The Aeneid Part 36

The G.o.ds from heav'n survey the fatal strife, And mourn the miseries of human life.

Above the rest, two G.o.ddesses appear Concern'd for each: here Venus, Juno there.

Amidst the crowd, infernal Ate shakes Her scourge aloft, and crest of hissing snakes.

Once more the proud Mezentius, with disdain, Brandish'd his spear, and rush'd into the plain, Where tow'ring in the midmost rank she stood, Like tall Orion stalking o'er the flood.

(When with his brawny breast he cuts the waves, His shoulders scarce the topmost billow laves), Or like a mountain ash, whose roots are spread, Deep fix'd in earth; in clouds he hides his head.

The Trojan prince beheld him from afar, And dauntless undertook the doubtful war.

Collected in his strength, and like a rock, Pois'd on his base, Mezentius stood the shock.

He stood, and, measuring first with careful eyes The s.p.a.ce his spear could reach, aloud he cries: "My strong right hand, and sword, a.s.sist my stroke!

(Those only G.o.ds Mezentius will invoke.) His armor, from the Trojan pirate torn, By my triumphant Lausus shall be worn."

He said; and with his utmost force he threw The ma.s.sy spear, which, hissing as it flew, Reach'd the celestial s.h.i.+eld, that stopp'd the course; But, glancing thence, the yet unbroken force Took a new bent obliquely, and betwixt The side and bowels fam'd Anth.o.r.es fix'd.

Anth.o.r.es had from Argos travel'd far, Alcides' friend, and brother of the war; Till, tir'd with toils, fair Italy he chose, And in Evander's palace sought repose.

Now, falling by another's wound, his eyes He cast to heav'n, on Argos thinks, and dies.

The pious Trojan then his jav'lin sent; The s.h.i.+eld gave way; thro' treble plates it went Of solid bra.s.s, of linen trebly roll'd, And three bull hides which round the buckler fold.

All these it pa.s.s'd, resistless in the course, Transpierc'd his thigh, and spent its dying force.

The gaping wound gush'd out a crimson flood.

The Trojan, glad with sight of hostile blood, His faunchion drew, to closer fight address'd, And with new force his fainting foe oppress'd.

His father's peril Lausus view'd with grief; He sigh'd, he wept, he ran to his relief.

And here, heroic youth, 't is here I must To thy immortal memory be just, And sing an act so n.o.ble and so new, Posterity will scarce believe 't is true.

Pain'd with his wound, and useless for the fight, The father sought to save himself by flight: Inc.u.mber'd, slow he dragg'd the spear along, Which pierc'd his thigh, and in his buckler hung.

The pious youth, resolv'd on death, below The lifted sword springs forth to face the foe; Protects his parent, and prevents the blow.

Shouts of applause ran ringing thro' the field, To see the son the vanquish'd father s.h.i.+eld.

All, fir'd with gen'rous indignation, strive, And with a storm of darts to distance drive The Trojan chief, who, held at bay from far, On his Vulcanian orb sustain'd the war.

As, when thick hail comes rattling in the wind, The plowman, pa.s.senger, and lab'ring hind For shelter to the neighb'ring covert fly, Or hous'd, or safe in hollow caverns lie; But, that o'erblown, when heav'n above 'em smiles, Return to travel, and renew their toils: Aeneas thus, o'erwhelmed on ev'ry side, The storm of darts, undaunted, did abide; And thus to Lausus loud with friendly threat'ning cried: "Why wilt thou rush to certain death, and rage In rash attempts, beyond thy tender age, Betray'd by pious love?" Nor, thus forborne, The youth desists, but with insulting scorn Provokes the ling'ring prince, whose patience, tir'd, Gave place; and all his breast with fury fir'd.

For now the Fates prepar'd their sharpen'd shears; And lifted high the flaming sword appears, Which, full descending with a frightful sway, Thro' s.h.i.+eld and corslet forc'd th' impetuous way, And buried deep in his fair bosom lay.

The purple streams thro' the thin armor strove, And drench'd th' imbroider'd coat his mother wove; And life at length forsook his heaving heart, Loth from so sweet a mansion to depart.

