in all its pride,\nAnd well-calk'd galleys in the harbor ride.\nThen oaks for oars they fell'd; or, as they stood,\nOf its green arms despoil'd the growing wood,\nStudious of flight. The beach is cover'd o'er\nWith Trojan bands, that blacken all the shore:\nOn ev'ry side are seen, descending down,\nThick swarms of soldiers, loaden from the town.\nThus, in battalia, march embodied ants,\nFearful of winter, and of future wants,\nT' invade the corn, and to their cells convey\nThe plunder'd forage of their yellow prey.\nThe sable troops, along the narrow tracks,\nScarce bear the weighty burthen on their backs:\nSome set their shoulders to the pond'rous grain;\nSome guard the spoil; some lash the lagging train;\nAll ply their sev'ral tasks, and equal toil sustain.\nWhat pangs the tender breast of Dido tore,\nWhen, from the tow'r, she saw the cover'd shore,\nAnd heard the shouts of sailors from afar,\nMix'd with the murmurs of the wat'ry war!\nAll-pow'rful Love! what changes canst thou cause\nIn human hearts, subjected to thy laws!\nOnce more her haughty soul the tyrant bends:\nTo pray'rs and mean submissions she descends.\nNo female arts or aids she left untried,\nNor counsels unexplor'd, before she died.\n\"Look, Anna! look! the Trojans crowd to sea;\nThey spread their canvas, and their anchors weigh.\nThe shouting crew their ships with garlands bind,\nInvoke the sea gods, and invite the wind.\nCould I have thought this threat'ning blow so near,\nMy tender soul had been forewarn'd to bear.\nBut do not you my last request deny;\nWith yon perfidious man your int'rest try,\nAnd bring me news, if I must live or die.\nYou are his fav'rite; you alone can find\nThe dark recesses of his inmost mind:\nIn all his trusted secrets you have part,\nAnd know the soft approaches to his heart.\nHaste then, and humbly seek my haughty foe;\nTell him, I did not with the Grecians go,\nNor did my fleet against his friends employ,\nNor swore the ruin of unhappy Troy,\nNor mov'd with hands profane his father's dust:\nWhy should he then reject a just!\nWhom does he shun, and whither would he fly!\nCan he this last, this only pray'r deny!\nLet him at least his dang'rous flight delay,\nWait better winds, and hope a calmer sea.\nThe nuptials he disclaims I urge no more:\nLet him pursue the promis'd Latian shore.\nA short delay is all I ask him now;\nA pause of grief, an interval from woe,\nTill my soft soul be temper'd to sustain\nAccustom'd sorrows, and inur'd to pain.\nIf you in pity grant this one request,\nMy death shall glut the hatred of his breast.\"\nThis mournful message pious Anna bears,\nAnd seconds with her own her sister's tears:\nBut all her arts are still employ'd in vain;\nAgain she comes, and is refus'd again.\nHis harden'd heart nor pray'rs nor threat'nings move;\nFate, and the god, had stopp'd his ears to love.\nAs, when the winds their airy quarrel try,\nJustling from ev'ry quarter of the sky,\nThis way and that the mountain oak they bend,\nHis boughs they shatter, and his branches rend;\nWith leaves and falling mast they spread the ground;\nThe hollow valleys echo to the sound:\nUnmov'd, the royal plant their fury mocks,\nOr, shaken, clings more closely to the rocks;\nFar as he shoots his tow'ring head on high,\nSo deep in earth his fix'd foundations lie.\nNo less a storm the Trojan hero bears;\nThick messages and loud complaints he hears,\nAnd bandied words, still beating on his ears.\nSighs, groans, and tears proclaim his inward pains;\nBut the firm purpose of his heart remains.\nThe wretched queen, pursued by cruel fate,\nBegins at length the light of heav'n to hate,\nAnd loathes to live. Then dire portents she sees,\nTo hasten on the death her soul decrees:\nStrange to relate! for when, before the shrine,\nShe pours in sacrifice the purple wine,\nThe purple wine is turn'd to putrid blood,\nAnd the white offer'd milk converts to mud.\nThis dire presage, to her alone reveal'd,\nFrom all, and ev'n her sister, she conceal'd.\nA marble temple stood within the grove,\nSacred to death, and to her murther'd love;\nThat honor'd chapel she had hung around\nWith snowy fleeces, and with garlands crown'd:\nOft, when she visited this lonely dome,\nStrange voices issued from her husband's tomb;\nShe thought she heard him summon her away,\nInvite her to his grave, and chide her stay.\nHourly 't is heard, when with a boding note\nThe solitary screech owl strains her throat,\nAnd, on a chimney's top, or turret's height,\nWith songs obscene disturbs the silence of the night.\nBesides, old prophecies augment her fears;\nAnd stern Aeneas in her dreams appears,\nDisdainful as by day: she seems, alone,\nTo wander in her sleep, thro' ways unknown,\nGuideless and dark; or, in a desart plain,\nTo seek her subjects, and to seek in vain:\nLike Pentheus, when, distracted with his fear,\nHe saw two suns, and double Thebes, appear;\nOr mad Orestes, when his mother's ghost\nFull in his face infernal torches toss'd,\nAnd shook her snaky locks: he shuns the sight,\nFlies o'er the stage, surpris'd with mortal fright;\nThe Furies guard the door and intercept his flight.\nNow, sinking underneath a load of grief,\nFrom death alone she seeks her last relief;\nThe time and means resolv'd within her breast,\nShe to her mournful sister thus address'd\n(Dissembling hope, her cloudy front she clears,\nAnd a false vigor in her eyes appears):\n\"Rejoice!\" she said. \"Instructed from above,\nMy lover I shall gain, or lose my love.\nNigh rising Atlas, next the falling sun,\nLong tracts of Ethiopian climates run:\nThere a Massylian priestess I have found,\nHonor'd for age, for magic arts renown'd:\nTh' Hesperian temple was her trusted care;\n'T was she supplied the wakeful dragon's fare.\nShe poppy seeds in honey taught to steep,\nReclaim'd his rage, and sooth'd him into sleep.\nShe watch'd the golden fruit; her charms unbind\nThe chains of love, or fix them on the mind:\nShe stops the torrents, leaves the channel dry,\nRepels the stars, and backward bears the sky.\nThe yawning earth rebellows to her call,\nPale ghosts ascend, and mountain ashes fall.\nWitness, ye gods, and thou my better part,\nHow loth I am to try this impious art!\nWithin the secret court, with silent care,\nErect a lofty pile, expos'd in air:\nHang on the topmost part the Trojan vest,\nSpoils, arms, and presents, of my faithless guest.\nNext, under these, the bridal bed be plac'd,\nWhere I my ruin in his arms embrac'd:\nAll relics of the wretch are doom'd to fire;\nFor so the priestess and her charms require.\"\nThus far she said, and farther speech forbears;\nA mortal paleness in her face appears:\nYet the mistrustless Anna could not find\nThe secret fun'ral in these rites design'd;\nNor thought so dire a rage possess'd her mind.\nUnknowing of a train conceal'd so well,\nShe fear'd no worse than when Sichaeus fell;\nTherefore obeys. The fatal pile they rear,\nWithin the secret court, expos'd in air.\nThe cloven holms and pines are heap'd on high,\nAnd garlands on the hollow spaces lie.\nSad cypress, vervain, yew, compose the wreath,\nAnd ev'ry baleful green denoting death.\nThe queen, determin'd to the fatal deed,\nThe spoils and sword he left, in order spread,\nAnd the man's image on the nuptial bed.\nAnd now (the sacred altars plac'd around)\nThe priestess enters, with her hair unbound,\nAnd thrice invokes the pow'rs below the ground.\nNight, Erebus, and Chaos she proclaims,\nAnd threefold Hecate, with her hundred names,\nAnd three Dianas: next, she sprinkles round\nWith feign'd Avernian drops the hallow'd ground;\nCulls hoary simples, found by Phoebe's light,\nWith brazen sickles reap'd at noon of night;\nThen mixes baleful juices in the bowl,\nAnd cuts the forehead of a newborn foal,\nRobbing the mother's love. The destin'd queen\nObserves, assisting at the rites obscene;\nA leaven'd cake in her devoted hands\nShe holds, and next the highest altar stands:\nOne tender foot was shod, her other bare;\nGirt was her gather'd gown, and loose her hair.\nThus dress'd, she summon'd, with her dying breath,\nThe heav'ns and planets conscious of her death,\nAnd ev'ry pow'r, if any rules above,\nWho minds, or who revenges, injur'd love.\n\"'T was dead of night, when weary bodies close\nTheir eyes in balmy sleep and soft repose:\nThe winds no longer whisper thro' the woods,\nNor murm'ring tides disturb the gentle floods.\nThe stars in silent order mov'd around;\nAnd Peace, with downy wings, was brooding on the ground\nThe flocks and herds, and party-color'd fowl,\nWhich haunt the woods, or swim the weedy pool,\nStretch'd on the quiet earth, securely lay,\nForgetting the past labors of the day.\nAll else of nature's common gift partake:\nUnhappy Dido was alone awake.\nNor sleep nor ease the furious queen can find;\nSleep fled her eyes, as quiet fled her mind.\nDespair, and rage, and love divide her heart;\nDespair and rage had some, but love the greater part.\nThen thus she said within her secret mind:\n\"What shall I do? what succor can I find?\nBecome a suppliant to Hyarba's pride,\nAnd take my turn, to court and be denied?\nShall I with this ungrateful Trojan go,\nForsake an empire, and attend a foe?\nHimself I refug'd, and his train reliev'd-\n'T is true- but am I sure to be receiv'd?\nCan gratitude in Trojan souls have place!\nLaomedon still lives in all his race!\nThen, shall I seek alone the churlish crew,\nOr with my fleet their flying sails pursue?\nWhat force have I but those whom scarce before\nI drew reluctant from their native shore?\nWill they again embark at my desire,\nOnce more sustain the seas, and quit their second Tyre?\nRather with steel thy guilty breast invade,\nAnd take the fortune thou thyself hast made.\nYour pity, sister, first seduc'd my mind,\nOr seconded too well what I design'd.\nThese dear-bought pleasures had I never known,\nHad I continued free, and still my own;\nAvoiding love, I had not found despair,\nBut shar'd with salvage beasts the common air.\nLike them, a lonely life I might have led,\nNot mourn'd the living, nor disturb'd the dead.\"\nThese thoughts she brooded in her anxious breast.\nOn board, the Trojan found more easy rest.\nResolv'd to sail, in sleep he pass'd the night;\nAnd order'd all things for his early flight.\nTo whom once more the winged god appears;\nHis former youthful mien and shape he wears,\nAnd with this new alarm invades his ears:\n\"Sleep'st thou, O goddess-born! and canst thou drown\nThy needful cares, so near a hostile town,\nBeset with foes; nor hear'st the western gales\nInvite thy passage, and inspire thy sails?\nShe harbors in her heart a furious hate,\nAnd thou shalt find the dire effects too late;\nFix'd on revenge, and obstinate to die.\nHaste swiftly hence, while thou hast pow'r to fly.\nThe sea with ships will soon be cover'd o'er,\nAnd blazing firebrands kindle all the shore.\nPrevent her rage, while night obscures the skies,\nAnd sail before the purple morn arise.\nWho knows what hazards thy delay may bring?\nWoman's a various and a changeful thing.\"\nThus Hermes in the dream; then took his flight\nAloft in air unseen, and mix'd with night.\nTwice warn'd by the celestial messenger,\nThe pious prince arose with hasty fear;\nThen rous'd his drowsy train without delay:\n\"Haste to your banks; your crooked anchors weigh,\nAnd spread your flying sails, and stand to sea.\nA god commands: he stood before my sight,\nAnd urg'd us once again to speedy flight.\nO sacred pow'r, what pow'r soe'er thou art,\nTo thy blest orders I resign my heart.\nLead thou the way; protect thy Trojan bands,\nAnd prosper the design thy will commands.\"\nHe said: and, drawing forth his flaming sword,\nHis thund'ring arm divides the many-twisted cord.\nAn emulating zeal inspires his train:\nThey run; they snatch; they rush into the main.\nWith headlong haste they leave the desert shores,\nAnd brush the liquid seas with lab'ring oars.\nAurora now had left her saffron bed,\nAnd beams of early light the heav'ns o'erspread,\nWhen, from a tow'r, the queen, with wakeful eyes,\nSaw day point upward from the rosy skies.\nShe look'd to seaward; but the sea was void,\nAnd scarce in ken the sailing ships descried.\nStung with despite, and furious with despair,\nShe struck her trembling breast, and tore her hair.\n\"And shall th' ungrateful traitor go,\" she said,\n\"My land forsaken, and my love betray'd?\nShall we not arm? not rush from ev'ry street,\nTo follow, sink, and burn his perjur'd fleet?\nHaste, haul my galleys out! pursue the foe!\nBring flaming brands! set sail, and swiftly row!\nWhat have I said? where am I? Fury turns\nMy brain; and my distemper'd bosom burns.\nThen, when I gave my person and my throne,\nThis hate, this rage, had been more timely shown.\nSee now the promis'd faith, the vaunted name,\nThe pious man, who, rushing thro' the flame,\nPreserv'd his gods, and to the Phrygian shore\nThe burthen of his feeble father bore!\nI should have torn him piecemeal; strow'd in floods\nHis scatter'd limbs, or left expos'd in woods;\nDestroy'd his friends and son; and, from the fire,\nHave set the reeking boy before the sire.\nEvents are doubtful, which on battles wait:\nYet where's the doubt, to souls secure of fate?\nMy Tyrians, at their injur'd queen's command,\nHad toss'd their fires amid the Trojan band;\nAt once extinguish'd all the faithless name;\nAnd I myself, in vengeance of my shame,\nHad fall'n upon the pile, to mend the fun'ral flame.\nThou Sun, who view'st at once the world below;\nThou Juno, guardian of the nuptial vow;\nThou Hecate hearken from thy dark abodes!\nYe Furies, fiends, and violated gods,\nAll pow'rs invok'd with Dido's dying breath,\nAttend her curses and avenge her death!\nIf so the Fates ordain, Jove commands,\nTh' ungrateful wretch should find the Latian lands,\nYet let a race untam'd, and haughty foes,\nHis peaceful entrance with dire arms oppose:\nOppress'd with numbers in th' unequal field,\nHis men discourag'd, and himself expell'd,\nLet him for succor sue from place to place,\nTorn from his subjects, and his son's embrace.\nFirst, let him see his friends in battle slain,\nAnd their untimely fate lament in vain;\nAnd when, at length, the cruel war shall cease,\nOn hard conditions may he buy his peace:\nNor let him then enjoy supreme command;\nBut fall, untimely, by some hostile hand,\nAnd lie unburied on the barren sand!\nThese are my pray'rs, and this my dying will;\nAnd you, my Tyrians, ev'ry curse fulfil.\nPerpetual hate and mortal wars proclaim,\nAgainst the prince, the people, and the name.\nThese grateful off'rings on my grave bestow;\nNor league, nor love, the hostile nations know!\nNow, and from hence, in ev'ry future age,\nWhen rage excites your arms, and strength supplies the rage\nRise some avenger of our Libyan blood,\nWith fire and sword pursue the perjur'd brood;\nOur arms, our seas, our shores, oppos'd to theirs;\nAnd the same hate descend on all our heirs!\"\nThis said, within her anxious mind she weighs\nThe means of cutting short her odious days.\nThen to Sichaeus' nurse she briefly said\n(For, when she left her country, hers was dead):\n\"Go, Barce, call my sister. Let her care\nThe solemn rites of sacrifice prepare;\nThe sheep, and all th' atoning off'rings bring,\nSprinkling her body from the crystal spring\nWith living drops; then let her come, and thou\nWith sacred fillets bind thy hoary brow.\nThus will I pay my vows to Stygian Jove,\nAnd end the cares of my disastrous love;\nThen cast the Trojan image on the fire,\nAnd, as that burns, my passions shall expire.\"\nThe nurse moves onward, with officious care,\nAnd all the speed her aged limbs can bear.\nBut furious Dido, with dark thoughts involv'd,\nShook at the mighty mischief she resolv'd.\nWith livid spots distinguish'd was her face;\nRed were her rolling eyes, and discompos'd her pace;\nGhastly she gaz'd, with pain she drew her breath,\nAnd nature shiver'd at approaching death.\nThen swiftly to the fatal place she pass'd,\nAnd mounts the fun'ral pile with furious haste;\nUnsheathes the sword the Trojan left behind\n(Not for so dire an enterprise design'd).\nBut when she view'd the garments loosely spread,\nWhich once he wore, and saw the conscious bed,\nShe paus'd, and with a sigh the robes embrac'd;\nThen on the couch her trembling body cast,\nRepress'd the ready tears, and spoke her last:\n\"Dear pledges of my love, while Heav'n so pleas'd,\nReceive a soul, of mortal anguish eas'd:\nMy fatal course is finish'd; and I go,\nA glorious name, among the ghosts below.\nA lofty city by my hands is rais'd,\nPygmalion punish'd, and my lord appeas'd.\nWhat could my fortune have afforded more,\nHad the false Trojan never touch'd my shore!\"\nThen kiss'd the couch; and, \"Must I die,\" she said,\n\"And unreveng'd? 'T is doubly to be dead!\nYet ev'n this death with pleasure I receive:\nOn any terms, 't is better than to live.\nThese flames, from far, may the false Trojan view;\nThese boding omens his base flight pursue!\"\nShe said, and struck; deep enter'd in her side\nThe piercing steel, with reeking purple dyed:\nClogg'd in the wound the cruel weapon stands;\nThe spouting blood came streaming on her hands.\nHer sad attendants saw the deadly stroke,\nAnd with loud cries the sounding palace shook.\nDistracted, from the fatal sight they fled,\nAnd thro' the town the dismal rumor spread.\nFirst from the frighted court the yell began;\nRedoubled, thence from house to house it ran:\nThe groans of men, with shrieks, laments, and cries\nOf mixing women, mount the vaulted skies.\nNot less the clamor, than if- ancient Tyre,\nOr the new Carthage, set by foes on fire-\nThe rolling ruin, with their lov'd abodes,\nInvolv'd the blazing temples of their gods.\nHer sister hears; and, furious with despair,\nShe beats her breast, and rends her yellow hair,\nAnd, calling on Eliza's name aloud,\nRuns breathless to the place, and breaks the crowd.\n\"Was all that pomp of woe for this prepar'd;\nThese fires, this fun'ral pile, these altars rear'd?\nWas all this train of plots contriv'd,\" said she,\n\"All only to deceive unhappy me?\nWhich is the worst? Didst thou in death pretend\nTo scorn thy sister, or delude thy friend?\nThy summon'd sister, and thy friend, had come;\nOne sword had serv'd us both, one common tomb:\nWas I to raise the pile, the pow'rs invoke,\nNot to be present at the fatal stroke?\nAt once thou hast destroy'd thyself and me,\nThy town, thy senate, and thy colony!\nBring water; bathe the wound; while I in death\nLay close my lips to hers, and catch the flying breath.\"\nThis said, she mounts the pile with eager haste,\nAnd in her arms the gasping queen embrac'd;\nHer temples chaf'd; and her own garments tore,\nTo stanch the streaming blood, and cleanse the gore.\nThrice Dido tried to raise her drooping head,\nAnd, fainting thrice, fell grov'ling on the bed;\nThrice op'd her heavy eyes, and sought the light,\nBut, having found it, sicken'd at the sight,\nAnd clos'd her lids at last in endless night.\nThen Juno, grieving that she should sustain\nA death so ling'ring, and so full of pain,\nSent Iris down, to free her from the strife\nOf lab'ring nature, and dissolve her life.\nFor since she died, not doom'd by Heav'n's decree,\nOr her own crime, but human casualty,\nAnd rage of love, that plung'd her in despair,\nThe Sisters had not cut the topmost hair,\nWhich Proserpine and they can only know;\nNor made her sacred to the shades below.\nDownward the various goddess took her flight,\nAnd drew a thousand colors from the light;\nThen stood above the dying lover's head,\nAnd said: \"I thus devote thee to the dead.\nThis off'ring to th' infernal gods I bear.\"\nThus while she spoke, she cut the fatal hair:\nThe struggling soul was loos'd, and life dissolv'd in air.\nBOOK V\nMeantime the Trojan cuts his wat'ry way,\nFix'd on his voyage, thro' the curling sea;\nThen, casting back his eyes, with dire amaze,\nSees on the Punic shore the mounting blaze.\nThe cause unknown; yet his presaging mind\nThe fate of Dido from the fire divin'd;\nHe knew the stormy souls of womankind,\nWhat secret springs their eager passions move,\nHow capable of death for injur'd love.\nDire auguries from hence the Trojans draw;\nTill neither fires nor shining shores they saw.\nNow seas and skies their prospect only bound;\nAn empty space above, a floating field around.\nBut soon the heav'ns with shadows were o'erspread;\nA swelling cloud hung hov'ring o'er their head:\nLivid it look'd, the threat'ning of a storm:\nThen night and horror ocean's face deform.\nThe pilot, Palinurus, cried aloud:\n\"What gusts of weather from that gath'ring cloud\nMy thoughts presage! Ere yet the tempest roars,\nStand to your tackle, mates, and stretch your oars;\nContract your swelling sails, and luff to wind.\"\nThe frighted crew perform the task assign'd.\nThen, to his fearless chief: \"Not Heav'n,\" said he,\n\"Tho' Jove himself should promise Italy,\nCan stem the torrent of this raging sea.\nMark how the shifting winds from west arise,\nAnd what collected night involves the skies!\nNor can our shaken vessels live at sea,\nMuch less against the tempest force their way.\n'T is fate diverts our course, and fate we must obey.\nNot far from hence, if I observ'd aright\nThe southing of the stars, and polar light,\nSicilia lies, whose hospitable shores\nIn safety we may reach with struggling oars.\"\nAeneas then replied: \"Too sure I find\nWe strive in vain against the seas and wind:\nNow shift your sails; what place can please me more\nThan what you promise, the Sicilian shore,\nWhose hallow'd earth Anchises' bones contains,\nAnd where a prince of Trojan lineage reigns?\"\nThe course resolv'd, before the western wind\nThey scud amain, and make the port assign'd.\nMeantime Acestes, from a lofty stand,\nBeheld the fleet descending on the land;\nAnd, not unmindful of his ancient race,\nDown from the cliff he ran with eager pace,\nAnd held the hero in a strict embrace.\nOf a rough Libyan bear the spoils he wore,\nAnd either hand a pointed jav'lin bore.\nHis mother was a dame of Dardan blood;\nHis sire Crinisus, a Sicilian flood.\nHe welcomes his returning friends ashore\nWith plenteous country cates and homely store.\nNow, when the following morn had chas'd away\nThe flying stars, and light restor'd the day,\nAeneas call'd the Trojan troops around,\nAnd thus bespoke them from a rising ground:\n\"Offspring of heav'n, divine Dardanian race!\nThe sun, revolving thro' th' ethereal space,\nThe shining circle of the year has fill'd,\nSince first this isle my father's ashes held:\nAnd now the rising day renews the year;\nA day for ever sad, for ever dear.\nThis would I celebrate with annual games,\nWith gifts on altars pil'd, and holy flames,\nTho' banish'd to Gaetulia's barren sands,\nCaught on the Grecian seas, or hostile lands:\nBut since this happy storm our fleet has driv'n\n(Not, as I deem, without the will of Heav'n)\nUpon these friendly shores and flow'ry plains,\nWhich hide Anchises and his blest remains,\nLet us with joy perform his honors due,\nAnd pray for prosp'rous winds, our voyage to renew;\nPray, that in towns and temples of our own,\nThe name of great Anchises may be known,\nAnd yearly games may spread the gods' renown.\nOur sports Acestes, of the Trojan race,\nWith royal gifts ordain'd, is pleas'd to grace:\nTwo steers on ev'ry ship the king bestows;\nHis gods and ours shall share your equal vows.\nBesides, if, nine days hence, the rosy morn\nShall with unclouded light the skies adorn,\nThat day with solemn sports I mean to grace:\nLight galleys on the seas shall run a wat'ry race;\nSome shall in swiftness for the goal contend,\nAnd others try the twanging bow to bend;\nThe strong, with iron gauntlets arm'd, shall stand\nOppos'd in combat on the yellow sand.\nLet all be present at the games prepar'd,\nAnd joyful victors wait the just reward.\nBut now assist the rites, with garlands crown'd.\"\nHe said, and first his brows with myrtle bound.\nThen Helymus, by his example led,\nAnd old Acestes, each adorn'd his head;\nThus young Ascanius, with a sprightly grace,\nHis temples tied, and all the Trojan race.\n Aeneas then advanc'd amidst the train,\nBy thousands follow'd thro' the flow'ry plain,\nTo great Anchises' tomb; which when he found,\nHe pour'd to Bacchus, on the hallow'd ground,\nTwo bowls of sparkling wine, of milk two more,\nAnd two (from offer'd bulls) of purple gore,\nWith roses then the sepulcher he strow'd\nAnd thus his father's ghost bespoke aloud:\n\"Hail, O ye holy manes! hail again,\nPaternal ashes, now review'd in vain!\nThe gods permitted not, that you, with me,\nShould reach the promis'd shores of Italy,\nOr Tiber's flood, what flood soe'er it be.\"\nScarce had he finish'd, when, with speckled pride,\nA serpent from the tomb began to glide;\nHis hugy bulk on sev'n high volumes roll'd;\nBlue was his breadth of back, but streak'd with scaly gold:\nThus riding on his curls, he seem'd to pass\nA rolling fire along, and singe the grass.\nMore various colors thro' his body run,\nThan Iris when her bow imbibes the sun.\nBetwixt the rising altars, and around,\nThe sacred monster shot along the ground;\nWith harmless play amidst the bowls he pass'd,\nAnd with his lolling tongue assay'd the taste:\nThus fed with holy food, the wondrous guest\nWithin the hollow tomb retir'd to rest.\nThe pious prince, surpris'd at what he view'd,\nThe fun'ral honors with more zeal renew'd,\nDoubtful if this place's genius were,\nOr guardian of his father's sepulcher.\nFive sheep, according to the rites, he slew;\nAs many swine, and steers of sable hue;\nNew gen'rous wine he from the goblets pour'd.\nAnd call'd his father's ghost, from hell restor'd.\nThe glad attendants in long order come,\nOff'ring their gifts at great Anchises' tomb:\nSome add more oxen: some divide the spoil;\nSome place the chargers on the grassy soil;\nSome blow the fires, and off entrails broil.\nNow came the day desir'd. The skies were bright\nWith rosy luster of the rising light:\nThe bord'ring people, rous'd by sounding fame\nOf Trojan feasts and great Acestes' name,\nThe crowded shore with acclamations fill,\nPart to behold, and part to prove their skill.\nAnd first the gifts in public view they place,\nGreen laurel wreaths, and palm, the victors' grace:\nWithin the circle, arms and tripods lie,\nIngots of gold and silver, heap'd on high,\nAnd vests embroider'd, of the Tyrian dye.\nThe trumpet's clangor then the feast proclaims,\nAnd all prepare for their appointed games.\nFour galleys first, which equal rowers bear,\nAdvancing, in the wat'ry lists appear.\nThe speedy Dolphin, that outstrips the wind,\nBore Mnestheus, author of the Memmian kind:\nGyas the vast Chimaera's bulk commands,\nWhich rising, like a tow'ring city stands;\nThree Trojans tug at ev'ry lab'ring oar;\nThree banks in three degrees the sailors bore;\nBeneath their sturdy strokes the billows roar.\nSergesthus, who began the Sergian race,\nIn the great Centaur took the leading place;\nCloanthus on the sea-green Scylla stood,\nFrom whom Cluentius draws his Trojan blood.\nFar in the sea, against the foaming shore,\nThere stands a rock: the raging billows roar\nAbove his head in storms; but, when 't is clear,\nUncurl their ridgy backs, and at his foot appear.\nIn peace below the gentle waters run;\nThe cormorants above lie basking in the sun.\nOn this the hero fix'd an oak in sight,\nThe mark to guide the mariners aright.\nTo bear with this, the seamen stretch their oars;\nThen round the rock they steer, and seek the former shores.\nThe lots decide their place. Above the rest,\nEach leader shining in his Tyrian vest;\nThe common crew with wreaths of poplar boughs\nTheir temples crown, and shade their sweaty brows:\nBesmear'd with oil, their naked shoulders shine.\nAll take their seats, and wait the sounding sign:\nThey gripe their oars; and ev'ry panting breast\nIs rais'd by turns with hope, by turns with fear depress'd.\nThe clangor of the trumpet gives the sign;\nAt once they start, advancing in a line:\nWith shouts the sailors rend the starry skies;\nLash'd with their oars, the smoky billows rise;\nSparkles the briny main, and the vex'd ocean fries.\nExact in time, with equal strokes they row:\nAt once the brushing oars and brazen prow\nDash up the sandy waves, and ope the depths below.\nNot fiery coursers, in a chariot race,\nInvade the field with half so swift a pace;\nNot the fierce driver with more fury lends\nThe sounding lash, and, ere the stroke descends,\nLow to the wheels his pliant body bends.\nThe partial crowd their hopes and fears divide,\nAnd aid with eager shouts the favor'd side.\nCries, murmurs, clamors, with a mixing sound,\nFrom woods to woods, from hills to hills rebound.\nAmidst the loud applauses of the shore,\nGyas outstripp'd the rest, and sprung before:\nCloanthus, better mann'd, pursued him fast,\nBut his o'er-masted galley check'd his haste.\nThe Centaur and the Dolphin brush the brine\nWith equal oars, advancing in a line;\nAnd now the mighty Centaur seems to lead,\nAnd now the speedy Dolphin gets ahead;\nNow board to board the rival vessels row,\nThe billows lave the skies, and ocean groans below.\nThey reach'd the mark. Proud Gyas and his train\nIn triumph rode, the victors of the main;\nBut, steering round, he charg'd his pilot stand\nMore close to shore, and skim along the sand-\n\"Let others bear to sea!\" Menoetes heard;\nBut secret shelves too cautiously he fear'd,\nAnd, fearing, sought the deep; and still aloof he steer'd.\nWith louder cries the captain call'd again:\n\"Bear to the rocky shore, and shun the main.\"\nHe spoke, and, speaking, at his stern he saw\nThe bold Cloanthus near the shelvings draw.\nBetwixt the mark and him the Scylla stood,\nAnd in a closer compass plow'd the flood.\nHe pass'd the mark; and, wheeling, got before:\nGyas blasphem'd the gods, devoutly swore,\nCried out for anger, and his hair he tore.\nMindless of others' lives (so high was grown\nHis rising rage) and careless of his own,\nThe trembling dotard to the deck he drew;\nThen hoisted up, and overboard he threw:\nThis done, he seiz'd the helm; his fellows cheer'd,\nTurn'd short upon the shelfs, and madly steer'd.\nHardly his head the plunging pilot rears,\nClogg'd with his clothes, and cumber'd with his years:\nNow dropping wet, he climbs the cliff with pain.\nThe crowd, that saw him fall and float again,\nShout from the distant shore; and loudly laugh'd,\nTo see his heaving breast disgorge the briny draught.\nThe following Centaur, and the Dolphin's crew,\nTheir vanish'd hopes of victory renew;\nWhile Gyas lags, they kindle in the race,\nTo reach the mark. Sergesthus takes the place;\nMnestheus pursues; and while around they wind,\nComes up, not half his galley's length behind;\nThen, on the deck, amidst his mates appear'd,\nAnd thus their drooping courage he cheer'd:\n\"My friends, and Hector's followers heretofore,\nExert your vigor; tug the lab'ring oar;\nStretch to your strokes, my still unconquer'd crew,\nWhom from the flaming walls of Troy I drew.\nIn this, our common int'rest, let me find\nThat strength of hand, that courage of the mind,\nAs when you stemm'd the strong Malean flood,\nAnd o'er the Syrtes' broken billows row'd.\nI seek not now the foremost palm to gain;\nTho' yet- but, ah! that haughty wish is vain!\nLet those enjoy it whom the gods ordain.\nBut to be last, the lags of all the race!-\nRedeem yourselves and me from that disgrace.\"\nNow, one and all, they tug amain; they row\nAt the full stretch, and shake the brazen prow.\nThe sea beneath 'em sinks; their lab'ring sides\nAre swell'd, and sweat runs gutt'ring down in tides.\nChance aids their daring with unhop'd success;\nSergesthus, eager with his beak to press\nBetwixt the rival galley and the rock,\nShuts up th' unwieldly Centaur in the lock.\nThe vessel struck; and, with the dreadful shock,\nHer oars she shiver'd, and her head she broke.\nThe trembling rowers from their banks arise,\nAnd, anxious for themselves, renounce the prize.\nWith iron poles they heave her off the shores,\nAnd gather from the sea their floating oars.\nThe crew of Mnestheus, with elated minds,\nUrge their success, and call the willing winds;\nThen ply their oars, and cut their liquid way\nIn larger compass on the roomy sea.\nAs, when the dove her rocky hold forsakes,\nRous'd in a fright, her sounding wings she shakes;\nThe cavern rings with clatt'ring; out she flies,\nAnd leaves her callow care, and cleaves the skies:\nAt first she flutters; but at length she springs\nTo smoother flight, and shoots upon her wings:\nSo Mnestheus in the Dolphin cuts the sea;\nAnd, flying with a force, that force assists his way.\nSergesthus in the Centaur soon he pass'd,\nWedg'd in the rocky shoals, and sticking fast.\nIn vain the victor he with cries implores,\nAnd practices to row with shatter'd oars.\nThen Mnestheus bears with Gyas, and outflies:\nThe ship, without a pilot, yields the prize.\nUnvanquish'd Scylla now alone remains;\nHer he pursues, and all his vigor strains.\nShouts from the fav'ring multitude arise;\nApplauding Echo to the shouts replies;\nShouts, wishes, and applause run rattling thro' the skies.\nThese clamors with disdain the Scylla heard,\nMuch grudg'd the praise, but more the robb'd reward:\nResolv'd to hold their own, they mend their pace,\nAll obstinate to die, or gain the race.\nRais'd with success, the Dolphin swiftly ran;\nFor they can conquer, who believe they can.\nBoth urge their oars, and fortune both supplies,\nAnd both perhaps had shar'd an equal prize;\nWhen to the seas Cloanthus holds his hands,\nAnd succor from the wat'ry pow'rs demands:\n\"Gods of the liquid realms, on which I row!\nIf, giv'n by you, the laurel bind my brow,\nAssist to make me guilty of my vow!\nA snow-white bull shall on your shore be slain;\nHis offer'd entrails cast into the main,\nAnd ruddy wine, from golden goblets thrown,\nYour grateful gift and my return shall own.\"\nThe choir of nymphs, and Phorcus, from below,\nWith virgin Panopea, heard his vow;\nAnd old Portunus, with his breadth of hand,\nPush'd on, and sped the galley to the land.\nSwift as a shaft, or winged wind, she flies,\nAnd, darting to the port, obtains the prize.\nThe herald summons all, and then proclaims\nCloanthus conqu'ror of the naval games.\nThe prince with laurel crowns the victor's head,\nAnd three fat steers are to his vessel led,\nThe ship's reward; with gen'rous wine beside,\nAnd sums of silver, which the crew divide.\nThe leaders are distinguish'd from the rest;\nThe victor honor'd with a nobler vest,\nWhere gold and purple strive in equal rows,\nAnd needlework its happy cost bestows.\nThere Ganymede is wrought with living art,\nChasing thro' Ida's groves the trembling hart:\nBreathless he seems, yet eager to pursue;\nWhen from aloft descends, in open view,\nThe bird of Jove, and, sousing on his prey,\nWith crooked talons bears the boy away.\nIn vain, with lifted hands and gazing eyes,\nHis guards behold him soaring thro' the skies,\nAnd dogs pursue his flight with imitated cries.\nMnestheus the second victor was declar'd;\nAnd, summon'd there, the second prize he shard.\nA coat of mail, brave Demoleus bore,\nMore brave Aeneas from his shoulders tore,\nIn single combat on the Trojan shore:\nThis was ordain'd for Mnestheus to possess;\nIn war for his defense, for ornament in peace.\nRich was the gift, and glorious to behold,\nBut yet so pond'rous with its plates of gold,\nThat scarce two servants could the weight sustain;\nYet, loaded thus, Demoleus o'er the plain\nPursued and lightly seiz'd the Trojan train.\nThe third, succeeding to the last reward,\nTwo goodly bowls of massy silver shar'd,\nWith figures prominent, and richly wrought,\nAnd two brass caldrons from Dodona brought.\nThus all, rewarded by the hero's hands,\nTheir conqu'ring temples bound with purple bands;\nAnd now Sergesthus, clearing from the rock,\nBrought back his galley shatter'd with the shock.\nForlorn she look'd, without an aiding oar,\nAnd, houted by the vulgar, made to shore.\nAs when a snake, surpris'd upon the road,\nIs crush'd athwart her body by the load\nOf heavy wheels; or with a mortal wound\nHer belly bruis'd, and trodden to the ground:\nIn vain, with loosen'd curls, she crawls along;\nYet, fierce above, she brandishes her tongue;\nGlares with her eyes, and bristles with her scales;\nBut, groveling in the dust, her parts unsound she trails:\nSo slowly to the port the Centaur tends,\nBut, what she wants in oars, with sails amends.\nYet, for his galley sav'd, the grateful prince\nIs pleas'd th' unhappy chief to recompense.\nPholoe, the Cretan slave, rewards his care,\nBeauteous herself, with lovely twins as fair.\nFrom thence his way the Trojan hero bent\nInto the neighb'ring plain, with mountains pent,\nWhose sides were shaded with surrounding wood.\nFull in the midst of this fair valley stood\nA native theater, which, rising slow\nBy just degrees, o'erlook'd the ground below.\nHigh on a sylvan throne the leader sate;\nA num'rous train attend in solemn state.\nHere those that in the rapid course delight,\nDesire of honor and the prize invite.\nThe rival runners without order stand;\nThe Trojans mix'd with the Sicilian band.\nFirst Nisus, with Euryalus, appears;\nEuryalus a boy of blooming years,\nWith sprightly grace and equal beauty crown'd;\nNisus, for friendship to the youth renown'd.\nDiores next, of Priam's royal race,\nThen Salius joined with Patron, took their place;\n(But Patron in Arcadia had his birth,\nAnd Salius his from Arcananian earth;)\nThen two Sicilian youths- the names of these,\nSwift Helymus, and lovely Panopes:\nBoth jolly huntsmen, both in forest bred,\nAnd owning old Acestes for their head;\nWith sev'ral others of ignobler name,\nWhom time has not deliver'd o'er to fame.\nTo these the hero thus his thoughts explain'd,\nIn words which gen'ral approbation gain'd:\n\"One common largess is for all design'd,\n(The vanquish'd and the victor shall be join'd,)\nTwo darts of polish'd steel and Gnosian wood,\nA silver-studded ax, alike bestow'd.\nThe foremost three have olive wreaths decreed:\nThe first of these obtains a stately steed,\nAdorn'd with trappings; and the next in fame,\nThe quiver of an Amazonian dame,\nWith feather'd Thracian arrows well supplied:\nA golden belt shall gird his manly side,\nWhich with a sparkling diamond shall be tied.\nThe third this Grecian helmet shall content.\"\nHe said. To their appointed base they went;\nWith beating hearts th' expected sign receive,\nAnd, starting all at once, the barrier leave.\nSpread out, as on the winged winds, they flew,\nAnd seiz'd the distant goal with greedy view.\nShot from the crowd, swift Nisus all o'erpass'd;\nNor storms, nor thunder, equal half his haste.\nThe next, but tho' the next, yet far disjoin'd,\nCame Salius, and Euryalus behind;\nThen Helymus, whom young Diores plied,\nStep after step, and almost side by side,\nHis shoulders pressing; and, in longer space,\nHad won, or left at least a dubious race.\nNow, spent, the goal they almost reach at last,\nWhen eager Nisus, hapless in his haste,\nSlipp'd first, and, slipping, fell upon the plain,\nSoak'd with the blood of oxen newly slain.\nThe careless victor had not mark'd his way;\nBut, treading where the treach'rous puddle lay,\nHis heels flew up; and on the grassy floor\nHe fell, besmear'd with filth and holy gore.\nNot mindless then, Euryalus, of thee,\nNor of the sacred bonds of amity,\nHe strove th' immediate rival's hope to cross,\nAnd caught the foot of Salius as he rose.\nSo Salius lay extended on the plain;\nEuryalus springs out, the prize to gain,\nAnd leaves the crowd: applauding peals attend\nThe victor to the goal, who vanquish'd by his friend.\nNext Helymus; and then Diores came,\nBy two misfortunes made the third in fame.\nBut Salius enters, and, exclaiming loud\nFor justice, deafens and disturbs the crowd;\nUrges his cause may in the court be heard;\nAnd pleads the prize is wrongfully conferr'd.\nBut favor for Euryalus appears;\nHis blooming beauty, with his tender tears,\nHad brib'd the judges for the promis'd prize.\nBesides, Diores fills the court with cries,\nWho vainly reaches at the last reward,\nIf the first palm on Salius be conferr'd.\nThen thus the prince: \"Let no disputes arise:\nWhere fortune plac'd it, I award the prize.\nBut fortune's errors give me leave to mend,\nAt least to pity my deserving friend.\"\nHe said, and, from among the spoils, he draws\n(Pond'rous with shaggy mane and golden paws)\nA lion's hide: to Salius this he gives.\nNisus with envy sees the gift, and grieves.\n\"If such rewards to vanquish'd men are due.\"\nHe said, \"and falling is to rise by you,\nWhat prize may Nisus from your bounty claim,\nWho merited the first rewards and fame?\nIn falling, both an equal fortune tried;\nWould fortune for my fall so well provide!\"\nWith this he pointed to his face, and show'd\nHis hand and all his habit smear'd with blood.\nTh' indulgent father of the people smil'd,\nAnd caus'd to be produc'd an ample shield,\nOf wondrous art, by Didymaon wrought,\nLong since from Neptune's bars in triumph brought.\nThis giv'n to Nisus, he divides the rest,\nAnd equal justice in his gifts express'd.\nThe race thus ended, and rewards bestow'd,\nOnce more the princes bespeaks th' attentive crowd:\n\"If there he here whose dauntless courage dare\nIn gauntlet-fight, with limbs and body bare,\nHis opposite sustain in open view,\nStand forth the champion, and the games renew.\nTwo prizes I propose, and thus divide:\nA bull with gilded horns, and fillets tied,\nShall be the portion of the conqu'ring chief;\nA sword and helm shall cheer the loser's grief.\"\nThen haughty Dares in the lists appears;\nStalking he strides, his head erected bears:\nHis nervous arms the weighty gauntlet wield,\nAnd loud applauses echo thro' the field.\nDares alone in combat us'd to stand\nThe match of mighty Paris, hand to hand;\nThe same, at Hector's fun'rals, undertook\nGigantic Butes, of th' Amycian stock,\nAnd, by the stroke of his resistless hand,\nStretch'd the vast bulk upon the yellow sand.\nSuch Dares was; and such he strode along,\nAnd drew the wonder of the gazing throng.\nHis brawny back and ample breast he shows,\nHis lifted arms around his head he throws,\nAnd deals in whistling air his empty blows.\nHis match is sought; but, thro' the trembling band,\nNot one dares answer to the proud demand.\nPresuming of his force, with sparkling eyes\nAlready he devours the promis'd prize.\nHe claims the bull with awless insolence,\nAnd having seiz'd his horns, accosts the prince:\n\"If none my matchless valor dares oppose,\nHow long shall Dares wait his dastard foes?\nPermit me, chief, permit without delay,\nTo lead this uncontended gift away.\"\nThe crowd assents, and with redoubled cries\nFor the proud challenger demands the prize.\nAcestes, fir'd with just disdain, to see\nThe palm usurp'd without a victory,\nReproach'd Entellus thus, who sate beside,\nAnd heard and saw, unmov'd, the Trojan's pride:\n\"Once, but in vain, a champion of renown,\nSo tamely can you bear the ravish'd crown,\nA prize in triumph borne before your sight,\nAnd shun, for fear, the danger of the fight?\nWhere is our Eryx now, the boasted name,\nThe god who taught your thund'ring arm the game?\nWhere now your baffled honor? Where the spoil\nThat fill'd your house, and fame that fill'd our isle?\"\nEntellus, thus: \"My soul is still the same,\nUnmov'd with fear, and mov'd with martial fame;\nBut my chill blood is curdled in my veins,\nAnd scarce the shadow of a man remains.\nO could I turn to that fair prime again,\nThat prime of which this boaster is so vain,\nThe brave, who this decrepid age defies,\nShould feel my force, without the promis'd prize.\"\nHe said; and, rising at the word, he threw\nTwo pond'rous gauntlets down in open view;\nGauntlets which Eryx wont in fight to wield,\nAnd sheathe his hands with in the listed field.\nWith fear and wonder seiz'd, the crowd beholds\nThe gloves of death, with sev'n distinguish'd folds\nOf tough bull hides; the space within is spread\nWith iron, or with loads of heavy lead:\nDares himself was daunted at the sight,\nRenounc'd his challenge, and refus'd to fight.\nAstonish'd at their weight, the hero stands,\nAnd pois'd the pond'rous engines in his hands.\n\"What had your wonder,\" said Entellus, \"been,\nHad you the gauntlets of Alcides seen,\nOr view'd the stern debate on this unhappy green!\nThese which I bear your brother Eryx bore,\nStill mark'd with batter'd brains and mingled gore.\nWith these he long sustain'd th' Herculean arm;\nAnd these I wielded while my blood was warm,\nThis languish'd frame while better spirits fed,\nEre age unstrung my nerves, or time o'ersnow'd my head.\nBut if the challenger these arms refuse,\nAnd cannot wield their weight, or dare not use;\nIf great Aeneas and Acestes join\nIn his request, these gauntlets I resign;\nLet us with equal arms perform the fight,\nAnd let him leave to fear, since I resign my right.\"\nThis said, Entellus for the strife prepares;\nStripp'd of his quilted coat, his body bares;\nCompos'd of mighty bones and brawn he stands,\nA goodly tow'ring object on the sands.\nThen just Aeneas equal arms supplied,\nWhich round their shoulders to their wrists they tied.\nBoth on the tiptoe stand, at full extent,\nTheir arms aloft, their bodies inly bent;\nTheir heads from aiming blows they bear afar;\nWith clashing gauntlets then provoke the war.\nOne on his youth and pliant limbs relies;\nOne on his sinews and his giant size.\nThe last is stiff with age, his motion slow;\nHe heaves for breath, he staggers to and fro,\nAnd clouds of issuing smoke his nostrils loudly blow.\nYet equal in success, they ward, they strike;\nTheir ways are diff'rent, but their art alike.\nBefore, behind, the blows are dealt; around\nTheir hollow sides the rattling thumps resound.\nA storm of strokes, well meant, with fury flies,\nAnd errs about their temples, ears, and eyes.\nNor always errs; for oft the gauntlet draws\nA sweeping stroke along the crackling jaws.\nHeavy with age, Entellus stands his ground,\nBut with his warping body wards the wound.\nHis hand and watchful eye keep even pace;\nWhile Dares traverses and shifts his place,\nAnd, like a captain who beleaguers round\nSome strong-built castle on a rising ground,\nViews all th' approaches with observing eyes:\nThis and that other part in vain he tries,\nAnd more on industry than force relies.\nWith hands on high, Entellus threats the foe;\nBut Dares watch'd the motion from below,\nAnd slipp'd aside, and shunn'd the long descending blow.\nEntellus wastes his forces on the wind,\nAnd, thus deluded of the stroke design'd,\nHeadlong and heavy fell; his ample breast\nAnd weighty limbs his ancient mother press'd.\nSo falls a hollow pine, that long had stood\nOn Ida's height, or Erymanthus' wood,\nTorn from the roots. The diff'ring nations rise,\nAnd shouts and mingled murmurs rend the skies,\nAcestus runs with eager haste, to raise\nThe fall'n companion of his youthful days.\nDauntless he rose, and to the fight return'd;\nWith shame his glowing cheeks, his eyes with fury burn'd.\nDisdain and conscious virtue fir'd his breast,\nAnd with redoubled force his foe he press'd.\nHe lays on load with either hand, amain,\nAnd headlong drives the Trojan o'er the plain;\nNor stops, nor stays; nor rest nor breath allows;\nBut storms of strokes descend about his brows,\nA rattling tempest, and a hail of blows.\nBut now the prince, who saw the wild increase\nOf wounds, commands the combatants to cease,\nAnd bounds Entellus' wrath, and bids the peace.\nFirst to the Trojan, spent with toil, he came,\nAnd sooth'd his sorrow for the suffer'd shame.\n\"What fury seiz'd my friend? The gods,\" said he,\n\"To him propitious, and averse to thee,\nHave giv'n his arm superior force to thine.\n'T is madness to contend with strength divine.\"\nThe gauntlet fight thus ended, from the shore\nHis faithful friends unhappy Dares bore:\nHis mouth and nostrils pour'd a purple flood,\nAnd pounded teeth came rushing with his blood.\nFaintly he stagger'd thro' the hissing throng,\nAnd hung his head, and trail'd his legs along.\nThe sword and casque are carried by his train;\nBut with his foe the palm and ox remain.\nThe champion, then, before Aeneas came,\nProud of his prize, but prouder of his fame:\n\"O goddess-born, and you, Dardanian host,\nMark with attention, and forgive my boast;\nLearn what I was, by what remains; and know\nFrom what impending fate you sav'd my foe.\"\nSternly he spoke, and then confronts the bull;\nAnd, on his ample forehead aiming full,\nThe deadly stroke, descending, pierc'd the skull.\nDown drops the beast, nor needs a second wound,\nBut sprawls in pangs of death, and spurns the ground.\nThen, thus: \"In Dares' stead I offer this.\nEryx, accept a nobler sacrifice;\nTake the last gift my wither'd arms can yield:\nThy gauntlets I resign, and here renounce the field.\"\nThis done, Aeneas orders, for the close,\nThe strife of archers with contending bows.\nThe mast Sergesthus' shatter'd galley bore\nWith his own hands he raises on the shore.\nA flutt'ring dove upon the top they tie,\nThe living mark at which their arrows fly.\nThe rival archers in a line advance,\nTheir turn of shooting to receive from chance.\nA helmet holds their names; the lots are drawn:\nOn the first scroll was read Hippocoon.\nThe people shout. Upon the next was found\nYoung Mnestheus, late with naval honors crown'd.\nThe third contain'd Eurytion's noble name,\nThy brother, Pandarus, and next in fame,\nWhom Pallas urg'd the treaty to confound,\nAnd send among the Greeks a feather'd wound.\nAcestes in the bottom last remain'd,\nWhom not his age from youthful sports restrain'd.\nSoon all with vigor bend their trusty bows,\nAnd from the quiver each his arrow chose.\nHippocoon's was the first: with forceful sway\nIt flew, and, whizzing, cut the liquid way.\nFix'd in the mast the feather'd weapon stands:\nThe fearful pigeon flutters in her bands,\nAnd the tree trembled, and the shouting cries\nOf the pleas'd people rend the vaulted skies.\nThen Mnestheus to the head his arrow drove,\nWith lifted eyes, and took his aim above,\nBut made a glancing shot, and missed the dove;\nYet miss'd so narrow, that he cut the cord\nWhich fasten'd by the foot the flitting bird.\nThe captive thus releas'd, away she flies,\nAnd beats with clapping wings the yielding skies.\nHis bow already bent, Eurytion stood;\nAnd, having first invok'd his brother god,\nHis winged shaft with eager haste he sped.\nThe fatal message reach'd her as she fled:\nShe leaves her life aloft; she strikes the ground,\nAnd renders back the weapon in the wound.\nAcestes, grudging at his lot, remains,\nWithout a prize to gratify his pains.\nYet, shooting upward, sends his shaft, to show\nAn archer's art, and boast his twanging bow.\nThe feather'd arrow gave a dire portent,\nAnd latter augurs judge from this event.\nChaf'd by the speed, it fir'd; and, as it flew,\nA trail of following flames ascending drew:\nKindling they mount, and mark the shiny way;\nAcross the skies as falling meteors play,\nAnd vanish into wind, or in a blaze decay.\nThe Trojans and Sicilians wildly stare,\nAnd, trembling, turn their wonder into pray'r.\nThe Dardan prince put on a smiling face,\nAnd strain'd Acestes with a close embrace;\nThen, hon'ring him with gifts above the rest,\nTurn'd the bad omen, nor his fears confess'd.\n\"The gods,\" said he, \"this miracle have wrought,\nAnd order'd you the prize without the lot.\nAccept this goblet, rough with figur'd gold,\nWhich Thracian Cisseus gave my sire of old:\nThis pledge of ancient amity receive,\nWhich to my second sire I justly give.\"\nHe said, and, with the trumpets' cheerful sound,\nProclaim'd him victor, and with laurel-crown'd.\nNor good Eurytion envied him the prize,\nTho' he transfix'd the pigeon in the skies.\nWho cut the line, with second gifts was grac'd;\nThe third was his whose arrow pierc'd the mast.\nThe chief, before the games were wholly done,\nCall'd Periphantes, tutor to his son,\nAnd whisper'd thus: \"With speed Ascanius find;\nAnd, if his childish troop be ready join'd,\nOn horseback let him grace his grandsire's day,\nAnd lead his equals arm'd in just array.\"\nHe said; and, calling out, the cirque he clears.\nThe crowd withdrawn, an open plain appears.\nAnd now the noble youths, of form divine,\nAdvance before their fathers, in a line;\nThe riders grace the steeds; the steeds with glory shine.\nThus marching on in military pride,\nShouts of applause resound from side to side.\nTheir casques adorn'd with laurel wreaths they wear,\nEach brandishing aloft a cornel spear.\nSome at their backs their gilded quivers bore;\nTheir chains of burnish'd gold hung down before.\nThree graceful troops they form'd upon the green;\nThree graceful leaders at their head were seen;\nTwelve follow'd ev'ry chief, and left a space between.\nThe first young Priam led; a lovely boy,\nWhose grandsire was th' unhappy king of Troy;\nHis race in after times was known to fame,\nNew honors adding to the Latian name;\nAnd well the royal boy his Thracian steed became.\nWhite were the fetlocks of his feet before,\nAnd on his front a snowy star he bore.\nThen beauteous Atys, with Iulus bred,\nOf equal age, the second squadron led.\nThe last in order, but the first in place,\nFirst in the lovely features of his face,\nRode fair Ascanius on a fiery steed,\nQueen Dido's gift, and of the Tyrian breed.\nSure coursers for the rest the king ordains,\nWith golden bits adorn'd, and purple reins.\nThe pleas'd spectators peals of shouts renew,\nAnd all the parents in the children view;\nTheir make, their motions, and their sprightly grace,\nAnd hopes and fears alternate in their face.\nTh' unfledg'd commanders and their martial train\nFirst make the circuit of the sandy plain\nAround their sires, and, at th' appointed sign,\nDrawn up in beauteous order, form a line.\nThe second signal sounds, the troop divides\nIn three distinguish'd parts, with three distinguish'd guides\nAgain they close, and once again disjoin;\nIn troop to troop oppos'd, and line to line.\nThey meet; they wheel; they throw their darts afar\nWith harmless rage and well-dissembled war.\nThen in a round the mingled bodies run:\nFlying they follow, and pursuing shun;\nBroken, they break; and, rallying, they renew\nIn other forms the military shew.\nAt last, in order, undiscern'd they join,\nAnd march together in a friendly line.\nAnd, as the Cretan labyrinth of old,\nWith wand'ring ways and many a winding fold,\nInvolv'd the weary feet, without redress,\nIn a round error, which denied recess;\nSo fought the Trojan boys in warlike play,\nTurn'd and return'd, and still a diff'rent way.\nThus dolphins in the deep each other chase\nIn circles, when they swim around the wat'ry race.\nThis game, these carousels, Ascanius taught;\nAnd, building Alba, to the Latins brought;\nShew'd what he learn'd: the Latin sires impart\nTo their succeeding sons the graceful art;\nFrom these imperial Rome receiv'd the game,\nWhich Troy, the youths the Trojan troop, they name.\nThus far the sacred sports they celebrate:\nBut Fortune soon resum'd her ancient hate;\nFor, while they pay the dead his annual dues,\nThose envied rites Saturnian Juno views;\nAnd sends the goddess of the various bow,\nTo try new methods of revenge below;\nSupplies the winds to wing her airy way,\nWhere in the port secure the navy lay.\nSwiftly fair Iris down her arch descends,\nAnd, undiscern'd, her fatal voyage ends.\nShe saw the gath'ring crowd; and, gliding thence,\nThe desart shore, and fleet without defense.\nThe Trojan matrons, on the sands alone,\nWith sighs and tears Anchises' death bemoan;\nThen, turning to the sea their weeping eyes,\nTheir pity to themselves renews their cries.\n\"Alas!\" said one, \"what oceans yet remain\nFor us to sail! what labors to sustain!\"\nAll take the word, and, with a gen'ral groan,\nImplore the gods for peace, and places of their own.\nThe goddess, great in mischief, views their pains,\nAnd in a woman's form her heav'nly limbs restrains.\nIn face and shape old Beroe she became,\nDoryclus' wife, a venerable dame,\nOnce blest with riches, and a mother's name.\nThus chang'd, amidst the crying crowd she ran,\nMix'd with the matrons, and these words began:\n\"O wretched we, whom not the Grecian pow'r,\nNor flames, destroy'd, in Troy's unhappy hour!\nO wretched we, reserv'd by cruel fate,\nBeyond the ruins of the sinking state!\nNow sev'n revolving years are wholly run,\nSince this improsp'rous voyage we begun;\nSince, toss'd from shores to shores, from lands to lands,\nInhospitable rocks and barren sands,\nWand'ring in exile thro' the stormy sea,\nWe search in vain for flying Italy.