That fly before the hunter’s face:
A woman’s weapon shall unteach
Your misproud tribe that boastful speech:
Yet take this glory to your grave,
Camilla’s hand your death-wound gave.’
Orsilochus and Butes then
(In Troy’s great host no huger men)
Their lives successive yield:
Butes she pierces in the rear
With her inevitable spear,
The corslet and the helm between,
Just where the sitter’s neck is seen
And hangs the left-hand shield:
Orsilochus she traps by guile:
She flies and he pursues the while,
Till, as in narrowing rings she wheels,
Each treads upon the other’s heels:
Then, rising to the stroke, she drives
Her weighty battle-axe, and rives
The helmet and the crown,
E’en as he sues for grace: again
The blow descends: the spattered brain
The severed cheeks runs down.
Now Aunus’ warrior son by chance
Meets her, and quails before her glance,
Not meanest of Liguria’s breed,
While fate allowed his tricks to speed.
So, when he sees no means to fly
Or put that dreadful presence by,
What artifice can do he tries,
And thus with feigned defiance cries:
‘Good sooth, ’tis chivalry indeed:
A woman trusts her mettled steed!
Come now, discard those means of flight,
And gird you for an equal fight:
Stand face to face, you soon shall see
Whom boasting favours, you or me.’
Stung by the insult, fiery-souled,
She gives her mate her horse to hold,
And stands with maiden buckler bold
And bare uplifted steel.
The youth believes his arts succeed:
Turning his rein with caitiff speed
He flies, and gores his panting steed
With iron-pointed heel.
‘Ah! base Ligurian, boaster vile,
In vain you try your native guile:
Trickster and dastard though ye be,
False Aunus you shall never see!’
With foot like fire, in middle course
She meets and heads the flying horse,
Confronts the rider, lays him low,
And wreaks her vengeance, foe on foe.
Look how the hawk, whom augurs love,
With matchless ease o’ertakes a dove
Seen in the clouds on high:
He gripes, he rends the prey forlorn,
While drops of blood and plumage torn
Come tumbling from the sky.
The Sire of heaven the scene surveys
From his Olympian tower:
He bids Tyrrhenian Tarchon wage
A deadlier fight, and stirs his rage
With all ungentle power.
From rank to rank the chieftain flies,
The yielding troops with menace plies,
Calls each by his familiar name,
And wakes again the expiring flame:
‘What panic terror of the foe,
What drowsy spell has made you slow,
O hearts that will not feel?
A woman chases you—ye fly:
Why don that useless armour? why
Parade your idle steel?
Yet all too quick you ears to heed
The call of laughing dames,
Or when the piper’s scrannel reed
The Bacchic dance proclaims:
Then with keen eyes and hungry throat
On meet and brimming cups ye gloat,
Till seers announce the victim good
And feast-time bids you to the wood.’
This said, prepared himself to bleed,
’Gainst Venulus he spurs his steed,
Plucks from his horse the unwary foe
And bears him on his saddle-bow.
All Latium turns astonished eyes,
And deafening clamours mount the skies;
Swift o’er the champaign Tarchon flies,
The chief before him still:
The spearhead from the shaft he broke,
And scans him o’er, to plant a stroke
Which may the readiest kill:
The victim, struggling, guards his neck,
And still by force keeps force in check.
E’en as an eagle bears aloft
A serpent in her taloned nails;
The reptile writhes him oft and oft,
Rears in his ire his stiffening scales,
And darts his hissing jaws on high:
She with quick wing still beats the sky,
While her sharp beak his life assails:
So Tarchon from the midmost foe
In triumph bears his prey:
His heartened Lydians catch the glow,
And back their chief’s essay.
Circles Camilla round,
His javelin in his hand, and tries
The easiest way to wound.
Where’er she leads the fierce attack,
He follows, and observes her track:
Where’er she issues from the rout,
He deftly shifts his reins about:
Explores each method of advance,
Wheels round and round, weighs chance with chance,
And shakes the inevitable lance.
Just then rich Chloreus, priest of yore
To Cybele, bedizened o’er
With Phrygian armour shone,
And spurred afield his charger bold,
A chainwork cloth with clasp of gold
Around its body thrown.
He, clad in purple’s wealthiest grain,
The work of looms beyond the main,
Launches untiring on the foe
Gortynian shafts from Cretan bow:
Behind a golden quiver sounds,
A helm of gold his head surrounds:
His saffron scarf, with gold confined,
Flaunts, light and rustling, in the wind:
And hose of gay barbaric wear
And broidered vest his race declare.
Perchance the huntress sought to gain
Troy’s spoils, to deck a Volscian fane;
Perchance herself she would adorn
In that bright gold, so proudly worn:
Whate’er the cause, from all about
She singles, follows, tracks him out,
And winds him through the embattled field,
Her eyes to coming danger sealed,
While all the woman’s fond desire
For plunder sets her soul on fire.
His moment Arruns marked: he aims
His dart, and thus to heaven exclaims:
‘Lord of Soracte, Phœbus’ sire,
Whose rites we Tuscans keep,
For whom the blaze of sacred fire
Lives in the pine-wood heap,
While, safe in piety, we tread,
Thy votaries we, on embers red,
Grant, mightiest of the Gods above,
My arms may this foul stain remove!
No blazonry I look to gain,
Trophy or spoil, from
| Previous chapter/page | Back | Home | Email this | Search | Discuss | Bookmark | Next chapter/page |