But when, with blood and paleness all o'erspread, The pious prince beheld young Lausus dead, He griev'd; he wept; the sight an image brought Of his own filial love, a sadly pleasing thought: Then stretch'd his hand to hold him up, and said: "Poor hapless youth! what praises can be paid To love so great, to such transcendent store Of early worth, and sure presage of more?

Accept whate'er Aeneas can afford; Untouch'd thy arms, untaken be thy sword; And all that pleas'd thee living, still remain Inviolate, and sacred to the slain.

Thy body on thy parents I bestow, To rest thy soul, at least, if shadows know, Or have a sense of human things below.

There to thy fellow ghosts with glory tell: "T was by the great Aeneas hand I fell.'"

With this, his distant friends he beckons near, Provokes their duty, and prevents their fear: Himself a.s.sists to lift him from the ground, With clotted locks, and blood that well'd from out the wound.

Meantime, his father, now no father, stood, And wash'd his wounds by Tiber's yellow flood: Oppress'd with anguish, panting, and o'erspent, His fainting limbs against an oak he leant.

A bough his brazen helmet did sustain; His heavier arms lay scatter'd on the plain: A chosen train of youth around him stand; His drooping head was rested on his hand: His grisly beard his pensive bosom sought; And all on Lausus ran his restless thought.

Careful, concern'd his danger to prevent, He much enquir'd, and many a message sent To warn him from the field- alas! in vain!

Behold, his mournful followers bear him slain!

O'er his broad s.h.i.+eld still gush'd the yawning wound, And drew a b.l.o.o.d.y trail along the ground.

Far off he heard their cries, far off divin'd The dire event, with a foreboding mind.

With dust he sprinkled first his h.o.a.ry head; Then both his lifted hands to heav'n he spread; Last, the dear corpse embracing, thus he said: "What joys, alas! could this frail being give, That I have been so covetous to live?

To see my son, and such a son, resign His life, a ransom for preserving mine!

And am I then preserv'd, and art thou lost?

How much too dear has that redemption cost!

'T is now my bitter banishment I feel: This is a wound too deep for time to heal.

My guilt thy growing virtues did defame; My blackness blotted thy unblemish'd name.

Chas'd from a throne, abandon'd, and exil'd For foul misdeeds, were punishments too mild: I ow'd my people these, and, from their hate, With less resentment could have borne my fate.

And yet I live, and yet sustain the sight Of hated men, and of more hated light: But will not long." With that he rais'd from ground His fainting limbs, that stagger'd with his wound; Yet, with a mind resolv'd, and unappall'd With pains or perils, for his courser call'd Well-mouth'd, well-manag'd, whom himself did dress With daily care, and mounted with success; His aid in arms, his ornament in peace.

Soothing his courage with a gentle stroke, The steed seem'd sensible, while thus he spoke: "O Rhoebus, we have liv'd too long for me- If life and long were terms that could agree!

This day thou either shalt bring back the head And b.l.o.o.d.y trophies of the Trojan dead; This day thou either shalt revenge my woe, For murther'd Lausus, on his cruel foe; Or, if inexorable fate deny Our conquest, with thy conquer'd master die: For, after such a lord, I rest secure, Thou wilt no foreign reins, or Trojan load endure."

He said; and straight th' officious courser kneels, To take his wonted weight. His hands he fills With pointed jav'lins; on his head he lac'd His glitt'ring helm, which terribly was grac'd With waving horsehair, nodding from afar; Then spurr'd his thund'ring steed amidst the war.

Love, anguish, wrath, and grief, to madness wrought, Despair, and secret shame, and conscious thought Of inborn worth, his lab'ring soul oppress'd, Roll'd in his eyes, and rag'd within his breast.

Then loud he call'd Aeneas thrice by name: The loud repeated voice to glad Aeneas came.

"Great Jove," he said, "and the far-shooting G.o.d, Inspire thy mind to make thy challenge good!"

He spoke no more; but hasten'd, void of fear, And threaten'd with his long protended spear.

To whom Mezentius thus: "Thy vaunts are vain.