\nNow cast by fortune on this kindred land,\nWhat should our rest and rising walls withstand,\nOr hinder here to fix our banish'd band?\nO country lost, and gods redeem'd in vain,\nIf still in endless exile we remain!\nShall we no more the Trojan walls renew,\nOr streams of some dissembled Simois view!\nHaste, join with me, th' unhappy fleet consume!\nCassandra bids; and I declare her doom.\nIn sleep I saw her; she supplied my hands\n(For this I more than dreamt) with flaming brands:\n'With these,' said she, 'these wand'ring ships destroy:\nThese are your fatal seats, and this your Troy.'\nTime calls you now; the precious hour employ:\nSlack not the good presage, while Heav'n inspires\nOur minds to dare, and gives the ready fires.\nSee! Neptune's altars minister their brands:\nThe god is pleas'd; the god supplies our hands.\"\nThen from the pile a flaming fire she drew,\nAnd, toss'd in air, amidst the galleys threw.\nWrapp'd in amaze, the matrons wildly stare:\nThen Pyrgo, reverenc'd for her hoary hair,\nPyrgo, the nurse of Priam's num'rous race:\n\"No Beroe this, tho' she belies her face!\nWhat terrors from her frowning front arise!\nBehold a goddess in her ardent eyes!\nWhat rays around her heav'nly face are seen!\nMark her majestic voice, and more than mortal mien!\nBeroe but now I left, whom, pin'd with pain,\nHer age and anguish from these rites detain,\"\nShe said. The matrons, seiz'd with new amaze,\nRoll their malignant eyes, and on the navy gaze.\nThey fear, and hope, and neither part obey:\nThey hope the fated land, but fear the fatal way.\nThe goddess, having done her task below,\nMounts up on equal wings, and bends her painted bow.\nStruck with the sight, and seiz'd with rage divine,\nThe matrons prosecute their mad design:\nThey shriek aloud; they snatch, with impious hands,\nThe food of altars; fires and flaming brands.\nGreen boughs and saplings, mingled in their haste,\nAnd smoking torches, on the ships they cast.\nThe flame, unstopp'd at first, more fury gains,\nAnd Vulcan rides at large with loosen'd reins:\nTriumphant to the painted sterns he soars,\nAnd seizes, in this way, the banks and crackling oars.\nEumelus was the first the news to bear,\nWhile yet they crowd the rural theater.\nThen, what they hear, is witness'd by their eyes:\nA storm of sparkles and of flames arise.\nAscanius took th' alarm, while yet he led\nHis early warriors on his prancing steed,\nAnd, spurring on, his equals soon o'erpass'd;\nNor could his frighted friends reclaim his haste.\nSoon as the royal youth appear'd in view,\nHe sent his voice before him as he flew:\n\"What madness moves you, matrons, to destroy\nThe last remainders of unhappy Troy!\nNot hostile fleets, but your own hopes, you burn,\nAnd on your friends your fatal fury turn.\nBehold your own Ascanius!\" While he said,\nHe drew his glitt'ring helmet from his head,\nIn which the youths to sportful arms he led.\nBy this, Aeneas and his train appear;\nAnd now the women, seiz'd with shame and fear,\nDispers'd, to woods and caverns take their flight,\nAbhor their actions, and avoid the light;\nTheir friends acknowledge, and their error find,\nAnd shake the goddess from their alter'd mind.\nNot so the raging fires their fury cease,\nBut, lurking in the seams, with seeming peace,\nWork on their way amid the smold'ring tow,\nSure in destruction, but in motion slow.\nThe silent plague thro' the green timber eats,\nAnd vomits out a tardy flame by fits.\nDown to the keels, and upward to the sails,\nThe fire descends, or mounts, but still prevails;\nNor buckets pour'd, nor strength of human hand,\nCan the victorious element withstand.\nThe pious hero rends his robe, and throws\nTo heav'n his hands, and with his hands his vows.\n\"O Jove,\" he cried, \"if pray'rs can yet have place;\nIf thou abhorr'st not all the Dardan race;\nIf any spark of pity still remain;\nIf gods are gods, and not invok'd in vain;\nYet spare the relics of the Trojan train!\nYet from the flames our burning vessels free,\nOr let thy fury fall alone on me!\nAt this devoted head thy thunder throw,\nAnd send the willing sacrifice below!\"\nScarce had he said, when southern storms arise:\nFrom pole to pole the forky lightning flies;\nLoud rattling shakes the mountains and the plain;\nHeav'n bellies downward, and descends in rain.\nWhole sheets of water from the clouds are sent,\nWhich, hissing thro' the planks, the flames prevent,\nAnd stop the fiery pest. Four ships alone\nBurn to the waist, and for the fleet atone.\nBut doubtful thoughts the hero's heart divide;\nIf he should still in Sicily reside,\nForgetful of his fates, or tempt the main,\nIn hope the promis'd Italy to gain.\nThen Nautes, old and wise, to whom alone\nThe will of Heav'n by Pallas was foreshown;\nVers'd in portents, experienc'd, and inspir'd\nTo tell events, and what the fates requir'd;\nThus while he stood, to neither part inclin'd,\nWith cheerful words reliev'd his lab'ring mind:\n\"O goddess-born, resign'd in ev'ry state,\nWith patience bear, with prudence push your fate.\nBy suff'ring well, our Fortune we subdue;\nFly when she frowns, and, when she calls, pursue.\nYour friend Acestes is of Trojan kind;\nTo him disclose the secrets of your mind:\nTrust in his hands your old and useless train;\nToo num'rous for the ships which yet remain:\nThe feeble, old, indulgent of their ease,\nThe dames who dread the dangers of the seas,\nWith all the dastard crew, who dare not stand\nThe shock of battle with your foes by land.\nHere you may build a common town for all,\nAnd, from Acestes' name, Acesta call.\"\nThe reasons, with his friend's experience join'd,\nEncourag'd much, but more disturb'd his mind.\n'T was dead of night; when to his slumb'ring eyes\nHis father's shade descended from the skies,\nAnd thus he spoke: \"O more than vital breath,\nLov'd while I liv'd, and dear ev'n after death;\nO son, in various toils and troubles toss'd,\nThe King of Heav'n employs my careful ghost\nOn his commands: the god, who sav'd from fire\nYour flaming fleet, and heard your just desire.\nThe wholesome counsel of your friend receive,\nAnd here the coward train and woman leave:\nThe chosen youth, and those who nobly dare,\nTransport, to tempt the dangers of the war.\nThe stern Italians will their courage try;\nRough are their manners, and their minds are high.\nBut first to Pluto's palace you shall go,\nAnd seek my shade among the blest below:\nFor not with impious ghosts my soul remains,\nNor suffers with the damn'd perpetual pains,\nBut breathes the living air of soft Elysian plains.\nThe chaste Sibylla shall your steps convey,\nAnd blood of offer'd victims free the way.\nThere shall you know what realms the gods assign,\nAnd learn the fates and fortunes of your line.\nBut now, farewell! I vanish with the night,\nAnd feel the blast of heav'n's approaching light.\"\nHe said, and mix'd with shades, and took his airy flight.\n\"Whither so fast?\" the filial duty cried;\n\"And why, ah why, the wish'd embrace denied?\"\nHe said, and rose; as holy zeal inspires,\nHe rakes hot embers, and renews the fires;\nHis country gods and Vesta then adores\nWith cakes and incense, and their aid implores.\nNext, for his friends and royal host he sent,\nReveal'd his vision, and the gods' intent,\nWith his own purpose. All, without delay,\nThe will of Jove, and his desires obey.\nThey list with women each degenerate name,\nWho dares not hazard life for future fame.\nThese they cashier: the brave remaining few,\nOars, banks, and cables, half consum'd, renew.\nThe prince designs a city with the plow;\nThe lots their sev'ral tenements allow.\nThis part is nam'd from Ilium, that from Troy,\nAnd the new king ascends the throne with joy;\nA chosen senate from the people draws;\nAppoints the judges, and ordains the laws.\nThen, on the top of Eryx, they begin\nA rising temple to the Paphian queen.\nAnchises, last, is honor'd as a god;\nA priest is added, annual gifts bestow'd,\nAnd groves are planted round his blest abode.\nNine days they pass in feasts, their temples crown'd;\nAnd fumes of incense in the fanes abound.\nThen from the south arose a gentle breeze\nThat curl'd the smoothness of the glassy seas;\nThe rising winds a ruffling gale afford,\nAnd call the merry mariners aboard.\nNow loud laments along the shores resound,\nOf parting friends in close embraces bound.\nThe trembling women, the degenerate train,\nWho shunn'd the frightful dangers of the main,\nEv'n those desire to sail, and take their share\nOf the rough passage and the promis'd war:\nWhom good Aeneas cheers, and recommends\nTo their new master's care his fearful friends.\nOn Eryx's altars three fat calves he lays;\nA lamb new-fallen to the stormy seas;\nThen slips his haulsers, and his anchors weighs.\nHigh on the deck the godlike hero stands,\nWith olive crown'd, a charger in his hands;\nThen cast the reeking entrails in the brine,\nAnd pour'd the sacrifice of purple wine.\nFresh gales arise; with equal strokes they vie,\nAnd brush the buxom seas, and o'er the billows fly.\nMeantime the mother goddess, full of fears,\nTo Neptune thus address'd, with tender tears:\n\"The pride of Jove's imperious queen, the rage,\nThe malice which no suff'rings can assuage,\nCompel me to these pray'rs; since neither fate,\nNor time, nor pity, can remove her hate:\nEv'n Jove is thwarted by his haughty wife;\nStill vanquish'd, yet she still renews the strife.\nAs if 't were little to consume the town\nWhich aw'd the world, and wore th' imperial crown,\nShe prosecutes the ghost of Troy with pains,\nAnd gnaws, ev'n to the bones, the last remains.\nLet her the causes of her hatred tell;\nBut you can witness its effects too well.\nYou saw the storm she rais'd on Libyan floods,\nThat mix'd the mounting billows with the clouds;\nWhen, bribing Aeolus, she shook the main,\nAnd mov'd rebellion in your wat'ry reign.\nWith fury she possess'd the Dardan dames,\nTo burn their fleet with execrable flames,\nAnd forc'd Aeneas, when his ships were lost,\nTo leave his foll'wers on a foreign coast.\nFor what remains, your godhead I implore,\nAnd trust my son to your protecting pow'r.\nIf neither Jove's nor Fate's decree withstand,\nSecure his passage to the Latian land.\"\nThen thus the mighty Ruler of the Main:\n\"What may not Venus hope from Neptune's reign?\nMy kingdom claims your birth; my late defense\nOf your indanger'd fleet may claim your confidence.\nNor less by land than sea my deeds declare\nHow much your lov'd Aeneas is my care.\nThee, Xanthus, and thee, Simois, I attest.\nYour Trojan troops when proud Achilles press'd,\nAnd drove before him headlong on the plain,\nAnd dash'd against the walls the trembling train;\nWhen floods were fill'd with bodies of the slain;\nWhen crimson Xanthus, doubtful of his way,\nStood up on ridges to behold the sea;\n(New heaps came tumbling in, and chok'd his way;)\nWhen your Aeneas fought, but fought with odds\nOf force unequal, and unequal gods;\nI spread a cloud before the victor's sight,\nSustain'd the vanquish'd, and secur'd his flight;\nEv'n then secur'd him, when I sought with joy\nThe vow'd destruction of ungrateful Troy.\nMy will's the same: fair goddess, fear no more,\nYour fleet shall safely gain the Latian shore;\nTheir lives are giv'n; one destin'd head alone\nShall perish, and for multitudes atone.\"\nThus having arm'd with hopes her anxious mind,\nHis finny team Saturnian Neptune join'd,\nThen adds the foamy bridle to their jaws,\nAnd to the loosen'd reins permits the laws.\nHigh on the waves his azure car he guides;\nIts axles thunder, and the sea subsides,\nAnd the smooth ocean rolls her silent tides.\nThe tempests fly before their father's face,\nTrains of inferior gods his triumph grace,\nAnd monster whales before their master play,\nAnd choirs of Tritons crowd the wat'ry way.\nThe marshal'd pow'rs in equal troops divide\nTo right and left; the gods his better side\nInclose, and on the worse the Nymphs and Nereids ride.\nNow smiling hope, with sweet vicissitude,\nWithin the hero's mind his joys renew'd.\nHe calls to raise the masts, the sheets display;\nThe cheerful crew with diligence obey;\nThey scud before the wind, and sail in open sea.\nAhead of all the master pilot steers;\nAnd, as he leads, the following navy veers.\nThe steeds of Night had travel'd half the sky,\nThe drowsy rowers on their benches lie,\nWhen the soft God of Sleep, with easy flight,\nDescends, and draws behind a trail of light.\nThou, Palinurus, art his destin'd prey;\nTo thee alone he takes his fatal way.\nDire dreams to thee, and iron sleep, he bears;\nAnd, lighting on thy prow, the form of Phorbas wears.\nThen thus the traitor god began his tale:\n\"The winds, my friend, inspire a pleasing gale;\nThe ships, without thy care, securely sail.\nNow steal an hour of sweet repose; and I\nWill take the rudder and thy room supply.\"\nTo whom the yawning pilot, half asleep:\n\"Me dost thou bid to trust the treach'rous deep,\nThe harlot smiles of her dissembling face,\nAnd to her faith commit the Trojan race?\nShall I believe the Siren South again,\nAnd, oft betray'd, not know the monster main?\"\nHe said: his fasten'd hands the rudder keep,\nAnd, fix'd on heav'n, his eyes repel invading sleep.\nThe god was wroth, and at his temples threw\nA branch in Lethe dipp'd, and drunk with Stygian dew:\nThe pilot, vanquish'd by the pow'r divine,\nSoon clos'd his swimming eyes, and lay supine.\nScarce were his limbs extended at their length,\nThe god, insulting with superior strength,\nFell heavy on him, plung'd him in the sea,\nAnd, with the stern, the rudder tore away.\nHeadlong he fell, and, struggling in the main,\nCried out for helping hands, but cried in vain.\nThe victor daemon mounts obscure in air,\nWhile the ship sails without the pilot's care.\nOn Neptune's faith the floating fleet relies;\nBut what the man forsook, the god supplies,\nAnd o'er the dang'rous deep secure the navy flies;\nGlides by the Sirens' cliffs, a shelfy coast,\nLong infamous for ships and sailors lost,\nAnd white with bones. Th' impetuous ocean roars,\nAnd rocks rebellow from the sounding shores.\nThe watchful hero felt the knocks, and found\nThe tossing vessel sail'd on shoaly ground.\nSure of his pilot's loss, he takes himself\nThe helm, and steers aloof, and shuns the shelf.\nInly he griev'd, and, groaning from the breast,\nDeplor'd his death; and thus his pain express'd:\n\"For faith repos'd on seas, and on the flatt'ring sky,\nThy naked corpse is doom'd on shores unknown to lie.\"\nBOOK VI\nHe said, and wept; then spread his sails before\nThe winds, and reach'd at length the Cumaean shore:\nTheir anchors dropp'd, his crew the vessels moor.\nThey turn their heads to sea, their sterns to land,\nAnd greet with greedy joy th' Italian strand.\nSome strike from clashing flints their fiery seed;\nSome gather sticks, the kindled flames to feed,\nOr search for hollow trees, and fell the woods,\nOr trace thro' valleys the discover'd floods.\nThus, while their sev'ral charges they fulfil,\nThe pious prince ascends the sacred hill\nWhere Phoebus is ador'd; and seeks the shade\nWhich hides from sight his venerable maid.\nDeep in a cave the Sibyl makes abode;\nThence full of fate returns, and of the god.\nThro' Trivia's grove they walk; and now behold,\nAnd enter now, the temple roof'd with gold.\nWhen Daedalus, to fly the Cretan shore,\nHis heavy limbs on jointed pinions bore,\n(The first who sail'd in air,) 't is sung by Fame,\nTo the Cumaean coast at length he came,\nAnd here alighting, built this costly frame.\nInscrib'd to Phoebus, here he hung on high\nThe steerage of his wings, that cut the sky:\nThen o'er the lofty gate his art emboss'd\nAndrogeos' death, and off'rings to his ghost;\nSev'n youths from Athens yearly sent, to meet\nThe fate appointed by revengeful Crete.\nAnd next to those the dreadful urn was plac'd,\nIn which the destin'd names by lots were cast:\nThe mournful parents stand around in tears,\nAnd rising Crete against their shore appears.\nThere too, in living sculpture, might be seen\nThe mad affection of the Cretan queen;\nThen how she cheats her bellowing lover's eye;\nThe rushing leap, the doubtful progeny,\nThe lower part a beast, a man above,\nThe monument of their polluted love.\nNot far from thence he grav'd the wondrous maze,\nA thousand doors, a thousand winding ways:\nHere dwells the monster, hid from human view,\nNot to be found, but by the faithful clew;\nTill the kind artist, mov'd with pious grief,\nLent to the loving maid this last relief,\nAnd all those erring paths describ'd so well\nThat Theseus conquer'd and the monster fell.\nHere hapless Icarus had found his part,\nHad not the father's grief restrain'd his art.\nHe twice assay'd to cast his son in gold;\nTwice from his hands he dropp'd the forming mold.\nAll this with wond'ring eyes Aeneas view'd;\nEach varying object his delight renew'd:\nEager to read the rest- Achates came,\nAnd by his side the mad divining dame,\nThe priestess of the god, Deiphobe her name.\n\"Time suffers not,\" she said, \"to feed your eyes\nWith empty pleasures; haste the sacrifice.\nSev'n bullocks, yet unyok'd, for Phoebus choose,\nAnd for Diana sev'n unspotted ewes.\"\nThis said, the servants urge the sacred rites,\nWhile to the temple she the prince invites.\nA spacious cave, within its farmost part,\nWas hew'd and fashion'd by laborious art\nThro' the hill's hollow sides: before the place,\nA hundred doors a hundred entries grace;\nAs many voices issue, and the sound\nOf Sybil's words as many times rebound.\nNow to the mouth they come. Aloud she cries:\n\"This is the time; enquire your destinies.\nHe comes; behold the god!\" Thus while she said,\n(And shiv'ring at the sacred entry stay'd,)\nHer color chang'd; her face was not the same,\nAnd hollow groans from her deep spirit came.\nHer hair stood up; convulsive rage possess'd\nHer trembling limbs, and heav'd her lab'ring breast.\nGreater than humankind she seem'd to look,\nAnd with an accent more than mortal spoke.\nHer staring eyes with sparkling fury roll;\nWhen all the god came rushing on her soul.\nSwiftly she turn'd, and, foaming as she spoke:\n\"Why this delay?\" she cried- \"the pow'rs invoke!\nThy pray'rs alone can open this abode;\nElse vain are my demands, and dumb the god.\"\nShe said no more. The trembling Trojans hear,\nO'erspread with a damp sweat and holy fear.\nThe prince himself, with awful dread possess'd,\nHis vows to great Apollo thus address'd:\n\"Indulgent god, propitious pow'r to Troy,\nSwift to relieve, unwilling to destroy,\nDirected by whose hand the Dardan dart\nPierc'd the proud Grecian's only mortal part:\nThus far, by fate's decrees and thy commands,\nThro' ambient seas and thro' devouring sands,\nOur exil'd crew has sought th' Ausonian ground;\nAnd now, at length, the flying coast is found.\nThus far the fate of Troy, from place to place,\nWith fury has pursued her wand'ring race.\nHere cease, ye pow'rs, and let your vengeance end:\nTroy is no more, and can no more offend.\nAnd thou, O sacred maid, inspir'd to see\nTh' event of things in dark futurity;\nGive me what Heav'n has promis'd to my fate,\nTo conquer and command the Latian state;\nTo fix my wand'ring gods, and find a place\nFor the long exiles of the Trojan race.\nThen shall my grateful hands a temple rear\nTo the twin gods, with vows and solemn pray'r;\nAnd annual rites, and festivals, and games,\nShall be perform'd to their auspicious names.\nNor shalt thou want thy honors in my land;\nFor there thy faithful oracles shall stand,\nPreserv'd in shrines; and ev'ry sacred lay,\nWhich, by thy mouth, Apollo shall convey:\nAll shall be treasur'd by a chosen train\nOf holy priests, and ever shall remain.\nBut O! commit not thy prophetic mind\nTo flitting leaves, the sport of ev'ry wind,\nLest they disperse in air our empty fate;\nWrite not, but, what the pow'rs ordain, relate.\"\nStruggling in vain, impatient of her load,\nAnd lab'ring underneath the pond'rous god,\nThe more she strove to shake him from her breast,\nWith more and far superior force he press'd;\nCommands his entrance, and, without control,\nUsurps her organs and inspires her soul.\nNow, with a furious blast, the hundred doors\nOpe of themselves; a rushing whirlwind roars\nWithin the cave, and Sibyl's voice restores:\n\"Escap'd the dangers of the wat'ry reign,\nYet more and greater ills by land remain.\nThe coast, so long desir'd (nor doubt th' event),\nThy troops shall reach, but, having reach'd, repent.\nWars, horrid wars, I view- a field of blood,\nAnd Tiber rolling with a purple flood.\nSimois nor Xanthus shall be wanting there:\nA new Achilles shall in arms appear,\nAnd he, too, goddess-born. Fierce Juno's hate,\nAdded to hostile force, shall urge thy fate.\nTo what strange nations shalt not thou resort,\nDriv'n to solicit aid at ev'ry court!\nThe cause the same which Ilium once oppress'd;\nA foreign mistress, and a foreign guest.\nBut thou, secure of soul, unbent with woes,\nThe more thy fortune frowns, the more oppose.\nThe dawnings of thy safety shall be shown\nFrom whence thou least shalt hope, a Grecian town.\"\nThus, from the dark recess, the Sibyl spoke,\nAnd the resisting air the thunder broke;\nThe cave rebellow'd, and the temple shook.\nTh' ambiguous god, who rul'd her lab'ring breast,\nIn these mysterious words his mind express'd;\nSome truths reveal'd, in terms involv'd the rest.\nAt length her fury fell, her foaming ceas'd,\nAnd, ebbing in her soul, the god decreas'd.\nThen thus the chief: \"No terror to my view,\nNo frightful face of danger can be new.\nInur'd to suffer, and resolv'd to dare,\nThe Fates, without my pow'r, shall be without my care.\nThis let me crave, since near your grove the road\nTo hell lies open, and the dark abode\nWhich Acheron surrounds, th' innavigable flood;\nConduct me thro' the regions void of light,\nAnd lead me longing to my father's sight.\nFor him, a thousand dangers I have sought,\nAnd, rushing where the thickest Grecians fought,\nSafe on my back the sacred burthen brought.\nHe, for my sake, the raging ocean tried,\nAnd wrath of Heav'n, my still auspicious guide,\nAnd bore beyond the strength decrepid age supplied.\nOft, since he breath'd his last, in dead of night\nHis reverend image stood before my sight;\nEnjoin'd to seek, below, his holy shade;\nConducted there by your unerring aid.\nBut you, if pious minds by pray'rs are won,\nOblige the father, and protect the son.\nYours is the pow'r; nor Proserpine in vain\nHas made you priestess of her nightly reign.\nIf Orpheus, arm'd with his enchanting lyre,\nThe ruthless king with pity could inspire,\nAnd from the shades below redeem his wife;\nIf Pollux, off'ring his alternate life,\nCould free his brother, and can daily go\nBy turns aloft, by turns descend below-\nWhy name I Theseus, or his greater friend,\nWho trod the downward path, and upward could ascend?\nNot less than theirs from Jove my lineage came;\nMy mother greater, my descent the same.\"\nSo pray'd the Trojan prince, and, while he pray'd,\nHis hand upon the holy altar laid.\nThen thus replied the prophetess divine:\n\"O goddess-born of great Anchises' line,\nThe gates of hell are open night and day;\nSmooth the descent, and easy is the way:\nBut to return, and view the cheerful skies,\nIn this the task and mighty labor lies.\nTo few great Jupiter imparts this grace,\nAnd those of shining worth and heav'nly race.\nBetwixt those regions and our upper light,\nDeep forests and impenetrable night\nPossess the middle space: th' infernal bounds\nCocytus, with his sable waves, surrounds.\nBut if so dire a love your soul invades,\nAs twice below to view the trembling shades;\nIf you so hard a toil will undertake,\nAs twice to pass th' innavigable lake;\nReceive my counsel. In the neighb'ring grove\nThere stands a tree; the queen of Stygian Jove\nClaims it her own; thick woods and gloomy night\nConceal the happy plant from human sight.\nOne bough it bears; but (wondrous to behold!)\nThe ductile rind and leaves of radiant gold:\nThis from the vulgar branches must be torn,\nAnd to fair Proserpine the present borne,\nEre leave be giv'n to tempt the nether skies.\nThe first thus rent a second will arise,\nAnd the same metal the same room supplies.\nLook round the wood, with lifted eyes, to see\nThe lurking gold upon the fatal tree:\nThen rend it off, as holy rites command;\nThe willing metal will obey thy hand,\nFollowing with ease, if favor'd by thy fate,\nThou art foredoom'd to view the Stygian state:\nIf not, no labor can the tree constrain;\nAnd strength of stubborn arms and steel are vain.\nBesides, you know not, while you here attend,\nTh' unworthy fate of your unhappy friend:\nBreathless he lies; and his unburied ghost,\nDepriv'd of fun'ral rites, pollutes your host.\nPay first his pious dues; and, for the dead,\nTwo sable sheep around his hearse be led;\nThen, living turfs upon his body lay:\nThis done, securely take the destin'd way,\nTo find the regions destitute of day.\"\nShe said, and held her peace. Aeneas went\nSad from the cave, and full of discontent,\nUnknowing whom the sacred Sibyl meant.\nAchates, the companion of his breast,\nGoes grieving by his side, with equal cares oppress'd.\nWalking, they talk'd, and fruitlessly divin'd\nWhat friend the priestess by those words design'd.\nBut soon they found an object to deplore:\nMisenus lay extended the shore;\nSon of the God of Winds: none so renown'd\nThe warrior trumpet in the field to sound;\nWith breathing brass to kindle fierce alarms,\nAnd rouse to dare their fate in honorable arms.\nHe serv'd great Hector, and was ever near,\nNot with his trumpet only, but his spear.\nBut by Pelides' arms when Hector fell,\nHe chose Aeneas; and he chose as well.\nSwoln with applause, and aiming still at more,\nHe now provokes the sea gods from the shore;\nWith envy Triton heard the martial sound,\nAnd the bold champion, for his challenge, drown'd;\nThen cast his mangled carcass on the strand:\nThe gazing crowd around the body stand.\nAll weep; but most Aeneas mourns his fate,\nAnd hastens to perform the funeral state.\nIn altar-wise, a stately pile they rear;\nThe basis broad below, and top advanc'd in air.\nAn ancient wood, fit for the work design'd,\n(The shady covert of the salvage kind,)\nThe Trojans found: the sounding ax is plied;\nFirs, pines, and pitch trees, and the tow'ring pride\nOf forest ashes, feel the fatal stroke,\nAnd piercing wedges cleave the stubborn oak.\nHuge trunks of trees, fell'd from the steepy crown\nOf the bare mountains, roll with ruin down.\nArm'd like the rest the Trojan prince appears,\nAnd by his pious labor urges theirs.\nThus while he wrought, revolving in his mind\nThe ways to compass what his wish design'd,\nHe cast his eyes upon the gloomy grove,\nAnd then with vows implor'd the Queen of Love:\n\"O may thy pow'r, propitious still to me,\nConduct my steps to find the fatal tree,\nIn this deep forest; since the Sibyl's breath\nForetold, alas! too true, Misenus' death.\"\nScarce had he said, when, full before his sight,\nTwo doves, descending from their airy flight,\nSecure upon the grassy plain alight.\nHe knew his mother's birds; and thus he pray'd:\n\"Be you my guides, with your auspicious aid,\nAnd lead my footsteps, till the branch be found,\nWhose glitt'ring shadow gilds the sacred ground.\nAnd thou, great parent, with celestial care,\nIn this distress be present to my pray'r!\"\nThus having said, he stopp'd with watchful sight,\nObserving still the motions of their flight,\nWhat course they took, what happy signs they shew.\nThey fed, and, flutt'ring, by degrees withdrew\nStill farther from the place, but still in view:\nHopping and flying, thus they led him on\nTo the slow lake, whose baleful stench to shun\nThey wing'd their flight aloft; then, stooping low,\nPerch'd on the double tree that bears the golden bough.\nThro' the green leafs the glitt'ring shadows glow;\nAs, on the sacred oak, the wintry mistletoe,\nWhere the proud mother views her precious brood,\nAnd happier branches, which she never sow'd.\nSuch was the glitt'ring; such the ruddy rind,\nAnd dancing leaves, that wanton'd in the wind.\nHe seiz'd the shining bough with griping hold,\nAnd rent away, with ease, the ling'ring gold;\nThen to the Sibyl's palace bore the prize.\nMeantime the Trojan troops, with weeping eyes,\nTo dead Misenus pay his obsequies.\nFirst, from the ground a lofty pile they rear,\nOf pitch trees, oaks, and pines, and unctuous fir:\nThe fabric's front with cypress twigs they strew,\nAnd stick the sides with boughs of baleful yew.\nThe topmost part his glitt'ring arms adorn;\nWarm waters, then, in brazen caldrons borne,\nAre pour'd to wash his body, joint by joint,\nAnd fragrant oils the stiffen'd limbs anoint.\nWith groans and cries Misenus they deplore:\nThen on a bier, with purple cover'd o'er,\nThe breathless body, thus bewail'd, they lay,\nAnd fire the pile, their faces turn'd away-\nSuch reverend rites their fathers us'd to pay.\nPure oil and incense on the fire they throw,\nAnd fat of victims, which his friends bestow.\nThese gifts the greedy flames to dust devour;\nThen on the living coals red wine they pour;\nAnd, last, the relics by themselves dispose,\nWhich in a brazen urn the priests inclose.\nOld Corynaeus compass'd thrice the crew,\nAnd dipp'd an olive branch in holy dew;\nWhich thrice he sprinkled round, and thrice aloud\nInvok'd the dead, and then dismissed the crowd.\nBut good Aeneas order'd on the shore\nA stately tomb, whose top a trumpet bore,\nA soldier's fauchion, and a seaman's oar.\nThus was his friend interr'd; and deathless fame\nStill to the lofty cape consigns his name.\nThese rites perform'd, the prince, without delay,\nHastes to the nether world his destin'd way.\nDeep was the cave; and, downward as it went\nFrom the wide mouth, a rocky rough descent;\nAnd here th' access a gloomy grove defends,\nAnd there th' unnavigable lake extends,\nO'er whose unhappy waters, void of light,\nNo bird presumes to steer his airy flight;\nSuch deadly stenches from the depths arise,\nAnd steaming sulphur, that infects the skies.\nFrom hence the Grecian bards their legends make,\nAnd give the name Avernus to the lake.\nFour sable bullocks, in the yoke untaught,\nFor sacrifice the pious hero brought.\nThe priestess pours the wine betwixt their horns;\nThen cuts the curling hair; that first oblation burns,\nInvoking Hecate hither to repair:\nA pow'rful name in hell and upper air.\nThe sacred priests with ready knives bereave\nThe beasts of life, and in full bowls receive\nThe streaming blood: a lamb to Hell and Night\n(The sable wool without a streak of white)\nAeneas offers; and, by fate's decree,\nA barren heifer, Proserpine, to thee,\nWith holocausts he Pluto's altar fills;\nSev'n brawny bulls with his own hand he kills;\nThen on the broiling entrails oil he pours;\nWhich, ointed thus, the raging flame devours.\nLate the nocturnal sacrifice begun,\nNor ended till the next returning sun.\nThen earth began to bellow, trees to dance,\nAnd howling dogs in glimm'ring light advance,\nEre Hecate came. \"Far hence be souls profane!\"\nThe Sibyl cried, \"and from the grove abstain!\nNow, Trojan, take the way thy fates afford;\nAssume thy courage, and unsheathe thy sword.\"\nShe said, and pass'd along the gloomy space;\nThe prince pursued her steps with equal pace.\nYe realms, yet unreveal'd to human sight,\nYe gods who rule the regions of the night,\nYe gliding ghosts, permit me to relate\nThe mystic wonders of your silent state!\nObscure they went thro' dreary shades, that led\nAlong the waste dominions of the dead.\nThus wander travelers in woods by night,\nBy the moon's doubtful and malignant light,\nWhen Jove in dusky clouds involves the skies,\nAnd the faint crescent shoots by fits before their eyes.\nJust in the gate and in the jaws of hell,\nRevengeful Cares and sullen Sorrows dwell,\nAnd pale Diseases, and repining Age,\nWant, Fear, and Famine's unresisted rage;\nHere Toils, and Death, and Death's half-brother, Sleep,\nForms terrible to view, their sentry keep;\nWith anxious Pleasures of a guilty mind,\nDeep Frauds before, and open Force behind;\nThe Furies' iron beds; and Strife, that shakes\nHer hissing tresses and unfolds her snakes.\nFull in the midst of this infernal road,\nAn elm displays her dusky arms abroad:\nThe God of Sleep there hides his heavy head,\nAnd empty dreams on ev'ry leaf are spread.\nOf various forms unnumber'd specters more,\nCentaurs, and double shapes, besiege the door.\nBefore the passage, horrid Hydra stands,\nAnd Briareus with all his hundred hands;\nGorgons, Geryon with his triple frame;\nAnd vain Chimaera vomits empty flame.\nThe chief unsheath'd his shining steel, prepar'd,\nTho' seiz'd with sudden fear, to force the guard,\nOff'ring his brandish'd weapon at their face;\nHad not the Sibyl stopp'd his eager pace,\nAnd told him what those empty phantoms were:\nForms without bodies, and impassive air.\nHence to deep Acheron they take their way,\nWhose troubled eddies, thick with ooze and clay,\nAre whirl'd aloft, and in Cocytus lost.\nThere Charon stands, who rules the dreary coast-\nA sordid god: down from his hoary chin\nA length of beard descends, uncomb'd, unclean;\nHis eyes, like hollow furnaces on fire;\nA girdle, foul with grease, binds his obscene attire.\nHe spreads his canvas; with his pole he steers;\nThe freights of flitting ghosts in his thin bottom bears.\nHe look'd in years; yet in his years were seen\nA youthful vigor and autumnal green.\nAn airy crowd came rushing where he stood,\nWhich fill'd the margin of the fatal flood:\nHusbands and wives, boys and unmarried maids,\nAnd mighty heroes' more majestic shades,\nAnd youths, intomb'd before their fathers' eyes,\nWith hollow groans, and shrieks, and feeble cries.\nThick as the leaves in autumn strow the woods,\nOr fowls, by winter forc'd, forsake the floods,\nAnd wing their hasty flight to happier lands;\nSuch, and so thick, the shiv'ring army stands,\nAnd press for passage with extended hands.\nNow these, now those, the surly boatman bore:\nThe rest he drove to distance from the shore.\nThe hero, who beheld with wond'ring eyes\nThe tumult mix'd with shrieks, laments, and cries,\nAsk'd of his guide, what the rude concourse meant;\nWhy to the shore the thronging people bent;\nWhat forms of law among the ghosts were us'd;\nWhy some were ferried o'er, and some refus'd.\n\"Son of Anchises, offspring of the gods,\"\nThe Sibyl said, \"you see the Stygian floods,\nThe sacred stream which heav'n's imperial state\nAttests in oaths, and fears to violate.\nThe ghosts rejected are th' unhappy crew\nDepriv'd of sepulchers and fun'ral due:\nThe boatman, Charon; those, the buried host,\nHe ferries over to the farther coast;\nNor dares his transport vessel cross the waves\nWith such whose bones are not compos'd in graves.\nA hundred years they wander on the shore;\nAt length, their penance done, are wafted o'er.\"\nThe Trojan chief his forward pace repress'd,\nRevolving anxious thoughts within his breast,\nHe saw his friends, who, whelm'd beneath the waves,\nTheir fun'ral honors claim'd, and ask'd their quiet graves.\nThe lost Leucaspis in the crowd he knew,\nAnd the brave leader of the Lycian crew,\nWhom, on the Tyrrhene seas, the tempests met;\nThe sailors master'd, and the ship o'erset.\nAmidst the spirits, Palinurus press'd,\nYet fresh from life, a new-admitted guest,\nWho, while he steering view'd the stars, and bore\nHis course from Afric to the Latian shore,\nFell headlong down. The Trojan fix'd his view,\nAnd scarcely thro' the gloom the sullen shadow knew.\nThen thus the prince: \"What envious pow'r, O friend,\nBrought your lov'd life to this disastrous end?\nFor Phoebus, ever true in all he said,\nHas in your fate alone my faith betray'd.\nThe god foretold you should not die, before\nYou reach'd, secure from seas, th' Italian shore.\nIs this th' unerring pow'r?\" The ghost replied;\n\"Nor Phoebus flatter'd, nor his answers lied;\nNor envious gods have sent me to the deep:\nBut, while the stars and course of heav'n I keep,\nMy wearied eyes were seiz'd with fatal sleep.\nI fell; and, with my weight, the helm constrain'd\nWas drawn along, which yet my gripe retain'd.\nNow by the winds and raging waves I swear,\nYour safety, more than mine, was then my care;\nLest, of the guide bereft, the rudder lost,\nYour ship should run against the rocky coast.\nThree blust'ring nights, borne by the southern blast,\nI floated, and discover'd land at last:\nHigh on a mounting wave my head I bore,\nForcing my strength, and gath'ring to the shore.\nPanting, but past the danger, now I seiz'd\nThe craggy cliffs, and my tir'd members eas'd.\nWhile, cumber'd with my dropping clothes, I lay,\nThe cruel nation, covetous of prey,\nStain'd with my blood th' unhospitable coast;\nAnd now, by winds and waves, my lifeless limbs are toss'd:\nWhich O avert, by yon ethereal light,\nWhich I have lost for this eternal night!\nOr, if by dearer ties you may be won,\nBy your dead sire, and by your living son,\nRedeem from this reproach my wand'ring ghost;\nOr with your navy seek the Velin coast,\nAnd in a peaceful grave my corpse compose;\nOr, if a nearer way your mother shows,\nWithout whose aid you durst not undertake\nThis frightful passage o'er the Stygian lake,\nLend to this wretch your hand, and waft him o'er\nTo the sweet banks of yon forbidden shore.\"\nScarce had he said, the prophetess began:\n\"What hopes delude thee, miserable man?\nThink'st thou, thus unintomb'd, to cross the floods,\nTo view the Furies and infernal gods,\nAnd visit, without leave, the dark abodes?\nAttend the term of long revolving years;\nFate, and the dooming gods, are deaf to tears.\nThis comfort of thy dire misfortune take:\nThe wrath of Heav'n, inflicted for thy sake,\nWith vengeance shall pursue th' inhuman coast,\nTill they propitiate thy offended ghost,\nAnd raise a tomb, with vows and solemn pray'r;\nAnd Palinurus' name the place shall bear.\"\nThis calm'd his cares; sooth'd with his future fame,\nAnd pleas'd to hear his propagated name.\nNow nearer to the Stygian lake they draw:\nWhom, from the shore, the surly boatman saw;\nObserv'd their passage thro' the shady wood,\nAnd mark'd their near approaches to the flood.\nThen thus he call'd aloud, inflam'd with wrath:\n\"Mortal, whate'er, who this forbidden path\nIn arms presum'st to tread, I charge thee, stand,\nAnd tell thy name, and bus'ness in the land.\nKnow this, the realm of night- the Stygian shore:\nMy boat conveys no living bodies o'er;\nNor was I pleas'd great Theseus once to bear,\nWho forc'd a passage with his pointed spear,\nNor strong Alcides- men of mighty fame,\nAnd from th' immortal gods their lineage came.\nIn fetters one the barking porter tied,\nAnd took him trembling from his sov'reign's side:\nTwo sought by force to seize his beauteous bride.\"\nTo whom the Sibyl thus: \"Compose thy mind;\nNor frauds are here contriv'd, nor force design'd.\nStill may the dog the wand'ring troops constrain\nOf airy ghosts, and vex the guilty train,\nAnd with her grisly lord his lovely queen remain.\nThe Trojan chief, whose lineage is from Jove,\nMuch fam'd for arms, and more for filial love,\nIs sent to seek his sire in your Elysian grove.\nIf neither piety, nor Heav'n's command,\nCan gain his passage to the Stygian strand,\nThis fatal present shall prevail at least.\"\nThen shew'd the shining bough, conceal'd within her vest.\nNo more was needful: for the gloomy god\nStood mute with awe, to see the golden rod;\nAdmir'd the destin'd off'ring to his queen-\nA venerable gift, so rarely seen.\nHis fury thus appeas'd, he puts to land;\nThe ghosts forsake their seats at his command:\nHe clears the deck, receives the mighty freight;\nThe leaky vessel groans beneath the weight.\nSlowly she sails, and scarcely stems the tides;\nThe pressing water pours within her sides.\nHis passengers at length are wafted o'er,\nExpos'd, in muddy weeds, upon the miry shore.\nNo sooner landed, in his den they found\nThe triple porter of the Stygian sound,\nGrim Cerberus, who soon began to rear\nHis crested snakes, and arm'd his bristling hair.\nThe prudent Sibyl had before prepar'd\nA sop, in honey steep'd, to charm the guard;\nWhich, mix'd with pow'rful drugs, she cast before\nHis greedy grinning jaws, just op'd to roar.\nWith three enormous mouths he gapes; and straight,\nWith hunger press'd, devours the pleasing bait.\nLong draughts of sleep his monstrous limbs enslave;\nHe reels, and, falling, fills the spacious cave.\nThe keeper charm'd, the chief without delay\nPass'd on, and took th' irremeable way.\nBefore the gates, the cries of babes new born,\nWhom fate had from their tender mothers torn,\nAssault his ears: then those, whom form of laws\nCondemn'd to die, when traitors judg'd their cause.\nNor want they lots, nor judges to review\nThe wrongful sentence, and award a new.\nMinos, the strict inquisitor, appears;\nAnd lives and crimes, with his assessors, hears.\nRound in his urn the blended balls he rolls,\nAbsolves the just, and dooms the guilty souls.\nThe next, in place and punishment, are they\nWho prodigally throw their souls away;\nFools, who, repining at their wretched state,\nAnd loathing anxious life, suborn'd their fate.\nWith late repentance now they would retrieve\nThe bodies they forsook, and wish to live;\nTheir pains and poverty desire to bear,\nTo view the light of heav'n, and breathe the vital air:\nBut fate forbids; the Stygian floods oppose,\nAnd with circling streams the captive souls inclose.\nNot far from thence, the Mournful Fields appear\nSo call'd from lovers that inhabit there.\nThe souls whom that unhappy flame invades,\nIn secret solitude and myrtle shades\nMake endless moans, and, pining with desire,\nLament too late their unextinguish'd fire.\nHere Procris, Eriphyle here he found,\nBaring her breast, yet bleeding with the wound\nMade by her son. He saw Pasiphae there,\nWith Phaedra's ghost, a foul incestuous pair.\nThere Laodamia, with Evadne, moves,\nUnhappy both, but loyal in their loves:\nCaeneus, a woman once, and once a man,\nBut ending in the sex she first began.\nNot far from these Phoenician Dido stood,\nFresh from her wound, her bosom bath'd in blood;\nWhom when the Trojan hero hardly knew,\nObscure in shades, and with a doubtful view,\n(Doubtful as he who sees, thro' dusky night,\nOr thinks he sees, the moon's uncertain light,)\nWith tears he first approach'd the sullen shade;\nAnd, as his love inspir'd him, thus he said:\n\"Unhappy queen! then is the common breath\nOf rumor true, in your reported death,\nAnd I, alas! the cause? By Heav'n, I vow,\nAnd all the pow'rs that rule the realms below,\nUnwilling I forsook your friendly state,\nCommanded by the gods, and forc'd by fate-\nThose gods, that fate, whose unresisted might\nHave sent me to these regions void of light,\nThro' the vast empire of eternal night.\nNor dar'd I to presume, that, press'd with grief,\nMy flight should urge you to this dire relief.\nStay, stay your steps, and listen to my vows:\n'T is the last interview that fate allows!\"\nIn vain he thus attempts her mind to move\nWith tears, and pray'rs, and late-repenting love.\nDisdainfully she look'd; then turning round,\nBut fix'd her eyes unmov'd upon the ground,\nAnd what he says and swears, regards no more\nThan the deaf rocks, when the loud billows roar;\nBut whirl'd away, to shun his hateful sight,\nHid in the forest and the shades of night;\nThen sought Sichaeus thro' the shady grove,\nWho answer'd all her cares, and equal'd all her love.\nSome pious tears the pitying hero paid,\nAnd follow'd with his eyes the flitting shade,\nThen took the forward way, by fate ordain'd,\nAnd, with his guide, the farther fields attain'd,\nWhere, sever'd from the rest, the warrior souls remain'd.\nTydeus he met, with Meleager's race,\nThe pride of armies, and the soldiers' grace;\nAnd pale Adrastus with his ghastly face.\nOf Trojan chiefs he view'd a num'rous train,\nAll much lamented, all in battle slain;\nGlaucus and Medon, high above the rest,\nAntenor's sons, and Ceres' sacred priest.\nAnd proud Idaeus, Priam's charioteer,\nWho shakes his empty reins, and aims his airy spear.\nThe gladsome ghosts, in circling troops, attend\nAnd with unwearied eyes behold their friend;\nDelight to hover near, and long to know\nWhat bus'ness brought him to the realms below.\nBut Argive chiefs, and Agamemnon's train,\nWhen his refulgent arms flash'd thro' the shady plain,\nFled from his well-known face, with wonted fear,\nAs when his thund'ring sword and pointed spear\nDrove headlong to their ships, and glean'd the routed rear.\nThey rais'd a feeble cry, with trembling notes;\nBut the weak voice deceiv'd their gasping throats.\nHere Priam's son, Deiphobus, he found,\nWhose face and limbs were one continued wound:\nDishonest, with lopp'd arms, the youth appears,\nSpoil'd of his nose, and shorten'd of his ears.\nHe scarcely knew him, striving to disown\nHis blotted form, and blushing to be known;\nAnd therefore first began: \"O Tsucer's race,\nWho durst thy faultless figure thus deface?\nWhat heart could wish, what hand inflict, this dire disgrace?\n'Twas fam'd, that in our last and fatal night\nYour single prowess long sustain'd the fight,\nTill tir'd, not forc'd, a glorious fate you chose,\nAnd fell upon a heap of slaughter'd foes.\nBut, in remembrance of so brave a deed,\nA tomb and fun'ral honors I decreed;\nThrice call'd your manes on the Trojan plains:\nThe place your armor and your name retains.\nYour body too I sought, and, had I found,\nDesign'd for burial in your native ground.\"\nThe ghost replied: \"Your piety has paid\nAll needful rites, to rest my wand'ring shade;\nBut cruel fate, and my more cruel wife,\nTo Grecian swords betray'd my sleeping life.\nThese are the monuments of Helen's love:\nThe shame I bear below, the marks I bore above.\nYou know in what deluding joys we pass'd\nThe night that was by Heav'n decreed our last:\nFor, when the fatal horse, descending down,\nPregnant with arms, o'erwhelm'd th' unhappy town\nShe feign'd nocturnal orgies; left my bed,\nAnd, mix'd with Trojan dames, the dances led\nThen, waving high her torch, the signal made,\nWhich rous'd the Grecians from their ambuscade.\nWith watching overworn, with cares oppress'd,\nUnhappy I had laid me down to rest,\nAnd heavy sleep my weary limbs possess'd.\nMeantime my worthy wife our arms mislaid,\nAnd from beneath my head my sword convey'd;\nThe door unlatch'd, and, with repeated calls,\nInvites her former lord within my walls.\nThus in her crime her confidence she plac'd,\nAnd with new treasons would redeem the past.\nWhat need I more? Into the room they ran,\nAnd meanly murther'd a defenseless man.\nUlysses, basely born, first led the way.\nAvenging pow'rs! with justice if I pray,\nThat fortune be their own another day!\nBut answer you; and in your turn relate,\nWhat brought you, living, to the Stygian state:\nDriv'n by the winds and errors of the sea,\nOr did you Heav'n's superior doom obey?\nOr tell what other chance conducts your way,\nTo view with mortal eyes our dark retreats,\nTumults and torments of th' infernal seats.\"\nWhile thus in talk the flying hours they pass,\nThe sun had finish'd more than half his race:\nAnd they, perhaps, in words and tears had spent\nThe little time of stay which Heav'n had lent;\nBut thus the Sibyl chides their long delay:\n\"Night rushes down, and headlong drives the day:\n'T is here, in different paths, the way divides;\nThe right to Pluto's golden palace guides;\nThe left to that unhappy region tends,\nWhich to the depth of Tartarus descends;\nThe seat of night profound, and punish'd fiends.\"\nThen thus Deiphobus: \"O sacred maid,\nForbear to chide, and be your will obey'd!\nLo! to the secret shadows I retire,\nTo pay my penance till my years expire.\nProceed, auspicious prince, with glory crown'd,\nAnd born to better fates than I have found.\"\nHe said; and, while he said, his steps he turn'd\nTo secret shadows, and in silence mourn'd.\nThe hero, looking on the left, espied\nA lofty tow'r, and strong on ev'ry side\nWith treble walls, which Phlegethon surrounds,\nWhose fiery flood the burning empire bounds;\nAnd, press'd betwixt the rocks, the bellowing noise resounds\nWide is the fronting gate, and, rais'd on high\nWith adamantine columns, threats the sky.\nVain is the force of man, and Heav'n's as vain,\nTo crush the pillars which the pile sustain.\nSublime on these a tow'r of steel is rear'd;\nAnd dire Tisiphone there keeps the ward,\nGirt in her sanguine gown, by night and day,\nObservant of the souls that pass the downward way.\nFrom hence are heard the groans of ghosts, the pains\nOf sounding lashes and of dragging chains.\nThe Trojan stood astonish'd at their cries,\nAnd ask'd his guide from whence those yells arise;\nAnd what the crimes, and what the tortures were,\nAnd loud laments that rent the liquid air.\nShe thus replied: \"The chaste and holy race\nAre all forbidden this polluted place.\nBut Hecate, when she gave to rule the woods,\nThen led me trembling thro' these dire abodes,\nAnd taught the tortures of th' avenging gods.\nThese are the realms of unrelenting fate;\nAnd awful Rhadamanthus rules the state.\nHe hears and judges each committed crime;\nEnquires into the manner, place, and time.\nThe conscious wretch must all his acts reveal,\n(Loth to confess, unable to conceal),\nFrom the first moment of his vital breath,\nTo his last hour of unrepenting death.\nStraight, o'er the guilty ghost, the Fury shakes\nThe sounding whip and brandishes her snakes,\nAnd the pale sinner, with her sisters, takes.\nThen, of itself, unfolds th' eternal door;\nWith dreadful sounds the brazen hinges roar.\nYou see, before the gate, what stalking ghost\nCommands the guard, what sentries keep the post.\nMore formidable Hydra stands within,\nWhose jaws with iron teeth severely grin.\nThe gaping gulf low to the center lies,\nAnd twice as deep as earth is distant from the skies.\nThe rivals of the gods, the Titan race,\nHere, sing'd with lightning, roll within th' unfathom'd space.\nHere lie th' Alaean twins, (I saw them both,)\nEnormous bodies, of gigantic growth,\nWho dar'd in fight the Thund'rer to defy,\nAffect his heav'n, and force him from the sky.\nSalmoneus, suff'ring cruel pains, I found,\nFor emulating Jove; the rattling sound\nOf mimic thunder, and the glitt'ring blaze\nOf pointed lightnings, and their forky rays.\nThro' Elis and the Grecian towns he flew;\nTh' audacious wretch four fiery coursers drew:\nHe wav'd a torch aloft, and, madly vain,\nSought godlike worship from a servile train.\nAmbitious fool! with horny hoofs to pass\nO'er hollow arches of resounding brass,\nTo rival thunder in its rapid course,\nAnd imitate inimitable force!\nBut he, the King of Heav'n, obscure on high,\nBar'd his red arm, and, launching from the sky\nHis writhen bolt, not shaking empty smoke,\nDown to the deep abyss the flaming felon strook.\nThere Tityus was to see, who took his birth\nFrom heav'n, his nursing from the foodful earth.\nHere his gigantic limbs, with large embrace,\nInfold nine acres of infernal space.\nA rav'nous vulture, in his open'd side,\nHer crooked beak and cruel talons tried;\nStill for the growing liver digg'd his breast;\nThe growing liver still supplied the feast;\nStill are his entrails fruitful to their pains:\nTh' immortal hunger lasts, th' immortal food remains.\nIxion and Perithous I could name,\nAnd more Thessalian chiefs of mighty fame.\nHigh o'er their heads a mold'ring rock is plac'd,\nThat promises a fall, and shakes at ev'ry blast.\nThey lie below, on golden beds display'd;\nAnd genial feasts with regal pomp are made.\nThe Queen of Furies by their sides is set,\nAnd snatches from their mouths th' untasted meat,\nWhich if they touch, her hissing snakes she rears,\nTossing her torch, and thund'ring in their ears.\nThen they, who brothers' better claim disown,\nExpel their parents, and usurp the throne;\nDefraud their clients, and, to lucre sold,\nSit brooding on unprofitable gold;\nWho dare not give, and ev'n refuse to lend\nTo their poor kindred, or a wanting friend.\nVast is the throng of these; nor less the train\nOf lustful youths, for foul adult'ry slain:\nHosts of deserters, who their honor sold,\nAnd basely broke their faith for bribes of gold.\nAll these within the dungeon's depth remain,\nDespairing pardon, and expecting pain.\nAsk not what pains; nor farther seek to know\nTheir process, or the forms of law below.\nSome roll a weighty stone; some, laid along,\nAnd bound with burning wires, on spokes of wheels are hung\nUnhappy Theseus, doom'd for ever there,\nIs fix'd by fate on his eternal chair;\nAnd wretched Phlegyas warns the world with cries\n(Could warning make the world more just or wise):\n'Learn righteousness, and dread th' avenging deities.'\nTo tyrants others have their country sold,\nImposing foreign lords, for foreign gold;\nSome have old laws repeal'd, new statutes made,\nNot as the people pleas'd, but as they paid;\nWith incest some their daughters' bed profan'd:\nAll dar'd the worst of ills, and, what they dar'd, attain'd.\nHad I a hundred mouths, a hundred tongues,\nAnd throats of brass, inspir'd with iron lungs,\nI could not half those horrid crimes repeat,\nNor half the punishments those crimes have met.\nBut let us haste our voyage to pursue:\nThe walls of Pluto's palace are in view;\nThe gate, and iron arch above it, stands\nOn anvils labor'd by the Cyclops' hands.\nBefore our farther way the Fates allow,\nHere must we fix on high the golden bough.\"\nShe said: and thro' the gloomy shades they pass'd,\nAnd chose the middle path. Arriv'd at last,\nThe prince with living water sprinkled o'er\nHis limbs and body; then approach'd the door,\nPossess'd the porch, and on the front above\nHe fix'd the fatal bough requir'd by Pluto's love.\nThese holy rites perform'd, they took their way\nWhere long extended plains of pleasure lay:\nThe verdant fields with those of heav'n may vie,\nWith ether vested, and a purple sky;\nThe blissful seats of happy souls below.\nStars of their own, and their own suns, they know;\nTheir airy limbs in sports they exercise,\nAnd on the green contend the wrestler's prize.\nSome in heroic verse divinely sing;\nOthers in artful measures led the ring.\nThe Thracian bard, surrounded by the rest,\nThere stands conspicuous in his flowing vest;\nHis flying fingers, and harmonious quill,\nStrikes sev'n distinguish'd notes, and sev'n at once they fill.\nHere found they Tsucer's old heroic race,\nBorn better times and happier years to grace.\nAssaracus and Ilus here enjoy\nPerpetual fame, with him who founded Troy.\nThe chief beheld their chariots from afar,\nTheir shining arms, and coursers train'd to war:\nTheir lances fix'd in earth, their steeds around,\nFree from their harness, graze the flow'ry ground.\nThe love of horses which they had, alive,\nAnd care of chariots, after death survive.\nSome cheerful souls were feasting on the plain;\nSome did the song, and some the choir maintain,\nBeneath a laurel shade, where mighty Po\nMounts up to woods above, and hides his head below.\nHere patriots live, who, for their country's good,\nIn fighting fields, were prodigal of blood:\nPriests of unblemish'd lives here make abode,\nAnd poets worthy their inspiring god;\nAnd searching wits, of more mechanic parts,\nWho grac'd their age with new-invented arts:\nThose who to worth their bounty did extend,\nAnd those who knew that bounty to commend.\nThe heads of these with holy fillets bound,\nAnd all their temples were with garlands crown'd.\nTo these the Sibyl thus her speech address'd,\nAnd first to him surrounded by the rest\n(Tow'ring his height, and ample was his breast):\n\"Say, happy souls, divine Musaeus, say,\nWhere lives Anchises, and where lies our way\nTo find the hero, for whose only sake\nWe sought the dark abodes, and cross'd the bitter lake?\"\nTo this the sacred poet thus replied:\n\"In no fix'd place the happy souls reside.\nIn groves we live, and lie on mossy beds,\nBy crystal streams, that murmur thro' the meads:\nBut pass yon easy hill, and thence descend;\nThe path conducts you to your journey's end.\"\nThis said, he led them up the mountain's brow,\nAnd shews them all the shining fields below.\nThey wind the hill, and thro' the blissful meadows go.\nBut old Anchises, in a flow'ry vale,\nReview'd his muster'd race, and took the tale:\nThose happy spirits, which, ordain'd by fate,\nFor future beings and new bodies wait-\nWith studious thought observ'd th' illustrious throng,\nIn nature's order as they pass'd along:\nTheir names, their fates, their conduct, and their care,\nIn peaceful senates and successful war.