The Aeneids of Virgil Part 27

Keep thou the arms thou joyedst in. I give thy body here Unto thy father's buried ghosts, if thou thereof hast care.

But let this somewhat solace thee for thine unhappy death, By great aeneas' hand thou diest."

Then chiding words he saith 830 Unto his fellows hanging back, and lifteth up the dead From off the lea, where blood defiled the tresses of his head.

Meanwhile the father by the wave that ripples Tiber's breast With water staunched his bleeding hurt and gave his body rest, Leaning against a tree-trunk there: high up amid the tree Hangeth his brazen helm; his arms lie heavy on the lea; The chosen war-youths stand about: he, sick and panting now, Nurseth his neck, and o'er his breast his combed-down beard lets flow.

Much about Lausus did he ask, and sore to men he spake To bid him back, or warning word from his sad sire to take. 840 But Lausus dead his weeping folk were bearing on his shield; A mighty heart, to mighty hand the victory must he yield The father's soul foretaught of ill, afar their wail he knew, And fouled his h.o.a.r hair with the dust, and both his hands upthrew Toward heaven aloft; then clinging fast unto that lifeless one:

"What l.u.s.t," saith he, "of longer life so held my heart, O son, That thee, my son, I suffered thus to bare thee to the bane Instead of me; that I, thy sire, health of thy hurts I gain, Life of thy death! Ah now at last my exile is become A woe unto my weary heart; yea, now the wound goes home. 850 For I am he who stained thy name, O son, with guilt of mine, Thrust forth by Fate from fatherland and sceptre of my line: I should have paid the penalty unto my country's hate, And given up my guilty soul to death, my very fate.

I live: I leave not sons of men, nor let the light go by-- --Yet will I leave them."

So he spake, and on his halting thigh Rose up, and, howsoe'er his hurt might drag his body down, Unvanquished yet, he called his horse, his very pleasures crown, And glory; who had borne him forth victorious from all war; And thus he spake unto the beast that seemed to sorrow sore: 860

"Rhoebus, o'erlong--if aught be long to men that pa.s.s away-- Have we twain lived: those b.l.o.o.d.y spoils shalt thou bring home today, And carrying aeneas' head avenge my Lausus' woe.

Or if our might no more may make a road whereby to go, Thou too shalt fall: I deem indeed thou, stout-heart, hast no will To suffer other men's commands, or Trojan joy fulfil."

And therewithal he backeth him, and as he used of old Settleth his limbs: good store of shafts his either hand doth hold: His head is glittering o'er with bra.s.s, and horse-hair s.h.a.gs his crest.

So midmost of the fight he bears, and ever in his breast 870 Swelleth the mighty sea of shame and mingled miseries.

And now across the fight his voice thrice on aeneas cries.

aeneas knew it well forsooth, and joyfully he prayed: "So grant the Father of the G.o.ds! So may Apollo aid That thou may'st fall on me in fight!"

So much he spake, and went his way to meet the foeman's shaft; But spake the other: "Bitter wretch, who took'st away my son, Why fright me now? by that one way my heart might be undone: No death I dread, no G.o.d that is, in battle would I spare.

Enough--I come to thee to die; but first these gifts I bear." 880

He spake the word, and 'gainst the foe a dart withal he cast, And shaft on shaft he lays on him about him flitting fast, Wide circling; but the golden boss through all the storm bore out Thrice while aeneas faceth him he rides the ring about, Casting the weapons from his hand; and thrice the Trojan lord Bears round a mighty thicket set in brazen battle-board.

But when such tarrying wearieth him, such plucking forth of spears, And standing in such ill-matched fight the heart within him wears, Turning the thing o'er manywise, he breaketh forth to speed A shaft amid the hollow brow of that war-famous steed: 890 Then beating of the air with hoof uprears the four-foot thing And with his fallen master falls, and 'neath his c.u.mbering Weighs down his shoulders brought to earth, and heavy on him lies.

Then Trojan men and Latin men with shouting burn the skies, And swift aeneas runneth up and pulleth forth his sword, And crieth o'er him: "Where is now Mezentius, eager lord?

