‘Nay, spare your gold and silver heap:
Those treasured hoards your heirs should keep
Since Turnus shed out Pallas’ gore,
The bartery of war is o’er:
So deems my gallant son, and so
My father’s spirit down below:’
Then seized him by the helm, and smote
With deep…plunged blade his back-drawn throat.
Not far Hæmonides the good,
Apollo’s priest and Dian’s, stood,
His brow with sacred fillet wreathed,
His limbs in dazzling armour sheathed:
He meets him, chases, lays him low,
Stands o’er the immolated foe,
And shadows him like night:
Serestus on his shoulders proud
Bears the bright arms, a trophy vowed
To thee, stern lord of fight.
And Umbro, nursed in Marsian airs,
Bid the spent war afresh to bleed:
The Dardan chief against them fares.
Stout Anxur’s hand and all his shield
His sword has tumbled on the field;
Poor wretch! he deemed that boastful word
Could turn the edge of spear or sword,
And, proudly swelling to the spheres,
Dreamed of hoar locks and length of years.
E’en as the hero wreaked his wrath
Came Tarquitus athwart his path,
Whom Dryope to Faunus bore:
Refulgent armour cased him o’er.
The Dardan spear, with force addressed,
Drives shield and corslet on his breast;
Then while in vain he pours his prayers
And many a plea for life prepares,
His shapely neck the falchion shares:
Down falls the body, reft of head,
And thus Æneas taunts the dead:
‘Lie there, proud youth! no mother dear
Shall lay you on your father’s bier:
Your corpse shall rot above the soil,
The eagle’s and the raven’s spoil,
Or drift unheeded down the flood,
While hungry fish shall lick your blood.’
Antæus next and Lucas die,
The flower of Turnus’ chivalry,
With Numa, cast in valour’s mould,
And Camers with his locks of gold,
Of noble Volscens’ ancient strain,
Who, lord of many a wide domain,
O’er mute Amyclæ stretched his reign.
As when of old Ægæon strove
Against the majesty of Jove,
With firty heads, so legends say,
A hundred hands, he waged the fray;
Each head disgorged a stream of fire
To match the lightnings of the Sire;
Each hand flashed forth a sword, or pealed
Responsive thunder on the shield:
So, when Æneas’ blade was warmed,
O’er all the plain at once he stormed.
Now on Niphæus’ four-horse car
And towering crest he turns the war:
Soon as the advancing coursers spied
That dreadful port, that lofty stride,
Appalled they start, their lord unseat,
And backward to the shore retreat.
In one fair chariot, side by side,
One brother skilled the reins to guide,
While one the falchion plies.
Æneas stays their bold career,
Confronts them with uplifted spear;
When thus proud Liger cries:
‘Not these the steeds of Diomed,
Nor this Achilles’ car,
Nor Phrygia’s plains before you spread:
This land shall see the invader dead,
And terminate the war.’
Thus Liger madly vaunts: the foe
Speaks not, but answers with a blow.
As Lucagus low bends him o’er
The chariots rim his steeds to smite,
And with left foot advanced before,
Prepares him for the doubtful fight,
Just where the shield’s last sutures join
Comes the fell spear, and strikes the groin
He, from his chariot overthrown,
Down toppling, on the field lies prone:
And thus in sharp contemptuous strain
Æneas glories o’er the slain:
‘So, friend, no shadows seen from far
Have turned to flight your luckless car;
No frightened horses caused its shame:
Its nimble lord is all to blame.’
Then on the steeds his hand he laid,
When sliding from the seat
The wretched brother knelt and prayed,
A suppliant at his feet:
‘O, by your own illustrious worth,
By your own illustrious worth,
By those who gave such greatness birth,
Brave chief of Troy, your suitor spare’—
The warrior stopped his further prayer:
‘Not this the strain you breathed so late:
Die; brother should be brother’s mate.’
His sword unlocks the springs of breath,
And opes a way to let in death.
So plies the chief his work of blood
Through the wide field, like torrent flood
Or black tempestuous wind:
Ascanius and his leaguered train
Take heart, and issue on the plain,
And leave their camp behind.
‘Sweet sister mine and wedded love,
Who now will do your judgment wrong?
’Tis Venus makes these Trojans strong;
Not those vain powers they deem are theirs,
The hand that strikes, the soul that dares.’
‘Ah why,’ she answered, ‘gracious Sire,
Torment a heart that fears your ire?
Had I the power I owned erewhile,
The power that suits my queenly style,
I then had moved your will
That Turnus, rescued from the strife,
Should yet enjoy his precious life,
And bless old Daunus still.
Now let him die, though just and good,
And glut his foes with guiltless blood.
Yet from our race he draws his name;
From old Pilumnus’ loins he came;
And altars, crowned with offerings fair,
Attest his worth and claim your care.’
To whom in brief thus made reply
The ruler of the ethereal sky:
‘If all for Turnus you would crave
Be respite from an open grave,
And so my mind you read,
Let the doomed youth have space to fly
And ’scape awhile his destiny:
So much may Jove concede:
But know, if ’neath your prayer you hide
Some deeper, larger boon beside,
And think to change the war’s set tide,
’Tis empty hope you feed.’
The queen
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