\nHe, when Aeneas on the plain appears,\nMeets him with open arms, and falling tears.\n\"Welcome,\" he said, \"the gods' undoubted race!\nO long expected to my dear embrace!\nOnce more 't is giv'n me to behold your face!\nThe love and pious duty which you pay\nHave pass'd the perils of so hard a way.\n'T is true, computing times, I now believ'd\nThe happy day approach'd; nor are my hopes deceiv'd.\nWhat length of lands, what oceans have you pass'd;\nWhat storms sustain'd, and on what shores been cast?\nHow have I fear'd your fate! but fear'd it most,\nWhen love assail'd you, on the Libyan coast.\"\nTo this, the filial duty thus replies:\n\"Your sacred ghost before my sleeping eyes\nAppear'd, and often urg'd this painful enterprise.\nAfter long tossing on the Tyrrhene sea,\nMy navy rides at anchor in the bay.\nBut reach your hand, O parent shade, nor shun\nThe dear embraces of your longing son!\"\nHe said; and falling tears his face bedew:\nThen thrice around his neck his arms he threw;\nAnd thrice the flitting shadow slipp'd away,\nLike winds, or empty dreams that fly the day.\nNow, in a secret vale, the Trojan sees\nA sep'rate grove, thro' which a gentle breeze\nPlays with a passing breath, and whispers thro' the trees;\nAnd, just before the confines of the wood,\nThe gliding Lethe leads her silent flood.\nAbout the boughs an airy nation flew,\nThick as the humming bees, that hunt the golden dew;\nIn summer's heat on tops of lilies feed,\nAnd creep within their bells, to suck the balmy seed:\nThe winged army roams the fields around;\nThe rivers and the rocks remurmur to the sound.\nAeneas wond'ring stood, then ask'd the cause\nWhich to the stream the crowding people draws.\nThen thus the sire: \"The souls that throng the flood\nAre those to whom, by fate, are other bodies ow'd:\nIn Lethe's lake they long oblivion taste,\nOf future life secure, forgetful of the past.\nLong has my soul desir'd this time and place,\nTo set before your sight your glorious race,\nThat this presaging joy may fire your mind\nTo seek the shores by destiny design'd.\"-\n\"O father, can it be, that souls sublime\nReturn to visit our terrestrial clime,\nAnd that the gen'rous mind, releas'd by death,\nCan covet lazy limbs and mortal breath?\"\nAnchises then, in order, thus begun\nTo clear those wonders to his godlike son:\n\"Know, first, that heav'n, and earth's compacted frame,\nAnd flowing waters, and the starry flame,\nAnd both the radiant lights, one common soul\nInspires and feeds, and animates the whole.\nThis active mind, infus'd thro' all the space,\nUnites and mingles with the mighty mass.\nHence men and beasts the breath of life obtain,\nAnd birds of air, and monsters of the main.\nTh' ethereal vigor is in all the same,\nAnd every soul is fill'd with equal flame;\nAs much as earthy limbs, and gross allay\nOf mortal members, subject to decay,\nBlunt not the beams of heav'n and edge of day.\nFrom this coarse mixture of terrestrial parts,\nDesire and fear by turns possess their hearts,\nAnd grief, and joy; nor can the groveling mind,\nIn the dark dungeon of the limbs confin'd,\nAssert the native skies, or own its heav'nly kind:\nNor death itself can wholly wash their stains;\nBut long-contracted filth ev'n in the soul remains.\nThe relics of inveterate vice they wear,\nAnd spots of sin obscene in ev'ry face appear.\nFor this are various penances enjoin'd;\nAnd some are hung to bleach upon the wind,\nSome plung'd in waters, others purg'd in fires,\nTill all the dregs are drain'd, and all the rust expires.\nAll have their manes, and those manes bear:\nThe few, so cleans'd, to these abodes repair,\nAnd breathe, in ample fields, the soft Elysian air.\nThen are they happy, when by length of time\nThe scurf is worn away of each committed crime;\nNo speck is left of their habitual stains,\nBut the pure ether of the soul remains.\nBut, when a thousand rolling years are past,\n(So long their punishments and penance last,)\nWhole droves of minds are, by the driving god,\nCompell'd to drink the deep Lethaean flood,\nIn large forgetful draughts to steep the cares\nOf their past labors, and their irksome years,\nThat, unrememb'ring of its former pain,\nThe soul may suffer mortal flesh again.\"\nThus having said, the father spirit leads\nThe priestess and his son thro' swarms of shades,\nAnd takes a rising ground, from thence to see\nThe long procession of his progeny.\n\"Survey,\" pursued the sire, \"this airy throng,\nAs, offer'd to thy view, they pass along.\nThese are th' Italian names, which fate will join\nWith ours, and graff upon the Trojan line.\nObserve the youth who first appears in sight,\nAnd holds the nearest station to the light,\nAlready seems to snuff the vital air,\nAnd leans just forward, on a shining spear:\nSilvius is he, thy last-begotten race,\nBut first in order sent, to fill thy place;\nAn Alban name, but mix'd with Dardan blood,\nBorn in the covert of a shady wood:\nHim fair Lavinia, thy surviving wife,\nShall breed in groves, to lead a solitary life.\nIn Alba he shall fix his royal seat,\nAnd, born a king, a race of kings beget.\nThen Procas, honor of the Trojan name,\nCapys, and Numitor, of endless fame.\nA second Silvius after these appears;\nSilvius Aeneas, for thy name he bears;\nFor arms and justice equally renown'd,\nWho, late restor'd, in Alba shall be crown'd.\nHow great they look! how vig'rously they wield\nTheir weighty lances, and sustain the shield!\nBut they, who crown'd with oaken wreaths appear,\nShall Gabian walls and strong Fidena rear;\nNomentum, Bola, with Pometia, found;\nAnd raise Collatian tow'rs on rocky ground.\nAll these shall then be towns of mighty fame,\nTho' now they lie obscure, and lands without a name.\nSee Romulus the great, born to restore\nThe crown that once his injur'd grandsire wore.\nThis prince a priestess of your blood shall bear,\nAnd like his sire in arms he shall appear.\nTwo rising crests, his royal head adorn;\nBorn from a god, himself to godhead born:\nHis sire already signs him for the skies,\nAnd marks the seat amidst the deities.\nAuspicious chief! thy race, in times to come,\nShall spread the conquests of imperial Rome-\nRome, whose ascending tow'rs shall heav'n invade,\nInvolving earth and ocean in her shade;\nHigh as the Mother of the Gods in place,\nAnd proud, like her, of an immortal race.\nThen, when in pomp she makes the Phrygian round,\nWith golden turrets on her temples crown'd;\nA hundred gods her sweeping train supply;\nHer offspring all, and all command the sky.\n\"Now fix your sight, and stand intent, to see\nYour Roman race, and Julian progeny.\nThe mighty Caesar waits his vital hour,\nImpatient for the world, and grasps his promis'd pow'r.\nBut next behold the youth of form divine,\nCeasar himself, exalted in his line;\nAugustus, promis'd oft, and long foretold,\nSent to the realm that Saturn rul'd of old;\nBorn to restore a better age of gold.\nAfric and India shall his pow'r obey;\nHe shall extend his propagated sway\nBeyond the solar year, without the starry way,\nWhere Atlas turns the rolling heav'ns around,\nAnd his broad shoulders with their lights are crown'd.\nAt his foreseen approach, already quake\nThe Caspian kingdoms and Maeotian lake:\nTheir seers behold the tempest from afar,\nAnd threat'ning oracles denounce the war.\nNile hears him knocking at his sev'nfold gates,\nAnd seeks his hidden spring, and fears his nephew's fates.\nNor Hercules more lands or labors knew,\nNot tho' the brazen-footed hind he slew,\nFreed Erymanthus from the foaming boar,\nAnd dipp'd his arrows in Lernaean gore;\nNor Bacchus, turning from his Indian war,\nBy tigers drawn triumphant in his car,\nFrom Nisus' top descending on the plains,\nWith curling vines around his purple reins.\nAnd doubt we yet thro' dangers to pursue\nThe paths of honor, and a crown in view?\nBut what's the man, who from afar appears?\nHis head with olive crown'd, his hand a censer bears,\nHis hoary beard and holy vestments bring\nHis lost idea back: I know the Roman king.\nHe shall to peaceful Rome new laws ordain,\nCall'd from his mean abode a scepter to sustain.\nHim Tullus next in dignity succeeds,\nAn active prince, and prone to martial deeds.\nHe shall his troops for fighting fields prepare,\nDisus'd to toils, and triumphs of the war.\nBy dint of sword his crown he shall increase,\nAnd scour his armor from the rust of peace.\nWhom Ancus follows, with a fawning air,\nBut vain within, and proudly popular.\nNext view the Tarquin kings, th' avenging sword\nOf Brutus, justly drawn, and Rome restor'd.\nHe first renews the rods and ax severe,\nAnd gives the consuls royal robes to wear.\nHis sons, who seek the tyrant to sustain,\nAnd long for arbitrary lords again,\nWith ignominy scourg'd, in open sight,\nHe dooms to death deserv'd, asserting public right.\nUnhappy man, to break the pious laws\nOf nature, pleading in his children's cause!\nHoweer the doubtful fact is understood,\n'T is love of honor, and his country's good:\nThe consul, not the father, sheds the blood.\nBehold Torquatus the same track pursue;\nAnd, next, the two devoted Decii view:\nThe Drusian line, Camillus loaded home\nWith standards well redeem'd, and foreign foes o'ercome\nThe pair you see in equal armor shine,\nNow, friends below, in close embraces join;\nBut, when they leave the shady realms of night,\nAnd, cloth'd in bodies, breathe your upper light,\nWith mortal hate each other shall pursue:\nWhat wars, what wounds, what slaughter shall ensue!\nFrom Alpine heights the father first descends;\nHis daughter's husband in the plain attends:\nHis daughter's husband arms his eastern friends.\nEmbrace again, my sons, be foes no more;\nNor stain your country with her children's gore!\nAnd thou, the first, lay down thy lawless claim,\nThou, of my blood, who bearist the Julian name!\nAnother comes, who shall in triumph ride,\nAnd to the Capitol his chariot guide,\nFrom conquer'd Corinth, rich with Grecian spoils.\nAnd yet another, fam'd for warlike toils,\nOn Argos shall impose the Roman laws,\nAnd on the Greeks revenge the Trojan cause;\nShall drag in chains their Achillean race;\nShall vindicate his ancestors' disgrace,\nAnd Pallas, for her violated place.\nGreat Cato there, for gravity renown'd,\nAnd conqu'ring Cossus goes with laurels crown'd.\nWho can omit the Gracchi? who declare\nThe Scipios' worth, those thunderbolts of war,\nThe double bane of Carthage? Who can see\nWithout esteem for virtuous poverty,\nSevere Fabricius, or can cease t' admire\nThe plowman consul in his coarse attire?\nTir'd as I am, my praise the Fabii claim;\nAnd thou, great hero, greatest of thy name,\nOrdain'd in war to save the sinking state,\nAnd, by delays, to put a stop to fate!\nLet others better mold the running mass\nOf metals, and inform the breathing brass,\nAnd soften into flesh a marble face;\nPlead better at the bar; describe the skies,\nAnd when the stars descend, and when they rise.\nBut, Rome, 't is thine alone, with awful sway,\nTo rule mankind, and make the world obey,\nDisposing peace and war by thy own majestic way;\nTo tame the proud, the fetter'd slave to free:\nThese are imperial arts, and worthy thee.\"\nHe paus'd; and, while with wond'ring eyes they view'd\nThe passing spirits, thus his speech renew'd:\n\"See great Marcellus! how, untir'd in toils,\nHe moves with manly grace, how rich with regal spoils!\nHe, when his country, threaten'd with alarms,\nRequires his courage and his conqu'ring arms,\nShall more than once the Punic bands affright;\nShall kill the Gaulish king in single fight;\nThen to the Capitol in triumph move,\nAnd the third spoils shall grace Feretrian Jove.\"\nAeneas here beheld, of form divine,\nA godlike youth in glitt'ring armor shine,\nWith great Marcellus keeping equal pace;\nBut gloomy were his eyes, dejected was his face.\nHe saw, and, wond'ring, ask'd his airy guide,\nWhat and of whence was he, who press'd the hero's side:\n\"His son, or one of his illustrious name?\nHow like the former, and almost the same!\nObserve the crowds that compass him around;\nAll gaze, and all admire, and raise a shouting sound:\nBut hov'ring mists around his brows are spread,\nAnd night, with sable shades, involves his head.\"\n\"Seek not to know,\" the ghost replied with tears,\n\"The sorrows of thy sons in future years.\nThis youth (the blissful vision of a day)\nShall just be shown on earth, and snatch'd away.\nThe gods too high had rais'd the Roman state,\nWere but their gifts as permanent as great.\nWhat groans of men shall fill the Martian field!\nHow fierce a blaze his flaming pile shall yield!\nWhat fun'ral pomp shall floating Tiber see,\nWhen, rising from his bed, he views the sad solemnity!\nNo youth shall equal hopes of glory give,\nNo youth afford so great a cause to grieve;\nThe Trojan honor, and the Roman boast,\nAdmir'd when living, and ador'd when lost!\nMirror of ancient faith in early youth!\nUndaunted worth, inviolable truth!\nNo foe, unpunish'd, in the fighting field\nShall dare thee, foot to foot, with sword and shield;\nMuch less in arms oppose thy matchless force,\nWhen thy sharp spurs shall urge thy foaming horse.\nAh! couldst thou break thro' fate's severe decree,\nA new Marcellus shall arise in thee!\nFull canisters of fragrant lilies bring,\nMix'd with the purple roses of the spring;\nLet me with fun'ral flow'rs his body strow;\nThis gift which parents to their children owe,\nThis unavailing gift, at least, I may bestow!\"\nThus having said, he led the hero round\nThe confines of the blest Elysian ground;\nWhich when Anchises to his son had shown,\nAnd fir'd his mind to mount the promis'd throne,\nHe tells the future wars, ordain'd by fate;\nThe strength and customs of the Latian state;\nThe prince, and people; and forearms his care\nWith rules, to push his fortune, or to bear.\nTwo gates the silent house of Sleep adorn;\nOf polish'd ivory this, that of transparent horn:\nTrue visions thro' transparent horn arise;\nThro' polish'd ivory pass deluding lies.\nOf various things discoursing as he pass'd,\nAnchises hither bends his steps at last.\nThen, thro' the gate of iv'ry, he dismiss'd\nHis valiant offspring and divining guest.\nStraight to the ships Aeneas his way,\nEmbark'd his men, and skimm'd along the sea,\nStill coasting, till he gain'd Cajeta's bay.\nAt length on oozy ground his galleys moor;\nTheir heads are turn'd to sea, their sterns to shore.\nBOOK VII\nAnd thou, O matron of immortal fame,\nHere dying, to the shore hast left thy name;\nCajeta still the place is call'd from thee,\nThe nurse of great Aeneas' infancy.\nHere rest thy bones in rich Hesperia's plains;\nThy name ('t is all a ghost can have) remains.\nNow, when the prince her fun'ral rites had paid,\nHe plow'd the Tyrrhene seas with sails display'd.\nFrom land a gentle breeze arose by night,\nSerenely shone the stars, the moon was bright,\nAnd the sea trembled with her silver light.\nNow near the shelves of Circe's shores they run,\n(Circe the rich, the daughter of the Sun,)\nA dang'rous coast: the goddess wastes her days\nIn joyous songs; the rocks resound her lays:\nIn spinning, or the loom, she spends the night,\nAnd cedar brands supply her father's light.\nFrom hence were heard, rebellowing to the main,\nThe roars of lions that refuse the chain,\nThe grunts of bristled boars, and groans of bears,\nAnd herds of howling wolves that stun the sailors' ears.\nThese from their caverns, at the close of night,\nFill the sad isle with horror and affright.\nDarkling they mourn their fate, whom Circe's pow'r,\n(That watch'd the moon and planetary hour,)\nWith words and wicked herbs from humankind\nHad alter'd, and in brutal shapes confin'd.\nWhich monsters lest the Trojans' pious host\nShould bear, or touch upon th' inchanted coast,\nPropitious Neptune steer'd their course by night\nWith rising gales that sped their happy flight.\nSupplied with these, they skim the sounding shore,\nAnd hear the swelling surges vainly roar.\nNow, when the rosy morn began to rise,\nAnd wav'd her saffron streamer thro' the skies;\nWhen Thetis blush'd in purple not her own,\nAnd from her face the breathing winds were blown,\nA sudden silence sate upon the sea,\nAnd sweeping oars, with struggling, urge their way.\nThe Trojan, from the main, beheld a wood,\nWhich thick with shades and a brown horror stood:\nBetwixt the trees the Tiber took his course,\nWith whirlpools dimpled; and with downward force,\nThat drove the sand along, he took his way,\nAnd roll'd his yellow billows to the sea.\nAbout him, and above, and round the wood,\nThe birds that haunt the borders of his flood,\nThat bath'd within, or basked upon his side,\nTo tuneful songs their narrow throats applied.\nThe captain gives command; the joyful train\nGlide thro' the gloomy shade, and leave the main.\nNow, Erato, thy poet's mind inspire,\nAnd fill his soul with thy celestial fire!\nRelate what Latium was; her ancient kings;\nDeclare the past and state of things,\nWhen first the Trojan fleet Ausonia sought,\nAnd how the rivals lov'd, and how they fought.\nThese are my theme, and how the war began,\nAnd how concluded by the godlike man:\nFor I shall sing of battles, blood, and rage,\nWhich princes and their people did engage;\nAnd haughty souls, that, mov'd with mutual hate,\nIn fighting fields pursued and found their fate;\nThat rous'd the Tyrrhene realm with loud alarms,\nAnd peaceful Italy involv'd in arms.\nA larger scene of action is display'd;\nAnd, rising hence, a greater work is weigh'd.\nLatinus, old and mild, had long possess'd\nThe Latin scepter, and his people blest:\nHis father Faunus; a Laurentian dame\nHis mother; fair Marica was her name.\nBut Faunus came from Picus: Picus drew\nHis birth from Saturn, if records be true.\nThus King Latinus, in the third degree,\nHad Saturn author of his family.\nBut this old peaceful prince, as Heav'n decreed,\nWas blest with no male issue to succeed:\nHis sons in blooming youth were snatch'd by fate;\nOne only daughter heir'd the royal state.\nFir'd with her love, and with ambition led,\nThe neighb'ring princes court her nuptial bed.\nAmong the crowd, but far above the rest,\nYoung Turnus to the beauteous maid address'd.\nTurnus, for high descent and graceful mien,\nWas first, and favor'd by the Latian queen;\nWith him she strove to join Lavinia's hand,\nBut dire portents the purpos'd match withstand.\nDeep in the palace, of long growth, there stood\nA laurel's trunk, a venerable wood;\nWhere rites divine were paid; whose holy hair\nWas kept and cut with superstitious care.\nThis plant Latinus, when his town he wall'd,\nThen found, and from the tree Laurentum call'd;\nAnd last, in honor of his new abode,\nHe vow'd the laurel to the laurel's god.\nIt happen'd once (a boding prodigy!)\nA swarm of bees, that cut the liquid sky,\n(Unknown from whence they took their airy flight,)\nUpon the topmost branch in clouds alight;\nThere with their clasping feet together clung,\nAnd a long cluster from the laurel hung.\nAn ancient augur prophesied from hence:\n\"Behold on Latian shores a foreign prince!\nFrom the same parts of heav'n his navy stands,\nTo the same parts on earth; his army lands;\nThe town he conquers, and the tow'r commands.\"\nYet more, when fair Lavinia fed the fire\nBefore the gods, and stood beside her sire,\n(Strange to relate!) the flames, involv'd in smoke\nOf incense, from the sacred altar broke,\nCaught her dishevel'd hair and rich attire;\nHer crown and jewels crackled in the fire:\nFrom thence the fuming trail began to spread\nAnd lambent glories danc'd about her head.\nThis new portent the seer with wonder views,\nThen pausing, thus his prophecy renews:\n\"The nymph, who scatters flaming fires around,\nShall shine with honor, shall herself be crown'd;\nBut, caus'd by her irrevocable fate,\nWar shall the country waste, and change the state.\"\nLatinus, frighted with this dire ostent,\nFor counsel to his father Faunus went,\nAnd sought the shades renown'd for prophecy\nWhich near Albunea's sulph'rous fountain lie.\nTo these the Latian and the Sabine land\nFly, when distress'd, and thence relief demand.\nThe priest on skins of off'rings takes his ease,\nAnd nightly visions in his slumber sees;\nA swarm of thin aerial shapes appears,\nAnd, flutt'ring round his temples, deafs his ears:\nThese he consults, the future fates to know,\nFrom pow'rs above, and from the fiends below.\nHere, for the gods' advice, Latinus flies,\nOff'ring a hundred sheep for sacrifice:\nTheir woolly fleeces, as the rites requir'd,\nHe laid beneath him, and to rest retir'd.\nNo sooner were his eyes in slumber bound,\nWhen, from above, a more than mortal sound\nInvades his ears; and thus the vision spoke:\n\"Seek not, my seed, in Latian bands to yoke\nOur fair Lavinia, nor the gods provoke.\nA foreign son upon thy shore descends,\nWhose martial fame from pole to pole extends.\nHis race, in arms and arts of peace renown'd,\nNot Latium shall contain, nor Europe bound:\n'T is theirs whate'er the sun surveys around.\"\nThese answers, in the silent night receiv'd,\nThe king himself divulg'd, the land believ'd:\nThe fame thro' all the neighb'ring nations flew,\nWhen now the Trojan navy was in view.\nBeneath a shady tree, the hero spread\nHis table on the turf, with cakes of bread;\nAnd, with his chiefs, on forest fruits he fed.\nThey sate; and, (not without the god's command,)\nTheir homely fare dispatch'd, the hungry band\nInvade their trenchers next, and soon devour,\nTo mend the scanty meal, their cakes of flour.\nAscanius this observ'd, and smiling said:\n\"See, we devour the plates on which we fed.\"\nThe speech had omen, that the Trojan race\nShould find repose, and this the time and place.\nAeneas took the word, and thus replies,\nConfessing fate with wonder in his eyes:\n\"All hail, O earth! all hail, my household gods!\nBehold the destin'd place of your abodes!\nFor thus Anchises prophesied of old,\nAnd this our fatal place of rest foretold:\n'When, on a foreign shore, instead of meat,\nBy famine forc'd, your trenchers you shall eat,\nThen ease your weary Trojans will attend,\nAnd the long labors of your voyage end.\nRemember on that happy coast to build,\nAnd with a trench inclose the fruitful field.'\nThis was that famine, this the fatal place\nWhich ends the wand'ring of our exil'd race.\nThen, on to-morrow's dawn, your care employ,\nTo search the land, and where the cities lie,\nAnd what the men; but give this day to joy.\nNow pour to Jove; and, after Jove is blest,\nCall great Anchises to the genial feast:\nCrown high the goblets with a cheerful draught;\nEnjoy the present hour; adjourn the future thought.\"\nThus having said, the hero bound his brows\nWith leafy branches, then perform'd his vows;\nAdoring first the genius of the place,\nThen Earth, the mother of the heav'nly race,\nThe nymphs, and native godheads yet unknown,\nAnd Night, and all the stars that gild her sable throne,\nAnd ancient Cybel, and Idaean Jove,\nAnd last his sire below, and mother queen above.\nThen heav'n's high monarch thunder'd thrice aloud,\nAnd thrice he shook aloft a golden cloud.\nSoon thro' the joyful camp a rumor flew,\nThe time was come their city to renew.\nThen ev'ry brow with cheerful green is crown'd,\nThe feasts are doubled, and the bowls go round.\nWhen next the rosy morn disclos'd the day,\nThe scouts to sev'ral parts divide their way,\nTo learn the natives' names, their towns explore,\nThe coasts and trendings of the crooked shore:\nHere Tiber flows, and here Numicus stands;\nHere warlike Latins hold the happy lands.\nThe pious chief, who sought by peaceful ways\nTo found his empire, and his town to raise,\nA hundred youths from all his train selects,\nAnd to the Latian court their course directs,\n(The spacious palace where their prince resides,)\nAnd all their heads with wreaths of olive hides.\nThey go commission'd to require a peace,\nAnd carry presents to procure access.\nThus while they speed their pace, the prince designs\nHis new-elected seat, and draws the lines.\nThe Trojans round the place a rampire cast,\nAnd palisades about the trenches plac'd.\nMeantime the train, proceeding on their way,\nFrom far the town and lofty tow'rs survey;\nAt length approach the walls. Without the gate,\nThey see the boys and Latian youth debate\nThe martial prizes on the dusty plain:\nSome drive the cars, and some the coursers rein;\nSome bend the stubborn bow for victory,\nAnd some with darts their active sinews try.\nA posting messenger, dispatch'd from hence,\nOf this fair troop advis'd their aged prince,\nThat foreign men of mighty stature came;\nUncouth their habit, and unknown their name.\nThe king ordains their entrance, and ascends\nHis regal seat, surrounded by his friends.\nThe palace built by Picus, vast and proud,\nSupported by a hundred pillars stood,\nAnd round incompass'd with a rising wood.\nThe pile o'erlook'd the town, and drew the sight;\nSurpris'd at once with reverence and delight.\nThere kings receiv'd the marks of sov'reign pow'r;\nIn state the monarchs march'd; the lictors bore\nTheir awful axes and the rods before.\nHere the tribunal stood, the house of pray'r,\nAnd here the sacred senators repair;\nAll at large tables, in long order set,\nA ram their off'ring, and a ram their meat.\nAbove the portal, carv'd in cedar wood,\nPlac'd in their ranks, their godlike grandsires stood;\nOld Saturn, with his crooked scythe, on high;\nAnd Italus, that led the colony;\nAnd ancient Janus, with his double face,\nAnd bunch of keys, the porter of the place.\nThere good Sabinus, planter of the vines,\nOn a short pruning hook his head reclines,\nAnd studiously surveys his gen'rous wines;\nThen warlike kings, who for their country fought,\nAnd honorable wounds from battle brought.\nAround the posts hung helmets, darts, and spears,\nAnd captive chariots, axes, shields, and bars,\nAnd broken beaks of ships, the trophies of their wars.\nAbove the rest, as chief of all the band,\nWas Picus plac'd, a buckler in his hand;\nHis other wav'd a long divining wand.\nGirt in his Gabin gown the hero sate,\nYet could not with his art avoid his fate:\nFor Circe long had lov'd the youth in vain,\nTill love, refus'd, converted to disdain:\nThen, mixing pow'rful herbs, with magic art,\nShe chang'd his form, who could not change his heart;\nConstrain'd him in a bird, and made him fly,\nWith party-color'd plumes, a chatt'ring pie.\nIn this high temple, on a chair of state,\nThe seat of audience, old Latinus sate;\nThen gave admission to the Trojan train;\nAnd thus with pleasing accents he began:\n\"Tell me, ye Trojans, for that name you own,\nNor is your course upon our coasts unknown-\nSay what you seek, and whither were you bound:\nWere you by stress of weather cast aground?\n(Such dangers as on seas are often seen,\nAnd oft befall to miserable men,)\nOr come, your shipping in our ports to lay,\nSpent and disabled in so long a way?\nSay what you want: the Latians you shall find\nNot forc'd to goodness, but by will inclin'd;\nFor, since the time of Saturn's holy reign,\nHis hospitable customs we retain.\nI call to mind (but time the tale has worn)\nTh' Arunci told, that Dardanus, tho' born\nOn Latian plains, yet sought the Phrygian shore,\nAnd Samothracia, Samos call'd before.\nFrom Tuscan Coritum he claim'd his birth;\nBut after, when exempt from mortal earth,\nFrom thence ascended to his kindred skies,\nA god, and, as a god, augments their sacrifice,\"\nHe said. Ilioneus made this reply:\n\"O king, of Faunus' royal family!\nNor wintry winds to Latium forc'd our way,\nNor did the stars our wand'ring course betray.\nWilling we sought your shores; and, hither bound,\nThe port, so long desir'd, at length we found;\nFrom our sweet homes and ancient realms expell'd;\nGreat as the greatest that the sun beheld.\nThe god began our line, who rules above;\nAnd, as our race, our king descends from Jove:\nAnd hither are we come, by his command,\nTo crave admission in your happy land.\nHow dire a tempest, from Mycenae pour'd,\nOur plains, our temples, and our town devour'd;\nWhat was the waste of war, what fierce alarms\nShook Asia's crown with European arms;\nEv'n such have heard, if any such there be,\nWhose earth is bounded by the frozen sea;\nAnd such as, born beneath the burning sky\nAnd sultry sun, betwixt the tropics lie.\nFrom that dire deluge, thro' the wat'ry waste,\nSuch length of years, such various perils past,\nAt last escap'd, to Latium we repair,\nTo beg what you without your want may spare:\nThe common water, and the common air;\nSheds which ourselves will build, and mean abodes,\nFit to receive and serve our banish'd gods.\nNor our admission shall your realm disgrace,\nNor length of time our gratitude efface.\nBesides, what endless honor you shall gain,\nTo save and shelter Troy's unhappy train!\nNow, by my sov'reign, and his fate, I swear,\nRenown'd for faith in peace, for force in war;\nOft our alliance other lands desir'd,\nAnd, what we seek of you, of us requir'd.\nDespite not then, that in our hands we bear\nThese holy boughs, sue with words of pray'r.\nFate and the gods, by their supreme command,\nHave doom'd our ships to seek the Latian land.\nTo these abodes our fleet Apollo sends;\nHere Dardanus was born, and hither tends;\nWhere Tuscan Tiber rolls with rapid force,\nAnd where Numicus opes his holy source.\nBesides, our prince presents, with his request,\nSome small remains of what his sire possess'd.\nThis golden charger, snatch'd from burning Troy,\nAnchises did in sacrifice employ;\nThis royal robe and this tiara wore\nOld Priam, and this golden scepter bore\nIn full assemblies, and in solemn games;\nThese purple vests were weav'd by Dardan dames.\"\nThus while he spoke, Latinus roll'd around\nHis eyes, and fix'd a while upon the ground.\nIntent he seem'd, and anxious in his breast;\nNot by the scepter mov'd, or kingly vest,\nBut pond'ring future things of wondrous weight;\nSuccession, empire, and his daughter's fate.\nOn these he mus'd within his thoughtful mind,\nAnd then revolv'd what Faunus had divin'd.\nThis was the foreign prince, by fate decreed\nTo share his scepter, and Lavinia's bed;\nThis was the race that sure portents foreshew\nTo sway the world, and land and sea subdue.\nAt length he rais'd his cheerful head, and spoke:\n\"The pow'rs,\" said he, \"the pow'rs we both invoke,\nTo you, and yours, and mine, propitious be,\nAnd firm our purpose with their augury!\nHave what you ask; your presents I receive;\nLand, where and when you please, with ample leave;\nPartake and use my kingdom as your own;\nAll shall be yours, while I command the crown:\nAnd, if my wish'd alliance please your king,\nTell him he should not send the peace, but bring.\nThen let him not a friend's embraces fear;\nThe peace is made when I behold him here.\nBesides this answer, tell my royal guest,\nI add to his commands my own request:\nOne only daughter heirs my crown and state,\nWhom not our oracles, nor Heav'n, nor fate,\nNor frequent prodigies, permit to join\nWith any native of th' Ausonian line.\nA foreign son-in-law shall come from far\n(Such is our doom), a chief renown'd in war,\nWhose race shall bear aloft the Latian name,\nAnd thro' the conquer'd world diffuse our fame.\nHimself to be the man the fates require,\nI firmly judge, and, what I judge, desire.\"\nHe said, and then on each bestow'd a steed.\nThree hundred horses, in high stables fed,\nStood ready, shining all, and smoothly dress'd:\nOf these he chose the fairest and the best,\nTo mount the Trojan troop. At his command\nThe steeds caparison'd with purple stand,\nWith golden trappings, glorious to behold,\nAnd champ betwixt their teeth the foaming gold.\nThen to his absent guest the king decreed\nA pair of coursers born of heav'nly breed,\nWho from their nostrils breath'd ethereal fire;\nWhom Circe stole from her celestial sire,\nBy substituting mares produc'd on earth,\nWhose wombs conceiv'd a more than mortal birth.\nThese draw the chariot which Latinus sends,\nAnd the rich present to the prince commends.\nSublime on stately steeds the Trojans borne,\nTo their expecting lord with peace return.\nBut jealous Juno, from Pachynus' height,\nAs she from Argos took her airy flight,\nBeheld with envious eyes this hateful sight.\nShe saw the Trojan and his joyful train\nDescend upon the shore, desert the main,\nDesign a town, and, with unhop'd success,\nTh' embassadors return with promis'd peace.\nThen, pierc'd with pain, she shook her haughty head,\nSigh'd from her inward soul, and thus she said:\n\"O hated offspring of my Phrygian foes!\nO fates of Troy, which Juno's fates oppose!\nCould they not fall unpitied on the plain,\nBut slain revive, and, taken, scape again?\nWhen execrable Troy in ashes lay,\nThro' fires and swords and seas they forc'd their way.\nThen vanquish'd Juno must in vain contend,\nHer rage disarm'd, her empire at an end.\nBreathless and tir'd, is all my fury spent?\nOr does my glutted spleen at length relent?\nAs if 't were little from their town to chase,\nI thro' the seas pursued their exil'd race;\nIngag'd the heav'ns, oppos'd the stormy main;\nBut billows roar'd, and tempests rag'd in vain.\nWhat have my Scyllas and my Syrtes done,\nWhen these they overpass, and those they shun?\nOn Tiber's shores they land, secure of fate,\nTriumphant o'er the storms and Juno's hate.\nMars could in mutual blood the Centaurs bathe,\nAnd Jove himself gave way to Cynthia's wrath,\nWho sent the tusky boar to Calydon;\n(What great offense had either people done?)\nBut I, the consort of the Thunderer,\nHave wag'd a long and unsuccessful war,\nWith various arts and arms in vain have toil'd,\nAnd by a mortal man at length am foil'd.\nIf native pow'r prevail not, shall I doubt\nTo seek for needful succor from without?\nIf Jove and Heav'n my just desires deny,\nHell shall the pow'r of Heav'n and Jove supply.\nGrant that the Fates have firm'd, by their decree,\nThe Trojan race to reign in Italy;\nAt least I can defer the nuptial day,\nAnd with protracted wars the peace delay:\nWith blood the dear alliance shall be bought,\nAnd both the people near destruction brought;\nSo shall the son-in-law and father join,\nWith ruin, war, and waste of either line.\nO fatal maid, thy marriage is endow'd\nWith Phrygian, Latian, andRutulian blood!\nBellona leads thee to thy lover's hand;\nAnother queen brings forth another brand,\nTo burn with foreign fires another land!\nA second Paris, diff'ring but in name,\nShall fire his country with a second flame.\"\nThus having said, she sinks beneath the ground,\nWith furious haste, and shoots the Stygian sound,\nTo rouse Alecto from th' infernal seat\nOf her dire sisters, and their dark retreat.\nThis Fury, fit for her intent, she chose;\nOne who delights in wars and human woes.\nEv'n Pluto hates his own misshapen race;\nHer sister Furies fly her hideous face;\nSo frightful are the forms the monster takes,\nSo fierce the hissings of her speckled snakes.\nHer Juno finds, and thus inflames her spite:\n\"O virgin daughter of eternal Night,\nGive me this once thy labor, to sustain\nMy right, and execute my just disdain.\nLet not the Trojans, with a feign'd pretense\nOf proffer'd peace, delude the Latian prince.\nExpel from Italy that odious name,\nAnd let not Juno suffer in her fame.\n'T is thine to ruin realms, o'erturn a state,\nBetwixt the dearest friends to raise debate,\nAnd kindle kindred blood to mutual hate.\nThy hand o'er towns the fun'ral torch displays,\nAnd forms a thousand ills ten thousand ways.\nNow shake, out thy fruitful breast, the seeds\nOf envy, discord, and of cruel deeds:\nConfound the peace establish'd, and prepare\nTheir souls to hatred, and their hands to war.\"\nSmear'd as she was with black Gorgonian blood,\nThe Fury sprang above the Stygian flood;\nAnd on her wicker wings, sublime thro' night,\nShe to the Latian palace took her flight:\nThere sought the queen's apartment, stood before\nThe peaceful threshold, and besieg'd the door.\nRestless Amata lay, her swelling breast\nFir'd with disdain for Turnus dispossess'd,\nAnd the new nuptials of the Trojan guest.\nFrom her black bloody locks the Fury shakes\nHer darling plague, the fav'rite of her snakes;\nWith her full force she threw the poisonous dart,\nAnd fix'd it deep within Amata's heart,\nThat, thus envenom'd, she might kindle rage,\nAnd sacrifice to strife her house husband's age.\nUnseen, unfelt, the fiery serpent skims\nBetwixt her linen and her naked limbs;\nHis baleful breath inspiring, as he glides,\nNow like a chain around her neck he rides,\nNow like a fillet to her head repairs,\nAnd with his circling volumes folds her hairs.\nAt first the silent venom slid with ease,\nAnd seiz'd her cooler senses by degrees;\nThen, ere th' infected mass was fir'd too far,\nIn plaintive accents she began the war,\nAnd thus bespoke her husband: \"Shall,\" she said,\n\"A wand'ring prince enjoy Lavinia's bed?\nIf nature plead not in a parent's heart,\nPity my tears, and pity her desert.\nI know, my dearest lord, the time will come,\nYou in vain, reverse your cruel doom;\nThe faithless pirate soon will set to sea,\nAnd bear the royal virgin far away!\nA guest like him, a Trojan guest before,\nIn shew of friendship sought the Spartan shore,\nAnd ravish'd Helen from her husband bore.\nThink on a king's inviolable word;\nAnd think on Turnus, her once plighted lord:\nTo this false foreigner you give your throne,\nAnd wrong a friend, a kinsman, and a son.\nResume your ancient care; and, if the god\nYour sire, and you, resolve on foreign blood,\nKnow all are foreign, in a larger sense,\nNot born your subjects, or deriv'd from hence.\nThen, if the line of Turnus you retrace,\nHe springs from Inachus of Argive race.\"\nBut when she saw her reasons idly spent,\nAnd could not move him from his fix'd intent,\nShe flew to rage; for now the snake possess'd\nHer vital parts, and poison'd all her breast;\nShe raves, she runs with a distracted pace,\nAnd fills with horrid howls the public place.\nAnd, as young striplings whip the top for sport,\nOn the smooth pavement of an empty court;\nThe wooden engine flies and whirls about,\nAdmir'd, with clamors, of the beardless rout;\nThey lash aloud; each other they provoke,\nAnd lend their little souls at ev'ry stroke:\nThus fares the queen; and thus her fury blows\nAmidst the crowd, and kindles as she goes.\nNor yet content, she strains her malice more,\nAnd adds new ills to those contriv'd before:\nShe flies the town, and, mixing with a throng\nOf madding matrons, bears the bride along,\nWand'ring thro' woods and wilds, and devious ways,\nAnd with these arts the Trojan match delays.\nShe feign'd the rites of Bacchus; cried aloud,\nAnd to the buxom god the virgin vow'd.\n\"Evoe! O Bacchus!\" thus began the song;\nAnd \"Evoe!\" answer'd all the female throng.\n\"O virgin! worthy thee alone!\" she cried;\n\"O worthy thee alone!\" the crew replied.\n\"For thee she feeds her hair, she leads thy dance,\nAnd with thy winding ivy wreathes her lance.\"\nLike fury seiz'd the rest; the progress known,\nAll seek the mountains, and forsake the town:\nAll, clad in skins of beasts, the jav'lin bear,\nGive to the wanton winds their flowing hair,\nAnd shrieks and shoutings rend the suff'ring air.\nThe queen herself, inspir'd with rage divine,\nShook high above her head a flaming pine;\nThen roll'd her haggard eyes around the throng,\nAnd sung, in Turnus' name, the nuptial song:\n\"Io, ye Latian dames! if any here\nHold your unhappy queen, Amata, dear;\nIf there be here,\" she said, who dare maintain\nMy right, nor think the name of mother vain;\nUnbind your fillets, loose your flowing hair,\nAnd orgies and nocturnal rites prepare.\"\nAmata's breast the Fury thus invades,\nAnd fires with rage, amid the sylvan shades;\nThen, when she found her venom spread so far,\nThe royal house embroil'd in civil war,\nRais'd on her dusky wings, she cleaves the skies,\nAnd seeks the palace where young Turnus lies.\nHis town, as fame reports, was built of old\nBy Danae, pregnant with almighty gold,\nWho fled her father's rage, and, with a train\nOf following Argives, thro' the stormy main,\nDriv'n by the southern blasts, was fated here to reign.\n'T was Ardua once; now Ardea's name it bears;\nOnce a fair city, now consum'd with years.\nHere, in his lofty palace, Turnus lay,\nBetwixt the confines of the night and day,\nSecure in sleep. The Fury laid aside\nHer looks and limbs, and with new methods tried\nThe foulness of th' infernal form to hide.\nPropp'd on a staff, she takes a trembling mien:\nHer face is furrow'd, and her front obscene;\nDeep-dinted wrinkles on her cheek she draws;\nSunk are her eyes, and toothless are her jaws;\nHer hoary hair with holy fillets bound,\nHer temples with an olive wreath are crown'd.\nOld Chalybe, who kept the sacred fane\nOf Juno, now she seem'd, and thus began,\nAppearing in a dream, to rouse the careless man:\n\"Shall Turnus then such endless toil sustain\nIn fighting fields, and conquer towns in vain?\nWin, for a Trojan head to wear the prize,\nUsurp thy crown, enjoy thy victories?\nThe bride and scepter which thy blood has bought,\nThe king transfers; and foreign heirs are sought.\nGo now, deluded man, and seek again\nNew toils, new dangers, on the dusty plain.\nRepel the Tuscan foes; their city seize;\nProtect the Latians in luxurious ease.\nThis dream all-pow'rful Juno sends; I bear\nHer mighty mandates, and her words you hear.\nHaste; arm your Ardeans; issue to the plain;\nWith fate to friend, assault the Trojan train:\nTheir thoughtless chiefs, their painted ships, that lie\nIn Tiber's mouth, with fire and sword destroy.\nThe Latian king, unless he shall submit,\nOwn his old promise, and his new forget-\nLet him, in arms, the pow'r of Turnus prove,\nAnd learn to fear whom he disdains to love.\nFor such is Heav'n's command.\" The youthful prince\nWith scorn replied, and made this bold defense:\n\"You tell me, mother, what I knew before:\nThe Phrygian fleet is landed on the shore.\nI neither fear nor will provoke the war;\nMy fate is Juno's most peculiar care.\nBut time has made you dote, and vainly tell\nOf arms imagin'd in your lonely cell.\nGo; be the temple and the gods your care;\nPermit to men the thought of peace and war.\"\nThese haughty words Alecto's rage provoke,\nAnd frighted Turnus trembled as she spoke.\nHer eyes grow stiffen'd, and with sulphur burn;\nHer hideous looks and hellish form return;\nHer curling snakes with hissings fill the place,\nAnd open all the furies of her face:\nThen, darting fire from her malignant eyes,\nShe cast him backward as he strove to rise,\nAnd, ling'ring, sought to frame some new replies.\nHigh on her head she rears two twisted snakes,\nHer chains she rattles, and her whip she shakes;\nAnd, churning bloody foam, thus loudly speaks:\n\"Behold whom time has made to dote, and tell\nOf arms imagin'd in her lonely cell!\nBehold the Fates' infernal minister!\nWar, death, destruction, in my hand I bear.\"\nThus having said, her smold'ring torch, impress'd\nWith her full force, she plung'd into his breast.\nAghast he wak'd; and, starting from his bed,\nCold sweat, in clammy drops, his limbs o'erspread.\n\"Arms! arms!\" he cries: \"my sword and shield prepare!\"\nHe breathes defiance, blood, and mortal war.\nSo, when with crackling flames a caldron fries,\nThe bubbling waters from the bottom rise:\nAbove the brims they force their fiery way;\nBlack vapors climb aloft, and cloud the day.\nThe peace polluted thus, a chosen band\nHe first commissions to the Latian land,\nIn threat'ning embassy; then rais'd the rest,\nTo meet in arms th' intruding Trojan guest,\nTo force the foes from the Lavinian shore,\nAnd Italy's indanger'd peace restore.\nHimself alone an equal match he boasts,\nTo fight the Phrygian and Ausonian hosts.\nThe gods invok'd, the Rutuli prepare\nTheir arms, and warn each other to the war.\nHis beauty these, and those his blooming age,\nThe rest his house and his own fame ingage.\nWhile Turnus urges thus his enterprise,\nThe Stygian Fury to the Trojans flies;\nNew frauds invents, and takes a steepy stand,\nWhich overlooks the vale with wide command;\nWhere fair Ascanius and his youthful train,\nWith horns and hounds, a hunting match ordain,\nAnd pitch their toils around the shady plain.\nThe Fury fires the pack; they snuff, they vent,\nAnd feed their hungry nostrils with the scent.\n'Twas of a well-grown stag, whose antlers rise\nHigh o'er his front; his beams invade the skies.\nFrom this light cause th' infernal maid prepares\nThe country churls to mischief, hate, and wars.\nThe stately beast the two Tyrrhidae bred,\nSnatch'd from his dams, and the tame youngling fed.\nTheir father Tyrrheus did his fodder bring,\nTyrrheus, chief ranger to the Latian king:\nTheir sister Silvia cherish'd with her care\nThe little wanton, and did wreaths prepare\nTo hang his budding horns, with ribbons tied\nHis tender neck, and comb'd his silken hide,\nAnd bathed his body. Patient of command\nIn time he grew, and, growing us'd to hand,\nHe waited at his master's board for food;\nThen sought his salvage kindred in the wood,\nWhere grazing all the day, at night he came\nTo his known lodgings, and his country dame.\nThis household beast, that us'd the woodland grounds,\nWas view'd at first by the young hero's hounds,\nAs down the stream he swam, to seek retreat\nIn the cool waters, and to quench his heat.\nAscanius young, and eager of his game,\nSoon bent his bow, uncertain in his aim;\nBut the dire fiend the fatal arrow guides,\nWhich pierc'd his bowels thro' his panting sides.\nThe bleeding creature issues from the floods,\nPossess'd with fear, and seeks his known abodes,\nHis old familiar hearth and household gods.\nHe falls; he fills the house with heavy groans,\nImplores their pity, and his pain bemoans.\nYoung Silvia beats her breast, and cries aloud\nFor succor from the clownish neighborhood:\nThe churls assemble; for the fiend, who lay\nIn the close woody covert, urg'd their way.\nOne with a brand yet burning from the flame,\nArm'd with a knotty club another came:\nWhate'er they catch or find, without their care,\nTheir fury makes an instrument of war.\nTyrrheus, the foster father of the beast,\nThen clench'd a hatchet in his horny fist,\nBut held his hand from the descending stroke,\nAnd left his wedge within the cloven oak,\nTo whet their courage and their rage provoke.\nAnd now the goddess, exercis'd in ill,\nWho watch'd an hour to work her impious will,\nAscends the roof, and to her crooked horn,\nSuch as was then by Latian shepherds borne,\nAdds all her breath: the rocks and woods around,\nAnd mountains, tremble at th' infernal sound.\nThe sacred lake of Trivia from afar,\nThe Veline fountains, and sulphureous Nar,\nShake at the baleful blast, the signal of the war.\nYoung mothers wildly stare, with fear possess'd,\nAnd strain their helpless infants to their breast.\nThe clowns, a boist'rous, rude, ungovern'd crew,\nWith furious haste to the loud summons flew.\nThe pow'rs of Troy, then issuing on the plain,\nWith fresh recruits their youthful chief sustain:\nNot theirs a raw and unexperienc'd train,\nBut a firm body of embattled men.\nAt first, while fortune favor'd neither side,\nThe fight with clubs and burning brands was tried;\nBut now, both parties reinforc'd, the fields\nAre bright with flaming swords and brazen shields.\nA shining harvest either host displays,\nAnd shoots against the sun with equal rays.\nThus, when a black-brow'd gust begins to rise,\nWhite foam at first on the curl'd ocean fries;\nThen roars the main, the billows mount the skies;\nTill, by the fury of the storm full blown,\nThe muddy bottom o'er the clouds is thrown.\nFirst Almon falls, old Tyrrheus' eldest care,\nPierc'd with an arrow from the distant war:\nFix'd in his throat the flying weapon stood,\nAnd stopp'd his breath, and drank his vital blood\nHuge heaps of slain around the body rise:\nAmong the rest, the rich Galesus lies;\nA good old man, while peace he preach'd in vain,\nAmidst the madness of th' unruly train:\nFive herds, five bleating flocks, his pastures fill'd;\nHis lands a hundred yoke of oxen till'd.\nThus, while in equal scales their fortune stood\nThe Fury bath'd them in each other's blood;\nThen, having fix'd the fight, exulting flies,\nAnd bears fulfill'd her promise to the skies.\nTo Juno thus she speaks: \"Behold! It is done,\nThe blood already drawn, the war begun;\nThe discord is complete; nor can they cease\nThe dire debate, nor you command the peace.\nNow, since the Latian and the Trojan brood\nHave tasted vengeance and the sweets of blood;\nSpeak, and my pow'r shall add this office more:\nThe neighb'ing nations of th' Ausonian shore\nShall hear the dreadful rumor, from afar,\nOf arm'd invasion, and embrace the war.\"\nThen Juno thus: \"The grateful work is done,\nThe seeds of discord sow'd, the war begun;\nFrauds, fears, and fury have possess'd the state,\nAnd fix'd the causes of a lasting hate.\nA bloody Hymen shall th' alliance join\nBetwixt the Trojan and Ausonian line:\nBut thou with speed to night and hell repair;\nFor not the gods, nor angry Jove, will bear\nThy lawless wand'ring walks in upper air.\nLeave what remains to me.\" Saturnia said:\nThe sullen fiend her sounding wings display'd,\nUnwilling left the light, and sought the nether shade.\nIn midst of Italy, well known to fame,\nThere lies a lake (Amsanctus is the name)\nBelow the lofty mounts: on either side\nThick forests the forbidden entrance hide.\nFull in the center of the sacred wood\nAn arm arises of the Stygian flood,\nWhich, breaking from beneath with bellowing sound,\nWhirls the black waves and rattling stones around.\nHere Pluto pants for breath from out his cell,\nAnd opens wide the grinning jaws of hell.\nTo this infernal lake the Fury flies;\nHere hides her hated head, and frees the lab'ring skies.\nSaturnian Juno now, with double care,\nAttends the fatal process of the war.\nThe clowns, return'd, from battle bear the slain,\nImplore the gods, and to their king complain.\nThe corps of Almon and the rest are shown;\nShrieks, clamors, murmurs, fill the frighted town.\nAmbitious Turnus in the press appears,\nAnd, aggravating crimes, augments their fears;\nProclaims his private injuries aloud,\nA solemn promise made, and disavow'd;\nA foreign son is sought, and a mix'd mungril brood.\nThen they, whose mothers, frantic with their fear,\nIn woods and wilds the flags of Bacchus bear,\nAnd lead his dances with dishevel'd hair,\nIncrease the clamor, and the war demand,\n(Such was Amata's interest in the land,)\nAgainst the public sanctions of the peace,\nAgainst all omens of their ill success.\nWith fates averse, the rout in arms resort,\nTo force their monarch, and insult the court.\nBut, like a rock unmov'd, a rock that braves\nThe raging tempest and the rising waves-\nPropp'd on himself he stands; his solid sides\nWash off the seaweeds, and the sounding tides-\nSo stood the pious prince, unmov'd, and long\nSustain'd the madness of the noisy throng.\nBut, when he found that Juno's pow'r prevail'd,\nAnd all the methods of cool counsel fail'd,\nHe calls the gods to witness their offense,\nDisclaims the war, asserts his innocence.\n\"Hurried by fate,\" he cries, \"and borne before\nA furious wind, we have the faithful shore.\nO more than madmen! you yourselves shall bear\nThe guilt of blood and sacrilegious war:\nThou, Turnus, shalt atone it by thy fate,\nAnd pray to Heav'n for peace, but pray too late.\nFor me, my stormy voyage at an end,\nI to the port of death securely tend.\nThe fun'ral pomp which to your kings you pay,\nIs all I want, and all you take away.\"\nHe said no more, but, in his walls confin'd,\nShut out the woes which he too well divin'd\nNor with the rising storm would vainly strive,\nBut left the helm, and let the vessel drive.\nA solemn custom was observ'd of old,\nWhich Latium held, and now the Romans hold,\nTheir standard when in fighting fields they rear\nAgainst the fierce Hyrcanians, or declare\nThe Scythian, Indian, or Arabian war;\nOr from the boasting Parthians would regain\nTheir eagles, lost in Carrhae's bloody plain.\nTwo gates of steel (the name of Mars they bear,\nAnd still are worship'd with religious fear)\nBefore his temple stand: the dire abode,\nAnd the fear'd issues of the furious god,\nAre fenc'd with brazen bolts; without the gates,\nThe wary guardian Janus doubly waits.\nThen, when the sacred senate votes the wars,\nThe Roman consul their decree declares,\nAnd in his robes the sounding gates unbars.\nThe youth in military shouts arise,\nAnd the loud trumpets break the yielding skies.\nThese rites, of old by sov'reign princes us'd,\nWere the king's office; but the king refus'd,\nDeaf to their cries, nor would the gates unbar\nOf sacred peace, or loose th' imprison'd war;\nBut hid his head, and, safe from loud alarms,\nAbhorr'd the wicked ministry of arms.\nThen heav'n's imperious queen shot down from high:\nAt her approach the brazen hinges fly;\nThe gates are forc'd, and ev'ry falling bar;\nAnd, like a tempest, issues out the war.\nThe peaceful cities of th' Ausonian shore,\nLull'd in their ease, and undisturb'd before,\nAre all on fire; and some, with studious care,\nTheir restiff steeds in sandy plains prepare;\nSome their soft limbs in painful marches try,\nAnd war is all their wish, and arms the gen'ral cry.\nPart scour the rusty shields with seam; and part\nNew grind the blunted ax, and point the dart:\nWith joy they view the waving ensigns fly,\nAnd hear the trumpet's clangor pierce the sky.\nFive cities forge their arms: th' Atinian pow'rs,\nAntemnae, Tibur with her lofty tow'rs,\nArdea the proud, the Crustumerian town:\nAll these of old were places of renown.\nSome hammer helmets for the fighting field;\nSome twine young sallows to support the shield;\nThe croslet some, and some the cuishes mold,\nWith silver plated, and with ductile gold.\nThe rustic honors of the scythe and share\nGive place to swords and plumes, the pride of war.\nOld fauchions are new temper'd in the fires;\nThe sounding trumpet ev'ry soul inspires.\nThe word is giv'n; with eager speed they lace\nThe shining headpiece, and the shield embrace.\nThe neighing steeds are to the chariot tied;\nThe trusty weapon sits on ev'ry side.\nAnd now the mighty labor is begun\nYe Muses, open all your Helicon.\nSing you the chiefs that sway'd th' Ausonian land,\nTheir arms, and armies under their command;\nWhat warriors in our ancient clime were bred;\nWhat soldiers follow'd, and what heroes led.\nFor well you know, and can record alone,\nWhat fame to future times conveys but darkly down.\nMezentius first appear'd upon the plain:\nScorn sate upon his brows, and sour disdain,\nDefying earth and heav'n. Etruria lost,\nHe brings to Turnus' aid his baffled host.\nThe charming Lausus, full of youthful fire,\nRode in the rank, and next his sullen sire;\nTo Turnus only second in the grace\nOf manly mien, and features of the face.\nA skilful horseman, and a huntsman bred,\nWith fates averse a thousand men he led:\nHis sire unworthy of so brave a son;\nHimself well worthy of a happier throne.\nNext Aventinus drives his chariot round\nThe Latian plains, with palms and laurels crown'd.\nProud of his steeds, he smokes along the field;\nHis father's hydra fills his ample shield:\nA hundred serpents hiss about the brims;\nThe son of Hercules he justly seems\nBy his broad shoulders and gigantic limbs;\nOf heav'nly part, and part of earthly blood,\nA mortal woman mixing with a god.\nFor strong Alcides, after he had slain\nThe triple Geryon, drove from conquer'd Spain\nHis captive herds; and, thence in triumph led,\nOn Tuscan Tiber's flow'ry banks they fed.\nThen on Mount Aventine the son of Jove\nThe priestess Rhea found, and forc'd to love.\nFor arms, his men long piles and jav'lins bore;\nAnd poles with pointed steel their foes in battle gore.\nLike Hercules himself his son appears,\nIn salvage pomp; a lion's hide he wears;\nAbout his shoulders hangs the shaggy skin;\nThe teeth and gaping jaws severely grin.\nThus, like the god his father, homely dress'd,\nHe strides into the hall, a horrid guest.\nThen two twin brothers from fair Tibur came,\n(Which from their brother Tiburs took the name,)\nFierce Coras and Catillus, void of fear:\nArm'd Argive horse they led, and in the front appear.\nLike cloud-born Centaurs, from the mountain's height\nWith rapid course descending to the fight;\nThey rush along; the rattling woods give way;\nThe branches bend before their sweepy sway.\nNor was Praeneste's founder wanting there,\nWhom fame reports the son of Mulciber:\nFound in the fire, and foster'd in the plains,\nA shepherd and a king at once he reigns,\nAnd leads to Turnus' aid his country swains.