‘What if your heart should give
That further boon your lip denies,
And suffer him to live?
Now on the blameless victim wait
The powers of doom, or blind to fate
I wander all astray.
Yet O! may Juno’s fears be vain,
And He that can, in mercy deign
To choose the better way!’
She stoops, a storm-cloud round her waist,
And driving tempest as she flies,
Down to the embattled hosts she hies.
A phantom in Æneas’ mould
She fashions, wondrous to behold,
Of hollow shadowy cloud,
Bids it the Dardan arms assume,
The shield, the helmet, and the plume,
Gives soulless words of swelling tone,
And motions like the hero’s own,
As stately and as proud;
Like gliding spectres of the dead,
Or dreams that haunt the slumberer’s bed.
Now, stalking in the battle’s van,
The phantom menaces the man,
And pours defiant cries:
Turnus comes on in swift career,
And hurls from far his hurtling spear,
When lo! it turns and flies.
Then Turnus deems his foe retires
In craven flight, and instant fires
With hope’s delusive glow:
‘Æneas! why so fast?’ he cried;
‘Desert not thus your plighted bride;
The land you sought for o’er the tide
This hand shall soon bestow.’
So clamouring, he pursues the quest
With brandished falchion bare,
Nor sees the transports of his breast
Are lavished on the air.
A ship stood fastened to the bank,
With steps let down and sloping plank,
The same which king Osinius bore
Across the sea from Clusium’s shore.
Thither the feigned Æneas flies,
And cowering as in covert lies;
Turnus pursues, the bridge bestrides,
And scales the vessel’s lofty sides.
Scarce on the prow his foot had stept,
Saturnia breaks the band;
The galley down the waves is swept
That ebb from off the strand:
While through the plain with baffled wrath
Æneas seeks his foe,
And hurries all that cross his path
To Dis and Death below.
And now no more the phantom hides,
But melts in air on high,
While Turnus o’er the ocean rides
Fast as his bark can fly.
He gazes on the fleeting shape,
And thus in wild remonstrance cries
With hands uplifted to the skies:
‘And couldst thou deem, Almighty Sire,
Thy worshipper’s offence so dire
To merit doom so sore?
Whence came I? whither am I borne?
And must I journey home in scorn,
Nor e’er behold, ah wretch forlorn,
The camp, the city more?
And where are they, that gallant band,
Who fieldward followed my command?
In Death’s fell grasp I left them all:
I see them fly—I see them fall—
I hear their dying groans.
What gulf will hide me from the day?
Have pity, O ye winds, I pray,
And dash me on the stones!
’Tis Turnus, yes, ’tis I that kneel!
Strand on the shoals this cursed keel,
And whelm me where nor Rutule rout
Nor prying fame may find me out.’
E’en thus he raves, and all distraught
Whirls in an agony of thought,
Or should he bury in his side
The hard cold steel, sure salve of pride,
Or plunge in ocean, swim to shore,
And tempt the Teucrian arms once more.
Thrice had he rushed on either fate:
Thrice Jove’s great spouse withstood,
Looked down with eyes compassionate,
And checked his maddening mood.
The swift wind wafts him o’er the foam,
And bears him to his father’s home.
Mezentius takes the field, and flies
On Troy’s triumphant van.
With gathered hate and furious blows
The Tyrrhene legions round him close,
A nation ’gainst a man.
He stands like rock that breasts the deep,
Exposed to winds’ and waters’ sweep,
That bears all threats of sea and sky
In undisturbed tranquillity.
First Dolichaon’s son he slew,
Then Latagus and Palmus too;
That, as he stands, with ponderous stone
He crushes, scattering brain and bone;
This, as he flies, with dexterous wound
He tumbles hamstrung on the ground,
There leaves him: Lausus wears his crest
And glittering arms on brow and breast.
Euanthes sinks beneath his spear,
And Mimas, Paris’ loved compeer,
Whom fair Theano bore
To Amycus, the selfsame night
When Troy’s fell firebrand sprang to light;
Now Paris ’neath his country’s walls
Sleeps his last sleep, while Mimas falls
On Latium’s unknown shore.
Like wild boar, driven from mountain height
By cries that scare and fangs that bite,
In Vesulus’ pine-cinctured glen
Long fostered, or Laurentum’s fen,
’Mid reeds and marish ground,
Now, trapped among the hunters’ nets,
His bristles rears, his tushes whets:
None dares for very fear draw nigh;
With arrowy war and furious cry
They stand at distance round:
E’en thus, of all Mezentius’ foes,
None ventures hand to hand to close;
With deafening shouts and bended bows
Their tyrant they assail;
He, churning foam, from side to side
Glares round, and from his tough bull- hide
Shakes off the brazen hail.
From ancient Corythus’ domain
Had Acron come, of Grecian strain,
Leaving his spouse unwed:
Him dealing death Mezentius spied
Clad in the robe his lady dyed
And crowned with plumage red:
As lion ranging o’er the wold,
Made mad by hunger uncontrolled,
If flying roe his eyes behold
Or lofty-antlered deer,
Grins ghastly, rears his mane, and hangs
O’er the rent flesh; his greedy fangs
Dark streams of gore besmear:
So springs Mezentius on the foe:
Soon lies unhappy Acron low,
Spurns the
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