Reared in his Oread mother’s wood,
Beside Symæthus’ gentle flood,
Where day by day with victims’ blood
Palicus’ altars flow.
No more his spear Mezentius hurled;
Thrice round his head his sling he whirled
With shrill and whizzing sound:
Sheer through the warrior’s temples sped
With fatal aim the glowing lead;
He falls, and lies unnerved and dead
O’er many a foot of ground.
In battle-field his bow,
Till then ’gainst flying silvans plied,
And laid Numanus low:
He late to his connubial bed
Had Turnus’ youngest sister led:
And now, of new-worn purple proud,
He stalks erect, with vaunting loud,
And thus before the battle’s van
With wordy turbulence began:
‘Twice- captured Phrygians! to be pent
Once more in leaguered battlement,
And plant unblushingly between
Yourselves and death a stony screen!
Lo, these the men that draw their swords
To part our ladies from their lords!
What god, what madness brings you here
To taste of our Italian cheer?
No proud Atridæ lead our vans:
No false Ulysses talks and plans:
E’en from the birth a hardy brood,
We take our infants to the flood,
And fortify their tender mould
With icy wave and ruthless cold.
Early and late our sturdy boys
Seek through the woods a hunter’s joys:
Their pastime is to tame the steed,
To bend the bow and launch the reed.
Our youth, to scanty fare inured,
Made strong by labour oft endured,
Subdue the soil with spade and rake,
Or city walls with battle shake.
Through life we grasp our trusty spear:
It strikes the foe, it goads the steer:
Age cannot chill our valour: no,
The helmet sits on locks of snow;
And still we love to store our prey,
And eat the fruits our arms purvey.
You flaunt your robes in all men’s eyes,
Your saffron and your purple dyes,
Recline on downy couch, or weave
The dreamy dance from morn to eve:
Sleeved tunics guard your tender skins,
And ribboned mitres prop your chins.
Phrygians!—nay rather Phrygian fair!
Hence, to your Dindymus repair!
Go where the flute’s congenial throat
Shrieks through two doors its slender note,
Where pipe and cymbal call the crew;
These are the instruments for you:
Leave men, like us, in arms to deal,
Nor bruise your lily hands with steel.’
Ascanius could not bear:
He drew the bowstring, poised the dart,
And stood with outstretched arms apart,
First calling Jove in prayer,
‘Vouchsafe to bless, great Sire divine,
Thy suppliant’s bold essay:
My grateful hand before thy shrine
Shall yearly offerings pay:
A goodly bullock from the stall,
Snow-white, his mother scarce so tall,
His horns, which gold shall overlay,
E’en now anticipate the fray,
His feet spurn up the sand.’
Jove heard, and instant from the left
He thundered through the blue:
Instant the bow was heard to twang;
The shaft along the welkin sang,
Numanus’ haughty head it cleft,
And pierced his temples through.
‘Go, vent on worth your idle taunts:
Such answer to Rutulian vaunts
Twice-captured Phrygians send!’
Ascanius spoke: the sons of Troy
Mount skyward in their rapturous joy,
And heaven with shoutings rend.
Surveyed the fortunes of the fight,
And thus from off his throne of cloud
Bespoke the youthful victor proud:
‘’Tis thus that men to heaven aspire:
Go on, and raise your glories higher,
Of Gods the son, of Gods the sire!
Beneath Assaracus’s seed
The war-worn land shall cease to bleed,
Nor may our narrow Troy contain
The compass of so grand a reign.’
So speaking, from the skies he darts,
The fluttering air before him parts,
And quickly to Ascanius hies,
In Butes’ venerable guise.
Once Butes kept Anchises’ door,
Anchises’ arms in battle bore:
No other cares his age employ,
The guardian of the princely boy.
So moves the God: voice, colour, all,
The veteran’s lineaments recall,
The silvery honours of his head,
His armour, resonant with dread;
And thus with words of mild control
He calms that young ambitious soul:
‘Enough, Æneas’ son, to know
Your hand, unharmed, with shaft and bow
Such glory to your first of fields
Your patron god ungrudging yields,
Nor robs of praise the arms he wields:
From further fight refrain.’
So Phœbus speaks, and speaking flies;
One moment beams on mortal eyes,
Then mingles with the ambient skies.
The Dardan chiefs the godhead knew:
His flashing weapons caught their view:
They heard his quiver as he flew.
So now at great Apollo’s beck
Ascanius’ martial zeal they check:
Themselves renew the doubtful strife,
And prodigally venture life.
Rings through the camp the war-shout’s peal:
They bend their bows and hurl the steel
Which leathern thong impels:
Spent javelins all the ground bestrow:
Helmet and shield rebound the blow:
A savage fight upswells.
So furiously from westward sped,
The Kid-star lowering overhead,
Wild tempests lash the plain:
So on the sea the
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