\nHis own Praeneste sends a chosen band,\nWith those who plow Saturnia's Gabine land;\nBesides the succor which cold Anien yields,\nThe rocks of Hernicus, and dewy fields,\nAnagnia fat, and Father Amasene-\nA num'rous rout, but all of naked men:\nNor arms they wear, nor swords and bucklers wield,\nNor drive the chariot thro' the dusty field,\nBut whirl from leathern slings huge balls of lead,\nAnd spoils of yellow wolves adorn their head;\nThe left foot naked, when they march to fight,\nBut in a bull's raw hide they sheathe the right.\nMessapus next, (great Neptune was his sire,)\nSecure of steel, and fated from the fire,\nIn pomp appears, and with his ardor warms\nA heartless train, unexercis'd in arms:\nThe just Faliscans he to battle brings,\nAnd those who live where Lake Ciminia springs;\nAnd where Feronia's grove and temple stands,\nWho till Fescennian or Flavinian lands.\nAll these in order march, and marching sing\nThe warlike actions of their sea-born king;\nLike a long team of snowy swans on high,\nWhich clap their wings, and cleave the liquid sky,\nWhen, homeward from their wat'ry pastures borne,\nThey sing, and Asia's lakes their notes return.\nNot one who heard their music from afar,\nWould think these troops an army train'd to war,\nBut flocks of fowl, that, when the tempests roar,\nWith their hoarse gabbling seek the silent shore.\nThen Clausus came, who led a num'rous band\nOf troops embodied from the Sabine land,\nAnd, in himself alone, an army brought.\n'T was he, the noble Claudian race begot,\nThe Claudian race, ordain'd, in times to come,\nTo share the greatness of imperial Rome.\nHe led the Cures forth, of old renown,\nMutuscans from their olive-bearing town,\nAnd all th' Eretian pow'rs; besides a band\nThat follow'd from Velinum's dewy land,\nAnd Amiternian troops, of mighty fame,\nAnd mountaineers, that from Severus came,\nAnd from the craggy cliffs of Tetrica,\nAnd those where yellow Tiber takes his way,\nAnd where Himella's wanton waters play.\nCasperia sends her arms, with those that lie\nBy Fabaris, and fruitful Foruli:\nThe warlike aids of Horta next appear,\nAnd the cold Nursians come to close the rear,\nMix'd with the natives born of Latine blood,\nWhom Allia washes with her fatal flood.\nNot thicker billows beat the Libyan main,\nWhen pale Orion sets in wintry rain;\nNor thicker harvests on rich Hermus rise,\nOr Lycian fields, when Phoebus burns the skies,\nThan stand these troops: their bucklers ring around;\nTheir trampling turns the turf, and shakes the solid ground.\nHigh in his chariot then Halesus came,\nA foe by birth to Troy's unhappy name:\nFrom Agamemnon born- to Turnus' aid\nA thousand men the youthful hero led,\nWho till the Massic soil, for wine renown'd,\nAnd fierce Auruncans from their hilly ground,\nAnd those who live by Sidicinian shores,\nAnd where with shoaly fords Vulturnus roars,\nCales' and Osca's old inhabitants,\nAnd rough Saticulans, inur'd to wants:\nLight demi-lances from afar they throw,\nFasten'd with leathern thongs, to gall the foe.\nShort crooked swords in closer fight they wear;\nAnd on their warding arm light bucklers bear.\nNor Oebalus, shalt thou be left unsung,\nFrom nymph Semethis and old Telon sprung,\nWho then in Teleboan Capri reign'd;\nBut that short isle th' ambitious youth disdain'd,\nAnd o'er Campania stretch'd his ample sway,\nWhere swelling Sarnus seeks the Tyrrhene sea;\nO'er Batulum, and where Abella sees,\nFrom her high tow'rs, the harvest of her trees.\nAnd these (as was the Teuton use of old)\nWield brazen swords, and brazen bucklers hold;\nSling weighty stones, when from afar they fight;\nTheir casques are cork, a covering thick and light.\nNext these in rank, the warlike Ufens went,\nAnd led the mountain troops that Nursia sent.\nThe rude Equicolae his rule obey'd;\nHunting their sport, and plund'ring was their trade.\nIn arms they plow'd, to battle still prepar'd:\nTheir soil was barren, and their hearts were hard.\nUmbro the priest the proud Marrubians led,\nBy King Archippus sent to Turnus' aid,\nAnd peaceful olives crown'd his hoary head.\nHis wand and holy words, the viper's rage,\nAnd venom'd wounds of serpents could assuage.\nHe, when he pleas'd with powerful juice to steep\nTheir temples, shut their eyes in pleasing sleep.\nBut vain were Marsian herbs, and magic art,\nTo cure the wound giv'n by the Dardan dart:\nYet his untimely fate th' Angitian woods\nIn sighs remurmur'd to the Fucine floods.\nThe son of fam'd Hippolytus was there,\nFam'd as his sire, and, as his mother, fair;\nWhom in Egerian groves Aricia bore,\nAnd nurs'd his youth along the marshy shore,\nWhere great Diana's peaceful altars flame,\nIn fruitful fields; and Virbius was his name.\nHippolytus, as old records have said,\nWas by his stepdam sought to share her bed;\nBut, when no female arts his mind could move,\nShe turn'd to furious hate her impious love.\nTorn by wild horses on the sandy shore,\nAnother's crimes th' unhappy hunter bore,\nGlutting his father's eyes with guiltless gore.\nBut chaste Diana, who his death deplor'd,\nWith Aesculapian herbs his life restor'd.\nThen Jove, who saw from high, with just disdain,\nThe dead inspir'd with vital breath again,\nStruck to the center, with his flaming dart,\nTh' unhappy founder of the godlike art.\nBut Trivia kept in secret shades alone\nHer care, Hippolytus, to fate unknown;\nAnd call'd him Virbius in th' Egerian grove,\nWhere then he liv'd obscure, but safe from Jove.\nFor this, from Trivia's temple and her wood\nAre coursers driv'n, who shed their master's blood,\nAffrighted by the monsters of the flood.\nHis son, the second Virbius, yet retain'd\nHis father's art, and warrior steeds he rein'd.\nAmid the troops, and like the leading god,\nHigh o'er the rest in arms the graceful Turnus rode:\nA triple of plumes his crest adorn'd,\nOn which with belching flames Chimaera burn'd:\nThe more the kindled combat rises high'r,\nThe more with fury burns the blazing fire.\nFair Io grac'd his shield; but Io now\nWith horns exalted stands, and seems to low-\nA noble charge! Her keeper by her side,\nTo watch her walks, his hundred eyes applied;\nAnd on the brims her sire, the wat'ry god,\nRoll'd from a silver urn his crystal flood.\nA cloud of foot succeeds, and fills the fields\nWith swords, and pointed spears, and clatt'ring shields;\nOf Argives, and of old Sicanian bands,\nAnd those who plow the rich Rutulian lands;\nAuruncan youth, and those Sacrana yields,\nAnd the proud Labicans, with painted shields,\nAnd those who near Numician streams reside,\nAnd those whom Tiber's holy forests hide,\nOr Circe's hills from the main land divide;\nWhere Ufens glides along the lowly lands,\nOr the black water of Pomptina stands.\nLast, from the Volscians fair Camilla came,\nAnd led her warlike troops, a warrior dame;\nUnbred to spinning, in the loom unskill'd,\nShe chose the nobler Pallas of the field.\nMix'd with the first, the fierce virago fought,\nSustain'd the toils of arms, the danger sought,\nOutstripp'd the winds in speed upon the plain,\nFlew o'er the fields, nor hurt the bearded grain:\nShe swept the seas, and, as she skimm'd along,\nHer flying feet unbath'd on billows hung.\nMen, boys, and women, stupid with surprise,\nWhere'er she passes, fix their wond'ring eyes:\nLonging they look, and, gaping at the sight,\nDevour her o'er and o'er with vast delight;\nHer purple habit sits with such a grace\nOn her smooth shoulders, and so suits her face;\nHer head with ringlets of her hair is crown'd,\nAnd in a golden caul the curls are bound.\nShe shakes her myrtle jav'lin; and, behind,\nHer Lycian quiver dances in the wind.\nBOOK VIII\nWhen Turnus had assembled all his pow'rs,\nHis standard planted on Laurentum's tow'rs;\nWhen now the sprightly trumpet, from afar,\nHad giv'n the signal of approaching war,\nHad rous'd the neighing steeds to scour the fields,\nWhile the fierce riders clatter'd on their shields;\nTrembling with rage, the Latian youth prepare\nTo join th' allies, and headlong rush to war.\nFierce Ufens, and Messapus, led the crowd,\nWith bold Mezentius, who blasphem'd aloud.\nThese thro' the country took their wasteful course,\nThe fields to forage, and to gather force.\nThen Venulus to Diomede they send,\nTo beg his aid Ausonia to defend,\nDeclare the common danger, and inform\nThe Grecian leader of the growing storm:\nAeneas, landed on the Latian coast,\nWith banish'd gods, and with a baffled host,\nYet now aspir'd to conquest of the state,\nAnd claim'd a title from the gods and fate;\nWhat num'rous nations in his quarrel came,\nAnd how they spread his formidable name.\nWhat he design'd, what mischief might arise,\nIf fortune favor'd his first enterprise,\nWas left for him to weigh, whose equal fears,\nAnd common interest, was involv'd in theirs.\nWhile Turnus and th' allies thus urge the war,\nThe Trojan, floating in a flood of care,\nBeholds the tempest which his foes prepare.\nThis way and that he turns his anxious mind;\nThinks, and rejects the counsels he design'd;\nExplores himself in vain, in ev'ry part,\nAnd gives no rest to his distracted heart.\nSo, when the sun by day, or moon by night,\nStrike on the polish'd brass their trembling light,\nThe glitt'ring species here and there divide,\nAnd cast their dubious beams from side to side;\nNow on the walls, now on the pavement play,\nAnd to the ceiling flash the glaring day.\n'T was night; and weary nature lull'd asleep\nThe birds of air, and fishes of the deep,\nAnd beasts, and mortal men. The Trojan chief\nWas laid on Tiber's banks, oppress'd with grief,\nAnd found in silent slumber late relief.\nThen, thro' the shadows of the poplar wood,\nArose the father of the Roman flood;\nAn azure robe was o'er his body spread,\nA wreath of shady reeds adorn'd his head:\nThus, manifest to sight, the god appear'd,\nAnd with these pleasing words his sorrow cheer'd:\n\"Undoubted offspring of ethereal race,\nO long expected in this promis'd place!\nWho thro' the foes hast borne thy banish'd gods,\nRestor'd them to their hearths, and old abodes;\nThis is thy happy home, the clime where fate\nOrdains thee to restore the Trojan state.\nFear not! The war shall end in lasting peace,\nAnd all the rage of haughty Juno cease.\nAnd that this nightly vision may not seem\nTh' effect of fancy, or an idle dream,\nA sow beneath an oak shall lie along,\nAll white herself, and white her thirty young.\nWhen thirty rolling years have run their race,\nThy son Ascanius, on this empty space,\nShall build a royal town, of lasting fame,\nWhich from this omen shall receive the name.\nTime shall approve the truth. For what remains,\nAnd how with sure success to crown thy pains,\nWith patience next attend. A banish'd band,\nDriv'n with Evander from th' Arcadian land,\nHave planted here, and plac'd on high their walls;\nTheir town the founder Pallanteum calls,\nDeriv'd from Pallas, his great-grandsire's name:\nBut the fierce Latians old possession claim,\nWith war infesting the new colony.\nThese make thy friends, and on their aid rely.\nTo thy free passage I submit my streams.\nWake, son of Venus, from thy pleasing dreams;\nAnd, when the setting stars are lost in day,\nTo Juno's pow'r thy just devotion pay;\nWith sacrifice the wrathful queen appease:\nHer pride at length shall fall, her fury cease.\nWhen thou return'st victorious from the war,\nPerform thy vows to me with grateful care.\nThe god am I, whose yellow water flows\nAround these fields, and fattens as it goes:\nTiber my name; among the rolling floods\nRenown'd on earth, esteem'd among the gods.\nThis is my certain seat. In times to come,\nMy waves shall wash the walls of mighty Rome.\"\nHe said, and plung'd below. While yet he spoke,\nHis dream Aeneas and his sleep forsook.\nHe rose, and looking up, beheld the skies\nWith purple blushing, and the day arise.\nThen water in his hollow palm he took\nFrom Tiber's flood, and thus the pow'rs bespoke:\n\"Laurentian nymphs, by whom the streams are fed,\nAnd Father Tiber, in thy sacred bed\nReceive Aeneas, and from danger keep.\nWhatever fount, whatever holy deep,\nConceals thy wat'ry stores; where'er they rise,\nAnd, bubbling from below, salute the skies;\nThou, king of horned floods, whose plenteous urn\nSuffices fatness to the fruitful corn,\nFor this thy kind compassion of our woes,\nShalt share my morning song and ev'ning vows.\nBut, O be present to thy people's aid,\nAnd firm the gracious promise thou hast made!\"\nThus having said, two galleys from his stores,\nWith care he chooses, mans, and fits with oars.\nNow on the shore the fatal swine is found.\nWondrous to tell!- She lay along the ground:\nHer well-fed offspring at her udders hung;\nShe white herself, and white her thirty young.\nAeneas takes the mother and her brood,\nAnd all on Juno's altar are bestow'd.\nThe foll'wing night, and the succeeding day,\nPropitious Tiber smooth'd his wat'ry way:\nHe roll'd his river back, and pois'd he stood,\nA gentle swelling, and a peaceful flood.\nThe Trojans mount their ships; they put from shore,\nBorne on the waves, and scarcely dip an oar.\nShouts from the land give omen to their course,\nAnd the pitch'd vessels glide with easy force.\nThe woods and waters wonder at the gleam\nOf shields, and painted ships that stem the stream.\nOne summer's night and one whole day they pass\nBetwixt the greenwood shades, and cut the liquid glass.\nThe fiery sun had finish'd half his race,\nLook'd back, and doubted in the middle space,\nWhen they from far beheld the rising tow'rs,\nThe tops of sheds, and shepherds' lowly bow'rs,\nThin as they stood, which, then of homely clay,\nNow rise in marble, from the Roman sway.\nThese cots (Evander's kingdom, mean and poor)\nThe Trojan saw, and turn'd his ships to shore.\n'T was on a solemn day: th' Arcadian states,\nThe king and prince, without the city gates,\nThen paid their off'rings in a sacred grove\nTo Hercules, the warrior son of Jove.\nThick clouds of rolling smoke involve the skies,\nAnd fat of entrails on his altar fries.\nBut, when they saw the ships that stemm'd the flood,\nAnd glitter'd thro' the covert of the wood,\nThey rose with fear, and left th' unfinish'd feast,\nTill dauntless Pallas reassur'd the rest\nTo pay the rites. Himself without delay\nA jav'lin seiz'd, and singly took his way;\nThen gain'd a rising ground, and call'd from far:\n\"Resolve me, strangers, whence, and what you are;\nYour bus'ness here; and bring you peace or war?\"\nHigh on the stern Aeneas his stand,\nAnd held a branch of olive in his hand,\nWhile thus he spoke: \"The Phrygians' arms you see,\nExpell'd from Troy, provok'd in Italy\nBy Latian foes, with war unjustly made;\nAt first affianc'd, and at last betray'd.\nThis message bear: 'The Trojans and their chief\nBring holy peace, and beg the king's relief.'\nStruck with so great a name, and all on fire,\nThe youth replies: \"Whatever you require,\nYour fame exacts. Upon our shores descend.\nA welcome guest, and, what you wish, a friend.\"\nHe said, and, downward hasting to the strand,\nEmbrac'd the stranger prince, and join'd his hand.\nConducted to the grove, Aeneas broke\nThe silence first, and thus the king bespoke:\n\"Best of the Greeks, to whom, by fate's command,\nI bear these peaceful branches in my hand,\nUndaunted I approach you, tho' I know\nYour birth is Grecian, and your land my foe;\nFrom Atreus tho' your ancient lineage came,\nAnd both the brother kings your kindred claim;\nYet, my self-conscious worth, your high renown,\nYour virtue, thro' the neighb'ring nations blown,\nOur fathers' mingled blood, Apollo's voice,\nHave led me hither, less by need than choice.\nOur founder Dardanus, as fame has sung,\nAnd Greeks acknowledge, from Electra sprung:\nElectra from the loins of Atlas came;\nAtlas, whose head sustains the starry frame.\nYour sire is Mercury, whom long before\nOn cold Cyllene's top fair Maia bore.\nMaia the fair, on fame if we rely,\nWas Atlas' daughter, who sustains the sky.\nThus from one common source our streams divide;\nOurs is the Trojan, yours th' Areadian side.\nRais'd by these hopes, I sent no news before,\nNor ask'd your leave, nor did your faith implore;\nBut come, without a pledge, my own ambassador.\nThe same Rutulians, who with arms pursue\nThe Trojan race, are equal foes to you.\nOur host expell'd, what farther force can stay\nThe victor troops from universal sway?\nThen will they stretch their pow'r athwart the land,\nAnd either sea from side to side command.\nReceive our offer'd faith, and give us thine;\nOurs is a gen'rous and experienc'd line:\nWe want not hearts nor bodies for the war;\nIn council cautious, and in fields we dare.\"\nHe said; and while spoke, with piercing eyes\nEvander view'd the man with vast surprise,\nPleas'd with his action, ravish'd with his face:\nThen answer'd briefly, with a royal grace:\n\"O valiant leader of the Trojan line,\nIn whom the features of thy father shine,\nHow I recall Anchises! how I see\nHis motions, mien, and all my friend, in thee!\nLong tho' it be, 't is fresh within my mind,\nWhen Priam to his sister's court design'd\nA welcome visit, with a friendly stay,\nAnd thro' th' Arcadian kingdom took his way.\nThen, past a boy, the callow down began\nTo shade my chin, and call me first a man.\nI saw the shining train with vast delight,\nAnd Priam's goodly person pleas'd my sight:\nBut great Anchises, far above the rest,\nWith awful wonder fir'd my youthful breast.\nI long'd to join in friendship's holy bands\nOur mutual hearts, and plight our mutual hands.\nI first accosted him: I sued, I sought,\nAnd, with a loving force, to Pheneus brought.\nHe gave me, when at length constrain'd to go,\nA Lycian quiver and a Gnossian bow,\nA vest embroider'd, glorious to behold,\nAnd two rich bridles, with their bits of gold,\nWhich my son's coursers in obedience hold.\nThe league you ask, I offer, as your right;\nAnd, when to-morrow's sun reveals the light,\nWith swift supplies you shall be sent away.\nNow celebrate with us this solemn day,\nWhose holy rites admit no long delay.\nHonor our annual feast; and take your seat,\nWith friendly welcome, at a homely treat.\"\nThus having said, the bowls (remov'd for fear)\nThe youths replac'd, and soon restor'd the cheer.\nOn sods of turf he set the soldiers round:\nA maple throne, rais'd higher from the ground,\nReceiv'd the Trojan chief; and, o'er the bed,\nA lion's shaggy hide for ornament they spread.\nThe loaves were serv'd in canisters; the wine\nIn bowls; the priest renew'd the rites divine:\nBroil'd entrails are their food, and beef's continued chine.\nBut when the rage of hunger was repress'd,\nThus spoke Evander to his royal guest:\n\"These rites, these altars, and this feast, O king,\nFrom no vain fears or superstition spring,\nOr blind devotion, or from blinder chance,\nOr heady zeal, or brutal ignorance;\nBut, sav'd from danger, with a grateful sense,\nThe labors of a god we recompense.\nSee, from afar, yon rock that mates the sky,\nAbout whose feet such heaps of rubbish lie;\nSuch indigested ruin; bleak and bare,\nHow desart now it stands, expos'd in air!\n'T was once a robber's den, inclos'd around\nWith living stone, and deep beneath the ground.\nThe monster Cacus, more than half a beast,\nThis hold, impervious to the sun, possess'd.\nThe pavement ever foul with human gore;\nHeads, and their mangled members, hung the door.\nVulcan this plague begot; and, like his sire,\nBlack clouds he belch'd, and flakes of livid fire.\nTime, long expected, eas'd us of our load,\nAnd brought the needful presence of a god.\nTh' avenging force of Hercules, from Spain,\nArriv'd in triumph, from Geryon slain:\nThrice liv'd the giant, and thrice liv'd in vain.\nHis prize, the lowing herds, Alcides drove\nNear Tiber's bank, to graze the shady grove.\nAllur'd with hope of plunder, and intent\nBy force to rob, by fraud to circumvent,\nThe brutal Cacus, as by chance they stray'd,\nFour oxen thence, and four fair kine convey'd;\nAnd, lest the printed footsteps might be seen,\nHe dragg'd 'em backwards to his rocky den.\nThe tracks averse a lying notice gave,\nAnd led the searcher backward from the cave.\n\"Meantime the herdsman hero shifts his place,\nTo find fresh pasture and untrodden grass.\nThe beasts, who miss'd their mates, fill'd all around\nWith bellowings, and the rocks restor'd the sound.\nOne heifer, who had heard her love complain,\nRoar'd from the cave, and made the project vain.\nAlcides found the fraud; with rage he shook,\nAnd toss'd about his head his knotted oak.\nSwift as the winds, or Scythian arrows' flight,\nHe clomb, with eager haste, th' aerial height.\nThen first we saw the monster mend his pace;\nFear his eyes, and paleness in his face,\nConfess'd the god's approach. Trembling he springs,\nAs terror had increas'd his feet with wings;\nNor stay'd for stairs; but down the depth he threw\nHis body, on his back the door he drew\n(The door, a rib of living rock; with pains\nHis father hew'd it out, and bound with iron chains):\nHe broke the heavy links, the mountain clos'd,\nAnd bars and levers to his foe oppos'd.\nThe wretch had hardly made his dungeon fast;\nThe fierce avenger came with bounding haste;\nSurvey'd the mouth of the forbidden hold,\nAnd here and there his raging eyes he roll'd.\nHe gnash'd his teeth; and thrice he compass'd round\nWith winged speed the circuit of the ground.\nThrice at the cavern's mouth he pull'd in vain,\nAnd, panting, thrice desisted from his pain.\nA pointed flinty rock, all bare and black,\nGrew gibbous from behind the mountain's back;\nOwls, ravens, all ill omens of the night,\nHere built their nests, and hither wing'd their flight.\nThe leaning head hung threat'ning o'er the flood,\nAnd nodded to the left. The hero stood\nAdverse, with planted feet, and, from the right,\nTugg'd at the solid stone with all his might.\nThus heav'd, the fix'd foundations of the rock\nGave way; heav'n echo'd at the rattling shock.\nTumbling, it chok'd the flood: on either side\nThe banks leap backward, and the streams divide;\nThe sky shrunk upward with unusual dread,\nAnd trembling Tiber div'd beneath his bed.\nThe court of Cacus stands reveal'd to sight;\nThe cavern glares with new-admitted light.\nSo the pent vapors, with a rumbling sound,\nHeave from below, and rend the hollow ground;\nA sounding flaw succeeds; and, from on high,\nThe gods with hate beheld the nether sky:\nThe ghosts repine at violated night,\nAnd curse th' invading sun, and sicken at the sight.\nThe graceless monster, caught in open day,\nInclos'd, and in despair to fly away,\nHowls horrible from underneath, and fills\nHis hollow palace with unmanly yells.\nThe hero stands above, and from afar\nPlies him with darts, and stones, and distant war.\nHe, from his nostrils huge mouth, expires\nBlack clouds of smoke, amidst his father's fires,\nGath'ring, with each repeated blast, the night,\nTo make uncertain aim, and erring sight.\nThe wrathful god then plunges from above,\nAnd, where in thickest waves the sparkles drove,\nThere lights; and wades thro' fumes, and gropes his way,\nHalf sing'd, half stifled, till he grasps his prey.\nThe monster, spewing fruitless flames, he found;\nHe squeez'd his throat; he writh'd his neck around,\nAnd in a knot his crippled members bound;\nThen from their sockets tore his burning eyes:\nRoll'd on a heap, the breathless robber lies.\nThe doors, unbarr'd, receive the rushing day,\nAnd thoro' lights disclose the ravish'd prey.\nThe bulls, redeem'd, breathe open air again.\nNext, by the feet, they drag him from his den.\nThe wond'ring neighborhood, with glad surprise,\nBehold his shagged breast, his giant size,\nHis mouth that flames no more, and his extinguish'd eyes.\nFrom that auspicious day, with rites divine,\nWe worship at the hero's holy shrine.\nPotitius first ordain'd these annual vows:\nAs priests, were added the Pinarian house,\nWho rais'd this altar in the sacred shade,\nWhere honors, ever due, for ever shall be paid.\nFor these deserts, and this high virtue shown,\nYe warlike youths, your heads with garlands crown:\nFill high the goblets with a sparkling flood,\nAnd with deep draughts invoke our common god.\"\nThis said, a double wreath Evander twin'd,\nAnd poplars black and white his temples bind.\nThen brims his ample bowl. With like design\nThe rest invoke the gods, with sprinkled wine.\nMeantime the sun descended from the skies,\nAnd the bright evening star began to rise.\nAnd now the priests, Potitius at their head,\nIn skins of beasts involv'd, the long procession led;\nHeld high the flaming tapers in their hands,\nAs custom had prescrib'd their holy bands;\nThen with a second course the tables load,\nAnd with full chargers offer to the god.\nThe Salii sing, and cense his altars round\nWith Saban smoke, their heads with poplar bound-\nOne choir of old, another of the young,\nTo dance, and bear the burthen of the song.\nThe lay records the labors, and the praise,\nAnd all th' immortal acts of Hercules:\nFirst, how the mighty babe, when swath'd in bands,\nThe serpents strangled with his infant hands;\nThen, as in years and matchless force he grew,\nTh' Oechalian walls, and Trojan, overthrew.\nBesides, a thousand hazards they relate,\nProcur'd by Juno's and Eurystheus' hate:\n\"Thy hands, unconquer'd hero, could subdue\nThe cloud-born Centaurs, and the monster crew:\nNor thy resistless arm the bull withstood,\nNor he, the roaring terror of the wood.\nThe triple porter of the Stygian seat,\nWith lolling tongue, lay fawning at thy feet,\nAnd, seiz'd with fear, forgot his mangled meat.\nTh' infernal waters trembled at thy sight;\nThee, god, no face of danger could affright;\nNot huge Typhoeus, nor th' unnumber'd snake,\nIncreas'd with hissing heads, in Lerna's lake.\nHail, Jove's undoubted son! an added grace\nTo heav'n and the great author of thy race!\nReceive the grateful off'rings which we pay,\nAnd smile propitious on thy solemn day!\"\nIn numbers thus they sung; above the rest,\nThe den and death of Cacus crown the feast.\nThe woods to hollow vales convey the sound,\nThe vales to hills, and hills the notes rebound.\nThe rites perform'd, the cheerful train retire.\nBetwixt young Pallas and his aged sire,\nThe Trojan pass'd, the city to survey,\nAnd pleasing talk beguil'd the tedious way.\nThe stranger cast around his curious eyes,\nNew objects viewing still, with new surprise;\nWith greedy joy enquires of various things,\nAnd acts and monuments of ancient kings.\nThen thus the founder of the Roman tow'rs:\n\"These woods were first the seat of sylvan pow'rs,\nOf Nymphs and Fauns, and salvage men, who took\nTheir birth from trunks of trees and stubborn oak.\nNor laws they knew, nor manners, nor the care\nOf lab'ring oxen, or the shining share,\nNor arts of gain, nor what they gain'd to spare.\nTheir exercise the chase; the running flood\nSupplied their thirst, the trees supplied their food.\nThen Saturn came, who fled the pow'r of Jove,\nRobb'd of his realms, and banish'd from above.\nThe men, dispers'd on hills, to towns he brought,\nAnd laws ordain'd, and civil customs taught,\nAnd Latium call'd the land where safe he lay\nFrom his unduteous son, and his usurping sway.\nWith his mild empire, peace and plenty came;\nAnd hence the golden times deriv'd their name.\nA more degenerate and discolor'd age\nSucceeded this, with avarice and rage.\nTh' Ausonians then, and bold Sicanians came;\nAnd Saturn's empire often chang'd the name.\nThen kings, gigantic Tybris, and the rest,\nWith arbitrary sway the land oppress'd:\nFor Tiber's flood was Albula before,\nTill, from the tyrant's fate, his name it bore.\nI last arriv'd, driv'n from my native home\nBy fortune's pow'r, and fate's resistless doom.\nLong toss'd on seas, I sought this happy land,\nWarn'd by my mother nymph, and call'd by Heav'n's command.\"\nThus, walking on, he spoke, and shew'd the gate,\nSince call'd Carmental by the Roman state;\nWhere stood an altar, sacred to the name\nOf old Carmenta, the prophetic dame,\nWho to her son foretold th' Aenean race,\nSublime in fame, and Rome's imperial place:\nThen shews the forest, which, in after times,\nFierce Romulus for perpetrated crimes\nA sacred refuge made; with this, the shrine\nWhere Pan below the rock had rites divine:\nThen tells of Argus' death, his murder'd guest,\nWhose grave and tomb his innocence attest.\nThence, to the steep Tarpeian rock he leads;\nNow roof'd with gold, then thatch'd with homely reeds.\nA reverent fear (such superstition reigns\nAmong the rude) ev'n then possess'd the swains.\nSome god, they knew- what god, they could not tell-\nDid there amidst the sacred horror dwell.\nTh' Arcadians thought him Jove; and said they saw\nThe mighty Thund'rer with majestic awe,\nWho took his shield, and dealt his bolts around,\nAnd scatter'd tempests on the teeming ground.\nThen saw two heaps of ruins, (once they stood\nTwo stately towns, on either side the flood,)\nSaturnia's and Janicula's remains;\nAnd either place the founder's name retains.\nDiscoursing thus together, they resort\nWhere poor Evander kept his country court.\nThey view'd the ground of Rome's litigious hall;\n(Once oxen low'd, where now the lawyers bawl;)\nThen, stooping, thro' the narrow gate they press'd,\nWhen thus the king bespoke his Trojan guest:\n\"Mean as it is, this palace, and this door,\nReceiv'd Alcides, then a conqueror.\nDare to be poor; accept our homely food,\nWhich feasted him, and emulate a god.\"\nThen underneath a lowly roof he led\nThe weary prince, and laid him on a bed;\nThe stuffing leaves, with hides of bears o'erspread.\nNow Night had shed her silver dews around,\nAnd with her sable wings embrac'd the ground,\nWhen love's fair goddess, anxious for her son,\n(New tumults rising, and new wars begun,)\nCouch'd with her husband in his golden bed,\nWith these alluring words invokes his aid;\nAnd, that her pleasing speech his mind may move,\nInspires each accent with the charms of love:\n\"While cruel fate conspir'd with Grecian pow'rs,\nTo level with the ground the Trojan tow'rs,\nI ask'd not aid th' unhappy to restore,\nNor did the succor of thy skill implore;\nNor urg'd the labors of my lord in vain,\nA sinking empire longer to sustain,\nTho'much I ow'd to Priam's house, and more\nThe dangers of Aeneas did deplore.\nBut now, by Jove's command, and fate's decree,\nHis race is doom'd to reign in Italy:\nWith humble suit I beg thy needful art,\nO still propitious pow'r, that rules my heart!\nA mother kneels a suppliant for her son.\nBy Thetis and Aurora thou wert won\nTo forge impenetrable shields, and grace\nWith fated arms a less illustrious race.\nBehold, what haughty nations are combin'd\nAgainst the relics of the Phrygian kind,\nWith fire and sword my people to destroy,\nAnd conquer Venus twice, in conqu'ring Troy.\"\nShe said; and straight her arms, of snowy hue,\nAbout her unresolving husband threw.\nHer soft embraces soon infuse desire;\nHis bones and marrow sudden warmth inspire;\nAnd all the godhead feels the wonted fire.\nNot half so swift the rattling thunder flies,\nOr forky lightnings flash along the skies.\nThe goddess, proud of her successful wiles,\nAnd conscious of her form, in secret smiles.\nThen thus the pow'r, obnoxious to her charms,\nPanting, and half dissolving in her arms:\n\"Why seek you reasons for a cause so just,\nOr your own beauties or my love distrust?\nLong since, had you requir'd my helpful hand,\nTh' artificer and art you might command,\nTo labor arms for Troy: nor Jove, nor fate,\nConfin'd their empire to so short a date.\nAnd, if you now desire new wars to wage,\nMy skill I promise, and my pains engage.\nWhatever melting metals can conspire,\nOr breathing bellows, or the forming fire,\nIs freely yours: your anxious fears remove,\nAnd think no task is difficult to love.\"\nTrembling he spoke; and, eager of her charms,\nHe snatch'd the willing goddess to his arms;\nTill in her lap infus'd, he lay possess'd\nOf full desire, and sunk to pleasing rest.\nNow when the Night her middle race had rode,\nAnd his first slumber had refresh'd the god-\nThe time when early housewives leave the bed;\nWhen living embers on the hearth they spread,\nSupply the lamp, and call the maids to rise-\nWith yawning mouths, and with half-open'd eyes,\nThey ply the distaff by the winking light,\nAnd to their daily labor add the night:\nThus frugally they earn their children's bread,\nAnd uncorrupted keep the nuptial bed-\nNot less concern'd, nor at a later hour,\nRose from his downy couch the forging pow'r.\nSacred to Vulcan's name, an isle there lay,\nBetwixt Sicilia's coasts and Lipare,\nRais'd high on smoking rocks; and, deep below,\nIn hollow caves the fires of Aetna glow.\nThe Cyclops here their heavy hammers deal;\nLoud strokes, and hissings of tormented steel,\nAre heard around; the boiling waters roar,\nAnd smoky flames thro' fuming tunnels soar.\nHether the Father of the Fire, by night,\nThro' the brown air precipitates his flight.\nOn their eternal anvils here he found\nThe brethren beating, and the blows go round.\nA load of pointless thunder now there lies\nBefore their hands, to ripen for the skies:\nThese darts, for angry Jove, they daily cast;\nConsum'd on mortals with prodigious waste.\nThree rays of writhen rain, of fire three more,\nOf winged southern winds and cloudy store\nAs many parts, the dreadful mixture frame;\nAnd fears are added, and avenging flame.\nInferior ministers, for Mars, repair\nHis broken axletrees and blunted war,\nAnd send him forth again with furbish'd arms,\nTo wake the lazy war with trumpets' loud alarms.\nThe rest refresh the scaly snakes that fold\nThe shield of Pallas, and renew their gold.\nFull on the crest the Gorgon's head they place,\nWith eyes that roll in death, and with distorted face.\n\"My sons,\" said Vulcan, \"set your tasks aside;\nYour strength and master-skill must now be tried.\nArms for a hero forge; arms that require\nYour force, your speed, and all your forming fire.\"\nHe said. They set their former work aside,\nAnd their new toils with eager haste divide.\nA flood of molten silver, brass, and gold,\nAnd deadly steel, in the large furnace roll'd;\nOf this, their artful hands a shield prepare,\nAlone sufficient to sustain the war.\nSev'n orbs within a spacious round they close:\nOne stirs the fire, and one the bellows blows.\nThe hissing steel is in the smithy drown'd;\nThe grot with beaten anvils groans around.\nBy turns their arms advance, in equal time;\nBy turns their hands descend, and hammers chime.\nThey turn the glowing mass with crooked tongs;\nThe fiery work proceeds, with rustic songs.\nWhile, at the Lemnian god's command, they urge\nTheir labors thus, and ply th' Aeolian forge,\nThe cheerful morn salutes Evander's eyes,\nAnd songs of chirping birds invite to rise.\nHe leaves his lowly bed: his buskins meet\nAbove his ankles; sandals sheathe his feet:\nHe sets his trusty sword upon his side,\nAnd o'er his shoulder throws a panther's hide.\nTwo menial dogs before their master press'd.\nThus clad, and guarded thus, he seeks his kingly guest.\nMindful of promis'd aid, he mends his pace,\nBut meets Aeneas in the middle space.\nYoung Pallas did his father's steps attend,\nAnd true Achates waited on his friend.\nThey join their hands; a secret seat they choose;\nTh' Arcadian first their former talk renews:\n\"Undaunted prince, I never can believe\nThe Trojan empire lost, while you survive.\nCommand th' assistance of a faithful friend;\nBut feeble are the succors I can send.\nOur narrow kingdom here the Tiber bounds;\nThat other side the Latian state surrounds,\nInsults our walls, and wastes our fruitful grounds.\nBut mighty nations I prepare, to join\nTheir arms with yours, and aid your just design.\nYou come, as by your better genius sent,\nAnd fortune seems to favor your intent.\nNot far from hence there stands a hilly town,\nOf ancient building, and of high renown,\nTorn from the Tuscans by the Lydian race,\nWho gave the name of Caere to the place,\nOnce Agyllina call'd. It flourish'd long,\nIn pride of wealth and warlike people strong,\nTill curs'd Mezentius, in a fatal hour,\nAssum'd the crown, with arbitrary pow'r.\nWhat words can paint those execrable times,\nThe subjects' suff'rings, and the tyrant's crimes!\nThat blood, those murthers, O ye gods, replace\nOn his own head, and on his impious race!\nThe living and the dead at his command\nWere coupled, face to face, and hand to hand,\nTill, chok'd with stench, in loath'd embraces tied,\nThe ling'ring wretches pin'd away and died.\nThus plung'd in ills, and meditating more-\nThe people's patience, tir'd, no longer bore\nThe raging monster; but with arms beset\nHis house, and vengeance and destruction threat.\nThey fire his palace: while the flame ascends,\nThey force his guards, and execute his friends.\nHe cleaves the crowd, and, favor'd by the night,\nTo Turnus' friendly court directs his flight.\nBy just revenge the Tuscans set on fire,\nWith arms, their king to punishment require:\nTheir num'rous troops, now muster'd on the strand,\nMy counsel shall submit to your command.\nTheir navy swarms upon the coasts; they cry\nTo hoist their anchors, but the gods deny.\nAn ancient augur, skill'd in future fate,\nWith these foreboding words restrains their hate:\n'Ye brave in arms, ye Lydian blood, the flow'r\nOf Tuscan youth, and choice of all their pow'r,\nWhom just revenge against Mezentius arms,\nTo seek your tyrant's death by lawful arms;\nKnow this: no native of our land may lead\nThis pow'rful people; seek a foreign head.'\nAw'd with these words, in camps they still abide,\nAnd wait with longing looks their promis'd guide.\nTarchon, the Tuscan chief, to me has sent\nTheir crown, and ev'ry regal ornament:\nThe people join their own with his desire;\nAnd all my conduct, as their king, require.\nBut the chill blood that creeps within my veins,\nAnd age, and listless limbs unfit for pains,\nAnd a soul conscious of its own decay,\nHave forc'd me to refuse imperial sway.\nMy Pallas were more fit to mount the throne,\nAnd should, but he's a Sabine mother's son,\nAnd half a native; but, in you, combine\nA manly vigor, and a foreign line.\nWhere Fate and smiling Fortune shew the way,\nPursue the ready path to sov'reign sway.\nThe staff of my declining days, my son,\nShall make your good or ill success his own;\nIn fighting fields from you shall learn to dare,\nAnd serve the hard apprenticeship of war;\nYour matchless courage and your conduct view,\nAnd early shall begin t' admire and copy you.\nBesides, two hundred horse he shall command;\nTho' few, a warlike and well-chosen band.\nThese in my name are listed; and my son\nAs many more has added in his own.\"\nScarce had he said; Achates and his guest,\nWith downcast eyes, their silent grief express'd;\nWho, short of succors, and in deep despair,\nShook at the dismal prospect of the war.\nBut his bright mother, from a breaking cloud,\nTo cheer her issue, thunder'd thrice aloud;\nThrice forky lightning flash'd along the sky,\nAnd Tyrrhene trumpets thrice were heard on high.\nThen, gazing up, repeated peals they hear;\nAnd, in a heav'n serene, refulgent arms appear:\nRedd'ning the skies, and glitt'ring all around,\nThe temper'd metals clash, and yield a silver sound.\nThe rest stood trembling, struck with awe divine;\nAeneas only, conscious to the sign,\nPresag'd th' event, and joyful view'd, above,\nTh' accomplish'd promise of the Queen of Love.\nThen, to th' Arcadian king: \"This prodigy\n(Dismiss your fear) belongs alone to me.\nHeav'n calls me to the war: th' expected sign\nIs giv'n of promis'd aid, and arms divine.\nMy goddess mother, whose indulgent care\nForesaw the dangers of the growing war,\nThis omen gave, when bright Vulcanian arms,\nFated from force of steel by Stygian charms,\nSuspended, shone on high: she then foreshow'd\nApproaching fights, and fields to float in blood.\nTurnus shall dearly pay for faith forsworn;\nAnd corps, and swords, and shields, on Tiber borne,\nShall choke his flood: now sound the loud alarms;\nAnd, Latian troops, prepare your perjur'd arms.\"\nHe said, and, rising from his homely throne,\nThe solemn rites of Hercules begun,\nAnd on his altars wak'd the sleeping fires;\nThen cheerful to his household gods retires;\nThere offers chosen sheep. Th' Arcadian king\nAnd Trojan youth the same oblations bring.\nNext, of his men and ships he makes review;\nDraws out the best and ablest of the crew.\nDown with the falling stream the refuse run,\nTo raise with joyful news his drooping son.\nSteeds are prepar'd to mount the Trojan band,\nWho wait their leader to the Tyrrhene land.\nA sprightly courser, fairer than the rest,\nThe king himself presents his royal guest:\nA lion's hide his back and limbs infold,\nPrecious with studded work, and paws of gold.\nFame thro' the little city spreads aloud\nTh' intended march, amid the fearful crowd:\nThe matrons beat their breasts, dissolve in tears,\nAnd double their devotion in their fears.\nThe war at hand appears with more affright,\nAnd rises ev'ry moment to the sight.\nThen old Evander, with a close embrace,\nStrain'd his departing friend; and tears o'erflow his face.\n\"Would Heav'n,\" said he, \"my strength and youth recall,\nSuch as I was beneath Praeneste's wall;\nThen when I made the foremost foes retire,\nAnd set whole heaps of conquer'd shields on fire;\nWhen Herilus in single fight I slew,\nWhom with three lives Feronia did endue;\nAnd thrice I sent him to the Stygian shore,\nTill the last ebbing soul return'd no more-\nSuch if I stood renew'd, not these alarms,\nNor death, should rend me from my Pallas' arms;\nNor proud Mezentius, thus unpunish'd, boast\nHis rapes and murthers on the Tuscan coast.\nYe gods, and mighty Jove, in pity bring\nRelief, and hear a father and a king!\nIf fate and you reserve these eyes, to see\nMy son return with peace and victory;\nIf the lov'd boy shall bless his father's sight;\nIf we shall meet again with more delight;\nThen draw my life in length; let me sustain,\nIn hopes of his embrace, the worst of pain.\nBut if your hard decrees- which, O! I dread-\nHave doom'd to death his undeserving head;\nThis, O this very moment, let me die!\nWhile hopes and fears in equal balance lie;\nWhile, yet possess'd of all his youthful charms,\nI strain him close within these aged arms;\nBefore that fatal news my soul shall wound!\"\nHe said, and, swooning, sunk upon the ground.\nHis servants bore him off, and softly laid\nHis languish'd limbs upon his homely bed.\nThe horsemen march; the gates are open'd wide;\nAeneas at their head, Achates by his side.\nNext these, the Trojan leaders rode along;\nLast follows in the rear th' Arcadian throng.\nYoung Pallas shone conspicuous o'er the rest;\nGilded his arms, embroider'd was his vest.\nSo, from the seas, exerts his radiant head\nThe star by whom the lights of heav'n are led;\nShakes from his rosy locks the pearly dews,\nDispels the darkness, and the day renews.\nThe trembling wives the walls and turrets crowd,\nAnd follow, with their eyes, the dusty cloud,\nWhich winds disperse by fits, and shew from far\nThe blaze of arms, and shields, and shining war.\nThe troops, drawn up in beautiful array,\nO'er heathy plains pursue the ready way.\nRepeated peals of shouts are heard around;\nThe neighing coursers answer to the sound,\nAnd shake with horny hoofs the solid ground.\nA greenwood shade, for long religion known,\nStands by the streams that wash the Tuscan town,\nIncompass'd round with gloomy hills above,\nWhich add a holy horror to the grove.\nThe first inhabitants of Grecian blood,\nThat sacred forest to Silvanus vow'd,\nThe guardian of their flocks and fields; and pay\nTheir due devotions on his annual day.\nNot far from hence, along the river's side,\nIn tents secure, the Tuscan troops abide,\nBy Tarchon led. Now, from a rising ground,\nAeneas cast his wond'ring eyes around,\nAnd all the Tyrrhene army had in sight,\nStretch'd on the spacious plain from left to right.\nThether his warlike train the Trojan led,\nRefresh'd his men, and wearied horses fed.\nMeantime the mother goddess, crown'd with charms,\nBreaks thro' the clouds, and brings the fated arms.\nWithin a winding vale she finds her son,\nOn the cool river's banks, retir'd alone.\nShe shews her heav'nly form without disguise,\nAnd gives herself to his desiring eyes.\n\"Behold,\" she said, \"perform'd in ev'ry part,\nMy promise made, and Vulcan's labor'd art.\nNow seek, secure, the Latian enemy,\nAnd haughty Turnus to the field defy.\"\nShe said; and, having first her son embrac'd,\nThe radiant arms beneath an oak she plac'd,\nProud of the gift, he roll'd his greedy sight\nAround the work, and gaz'd with vast delight.\nHe lifts, he turns, he poises, and admires\nThe crested helm, that vomits radiant fires:\nHis hands the fatal sword and corslet hold,\nOne keen with temper'd steel, one stiff with gold:\nBoth ample, flaming both, and beamy bright;\nSo shines a cloud, when edg'd with adverse light.\nHe shakes the pointed spear, and longs to try\nThe plated cuishes on his manly thigh;\nBut most admires the shield's mysterious mold,\nAnd Roman triumphs rising on the gold:\nFor these, emboss'd, the heav'nly smith had wrought\n(Not in the rolls of future fate untaught)\nThe wars in order, and the race divine\nOf warriors issuing from the Julian line.\nThe cave of Mars was dress'd with mossy greens:\nThere, by the wolf, were laid the martial twins.\nIntrepid on her swelling dugs they hung;\nThe foster dam loll'd out her fawning tongue:\nThey suck'd secure, while, bending back her head,\nShe lick'd their tender limbs, and form'd them as they fed.\nNot far from thence new Rome appears, with games\nProjected for the rape of Sabine dames.\nThe pit resounds with shrieks; a war succeeds,\nFor breach of public faith, and unexampled deeds.\nHere for revenge the Sabine troops contend;\nThe Romans there with arms the prey defend.\nWearied with tedious war, at length they cease;\nAnd both the kings and kingdoms plight the peace.\nThe friendly chiefs before Jove's altar stand,\nBoth arm'd, with each a charger in his hand:\nA fatted sow for sacrifice is led,\nWith imprecations on the perjur'd head.\nNear this, the traitor Metius, stretch'd between\nFour fiery steeds, is dragg'd along the green,\nBy Tullus' doom: the brambles drink his blood,\nAnd his torn limbs are left the vulture's food.\nThere, Porsena to Rome proud Tarquin brings,\nAnd would by force restore the banish'd kings.\nOne tyrant for his fellow-tyrant fights;\nThe Roman youth assert their native rights.\nBefore the town the Tuscan army lies,\nTo win by famine, or by fraud surprise.\nTheir king, half-threat'ning, half-disdaining stood,\nWhile Cocles broke the bridge, and stemm'd the flood.\nThe captive maids there tempt the raging tide,\nScap'd from their chains, with Cloelia for their guide.\nHigh on a rock heroic Manlius stood,\nTo guard the temple, and the temple's god.\nThen Rome was poor; and there you might behold\nThe palace thatch'd with straw, now roof'd with gold.\nThe silver goose before the shining gate\nThere flew, and, by her cackle, sav'd the state.\nShe told the Gauls' approach; th' approaching Gauls,\nObscure in night, ascend, and seize the walls.\nThe gold dissembled well their yellow hair,\nAnd golden chains on their white necks they wear.\nGold are their vests; long Alpine spears they wield,\nAnd their left arm sustains a length of shield.\nHard by, the leaping Salian priests advance;\nAnd naked thro' the streets the mad Luperci dance,\nIn caps of wool; the targets dropp'd from heav'n.\nHere modest matrons, in soft litters driv'n,\nTo pay their vows in solemn pomp appear,\nAnd odorous gums in their chaste hands they bear.\nFar hence remov'd, the Stygian seats are seen;\nPains of the damn'd, and punish'd Catiline\nHung on a rock- the traitor; and, around,\nThe Furies hissing from the nether ground.\nApart from these, the happy souls he draws,\nAnd Cato's holy ghost dispensing laws.\nBetwixt the quarters flows a golden sea;\nBut foaming surges there in silver play.\nThe dancing dolphins with their tails divide\nThe glitt'ring waves, and cut the precious tide.\nAmid the main, two mighty fleets engage\nTheir brazen beaks, oppos'd with equal rage.\nActium surveys the well-disputed prize;\nLeucate's wat'ry plain with foamy billows fries.\nYoung Caesar, on the stern, in armor bright,\nHere leads the Romans and their gods to fight:\nHis beamy temples shoot their flames afar,\nAnd o'er his head is hung the Julian star.\nAgrippa seconds him, with prosp'rous gales,\nAnd, with propitious gods, his foes assails:\nA naval crown, that binds his manly brows,\nThe happy fortune of the fight foreshows.\nRang'd on the line oppos'd, Antonius brings\nBarbarian aids, and troops of Eastern kings;\nTh' Arabians near, and Bactrians from afar,\nOf tongues discordant, and a mingled war:\nAnd, rich in gaudy robes, amidst the strife,\nHis ill fate follows him- th' Egyptian wife.\nMoving they fight; with oars and forky prows\nThe froth is gather'd, and the water glows.\nIt seems, as if the Cyclades again\nWere rooted up, and justled in the main;\nOr floating mountains floating mountains meet;\nSuch is the fierce encounter of the fleet.\nFireballs are thrown, and pointed jav'lins fly;\nThe fields of Neptune take a purple dye.\nThe queen herself, amidst the loud alarms,\nWith cymbals toss'd her fainting soldiers warms-\nFool as she was! who had not yet divin'd\nHer cruel fate, nor saw the snakes behind.\nHer country gods, the monsters of the sky,\nGreat Neptune, Pallas, and Love's Queen defy:\nThe dog Anubis barks, but barks in vain,\nNor longer dares oppose th' ethereal train.\nMars in the middle of the shining shield\nIs grav'd, and strides along the liquid field.\nThe Dirae souse from heav'n with swift descent;\nAnd Discord, dyed in blood, with garments rent,\nDivides the prease: her steps Bellona treads,\nAnd shakes her iron rod above their heads.\nThis seen, Apollo, from his Actian height,\nPours down his arrows; at whose winged flight\nThe trembling Indians and Egyptians yield,\nAnd soft Sabaeans quit the wat'ry field.\nThe fatal mistress hoists her silken sails,\nAnd, shrinking from the fight, invokes the gales.\nAghast she looks, and heaves her breast for breath,\nPanting, and pale with fear of future death.\nThe god had figur'd her as driv'n along\nBy winds and waves, and scudding thro' the throng.\nJust opposite, sad Nilus opens wide\nHis arms and ample bosom to the tide,\nAnd spreads his mantle o'er the winding coast,\nIn which he wraps his queen, and hides the flying host.\nThe victor to the gods his thanks express'd,\nAnd Rome, triumphant, with his presence bless'd.\nThree hundred temples in the town he plac'd;\nWith spoils and altars ev'ry temple grac'd.\nThree shining nights, and three succeeding days,\nThe fields resound with shouts, the streets with praise,\nThe domes with songs, the theaters with plays.\nAll altars flame: before each altar lies,\nDrench'd in his gore, the destin'd sacrifice.\nGreat Caesar sits sublime upon his throne,\nBefore Apollo's porch of Parian stone;\nAccepts the presents vow'd for victory,\nAnd hangs the monumental crowns on high.\nVast crowds of vanquish'd nations march along,\nVarious in arms, in habit, and in tongue.\nHere, Mulciber assigns the proper place\nFor Carians, and th' ungirt Numidian race;\nThen ranks the Thracians in the second row,\nWith Scythians, expert in the dart and bow.\nAnd here the tam'd Euphrates humbly glides,\nAnd there the Rhine submits her swelling tides,\nAnd proud Araxes, whom no bridge could bind;\nThe Danes' unconquer'd offspring march behind,\nAnd Morini, the last of humankind.\nThese figures, on the shield divinely wrought,\nBy Vulcan labor'd, and by Venus brought,\nWith joy and wonder fill the hero's thought.\nUnknown the names, he yet admires the grace,\nAnd bears aloft the fame and fortune of his race.\nBOOK IX\nWhile these affairs in distant places pass'd,\nThe various Iris Juno sends with haste,\nTo find bold Turnus, who, with anxious thought,\nThe secret shade of his great grandsire sought.\nRetir'd alone she found the daring man,\nAnd op'd her rosy lips, and thus began:\n\"What none of all the gods could grant thy vows,\nThat, Turnus, this auspicious day bestows.\nAeneas, gone to seek th' Arcadian prince,\nHas left the Trojan camp without defense;\nAnd, short of succors there, employs his pains\nIn parts remote to raise the Tuscan swains.\nNow snatch an hour that favors thy designs;\nUnite thy forces, and attack their lines.\"\nThis said, on equal wings she pois'd her weight,\nAnd form'd a radiant rainbow in her flight.\nThe Daunian hero lifts his hands eyes,\nAnd thus invokes the goddess as she flies:\n\"Iris, the grace of heav'n, what pow'r divine\nHas sent thee down, thro' dusky clouds to shine?\nSee, they divide; immortal day appears,\nAnd glitt'ring planets dancing in their spheres!\nWith joy, these happy omens I obey,\nAnd follow to the war the god that leads the way.\"\nThus having said, as by the brook he stood,\nHe scoop'd the water from the crystal flood;\nThen with his hands the drops to heav'n he throws,\nAnd loads the pow'rs above with offer'd vows.\nNow march the bold confed'rates thro' the plain,\nWell hors'd, well clad; a rich and shining train.\nMessapus leads the van; and, in the rear,\nThe sons of Tyrrheus in bright arms appear.\nIn the main battle, with his flaming crest,\nThe mighty Turnus tow'rs above the rest.\nSilent they move, majestically slow,\nLike ebbing Nile, or Ganges in his flow.\nThe Trojans view the dusty cloud from far,\nAnd the dark menace of the distant war.\nCaicus from the rampire saw it rise,\nBlack'ning the fields, and thick'ning thro' the skies.\nThen to his fellows thus aloud he calls:\n\"What rolling clouds, my friends, approach the walls?\nArm! arm! and man the works! prepare your spears\nAnd pointed darts! the Latian host appears.\"\nThus warn'd, they shut their gates; with shouts ascend\nThe bulwarks, and, secure, their foes attend:\nFor their wise gen'ral, with foreseeing care,\nHad charg'd them not to tempt the doubtful war,\nNor, tho' provok'd, in open fields advance,\nBut close within their lines attend their chance.\nUnwilling, yet they keep the strict command,\nAnd sourly wait in arms the hostile band.\nThe fiery Turnus flew before the rest:\nA piebald steed of Thracian strain he press'd;\nHis helm of massy gold, and crimson was his crest.\nWith twenty horse to second his designs,\nAn unexpected foe, he fac'd the lines.\n\"Is there,\" he said, \"in arms, who bravely dare\nHis leader's honor and his danger share?\"\nThen spurring on, his brandish'd dart he threw,\nIn sign of war: applauding shouts ensue.\nAmaz'd to find a dastard race, that run\nBehind the rampires and the battle shun,\nHe rides around the camp, with rolling eyes,\nAnd stops at ev'ry post, and ev'ry passage tries.\nSo roams the nightly wolf about the fold:\nWet with descending show'rs, and stiff with cold,\nHe howls for hunger, and he grins for pain,\n(His gnashing teeth are exercis'd in vain,)\nAnd, impotent of anger, finds no way\nIn his distended paws to grasp the prey.\nThe mothers listen; but the bleating lambs\nSecurely swig the dug, beneath the dams.\nThus ranges eager Turnus o'er the plain.\nSharp with desire, and furious with disdain;\nSurveys each passage with a piercing sight,\nTo force his foes in equal field to fight.\nThus while he gazes round, at length he spies,\nWhere, fenc'd with strong redoubts, their navy lies,\nClose underneath the walls; the washing tide\nSecures from all approach this weaker side.\nHe takes the wish'd occasion, fills his hand\nWith ready fires, and shakes a flaming brand.\nUrg'd by his presence, ev'ry soul is warm'd,\nAnd ev'ry hand with kindled firs is arm'd.\nFrom the fir'd pines the scatt'ring sparkles fly;\nFat vapors, mix'd with flames, involve the sky.\nWhat pow'r, O Muses, could avert the flame\nWhich threaten'd, in the fleet, the Trojan name?\nTell: for the fact, thro' length of time obscure,\nIs hard to faith; yet shall the fame endure.\n'T is said that, when the chief prepar'd his flight,\nAnd fell'd his timber from Mount Ida's height,\nThe grandam goddess then approach'd her son,\nAnd with a mother's majesty begun:\n\"Grant me,\" she said, \"the sole request I bring,\nSince conquer'd heav'n has own'd you for its king.\nOn Ida's brows, for ages past, there stood,\nWith firs and maples fill'd, a shady wood;\nAnd on the summit rose a sacred grove,\nWhere I was worship'd with religious love.\nThose woods, that holy grove, my long delight,\nI gave the Trojan prince, to speed his flight.\nNow, fill'd with fear, on their behalf I come;\nLet neither winds o'erset, nor waves intomb\nThe floating forests of the sacred pine;\nBut let it be their safety to be mine.