My Lausus lies extended on the plain: He's lost! thy conquest is already won; The wretched sire is murther'd in the son.

Nor fate I fear, but all the G.o.ds defy.

Forbear thy threats: my bus'ness is to die; But first receive this parting legacy."

He said; and straight a whirling dart he sent; Another after, and another went.

Round in a s.p.a.cious ring he rides the field, And vainly plies th' impenetrable s.h.i.+eld.

Thrice rode he round; and thrice Aeneas wheel'd, Turn'd as he turn'd: the golden orb withstood The strokes, and bore about an iron wood.

Impatient of delay, and weary grown, Still to defend, and to defend alone, To wrench the darts which in his buckler light, Urg'd and o'er-labor'd in unequal fight; At length resolv'd, he throws with all his force Full at the temples of the warrior horse.

Just where the stroke was aim'd, th' unerring spear Made way, and stood transfix'd thro' either ear.

Seiz'd with unwonted pain, surpris'd with fright, The wounded steed curvets, and, rais'd upright, Lights on his feet before; his hoofs behind Spring up in air aloft, and lash the wind.

Down comes the rider headlong from his height: His horse came after with unwieldy weight, And, flound'ring forward, pitching on his head, His lord's inc.u.mber'd shoulder overlaid.

From either host, the mingled shouts and cries Of Trojans and Rutulians rend the skies.

Aeneas, hast'ning, wav'd his fatal sword High o'er his head, with this reproachful word: "Now; where are now thy vaunts, the fierce disdain Of proud Mezentius, and the lofty strain?"

Struggling, and wildly staring on the skies, With scarce recover'd sight he thus replies: "Why these insulting words, this waste of breath, To souls undaunted, and secure of death?

'T is no dishonor for the brave to die, Nor came I here with hope victory; Nor ask I life, nor fought with that design: As I had us'd my fortune, use thou thine.

My dying son contracted no such band; The gift is hateful from his murd'rer's hand.

For this, this only favor let me sue, If pity can to conquer'd foes be due: Refuse it not; but let my body have The last retreat of humankind, a grave.

Too well I know th' insulting people's hate; Protect me from their vengeance after fate: This refuge for my poor remains provide, And lay my much-lov'd Lausus by my side."

He said, and to the sword his throat applied.

The crimson stream distain'd his arms around, And the disdainful soul came rus.h.i.+ng thro' the wound.

BOOK XI

Scarce had the rosy Morning rais'd her head Above the waves, and left her wat'ry bed; The pious chief, whom double cares attend For his unburied soldiers and his friend, Yet first to Heav'n perform'd a victor's vows: He bar'd an ancient oak of all her boughs; Then on a rising ground the trunk he plac'd, Which with the spoils of his dead foe he grac'd.

The coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn, Now on a naked snag in triumph borne, Was hung on high, and glitter'd from afar, A trophy sacred to the G.o.d of War.

Above his arms, fix'd on the leafless wood, Appear'd his plumy crest, besmear'd with blood: His brazen buckler on the left was seen; Truncheons of s.h.i.+ver'd lances hung between; And on the right was placed his corslet, bor'd; And to the neck was tied his unavailing sword.

A crowd of chiefs inclose the G.o.dlike man, Who thus, conspicuous in the midst, began: "Our toils, my friends, are crown'd with sure success; The greater part perform'd, achieve the less.

Now follow cheerful to the trembling town; Press but an entrance, and presume it won.

Fear is no more, for fierce Mezentius lies, As the first fruits of war, a sacrifice.

Turnus shall fall extended on the plain, And, in this omen, is already slain.

Prepar'd in arms, pursue your happy chance; That none unwarn'd may plead his ignorance, And I, at Heav'n's appointed hour, may find Your warlike ensigns waving in the wind.

Meantime the rites and fun'ral pomps prepare, Due to your dead companions of the war: The last respect the living can bestow, To s.h.i.+eld their shadows from contempt below.

That conquer'd earth be theirs, for which they fought, And which for us with their own blood they bought; But first the corpse of our unhappy friend To the sad city of Evander send, Who, not inglorious, in his age's bloom, Was hurried hence by too severe a doom."