Where is the fierce heart?"

Unto whom the Tuscan spake, when he Got sense again, and breathed the air, and o'er him heaven did see: "O bitter foe, why chidest thou? why slayest thou with words? 899 Slay me and do no wrong! death-safe I came not mid the swords; And no such covenant of war for us my Lausus bought: One thing I pray, if vanquished men of grace may gain them aught, Let the earth hide me! well I know how bitter and how nigh My people's wrath draws in on me: put thou their fury by, And in the tomb beside my son I pray thee let me lie."

He saith, and open-eyed receives the sword-point in his throat, And o'er his arms in waves of blood his life and soul doth float.

BOOK XI.

ARGUMENT.

TRUCE IS MADE FOR THE BURYING OF THE DEAD: THE LATINS TAKE COUNSEL OF PEACE OR WAR. CAMILLA'S DEEDS AND DEATH.

Meanwhile Aurora risen up from bed of ocean wends, And King aeneas, though his grief bids him in burying friends To wear the day, and though his heart the death of men dismays, Yet to the G.o.ds of Dawning-tide the worship duly pays.

From a great oak on every side the branches doth he shear, And setteth on a mound bedight in gleaming battle-gear The spoils of King Mezentius: a gift to thee it stood, O Might of War! Thereon he set the crest with blood bedewed, The broken shafts, the mail-coat pierced amid the foughten field With twice six dints: on the left arm he tied the brazen shield, 10 And round about the neck he hung the ivory-hilted sword.

Then to his friends, a mighty hedge of duke and battle-lord, He turned, and to their joyous hearts these words withal he said:

"The most is done, and for the rest let all your fears lie dead: Lo here the first-fruits! battle-spoil won from a haughty king: Lo this is all Mezentius now, mine own hands' fashioning.

Now toward the King and Latin walls all open lies the way; Up hearts, for war! and let your hope foregrip the battle-day, That nought of sloth may hinder you, or take you unaware, When G.o.ds shall bid the banners up, and forth with men ye fare 20 From out of camp,--that craven dread clog not your spirits then: Meanwhile give we unto the earth these our unburied men, The only honour they may have in nether Acheron.

Come, fellows, to those n.o.ble souls who with their blood have won A country for us, give those gifts, the last that they may spend.

And first unto Evander's town of sorrow shall I send That Pallas, whom, in nowise poor of valour or renown, The black day reft away from us in bitter death to drown."

With weeping eyes he drew aback, e'en as the word he said, Unto the threshold of the place where Pallas, cold and dead, 30 The old Acoetes watched, who erst of that Parrhasian King, Evander, was the shield-bearer, but now was following His well-beloved foster-child in no such happy wise; But round him were the homemen's band and Trojan companies, And Ilian wives with loosened locks in guise of sorrow sore.

But when aeneas entereth now beneath the lofty door From beaten breast great moan they cast up to the starry heaven; And wailing of their woeful cheer through all the house is driven.

The King himself when he beheld the pillowed head at rest, 39 The snow-white face, the open wound wrought on the smooth young breast By that Ausonian spear, so spake amid his gathered tears:

"O boy bewept, despite the gifts my happy Fortune bears Doth she still grudge it thee to see my kingdom glorious, Or come a victor back again unto thy father's house?

Not such the promise that I gave on that departing day Unto thy father, whose embrace then sped me on my way To mighty lordship, while his fear gave forth the warning word That with fierce folk I had to do, hard people of the sword.

Now he, deceived by empty hope, belike pours forth the prayer, And pileth up the gifts for nought upon the altars fair, 50 While we--in woe with honours vain--about his son we stand, Dead now, and no more owing aught to any heavenly hand.

Unhappy, thou shalt look upon thy dead unhappy son!

Is this the coming back again? is this the triumph won?

Is this my solemn troth?--Yet thee, Evander, bides no sight Of craven beat with shameful wounds, nor for the saved from fight Shalt thou but long for dreadful death.--Woe's me, Ausonian land!