\"\nThen thus replied her awful son, who rolls\nThe radiant stars, and heav'n and earth controls:\n\"How dare you, mother, endless date demand\nFor vessels molded by a mortal hand?\nWhat then is fate? Shall bold Aeneas ride,\nOf safety certain, on th' uncertain tide?\nYet, what I can, I grant; when, wafted o'er,\nThe chief is landed on the Latian shore,\nWhatever ships escape the raging storms,\nAt my command shall change their fading forms\nTo nymphs divine, and plow the wat'ry way,\nLike Dotis and the daughters of the sea.\"\nTo seal his sacred vow, by Styx he swore,\nThe lake of liquid pitch, the dreary shore,\nAnd Phlegethon's innavigable flood,\nAnd the black regions of his brother god.\nHe said; and shook the skies with his imperial nod.\nAnd now at length the number'd hours were come,\nPrefix'd by fate's irrevocable doom,\nWhen the great Mother of the Gods was free\nTo save her ships, and finish Jove's decree.\nFirst, from the quarter of the morn, there sprung\nA light that sign'd the heav'ns, and shot along;\nThen from a cloud, fring'd round with golden fires,\nWere timbrels heard, and Berecynthian choirs;\nAnd, last, a voice, with more than mortal sounds,\nBoth hosts, in arms oppos'd, with equal horror wounds:\n\"O Trojan race, your needless aid forbear,\nAnd know, my ships are my peculiar care.\nWith greater ease the bold Rutulian may,\nWith hissing brands, attempt to burn the sea,\nThan singe my sacred pines. But you, my charge,\nLoos'd from your crooked anchors, launch at large,\nExalted each a nymph: forsake the sand,\nAnd swim the seas, at Cybele's command.\"\nNo sooner had the goddess ceas'd to speak,\nWhen, lo! th' obedient ships their haulsers break;\nAnd, strange to tell, like dolphins, in the main\nThey plunge their prows, and dive, and spring again:\nAs many beauteous maids the billows sweep,\nAs rode before tall vessels on the deep.\nThe foes, surpris'd with wonder, stood aghast;\nMessapus curb'd his fiery courser's haste;\nOld Tiber roar'd, and, raising up his head,\nCall'd back his waters to their oozy bed.\nTurnus alone, undaunted, bore the shock,\nAnd with these words his trembling troops bespoke:\n\"These monsters for the Trojans' fate are meant,\nAnd are by Jove for black presages sent.\nHe takes the cowards' last relief away;\nFor fly they cannot, and, constrain'd to stay,\nMust yield unfought, a base inglorious prey.\nThe liquid half of all the globe is lost;\nHeav'n shuts the seas, and we secure the coast.\nTheirs is no more than that small spot of ground\nWhich myriads of our martial men surround.\nTheir fates I fear not, or vain oracles.\n'T was giv'n to Venus they should cross the seas,\nAnd land secure upon the Latian plains:\nTheir promis'd hour is pass'd, and mine remains.\n'T is in the fate of Turnus to destroy,\nWith sword and fire, the faithless race of Troy.\nShall such affronts as these alone inflame\nThe Grecian brothers, and the Grecian name?\nMy cause and theirs is one; a fatal strife,\nAnd final ruin, for a ravish'd wife.\nWas 't not enough, that, punish'd for the crime,\nThey fell; but will they fall a second time?\nOne would have thought they paid enough before,\nTo curse the costly sex, and durst offend no more.\nCan they securely trust their feeble wall,\nA slight partition, a thin interval,\nBetwixt their fate and them; when Troy, tho' built\nBy hands divine, yet perish'd by their guilt?\nLend me, for once, my friends, your valiant hands,\nTo force from out their lines these dastard bands.\nLess than a thousand ships will end this war,\nNor Vulcan needs his fated arms prepare.\nLet all the Tuscans, all th' Arcadians, join!\nNor these, nor those, shall frustrate my design.\nLet them not fear the treasons of the night,\nThe robb'd Palladium, the pretended flight:\nOur onset shall be made in open light.\nNo wooden engine shall their town betray;\nFires they shall have around, but fires by day.\nNo Grecian babes before their camp appear,\nWhom Hector's arms detain'd to the tenth tardy year.\nNow, since the sun is rolling to the west,\nGive we the silent night to needful rest:\nRefresh your bodies, and your arms prepare;\nThe morn shall end the small remains of war.\"\nThe post of honor to Messapus falls,\nTo keep the nightly guard, to watch the walls,\nTo pitch the fires at distances around,\nAnd close the Trojans in their scanty ground.\nTwice seven Rutulian captains ready stand,\nAnd twice seven hundred horse these chiefs command;\nAll clad in shining arms the works invest,\nEach with a radiant helm and waving crest.\nStretch'd at their length, they press the grassy ground;\nThey laugh, they sing, (the jolly bowls go round,)\nWith lights and cheerful fires renew the day,\nAnd pass the wakeful night in feasts and play.\nThe Trojans, from above, their foes beheld,\nAnd with arm'd legions all the rampires fill'd.\nSeiz'd with affright, their gates they first explore;\nJoin works to works with bridges, tow'r to tow'r:\nThus all things needful for defense abound.\nMnestheus and brave Seresthus walk the round,\nCommission'd by their absent prince to share\nThe common danger, and divide the care.\nThe soldiers draw their lots, and, as they fall,\nBy turns relieve each other on the wall.\nNigh where the foes their utmost guards advance,\nTo watch the gate was warlike Nisus' chance.\nHis father Hyrtacus of noble blood;\nHis mother was a huntress of the wood,\nAnd sent him to the wars. Well could he bear\nHis lance in fight, and dart the flying spear,\nBut better skill'd unerring shafts to send.\nBeside him stood Euryalus, his friend:\nEuryalus, than whom the Trojan host\nNo fairer face, or sweeter air, could boast-\nScarce had the down to shade his cheeks begun.\nOne was their care, and their delight was one:\nOne common hazard in the war they shar'd,\nAnd now were both by choice upon the guard.\nThen Nisus thus: \"Or do the gods inspire\nThis warmth, or make we gods of our desire?\nA gen'rous ardor boils within my breast,\nEager of action, enemy to rest:\nThis urges me to fight, and fires my mind\nTo leave a memorable name behind.\nThou see'st the foe secure; how faintly shine\nTheir scatter'd fires! the most, in sleep supine\nAlong the ground, an easy conquest lie:\nThe wakeful few the fuming flagon ply;\nAll hush'd around. Now hear what I revolve-\nA thought unripe- and scarcely yet resolve.\nOur absent prince both camp and council mourn;\nBy message both would hasten his return:\nIf they confer what I demand on thee,\n(For fame is recompense enough for me,)\nMethinks, beneath yon hill, I have espied\nA way that safely will my passage guide.\"\nEuryalus stood list'ning while he spoke,\nWith love of praise and noble envy struck;\nThen to his ardent friend expos'd his mind:\n\"All this, alone, and leaving me behind!\nAm I unworthy, Nisus, to be join'd?\nThinkist thou I can my share of glory yield,\nOr send thee unassisted to the field?\nNot so my father taught my childhood arms;\nBorn in a siege, and bred among alarms!\nNor is my youth unworthy of my friend,\nNor of the heav'n-born hero I attend.\nThe thing call'd life, with ease I can disclaim,\nAnd think it over-sold to purchase fame.\"\nThen Nisus thus: \"Alas! thy tender years\nWould minister new matter to my fears.\nSo may the gods, who view this friendly strife,\nRestore me to thy lov'd embrace with life,\nCondemn'd to pay my vows, (as sure I trust,)\nThis thy request is cruel and unjust.\nBut if some chance- as many chances are,\nAnd doubtful hazards, in the deeds of war-\nIf one should reach my head, there let it fall,\nAnd spare thy life; I would not perish all.\nThy bloomy youth deserves a longer date:\nLive thou to mourn thy love's unhappy fate;\nTo bear my mangled body from the foe,\nOr buy it back, and fun'ral rites bestow.\nOr, if hard fortune shall those dues deny,\nThou canst at least an empty tomb supply.\nO let not me the widow's tears renew!\nNor let a mother's curse my name pursue:\nThy pious parent, who, for love of thee,\nForsook the coasts of friendly Sicily,\nHer age committing to the seas and wind,\nWhen ev'ry weary matron stay'd behind.\"\nTo this, Euryalus: \"You plead in vain,\nAnd but protract the cause you cannot gain.\nNo more delays, but haste!\" With that, he wakes\nThe nodding watch; each to his office takes.\nThe guard reliev'd, the gen'rous couple went\nTo find the council at the royal tent.\nAll creatures else forgot their daily care,\nAnd sleep, the common gift of nature, share;\nExcept the Trojan peers, who wakeful sate\nIn nightly council for th' indanger'd state.\nThey vote a message to their absent chief,\nShew their distress, and beg a swift relief.\nAmid the camp a silent seat they chose,\nRemote from clamor, and secure from foes.\nOn their left arms their ample shields they bear,\nThe right reclin'd upon the bending spear.\nNow Nisus and his friend approach the guard,\nAnd beg admission, eager to be heard:\nTh' affair important, not to be deferr'd.\nAscanius bids 'em be conducted in,\nOrd'ring the more experienc'd to begin.\nThen Nisus thus: \"Ye fathers, lend your ears;\nNor judge our bold attempt beyond our years.\nThe foe, securely drench'd in sleep and wine,\nNeglect their watch; the fires but thinly shine;\nAnd where the smoke in cloudy vapors flies,\nCov'ring the plain, and curling to the skies,\nBetwixt two paths, which at the gate divide,\nClose by the sea, a passage we have spied,\nWhich will our way to great Aeneas guide.\nExpect each hour to see him safe again,\nLoaded with spoils of foes in battle slain.\nSnatch we the lucky minute while we may;\nNor can we be mistaken in the way;\nFor, hunting in the vale, we both have seen\nThe rising turrets, and the stream between,\nAnd know the winding course, with ev'ry ford.\"\nHe ceas'd; and old Alethes took the word:\n\"Our country gods, in whom our trust we place,\nWill yet from ruin save the Trojan race,\nWhile we behold such dauntless worth appear\nIn dawning youth, and souls so void of fear.\"\nThen into tears of joy the father broke;\nEach in his longing arms by turns he took;\nPanted and paus'd; and thus again he spoke:\n\"Ye brave young men, what equal gifts can we,\nIn recompense of such desert, decree?\nThe greatest, sure, and best you can receive,\nThe gods and your own conscious worth will give.\nThe rest our grateful gen'ral will bestow,\nAnd young Ascanius till his manhood owe.\"\n\"And I, whose welfare in my father lies,\"\nAscanius adds, \"by the great deities,\nBy my dear country, by my household gods,\nBy hoary Vesta's rites and dark abodes,\nAdjure you both, (on you my fortune stands;\nThat and my faith I plight into your hands,)\nMake me but happy in his safe return,\nWhose wanted presence I can only mourn;\nYour common gift shall two large goblets be\nOf silver, wrought with curious imagery,\nAnd high emboss'd, which, when old Priam reign'd,\nMy conqu'ring sire at sack'd Arisba gain'd;\nAnd more, two tripods cast in antic mold,\nWith two great talents of the finest gold;\nBeside a costly bowl, ingrav'd with art,\nWhich Dido gave, when first she gave her heart.\nBut, if in conquer'd Italy we reign,\nWhen spoils by lot the victor shall obtain-\nThou saw'st the courser by proud Turnus press'd:\nThat, Nisus, and his arms, and nodding crest,\nAnd shield, from chance exempt, shall be thy share:\nTwelve lab'ring slaves, twelve handmaids young and fair\nAll clad in rich attire, and train'd with care;\nAnd, last, a Latian field with fruitful plains,\nAnd a large portion of the king's domains.\nBut thou, whose years are more to mine allied-\nNo fate my vow'd affection shall divide\nFrom thee, heroic youth! Be wholly mine;\nTake full possession; all my soul is thine.\nOne faith, one fame, one fate, shall both attend;\nMy life's companion, and my bosom friend:\nMy peace shall be committed to thy care,\nAnd to thy conduct my concerns in war.\"\nThen thus the young Euryalus replied:\n\"Whatever fortune, good or bad, betide,\nThe same shall be my age, as now my youth;\nNo time shall find me wanting to my truth.\nThis only from your goodness let me gain\n(And, this ungranted, all rewards are vain)\nOf Priam's royal race my mother came-\nAnd sure the best that ever bore the name-\nWhom neither Troy nor Sicily could hold\nFrom me departing, but, o'erspent and old,\nMy fate she follow'd. Ignorant of this\n(Whatever) danger, neither parting kiss,\nNor pious blessing taken, her I leave,\nAnd in this only act of all my life deceive.\nBy this right hand and conscious Night I swear,\nMy soul so sad a farewell could not bear.\nBe you her comfort; fill my vacant place\n(Permit me to presume so great a grace)\nSupport her age, forsaken and distress'd.\nThat hope alone will fortify my breast\nAgainst the worst of fortunes, and of fears.\"\nHe said. The mov'd assistants melt in tears.\nThen thus Ascanius, wonderstruck to see\nThat image of his filial piety:\n\"So great beginnings, in so green an age,\nExact the faith which I again ingage.\nThy mother all the dues shall justly claim,\nCreusa had, and only want the name.\nWhate'er event thy bold attempt shall have,\n'T is merit to have borne a son so brave.\nNow by my head, a sacred oath, I swear,\n(My father us'd it,) what, returning here\nCrown'd with success, I for thyself prepare,\nThat, if thou fail, shall thy lov'd mother share.\"\nHe said, and weeping, while he spoke the word,\nFrom his broad belt he drew a shining sword,\nMagnificent with gold. Lycaon made,\nAnd in an ivory scabbard sheath'd the blade.\nThis was his gift. Great Mnestheus gave his friend\nA lion's hide, his body to defend;\nAnd good Alethes furnish'd him, beside,\nWith his own trusty helm, of temper tried.\nThus arm'd they went. The noble Trojans wait\nTheir issuing forth, and follow to the gate\nWith prayers and vows. Above the rest appears\nAscanius, manly far beyond his years,\nAnd messages committed to their care,\nWhich all in winds were lost, and flitting air.\nThe trenches first they pass'd; then took their way\nWhere their proud foes in pitch'd pavilions lay;\nTo many fatal, ere themselves were slain.\nThey found the careless host dispers'd upon the plain,\nWho, gorg'd, and drunk with wine, supinely snore.\nUnharness'd chariots stand along the shore:\nAmidst the wheels and reins, the goblet by,\nA medley of debauch and war, they lie.\nObserving Nisus shew'd his friend the sight:\n\"Behold a conquest gain'd without a fight.\nOccasion offers, and I stand prepar'd;\nThere lies our way; be thou upon the guard,\nAnd look around, while I securely go,\nAnd hew a passage thro' the sleeping foe.\"\nSoftly he spoke; then striding took his way,\nWith his drawn sword, where haughty Rhamnes lay;\nHis head rais'd high on tapestry beneath,\nAnd heaving from his breast, he drew his breath;\nA king and prophet, by King Turnus lov'd:\nBut fate by prescience cannot be remov'd.\nHim and his sleeping slaves he slew; then spies\nWhere Remus, with his rich retinue, lies.\nHis armor-bearer first, and next he kills\nHis charioteer, intrench'd betwixt the wheels\nAnd his lov'd horses; last invades their lord;\nFull on his neck he drives the fatal sword:\nThe gasping head flies off; a purple flood\nFlows from the trunk, that welters in the blood,\nWhich, by the spurning heels dispers'd around,\nThe bed besprinkles and bedews the ground.\nLamus the bold, and Lamyrus the strong,\nHe slew, and then Serranus fair and young.\nFrom dice and wine the youth retir'd to rest,\nAnd puff'd the fumy god from out his breast:\nEv'n then he dreamt of drink and lucky play-\nMore lucky, had it lasted till the day.\nThe famish'd lion thus, with hunger bold,\nO'erleaps the fences of the nightly fold,\nAnd tears the peaceful flocks: with silent awe\nTrembling they lie, and pant beneath his paw.\nNor with less rage Euryalus employs\nThe wrathful sword, or fewer foes destroys;\nBut on th' ignoble crowd his fury flew;\nHe Fadus, Hebesus, and Rhoetus slew.\nOppress'd with heavy sleep the former fell,\nBut Rhoetus wakeful, and observing all:\nBehind a spacious jar he slink'd for fear;\nThe fatal iron found and reach'd him there;\nFor, as he rose, it pierc'd his naked side,\nAnd, reeking, thence return'd in crimson dyed.\nThe wound pours out a stream of wine and blood;\nThe purple soul comes floating in the flood.\nNow, where Messapus quarter'd, they arrive.\nThe fires were fainting there, and just alive;\nThe warrior-horses, tied in order, fed.\nNisus observ'd the discipline, and said:\n\"Our eager thirst of blood may both betray;\nAnd see the scatter'd streaks of dawning day,\nFoe to nocturnal thefts. No more, my friend;\nHere let our glutted execution end.\nA lane thro' slaughter'd bodies we have made.\"\nThe bold Euryalus, tho' loth, obey'd.\nOf arms, and arras, and of plate, they find\nA precious load; but these they leave behind.\nYet, fond of gaudy spoils, the boy would stay\nTo make the rich caparison his prey,\nWhich on the steed of conquer'd Rhamnes lay.\nNor did his eyes less longingly behold\nThe girdle-belt, with nails of burnish'd gold.\nThis present Caedicus the rich bestow'd\nOn Remulus, when friendship first they vow'd,\nAnd, absent, join'd in hospitable ties:\nHe, dying, to his heir bequeath'd the prize;\nTill, by the conqu'ring Ardean troops oppress'd,\nHe fell; and they the glorious gift possess'd.\nThese glitt'ring spoils (now made the victor's gain)\nHe to his body suits, but suits in vain:\nMessapus' helm he finds among the rest,\nAnd laces on, and wears the waving crest.\nProud of their conquest, prouder of their prey,\nThey leave the camp, and take the ready way.\nBut far they had not pass'd, before they spied\nThree hundred horse, with Volscens for their guide.\nThe queen a legion to King Turnus sent;\nBut the swift horse the slower foot prevent,\nAnd now, advancing, sought the leader's tent.\nThey saw the pair; for, thro' the doubtful shade,\nHis shining helm Euryalus betray'd,\nOn which the moon with full reflection play'd.\n\"'T is not for naught,\" cried Volscens from the crowd,\n\"These men go there;\" then rais'd his voice aloud:\n\"Stand! stand! why thus in arms? And whither bent?\nFrom whence, to whom, and on what errand sent?\"\nSilent they scud away, and haste their flight\nTo neighb'ring woods, and trust themselves to night.\nThe speedy horse all passages belay,\nAnd spur their smoking steeds to cross their way,\nAnd watch each entrance of the winding wood.\nBlack was the forest: thick with beech it stood,\nHorrid with fern, and intricate with thorn;\nFew paths of human feet, or tracks of beasts, were worn.\nThe darkness of the shades, his heavy prey,\nAnd fear, misled the younger from his way.\nBut Nisus hit the turns with happier haste,\nAnd, thoughtless of his friend, the forest pass'd,\nAnd Alban plains, from Alba's name so call'd,\nWhere King Latinus then his oxen stall'd;\nTill, turning at the length, he stood his ground,\nAnd miss'd his friend, and cast his eyes around:\n\"Ah wretch!\" he cried, \"where have I left behind\nTh' unhappy youth? where shall I hope to find?\nOr what way take?\" Again he ventures back,\nAnd treads the mazes of his former track.\nHe winds the wood, and, list'ning, hears the noise\nOf tramping coursers, and the riders' voice.\nThe sound approach'd; and suddenly he view'd\nThe foes inclosing, and his friend pursued,\nForelaid and taken, while he strove in vain\nThe shelter of the friendly shades to gain.\nWhat should he next attempt? what arms employ,\nWhat fruitless force, to free the captive boy?\nOr desperate should he rush and lose his life,\nWith odds oppress'd, in such unequal strife?\nResolv'd at length, his pointed spear he shook;\nAnd, casting on the moon a mournful look:\n\"Guardian of groves, and goddess of the night,\nFair queen,\" he said, \"direct my dart aright.\nIf e'er my pious father, for my sake,\nDid grateful off'rings on thy altars make,\nOr I increas'd them with my sylvan toils,\nAnd hung thy holy roofs with savage spoils,\nGive me to scatter these.\" Then from his ear\nHe pois'd, and aim'd, and launch'd the trembling spear.\nThe deadly weapon, hissing from the grove,\nImpetuous on the back of Sulmo drove;\nPierc'd his thin armor, drank his vital blood,\nAnd in his body left the broken\nHe staggers round; his eyeballs roll in death,\nAnd with short sobs he gasps away his breath.\nAll stand amaz'd- a second jav'lin flies\nWith equal strength, and quivers thro' the skies.\nThis thro' thy temples, Tagus, forc'd the way,\nAnd in the brainpan warmly buried lay.\nFierce Volscens foams with rage, and, gazing round,\nDescried not him who gave the fatal wound,\nNor knew to fix revenge: \"But thou,\" he cries,\n\"Shalt pay for both,\" and at the pris'ner flies\nWith his drawn sword. Then, struck with deep despair,\nThat cruel sight the lover could not bear;\nBut from his covert rush'd in open view,\nAnd sent his voice before him as he flew:\n\"Me! me!\" he cried- \"turn all your swords alone\nOn me- the fact confess'd, the fault my own.\nHe neither could nor durst, the guiltless youth:\nYe moon and stars, bear witness to the truth!\nHis only crime (if friendship can offend)\nIs too much love to his unhappy friend.\"\nToo late he speaks: the sword, which fury guides,\nDriv'n with full force, had pierc'd his tender sides.\nDown fell the beauteous youth: the yawning wound\nGush'd out a purple stream, and stain'd the ground.\nHis snowy neck reclines upon his breast,\nLike a fair flow'r by the keen share oppress'd;\nLike a white poppy sinking on the plain,\nWhose heavy head is overcharg'd with rain.\nDespair, and rage, and vengeance justly vow'd,\nDrove Nisus headlong on the hostile crowd.\nVolscens he seeks; on him alone he bends:\nBorne back and bor'd by his surrounding friends,\nOnward he press'd, and kept him still in sight;\nThen whirl'd aloft his sword with all his might:\nTh' unerring steel descended while he spoke,\nPiered his wide mouth, and thro' his weazon broke.\nDying, he slew; and, stagg'ring on the plain,\nWith swimming eyes he sought his lover slain;\nThen quiet on his bleeding bosom fell,\nContent, in death, to be reveng'd so well.\nO happy friends! for, if my verse can give\nImmortal life, your fame shall ever live,\nFix'd as the Capitol's foundation lies,\nAnd spread, where'er the Roman eagle flies!\nThe conqu'ring party first divide the prey,\nThen their slain leader to the camp convey.\nWith wonder, as they went, the troops were fill'd,\nTo see such numbers whom so few had kill'd.\nSerranus, Rhamnes, and the rest, they found:\nVast crowds the dying and the dead surround;\nAnd the yet reeking blood o'erflows the ground.\nAll knew the helmet which Messapus lost,\nBut mourn'd a purchase that so dear had cost.\nNow rose the ruddy morn from Tithon's bed,\nAnd with the dawn of day the skies o'erspread;\nNor long the sun his daily course withheld,\nBut added colors to the world reveal'd:\nWhen early Turnus, wak'ning with the light,\nAll clad in armor, calls his troops to fight.\nHis martial men with fierce harangue he fir'd,\nAnd his own ardor in their souls inspir'd.\nThis done- to give new terror to his foes,\nThe heads of Nisus and his friend he shows,\nRais'd high on pointed spears- a ghastly sight:\nLoud peals of shouts ensue, and barbarous delight.\nMeantime the Trojans run, where danger calls;\nThey line their trenches, and they man their walls.\nIn front extended to the left they stood;\nSafe was the right, surrounded by the flood.\nBut, casting from their tow'rs a frightful view,\nThey saw the faces, which too well they knew,\nTho' then disguis'd in death, and smear'd all o'er\nWith filth obscene, and dropping putrid gore.\nSoon hasty fame thro' the sad city bears\nThe mournful message to the mother's ears.\nAn icy cold benumbs her limbs; she shakes;\nHer cheeks the blood, her hand the web forsakes.\nShe runs the rampires round amidst the war,\nNor fears the flying darts; she rends her hair,\nAnd fills with loud laments the liquid air.\n\"Thus, then, my lov'd Euryalus appears!\nThus looks the prop my declining years!\nWas't on this face my famish'd eyes I fed?\nAh! how unlike the living is the dead!\nAnd could'st thou leave me, cruel, thus alone?\nNot one kind kiss from a departing son!\nNo look, no last adieu before he went,\nIn an ill-boding hour to slaughter sent!\nCold on the ground, and pressing foreign clay,\nTo Latian dogs and fowls he lies a prey!\nNor was I near to close his dying eyes,\nTo wash his wounds, to weep his obsequies,\nTo call about his corpse his crying friends,\nOr spread the mantle (made for other ends)\nOn his dear body, which I wove with care,\nNor did my daily pains or nightly labor spare.\nWhere shall I find his corpse? what earth sustains\nHis trunk dismember'd, and his cold remains?\nFor this, alas! I left my needful ease,\nExpos'd my life to winds and winter seas!\nIf any pity touch Rutulian hearts,\nHere empty all your quivers, all your darts;\nOr, if they fail, thou, Jove, conclude my woe,\nAnd send me thunderstruck to shades below!\"\nHer shrieks and clamors pierce the Trojans' ears,\nUnman their courage, and augment their fears;\nNor young Ascanius could the sight sustain,\nNor old Ilioneus his tears restrain,\nBut Actor and Idaeus jointly sent,\nTo bear the madding mother to her tent.\nAnd now the trumpets terribly, from far,\nWith rattling clangor, rouse the sleepy war.\nThe soldiers' shouts succeed the brazen sounds;\nAnd heav'n, from pole to pole, the noise rebounds.\nThe Volscians bear their shields upon their head,\nAnd, rushing forward, form a moving shed.\nThese fill the ditch; those pull the bulwarks down:\nSome raise the ladders; others scale the town.\nBut, where void spaces on the walls appear,\nOr thin defense, they pour their forces there.\nWith poles and missive weapons, from afar,\nThe Trojans keep aloof the rising war.\nTaught, by their ten years' siege, defensive fight,\nThey roll down ribs of rocks, an unresisted weight,\nTo break the penthouse with the pond'rous blow,\nWhich yet the patient Volscians undergo:\nBut could not bear th' unequal combat long;\nFor, where the Trojans find the thickest throng,\nThe ruin falls: their shatter'd shields give way,\nAnd their crush'd heads become an easy prey.\nThey shrink for fear, abated of their rage,\nNor longer dare in a blind fight engage;\nContented now to gall them from below\nWith darts and slings, and with the distant bow.\nElsewhere Mezentius, terrible to view,\nA blazing pine within the trenches threw.\nBut brave Messapus, Neptune's warlike son,\nBroke down the palisades, the trenches won,\nAnd loud for ladders calls, to scale the town.\nCalliope, begin! Ye sacred Nine,\nInspire your poet in his high design,\nTo sing what slaughter manly Turnus made,\nWhat souls he sent below the Stygian shade,\nWhat fame the soldiers with their captain share,\nAnd the vast circuit of the fatal war;\nFor you in singing martial facts excel;\nYou best remember, and alone can tell.\nThere stood a tow'r, amazing to the sight,\nBuilt up of beams, and of stupendous height:\nArt, and the nature of the place, conspir'd\nTo furnish all the strength that war requir'd.\nTo level this, the bold Italians join;\nThe wary Trojans obviate their design;\nWith weighty stones o'erwhelm their troops below,\nShoot thro' the loopholes, and sharp jav'lins throw.\nTurnus, the chief, toss'd from his thund'ring hand\nAgainst the wooden walls, a flaming brand:\nIt stuck, the fiery plague; the winds were high;\nThe planks were season'd, and the timber dry.\nContagion caught the posts; it spread along,\nScorch'd, and to distance drove the scatter'd throng.\nThe Trojans fled; the fire pursued amain,\nStill gath'ring fast upon the trembling train;\nTill, crowding to the corners of the wall,\nDown the defense and the defenders fall.\nThe mighty flaw makes heav'n itself resound:\nThe dead and dying Trojans strew the ground.\nThe tow'r, that follow'd on the fallen crew,\nWhelm'd o'er their heads, and buried whom it slew:\nSome stuck upon the darts themselves had sent;\nAll the same equal ruin underwent.\nYoung Lycus and Helenor only scape;\nSav'd- how, they know not- from the steepy leap.\nHelenor, elder of the two: by birth,\nOn one side royal, one a son of earth,\nWhom to the Lydian king Licymnia bare,\nAnd sent her boasted bastard to the war\n(A privilege which none but freemen share).\nSlight were his arms, a sword and silver shield:\nNo marks of honor charg'd its empty field.\nLight as he fell, so light the youth arose,\nAnd rising, found himself amidst his foes;\nNor flight was left, nor hopes to force his way.\nEmbolden'd by despair, he stood at bay;\nAnd- like a stag, whom all the troop surrounds\nOf eager huntsmen and invading hounds-\nResolv'd on death, he dissipates his fears,\nAnd bounds aloft against the pointed spears:\nSo dares the youth, secure of death; and throws\nHis dying body on his thickest foes.\nBut Lycus, swifter of his feet by far,\nRuns, doubles, winds and turns, amidst the war;\nSprings to the walls, and leaves his foes behind,\nAnd snatches at the beam he first can find;\nLooks up, and leaps aloft at all the stretch,\nIn hopes the helping hand of some kind friend to reach.\nBut Turnus follow'd hard his hunted prey\n(His spear had almost reach'd him in the way,\nShort of his reins, and scarce a span behind)\n\"Fool!\" said the chief, \"tho' fleeter than the wind,\nCouldst thou presume to scape, when I pursue?\"\nHe said, and downward by the feet he drew\nThe trembling dastard; at the tug he falls;\nVast ruins come along, rent from the smoking walls.\nThus on some silver swan, or tim'rous hare,\nJove's bird comes sousing down from upper air;\nHer crooked talons truss the fearful prey:\nThen out of sight she soars, and wings her way.\nSo seizes the grim wolf the tender lamb,\nIn vain lamented by the bleating dam.\nThen rushing onward with a barb'rous cry,\nThe troops of Turnus to the combat fly.\nThe ditch with fagots fill'd, the daring foe\nToss'd firebrands to the steepy turrets throw.\nIlioneus, as bold Lucetius came\nTo force the gate, and feed the kindling flame,\nRoll'd down the fragment of a rock so right,\nIt crush'd him double underneath the weight.\nTwo more young Liger and Asylas slew:\nTo bend the bow young Liger better knew;\nAsylas best the pointed jav'lin threw.\nBrave Caeneus laid Ortygius on the plain;\nThe victor Caeneus was by Turnus slain.\nBy the same hand, Clonius and Itys fall,\nSagar, and Ida, standing on the wall.\nFrom Capys' arms his fate Privernus found:\nHurt by Themilla first-but slight the wound-\nHis shield thrown by, to mitigate the smart,\nHe clapp'd his hand upon the wounded part:\nThe second shaft came swift and unespied,\nAnd pierc'd his hand, and nail'd it to his side,\nTransfix'd his breathing lungs and beating heart:\nThe soul came issuing out, and hiss'd against the dart.\nThe son of Arcens shone amid the rest,\nIn glitt'ring armor and a purple vest,\n(Fair was his face, his eyes inspiring love,)\nBred by his father in the Martian grove,\nWhere the fat altars of Palicus flame,\nAnd send in arms to purchase early fame.\nHim when he spied from far, the Tuscan king\nLaid by the lance, and took him to the sling,\nThrice whirl'd the thong around his head, and threw:\nThe heated lead half melted as it flew;\nIt pierc'd his hollow temples and his brain;\nThe youth came tumbling down, and spurn'd the plain.\nThen young Ascanius, who, before this day,\nWas wont in woods to shoot the savage prey,\nFirst bent in martial strife the twanging bow,\nAnd exercis'd against a human foe-\nWith this bereft Numanus of his life,\nWho Turnus' younger sister took to wife.\nProud of his realm, and of his royal bride,\nVaunting before his troops, and lengthen'd with a stride,\nIn these insulting terms the Trojans he defied:\n\"Twice-conquer'd cowards, now your shame is shown-\nCoop'd up a second time within your town!\nWho dare not issue forth in open field,\nBut hold your walls before you for a shield.\nThus threat you war? thus our alliance force?\nWhat gods, what madness, hether steer'd your course?\nYou shall not find the sons of Atreus here,\nNor need the frauds of sly Ulysses fear.\nStrong from the cradle, of a sturdy brood,\nWe bear our newborn infants to the flood;\nThere bath'd amid the stream, our boys we hold,\nWith winter harden'd, and inur'd to cold.\nThey wake before the day to range the wood,\nKill ere they eat, nor taste unconquer'd food.\nNo sports, but what belong to war, they know:\nTo break the stubborn colt, to bend the bow.\nOur youth, of labor patient, earn their bread;\nHardly they work, with frugal diet fed.\nFrom plows and harrows sent to seek renown,\nThey fight in fields, and storm the shaken town.\nNo part of life from toils of war is free,\nNo change in age, or diff'rence in degree.\nWe plow and till in arms; our oxen feel,\nInstead of goads, the spur and pointed steel;\nTh' inverted lance makes furrows in the plain.\nEv'n time, that changes all, yet changes us in vain:\nThe body, not the mind; nor can control\nTh' immortal vigor, or abate the soul.\nOur helms defend the young, disguise the gray:\nWe live by plunder, and delight in prey.\nYour vests embroider'd with rich purple shine;\nIn sloth you glory, and in dances join.\nYour vests have sweeping sleeves; with female pride\nYour turbants underneath your chins are tied.\nGo, Phrygians, to your Dindymus again!\nGo, less than women, in the shapes of men!\nGo, mix'd with eunuchs, in the Mother's rites,\nWhere with unequal sound the flute invites;\nSing, dance, and howl, by turns, in Ida's shade:\nResign the war to men, who know the martial trade!\"\nThis foul reproach Ascanius could not hear\nWith patience, or a vow'd revenge forbear.\nAt the full stretch of both his hands he drew,\nAnd almost join'd the horns of the tough yew.\nBut, first, before the throne of Jove he stood,\nAnd thus with lifted hands invok'd the god:\n\"My first attempt, great Jupiter, succeed!\nAn annual off'ring in thy grove shall bleed;\nA snow-white steer, before thy altar led,\nWho, like his mother, bears aloft his head,\nButts with his threat'ning brows, and bellowing stands,\nAnd dares the fight, and spurns the yellow sands.\"\nJove bow'd the heav'ns, and lent a gracious ear,\nAnd thunder'd on the left, amidst the clear.\nSounded at once the bow; and swiftly flies\nThe feather'd death, and hisses thro' the skies.\nThe steel thro' both his temples forc'd the way:\nExtended on the ground, Numanus lay.\n\"Go now, vain boaster, and true valor scorn!\nThe Phrygians, twice subdued, yet make this third return.\"\nAscanius said no more. The Trojans shake\nThe heav'ns with shouting, and new vigor take.\nApollo then bestrode a golden cloud,\nTo view the feats of arms, and fighting crowd;\nAnd thus the beardless victor he bespoke aloud:\n\"Advance, illustrious youth, increase in fame,\nAnd wide from east to west extend thy name;\nOffspring of gods thyself; and Rome shall owe\nTo thee a race of demigods below.\nThis is the way to heav'n: the pow'rs divine\nFrom this beginning date the Julian line.\nTo thee, to them, and their victorious heirs,\nThe conquer'd war is due, and the vast world is theirs.\nTroy is too narrow for thy name.\" He said,\nAnd plunging downward shot his radiant head;\nDispell'd the breathing air, that broke his flight:\nShorn of his beams, a man to mortal sight.\nOld Butes' form he took, Anchises' squire,\nNow left, to rule Ascanius, by his sire:\nHis wrinkled visage, and his hoary hairs,\nHis mien, his habit, and his arms, he wears,\nAnd thus salutes the boy, too forward for his years:\n\"Suffice it thee, thy father's worthy son,\nThe warlike prize thou hast already won.\nThe god of archers gives thy youth a part\nOf his own praise, nor envies equal art.\nNow tempt the war no more.\" He said, and flew\nObscure in air, and vanish'd from their view.\nThe Trojans, by his arms, their patron know,\nAnd hear the twanging of his heav'nly bow.\nThen duteous force they use, and Phoebus' name,\nTo keep from fight the youth too fond of fame.\nUndaunted, they themselves no danger shun;\nFrom wall to wall the shouts and clamors run.\nThey bend their bows; they whirl their slings around;\nHeaps of spent arrows fall, and strew the ground;\nAnd helms, and shields, and rattling arms resound.\nThe combat thickens, like the storm that flies\nFrom westward, when the show'ry Kids arise;\nOr patt'ring hail comes pouring on the main,\nWhen Jupiter descends in harden'd rain,\nOr bellowing clouds burst with a stormy sound,\nAnd with an armed winter strew the ground.\nPand'rus and Bitias, thunderbolts of war,\nWhom Hiera to bold Alcanor bare\nOn Ida's top, two youths of height and size\nLike firs that on their mother mountain rise,\nPresuming on their force, the gates unbar,\nAnd of their own accord invite the war.\nWith fates averse, against their king's command,\nArm'd, on the right and on the left they stand,\nAnd flank the passage: shining steel they wear,\nAnd waving crests above their heads appear.\nThus two tall oaks, that Padus' banks adorn,\nLift up to heav'n their leafy heads unshorn,\nAnd, overpress'd with nature's heavy load,\nDance to the whistling winds, and at each other nod.\nIn flows a tide of Latians, when they see\nThe gate set open, and the passage free;\nBold Quercens, with rash Tmarus, rushing on,\nEquicolus, that in bright armor shone,\nAnd Haemon first; but soon repuls'd they fly,\nOr in the well-defended pass they die.\nThese with success are fir'd, and those with rage,\nAnd each on equal terms at length ingage.\nDrawn from their lines, and issuing on the plain,\nThe Trojans hand to hand the fight maintain.\nFierce Turnus in another quarter fought,\nWhen suddenly th' unhop'd-for news was brought,\nThe foes had left the fastness of their place,\nPrevail'd in fight, and had his men in chase.\nHe quits th' attack, and, to prevent their fate,\nRuns where the giant brothers guard the gate.\nThe first he met, Antiphates the brave,\nBut base-begotten on a Theban slave,\nSarpedon's son, he slew: the deadly dart\nFound passage thro' his breast, and pierc'd his heart.\nFix'd in the wound th' Italian cornel stood,\nWarm'd in his lungs, and in his vital blood.\nAphidnus next, and Erymanthus dies,\nAnd Meropes, and the gigantic size\nOf Bitias, threat'ning with his ardent eyes.\nNot by the feeble dart he fell oppress'd\n(A dart were lost within that roomy breast),\nBut from a knotted lance, large, heavy, strong,\nWhich roar'd like thunder as it whirl'd along:\nNot two bull hides th' impetuous force withhold,\nNor coat of double mail, with scales of gold.\nDown sunk the monster bulk and press'd the ground;\nHis arms and clatt'ring shield on the vast body sound,\nNot with less ruin than the Bajan mole,\nRais'd on the seas, the surges to control-\nAt once comes tumbling down the rocky wall;\nProne to the deep, the stones disjointed fall\nOf the vast pile; the scatter'd ocean flies;\nBlack sands, discolor'd froth, and mingled mud arise:\nThe frighted billows roll, and seek the shores;\nThen trembles Prochyta, then Ischia roars:\nTyphoeus, thrown beneath, by Jove's command,\nAstonish'd at the flaw that shakes the land,\nSoon shifts his weary side, and, scarce awake,\nWith wonder feels the weight press lighter on his back.\nThe warrior god the Latian troops inspir'd,\nNew strung their sinews, and their courage fir'd,\nBut chills the Trojan hearts with cold affright:\nThen black despair precipitates their flight.\nWhen Pandarus beheld his brother kill'd,\nThe town with fear and wild confusion fill'd,\nHe turns the hinges of the heavy gate\nWith both his hands, and adds his shoulders to the weight\nSome happier friends within the walls inclos'd;\nThe rest shut out, to certain death expos'd:\nFool as he was, and frantic in his care,\nT' admit young Turnus, and include the war!\nHe thrust amid the crowd, securely bold,\nLike a fierce tiger pent amid the fold.\nToo late his blazing buckler they descry,\nAnd sparkling fires that shot from either eye,\nHis mighty members, and his ample breast,\nHis rattling armor, and his crimson crest.\nFar from that hated face the Trojans fly,\nAll but the fool who sought his destiny.\nMad Pandarus steps forth, with vengeance vow'd\nFor Bitias' death, and threatens thus aloud:\n\"These are not Ardea's walls, nor this the town\nAmata proffers with Lavinia's crown:\n'T is hostile earth you tread. Of hope bereft,\nNo means of safe return by flight are left.\"\nTo whom, with count'nance calm, and soul sedate,\nThus Turnus: \"Then begin, and try thy fate:\nMy message to the ghost of Priam bear;\nTell him a new Achilles sent thee there.\"\nA lance of tough ground ash the Trojan threw,\nRough in the rind, and knotted as it grew:\nWith his full force he whirl'd it first around;\nBut the soft yielding air receiv'd the wound:\nImperial Juno turn'd the course before,\nAnd fix'd the wand'ring weapon in the door.\n\"But hope not thou,\" said Turnus, \"when I strike,\nTo shun thy fate: our force is not alike,\nNor thy steel temper'd by the Lemnian god.\"\nThen rising, on his utmost stretch he stood,\nAnd aim'd from high: the full descending blow\nCleaves the broad front and beardless cheeks in two.\nDown sinks the giant with a thund'ring sound:\nHis pond'rous limbs oppress the trembling ground;\nBlood, brains, and foam gush from the gaping wound:\nScalp, face, and shoulders the keen steel divides,\nAnd the shar'd visage hangs on equal sides.\nThe Trojans fly from their approaching fate;\nAnd, had the victor then secur'd the gate,\nAnd to his troops without unclos'd the bars,\nOne lucky day had ended all his wars.\nBut boiling youth, and blind desire of blood,\nPush'd on his fury, to pursue the crowd.\nHamstring'd behind, unhappy Gyges died;\nThen Phalaris is added to his side.\nThe pointed jav'lins from the dead he drew,\nAnd their friends' arms against their fellows threw.\nStrong Halys stands in vain; weak Phlegys flies;\nSaturnia, still at hand, new force and fire supplies.\nThen Halius, Prytanis, Alcander fall-\nIngag'd against the foes who scal'd the wall:\nBut, whom they fear'd without, they found within.\nAt last, tho' late, by Lynceus he was seen.\nHe calls new succors, and assaults the prince:\nBut weak his force, and vain is their defense.\nTurn'd to the right, his sword the hero drew,\nAnd at one blow the bold aggressor slew.\nHe joints the neck; and, with a stroke so strong,\nThe helm flies off, and bears the head along.\nNext him, the huntsman Amycus he kill'd,\nIn darts invenom'd and in poison skill'd.\nThen Clytius fell beneath his fatal spear,\nAnd Creteus, whom the Muses held so dear:\nHe fought with courage, and he sung the fight;\nArms were his bus'ness, verses his delight.\nThe Trojan chiefs behold, with rage and grief,\nTheir slaughter'd friends, and hasten their relief.\nBold Mnestheus rallies first the broken train,\nWhom brave Seresthus and his troop sustain.\nTo save the living, and revenge the dead,\nAgainst one warrior's arms all Troy they led.\n\"O, void of sense and courage!\" Mnestheus cried,\n\"Where can you hope your coward heads to hide?\nAh! where beyond these rampires can you run?\nOne man, and in your camp inclos'd, you shun!\nShall then a single sword such slaughter boast,\nAnd pass unpunish'd from a num'rous host?\nForsaking honor, and renouncing fame,\nYour gods, your country, and your king you shame!\"\nThis just reproach their virtue does excite:\nThey stand, they join, they thicken to the fight.\nNow Turnus doubts, and yet disdains to yield,\nBut with slow paces measures back the field,\nAnd inches to the walls, where Tiber's tide,\nWashing the camp, defends the weaker side.\nThe more he loses, they advance the more,\nAnd tread in ev'ry step he trod before.\nThey shout: they bear him back; and, whom by might\nThey cannot conquer, they oppress with weight.\nAs, compass'd with a wood of spears around,\nThe lordly lion still maintains his ground;\nGrins horrible, retires, and turns again;\nThreats his distended paws, and shakes his mane;\nHe loses while in vain he presses on,\nNor will his courage let him dare to run:\nSo Turnus fares, and, unresolved of flight,\nMoves tardy back, and just recedes from fight.\nYet twice, inrag'd, the combat he renews,\nTwice breaks, and twice his broken foes pursues.\nBut now they swarm, and, with fresh troops supplied,\nCome rolling on, and rush from ev'ry side:\nNor Juno, who sustain'd his arms before,\nDares with new strength suffice th' exhausted store;\nFor Jove, with sour commands, sent Iris down,\nTo force th' invader from the frighted town.\nWith labor spent, no longer can he wield\nThe heavy fanchion, or sustain the shield,\nO'erwhelm'd with darts, which from afar they fling:\nThe weapons round his hollow temples ring;\nHis golden helm gives way, with stony blows\nBatter'd, and flat, and beaten to his brows.\nHis crest is rash'd away; his ample shield\nIs falsified, and round with jav'lins fill'd.\nThe foe, now faint, the Trojans overwhelm;\nAnd Mnestheus lays hard load upon his helm.\nSick sweat succeeds; he drops at ev'ry pore;\nWith driving dust his cheeks are pasted o'er;\nShorter and shorter ev'ry gasp he takes;\nAnd vain efforts and hurtless blows he makes.\nPlung'd in the flood, and made the waters fly.\nThe yellow god the welcome burthen bore,\nAnd wip'd the sweat, and wash'd away the gore;\nThen gently wafts him to the farther coast,\nAnd sends him safe to cheer his anxious host.\nBOOK X\nThe gates of heav'n unfold: Jove summons all\nThe gods to council in the common hall.\nSublimely seated, he surveys from far\nThe fields, the camp, the fortune of the war,\nAnd all th' inferior world. From first to last,\nThe sov'reign senate in degrees are plac'd.\nThen thus th' almighty sire began: \"Ye gods,\nNatives or denizens of blest abodes,\nFrom whence these murmurs, and this change of mind,\nThis backward fate from what was first design'd?\nWhy this protracted war, when my commands\nPronounc'd a peace, and gave the Latian lands?\nWhat fear or hope on either part divides\nOur heav'ns, and arms our powers on diff'rent sides?\nA lawful time of war at length will come,\n(Nor need your haste anticipate the doom),\nWhen Carthage shall contend the world with Rome,\nShall force the rigid rocks and Alpine chains,\nAnd, like a flood, come pouring on the plains.\nThen is your time for faction and debate,\nFor partial favor, and permitted hate.\nLet now your immature dissension cease;\nSit quiet, and compose your souls to peace.\"\nThus Jupiter in few unfolds the charge;\nBut lovely Venus thus replies at large:\n\"O pow'r immense, eternal energy,\n(For to what else protection can we fly?)\nSeest thou the proud Rutulians, how they dare\nIn fields, unpunish'd, and insult my care?\nHow lofty Turnus vaunts amidst his train,\nIn shining arms, triumphant on the plain?\nEv'n in their lines and trenches they contend,\nAnd scarce their walls the Trojan troops defend:\nThe town is fill'd with slaughter, and o'erfloats,\nWith a red deluge, their increasing moats.\nAeneas, ignorant, and far from thence,\nHas left a camp expos'd, without defense.\nThis endless outrage shall they still sustain?\nShall Troy renew'd be forc'd and fir'd again?\nA second siege my banish'd issue fears,\nAnd a new Diomede in arms appears.\nOne more audacious mortal will be found;\nAnd I, thy daughter, wait another wound.\nYet, if with fates averse, without thy leave,\nThe Latian lands my progeny receive,\nBear they the pains of violated law,\nAnd thy protection from their aid withdraw.\nBut, if the gods their sure success foretell;\nIf those of heav'n consent with those of hell,\nTo promise Italy; who dare debate\nThe pow'r of Jove, or fix another fate?\nWhat should I tell of tempests on the main,\nOf Aeolus usurping Neptune's reign?\nOf Iris sent, with Bacchanalian heat\nT' inspire the matrons, and destroy the fleet?\nNow Juno to the Stygian sky descends,\nSolicits hell for aid, and arms the fiends.\nThat new example wanted yet above:\nAn act that well became the wife of Jove!\nAlecto, rais'd by her, with rage inflames\nThe peaceful bosoms of the Latian dames.\nImperial sway no more exalts my mind;\n(Such hopes I had indeed, while Heav'n was kind;)\nNow let my happier foes possess my place,\nWhom Jove prefers before the Trojan race;\nAnd conquer they, whom you with conquest grace.\nSince you can spare, from all your wide command,\nNo spot of earth, no hospitable land,\nWhich may my wand'ring fugitives receive;\n(Since haughty Juno will not give you leave;)\nThen, father, (if I still may use that name,)\nBy ruin'd Troy, yet smoking from the flame,\nI beg you, let Ascanius, by my care,\nBe freed from danger, and dismiss'd the war:\nInglorious let him live, without a crown.\nThe father may be cast on coasts unknown,\nStruggling with fate; but let me save the son.\nMine is Cythera, mine the Cyprian tow'rs:\nIn those recesses, and those sacred bow'rs,\nObscurely let him rest; his right resign\nTo promis'd empire, and his Julian line.\nThen Carthage may th' Ausonian towns destroy,\nNor fear the race of a rejected boy.\nWhat profits it my son to scape the fire,\nArm'd with his gods, and loaded with his sire;\nTo pass the perils of the seas and wind;\nEvade the Greeks, and leave the war behind;\nTo reach th' Italian shores; if, after all,\nOur second Pergamus is doom'd to fall?\nMuch better had he curb'd his high desires,\nAnd hover'd o'er his ill-extinguish'd fires.\nTo Simois' banks the fugitives restore,\nAnd give them back to war, and all the woes before.\"\nDeep indignation swell'd Saturnia's heart:\n\"And must I own,\" she said, \"my secret smart-\nWhat with more decence were in silence kept,\nAnd, but for this unjust reproach, had slept?\nDid god or man your fav'rite son advise,\nWith war unhop'd the Latians to surprise?\nBy fate, you boast, and by the gods' decree,\nHe left his native land for Italy!\nConfess the truth; by mad Cassandra, more\nThan Heav'n inspir'd, he sought a foreign shore!\nDid I persuade to trust his second Troy\nTo the raw conduct of a beardless boy,\nWith walls unfinish'd, which himself forsakes,\nAnd thro' the waves a wand'ring voyage takes?\nWhen have I urg'd him meanly to demand\nThe Tuscan aid, and arm a quiet land?\nDid I or Iris give this mad advice,\nOr made the fool himself the fatal choice?\nYou think it hard, the Latians should destroy\nWith swords your Trojans, and with fires your Troy!\nHard and unjust indeed, for men to draw\nTheir native air, nor take a foreign law!\nThat Turnus is permitted still to live,\nTo whom his birth a god and goddess give!\nBut yet is just and lawful for your line\nTo drive their fields, and force with fraud to join;\nRealms, not your own, among your clans divide,\nAnd from the bridegroom tear the promis'd bride;\nPetition, while you public arms prepare;\nPretend a peace, and yet provoke a war!\n'T was giv'n to you, your darling son to shroud,\nTo draw the dastard from the fighting crowd,\nAnd, for a man, obtend an empty cloud.\nFrom flaming fleets you turn'd the fire away,\nAnd chang'd the ships to daughters of the sea.\nBut is my crime- the Queen of Heav'n offends,\nIf she presume to save her suff'ring friends!\nYour son, not knowing what his foes decree,\nYou say, is absent: absent let him be.\nYours is Cythera, yours the Cyprian tow'rs,\nThe soft recesses, and the sacred bow'rs.\nWhy do you then these needless arms prepare,\nAnd thus provoke a people prone to war?\nDid I with fire the Trojan town deface,\nOr hinder from return your exil'd race?\nWas I the cause of mischief, or the man\nWhose lawless lust the fatal war began?\nThink on whose faith th' adult'rous youth relied;\nWho promis'd, who procur'd, the Spartan bride?\nWhen all th' united states of Greece combin'd,\nTo purge the world of the perfidious kind,\nThen was your time to fear the Trojan fate:\nYour quarrels and complaints are now too late.\"\nThus Juno. Murmurs rise, with mix'd applause,\nJust as they favor or dislike the cause.\nSo winds, when yet unfledg'd in woods they lie,\nIn whispers first their tender voices try,\nThen issue on the main with bellowing rage,\nAnd storms to trembling mariners presage.\nThen thus to both replied th' imperial god,\nWho shakes heav'n's axles with his awful nod.\n(When he begins, the silent senate stand\nWith rev'rence, list'ning to the dread command:\nThe clouds dispel; the winds their breath restrain;\nAnd the hush'd waves lie flatted on the main.)\n\"Celestials, your attentive ears incline!\nSince,\" said the god, \"the Trojans must not join\nIn wish'd alliance with the Latian line;\nSince endless jarrings and immortal hate\nTend but to discompose our happy state;\nThe war henceforward be resign'd to fate:\nEach to his proper fortune stand or fall;\nEqual and unconcern'd I look on all.\nRutulians, Trojans, are the same to me;\nAnd both shall draw the lots their fates decree.\nLet these assault, if Fortune be their friend;\nAnd, if she favors those, let those defend:\nThe Fates will find their way.\" The Thund'rer said,\nAnd shook the sacred honors of his head,\nAttesting Styx, th' inviolable flood,\nAnd the black regions of his brother god.\nTrembled the poles of heav'n, and earth confess'd the nod.\nThis end the sessions had: the senate rise,\nAnd to his palace wait their sov'reign thro' the skies.\nMeantime, intent upon their siege, the foes\nWithin their walls the Trojan host inclose:\nThey wound, they kill, they watch at ev'ry gate;\nRenew the fires, and urge their happy fate.\nTh' Aeneans wish in vain their wanted chief,\nHopeless of flight, more hopeless of relief.\nThin on the tow'rs they stand; and ev'n those few\nA feeble, fainting, and dejected crew.\nYet in the face of danger some there stood:\nThe two bold brothers of Sarpedon's blood,\nAsius and Acmon; both th' Assaraci;\nYoung Haemon, and tho' young, resolv'd to die.\nWith these were Clarus and Thymoetes join'd;\nTibris and Castor, both of Lycian kind.\nFrom Acmon's hands a rolling stone there came,\nSo large, it half deserv'd a mountain's name:\nStrong-sinew'd was the youth, and big of bone;\nHis brother Mnestheus could not more have done,\nOr the great father of th' intrepid son.\nSome firebrands throw, some flights of arrows send;\nAnd some with darts, and some with stones defend.\nAmid the press appears the beauteous boy,\nThe care of Venus, and the hope of Troy.\nHis lovely face unarm'd, his head was bare;\nIn ringlets o'er his shoulders hung his hair.\nHis forehead circled with a diadem;\nDistinguish'd from the crowd, he shines a gem,\nEnchas'd in gold, or polish'd iv'ry set,\nAmidst the meaner foil of sable jet.\nNor Ismarus was wanting to the war,\nDirecting pointed arrows from afar,\nAnd death with poison arm'd- in Lydia born,\nWhere plenteous harvests the fat fields adorn;\nWhere proud Pactolus floats the fruitful lands,\nAnd leaves a rich manure of golden sands.\nThere Capys, author of the Capuan name,\nAnd there was Mnestheus too, increas'd in fame,\nSince Turnus from the camp he cast with shame.\nThus mortal war was wag'd on either side.\nMeantime the hero cuts the nightly tide:\nFor, anxious, from Evander when he went,\nHe sought the Tyrrhene camp, and Tarchon's tent;\nExpos'd the cause of coming to the chief;\nHis name and country told, and ask'd relief;\nPropos'd the terms; his own small strength declar'd;\nWhat vengeance proud Mezentius had prepar'd:\nWhat Turnus, bold and violent, design'd;\nThen shew'd the slipp'ry state of humankind,\nAnd fickle fortune; warn'd him to beware,\nAnd to his wholesome counsel added pray'r.\nTarchon, without delay, the treaty signs,\nAnd to the Trojan troops the Tuscan joins.\nThey soon set sail; nor now the fates withstand;\nTheir forces trusted with a foreign hand.\nAeneas leads; upon his stern appear\nTwo lions carv'd, which rising Ida bear-\nIda, to wand'ring Trojans ever dear.\nUnder their grateful shade Aeneas sate,\nRevolving war's events, and various fate.\nHis left young Pallas kept, fix'd to his side,\nAnd oft of winds enquir'd, and of the tide;\nOft of the stars, and of their wat'ry way;\nAnd what he suffer'd both by land and sea.\nNow, sacred sisters, open all your spring!\nThe Tuscan leaders, and their army sing,\nWhich follow'd great Aeneas to the war:\nTheir arms, their numbers, and their names declare.\nA thousand youths brave Massicus obey,\nBorne in the Tiger thro' the foaming sea;\nFrom Asium brought, and Cosa, by his care:\nFor arms, light quivers, bows and shafts, they bear.\nFierce Abas next: his men bright armor wore;\nHis stern Apollo's golden statue bore.\nSix hundred Populonia sent along,\nAll skill'd in martial exercise, and strong.\nThree hundred more for battle Ilva joins,\nAn isle renown'd for steel, and unexhausted mines.\nAsylas on his prow the third appears,\nWho heav'n interprets, and the wand'ring stars;\nFrom offer'd entrails prodigies expounds,\nAnd peals of thunder, with presaging sounds.\nA thousand spears in warlike order stand,\nSent by the Pisans under his command.\nFair Astur follows in the wat'ry field,\nProud of his manag'd horse and painted shield.\nGravisca, noisome from the neighb'ring fen,\nAnd his own Caere, sent three hundred men;\nWith those which Minio's fields and Pyrgi gave,\nAll bred in arms, unanimous, and brave.\nThou, Muse, the name of Cinyras renew,\nAnd brave Cupavo follow'd but by few;\nWhose helm confess'd the lineage of the man,\nAnd bore, with wings display'd, a silver swan.\nLove was the fault of his fam'd ancestry,\nWhose forms and fortunes in his ensigns fly.\nFor Cycnus lov'd unhappy Phaeton,\nAnd sung his loss in poplar groves, alone,\nBeneath the sister shades, to soothe his grief.\nHeav'n heard his song, and hasten'd his relief,\nAnd chang'd to snowy plumes his hoary hair,\nAnd wing'd his flight, to chant aloft in air.\nHis son Cupavo brush'd the briny flood:\nUpon his stern a brawny Centaur stood,\nWho heav'd a rock, and, threat'ning still to throw,\nWith lifted hands alarm'd the seas below:\nThey seem'd to fear the formidable sight,\nAnd roll'd their billows on, to speed his flight.\nOcnus was next, who led his native train\nOf hardy warriors thro' the wat'ry plain:\nThe son of Manto by the Tuscan stream,\nFrom whence the Mantuan town derives the name-\nAn ancient city, but of mix'd descent:\nThree sev'ral tribes compose the government;\nFour towns are under each; but all obey\nThe Mantuan laws, and own the Tuscan sway.\nHate to Mezentius arm'd five hundred more,\nWhom Mincius from his sire Benacus bore:\nMincius, with wreaths of reeds his forehead cover'd o'er.\nThese grave Auletes leads: a hundred sweep\nWith stretching oars at once the glassy deep.\nHim and his martial train the Triton bears;\nHigh on his poop the sea-green god appears:\nFrowning he seems his crooked shell to sound,\nAnd at the blast the billows dance around.\nA hairy man above the waist he shows;\nA porpoise tail beneath his belly grows;\nAnd ends a fish: his breast the waves divides,\nAnd froth and foam augment the murm'ring tides.\nFull thirty ships transport the chosen train\nFor Troy's relief, and scour the briny main.\nNow was the world forsaken by the sun,\nAnd Phoebe half her nightly race had run.\nThe careful chief, who never clos'd his eyes,\nHimself the rudder holds, the sails supplies.\nA choir of Nereids meet him on the flood,\nOnce his own galleys, hewn from Ida's wood;\nBut now, as many nymphs, the sea they sweep,\nAs rode, before, tall vessels on the deep.\nThey know him from afar; and in a ring\nInclose the ship that bore the Trojan king.\nCymodoce, whose voice excell'd the rest,\nAbove the waves advanc'd her snowy breast;\nHer right hand stops the stern; her left divides\nThe curling ocean, and corrects the tides.\nShe spoke for all the choir, and thus began\nWith pleasing words to warn th' unknowing man:\n\"Sleeps our lov'd lord? O goddess-born, awake!\nSpread ev'ry sail, pursue your wat'ry track,\nAnd haste your course. Your navy once were we,\nFrom Ida's height descending to the sea;\nTill Turnus, as at anchor fix'd we stood,\nPresum'd to violate our holy wood.\nThen, loos'd from shore, we fled his fires profane\n(Unwillingly we broke our master's chain),\nAnd since have sought you thro' the Tuscan main.\nThe mighty Mother chang'd our forms to these,\nAnd gave us life immortal in the seas.\nBut young Ascanius, in his camp distress'd,\nBy your insulting foes is hardly press'd.\nTh' Arcadian horsemen, and Etrurian host,\nAdvance in order on the Latian coast:\nTo cut their way the Daunian chief designs,\nBefore their troops can reach the Trojan lines.\nThou, when the rosy morn restores the light,\nFirst arm thy soldiers for th' ensuing fight:\nThyself the fated sword of Vulcan wield,\nAnd bear aloft th' impenetrable shield.\nTo-morrow's sun, unless my skill be vain,\nShall see huge heaps of foes in battle slain.\"\nParting, she spoke; and with immortal force\nPush'd on the vessel in her wat'ry course;\nFor well she knew the way. Impell'd behind,\nThe ship flew forward, and outstripp'd the wind.\nThe rest make up. Unknowing of the cause,\nThe chief admires their speed, and happy omens draws.\nThen thus he pray'd, and fix'd on heav'n his eyes:\n\"Hear thou, great Mother of the deities.\nWith turrets crown'd! (on Ida's holy hill\nFierce tigers, rein'd and curb'd, obey thy will.)\nFirm thy own omens; lead us on to fight;\nAnd let thy Phrygians conquer in thy right.\"\nHe said no more. And now renewing day\nHad chas'd the shadows of the night away.\nHe charg'd the soldiers, with preventing care,\nTheir flags to follow, and their arms prepare;\nWarn'd of th' ensuing fight, and bade 'em hope the war.\nNow, his lofty poop, he view'd below\nHis camp incompass'd, and th' inclosing foe.\nHis blazing shield, imbrac'd, he held on high;\nThe camp receive the sign, and with loud shouts reply.\nHope arms their courage: from their tow'rs they throw\nTheir darts with double force, and drive the foe.\nThus, at the signal giv'n, the cranes arise\nBefore the stormy south, and blacken all the skies.\nKing Turnus wonder'd at the fight renew'd,\nTill, looking back, the Trojan fleet he view'd,\nThe seas with swelling canvas cover'd o'er,\nAnd the swift ships descending on the shore.\nThe Latians saw from far, with dazzled eyes,\nThe radiant crest that seem'd in flames to rise,\nAnd dart diffusive fires around the field,\nAnd the keen glitt'ring the golden shield.\nThus threat'ning comets, when by night they rise,\nShoot sanguine streams, and sadden all the skies:\nSo Sirius, flashing forth sinister lights,\nPale humankind with plagues and with dry famine fright:\nYet Turnus with undaunted mind is bent\nTo man the shores, and hinder their descent,\nAnd thus awakes the courage of his friends:\n\"What you so long have wish'd, kind Fortune sends;\nIn ardent arms to meet th' invading foe:\nYou find, and find him at advantage now.\nYours is the day: you need but only dare;\nYour swords will make you masters of the war.\nYour sires, your sons, your houses, and your lands,\nAnd dearest wifes, are all within your hands.\nBe mindful of the race from whence you came,\nAnd emulate in arms your fathers' fame.\nNow take the time, while stagg'ring yet they stand\nWith feet unfirm, and prepossess the strand:\nFortune befriends the bold.\" Nor more he said,\nBut balanc'd whom to leave, and whom to lead;\nThen these elects, the landing to prevent;\nAnd those he leaves, to keep the city pent.\nMeantime the Trojan sends his troops ashore:\nSome are by boats expos'd, by bridges more.\nWith lab'ring oars they bear along the strand,\nWhere the tide languishes, and leap aland.\nTarchon observes the coast with careful eyes,\nAnd, where no ford he finds, no water fries,\nNor billows with unequal murmurs roar,\nBut smoothly slide along, and swell the shore,\nThat course he steer'd, and thus he gave command:\n\"Here ply your oars, and at all hazard land:\nForce on the vessel, that her keel may wound\nThis hated soil, and furrow hostile ground.\nLet me securely land- I ask no more;\nThen sink my ships, or shatter on the shore.\"\nThis fiery speech inflames his fearful friends:\nThey tug at ev'ry oar, and ev'ry stretcher bends;\nThey run their ships aground; the vessels knock,\n(Thus forc'd ashore,) and tremble with the shock.\nTarchon's alone was lost, that stranded stood,\nStuck on a bank, and beaten by the flood:\nShe breaks her back; the loosen'd sides give way,\nAnd plunge the Tuscan soldiers in the sea.\nTheir broken oars and floating planks withstand\nTheir passage, while they labor to the land,\nAnd ebbing tides bear back upon th' uncertain sand.\nNow Turnus leads his troops without delay,\nAdvancing to the margin of the sea.\nThe trumpets sound: Aeneas first assail'd\nThe clowns new-rais'd and raw, and soon prevail'd.\nGreat Theron fell, an omen of the fight;\nGreat Theron, large of limbs, of giant height.\nHe first in open field defied the prince:\nBut armor scal'd with gold was no defense\nAgainst the fated sword, which open'd wide\nHis plated shield, and pierc'd his naked side.\nNext, Lichas fell, who, not like others born,\nWas from his wretched mother ripp'd and torn;\nSacred, O Phoebus, from his birth to thee;\nFor his beginning life from biting steel was free.\nNot far from him was Gyas laid along,\nOf monstrous bulk; with Cisseus fierce and strong:\nVain bulk and strength! for, when the chief assail'd,\nNor valor nor Herculean arms avail'd,\nNor their fam'd father, wont in war to go\nWith great Alcides, while he toil'd below.\nThe noisy Pharos next receiv'd his death:\nAeneas writh'd his dart, and stopp'd his bawling breath.\nThen wretched Cydon had receiv'd his doom,\nWho courted Clytius in his beardless bloom,\nAnd sought with lust obscene polluted joys:\nThe Trojan sword had curd his love of boys,\nHad not his sev'n bold brethren stopp'd the course\nOf the fierce champions, with united force.\nSev'n darts were thrown at once; and some rebound\nFrom his bright shield, some on his helmet sound:\nThe rest had reach'd him; but his mother's care\nPrevented those, and turn'd aside in air.\nThe prince then call'd Achates, to supply\nThe spears that knew the way to victory-\n\"Those fatal weapons, which, inur'd to blood,\nIn Grecian bodies under Ilium stood:\nNot one of those my hand shall toss in vain\nAgainst our foes, on this contended plain.\"\nHe said; then seiz'd a mighty spear, and threw;\nWhich, wing'd with fate, thro' Maeon's buckler flew,\nPierc'd all the brazen plates, and reach'd his heart:\nHe stagger'd with intolerable smart.\nAlcanor saw; and reach'd, but reach'd in vain,\nHis helping hand, his brother to sustain.\nA second spear, which kept the former course,\nFrom the same hand, and sent with equal force,\nHis right arm pierc'd, and holding on, bereft\nHis use of both, and pinion'd down his left.\nThen Numitor from his dead brother drew\nTh' ill-omen'd spear, and at the Trojan threw:\nPreventing fate directs the lance awry,\nWhich, glancing, only mark'd Achates' thigh.\nIn pride of youth the Sabine Clausus came,\nAnd, from afar, at Dryops took his aim.\nThe spear flew hissing thro' the middle space,\nAnd pierc'd his throat, directed at his face;\nIt stopp'd at once the passage of his wind,\nAnd the free soul to flitting air resign'd:\nHis forehead was the first that struck the ground;\nLifeblood and life rush'd mingled thro' the wound.\nHe slew three brothers of the Borean race,\nAnd three, whom Ismarus, their native place,\nHad sent to war, but all the sons of Thrace.\nHalesus, next, the bold Aurunci leads:\nThe son of Neptune to his aid succeeds,\nConspicuous on his horse. On either hand,\nThese fight to keep, and those to win, the land.\nWith mutual blood th' Ausonian soil is dyed,\nWhile on its borders each their claim decide.\nAs wintry winds, contending in the sky,\nWith equal force of lungs their titles try:\nThey rage, they roar; the doubtful rack of heav'n\nStands without motion, and the tide undriv'n:\nEach bent to conquer, neither side to yield,\nThey long suspend the fortune of the field.\nBoth armies thus perform what courage can;\nFoot set to foot, and mingled man to man.\nBut, in another part, th' Arcadian horse\nWith ill success ingage the Latin force:\nFor, where th' impetuous torrent, rushing down,\nHuge craggy stones and rooted trees had thrown,\nThey left their coursers, and, unus'd to fight\nOn foot, were scatter'd in a shameful flight.\nPallas, who with disdain and grief had view'd\nHis foes pursuing, and his friends pursued,\nUs'd threat'nings mix'd with pray'rs, his last resource,\nWith these to move their minds, with those to fire their force\n\"Which way, companions? whether would you run?\nBy you yourselves, and mighty battles won,\nBy my great sire, by his establish'd name,\nAnd early promise of my future fame;\nBy my youth, emulous of equal right\nTo share his honors- shun ignoble flight!\nTrust not your feet: your hands must hew way\nThro' yon black body, and that thick array:\n'T is thro' that forward path that we must come;\nThere lies our way, and that our passage home.\nNor pow'rs above, nor destinies below\nOppress our arms: with equal strength we go,\nWith mortal hands to meet a mortal foe.\nSee on what foot we stand: a scanty shore,\nThe sea behind, our enemies before;\nNo passage left, unless we swim the main;\nOr, forcing these, the Trojan trenches gain.\"\nThis said, he strode with eager haste along,\nAnd bore amidst the thickest of the throng.\nLagus, the first he met, with fate to foe,\nHad heav'd a stone of mighty weight, to throw:\nStooping, the spear descended on his chine,\nJust where the bone distinguished either loin:\nIt stuck so fast, so deeply buried lay,\nThat scarce the victor forc'd the steel away.\nHisbon came on: but, while he mov'd too slow\nTo wish'd revenge, the prince prevents his blow;\nFor, warding his at once, at once he press'd,\nAnd plung'd the fatal weapon in his breast.\nThen lewd Anchemolus he laid in dust,\nWho stain'd his stepdam's bed with impious lust.\nAnd, after him, the Daucian twins were slain,\nLaris and Thymbrus, on the Latian plain;\nSo wondrous like in feature, shape, and size,\nAs caus'd an error in their parents' eyes-\nGrateful mistake! but soon the sword decides\nThe nice distinction, and their fate divides:\nFor Thymbrus' head was lopp'd; and Laris' hand,\nDismember'd, sought its owner on the strand:\nThe trembling fingers yet the fauchion strain,\nAnd threaten still th' intended stroke in vain.\nNow, to renew the charge, th' Arcadians came:\nSight of such acts, and sense of honest shame,\nAnd grief, with anger mix'd, their minds inflame.\nThen, with a casual blow was Rhoeteus slain,\nWho chanc'd, as Pallas threw, to cross the plain:\nThe flying spear was after Ilus sent;\nBut Rhoeteus happen'd on a death unmeant:\nFrom Teuthras and from Tyres while he fled,\nThe lance, athwart his body, laid him dead:\nRoll'd from his chariot with a mortal wound,\nAnd intercepted fate, he spurn'd the ground.\nAs when, in summer, welcome winds arise,\nThe watchful shepherd to the forest flies,\nAnd fires the midmost plants; contagion spreads,\nAnd catching flames infect the neighb'ring heads;\nAround the forest flies the furious blast,\nAnd all the leafy nation sinks at last,\nAnd Vulcan rides in triumph o'er the waste;\nThe pastor, pleas'd with his dire victory,\nBeholds the satiate flames in sheets ascend the sky:\nSo Pallas' troops their scatter'd strength unite,\nAnd, pouring on their foes, their prince delight.\nHalesus came, fierce with desire of blood;\nBut first collected in his arms he stood:\nAdvancing then, he plied the spear so well,\nLadon, Demodocus, and Pheres fell.\nAround his head he toss'd his glitt'ring brand,\nAnd from Strymonius hew'd his better hand,\nHeld up to guard his throat; then hurl'd a stone\nAt Thoas' ample front, and pierc'd the bone:\nIt struck beneath the space of either eye;\nAnd blood, and mingled brains, together fly.\nDeep skill'd in future fates, Halesus' sire\nDid with the youth to lonely groves retire:\nBut, when the father's mortal race was run,\nDire destiny laid hold upon the son,\nAnd haul'd him to the war, to find, beneath\nTh' Evandrian spear, a memorable death.\nPallas th' encounter seeks, but, ere he throws,\nTo Tuscan Tiber thus address'd his vows:\n\"O sacred stream, direct my flying dart,\nAnd give to pass the proud Halesus' heart!\nHis arms and spoils thy holy oak shall bear.\"\nPleas'd with the bribe, the god receiv'd his pray'r:\nFor, while his shield protects a friend distress'd,\nThe dart came driving on, and pierc'd his breast.\nBut Lausus, no small portion of the war,\nPermits not panic fear to reign too far,\nCaus'd by the death of so renown'd a knight;\nBut by his own example cheers the fight.\nFierce Abas first he slew; Abas, the stay\nOf Trojan hopes, and hindrance of the day.\nThe Phrygian troops escap'd the Greeks in vain:\nThey, and their mix'd allies, now load the plain.\nTo the rude shock of war both armies came;\nTheir leaders equal, and their strength the same.\nThe rear so press'd the front, they could not wield\nTheir angry weapons, to dispute the field.\nHere Pallas urges on, and Lausus there:\nOf equal youth and beauty both appear,\nBut both by fate forbid to breathe their native air.\nTheir congress in the field great Jove withstands:\nBoth doom'd to fall, but fall by greater hands.\nMeantime Juturna warns the Daunian chief\nOf Lausus' danger, urging swift relief.\nWith his driv'n chariot he divides the crowd,\nAnd, making to his friends, thus calls aloud:\n\"Let none presume his needless aid to join;\nRetire, and clear the field; the fight is mine:\nTo this right hand is Pallas only due;\nO were his father here, my just revenge to view!\"\nFrom the forbidden space his men retir'd.\nPallas their awe, and his stern words, admir'd;\nSurvey'd him o'er and o'er with wond'ring sight,\nStruck with his haughty mien, and tow'ring height.\nThen to the king: \"Your empty vaunts forbear;\nSuccess I hope, and fate I cannot fear;\nAlive or dead, I shall deserve a name;\nJove is impartial, and to both the same.\"\nHe said, and to the void advanc'd his pace:\nPale horror sate on each Arcadian face.\nThen Turnus, from his chariot leaping light,\nAddress'd himself on foot to single fight.\nAnd, as a lion- when he spies from far\nA bull that seems to meditate the war,\nBending his neck, and spurning back the sand-\nRuns roaring downward from his hilly stand:\nImagine eager Turnus not more slow,\nTo rush from high on his unequal foe.\nYoung Pallas, when he saw the chief advance\nWithin due distance of his flying lance,\nPrepares to charge him first, resolv'd to try\nIf fortune would his want of force supply;\nAnd thus to Heav'n and Hercules address'd:\n\"Alcides, once on earth Evander's guest,\nHis son adjures you by those holy rites,\nThat hospitable board, those genial nights;\nAssist my great attempt to gain this prize,\nAnd let proud Turnus view, with dying eyes,\nHis ravish'd spoils.\" 'T was heard, the vain request;\nAlcides mourn'd, and stifled sighs within his breast.\nThen Jove, to soothe his sorrow, thus began:\n\"Short bounds of life are set to mortal man.\n'T is virtue's work alone to stretch the narrow span.\nSo many sons of gods, in bloody fight,\nAround the walls of Troy, have lost the light:\nMy own Sarpedon fell beneath his foe;\nNor I, his mighty sire, could ward the blow.\nEv'n Turnus shortly shall resign his breath,\nAnd stands already on the verge of death.\"\nThis said, the god permits the fatal fight,\nBut from the Latian fields averts his sight.\nNow with full force his spear young Pallas threw,\nAnd, having thrown, his shining fauchion drew\nThe steel just graz'd along the shoulder joint,\nAnd mark'd it slightly with the glancing point,\nFierce Turnus first to nearer distance drew,\nAnd pois'd his pointed spear, before he threw:\nThen, as the winged weapon whizz'd along,\n\"See now,\" said he, \"whose arm is better strung.\"\nThe spear kept on the fatal course, unstay'd\nBy plates of ir'n, which o'er the shield were laid:\nThro' folded brass and tough bull hides it pass'd,\nHis corslet pierc'd, and reach'd his heart at last.\nIn vain the youth tugs at the broken wood;\nThe soul comes issuing with the vital blood:\nHe falls; his arms upon his body sound;\nAnd with his bloody teeth he bites the ground.\nTurnus bestrode the corpse: \"Arcadians, hear,\"\nSaid he; \"my message to your master bear:\nSuch as the sire deserv'd, the son I send;\nIt costs him dear to be the Phrygians' friend.\nThe lifeless body, tell him, I bestow,\nUnask'd, to rest his wand'ring ghost below.\"\nHe said, and trampled down with all the force\nOf his left foot, and spurn'd the wretched corse;\nThen snatch'd the shining belt, with gold inlaid;\nThe belt Eurytion's artful hands had made,\nWhere fifty fatal brides, express'd to sight,\nAll in the compass of one mournful night,\nDepriv'd their bridegrooms of returning light.\nIn an ill hour insulting Turnus tore\nThose golden spoils, and in a worse he wore.\nO mortals, blind in fate, who never know\nTo bear high fortune, or endure the low!\nThe time shall come, when Turnus, but in vain,\nShall wish untouch'd the trophies of the slain;\nShall wish the fatal belt were far away,\nAnd curse the dire remembrance of the day.\nThe sad Arcadians, from th' unhappy field,\nBear back the breathless body on a shield.\nO grace and grief of war! at once restor'd,\nWith praises, to thy sire, at once deplor'd!\nOne day first sent thee to the fighting field,\nBeheld whole heaps of foes in battle kill'd;\nOne day beheld thee dead, and borne upon thy shield.\nThis dismal news, not from uncertain fame,\nBut sad spectators, to the hero came:\nHis friends upon the brink of ruin stand,\nUnless reliev'd by his victorious hand.\nHe whirls his sword around, without delay,\nAnd hews thro' adverse foes an ample way,\nTo find fierce Turnus, of his conquest proud:\nEvander, Pallas, all that friendship ow'd\nTo large deserts, are present to his eyes;\nHis plighted hand, and hospitable ties.\nFour sons of Sulmo, four whom Ufens bred,\nHe took in fight, and living victims led,\nTo please the ghost of Pallas, and expire,\nIn sacrifice, before his fun'ral fire.\nAt Magus next he threw: he stoop'd below\nThe flying spear, and shunn'd the promis'd blow;\nThen, creeping, clasp'd the hero's knees, and pray'd:\n\"By young Iulus, by thy father's shade,\nO spare my life, and send me back to see\nMy longing sire, and tender progeny!\nA lofty house I have, and wealth untold,\nIn silver ingots, and in bars of gold:\nAll these, and sums besides, which see no day,\nThe ransom of this one poor life shall pay.\nIf I survive, will Troy the less prevail?\nA single soul's too light to turn the scale.\"\nHe said. The hero sternly thus replied:\n\"Thy bars and ingots, and the sums beside,\nLeave for thy children's lot. Thy Turnus broke\nAll rules of war by one relentless stroke,\nWhen Pallas fell: so deems, nor deems alone\nMy father's shadow, but my living son.\"\nThus having said, of kind remorse bereft,\nHe seiz'd his helm, and dragg'd him with his left;\nThen with his right hand, while his neck he wreath'd,\nUp to the hilts his shining fauchion sheath'd.\nApollo's priest, Emonides, was near;\nHis holy fillets on his front appear;\nGlitt'ring in arms, he shone amidst the crowd;\nMuch of his god, more of his purple, proud.\nHim the fierce Trojan follow'd thro' the field:\nThe holy coward fell; and, forc'd to yield,\nThe prince stood o'er the priest, and, at one blow,\nSent him an off'ring to the shades below.\nHis arms Seresthus on his shoulders bears,\nDesign'd a trophy to the God of Wars.\nVulcanian Caeculus renews the fight,\nAnd Umbro, born upon the mountains' height.\nThe champion cheers his troops t' encounter those,\nAnd seeks revenge himself on other foes.\nAt Anxur's shield he drove; and, at the blow,\nBoth shield and arm to ground together go.\nAnxur had boasted much of magic charms,\nAnd thought he wore impenetrable arms,\nSo made by mutter'd spells; and, from the spheres,\nHad life secur'd, in vain, for length of years.\nThen Tarquitus the field triumph trod;\nA nymph his mother, his sire a god.\nExulting in bright arms, he braves the prince:\nWith his protended lance he makes defense;\nBears back his feeble foe; then, pressing on,\nArrests his better hand, and drags him down;\nStands o'er the prostrate wretch, and, as he lay,\nVain tales inventing, and prepar'd to pray,\nMows off his head: the trunk a moment stood,\nThen sunk, and roll'd along the sand in blood.\nThe vengeful victor thus upbraids the slain:\n\"Lie there, proud man, unpitied, on the plain;\nLie there, inglorious, and without a tomb,\nFar from thy mother and thy native home,\nExposed to savage beasts, and birds of prey,\nOr thrown for food to monsters of the sea.\"\nOn Lycas and Antaeus next he ran,\nTwo chiefs of Turnus, and who led his van.\nThey fled for fear; with these, he chas'd along\nCamers the yellow-lock'd, and Numa strong;\nBoth great in arms, and both were fair and young.\nCamers was son to Volscens lately slain,\nIn wealth surpassing all the Latian train,\nAnd in Amycla fix'd his silent easy reign.\nAnd, as Aegaeon, when with heav'n he strove,\nStood opposite in arms to mighty Jove;\nMov'd all his hundred hands, provok'd the war,\nDefied the forky lightning from afar;\nAt fifty mouths his flaming breath expires,\nAnd flash for flash returns, and fires for fires;\nIn his right hand as many swords he wields,\nAnd takes the thunder on as many shields:\nWith strength like his, the Trojan hero stood;\nAnd soon the fields with falling corps were strow'd,\nWhen once his fauchion found the taste of blood.\nWith fury scarce to be conceiv'd, he flew\nAgainst Niphaeus, whom four coursers drew.\nThey, when they see the fiery chief advance,\nAnd pushing at their chests his pointed lance,\nWheel'd with so swift a motion, mad with fear,\nThey threw their master headlong from the chair.\nThey stare, they start, nor stop their course, before\nThey bear the bounding chariot to the shore.\nNow Lucagus and Liger scour the plains,\nWith two white steeds; but Liger holds the reins,\nAnd Lucagus the lofty seat maintains:\nBold brethren both. The former wav'd in air\nHis flaming sword: Aeneas couch'd his spear,\nUnus'd to threats, and more unus'd to fear.\nThen Liger thus: \"Thy confidence is vain\nTo scape from hence, as from the Trojan plain:\nNor these the steeds which Diomede bestrode,\nNor this the chariot where Achilles rode;\nNor Venus' veil is here, near Neptune's shield;\nThy fatal hour is come, and this the field.\"\nThus Liger vainly vaunts: the Trojan\nReturn'd his answer with his flying spear.\nAs Lucagus, to lash his horses, bends,\nProne to the wheels, and his left foot protends,\nPrepar'd for fight; the fatal dart arrives,\nAnd thro' the borders of his buckler drives;\nPass'd thro' and pierc'd his groin: the deadly wound,\nCast from his chariot, roll'd him on the ground.\nWhom thus the chief upbraids with scornful spite:\n\"Blame not the slowness of your steeds in flight;\nVain shadows did not force their swift retreat;\nBut you yourself forsake your empty seat.\"\nHe said, and seiz'd at once the loosen'd rein;\nFor Liger lay already on the plain,\nBy the same shock: then, stretching out his hands,\nThe recreant thus his wretched life demands:\n\"Now, by thyself, O more than mortal man!\nBy her and him from whom thy breath began,\nWho form'd thee thus divine, I beg thee, spare\nThis forfeit life, and hear thy suppliant's pray'r.\"\nThus much he spoke, and more he would have said;\nBut the stern hero turn'd aside his head,\nAnd cut him short: \"I hear another man;\nYou talk'd not thus before the fight began.\nNow take your turn; and, as a brother should,\nAttend your brother to the Stygian flood.\"\nThen thro' his breast his fatal sword he sent,\nAnd the soul issued at the gaping vent.\nAs storms the skies, and torrents tear the ground,\nThus rag'd the prince, and scatter'd deaths around.\nAt length Ascanius and the Trojan train\nBroke from the camp, so long besieg'd in vain.\nMeantime the King of Gods and Mortal Man\nHeld conference with his queen, and thus began:\n\"My sister goddess, and well-pleasing wife,\nStill think you Venus' aid supports the strife-\nSustains her Trojans- or themselves, alone,\nWith inborn valor force their fortune on?\nHow fierce in fight, with courage undecay'd!\nJudge if such warriors want immortal aid.\"\nTo whom the goddess with the charming eyes,\nSoft in her tone, submissively replies:\n\"Why, O my sov'reign lord, whose frown I fear,\nAnd cannot, unconcern'd, your anger bear;\nWhy urge you thus my grief? when, if I still\n(As once I was) were mistress of your will,\nFrom your almighty pow'r your pleasing wife\nMight gain the grace of length'ning Turnus' life,\nSecurely snatch him from the fatal fight,\nAnd give him to his aged father's sight.\nNow let him perish, since you hold it good,\nAnd glut the Trojans with his pious blood.\nYet from our lineage he derives his name,\nAnd, in the fourth degree, from god Pilumnus came;\nYet he devoutly pays you rites divine,\nAnd offers daily incense at your shrine.\"\nThen shortly thus the sov'reign god replied:\n\"Since in my pow'r and goodness you confide,\nIf for a little space, a lengthen'd span,\nYou beg reprieve for this expiring man,\nI grant you leave to take your Turnus hence\nFrom instant fate, and can so far dispense.\nBut, if some secret meaning lies beneath,\nTo save the short-liv'd youth from destin'd death,\nOr if a farther thought you entertain,\nTo change the fates; you feed your hopes in vain.\"\nTo whom the goddess thus, with weeping eyes:\n\"And what if that request, your tongue denies,\nYour heart should grant; and not a short reprieve,\nBut length of certain life, to Turnus give?\nNow speedy death attends the guiltless youth,\nIf my presaging soul divines with truth;\nWhich, O! I wish, might err thro' causeless fears,\nAnd you (for you have pow'r) prolong his years!\"\nThus having said, involv'd in clouds, she flies,\nAnd drives a storm before her thro' the skies.\nSwift she descends, alighting on the plain,\nWhere the fierce foes a dubious fight maintain.\nOf air condens'd a specter soon she made;\nAnd, what Aeneas was, such seem'd the shade.\nAdorn'd with Dardan arms, the phantom bore\nHis head aloft; a plumy crest he wore;\nThis hand appear'd a shining sword to wield,.\nAnd that sustain'd an imitated shield.\nWith manly mien he stalk'd along the ground,\nNor wanted voice belied, nor vaunting sound.\n(Thus haunting ghosts appear to waking sight,\nOr dreadful visions in our dreams by night.)\nThe specter seems the Daunian chief to dare,\nAnd flourishes his empty sword in air.\nAt this, advancing, Turnus hurl'd his spear:\nThe phantom wheel'd, and seem'd to fly for fear.\nDeluded Turnus thought the Trojan fled,\nAnd with vain hopes his haughty fancy fed.\n\"Whether, O coward?\" (thus he calls aloud,\nNor found he spoke to wind, and chas'd a cloud,)\n\"Why thus forsake your bride! Receive from me\nThe fated land you sought so long by sea.\"\nHe said, and, brandishing at once his blade,\nWith eager pace pursued the flying shade.\nBy chance a ship was fasten'd to the shore,\nWhich from old Clusium King Osinius bore:\nThe plank was ready laid for safe ascent;\nFor shelter there the trembling shadow bent,\nAnd skipp't and skulk'd, and under hatches went.\nExulting Turnus, with regardless haste,\nAscends the plank, and to the galley pass'd.\nScarce had he reach'd the prow: Saturnia's hand\nThe haulsers cuts, and shoots the ship from land.\nWith wind in poop, the vessel plows the sea,\nAnd measures back with speed her former way.\nMeantime Aeneas seeks his absent foe,\nAnd sends his slaughter'd troops to shades below.\nThe guileful phantom now forsook the shroud,\nAnd flew sublime, and vanish'd in a cloud.\nToo late young Turnus the delusion found,\nFar on the sea, still making from the ground.\nThen, thankless for a life redeem'd by shame,\nWith sense of honor stung, and forfeit fame,\nFearful besides of what in fight had pass'd,\nHis hands and haggard eyes to heav'n he cast;\n\"O Jove!\" he cried, \"for what offense have\nDeserv'd to bear this endless infamy?\nWhence am I forc'd, and whether am I borne?\nHow, and with what reproach, shall I return?\nShall ever I behold the Latian plain,\nOr see Laurentum's lofty tow'rs again?\nWhat will they say of their deserting chief\nThe war was mine: I fly from their relief;\nI led to slaughter, and in slaughter leave;\nAnd ev'n from hence their dying groans receive.\nHere, overmatch'd in fight, in heaps they lie;\nThere, scatter'd o'er the fields, ignobly fly.\nGape wide, O earth, and draw me down alive!\nOr, O ye pitying winds, a wretch relieve!\nOn sands or shelves the splitting vessel drive;\nOr set me shipwrack'd on some desart shore,\nWhere no Rutulian eyes may see me more,\nUnknown to friends, or foes, or conscious Fame,\nLest she should follow, and my flight proclaim.\"\nThus Turnus rav'd, and various fates revolv'd:\nThe choice was doubtful, but the death resolv'd.\nAnd now the sword, and now the sea took place,\nThat to revenge, and this to purge disgrace.\nSometimes he thought to swim the stormy main,\nBy stretch of arms the distant shore to gain.\nThrice he the sword assay'd, and thrice the flood;\nBut Juno, mov'd with pity, both withstood.\nAnd thrice repress'd his rage; strong gales supplied,\nAnd push'd the vessel o'er the swelling tide.\nAt length she lands him on his native shores,\nAnd to his father's longing arms restores.\nMeantime, by Jove's impulse, Mezentius arm'd,\nSucceeding Turnus, with his ardor warm'd\nHis fainting friends, reproach'd their shameful flight,\nRepell'd the victors, and renew'd the fight.\nAgainst their king the Tuscan troops conspire;\nSuch is their hate, and such their fierce desire\nOf wish'd revenge: on him, and him alone,\nAll hands employ'd, and all their darts are thrown.\nHe, like a solid rock by seas inclos'd,\nTo raging winds and roaring waves oppos'd,\nFrom his proud summit looking down, disdains\nTheir empty menace, and unmov'd remains.\nBeneath his feet fell haughty Hebrus dead,\nThen Latagus, and Palmus as he fled.\nAt Latagus a weighty stone he flung:\nHis face was flatted, and his helmet rung.\nBut Palmus from behind receives his wound;\nHamstring'd he falls, and grovels on the ground:\nHis crest and armor, from his body torn,\nThy shoulders, Lausus, and thy head adorn.\nEvas and Mimas, both of Troy, he slew.\nMimas his birth from fair Theano drew,\nBorn on that fatal night, when, big with fire,\nThe queen produc'd young Paris to his sire:\nBut Paris in the Phrygian fields was slain,\nUnthinking Mimas on the Latian plain.\nAnd, as a savage boar, on mountains bred,\nWith forest mast and fatt'ning marshes fed,\nWhen once he sees himself in toils inclos'd,\nBy huntsmen and their eager hounds oppos'd-\nHe whets his tusks, and turns, and dares the war;\nTh' invaders dart their jav'lins from afar:\nAll keep aloof, and safely shout around;\nBut none presumes to give a nearer wound:\nHe frets and froths, erects his bristled hide,\nAnd shakes a grove of lances from his side:\nNot otherwise the troops, with hate inspir'd,\nAnd just revenge against the tyrant fir'd,\nTheir darts with clamor at a distance drive,\nAnd only keep the languish'd war alive.\nFrom Coritus came Acron to the fight,\nWho left his spouse betroth'd, and unconsummate night.\nMezentius sees him thro' the squadrons ride,\nProud of the purple favors of his bride.\nThen, as a hungry lion, who beholds\nA gamesome goat, who frisks about the folds,\nOr beamy stag, that grazes on the plain-\nHe runs, he roars, he shakes his rising mane,\nHe grins, and opens wide his greedy jaws;\nThe prey lies panting underneath his paws:\nHe fills his famish'd maw; his mouth runs o'er\nWith unchew'd morsels, while he churns the gore:\nSo proud Mezentius rushes on his foes,\nAnd first unhappy Acron overthrows:\nStretch'd at his length, he spurns the swarthy ground;\nThe lance, besmear'd with blood, lies broken in the wound.\nThen with disdain the haughty victor view'd\nOrodes flying, nor the wretch pursued,\nNor thought the dastard's back deserv'd a wound,\nBut, running, gain'd th' advantage of the ground:\nThen turning short, he met him face to face,\nTo give his victor the better grace.\nOrodes falls, equal fight oppress'd:\nMezentius fix'd his foot upon his breast,\nAnd rested lance; and thus aloud he cries:\n\"Lo! here the champion of my rebels lies!\"\nThe fields around with Io Paean! ring;\nAnd peals of shouts applaud the conqu'ring king.\nAt this the vanquish'd, with his dying breath,\nThus faintly spoke, and prophesied in death:\n\"Nor thou, proud man, unpunish'd shalt remain:\nLike death attends thee on this fatal plain.\"\nThen, sourly smiling, thus the king replied:\n\"For what belongs to me, let Jove provide;\nBut die thou first, whatever chance ensue.\"\nHe said, and from the wound the weapon drew.\nA hov'ring mist came swimming o'er his sight,\nAnd seal'd his eyes in everlasting night.\nBy Caedicus, Alcathous was slain;\nSacrator laid Hydaspes on the plain;\nOrses the strong to greater strength must yield;\nHe, with Parthenius, were by Rapo kill'd.\nThen brave Messapus Ericetes slew,\nWho from Lycaon's blood his lineage drew.\nBut from his headstrong horse his fate he found,\nWho threw his master, as he made a bound:\nThe chief, alighting, stuck him to the ground;\nThen Clonius, hand to hand, on foot assails:\nThe Trojan sinks, and Neptune's son prevails.\nAgis the Lycian, stepping forth with pride,\nTo single fight the boldest foe defied;\nWhom Tuscan Valerus by force o'ercame,\nAnd not belied his mighty father's fame.\nSalius to death the great Antronius sent:\nBut the same fate the victor underwent,\nSlain by Nealces' hand, well-skill'd to throw\nThe flying dart, and draw the far-deceiving bow.\nThus equal deaths are dealt with equal chance;\nBy turns they quit their ground, by turns advance:\nVictors and vanquish'd, in the various field,\nNor wholly overcome, nor wholly yield.\nThe gods from heav'n survey the fatal strife,\nAnd mourn the miseries of human life.\nAbove the rest, two goddesses appear\nConcern'd for each: here Venus, Juno there.\nAmidst the crowd, infernal Ate shakes\nHer scourge aloft, and crest of hissing snakes.\nOnce more the proud Mezentius, with disdain,\nBrandish'd his spear, and rush'd into the plain,\nWhere tow'ring in the midmost rank she stood,\nLike tall Orion stalking o'er the flood.\n(When with his brawny breast he cuts the waves,\nHis shoulders scarce the topmost billow laves),\nOr like a mountain ash, whose roots are spread,\nDeep fix'd in earth; in clouds he hides his head.\nThe Trojan prince beheld him from afar,\nAnd dauntless undertook the doubtful war.\nCollected in his strength, and like a rock,\nPois'd on his base, Mezentius stood the shock.\nHe stood, and, measuring first with careful eyes\nThe space his spear could reach, aloud he cries:\n\"My strong right hand, and sword, assist my stroke!\n(Those only gods Mezentius will invoke.)\nHis armor, from the Trojan pirate torn,\nBy my triumphant Lausus shall be worn.\"\nHe said; and with his utmost force he threw\nThe massy spear, which, hissing as it flew,\nReach'd the celestial shield, that stopp'd the course;\nBut, glancing thence, the yet unbroken force\nTook a new bent obliquely, and betwixt\nThe side and bowels fam'd Anthores fix'd.\nAnthores had from Argos travel'd far,\nAlcides' friend, and brother of the war;\nTill, tir'd with toils, fair Italy he chose,\nAnd in Evander's palace sought repose.\nNow, falling by another's wound, his eyes\nHe cast to heav'n, on Argos thinks, and dies.\nThe pious Trojan then his jav'lin sent;\nThe shield gave way; thro' treble plates it went\nOf solid brass, of linen trebly roll'd,\nAnd three bull hides which round the buckler fold.\nAll these it pass'd, resistless in the course,\nTranspierc'd his thigh, and spent its dying force.\nThe gaping wound gush'd out a crimson flood.\nThe Trojan, glad with sight of hostile blood,\nHis faunchion drew, to closer fight address'd,\nAnd with new force his fainting foe oppress'd.\nHis father's peril Lausus view'd with grief;\nHe sigh'd, he wept, he ran to his relief.\nAnd here, heroic youth, 't is here I must\nTo thy immortal memory be just,\nAnd sing an act so noble and so new,\nPosterity will scarce believe 't is true.\nPain'd with his wound, and useless for the fight,\nThe father sought to save himself by flight:\nIncumber'd, slow he dragg'd the spear along,\nWhich pierc'd his thigh, and in his buckler hung.\nThe pious youth, resolv'd on death, below\nThe lifted sword springs forth to face the foe;\nProtects his parent, and prevents the blow.\nShouts of applause ran ringing thro' the field,\nTo see the son the vanquish'd father shield.\nAll, fir'd with gen'rous indignation, strive,\nAnd with a storm of darts to distance drive\nThe Trojan chief, who, held at bay from far,\nOn his Vulcanian orb sustain'd the war.\nAs, when thick hail comes rattling in the wind,\nThe plowman, passenger, and lab'ring hind\nFor shelter to the neighb'ring covert fly,\nOr hous'd, or safe in hollow caverns lie;\nBut, that o'erblown, when heav'n above 'em smiles,\nReturn to travel, and renew their toils:\nAeneas thus, o'erwhelmed on ev'ry side,\nThe storm of darts, undaunted, did abide;\nAnd thus to Lausus loud with friendly threat'ning cried:\n\"Why wilt thou rush to certain death, and rage\nIn rash attempts, beyond thy tender age,\nBetray'd by pious love?\" Nor, thus forborne,\nThe youth desists, but with insulting scorn\nProvokes the ling'ring prince, whose patience, tir'd,\nGave place; and all his breast with fury fir'd.\nFor now the Fates prepar'd their sharpen'd shears;\nAnd lifted high the flaming sword appears,\nWhich, full descending with a frightful sway,\nThro' shield and corslet forc'd th' impetuous way,\nAnd buried deep in his fair bosom lay.\nThe purple streams thro' the thin armor strove,\nAnd drench'd th' imbroider'd coat his mother wove;\nAnd life at length forsook his heaving heart,\nLoth from so sweet a mansion to depart.\nBut when, with blood and paleness all o'erspread,\nThe pious prince beheld young Lausus dead,\nHe griev'd; he wept; the sight an image brought\nOf his own filial love, a sadly pleasing thought:\nThen stretch'd his hand to hold him up, and said:\n\"Poor hapless youth! what praises can be paid\nTo love so great, to such transcendent store\nOf early worth, and sure presage of more?\nAccept whate'er Aeneas can afford;\nUntouch'd thy arms, untaken be thy sword;\nAnd all that pleas'd thee living, still remain\nInviolate, and sacred to the slain.\nThy body on thy parents I bestow,\nTo rest thy soul, at least, if shadows know,\nOr have a sense of human things below.\nThere to thy fellow ghosts with glory tell:\n''T was by the great Aeneas hand I fell.'\"\nWith this, his distant friends he beckons near,\nProvokes their duty, and prevents their fear:\nHimself assists to lift him from the ground,\nWith clotted locks, and blood that well'd from out the wound.\nMeantime, his father, now no father, stood,\nAnd wash'd his wounds by Tiber's yellow flood:\nOppress'd with anguish, panting, and o'erspent,\nHis fainting limbs against an oak he leant.\nA bough his brazen helmet did sustain;\nHis heavier arms lay scatter'd on the plain:\nA chosen train of youth around him stand;\nHis drooping head was rested on his hand:\nHis grisly beard his pensive bosom sought;\nAnd all on Lausus ran his restless thought.\nCareful, concern'd his danger to prevent,\nHe much enquir'd, and many a message sent\nTo warn him from the field- alas! in vain!\nBehold, his mournful followers bear him slain!\nO'er his broad shield still gush'd the yawning wound,\nAnd drew a bloody trail along the ground.\nFar off he heard their cries, far off divin'd\nThe dire event, with a foreboding mind.\nWith dust he sprinkled first his hoary head;\nThen both his lifted hands to heav'n he spread;\nLast, the dear corpse embracing, thus he said:\n\"What joys, alas! could this frail being give,\nThat I have been so covetous to live?\nTo see my son, and such a son, resign\nHis life, a ransom for preserving mine!\nAnd am I then preserv'd, and art thou lost?\nHow much too dear has that redemption cost!\n'T is now my bitter banishment I feel:\nThis is a wound too deep for time to heal.\nMy guilt thy growing virtues did defame;\nMy blackness blotted thy unblemish'd name.\nChas'd from a throne, abandon'd, and exil'd\nFor foul misdeeds, were punishments too mild:\nI ow'd my people these, and, from their hate,\nWith less resentment could have borne my fate.\nAnd yet I live, and yet sustain the sight\nOf hated men, and of more hated light:\nBut will not long.\" With that he rais'd from ground\nHis fainting limbs, that stagger'd with his wound;\nYet, with a mind resolv'd, and unappall'd\nWith pains or perils, for his courser call'd\nWell-mouth'd, well-manag'd, whom himself did dress\nWith daily care, and mounted with success;\nHis aid in arms, his ornament in peace.\nSoothing his courage with a gentle stroke,\nThe steed seem'd sensible, while thus he spoke:\n\"O Rhoebus, we have liv'd too long for me-\nIf life and long were terms that could agree!\nThis day thou either shalt bring back the head\nAnd bloody trophies of the Trojan dead;\nThis day thou either shalt revenge my woe,\nFor murther'd Lausus, on his cruel foe;\nOr, if inexorable fate deny\nOur conquest, with thy conquer'd master die:\nFor, after such a lord, rest secure,\nThou wilt no foreign reins, or Trojan load endure.\"\nHe said; and straight th' officious courser kneels,\nTo take his wonted weight. His hands he fills\nWith pointed jav'lins; on his head he lac'd\nHis glitt'ring helm, which terribly was grac'd\nWith waving horsehair, nodding from afar;\nThen spurr'd his thund'ring steed amidst the war.\nLove, anguish, wrath, and grief, to madness wrought,\nDespair, and secret shame, and conscious thought\nOf inborn worth, his lab'ring soul oppress'd,\nRoll'd in his eyes, and rag'd within his breast.\nThen loud he call'd Aeneas thrice by name:\nThe loud repeated voice to glad Aeneas came.\n\"Great Jove,\" he said, \"and the far-shooting god,\nInspire thy mind to make thy challenge good!\"\nHe spoke no more; but hasten'd, void of fear,\nAnd threaten'd with his long protended spear.\nTo whom Mezentius thus: \"Thy vaunts are vain.\nMy Lausus lies extended on the plain:\nHe's lost! thy conquest is already won;\nThe wretched sire is murther'd in the son.\nNor fate I fear, but all the gods defy.\nForbear thy threats: my bus'ness is to die;\nBut first receive this parting legacy.\"\nHe said; and straight a whirling dart he sent;\nAnother after, and another went.\nRound in a spacious ring he rides the field,\nAnd vainly plies th' impenetrable shield.\nThrice rode he round; and thrice Aeneas wheel'd,\nTurn'd as he turn'd: the golden orb withstood\nThe strokes, and bore about an iron wood.\nImpatient of delay, and weary grown,\nStill to defend, and to defend alone,\nTo wrench the darts which in his buckler light,\nUrg'd and o'er-labor'd in unequal fight;\nAt length resolv'd, he throws with all his force\nFull at the temples of the warrior horse.\nJust where the stroke was aim'd, th' unerring spear\nMade way, and stood transfix'd thro' either ear.\nSeiz'd with unwonted pain, surpris'd with fright,\nThe wounded steed curvets, and, rais'd upright,\nLights on his feet before; his hoofs behind\nSpring up in air aloft, and lash the wind.\nDown comes the rider headlong from his height:\nHis horse came after with unwieldy weight,\nAnd, flound'ring forward, pitching on his head,\nHis lord's incumber'd shoulder overlaid.\nFrom either host, the mingled shouts and cries\nOf Trojans and Rutulians rend the skies.\nAeneas, hast'ning, wav'd his fatal sword\nHigh o'er his head, with this reproachful word:\n\"Now; where are now thy vaunts, the fierce disdain\nOf proud Mezentius, and the lofty strain?\"\nStruggling, and wildly staring on the skies,\nWith scarce recover'd sight he thus replies:\n\"Why these insulting words, this waste of breath,\nTo souls undaunted, and secure of death?\n'T is no dishonor for the brave to die,\nNor came I here with hope victory;\nNor ask I life, nor fought with that design:\nAs I had us'd my fortune, use thou thine.\nMy dying son contracted no such band;\nThe gift is hateful from his murd'rer's hand.\nFor this, this only favor let me sue,\nIf pity can to conquer'd foes be due:\nRefuse it not; but let my body have\nThe last retreat of humankind, a grave.\nToo well I know th' insulting people's hate;\nProtect me from their vengeance after fate:\nThis refuge for my poor remains provide,\nAnd lay my much-lov'd Lausus by my side.\"\nHe said, and to the sword his throat applied.\nThe crimson stream distain'd his arms around,\nAnd the disdainful soul came rushing thro' the wound.\nBOOK XI\nScarce had the rosy Morning rais'd her head\nAbove the waves, and left her wat'ry bed;\nThe pious chief, whom double cares attend\nFor his unburied soldiers and his friend,\nYet first to Heav'n perform'd a victor's vows:\nHe bar'd an ancient oak of all her boughs;\nThen on a rising ground the trunk he plac'd,\nWhich with the spoils of his dead foe he grac'd.\nThe coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn,\nNow on a naked snag in triumph borne,\nWas hung on high, and glitter'd from afar,\nA trophy sacred to the God of War.\nAbove his arms, fix'd on the leafless wood,\nAppear'd his plumy crest, besmear'd with blood:\nHis brazen buckler on the left was seen;\nTruncheons of shiver'd lances hung between;\nAnd on the right was placed his corslet, bor'd;\nAnd to the neck was tied his unavailing sword.\nA crowd of chiefs inclose the godlike man,\nWho thus, conspicuous in the midst, began:\n\"Our toils, my friends, are crown'd with sure success;\nThe greater part perform'd, achieve the less.\nNow follow cheerful to the trembling town;\nPress but an entrance, and presume it won.\nFear is no more, for fierce Mezentius lies,\nAs the first fruits of war, a sacrifice.\nTurnus shall fall extended on the plain,\nAnd, in this omen, is already slain.\nPrepar'd in arms, pursue your happy chance;\nThat none unwarn'd may plead his ignorance,\nAnd I, at Heav'n's appointed hour, may find\nYour warlike ensigns waving in the wind.\nMeantime the rites and fun'ral pomps prepare,\nDue to your dead companions of the war:\nThe last respect the living can bestow,\nTo shield their shadows from contempt below.\nThat conquer'd earth be theirs, for which they fought,\nAnd which for us with their own blood they bought;\nBut first the corpse of our unhappy friend\nTo the sad city of Evander send,\nWho, not inglorious, in his age's bloom,\nWas hurried hence by too severe a doom.\"\nThus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way,\nWhere, new in death, lamented Pallas lay.\nAcoetes watch'd the corpse; whose youth deserv'd\nThe father's trust; and now the son he serv'd\nWith equal faith, but less auspicious care.\nTh' attendants of the slain his sorrow share.\nA troop of Trojans mix'd with these appear,\nAnd mourning matrons with dishevel'd hair.\nSoon as the prince appears, they raise a cry;\nAll beat their breasts, and echoes rend the sky.\nThey rear his drooping forehead from the ground;\nBut, when Aeneas view'd the grisly wound\nWhich Pallas in his manly bosom bore,\nAnd the fair flesh distain'd with purple gore;\nFirst, melting into tears, the pious man\nDeplor'd so sad a sight, then thus began:\n\"Unhappy youth! when Fortune gave the rest\nOf my full wishes, she refus'd the best!\nShe came; but brought not thee along, to bless\nMy longing eyes, and share in my success:\nShe grudg'd thy safe return, the triumphs due\nTo prosp'rous valor, in the public view.\nNot thus I promis'd, when thy father lent\nThy needless succor with a sad consent;\nEmbrac'd me, parting for th' Etrurian land,\nAnd sent me to possess a large command.\nHe warn'd, and from his own experience told,\nOur foes were warlike, disciplin'd, and bold.\nAnd now perhaps, in hopes of thy return,\nRich odors on his loaded altars burn,\nWhile we, with vain officious pomp, prepare\nTo send him back his portion of the war,\nA bloody breathless body, which can owe\nNo farther debt, but to the pow'rs below.\nThe wretched father, ere his race is run,\nShall view the fun'ral honors of his son.\nThese are my triumphs of the Latian war,\nFruits of my plighted faith and boasted care!\nAnd yet, unhappy sire, thou shalt not see\nA son whose death disgrac'd his ancestry;\nThou shalt not blush, old man, however griev'd:\nThy Pallas no dishonest wound receiv'd.\nHe died no death to make thee wish, too late,\nThou hadst not liv'd to see his shameful fate:\nBut what a champion has th' Ausonian coast,\nAnd what a friend hast thou, Ascanius, lost!\"\nThus having mourn'd, he gave the word around,\nTo raise the breathless body from the ground;\nAnd chose a thousand horse, the flow'r of all\nHis warlike troops, to wait the funeral,\nTo bear him back and share Evander's grief:\nA well-becoming, but a weak relief.\nOf oaken twigs they twist an easy bier,\nThen on their shoulders the sad burden rear.\nThe body on this rural hearse is borne:\nStrew'd leaves and funeral greens the bier adorn.\nAll pale he lies, and looks a lovely flow'r,\nNew cropp'd by virgin hands, to dress the bow'r:\nUnfaded yet, but yet unfed below,\nNo more to mother earth or the green stern shall owe.\nThen two fair vests, of wondrous work and cost,\nOf purple woven, and with gold emboss'd,\nFor ornament the Trojan hero brought,\nWhich with her hands Sidonian Dido wrought.\nOne vest array'd the corpse; and one they spread\nO'er his clos'd eyes, and wrapp'd around his head,\nThat, when the yellow hair in flame should fall,\nThe catching fire might burn the golden caul.\nBesides, the spoils of foes in battle slain,\nWhen he descended on the Latian plain;\nArms, trappings, horses, by the hearse are led\nIn long array- th' achievements of the dead.\nThen, pinion'd with their hands behind, appear\nTh' unhappy captives, marching in the rear,\nAppointed off'rings in the victor's name,\nTo sprinkle with their blood the fun'ral flame.\nInferior trophies by the chiefs are borne;\nGauntlets and helms their loaded hands adorn;\nAnd fair inscriptions fix'd, and titles read\nOf Latian leaders conquer'd by the dead.\nAcoetes on his pupil's corpse attends,\nWith feeble steps, supported by his friends.\nPausing at ev'ry pace, in sorrow drown'd,\nBetwixt their arms he sinks upon the ground;\nWhere grov'ling while he lies in deep despair,\nHe beats his breast, and rends his hoary hair.\nThe champion's chariot next is seen to roll,\nBesmear'd with hostile blood, and honorably foul.\nTo close the pomp, Aethon, the steed of state,\nIs led, the fun'rals of his lord to wait.\nStripp'd of his trappings, with a sullen pace\nHe walks; and the big tears run rolling down his face.\nThe lance of Pallas, and the crimson crest,\nAre borne behind: the victor seiz'd the rest.\nThe march begins: the trumpets hoarsely sound;\nThe pikes and lances trail along the ground.\nThus while the Trojan and Arcadian horse\nTo Pallantean tow'rs direct their course,\nIn long procession rank'd, the pious chief\nStopp'd in the rear, and gave a vent to grief:\n\"The public care,\" he said, \"which war attends,\nDiverts our present woes, at least suspends.\nPeace with the manes of great Pallas dwell!\nHail, holy relics! and a last farewell!\"\nHe said no more, but, inly thro' he mourn'd,\nRestrained his tears, and to the camp return'd.\nNow suppliants, from Laurentum sent, demand\nA truce, with olive branches in their hand;\nObtest his clemency, and from the plain\nBeg leave to draw the bodies of their slain.\nThey plead, that none those common rites deny\nTo conquer'd foes that in fair battle die.\nAll cause of hate was ended in their death;\nNor could he war with bodies void of breath.\nA king, they hop'd, would hear a king's request,\nWhose son he once was call'd, and once his guest.\nTheir suit, which was too just to be denied,\nThe hero grants, and farther thus replied:\n\"O Latian princes, how severe a fate\nIn causeless quarrels has involv'd your state,\nAnd arm'd against an unoffending man,\nWho sought your friendship ere the war began!\nYou beg a truce, which I would gladly give,\nNot only for the slain, but those who live.\nI came not hither but by Heav'n's command,\nAnd sent by fate to share the Latian land.\nNor wage I wars unjust: your king denied\nMy proffer'd friendship, and my promis'd bride;\nLeft me for Turnus. Turnus then should try\nHis cause in arms, to conquer or to die.\nMy right and his are in dispute: the slain\nFell without fault, our quarrel to maintain.\nIn equal arms let us alone contend;\nAnd let him vanquish, whom his fates befriend.\nThis is the way (so tell him) to possess\nThe royal virgin, and restore the peace.\nBear this message back, with ample leave,\nThat your slain friends may fun'ral rites receive.\"\nThus having said- th' embassadors, amaz'd,\nStood mute a while, and on each other gaz'd.\nDrances, their chief, who harbor'd in his breast\nLong hate to Turnus, as his foe profess'd,\nBroke silence first, and to the godlike man,\nWith graceful action bowing, thus began:\n\"Auspicious prince, in arms a mighty name,\nBut yet whose actions far transcend your fame;\nWould I your justice or your force express,\nThought can but equal; and all words are less.\nYour answer we shall thankfully relate,\nAnd favors granted to the Latian state.\nIf wish'd success our labor shall attend,\nThink peace concluded, and the king your friend:\nLet Turnus leave the realm to your command,\nAnd seek alliance in some other land:\nBuild you the city which your fates assign;\nWe shall be proud in the great work to join.\"\nThus Drances; and his words so well persuade\nThe rest impower'd, that soon a truce is made.\nTwelve days the term allow'd: and, during those,\nLatians and Trojans, now no longer foes,\nMix'd in the woods, for fun'ral piles prepare\nTo fell the timber, and forget the war.\nLoud axes thro' the groaning groves resound;\nOak, mountain ash, and poplar spread the ground;\nFirst fall from high; and some the trunks receive\nIn loaden wains; with wedges some they cleave.\nAnd now the fatal news by Fame is blown\nThro' the short circuit of th' Arcadian town,\nOf Pallas slain- by Fame, which just before\nHis triumphs on distended pinions bore.\nRushing from out the gate, the people stand,\nEach with a fun'ral flambeau in his hand.\nWildly they stare, distracted with amaze:\nThe fields are lighten'd with a fiery blaze,\nThat cast a sullen splendor on their friends,\nThe marching troop which their dead prince attends.\nBoth parties meet: they raise a doleful cry;\nThe matrons from the walls with shrieks reply,\nAnd their mix'd mourning rends the vaulted sky.\nThe town is fill'd with tumult and with tears,\nTill the loud clamors reach Evander's ears:\nForgetful of his state, he runs along,\nWith a disorder'd pace, and cleaves the throng;\nFalls on the corpse; and groaning there he lies,\nWith silent grief, that speaks but at his eyes.\nShort sighs and sobs succeed; till sorrow breaks\nA passage, and at once he weeps and speaks:\n\"O Pallas! thou hast fail'd thy plighted word,\nTo fight with caution, not to tempt the sword!\nI warn'd thee, but in vain; for well I knew\nWhat perils youthful ardor would pursue,\nThat boiling blood would carry thee too far,\nYoung as thou wert in dangers, raw to war!\nO curst essay of arms, disastrous doom,\nPrelude of bloody fields, and fights to come!\nHard elements of unauspicious war,\nVain vows to Heav'n, and unavailing care!\nThrice happy thou, dear partner of my bed,\nWhose holy soul the stroke of Fortune fled,\nPraescious of ills, and leaving me behind,\nTo drink the dregs of life by fate assign'd!\nBeyond the goal of nature I have gone:\nMy Pallas late set out, but reach'd too soon.\nIf, for my league against th' Ausonian state,\nAmidst their weapons I had found my fate,\n(Deserv'd from them,) then I had been return'd\nA breathless victor, and my son had mourn'd.\nYet will I not my Trojan friend upbraid,\nNor grudge th' alliance I so gladly made.\n'T was not his fault, my Pallas fell so young,\nBut my own crime, for having liv'd too long.\nYet, since the gods had destin'd him to die,\nAt least he led the way to victory:\nFirst for his friends he won the fatal shore,\nAnd sent whole herds of slaughter'd foes before;\nA death too great, too glorious to deplore.\nNor will I add new honors to thy grave,\nContent with those the Trojan hero gave:\nThat funeral pomp thy Phrygian friends design'd,\nIn which the Tuscan chiefs and army join'd.\nGreat spoils and trophies, gain'd by thee, they bear:\nThen let thy own achievements be thy share.\nEven thou, O Turnus, hadst a trophy stood,\nWhose mighty trunk had better grac'd the wood,\nIf Pallas had arriv'd, with equal length\nOf years, to match thy bulk with equal strength.\nBut why, unhappy man, dost thou detain\nThese troops, to view the tears thou shedd'st in vain?\nGo, friends, this message to your lord relate:\nTell him, that, if I bear my bitter fate,\nAnd, after Pallas' death, live ling'ring on,\n'T is to behold his vengeance for my son.\nI stay for Turnus, whose devoted head\nIs owing to the living and the dead.\nMy son and I expect it from his hand;\n'T is all that he can give, or we demand.\nJoy is no more; but I would gladly go,\nTo greet my Pallas with such news below.\"\nThe morn had now dispell'd the shades of night,\nRestoring toils, when she restor'd the light.\nThe Trojan king and Tuscan chief command\nTo raise the piles along the winding strand.\nTheir friends convey the dead fun'ral fires;\nBlack smold'ring smoke from the green wood expires;\nThe light of heav'n is chok'd, and the new day retires.\nThen thrice around the kindled piles they go\n(For ancient custom had ordain'd it so)\nThrice horse and foot about the fires are led;\nAnd thrice, with loud laments, they hail the dead.\nTears, trickling down their breasts, bedew the ground,\nAnd drums and trumpets mix their mournful sound.\nAmid the blaze, their pious brethren throw\nThe spoils, in battle taken from the foe:\nHelms, bits emboss'd, and swords of shining steel;\nOne casts a target, one a chariot wheel;\nSome to their fellows their own arms restore:\nThe fauchions which in luckless fight they bore,\nTheir bucklers pierc'd, their darts bestow'd in vain,\nAnd shiver'd lances gather'd from the plain.\nWhole herds of offer'd bulls, about the fire,\nAnd bristled boars, and woolly sheep expire.\nAround the piles a careful troop attends,\nTo watch the wasting flames, and weep their burning friends;\nLing'ring along the shore, till dewy night\nNew decks the face of heav'n with starry light.\nThe conquer'd Latians, with like pious care,\nPiles without number for their dead prepare.\nPart in the places where they fell are laid;\nAnd part are to the neighb'ring fields convey'd.\nThe corps of kings, and captains of renown,\nBorne off in state, are buried in the town;\nThe rest, unhonor'd, and without a name,\nAre cast a common heap to feed the flame.\nTrojans and Latians vie with like desires\nTo make the field of battle shine with fires,\nAnd the promiscuous blaze to heav'n aspires.\nNow had the morning thrice renew'd the light,\nAnd thrice dispell'd the shadows of the night,\nWhen those who round the wasted fires remain,\nPerform the last sad office to the slain.\nThey rake the yet warm ashes from below;\nThese, and the bones unburn'd, in earth bestow;\nThese relics with their country rites they grace,\nAnd raise a mount of turf to mark the place.\nBut, in the palace of the king, appears\nA scene more solemn, and a pomp of tears.\nMaids, matrons, widows, mix their common moans;\nOrphans their sires, and sires lament their sons.\nAll in that universal sorrow share,\nAnd curse the cause of this unhappy war:\nA broken league, a bride unjustly sought,\nA crown usurp'd, which with their blood is bought!\nThese are the crimes with which they load the name\nOf Turnus, and on him alone exclaim:\n\"Let him who lords it o'er th' Ausonian land\nEngage the Trojan hero hand to hand:\nHis is the gain; our lot is but to serve;\n'T is just, the sway he seeks, he should deserve.\"\nThis Drances aggravates; and adds, with spite:\n\"His foe expects, and dares him to the fight.\"\nNor Turnus wants a party, to support\nHis cause and credit in the Latian court.\nHis former acts secure his present fame,\nAnd the queen shades him with her mighty name.\nWhile thus their factious minds with fury burn,\nThe legates from th' Aetolian prince return:\nSad news they bring, that, after all the cost\nAnd care employ'd, their embassy is lost;\nThat Diomedes refus'd his aid in war,\nUnmov'd with presents, and as deaf to pray'r.\nSome new alliance must elsewhere be sought,\nOr peace with Troy on hard conditions bought.\nLatinus, sunk in sorrow, finds too late,\nA foreign son is pointed out by fate;\nAnd, till Aeneas shall Lavinia wed,\nThe wrath of Heav'n is hov'ring o'er his head.\nThe gods, he saw, espous'd the juster side,\nWhen late their titles in the field were tried:\nWitness the fresh laments, and fun'ral tears undried.\nThus, full of anxious thought, he summons all\nThe Latian senate to the council hall.\nThe princes come, commanded by their head,\nAnd crowd the paths that to the palace lead.\nSupreme in pow'r, and reverenc'd for his years,\nHe takes the throne, and in the midst appears.\nMajestically sad, he sits in state,\nAnd bids his envoys their success relate.\nWhen Venulus began, the murmuring sound\nWas hush'd, and sacred silence reign'd around.\n\"We have,\" said he, \"perform'd your high command,\nAnd pass'd with peril a long tract of land:\nWe reach'd the place desir'd; with wonder fill'd,\nThe Grecian tents and rising tow'rs beheld.\nGreat Diomede has compass'd round with walls\nThe city, which Argyripa he calls,\nFrom his own Argos nam'd. We touch'd, with joy,\nThe royal hand that raz'd unhappy Troy.\nWhen introduc'd, our presents first we bring,\nThen crave an instant audience from the king.\nHis leave obtain'd, our native soil we name,\nAnd tell th' important cause for which we came.\nAttentively he heard us, while we spoke;\nThen, with soft accents, and a pleasing look,\nMade this return: 'Ausonian race, of old\nRenown'd for peace, and for an age of gold,\nWhat madness has your alter'd minds possess'd,\nTo change for war hereditary rest,\nSolicit arms unknown, and tempt the sword,\nA needless ill your ancestors abhorr'd?\nWe- for myself I speak, and all the name\nOf Grecians, who to Troy's destruction came,\nOmitting those who were in battle slain,\nOr borne by rolling Simois to the main-\nNot one but suffer'd, and too dearly bought\nThe prize of honor which in arms he sought;\nSome doom'd to death, and some in exile driv'n.\nOutcasts, abandon'd by the care of Heav'n;\nSo worn, so wretched, so despis'd a crew,\nAs ev'n old Priam might with pity view.\nWitness the vessels by Minerva toss'd\nIn storms; the vengeful Capharean coast;\nTh' Euboean rocks! the prince, whose brother led\nOur armies to revenge his injur'd bed,\nIn Egypt lost! Ulysses with his men\nHave seen Charybdis and the Cyclops' den.\nWhy should I name Idomeneus, in vain\nRestor'd to scepters, and expell'd again?\nOr young Achilles, by his rival slain?\nEv'n he, the King of Men, the foremost name\nOf all the Greeks, and most renown'd by fame,\nThe proud revenger of another's wife,\nYet by his own adult'ress lost his life;\nFell at his threshold; and the spoils of Troy\nThe foul polluters of his bed enjoy.\nThe gods have envied me the sweets of life,\nMy much lov'd country, and my more lov'd wife:\nBanish'd from both, I mourn; while in the sky,\nTransform'd to birds, my lost companions fly:\nHov'ring about the coasts, they make their moan,\nAnd cuff the cliffs with pinions not their own.\nWhat squalid specters, in the dead of night,\nBreak my short sleep, and skim before my sight!\nI might have promis'd to myself those harms,\nMad as I was, when I, with mortal arms,\nPresum'd against immortal pow'rs to move,\nAnd violate with wounds the Queen of Love.\nSuch arms this hand shall never more employ;\nNo hate remains with me to ruin'd Troy.\nI war not with its dust; nor am I glad\nTo think of past events, or good or bad.\nYour presents I return: whate'er you bring\nTo buy my friendship, send the Trojan king.\nWe met in fight; I know him, to my cost:\nWith what a whirling force his lance he toss'd!\nHeav'ns! what a spring was in his arm, to throw!\nHow high he held his shield, and rose at ev'ry blow!\nHad Troy produc'd two more his match in might,\nThey would have chang'd the fortune of the fight:\nTh' invasion of the Greeks had been return'd,\nOur empire wasted, and our cities burn'd.\nThe long defense the Trojan people made,\nThe war protracted, and the siege delay'd,\nWere due to Hector's and this hero's hand:\nBoth brave alike, and equal in command;\nAeneas, not inferior in the field,\nIn pious reverence to the gods excell'd.\nMake peace, ye Latians, and avoid with care\nTh' impending dangers of a fatal war.'\nHe said no more; but, with this cold excuse,\nRefus'd th' alliance, and advis'd a truce.\"\nThus Venulus concluded his report.\nA jarring murmur fill'd the factious court:\nAs, when a torrent rolls with rapid force,\nAnd dashes o'er the stones that stop the course,\nThe flood, constrain'd within a scanty space,\nRoars horrible along th' uneasy race;\nWhite foam in gath'ring eddies floats around;\nThe rocky shores rebellow to the sound.\nThe murmur ceas'd: then from his lofty throne\nThe king invok'd the gods, and thus begun:\n\"I wish, ye Latins, what we now debate\nHad been resolv'd before it was too late.\nMuch better had it been for you and me,\nUnforc'd by this our last necessity,\nTo have been earlier wise, than now to call\nA council, when the foe surrounds the wall.\nO citizens, we wage unequal war,\nWith men not only Heav'n's peculiar care,\nBut Heav'n's own race; unconquer'd in the field,\nOr, conquer'd, yet unknowing how to yield.\nWhat hopes you had in Diomedes, lay down:\nOur hopes must center on ourselves alone.\nYet those how feeble, and, indeed, how vain,\nYou see too well; nor need my words explain.\nVanquish'd without resource; laid flat by fate;\nFactions within, a foe without the gate!\nNot but I grant that all perform'd their parts\nWith manly force, and with undaunted hearts:\nWith our united strength the war we wag'd;\nWith equal numbers, equal arms, engag'd.\nYou see th' event.- Now hear what I propose,\nTo save our friends, and satisfy our foes.\nA tract of land the Latins have possess'd\nAlong the Tiber, stretching to the west,\nWhich now Rutulians and Auruncans till,\nAnd their mix'd cattle graze the fruitful hill.\nThose mountains fill'd with firs, that lower land,\nIf you consent, the Trojan shall command,\nCall'd into part of what is ours; and there,\nOn terms agreed, the common country share.\nThere let'em build and settle, if they please;\nUnless they choose once more to cross the seas,\nIn search of seats remote from Italy,\nAnd from unwelcome inmates set us free.\nThen twice ten galleys let us build with speed,\nOr twice as many more, if more they need.\nMaterials are at hand; a well-grown wood\nRuns equal with the margin of the flood:\nLet them the number and the form assign;\nThe care and cost of all the stores be mine.\nTo treat the peace, a hundred senators\nShall be commission'd hence with ample pow'rs,\nWith olive the presents they shall bear,\nA purple robe, a royal iv'ry chair,\nAnd all the marks of sway that Latian monarchs wear,\nAnd sums of gold. Among yourselves debate\nThis great affair, and save the sinking state.\"\nThen Drances took the word, who grudg'd, long since,\nThe rising glories of the Daunian prince.\nFactious and rich, bold at the council board,\nBut cautious in the field, he shunn'd the sword;\nA close caballer, and tongue-valiant lord.\nNoble his mother was, and near the throne;\nBut, what his father's parentage, unknown.\nHe rose, and took th' advantage of the times,\nTo load young Turnus with invidious crimes.\n\"Such truths, O king,\" said he, \"your words contain,\nAs strike the sense, and all replies are vain;\nNor are your loyal subjects now to seek\nWhat common needs require, but fear to speak.\nLet him give leave of speech, that haughty man,\nWhose pride this unauspicious war began;\nFor whose ambition (let me dare to say,\nFear set apart, tho' death is in my way)\nThe plains of Latium run with blood around.\nSo many valiant heroes bite the ground;\nDejected grief in ev'ry face appears;\nA town in mourning, and a land in tears;\nWhile he, th' undoubted author of our harms,\nThe man who menaces the gods with arms,\nYet, after all his boasts, forsook the fight,\nAnd sought his safety in ignoble flight.\nNow, best of kings, since you propose to send\nSuch bounteous presents to your Trojan friend;\nAdd yet a greater at our joint request,\nOne which he values more than all the rest:\nGive him the fair Lavinia for his bride;\nWith that alliance let the league be tied,\nAnd for the bleeding land a lasting peace provide.\nLet insolence no longer awe the throne;\nBut, with a father's right, bestow your own.\nFor this maligner of the general good,\nIf still we fear his force, he must be woo'd;\nHis haughty godhead we with pray'rs implore,\nYour scepter to release, and our just rights restore.\nO cursed cause of all our ills, must we\nWage wars unjust, and fall in fight, for thee!\nWhat right hast thou to rule the Latian state,\nAnd send us out to meet our certain fate?\n'T is a destructive war: from Turnus' hand\nOur peace and public safety we demand.\nLet the fair bride to the brave chief remain;\nIf not, the peace, without the pledge, is vain.\nTurnus, I know you think me not your friend,\nNor will I much with your belief contend:\nI beg your greatness not to give the law\nIn others' realms, but, beaten, to withdraw.\nPity your own, or pity our estate;\nNor twist our fortunes with your sinking fate.\nYour interest is, the war should never cease;\nBut we have felt enough to wish the peace:\nA land exhausted to the last remains,\nDepopulated towns, and driven plains.\nYet, if desire of fame, and thirst of pow'r,\nA beauteous princess, with a crown in dow'r,\nSo fire your mind, in arms assert your right,\nAnd meet your foe, who dares you to the fight.\nMankind, it seems, is made for you alone;\nWe, but the slaves who mount you to the throne:\nA base ignoble crowd, without a name,\nUnwept, unworthy, of the fun'ral flame,\nBy duty bound to forfeit each his life,\nThat Turnus may possess a royal wife.\nPermit not, mighty man, so mean a crew\nShould share such triumphs, and detain from you\nThe post of honor, your undoubted due.\nRather alone your matchless force employ,\nTo merit what alone you must enjoy.\"\nThese words, so full of malice mix'd with art,\nInflam'd with rage the youthful hero's heart.\nThen, groaning from the bottom of his breast,\nHe heav'd for wind, and thus his wrath express'd:\n\"You, Drances, never want a stream of words,\nThen, when the public need requires our swords.\nFirst in the council hall to steer the state,\nAnd ever foremost in a tongue-debate,\nWhile our strong walls secure us from the foe,\nEre yet with blood our ditches overflow:\nBut let the potent orator declaim,\nAnd with the brand of coward blot my name;\nFree leave is giv'n him, when his fatal hand\nHas cover'd with more corps the sanguine strand,\nAnd high as mine his tow'ring trophies stand.\nIf any doubt remains, who dares the most,\nLet us decide it at the Trojan's cost,\nAnd issue both abreast, where honor calls-\nFoes are not far to seek without the walls-\nUnless his noisy tongue can only fight,\nAnd feet were giv'n him but to speed his flight.\nI beaten from the field? I forc'd away?\nWho, but so known a dastard, dares to say?\nHad he but ev'n beheld the fight, his eyes\nHad witness'd for me what his tongue denies:\nWhat heaps of Trojans by this hand were slain,\nAnd how the bloody Tiber swell'd the main.\nAll saw, but he, th' Arcadian troops retire\nIn scatter'd squadrons, and their prince expire.\nThe giant brothers, in their camp, have found,\nI was not forc'd with ease to quit my ground.\nNot such the Trojans tried me, when, inclos'd,\nI singly their united arms oppos'd:\nFirst forc'd an entrance thro' their thick array;\nThen, glutted with their slaughter, freed my way.\n'T is a destructive war? So let it be,\nBut to the Phrygian pirate, and to thee!\nMeantime proceed to fill the people's ears\nWith false reports, their minds with panic fears:\nExtol the strength of a twice-conquer'd race;\nOur foes encourage, and our friends debase.\nBelieve thy fables, and the Trojan town\nTriumphant stands; the Grecians are o'erthrown;\nSuppliant at Hector's feet Achilles lies,\nAnd Diomede from fierce Aeneas flies.\nSay rapid Aufidus with awful dread\nRuns backward from the sea, and hides his head,\nWhen the great Trojan on his bank appears;\nFor that's as true as thy dissembled fears\nOf my revenge. Dismiss that vanity:\nThou, Drances, art below a death from me.\nLet that vile soul in that vile body rest;\nThe lodging is well worthy of the guest.\n\"Now, royal father, to the present state\nOf our affairs, and of this high debate:\nIf in your arms thus early you diffide,\nAnd think your fortune is already tried;\nIf one defeat has brought us down so low,\nAs never more in fields to meet the foe;\nThen I conclude for peace: 't is time to treat,\nAnd lie like vassals at the victor's feet.\nBut, O! if any ancient blood remains,\nOne drop of all our fathers', in our veins,\nThat man would I prefer before the rest,\nWho dar'd his death with an undaunted breast;\nWho comely fell, by no dishonest wound,\nTo shun that sight, and, dying, gnaw'd the ground.\nBut, if we still have fresh recruits in store,\nIf our confederates can afford us more;\nIf the contended field we bravely fought,\nAnd not a bloodless victory was bought;\nTheir losses equal'd ours; and, for their slain,\nWith equal fires they fill'd the shining plain;\nWhy thus, unforc'd, should we so tamely yield,\nAnd, ere the trumpet sounds, resign the field?\nGood unexpected, evils unforeseen,\nAppear by turns, as fortune shifts the scene:\nSome, rais'd aloft, come tumbling down amain;\nThen fall so hard, they bound and rise again.\nIf Diomede refuse his aid to lend,\nThe great Messapus yet remains our friend:\nTolumnius, who foretells events, is ours;\nTh' Italian chiefs and princes join their pow'rs:\nNor least in number, nor in name the last,\nYour own brave subjects have your cause embrac'd\nAbove the rest, the Volscian Amazon\nContains an army in herself alone,\nAnd heads a squadron, terrible to sight,\nWith glitt'ring shields, in brazen armor bright.\nYet, if the foe a single fight demand,\nAnd I alone the public peace withstand;\nIf you consent, he shall not be refus'd,\nNor find a hand to victory unus'd.\nThis new Achilles, let him take the field,\nWith fated armor, and Vulcanian shield!\nFor you, my royal father, and my fame,\nI, Turnus, not the least of all my name,\nDevote my soul. He calls me hand to hand,\nAnd I alone will answer his demand.\nDrances shall rest secure, and neither share\nThe danger, nor divide the prize of war.\"\nWhile they debate, nor these nor those will yield,\nAeneas draws his forces to the field,\nAnd moves his camp. The scouts with flying speed\nReturn, and thro' the frighted city spread\nTh' unpleasing news, the Trojans are descried,\nIn battle marching by the river side,\nAnd bending to the town. They take th' alarm:\nSome tremble, some are bold; all in confusion arm.\nTh' impetuous youth press forward to the field;\nThey clash the sword, and clatter on the shield:\nThe fearful matrons raise a screaming cry;\nOld feeble men with fainter groans reply;\nA jarring sound results, and mingles in the sky,\nLike that of swans remurm'ring to the floods,\nOr birds of diff'ring kinds in hollow woods.\nTurnus th' occasion takes, and cries aloud:\n\"Talk on, ye quaint haranguers of the crowd:\nDeclaim in praise of peace, when danger calls,\nAnd the fierce foes in arms approach the walls.\"\nHe said, and, turning short, with speedy pace,\nCasts back a scornful glance, and quits the place:\n\"Thou, Volusus, the Volscian troops command\nTo mount; and lead thyself our Ardean band.\nMessapus and Catillus, post your force\nAlong the fields, to charge the Trojan horse.\nSome guard the passes, others man the wall;\nDrawn up in arms, the rest attend my call.\"\nThey swarm from ev'ry quarter of the town,\nAnd with disorder'd haste the rampires crown.\nGood old Latinus, when he saw, too late,\nThe gath'ring storm just breaking on the state,\nDismiss'd the council till a fitter time,\nAnd own'd his easy temper as his crime,\nWho, forc'd against his reason, had complied\nTo break the treaty for the promis'd bride.\nSome help to sink new trenches; others aid\nTo ram the stones, or raise the palisade.\nHoarse trumpets sound th' alarm; around the walls\nRuns a distracted crew, whom their last labor calls.\nA sad procession in the streets is seen,\nOf matrons, that attend the mother queen:\nHigh in her chair she sits, and, at her side,\nWith downcast eyes, appears the fatal bride.\nThey mount the cliff, where Pallas' temple stands;\nPray'rs in their mouths, and presents in their hands,\nWith censers first they fume the sacred shrine,\nThen in this common supplication join:\n\"O patroness of arms, unspotted maid,\nPropitious hear, and lend thy Latins aid!\nBreak short the pirate's lance; pronounce his fate,\nAnd lay the Phrygian low before the gate.\"\nNow Turnus arms for fight. His back and breast\nWell-temper'd steel and scaly brass invest:\nThe cuishes which his brawny thighs infold\nAre mingled metal damask'd o'er with gold.\nHis faithful fauchion sits upon his side;\nNor casque, nor crest, his manly features hide:\nBut, bare to view, amid surrounding friends,\nWith godlike grace, he from the tow'r descends.\nExulting in his strength, he seems to dare\nHis absent rival, and to promise war.\nFreed from his keepers, thus, with broken reins,\nThe wanton courser prances o'er the plains,\nOr in the pride of youth o'erleaps the mounds,\nAnd snuffs the females in forbidden grounds.\nOr seeks his wat'ring in the well-known flood,\nTo quench his thirst, and cool his fiery blood:\nHe swims luxuriant in the liquid plain,\nAnd o'er his shoulder flows his waving mane:\nHe neighs, he snorts, he bears his head on high;\nBefore his ample chest the frothy waters fly.\nSoon as the prince appears without the gate,\nThe Volscians, with their virgin leader, wait\nHis last commands. Then, with a graceful mien,\nLights from her lofty steed the warrior queen:\nHer squadron imitates, and each descends;\nWhose common suit Camilla thus commends:\n\"If sense of honor, if a soul secure\nOf inborn worth, that can all tests endure,\nCan promise aught, or on itself rely\nGreatly to dare, to conquer or to die;\nThen, I alone, sustain'd by these, will meet\nThe Tyrrhene troops, and promise their defeat.\nOurs be the danger, ours the sole renown:\nYou, gen'ral, stay behind, and guard the town:\"\nTurnus a while stood mute, with glad surprise,\nAnd on the fierce virago fix'd his eyes;\nThen thus return'd: \"O grace of Italy,\nWith what becoming thanks can I reply?\nNot only words lie lab'ring in my breast,\nBut thought itself is by thy praise oppress'd.\nYet rob me not of all; but let me join\nMy toils, my hazard, and my fame, with thine.\nThe Trojan, not in stratagem unskill'd,\nSends his light horse before to scour the field:\nHimself, thro' steep ascents and thorny brakes,\nA larger compass to the city takes.\nThis news my scouts confirm, and I prepare\nTo foil his cunning, and his force to dare;\nWith chosen foot his passage to forelay,\nAnd place an ambush in the winding way.\nThou, with thy Volscians, face the Tuscan horse;\nThe brave Messapus shall thy troops inforce\nWith those of Tibur, and the Latian band,\nSubjected all to thy supreme command.\"\nThis said, he warns Messapus to the war,\nThen ev'ry chief exhorts with equal care.\nAll thus encourag'd, his own troops he joins,\nAnd hastes to prosecute his deep designs.\nInclos'd with hills, a winding valley lies,\nBy nature form'd for fraud, and fitted for surprise.\nA narrow track, by human steps untrode,\nLeads, thro' perplexing thorns, to this obscure abode.\nHigh o'er the vale a steepy mountain stands,\nWhence the surveying sight the nether ground commands.\nThe top is level, an offensive seat\nOf war; and from the war a safe retreat:\nFor, on the right and left, is room to press\nThe foes at hand, or from afar distress;\nTo drive 'em headlong downward, and to pour\nOn their descending backs a stony show'r.\nThither young Turnus took the well-known way,\nPossess'd the pass, and in blind ambush lay.\nMeantime Latonian Phoebe, from the skies,\nBeheld th' approaching war with hateful eyes,\nAnd call'd the light-foot Opis to her aid,\nHer most belov'd and ever-trusty maid;\nThen with a sigh began: \"Camilla goes\nTo meet her death amidst her fatal foes:\nThe nymphs I lov'd of all my mortal train,\nInvested with Diana's arms, in vain.\nNor is my kindness for the virgin new:\n'T was born with her; and with her years it grew.\nHer father Metabus, when forc'd away\nFrom old Privernum, for tyrannic sway,\nSnatch'd up, and sav'd from his prevailing foes,\nThis tender babe, companion of his woes.\nCasmilla was her mother; but he drown'd\nOne hissing letter in a softer sound,\nAnd call'd Camilla. Thro' the woods he flies;\nWrapp'd in his robe the royal infant lies.\nHis foes in sight, he mends his weary pace;\nWith shout and clamors they pursue the chase.\nThe banks of Amasene at length he gains:\nThe raging flood his farther flight restrains,\nRais'd o'er the borders with unusual rains.\nPrepar'd to plunge into the stream, he fears,\nNot for himself, but for the charge he bears.\nAnxious, he stops a while, and thinks in haste;\nThen, desp'rate in distress, resolves at last.\nA knotty lance of well-boil'd oak he bore;\nThe middle part with cork he cover'd o'er:\nHe clos'd the child within the hollow space;\nWith twigs of bending osier bound the case;\nThen pois'd the spear, heavy with human weight,\nAnd thus invok'd my favor for the freight:\n'Accept, great goddess of the woods,' he said,\n'Sent by her sire, this dedicated maid!\nThro' air she flies a suppliant to thy shrine;\nAnd the first weapons that she knows, are thine.'\nHe said; and with full force the spear he threw:\nAbove the sounding waves Camilla flew.\nThen, press'd by foes, he stemm'd the stormy tide,\nAnd gain'd, by stress of arms, the farther side.\nHis fasten'd spear he pull'd from out the ground,\nAnd, victor of his vows, his infant nymph unbound;\nNor, after that, in towns which walls inclose,\nWould trust his hunted life amidst his foes;\nBut, rough, in open air he chose to lie;\nEarth was his couch, his cov'ring was the sky.\nOn hills unshorn, or in a desart den,\nHe shunn'd the dire society of men.\nA shepherd's solitary life he led;\nHis daughter with the milk of mares he fed.\nThe dugs of bears, and ev'ry salvage beast,\nHe drew, and thro' her lips the liquor press'd.\nThe little Amazon could scarcely go:\nHe loads her with a quiver and a bow;\nAnd, that she might her stagg'ring steps command,\nHe with a slender jav'lin fills her hand.\nHer flowing hair no golden fillet bound;\nNor swept her trailing robe the dusty ground.\nInstead of these, a tiger's hide o'erspread\nHer back and shoulders, fasten'd to her head.\nThe flying dart she first attempts to fling,\nAnd round her tender temples toss'd the sling;\nThen, as her strength with years increas'd, began\nTo pierce aloft in air the soaring swan,\nAnd from the clouds to fetch the heron and the crane.\nThe Tuscan matrons with each other vied,\nTo bless their rival sons with such a bride;\nBut she disdains their love, to share with me\nThe sylvan shades and vow'd virginity.\nAnd, O! I wish, contented with my cares\nOf salvage spoils, she had not sought the wars!\nThen had she been of my celestial train,\nAnd shunn'd the fate that dooms her to be slain.\nBut since, opposing Heav'n's decree, she goes\nTo find her death among forbidden foes,\nHaste with these arms, and take thy steepy flight.\nWhere, with the gods, averse, the Latins fight.\nThis bow to thee, this quiver I bequeath,\nThis chosen arrow, to revenge her death:\nBy whate'er hand Camilla shall be slain,\nOr of the Trojan or Italian train,\nLet him not pass unpunish'd from the plain.\nThen, in a hollow cloud, myself will aid\nTo bear the breathless body of my maid:\nUnspoil'd shall be her arms, and unprofan'd\nHer holy limbs with any human hand,\nAnd in a marble tomb laid in her native land.\"\nShe said. The faithful nymph descends from high\nWith rapid flight, and cuts the sounding sky:\nBlack clouds and stormy winds around her body fly.\nBy this, the Trojan and the Tuscan horse,\nDrawn up in squadrons, with united force,\nApproach the walls: the sprightly coursers bound,\nPress forward on their bits, and shift their ground.\nShields, arms, and spears flash horribly from far;\nAnd the fields glitter with a waving war.\nOppos'd to these, come on with furious force\nMessapus, Coras, and the Latian horse;\nThese in the body plac'd, on either hand\nSustain'd and clos'd by fair Camilla's band.\nAdvancing in a line, they couch their spears;\nAnd less and less the middle space appears.\nThick smoke obscures the field; and scarce are seen\nThe neighing coursers, and the shouting men.\nIn distance of their darts they stop their course;\nThen man to man they rush, and horse to horse.\nThe face of heav'n their flying jav'lins hide,\nAnd deaths unseen are dealt on either side.\nTyrrhenus, and Aconteus, void of fear,\nBy mettled coursers borne in full career,\nMeet first oppos'd; and, with a mighty shock,\nTheir horses' heads against each other knock.\nFar from his steed is fierce Aconteus cast,\nAs with an engine's force, or lightning's blast:\nHe rolls along in blood, and breathes his last.\nThe Latin squadrons take a sudden fright,\nAnd sling their shields behind, to save their backs in flight\nSpurring at speed to their own walls they drew;\nClose in the rear the Tuscan troops pursue,\nAnd urge their flight: Asylas leads the chase;\nTill, seiz'd, with shame, they wheel about and face,\nReceive their foes, and raise a threat'ning cry.\nThe Tuscans take their turn to fear and fly.\nSo swelling surges, with a thund'ring roar,\nDriv'n on each other's backs, insult the shore,\nBound o'er the rocks, incroach upon the land,\nAnd far upon the beach eject the sand;\nThen backward, with a swing, they take their way,\nRepuls'd from upper ground, and seek their mother sea;\nWith equal hurry quit th' invaded shore,\nAnd swallow back the sand and stones they spew'd before.\nTwice were the Tuscans masters of the field,\nTwice by the Latins, in their turn, repell'd.\nAsham'd at length, to the third charge they ran;\nBoth hosts resolv'd, and mingled man to man.\nNow dying groans are heard; the fields are strow'd\nWith falling bodies, and are drunk with blood.\nArms, horses, men, on heaps together lie:\nConfus'd the fight, and more confus'd the cry.\nOrsilochus, who durst not press too near\nStrong Remulus, at distance drove his spear,\nAnd stuck the steel beneath his horse's ear.\nThe fiery steed, impatient of the wound,\nCurvets, and, springing upward with a bound,\nHis helpless lord cast backward on the ground.\nCatillus pierc'd Iolas first; then drew\nHis reeking lance, and at Herminius threw,\nThe mighty champion of the Tuscan crew.\nHis neck and throat unarm'd, his head was bare,\nBut shaded with a length of yellow hair:\nSecure, he fought, expos'd on ev'ry part,\nA spacious mark for swords, and for the flying dart.\nAcross the shoulders came the feather'd wound;\nTransfix'd he fell, and doubled to the ground.\nThe sands with streaming blood are sanguine dyed,\nAnd death with honor sought on either side.\nResistless thro' the war Camilla rode,\nIn danger unappall'd, and pleas'd with blood.\nOne side was bare for her exerted breast;\nOne shoulder with her painted quiver press'd.\nNow from afar her fatal jav'lins play;\nNow with her ax's edge she hews her way:\nDiana's arms upon her shoulder sound;\nAnd when, too closely press'd, she quits the ground,\nFrom her bent bow she sends a backward wound.\nHer maids, in martial pomp, on either side,\nLarina, Tulla, fierce Tarpeia, ride:\nItalians all; in peace, their queen's delight;\nIn war, the bold companions of the fight.\nSo march'd the Tracian Amazons of old,\nWhen Thermodon with bloody billows roll'd:\nSuch troops as these in shining arms were seen,\nWhen Theseus met in fight their maiden queen:\nSuch to the field Penthisilea led,\nFrom the fierce virgin when the Grecians fled;\nWith such, return'd triumphant from the war,\nHer maids with cries attend the lofty car;\nThey clash with manly force their moony shields;\nWith female shouts resound the Phrygian fields.\nWho foremost, and who last, heroic maid,\nOn the cold earth were by thy courage laid?\nThy spear, of mountain ash, Eumenius first,\nWith fury driv'n, from side to side transpierc'd:\nA purple stream came spouting from the wound;\nBath'd in his blood he lies, and bites the ground.\nLiris and Pegasus at once she slew:\nThe former, as the slacken'd reins he drew\nOf his faint steed; the latter, as he stretch'd\nHis arm to prop his friend, the jav'lin reach'd.\nBy the same weapon, sent from the same hand,\nBoth fall together, and both spurn the sand.\nAmastrus next is added to the slain:\nThe rest in rout she follows o'er the plain:\nTereus, Harpalycus, Demophoon,\nAnd Chromis, at full speed her fury shun.\nOf all her deadly darts, not one she lost;\nEach was attended with a Trojan ghost.\nYoung Ornithus bestrode a hunter steed,\nSwift for the chase, and of Apulian breed.\nHim from afar she spied, in arms unknown:\nO'er his broad back an ox's hide was thrown;\nHis helm a wolf, whose gaping jaws were spread\nA cov'ring for his cheeks, and grinn'd around his head,\nHe clench'd within his hand an iron prong,\nAnd tower'd above the rest, conspicuous in the throng.\nHim soon she singled from the flying train,\nAnd slew with ease; then thus insults the slain:\n\"Vain hunter, didst thou think thro' woods to chase\nThe savage herd, a vile and trembling race?\nHere cease thy vaunts, and own my victory:\nA woman warrior was too strong for thee.\nYet, if the ghosts demand the conqu'ror's name,\nConfessing great Camilla, save thy shame.\"\nThen Butes and Orsilochus she slew,\nThe bulkiest bodies of the Trojan crew;\nBut Butes breast to breast: the spear descends\nAbove the gorget, where his helmet ends,\nAnd o'er the shield which his left side defends.\nOrsilochus and she their courses ply:\nHe seems to follow, and she seems to fly;\nBut in a narrower ring she makes the race;\nAnd then he flies, and she pursues the chase.\nGath'ring at length on her deluded foe,\nShe swings her ax, and rises to the blow\nFull on the helm behind, with such a sway\nThe weapon falls, the riven steel gives way:\nHe groans, he roars, he sues in vain for grace;\nBrains, mingled with his blood, besmear his face.\nAstonish'd Aunus just arrives by chance,\nTo see his fall; nor farther dares advance;\nBut, fixing on the horrid maid his eye,\nHe stares, and shakes, and finds it vain to fly;\nYet, like a true Ligurian, born to cheat,\n(At least while fortune favor'd his deceit,)\nCries out aloud: \"What courage have you shown,\nWho trust your courser's strength, and not your own?\nForego the vantage of your horse, alight,\nAnd then on equal terms begin the fight:\nIt shall be seen, weak woman, what you can,\nWhen, foot to foot, you combat with a man,\"\nHe said. She glows with anger and disdain,\nDismounts with speed to dare him on the plain,\nAnd leaves her horse at large among her train;\nWith her drawn sword defies him to the field,\nAnd, marching, lifts aloft her maiden shield.\nThe youth, who thought his cunning did succeed,\nReins round his horse, and urges all his speed;\nAdds the remembrance of the spur, and hides\nThe goring rowels in his bleeding sides.\n\"Vain fool, and coward!\" cries the lofty maid,\n\"Caught in the train which thou thyself hast laid!\nOn others practice thy Ligurian arts;\nThin stratagems and tricks of little hearts\nAre lost on me: nor shalt thou safe retire,\nWith vaunting lies, to thy fallacious sire.\"\nAt this, so fast her flying feet she sped,\nThat soon she strain'd beyond his horse's head:\nThen turning short, at once she seiz'd the rein,\nAnd laid the boaster grov'ling on the plain.\nNot with more ease the falcon, from above,\nTrusses in middle air the trembling dove,\nThen plumes the prey, in her strong pounces bound:\nThe feathers, foul with blood, come tumbling to the ground.\nNow mighty Jove, from his superior height,\nWith his broad eye surveys th' unequal fight.\nHe fires the breast of Tarchon with disdain,\nAnd sends him to redeem th' abandon'd plain.\nBetwixt the broken ranks the Tuscan rides,\nAnd these encourages, and those he chides;\nRecalls each leader, by his name, from flight;\nRenews their ardor, and restores the fight.\n\"What panic fear has seiz'd your souls? O shame,\nO brand perpetual of th' Etrurian name!\nCowards incurable, a woman's hand\nDrives, breaks, and scatters your ignoble band!\nNow cast away the sword, and quit the shield!\nWhat use of weapons which you dare not wield?\nNot thus you fly your female foes by night,\nNor shun the feast, when the full bowls invite;\nWhen to fat off'rings the glad augur calls,\nAnd the shrill hornpipe sounds to bacchanals.\nThese are your studied cares, your lewd delight:\nSwift to debauch, but slow to manly fight.\"\nThus having said, he spurs amid the foes,\nNot managing the life he meant to lose.\nThe first he found he seiz'd with headlong haste,\nIn his strong gripe, and clasp'd around the waist;\n'T was Venulus, whom from his horse he tore,\nAnd, laid athwart his own, in triumph bore.\nLoud shouts ensue; the Latins turn their eyes,\nAnd view th' unusual sight with vast surprise.\nThe fiery Tarchon, flying o'er the plains,\nPress'd in his arms the pond'rous prey sustains;\nThen, with his shorten'd spear, explores around\nHis jointed arms, to fix a deadly wound.\nNor less the captive struggles for his life:\nHe writhes his body to prolong the strife,\nAnd, fencing for his naked throat, exerts\nHis utmost vigor, and the point averts.\nSo stoops the yellow eagle from on high,\nAnd bears a speckled serpent thro' the sky,\nFast'ning his crooked talons on the prey:\nThe pris'ner hisses thro' the liquid way;\nResists the royal hawk; and, tho' oppress'd,\nShe fights in volumes, and erects her crest:\nTurn'd to her foe, she stiffens ev'ry scale,\nAnd shoots her forky tongue, and whisks her threat'ning tail.\nAgainst the victor, all defense is weak:\nTh' imperial bird still plies her with his beak;\nHe tears her bowels, and her breast he gores;\nThen claps his pinions, and securely soars.\nThus, thro' the midst of circling enemies,\nStrong Tarchon snatch'd and bore away his prize.\nThe Tyrrhene troops, that shrunk before, now press\nThe Latins, and presume the like success.\nThen Aruns, doom'd to death, his arts assay'd,\nTo murther, unespied, the Volscian maid:\nThis way and that his winding course he bends,\nAnd, whereso'er she turns, her steps attends.\nWhen she retires victorious from the chase,\nHe wheels about with care, and shifts his place;\nWhen, rushing on, she seeks her foes flight,\nHe keeps aloof, but keeps her still in sight:\nHe threats, and trembles, trying ev'ry way,\nUnseen to kill, and safely to betray.\nChloreus, the priest of Cybele, from far,\nGlitt'ring in Phrygian arms amidst the war,\nWas by the virgin view'd. The steed he press'd\nWas proud with trappings, and his brawny chest\nWith scales of gilded brass was cover'd o'er;\nA robe of Tyrian dye the rider wore.\nWith deadly wounds he gall'd the distant foe;\nGnossian his shafts, and Lycian was his bow:\nA golden helm his front and head surrounds\nA gilded quiver from his shoulder sounds.\nGold, weav'd with linen, on his thighs he wore,\nWith flowers of needlework distinguish'd o'er,\nWith golden buckles bound, and gather'd up before.\nHim the fierce maid beheld with ardent eyes,\nFond and ambitious of so rich a prize,\nOr that the temple might his trophies hold,\nOr else to shine herself in Trojan gold.\nBlind in her haste, she chases him alone.\nAnd seeks his life, regardless of her own.\nThis lucky moment the sly traitor chose:\nThen, starting from his ambush, up he rose,\nAnd threw, but first to Heav'n address'd his vows:\n\"O patron of Socrates' high abodes,\nPhoebus, the ruling pow'r among the gods,\nWhom first we serve, whole woods of unctuous pine\nAre fell'd for thee, and to thy glory shine;\nBy thee protected with our naked soles,\nThro' flames unsing'd we march, and tread the kindled coals\nGive me, propitious pow'r, to wash away\nThe stains of this dishonorable day:\nNor spoils, nor triumph, from the fact I claim,\nBut with my future actions trust my fame.\nLet me, by stealth, this female plague o'ercome,\nAnd from the field return inglorious home.\"\nApollo heard, and, granting half his pray'r,\nShuffled in winds the rest, and toss'd in empty air.\nHe gives the death desir'd; his safe return\nBy southern tempests to the seas is borne.\nNow, when the jav'lin whizz'd along the skies,\nBoth armies on Camilla turn'd their eyes,\nDirected by the sound. Of either host,\nTh' unhappy virgin, tho' concern'd the most,\nWas only deaf; so greedy was she bent\nOn golden spoils, and on her prey intent;\nTill in her pap the winged weapon stood\nInfix'd, and deeply drunk the purple blood.\nHer sad attendants hasten to sustain\nTheir dying lady, drooping on the plain.\nFar from their sight the trembling Aruns flies,\nWith beating heart, and fear confus'd with joys;\nNor dares he farther to pursue his blow,\nOr ev'n to bear the sight of his expiring foe.\nAs, when the wolf has torn a bullock's hide\nAt unawares, or ranch'd a shepherd's side,\nConscious of his audacious deed, he flies,\nAnd claps his quiv'ring tail between his thighs:\nSo, speeding once, the wretch no more attends,\nBut, spurring forward, herds among his friends.\nShe wrench'd the jav'lin with her dying hands,\nBut wedg'd within her breast the weapon stands;\nThe wood she draws, the steely point remains;\nShe staggers in her seat with agonizing pains:\n(A gath'ring mist o'erclouds her cheerful eyes,\nAnd from her cheeks the rosy color flies:)\nThen turns to her, whom of her female train\nShe trusted most, and thus she speaks with pain:\n\"Acca, 't is past! he swims before my sight,\nInexorable Death; and claims his right.\nBear my last words to Turnus; fly with speed,\nAnd bid him timely to my charge succeed,\nRepel the Trojans, and the town relieve:\nFarewell! and in this kiss my parting breath receive.\"\nShe said, and, sliding, sunk upon the plain:\nDying, her open'd hand forsakes the rein;\nShort, and more short, she pants; by slow degrees\nHer mind the passage from her body frees.\nShe drops her sword; she nods her plumy crest,\nHer drooping head declining on her breast:\nIn the last sigh her struggling soul expires,\nAnd, murm'ring with disdain, to Stygian sounds retires.\nA shout, that struck the golden stars, ensued;\nDespair and rage the languish'd fight renew'd.\nThe Trojan troops and Tuscans, in a line,\nAdvance to charge; the mix'd Arcadians join.\nBut Cynthia's maid, high seated, from afar\nSurveys the field, and fortune of the war,\nUnmov'd a while, till, prostrate on the plain,\nWelt'ring in blood, she sees Camilla slain,\nAnd, round her corpse, of friends and foes a fighting train.\nThen, from the bottom of her breast, she drew\nA mournful sigh, and these sad words ensue:\n\"Too dear a fine, ah much lamented maid,\nFor warring with the Trojans, thou hast paid!\nNor aught avail'd, in this unhappy strife,\nDiana's sacred arms, to save thy life.\nYet unreveng'd thy goddess will not leave\nHer vot'ry's death, nor; with vain sorrow grieve.\nBranded the wretch, and be his name abhorr'd;\nBut after ages shall thy praise record.\nTh' inglorious coward soon shall press the plain:\nThus vows thy queen, and thus the Fates ordain.\"\nHigh o'er the field there stood a hilly mound,\nSacred the place, and spread with oaks around,\nWhere, in a marble tomb, Dercennus lay,\nA king that once in Latium bore the sway.\nThe beauteous Opis thither bent her flight,\nTo mark the traitor Aruns from the height.\nHim in refulgent arms she soon espied,\nSwoln with success; and loudly thus she cried:\n\"Thy backward steps, vain boaster, are too late;\nTurn like a man, at length, and meet thy fate.\nCharg'd with my message, to Camilla go,\nAnd say I sent thee to the shades below,\nAn honor undeserv'd from Cynthia's bow.\"\nShe said, and from her quiver chose with speed\nThe winged shaft, predestin'd for the deed;\nThen to the stubborn yew her strength applied,\nTill the far distant horns approach'd on either side.\nThe bowstring touch'd her breast, so strong she drew;\nWhizzing in air the fatal arrow flew.\nAt once the twanging bow and sounding dart\nThe traitor heard, and felt the point within his heart.\nHim, beating with his heels in pangs of death,\nHis flying friends to foreign fields bequeath.\nThe conqu'ring damsel, with expanded wings,\nThe welcome message to her mistress brings.\nTheir leader lost, the Volscians quit the field,\nAnd, unsustain'd, the chiefs of Turnus yield.\nThe frighted soldiers, when their captains fly,\nMore on their speed than on their strength rely.\nConfus'd in flight, they bear each other down,\nAnd spur their horses headlong to the town.\nDriv'n by their foes, and to their fears resign'd,\nNot once they turn, but take their wounds behind.\nThese drop the shield, and those the lance forego,\nOr on their shoulders bear the slacken'd bow.\nThe hoofs of horses, with a rattling sound,\nBeat short and thick, and shake the rotten ground.\nBlack clouds of dust come rolling in the sky,\nAnd o'er the darken'd walls and rampires fly.\nThe trembling matrons, from their lofty stands,\nRend heav'n with female shrieks, and wring their hands.\nAll pressing on, pursuers and pursued,\nAre crush'd in crowds, a mingled multitude.\nSome happy few escape: the throng too late\nRush on for entrance, till they choke the gate.\nEv'n in the sight of home, the wretched sire\nLooks on, and sees his helpless son expire.\nThen, in a fright, the folding gates they close,\nBut leave their friends excluded with their foes.\nThe vanquish'd cry; the victors loudly shout;\n'T is terror all within, and slaughter all without.\nBlind in their fear, they bounce against the wall,\nOr, to the moats pursued, precipitate their fall.\nThe Latian virgins, valiant with despair,\nArm'd on the tow'rs, the common danger share:\nSo much of zeal their country's cause inspir'd;\nSo much Camilla's great example fir'd.\nPoles, sharpen'd in the flames, from high they throw,\nWith imitated darts, to gall the foe.\nTheir lives for godlike freedom they bequeath,\nAnd crowd each other to be first in death.\nMeantime to Turnus, ambush'd in the shade,\nWith heavy tidings came th' unhappy maid:\n\"The Volscians overthrown, Camilla kill'd;\nThe foes, entirely masters of the field,\nLike a resistless flood, come rolling on:\nThe cry goes off the plain, and thickens to the town.\"\nInflam'd with rage, (for so the Furies fire\nThe Daunian's breast, and so the Fates require,)\nHe leaves the hilly pass, the woods in vain\nPossess'd, and downward issues on the plain.\nScarce was he gone, when to the straits, now freed\nFrom secret foes, the Trojan troops succeed.\nThro' the black forest and the ferny brake,\nUnknowingly secure, their way they take;\nFrom the rough mountains to the plain descend,\nAnd there, in order drawn, their line extend.\nBoth armies now in open fields are seen;\nNor far the distance of the space between.\nBoth to the city bend. Aeneas sees,\nThro' smoking fields, his hast'ning enemies;\nAnd Turnus views the Trojans in array,\nAnd hears th' approaching horses proudly neigh.\nSoon had their hosts in bloody battle join'd;\nBut westward to the sea the sun declin'd.\nIntrench'd before the town both armies lie,\nWhile Night with sable wings involves the sky.\nBOOK XII\nWhen Turnus saw the Latins leave the field,\nTheir armies broken, and their courage quell'd,\nHimself become the mark of public spite,\nHis honor question'd for the promis'd fight;\nThe more he was with vulgar hate oppress'd,\nThe more his fury boil'd within his breast:\nHe rous'd his vigor for the last debate,\nAnd rais'd his haughty soul to meet his fate.\nAs, when the swains the Libyan lion chase,\nHe makes a sour retreat, nor mends his pace;\nBut, if the pointed jav'lin pierce his side,\nThe lordly beast returns with double pride:\nHe wrenches out the steel, he roars for pain;\nHis sides he lashes, and erects his mane:\nSo Turnus fares; his eyeballs flash with fire,\nThro' his wide nostrils clouds of smoke expire.\nTrembling with rage, around the court he ran,\nAt length approach'd the king, and thus began:\n\"No more excuses or delays: I stand\nIn arms prepar'd to combat, hand to hand,\nThis base deserter of his native land.\nThe Trojan, by his word, is bound to take\nThe same conditions which himself did make.\nRenew the truce; the solemn rites prepare,\nAnd to my single virtue trust the war.\nThe Latians unconcern'd shall see the fight;\nThis arm unaided shall assert your right:\nThen, if my prostrate body press the plain,\nTo him the crown and beauteous bride remain.\"\nTo whom the king sedately thus replied:\n\"Brave youth, the more your valor has been tried,\nThe more becomes it us, with due respect,\nTo weigh the chance of war, which you neglect.\nYou want not wealth, or a successive throne,\nOr cities which your arms have made your own:\nMy towns and treasures are at your command,\nAnd stor'd with blooming beauties is my land;\nLaurentum more than one Lavinia sees,\nUnmarried, fair, of noble families.\nNow let me speak, and you with patience hear,\nThings which perhaps may grate a lover's ear,\nBut sound advice, proceeding from a heart\nSincerely yours, and free from fraudful art.\nThe gods, by signs, have manifestly shown,\nNo prince Italian born should heir my throne:\nOft have our augurs, in prediction skill'd,\nAnd oft our priests, foreign son reveal'd.\nYet, won by worth that cannot be withstood,\nBrib'd by my kindness to my kindred blood,\nUrg'd by my wife, who would not be denied,\nI promis'd my Lavinia for your bride:\nHer from her plighted lord by force I took;\nAll ties of treaties, and of honor, broke:\nOn your account I wag'd an impious war-\nWith what success, 't is needless to declare;\nI and my subjects feel, and you have had your share.\nTwice vanquish'd while in bloody fields we strive,\nScarce in our walls we keep our hopes alive:\nThe rolling flood runs warm with human gore;\nThe bones of Latians blanch the neighb'ring shore.\nWhy put I not an end to this debate,\nStill unresolv'd, and still a slave to fate?\nIf Turnus' death a lasting peace can give,\nWhy should I not procure it whilst you live?\nShould I to doubtful arms your youth betray,\nWhat would my kinsmen the Rutulians say?\nAnd, should you fall in fight, (which Heav'n defend!)\nHow curse the cause which hasten'd to his end\nThe daughter's lover and the father's friend?\nWeigh in your mind the various chance of war;\nPity your parent's age, and ease his care.\"\nSuch balmy words he pour'd, but all in vain:\nThe proffer'd med'cine but provok'd the pain.\nThe wrathful youth, disdaining the relief,\nWith intermitting sobs thus vents his grief:\n\"The care, O best of fathers, which you take\nFor my concerns, at my desire forsake.\nPermit me not to languish out my days,\nBut make the best exchange of life for praise.\nThis arm, this lance, can well dispute the prize;\nAnd the blood follows, where the weapon flies.\nHis goddess mother is not near, to shroud\nThe flying coward with an empty cloud.\"\nBut now the queen, who fear'd for Turnus' life,\nAnd loath'd the hard conditions of the strife,\nHeld him by force; and, dying in his death,\nIn these sad accents gave her sorrow breath:\n\"O Turnus, I adjure thee by these tears,\nAnd whate'er price Amata's honor bears\nWithin thy breast, since thou art all my hope,\nMy sickly mind's repose, my sinking age's prop;\nSince on the safety of thy life alone\nDepends Latinus, and the Latian throne:\nRefuse me not this one, this only pray'r,\nTo waive the combat, and pursue the war.\nWhatever chance attends this fatal strife,\nThink it includes, in thine, Amata's life.\nI cannot live a slave, or see my throne\nUsurp'd by strangers or a Trojan son.\"\nAt this, a flood of tears Lavinia shed;\nA crimson blush her beauteous face o'erspread,\nVarying her cheeks by turns with white and red.\nThe driving colors, never at a stay,\nRun here and there, and flush, and fade away.\nDelightful change! Thus Indian iv'ry shows,\nWhich with the bord'ring paint of purple glows;\nOr lilies damask'd by the neighb'ring rose.\nThe lover gaz'd, and, burning with desire,\nThe more he look'd, the more he fed the fire:\nRevenge, and jealous rage, and secret spite,\nRoll in his breast, and rouse him to the fight.\nThen fixing on the queen his ardent eyes,\nFirm to his first intent, he thus replies:\n\"O mother, do not by your tears prepare\nSuch boding omens, and prejudge the war.\nResolv'd on fight, I am no longer free\nTo shun my death, if Heav'n my death decree.\"\nThen turning to the herald, thus pursues:\n\"Go, greet the Trojan with ungrateful news;\nDenounce from me, that, when to-morrow's light\nShall gild the heav'ns, he need not urge the fight;\nThe Trojan and Rutulian troops no more\nShall dye, with mutual blood, the Latian shore:\nOur single swords the quarrel shall decide,\nAnd to the victor be the beauteous bride.\"\nHe said, and striding on, with speedy pace,\nHe sought his coursers of the Thracian race.\nAt his approach they toss their heads on high,\nAnd, proudly neighing, promise victory.\nThe sires of these Orythia sent from far,\nTo grace Pilumnus, when he went to war.\nThe drifts of Thracian snows were scarce so white,\nNor northern winds in fleetness match'd their flight.\nOfficious grooms stand ready by his side;\nAnd some with combs their flowing manes divide,\nAnd others stroke their chests and gently soothe their pride\nHe sheath'd his limbs in arms; a temper'd mass\nOf golden metal those, and mountain brass.\nThen to his head his glitt'ring helm he tied,\nAnd girt his faithful fauchion to his side.\nIn his Aetnaean forge, the God of Fire\nThat fauchion labor'd for the hero's sire;\nImmortal keenness on the blade bestow'd,\nAnd plung'd it hissing in the Stygian flood.\nPropp'd on a pillar, which the ceiling bore,\nWas plac'd the lance Auruncan Actor wore;\nWhich with such force he brandish'd in his hand,\nThe tough ash trembled like an osier wand:\nThen cried: \"O pond'rous spoil of Actor slain,\nAnd never yet by Turnus toss'd in vain,\nFail not this day thy wonted force; but go,\nSent by this hand, to pierce the Trojan foe!\nGive me to tear his corslet from his breast,\nAnd from that eunuch head to rend the crest;\nDragg'd in the dust, his frizzled hair to soil,\nHot from the vexing ir'n, and smear'd with fragrant oil!\"\nThus while he raves, from his wide nostrils flies\nA fiery steam, and sparkles from his eyes.\nSo fares the bull in his lov'd female's sight:\nProudly he bellows, and preludes the fight;\nHe tries his goring horns against a tree,\nAnd meditates his absent enemy;\nHe pushes at the winds; he digs the strand\nWith his black hoofs, and spurns the yellow sand.\nNor less the Trojan, in his Lemnian arms,\nTo future fight his manly courage warms:\nHe whets his fury, and with joy prepares\nTo terminate at once the ling'ring wars;\nTo cheer his chiefs and tender son, relates\nWhat Heav'n had promis'd, and expounds the fates.\nThen to the Latian king he sends, to cease\nThe rage of arms, and ratify the peace.\nThe morn ensuing, from the mountain's height,\nHad scarcely spread the skies with rosy light;\nTh' ethereal coursers, bounding from the sea,\nFrom out their flaming nostrils breath'd the day;\nWhen now the Trojan and Rutulian guard,\nIn friendly labor join'd, the list prepar'd.\nBeneath the walls they measure out the space;\nThen sacred altars rear, on sods of grass,\nWhere, with religious their common gods they place.\nIn purest white the priests their heads attire;\nAnd living waters bear, and holy fire;\nAnd, o'er their linen hoods and shaded hair,\nLong twisted wreaths of sacred veryain wear,\nIn order issuing from the town appears\nThe Latin legion, arm'd with pointed spears;\nAnd from the fields, advancing on a line,\nThe Trojan and the Tuscan forces join:\nTheir various arms afford a pleasing sight;\nA peaceful train they seem, in peace prepar'd for fight.\nBetwixt the ranks the proud commanders ride,\nGlitt'ring with gold, and vests in purple dyed;\nHere Mnestheus, author of the Memmian line,\nAnd there Messapus, born of seed divine.\nThe sign is giv'n; and, round the listed space,\nEach man in order fills his proper place.\nReclining on their ample shields, they stand,\nAnd fix their pointed lances in the sand.\nNow, studious of the sight, a num'rous throng\nOf either sex promiscuous, old and young,\nSwarm the town: by those who rest behind,\nThe gates and walls and houses' tops are lin'd.\nMeantime the Queen of Heav'n beheld the sight,\nWith eyes unpleas'd, from Mount Albano's height\n(Since call'd Albano by succeeding fame,\nBut then an empty hill, without a name).\nShe thence survey'd the field, the Trojan pow'rs,\nThe Latian squadrons, and Laurentine tow'rs.\nThen thus the goddess of the skies bespoke,\nWith sighs and tears, the goddess of the lake,\nKing Turnus' sister, once a lovely maid,\nEre to the lust of lawless Jove betray'd:\nCompress'd by force, but, by the grateful god,\nNow made the Nais of the neighb'ring flood.\n\"O nymph, the pride of living lakes,\" said she,\n\"O most renown'd, and most belov'd by me,\nLong hast thou known, nor need I to record,\nThe wanton sallies of my wand'ring lord.\nOf ev'ry Latian fair whom Jove misled\nTo mount by stealth my violated bed,\nTo thee alone I grudg'd not his embrace,\nBut gave a part of heav'n, and an unenvied place.\nNow learn from me thy near approaching grief,\nNor think my wishes want to thy relief.\nWhile fortune favor'd, nor Heav'n's King denied\nTo lend my succor to the Latian side,\nI sav'd thy brother, and the sinking state:\nBut now he struggles with unequal fate,\nAnd goes, with gods averse, o'ermatch'd in might,\nTo meet inevitable death in fight;\nNor must I break the truce, nor can sustain the sight.\nThou, if thou dar'st thy present aid supply;\nIt well becomes a sister's care to try.\"\nAt this the lovely nymph, with grief oppress'd,\nThrice tore her hair, and beat her comely breast.\nTo whom Saturnia thus: \"Thy tears are late:\nHaste, snatch him, if he can be snatch'd from fate:\nNew tumults kindle; violate the truce:\nWho knows what changeful fortune may produce?\n'T is not a crime t' attempt what I decree;\nOr, if it were, discharge the crime on me.\"\nShe said, and, sailing on the winged wind,\nLeft the sad nymph suspended in her mind.\nAnd now pomp the peaceful kings appear:\nFour steeds the chariot of Latinus bear;\nTwelve golden beams around his temples play,\nTo mark his lineage from the God of Day.\nTwo snowy coursers Turnus' chariot yoke,\nAnd in his hand two massy spears he shook:\nThen issued from the camp, in arms divine,\nAeneas, author of the Roman line;\nAnd by his side Ascanius took his place,\nThe second hope of Rome's immortal race.\nAdorn'd in white, a rev'rend priest appears,\nAnd off'rings to the flaming altars bears;\nA porket, and a lamb that never suffer'd shears.\nThen to the rising sun he turns his eyes,\nAnd strews the beasts, design'd for sacrifice,\nWith salt and meal: with like officious care\nHe marks their foreheads, and he clips their hair.\nBetwixt their horns the purple wine he sheds;\nWith the same gen'rous juice the flame he feeds.\nAeneas then unsheath'd his shining sword,\nAnd thus with pious pray'rs the gods ador'd:\n\"All-seeing sun, and thou, Ausonian soil,\nFor which I have sustain'd so long a toil,\nThou, King of Heav'n, and thou, the Queen of Air,\nPropitious now, and reconcil'd by pray'r;\nThou, God of War, whose unresisted sway\nThe labors and events of arms obey;\nYe living fountains, and ye running floods,\nAll pow'rs of ocean, all ethereal gods,\nHear, and bear record: if I fall in field,\nOr, recreant in the fight, to Turnus yield,\nMy Trojans shall encrease Evander's town;\nAscanius shall renounce th' Ausonian crown:\nAll claims, all questions of debate, shall cease;\nNor he, nor they, with force infringe the peace.\nBut, if my juster arms prevail in fight,\n(As sure they shall, if I divine aright,)\nMy Trojans shall not o'er th' Italians reign:\nBoth equal, both unconquer'd shall remain,\nJoin'd in their laws, their lands, and their abodes;\nI ask but altars for my weary gods.\nThe care of those religious rites be mine;\nThe crown to King Latinus I resign:\nHis be the sov'reign sway. Nor will I share\nHis pow'r in peace, or his command in war.\nFor me, my friends another town shall frame,\nAnd bless the rising tow'rs with fair Lavinia's name.\"\nThus he. Then, with erected eyes and hands,\nThe Latian king before his altar stands.\n\"By the same heav'n,\" said he, \"and earth, and main,\nAnd all the pow'rs that all the three contain;\nBy hell below, and by that upper god\nWhose thunder signs the peace, who seals it with his nod;\nSo let Latona's double offspring hear,\nAnd double-fronted Janus, what I swear:\nI touch the sacred altars, touch the flames,\nAnd all those pow'rs attest, and all their names;\nWhatever chance befall on either side,\nNo term of time this union shall divide:\nNo force, no fortune, shall my vows unbind,\nOr shake the steadfast tenor of my mind;\nNot tho' the circling seas should break their bound,\nO'erflow the shores, or sap the solid ground;\nNot tho' the lamps of heav'n their spheres forsake,\nHurl'd down, and hissing in the nether lake:\nEv'n as this royal scepter\" (for he bore\nA scepter in his hand) \"shall never more\nShoot out in branches, or renew the birth:\nAn orphan now, cut from the mother earth\nBy the keen ax, dishonor'd of its hair,\nAnd cas'd in brass, for Latian kings to bear.\"\nWhen thus in public view the peace was tied\nWith solemn vows, and sworn on either side,\nAll dues perform'd which holy rites require;\nThe victim beasts are slain before the fire,\nThe trembling entrails from their bodies torn,\nAnd to the fatten'd flames in chargers borne.\nAlready the Rutulians deem their man\nO'ermatch'd in arms, before the fight began.\nFirst rising fears are whisper'd thro' the crowd;\nThen, gath'ring sound, they murmur more aloud.\nNow, side to side, they measure with their eyes\nThe champions' bulk, their sinews, and their size:\nThe nearer they approach, the more is known\nTh' apparent disadvantage of their own.\nTurnus himself appears in public sight\nConscious of fate, desponding of the fight.\nSlowly he moves, and at his altar stands\nWith eyes dejected, and with trembling hands;\nAnd, while he mutters undistinguish'd pray'rs,\nA livid deadness in his cheeks appears.\nWith anxious pleasure when Juturna view'd\nTh' increasing fright of the mad multitude,\nWhen their short sighs and thick'ning sobs she heard,\nAnd found their ready minds for change prepar'd;\nDissembling her immortal form, she took\nCamertus' mien, his habit, and his look;\nA chief of ancient blood; in arms well known\nWas his great sire, and he his greater son.\nHis shape assum'd, amid the ranks she ran,\nAnd humoring their first motions, thus began:\n\"For shame, Rutulians, can you bear the sight\nOf one expos'd for all, in single fight?\nCan we, before the face of heav'n, confess\nOur courage colder, or our numbers less?\nView all the Trojan host, th' Arcadian band,\nAnd Tuscan army; count 'em as they stand:\nUndaunted to the battle if we go,\nScarce ev'ry second man will share a foe.\nTurnus, 't is true, in this unequal strife,\nShall lose, with honor, his devoted life,\nOr change it rather for immortal fame,\nSucceeding to the gods, from whence he came:\nBut you, a servile and inglorious band,\nFor foreign lords shall sow your native land,\nThose fruitful fields your fighting fathers gain'd,\nWhich have so long their lazy sons sustain'd.\"\nWith words like these, she carried her design:\nA rising murmur runs along the line.\nThen ev'n the city troops, and Latians, tir'd\nWith tedious war, seem with new souls inspir'd:\nTheir champion's fate with pity they lament,\nAnd of the league, so lately sworn, repent.\nNor fails the goddess to foment the rage\nWith lying wonders, and a false presage;\nBut adds a sign, which, present to their eyes,\nInspires new courage, and a glad surprise.\nFor, sudden, in the fiery tracts above,\nAppears in pomp th' imperial bird of Jove:\nA plump of fowl he spies, that swim the lakes,\nAnd o'er their heads his sounding pinions shakes;\nThen, stooping on the fairest of the train,\nIn his strong talons truss'd a silver swan.\nTh' Italians wonder at th' unusual sight;\nBut, while he lags, and labors in his flight,\nBehold, the dastard fowl return anew,\nAnd with united force the foe pursue:\nClam'rous around the royal hawk they fly,\nAnd, thick'ning in a cloud, o'ershade the sky.\nThey cuff, they scratch, they cross his airy course;\nNor can th' incumber'd bird sustain their force;\nBut vex'd, not vanquish'd, drops the pond'rous prey,\nAnd, lighten'd of his burthen, wings his way.\nTh' Ausonian bands with shouts salute the sight,\nEager of action, and demand the fight.\nThen King Tolumnius, vers'd in augurs' arts,\nCries out, and thus his boasted skill imparts:\n\"At length 't is granted, what I long desir'd!\nThis, this is what my frequent vows requir'd.\nYe gods, I take your omen, and obey.\nAdvance, my friends, and charge! I lead the way.\nThese are the foreign foes, whose impious band,\nLike that rapacious bird, infest our land:\nBut soon, like him, they shall be forc'd to sea\nBy strength united, and forego the prey.\nYour timely succor to your country bring,\nHaste to the rescue, and redeem your king.\"\nHe said; and, pressing onward thro' the crew,\nPois'd in his lifted arm, his lance he threw.\nThe winged weapon, whistling in the wind,\nCame driving on, nor miss'd the mark design'd.\nAt once the cornel rattled in the skies;\nAt once tumultuous shouts and clamors rise.\nNine brothers in a goodly band there stood,\nBorn of Arcadian mix'd with Tuscan blood,\nGylippus' sons: the fatal jav'lin flew,\nAim'd at the midmost of the friendly crew.\nA passage thro' the jointed arms it found,\nJust where the belt was to the body bound,\nAnd struck the gentle youth extended on the ground.\nThen, fir'd with pious rage, the gen'rous train\nRun madly forward to revenge the slain.\nAnd some with eager haste their jav'lins throw;\nAnd some with sword in hand assault the foe.\nThe wish'd insult the Latine troops embrace,\nAnd meet their ardor in the middle space.\nThe Trojans, Tuscans, and Arcadian line,\nWith equal courage obviate their design.\nPeace leaves the violated fields, and hate\nBoth armies urges to their mutual fate.\nWith impious haste their altars are o'erturn'd,\nThe sacrifice half-broil'd, and half-unburn'd.\nThick storms of steel from either army fly,\nAnd clouds of clashing darts obscure the sky;\nBrands from the fire are missive weapons made,\nWith chargers, bowls, and all the priestly trade.\nLatinus, frighted, hastens from the fray,\nAnd bears his unregarded gods away.\nThese on their horses vault; those yoke the car;\nThe rest, with swords on high, run headlong to the war.\nMessapus, eager to confound the peace,\nSpurr'd his hot courser thro' the fighting prease,\nAt King Aulestes, by his purple known\nA Tuscan prince, and by his regal crown;\nAnd, with a shock encount'ring, bore him down.\nBackward he fell; and, as his fate design'd,\nThe ruins of an altar were behind:\nThere, pitching on his shoulders and his head,\nAmid the scatt'ring fires he lay supinely spread.\nThe beamy spear, descending from above,\nHis cuirass pierc'd, and thro' his body drove.\nThen, with a scornful smile, the victor cries:\n\"The gods have found a fitter sacrifice.\"\nGreedy of spoils, th' Italians strip the dead\nOf his rich armor, and uncrown his head.\nPriest Corynaeus, arm'd his better hand,\nFrom his own altar, with a blazing brand;\nAnd, as Ebusus with a thund'ring pace\nAdvanc'd to battle, dash'd it on his face:\nHis bristly beard shines out with sudden fires;\nThe crackling crop a noisome scent expires.\nFollowing the blow, he seiz'd his curling crown\nWith his left hand; his other cast him down.\nThe prostrate body with his knees he press'd,\nAnd plung'd his holy poniard in his breast.\nWhile Podalirius, with his sword, pursued\nThe shepherd Alsus thro' the flying crowd,\nSwiftly he turns, and aims a deadly blow\nFull on the front of his unwary foe.\nThe broad ax enters with a crashing sound,\nAnd cleaves the chin with one continued wound;\nWarm blood, and mingled brains, besmear his arms around\nAn iron sleep his stupid eyes oppress'd,\nAnd seal'd their heavy lids in endless rest.\nBut good Aeneas rush'd amid the bands;\nBare was his head, and naked were his hands,\nIn sign of truce: then thus he cries aloud:\n\"What sudden rage, what new desire of blood,\nInflames your alter'd minds? O Trojans, cease\nFrom impious arms, nor violate the peace!\nBy human sanctions, and by laws divine,\nThe terms are all agreed; the war is mine.\nDismiss your fears, and let the fight ensue;\nThis hand alone shall right the gods and you:\nOur injur'd altars, and their broken vow,\nTo this avenging sword the faithless Turnus owe.\"\nThus while he spoke, unmindful of defense,\nA winged arrow struck the pious prince.\nBut, whether from some human hand it came,\nOr hostile god, is left unknown by fame:\nNo human hand or hostile god was found,\nTo boast the triumph of so base a wound.\nWhen Turnus saw the Trojan quit the plain,\nHis chiefs dismay'd, his troops a fainting train,\nTh' unhop'd event his heighten'd soul inspires:\nAt once his arms and coursers he requires;\nThen, with a leap, his lofty chariot gains,\nAnd with a ready hand assumes the reins.\nHe drives impetuous, and, where'er he goes,\nHe leaves behind a lane of slaughter'd foes.\nThese his lance reaches; over those he rolls\nHis rapid car, and crushes out their souls:\nIn vain the vanquish'd fly; the victor sends\nThe dead men's weapons at their living friends.\nThus, on the banks of Hebrus' freezing flood,\nThe God of Battles, in his angry mood,\nClashing his sword against his brazen shield,\nLet loose the reins, and scours along the field:\nBefore the wind his fiery coursers fly;\nGroans the sad earth, resounds the rattling sky.\nWrath, Terror, Treason, Tumult, and Despair\n(Dire faces, and deform'd) surround the car;\nFriends of the god, and followers of the war.\nWith fury not unlike, nor less disdain,\nExulting Turnus flies along the plain:\nHis smoking horses, at their utmost speed,\nHe lashes on, and urges o'er the dead.\nTheir fetlocks run with blood; and, when they bound,\nThe gore and gath'ring dust are dash'd around.\nThamyris and Pholus, masters of the war,\nHe kill'd at hand, but Sthenelus afar:\nFrom far the sons of Imbracus he slew,\nGlaucus and Lades, of the Lycian crew;\nBoth taught to fight on foot, in battle join'd,\nOr mount the courser that outstrips the wind.\nMeantime Eumedes, vaunting in the field,\nNew fir'd the Trojans, and their foes repell'd.\nThis son of Dolon bore his grandsire's name,\nBut emulated more his father's fame;\nHis guileful father, sent a nightly spy,\nThe Grecian camp and order to descry:\nHard enterprise! and well he might require\nAchilles' car and horses, for his hire:\nBut, met upon the scout, th' Aetolian prince\nIn death bestow'd a juster recompense.\nFierce Turnus view'd the Trojan from afar,\nAnd launch'd his jav'lin from his lofty car;\nThen lightly leaping down, pursued the blow,\nAnd, pressing with his foot his prostrate foe,\nWrench'd from his feeble hold the shining sword,\nAnd plung'd it in the bosom of its lord.\n\"Possess,\" said he, \"the fruit of all thy pains,\nAnd measure, at thy length, our Latian plains.\nThus are my foes rewarded by my hand;\nThus may they build their town, and thus enjoy the land!\"\nThen Dares, Butes, Sybaris he slew,\nWhom o'er his neck his flound'ring courser threw.\nAs when loud Boreas, with his blust'ring train,\nStoops from above, incumbent on the main;\nWhere'er he flies, he drives the rack before,\nAnd rolls the billows on th' Aegaean shore:\nSo, where resistless Turnus takes his course,\nThe scatter'd squadrons bend before his force;\nHis crest of horses' hair is blown behind\nBy adverse air, and rustles in the wind.\nThis haughty Phegeus saw with high disdain,\nAnd, as the chariot roll'd along the plain,\nLight from the ground he leapt, and seiz'd the rein.\nThus hung in air, he still retain'd his hold,\nThe coursers frighted, and their course controll'd.\nThe lance of Turnus reach'd him as he hung,\nAnd pierc'd his plated arms, but pass'd along,\nAnd only raz'd the skin. He turn'd, and held\nAgainst his threat'ning foe his ample shield;\nThen call'd for aid: but, while he cried in vain,\nThe chariot bore him backward on the plain.\nHe lies revers'd; the victor king descends,\nAnd strikes so justly where his helmet ends,\nHe lops the head. The Latian fields are drunk\nWith streams that issue from the bleeding trunk.\nWhile he triumphs, and while the Trojans yield,\nThe wounded prince is forc'd to leave the field:\nStrong Mnestheus, and Achates often tried,\nAnd young Ascanius, weeping by his side,\nConduct him to his tent. Scarce can he rear\nHis limbs from earth, supported on his spear.\nResolv'd in mind, regardless of the smart,\nHe tugs with both his hands, and breaks the dart.\nThe steel remains. No readier way he found\nTo draw the weapon, than t' inlarge the wound.\nEager of fight, impatient of delay,\nHe begs; and his unwilling friends obey.\nIapis was at hand to prove his art,\nWhose blooming youth so fir'd Apollo's heart,\nThat, for his love, he proffer'd to bestow\nHis tuneful harp and his unerring bow.\nThe pious youth, more studious how to save\nHis aged sire, now sinking to the grave,\nPreferr'd the pow'r of plants, and silent praise\nOf healing arts, before Phoebean bays.\nPropp'd on his lance the pensive hero stood,\nAnd heard and saw, unmov'd, the mourning crowd.\nThe fam'd physician tucks his robes around\nWith ready hands, and hastens to the wound.\nWith gentle touches he performs his part,\nThis way and that, soliciting the dart,\nAnd exercises all his heav'nly art.\nAll soft'ning simples, known of sov'reign use,\nHe presses out, and pours their noble juice.\nThese first infus'd, to lenify the pain,\nHe tugs with pincers, but he tugs in vain.\nThen to the patron of his art he pray'd:\nThe patron of his art refus'd his aid.\nMeantime the war approaches to the tents;\nTh' alarm grows hotter, and the noise augments:\nThe driving dust proclaims the danger near;\nAnd first their friends, and then their foes appear:\nTheir friends retreat; their foes pursue the rear.\nThe camp is fill'd with terror and affright:\nThe hissing shafts within the trench alight;\nAn undistinguish'd noise ascends the sky,\nThe shouts those who kill, and groans of those who die.\nBut now the goddess mother, mov'd with grief,\nAnd pierc'd with pity, hastens her relief.\nA branch of healing dittany she brought,\nWhich in the Cretan fields with care she sought:\nRough is the stern, which woolly leafs surround;\nThe leafs with flow'rs, the flow'rs with purple crown'd,\nWell known to wounded goats; a sure relief\nTo draw the pointed steel, and ease the grief.\nThis Venus brings, in clouds involv'd, and brews\nTh' extracted liquor with ambrosian dews,\nAnd odorous panacee. Unseen she stands,\nTemp'ring the mixture with her heav'nly hands,\nAnd pours it in a bowl, already crown'd\nWith juice of med'c'nal herbs prepar'd to bathe the wound.\nThe leech, unknowing of superior art\nWhich aids the cure, with this foments the part;\nAnd in a moment ceas'd the raging smart.\nStanch'd is the blood, and in the bottom stands:\nThe steel, but scarcely touch'd with tender hands,\nMoves up, and follows of its own accord,\nAnd health and vigor are at once restor'd.\nIapis first perceiv'd the closing wound,\nAnd first the footsteps of a god he found.\n\"Arms! arms!\" he cries; \"the sword and shield prepare,\nAnd send the willing chief, renew'd, to war.\nThis is no mortal work, no cure of mine,\nNor art's effect, but done by hands divine.\nSome god our general to the battle sends;\nSome god preserves his life for greater ends.\"\nThe hero arms in haste; his hands infold\nHis thighs with cuishes of refulgent gold:\nInflam'd to fight, and rushing to the field,\nThat hand sustaining the celestial shield,\nThis gripes the lance, and with such vigor shakes,\nThat to the rest the beamy weapon quakes.\nThen with a close embrace he strain'd his son,\nAnd, kissing thro' his helmet, thus begun:\n\"My son, from my example learn the war,\nIn camps to suffer, and in fields to dare;\nBut happier chance than mine attend thy care!\nThis day my hand thy tender age shall shield,\nAnd crown with honors of the conquer'd field:\nThou, when thy riper years shall send thee forth\nTo toils of war, be mindful of my worth;\nAssert thy birthright, and in arms be known,\nFor Hector's nephew, and Aeneas' son.\"\nHe said; and, striding, issued on the plain.\nAnteus and Mnestheus, and a num'rous train,\nAttend his steps; the rest their weapons take,\nAnd, crowding to the field, the camp forsake.\nA cloud of blinding dust is rais'd around,\nLabors beneath their feet the trembling ground.\nNow Turnus, posted on a hill, from far\nBeheld the progress of the moving war:\nWith him the Latins view'd the cover'd plains,\nAnd the chill blood ran backward in their veins.\nJuturna saw th' advancing troops appear,\nAnd heard the hostile sound, and fled for fear.\nAeneas leads; and draws a sweeping train,\nClos'd in their ranks, and pouring on the plain.\nAs when a whirlwind, rushing to the shore\nFrom the mid ocean, drives the waves before;\nThe painful hind with heavy heart foresees\nThe flatted fields, and slaughter of the trees;\nWith like impetuous rage the prince appears\nBefore his doubled front, nor less destruction bears.\nAnd now both armies shock in open field;\nOsiris is by strong Thymbraeus kill'd.\nArchetius, Ufens, Epulon, are slain\n(All fam'd in arms, and of the Latian train)\nBy Gyas', Mnestheus', and Achates' hand.\nThe fatal augur falls, by whose command\nThe truce was broken, and whose lance, embrued\nWith Trojan blood, th' unhappy fight renew'd.\nLoud shouts and clamors rend the liquid sky,\nAnd o'er the field the frighted Latins fly.\nThe prince disdains the dastards to pursue,\nNor moves to meet in arms the fighting few;\nTurnus alone, amid the dusky plain,\nHe seeks, and to the combat calls in vain.\nJuturna heard, and, seiz'd with mortal fear,\nForc'd from the beam her brother's charioteer;\nAssumes his shape, his armor, and his mien,\nAnd, like Metiscus, in his seat is seen.\nAs the black swallow near the palace plies;\nO'er empty courts, and under arches, flies;\nNow hawks aloft, now skims along the flood,\nTo furnish her loquacious nest with food:\nSo drives the rapid goddess o'er the plains;\nThe smoking horses run with loosen'd reins.\nShe steers a various course among the foes;\nNow here, now there, her conqu'ring brother shows;\nNow with a straight, now with a wheeling flight,\nShe turns, and bends, but shuns the single fight.\nAeneas, fir'd with fury, breaks the crowd,\nAnd seeks his foe, and calls by name aloud:\nHe runs within a narrower ring, and tries\nTo stop the chariot; but the chariot flies.\nIf he but gain a glimpse, Juturna fears,\nAnd far away the Daunian hero bears.\nWhat should he do! Nor arts nor arms avail;\nAnd various cares in vain his mind assail.\nThe great Messapus, thund'ring thro' the field,\nIn his left hand two pointed jav'lins held:\nEncount'ring on the prince, one dart he drew,\nAnd with unerring aim and utmost vigor threw.\nAeneas saw it come, and, stooping low\nBeneath his buckler, shunn'd the threat'ning blow.\nThe weapon hiss'd above his head, and tore\nThe waving plume which on his helm he wore.\nForced by this hostile act, and fir'd with spite,\nThat flying Turnus still declin'd the fight,\nThe Prince, whose piety had long repell'd\nHis inborn ardor, now invades the field;\nInvokes the pow'rs of violated peace,\nTheir rites and injur'd altars to redress;\nThen, to his rage abandoning the rein,\nWith blood and slaughter'd bodies fills the plain.\nWhat god can tell, what numbers can display,\nThe various labors of that fatal day;\nWhat chiefs and champions fell on either side,\nIn combat slain, or by what deaths they died;\nWhom Turnus, whom the Trojan hero kill'd;\nWho shar'd the fame and fortune of the field!\nJove, could'st thou view, and not avert thy sight,\nTwo jarring nations join'd in cruel fight,\nWhom leagues of lasting love so shortly shall unite!\nAeneas first Rutulian Sucro found,\nWhose valor made the Trojans quit their ground;\nBetwixt his ribs the jav'lin drove so just,\nIt reach'd his heart, nor needs a second thrust.\nNow Turnus, at two blows, two brethren slew;\nFirst from his horse fierce Amycus he threw:\nThen, leaping on the ground, on foot assail'd\nDiores, and in equal fight prevail'd.\nTheir lifeless trunks he leaves upon the place;\nTheir heads, distilling gore, his chariot grace.\nThree cold on earth the Trojan hero threw,\nWhom without respite at one charge he slew:\nCethegus, Tanais, Tagus, fell oppress'd,\nAnd sad Onythes, added to the rest,\nOf Theban blood, whom Peridia bore.\nTurnus two brothers from the Lycian shore,\nAnd from Apollo's fane to battle sent,\nO'erthrew; nor Phoebus could their fate prevent.\nPeaceful Menoetes after these he kill'd,\nWho long had shunn'd the dangers of the field:\nOn Lerna's lake a silent life he led,\nAnd with his nets and angle earn'd his bread;\nNor pompous cares, nor palaces, he knew,\nBut wisely from th' infectious world withdrew:\nPoor was his house; his father's painful hand\nDischarg'd his rent, and plow'd another's land.\nAs flames among the lofty woods are thrown\nOn diff'rent sides, and both by winds are blown;\nThe laurels crackle in the sputt'ring fire;\nThe frighted sylvans from their shades retire:\nOr as two neighb'ring torrents fall from high;\nRapid they run; the foamy waters fry;\nThey roll to sea with unresisted force,\nAnd down the rocks precipitate their course:\nNot with less rage the rival heroes take\nTheir diff'rent ways, nor less destruction make.\nWith spears afar, with swords at hand, they strike;\nAnd zeal of slaughter fires their souls alike.\nLike them, their dauntless men maintain the field;\nAnd hearts are pierc'd, unknowing how to yield:\nThey blow for blow return, and wound for wound;\nAnd heaps of bodies raise the level ground.\nMurranus, boasting of his blood, that springs\nFrom a long royal race of Latian kings,\nIs by the Trojan from his chariot thrown,\nCrush'd with the weight of an unwieldy stone:\nBetwixt the wheels he fell; the wheels, that bore\nHis living load, his dying body tore.\nHis starting steeds, to shun the glitt'ring sword,\nPaw down his trampled limbs, forgetful of their lord.\nFierce Hyllus threaten'd high, and, face to face,\nAffronted Turnus in the middle space:\nThe prince encounter'd him in full career,\nAnd at his temples aim'd the deadly spear;\nSo fatally the flying weapon sped,\nThat thro' his helm it pierc'd his head.\nNor, Cisseus, couldst thou scape from Turnus' hand,\nIn vain the strongest of th' Arcadian band:\nNor to Cupentus could his gods afford\nAvailing aid against th' Aenean sword,\nWhich to his naked heart pursued the course;\nNor could his plated shield sustain the force.\nIolas fell, whom not the Grecian pow'rs,\nNor great subverter of the Trojan tow'rs,\nWere doom'd to kill, while Heav'n prolong'd his date;\nBut who can pass the bounds, prefix'd by fate?\nIn high Lyrnessus, and in Troy, he held\nTwo palaces, and was from each expell'd:\nOf all the mighty man, the last remains\nA little spot of foreign earth contains.\nAnd now both hosts their broken troops unite\nIn equal ranks, and mix in mortal fight.\nSeresthus and undaunted Mnestheus join\nThe Trojan, Tuscan, and Arcadian line:\nSea-born Messapus, with Atinas, heads\nThe Latin squadrons, and to battle leads.\nThey strike, they push, they throng the scanty space,\nResolv'd on death, impatient of disgrace;\nAnd, where one falls, another fills his place.\nThe Cyprian goddess now inspires her son\nTo leave th' unfinish'd fight, and storm the town:\nFor, while he rolls his eyes around the plain\nIn quest of Turnus, whom he seeks in vain,\nHe views th' unguarded city from afar,\nIn careless quiet, and secure of war.\nOccasion offers, and excites his mind\nTo dare beyond the task he first design'd.\nResolv'd, he calls his chiefs; they leave the fight:\nAttended thus, he takes a neighb'ring height;\nThe crowding troops about their gen'ral stand,\nAll under arms, and wait his high command.\nThen thus the lofty prince: \"Hear and obey,\nYe Trojan bands, without the least delay\nJove is with us; and what I have decreed\nRequires our utmost vigor, and our speed.\nYour instant arms against the town prepare,\nThe source of mischief, and the seat of war.\nThis day the Latian tow'rs, that mate the sky,\nShall level with the plain in ashes lie:\nThe people shall be slaves, unless in time\nThey kneel for pardon, and repent their crime.\nTwice have our foes been vanquish'd on the plain:\nThen shall I wait till Turnus will be slain?\nYour force against the perjur'd city bend.\nThere it began, and there the war shall end.\nThe peace profan'd our rightful arms requires;\nCleanse the polluted place with purging fires.\"\nHe finish'd; and, one soul inspiring all,\nForm'd in a wedge, the foot approach the wall.\nWithout the town, an unprovided train\nOf gaping, gazing citizens are slain.\nSome firebrands, others scaling ladders bear,\nAnd those they toss aloft, and these they rear:\nThe flames now launch'd, the feather'd arrows fly,\nAnd clouds of missive arms obscure the sky.\nAdvancing to the front, the hero stands,\nAnd, stretching out to heav'n his pious hands,\nAttests the gods, asserts his innocence,\nUpbraids with breach of faith th' Ausonian prince;\nDeclares the royal honor doubly stain'd,\nAnd twice the rites of holy peace profan'd.\nDissenting clamors in the town arise;\nEach will be heard, and all at once advise.\nOne part for peace, and one for war contends;\nSome would exclude their foes, and some admit their friends.\nThe helpless king is hurried in the throng,\nAnd, whate'er tide prevails, is borne along.\nThus, when the swain, within a hollow rock,\nInvades the bees with suffocating smoke,\nThey run around, or labor on their wings,\nDisus'd to flight, and shoot their sleepy stings;\nTo shun the bitter fumes in vain they try;\nBlack vapors, issuing from the vent, involve the sky.\nBut fate and envious fortune now prepare\nTo plunge the Latins in the last despair.\nThe queen, who saw the foes invade the town,\nAnd brands on tops of burning houses thrown,\nCast round her eyes, distracted with her fear-\nNo troops of Turnus in the field appear.\nOnce more she stares abroad, but still in vain,\nAnd then concludes the royal youth is slain.\nMad with her anguish, impotent to bear\nThe mighty grief, she loathes the vital air.\nShe calls herself the cause of all this ill,\nAnd owns the dire effects of her ungovern'd will;\nShe raves against the gods; she beats her breast;\nShe tears with both her hands her purple vest:\nThen round a beam a running noose she tied,\nAnd, fasten'd by the neck, obscenely died.\nSoon as the fatal news by Fame was blown,\nAnd to her dames and to her daughter known,\nThe sad Lavinia rends her yellow hair\nAnd rosy cheeks; the rest her sorrow share:\nWith shrieks the palace rings, and madness of despair.\nThe spreading rumor fills the public place:\nConfusion, fear, distraction, and disgrace,\nAnd silent shame, are seen in ev'ry face.\nLatinus tears his garments as he goes,\nBoth for his public and his private woes;\nWith filth his venerable beard besmears,\nAnd sordid dust deforms his silver hairs.\nAnd much he blames the softness of his mind,\nObnoxious to the charms of womankind,\nAnd soon seduc'd to change what he so well design'd;\nTo break the solemn league so long desir'd,\nNor finish what his fates, and those of Troy, requir'd.\nNow Turnus rolls aloof o'er empty plains,\nAnd here and there some straggling foes he gleans.\nHis flying coursers please him less and less,\nAsham'd of easy fight and cheap success.\nThus half-contented, anxious in his mind,\nThe distant cries come driving in the wind,\nShouts from the walls, but shouts in murmurs drown'd;\nA jarring mixture, and a boding sound.\n\"Alas!\" said he, \"what mean these dismal cries?\nWhat doleful clamors from the town arise?\"\nConfus'd, he stops, and backward pulls the reins.\nShe who the driver's office now sustains,\nReplies: \"Neglect, my lord, these new alarms;\nHere fight, and urge the fortune of your arms:\nThere want not others to defend the wall.\nIf by your rival's hand th' Italians fall,\nSo shall your fatal sword his friends oppress,\nIn honor equal, equal in success.\"\nTo this, the prince: \"O sister- for I knew\nThe peace infring'd proceeded first from you;\nI knew you, when you mingled first in fight;\nAnd now in vain you would deceive my sight-\nWhy, goddess, this unprofitable care?\nWho sent you down from heav'n, involv'd in air,\nYour share of mortal sorrows to sustain,\nAnd see your brother bleeding on the plain?\nFor to what pow'r can Turnus have recourse,\nOr how resist his fate's prevailing force?\nThese eyes beheld Murranus bite the ground:\nMighty the man, and mighty was the wound.\nI heard my dearest friend, with dying breath,\nMy name invoking to revenge his death.\nBrave Ufens fell with honor on the place,\nTo shun the shameful sight of my disgrace.\nOn earth supine, a manly corpse he lies;\nHis vest and armor are the victor's prize.\nThen, shall I see Laurentum in a flame,\nWhich only wanted, to complete my shame?\nHow will the Latins hoot their champion's flight!\nHow Drances will insult and point them to the sight!\nIs death so hard to bear? Ye gods below,\n(Since those above so small compassion show,)\nReceive a soul unsullied yet with shame,\nWhich not belies my great forefather's name!\"\nHe said; and while he spoke, with flying speed\nCame Sages urging on his foamy steed:\nFix'd on his wounded face a shaft he bore,\nAnd, seeking Turnus, sent his voice before:\n\"Turnus, on you, on you alone, depends\nOur last relief: compassionate your friends!\nLike lightning, fierce Aeneas, rolling on,\nWith arms invests, with flames invades the town:\nThe brands are toss'd on high; the winds conspire\nTo drive along the deluge of the fire.\nAll eyes are fix'd on you: your foes rejoice;\nEv'n the king staggers, and suspends his choice;\nDoubts to deliver or defend the town,\nWhom to reject, or whom to call his son.\nThe queen, on whom your utmost hopes were plac'd,\nHerself suborning death, has breath'd her last.\n'T is true, Messapus, fearless of his fate,\nWith fierce Atinas' aid, defends the gate:\nOn ev'ry side surrounded by the foe,\nThe more they kill, the greater numbers grow;\nAn iron harvest mounts, and still remains to mow.\nYou, far aloof from your forsaken bands,\nYour rolling chariot drive o'er empty\nStupid he sate, his eyes on earth declin'd,\nAnd various cares revolving in his mind:\nRage, boiling from the bottom of his breast,\nAnd sorrow mix'd with shame, his soul oppress'd;\nAnd conscious worth lay lab'ring in his thought,\nAnd love by jealousy to madness wrought.\nBy slow degrees his reason drove away\nThe mists of passion, and resum'd her sway.\nThen, rising on his car, he turn'd his look,\nAnd saw the town involv'd in fire and smoke.\nA wooden tow'r with flames already blaz'd,\nWhich his own hands on beams and rafters rais'd;\nAnd bridges laid above to join the space,\nAnd wheels below to roll from place to place.\n\"Sister, the Fates have vanquish'd: let us go\nThe way which Heav'n and my hard fortune show.\nThe fight is fix'd; nor shall the branded name\nOf a base coward blot your brother's fame.\nDeath is my choice; but suffer me to try\nMy force, and vent my rage before I die.\"\nHe said; and, leaping down without delay,\nThro' crowds of scatter'd foes he freed his way.\nStriding he pass'd, impetuous as the wind,\nAnd left the grieving goddess far behind.\nAs when a fragment, from a mountain torn\nBy raging tempests, or by torrents borne,\nOr sapp'd by time, or loosen'd from the roots-\nProne thro' the void the rocky ruin shoots,\nRolling from crag to crag, from steep to steep;\nDown sink, at once, the shepherds and their sheep:\nInvolv'd alike, they rush to nether ground;\nStunn'd with the shock they fall, and stunn'd from earth rebound:\nSo Turnus, hasting headlong to the town,\nShould'ring and shoving, bore the squadrons down.\nStill pressing onward, to the walls he drew,\nWhere shafts, and spears, and darts promiscuous flew,\nAnd sanguine streams the slipp'ry ground embrue.\nFirst stretching out his arm, in sign of peace,\nHe cries aloud, to make the combat cease:\n\"Rutulians, hold; and Latin troops, retire!\nThe fight is mine; and me the gods require.\n'T is just that I should vindicate alone\nThe broken truce, or for the breach atone.\nThis day shall free from wars th' Ausonian state,\nOr finish my misfortunes in my fate.\"\nBoth armies from their bloody work desist,\nAnd, bearing backward, form a spacious list.\nThe Trojan hero, who receiv'd from fame\nThe welcome sound, and heard the champion's name,\nSoon leaves the taken works and mounted walls,\nGreedy of war where greater glory calls.\nHe springs to fight, exulting in his force\nHis jointed armor rattles in the course.\nLike Eryx, or like Athos, great he shows,\nOr Father Apennine, when, white with snows,\nHis head divine obscure in clouds he hides,\nAnd shakes the sounding forest on his sides.\nThe nations, overaw'd, surcease the fight;\nImmovable their bodies, fix'd their sight.\nEv'n death stands still; nor from above they throw\nTheir darts, nor drive their batt'ring-rams below.\nIn silent order either army stands,\nAnd drop their swords, unknowing, from their hands.\nTh' Ausonian king beholds, with wond'ring sight,\nTwo mighty champions match'd in single fight,\nBorn under climes remote, and brought by fate,\nWith swords to try their titles to the state.\nNow, in clos'd field, each other from afar\nThey view; and, rushing on, begin the war.\nThey launch their spears; then hand to hand they meet;\nThe trembling soil resounds beneath their feet:\nTheir bucklers clash; thick blows descend from high,\nAnd flakes of fire from their hard helmets fly.\nCourage conspires with chance, and both ingage\nWith equal fortune yet, and mutual rage.\nAs when two bulls for their fair female fight\nIn Sila's shades, or on Taburnus' height;\nWith horns adverse they meet; the keeper flies;\nMute stands the herd; the heifers roll their eyes,\nAnd wait th' event; which victor they shall bear,\nAnd who shall be the lord, to rule the lusty year:\nWith rage of love the jealous rivals burn,\nAnd push for push, and wound for wound return;\nTheir dewlaps gor'd, their sides are lav'd in blood;\nLoud cries and roaring sounds rebellow thro' the wood:\nSuch was the combat in the listed ground;\nSo clash their swords, and so their shields resound.\nJove sets the beam; in either scale he lays\nThe champions' fate, and each exactly weighs.\nOn this side, life and lucky chance ascends;\nLoaded with death, that other scale descends.\nRais'd on the stretch, young Turnus aims a blow\nFull on the helm of his unguarded foe:\nShrill shouts and clamors ring on either side,\nAs hopes and fears their panting hearts divide.\nBut all in pieces flies the traitor sword,\nAnd, in the middle stroke, deserts his lord.\nNow is but death, or flight; disarm'd he flies,\nWhen in his hand an unknown hilt he spies.\nFame says that Turnus, when his steeds he join'd,\nHurrying to war, disorder'd in his mind,\nSnatch'd the first weapon which his haste could find.\n'T was not the fated sword his father bore,\nBut that his charioteer Metiscus wore.\nThis, while the Trojans fled, the toughness held;\nBut, vain against the great Vulcanian shield,\nThe mortal-temper'd steel deceiv'd his hand:\nThe shiver'd fragments shone amid the sand.\nSurpris'd with fear, he fled along the field,\nAnd now forthright, and now in orbits wheel'd;\nFor here the Trojan troops the list surround,\nAnd there the pass is clos'd with pools and marshy ground.\nAeneas hastens, tho' with heavier pace-\nHis wound, so newly knit, retards the chase,\nAnd oft his trembling knees their aid refuse-\nYet, pressing foot by foot, his foe pursues.\nThus, when a fearful stag is clos'd around\nWith crimson toils, or in a river found,\nHigh on the bank the deep-mouth'd hound appears,\nStill opening, following still, where'er he steers;\nThe persecuted creature, to and fro,\nTurns here and there, to scape his Umbrian foe:\nSteep is th' ascent, and, if he gains the land,\nThe purple death is pitch'd along the strand.\nHis eager foe, determin'd to the chase,\nStretch'd at his length, gains ground at ev'ry pace;\nNow to his beamy head he makes his way,\nAnd now he holds, or thinks he holds, his prey:\nJust at the pinch, the stag springs out with fear;\nHe bites the wind, and fills his sounding jaws with air:\nThe rocks, the lakes, the meadows ring with cries;\nThe mortal tumult mounts, and thunders in the skies.\nThus flies the Daunian prince, and, flying, blames\nHis tardy troops, and, calling by their names,\nDemands his trusty sword. The Trojan threats\nThe realm with ruin, and their ancient seats\nTo lay in ashes, if they dare supply\nWith arms or aid his vanquish'd enemy:\nThus menacing, he still pursues the course,\nWith vigor, tho' diminish'd of his force.\nTen times already round the listed place\nOne chief had fled, and t' other giv'n the chase:\nNo trivial prize is play'd; for on the life\nOr death of Turnus now depends the strife.\nWithin the space, an olive tree had stood,\nA sacred shade, a venerable wood,\nFor vows to Faunus paid, the Latins' guardian god.\nHere hung the vests, and tablets were ingrav'd,\nOf sinking mariners from shipwrack sav'd.\nWith heedless hands the Trojans fell'd the tree,\nTo make the ground inclos'd for combat free.\nDeep in the root, whether by fate, or chance,\nOr erring haste, the Trojan drove his lance;\nThen stoop'd, and tugg'd with force immense, to free\nTh' incumber'd spear from the tenacious tree;\nThat, whom his fainting limbs pursued in vain,\nHis flying weapon might from far attain.\nConfus'd with fear, bereft of human aid,\nThen Turnus to the gods, and first to Faunus pray'd:\n\"O Faunus, pity! and thou Mother Earth,\nWhere I thy foster son receiv'd my birth,\nHold fast the steel! If my religious hand\nYour plant has honor'd, which your foes profan'd,\nPropitious hear my pious pray'r!\" He said,\nNor with successless vows invok'd their aid.\nTh' incumbent hero wrench'd, and pull'd, and strain'd;\nBut still the stubborn earth the steel detain'd.\nJuturna took her time; and, while in vain\nHe strove, assum'd Meticus' form again,\nAnd, in that imitated shape, restor'd\nTo the despairing prince his Daunian sword.\nThe Queen of Love, who, with disdain and grief,\nSaw the bold nymph afford this prompt relief,\nT' assert her offspring with a greater deed,\nFrom the tough root the ling'ring weapon freed.\nOnce more erect, the rival chiefs advance:\nOne trusts the sword, and one the pointed lance;\nAnd both resolv'd alike to try their fatal chance.\nMeantime imperial Jove to Juno spoke,\nWho from a shining cloud beheld the shock:\n\"What new arrest, O Queen of Heav'n, is sent\nTo stop the Fates now lab'ring in th' event?\nWhat farther hopes are left thee to pursue?\nDivine Aeneas, (and thou know'st it too,)\nForedoom'd, to these celestial seats are due.\nWhat more attempts for Turnus can be made,\nThat thus thou ling'rest in this lonely shade?\nIs it becoming of the due respect\nAnd awful honor of a god elect,\nA wound unworthy of our state to feel,\nPatient of human hands and earthly steel?\nOr seems it just, the sister should restore\nA second sword, when one was lost before,\nAnd arm a conquer'd wretch against his conqueror?\nFor what, without thy knowledge and avow,\nNay more, thy dictate, durst Juturna do?\nAt last, in deference to my love, forbear\nTo lodge within thy soul this anxious care;\nReclin'd upon my breast, thy grief unload:\nWho should relieve the goddess, but the god?\nNow all things to their utmost issue tend,\nPush'd by the Fates to their appointed\nWhile leave was giv'n thee, and a lawful hour\nFor vengeance, wrath, and unresisted pow'r,\nToss'd on the seas, thou couldst thy foes distress,\nAnd, driv'n ashore, with hostile arms oppress;\nDeform the royal house; and, from the side\nOf the just bridegroom, tear the plighted bride:\nNow cease at my command.\" The Thund'rer said;\nAnd, with dejected eyes, this answer Juno made:\n\"Because your dread decree too well I knew,\nFrom Turnus and from earth unwilling I withdrew.\nElse should you not behold me here, alone,\nInvolv'd in empty clouds, my friends bemoan,\nBut, girt with vengeful flames, in open sight\nEngag'd against my foes in mortal fight.\n'T is true, Juturna mingled in the strife\nBy my command, to save her brother's life-\nAt least to try; but, by the Stygian lake,\n(The most religious oath the gods can take,)\nWith this restriction, not to bend the bow,\nOr toss the spear, or trembling dart to throw.\nAnd now, resign'd to your superior might,\nAnd tir'd with fruitless toils, I loathe the fight.\nThis let me beg (and this no fates withstand)\nBoth for myself and for your father's land,\nThat, when the nuptial bed shall bind the peace,\n(Which I, since you ordain, consent to bless,)\nThe laws of either nation be the same;\nBut let the Latins still retain their name,\nSpeak the same language which they spoke before,\nWear the same habits which their grandsires wore.\nCall them not Trojans: perish the renown\nAnd name of Troy, with that detested town.\nLatium be Latium still; let Alba reign\nAnd Rome's immortal majesty remain.\"\nThen thus the founder of mankind replies\n(Unruffled was his front, serene his eyes)\n\"Can Saturn's issue, and heav'n's other heir,\nSuch endless anger in her bosom bear?\nBe mistress, and your full desires obtain;\nBut quench the choler you foment in vain.\nFrom ancient blood th' Ausonian people sprung,\nShall keep their name, their habit, and their tongue.\nThe Trojans to their customs shall be tied:\nI will, myself, their common rites provide;\nThe natives shall command, the foreigners subside.\nAll shall be Latium; Troy without a name;\nAnd her lost sons forget from whence they came.\nFrom blood so mix'd, a pious race shall flow,\nEqual to gods, excelling all below.\nNo nation more respect to you shall pay,\nOr greater off'rings on your altars lay.\"\nJuno consents, well pleas'd that her desires\nHad found success, and from the cloud retires.\nThe peace thus made, the Thund'rer next prepares\nTo force the wat'ry goddess from the wars.\nDeep in the dismal regions void of light,\nThree daughters at a birth were born to Night:\nThese their brown mother, brooding on her care,\nIndued with windy wings to flit in air,\nWith serpents girt alike, and crown'd with hissing hair.\nIn heav'n the Dirae call'd, and still at hand,\nBefore the throne of angry Jove they stand,\nHis ministers of wrath, and ready still\nThe minds of mortal men with fears to fill,\nWhene'er the moody sire, to wreak his hate\nOn realms or towns deserving of their fate,\nHurls down diseases, death and deadly care,\nAnd terrifies the guilty world with war.\nOne sister plague if these from heav'n he sent,\nTo fright Juturna with a dire portent.\nThe pest comes whirling down: by far more slow\nSprings the swift arrow from the Parthian bow,\nOr Cydon yew, when, traversing the skies,\nAnd drench'd in pois'nous juice, the sure destruction flies.\nWith such a sudden and unseen a flight\nShot thro' the clouds the daughter of the night.\nSoon as the field inclos'd she had in view,\nAnd from afar her destin'd quarry knew,\nContracted, to the boding bird she turns,\nWhich haunts the ruin'd piles and hallow'd urns,\nAnd beats about the tombs with nightly wings,\nWhere songs obscene on sepulchers she sings.\nThus lessen'd in her form, with frightful cries\nThe Fury round unhappy Turnus flies,\nFlaps on his shield, and flutters o'er his eyes.\nA lazy chillness crept along his blood;\nChok'd was his voice; his hair with horror stood.\nJuturna from afar beheld her fly,\nAnd knew th' ill omen, by her screaming cry\nAnd stridor of her wings. Amaz'd with fear,\nHer beauteous breast she beat, and rent her flowing hair.\n\"Ah me!\" she cries, \"in this unequal strife\nWhat can thy sister more to save thy life?\nWeak as I am, can I, alas! contend\nIn arms with that inexorable fiend?\nNow, now, I quit the field! forbear to fright\nMy tender soul, ye baleful birds of night;\nThe lashing of your wings I know too well,\nThe sounding flight, and fun'ral screams of hell!\nThese are the gifts you bring from haughty Jove,\nThe worthy recompense of ravish'd love!\nDid he for this exempt my life from fate?\nO hard conditions of immortal state,\nTho' born to death, not privileg'd to die,\nBut forc'd to bear impos'd eternity!\nTake back your envious bribes, and let me go\nCompanion to my brother's ghost below!\nThe joys are vanish'd: nothing now remains,\nOf life immortal, but immortal pains.\nWhat earth will open her devouring womb,\nTo rest a weary goddess in the tomb!\"\nShe drew a length of sighs; nor more she said,\nBut in her azure mantle wrapp'd her head,\nThen plung'd into her stream, with deep despair,\nAnd her last sobs came bubbling up in air.\nNow stern Aeneas his weighty spear\nAgainst his foe, and thus upbraids his fear:\n\"What farther subterfuge can Turnus find?\nWhat empty hopes are harbor'd in his mind?\n'T is not thy swiftness can secure thy flight;\nNot with their feet, but hands, the valiant fight.\nVary thy shape in thousand forms, and dare\nWhat skill and courage can attempt in war;\nWish for the wings of winds, to mount the sky;\nOr hid, within the hollow earth to lie!\"\nThe champion shook his head, and made this short reply:\n\"No threats of thine my manly mind can move;\n'T is hostile heav'n I dread, and partial Jove.\"\nHe said no more, but, with a sigh, repress'd\nThe mighty sorrow in his swelling breast.\nThen, as he roll'd his troubled eyes around,\nAn antique stone he saw, the common bound\nOf neighb'ring fields, and barrier of the ground;\nSo vast, that twelve strong men of modern days\nTh' enormous weight from earth could hardly raise.\nHe heav'd it at a lift, and, pois'd on high,\nRan stagg'ring on against his enemy,\nBut so disorder'd, that he scarcely knew\nHis way, or what unwieldly weight he threw.\nHis knocking knees are bent beneath the load,\nAnd shiv'ring cold congeals his vital blood.\nThe stone drops from his arms, and, falling short\nFor want of vigor, mocks his vain effort.\nAnd as, when heavy sleep has clos'd the sight,\nThe sickly fancy labors in the night;\nWe seem to run; and, destitute of force,\nOur sinking limbs forsake us in the course:\nIn vain we heave for breath; in vain we cry;\nThe nerves, unbrac'd, their usual strength deny;\nAnd on the tongue the falt'ring accents die:\nSo Turnus far'd; whatever means he tried,\nAll force of arms and points of art employ'd,\nThe Fury flew athwart, and made th' endeavor void.\nA thousand various thoughts his soul confound;\nHe star'd about, nor aid nor issue found;\nHis own men stop the pass, and his own walls surround.\nOnce more he pauses, and looks out again,\nAnd seeks the goddess charioteer in vain.\nTrembling he views the thund'ring chief advance,\nAnd brandishing aloft the deadly lance:\nAmaz'd he cow'rs beneath his conqu'ring foe,\nForgets to ward, and waits the coming blow.\nAstonish'd while he stands, and fix'd with fear,\nAim'd at his shield he sees th' impending spear.\nThe hero measur'd first, with narrow view,\nThe destin'd mark; and, rising as he threw,\nWith its full swing the fatal weapon flew.\nNot with less rage the rattling thunder falls,\nOr stones from batt'ring-engines break the walls:\nSwift as a whirlwind, from an arm so strong,\nThe lance drove on, and bore the death along.\nNaught could his sev'nfold shield the prince avail,\nNor aught, beneath his arms, the coat of mail:\nIt pierc'd thro' all, and with a grisly wound\nTransfix'd his thigh, and doubled him to ground.\nWith groans the Latins rend the vaulted sky:\nWoods, hills, and valleys, to the voice reply.\nNow low on earth the lofty chief is laid,\nWith eyes cast upward, and with arms display'd,\nAnd, recreant, thus to the proud victor pray'd:\n\"I know my death deserv'd, nor hope to live:\nUse what the gods and thy good fortune give.\nYet think, O think, if mercy may be shown-\nThou hadst a father once, and hast a son-\nPity my sire, now sinking to the grave;\nAnd for Anchises' sake old Daunus save!\nOr, if thy vow'd revenge pursue my death,\nGive to my friends my body void of breath!\nThe Latian chiefs have seen me beg my life;\nThine is the conquest, thine the royal wife:\nAgainst a yielded man, 't is mean ignoble strife.\"\nIn deep suspense the Trojan seem'd to stand,\nAnd, just prepar'd to strike, repress'd his hand.\nHe roll'd his eyes, and ev'ry moment felt\nHis manly soul with more compassion melt;\nWhen, casting down a casual glance, he spied\nThe golden belt that glitter'd on his side,\nThe fatal spoils which haughty Turnus tore\nFrom dying Pallas, and in triumph wore.\nThen, rous'd anew to wrath, he loudly cries\n(Flames, while he spoke, came flashing from his eyes)\n\"Traitor, dost thou, dost thou to grace pretend,\nClad, as thou art, in trophies of my friend?\nTo his sad soul a grateful off'ring go!\n'T is Pallas, Pallas gives this deadly blow.\"\nHe rais'd his arm aloft, and, at the word,\nDeep in his bosom drove the shining sword.\nThe streaming blood distain'd his arms around,\nAnd the disdainful soul came rushing thro' the wound.","title":"THE AENEID by Virgil","type":"page"}