Woe's me, Iulus, what a shield is perished from thine hand!"

Such wise he wept him, and bade raise the hapless body dead, And therewithal a thousand men, his war-hosts' flower, he sped 60 To wait upon him on the way with that last help of all, And be between his father's tears: forsooth a solace small Of mighty grief; a debt no less to that sad father due.

But others speed a pliant bier weaving a wattle through, Of limber twigs of berry-bush and boughs of oaken-tree, And shadow o'er the piled-up bed with leafy canopy.

So there upon the wild-wood couch adown the youth is laid; E'en as a blossom dropped to earth from fingers of a maid-- The gilliflower's bloom maybe, or jacinth's hanging head, Whose lovely colour is not gone, nor shapely fashion fled, 70 Although its mother feedeth not, nor earth its life doth hold.

Thereon two woven webs, all stiff with purple dye and gold, aeneas bringeth forth, which erst with her own fingers fair Sidonian Dido wrought for him, and, glad the toil to bear, Had shot across the web thereof with thin and golden thread: In one of these the youth he wrapped, last honour of the dead, And, woeful, covered up the locks that fire should burn away.

And furthermore a many things, Laurentum's battle-prey, He pileth up, and bids the spoil in long array be borne: Horses and battle-gear he adds, late from the foemen torn: 80 And men's hands had he bound aback whom shortly should he send Unto the ghosts; whose blood should slake the fire that ate his friend.

And trunks of trees with battle-gear from foemen's bodies won He bids the leaders carry forth, with foemen's names thereon.

Hapless Acoetes, spent with eld, is brought forth; whiles he wears His bosom with the beat of fists, and whiles his face he tears: Then forth he falls, and grovelling there upon the ground doth lie.

They bring the war-wain now, o'errained with blood of Rutuli: aethon his war-horse comes behind, stripped of his gear of state, Mourning he goes, and wets his face with plenteous tear-drops great. 90 Some bring the dead man's spear and helm: victorious Turnus' hand Hath all the rest: then follow on the woeful Teucrian band, All Tuscans, and Arcadian folk with weapons turned about.

But now, when all the following folk were got a long way out, aeneas stood and groaned aloud, and spake these words withal: "Us otherwhere to other tears the same dread war-fates call; Undying greetings go with thee! farewell for evermore, O mightiest Pallas!"

Ending so, to those high walls of war He turned about, and went his ways unto his war-folks' home.

But from the Latin city now were fair speech-masters come, 100 Half-hidden by the olive-boughs, and praying for a grace, That he would give them back their men who lay about the place O'erthrown by steel, and let them lie in earth-mound duly dight; Since war was not for men o'ercome, or those that lack the light-- That he would spare his whileome hosts, the kinsmen of his bride.

But good aeneas, since their prayer might not be put aside, Let all his pardon fall on them, and sayeth furthermore: "O Latin folk, what hapless fate hath tangled you in war So great and ill? From us, your friends, why must ye flee away?

For perished men, dead thralls of Mars, a little peace ye pray, 110 But to your living folk indeed fain would I grant the grace.

I had not come here, save that Fate here gave me home and place: No battle with your folk I wage; nay, rather 'twas your lord Who left my friendship, trusting him to Turnus' shield and sword.

For Turnus to have faced the death were deed of better worth: If he deems hands should end the war and thrust the Teucrians forth, 'Twere lovely deed to meet my hand amid the rain of strife; Then let him live to whom the G.o.ds have given the gift of life.

Go ye, and 'neath your hapless ones lay ye the bale-fire's blaze."

He made an end; but still they stood and hushed them in amaze, 120 And each on each they turned their eyes, and every tongue refrained, Till elder Drances, whom for foe child Turnus well had gained By hate-filled charges, took the word, and in such wise began: "O great in fame, in dint of war yet greater, Trojan man!

What praise of words is left to me to raise thee to the sky?

For justice shall I praise thee most, or battle's mastery?

Now happy, to our fathers' town this answer back we bear, And if good-hap a way thereto may open anywhere, Thee to Latinus will we knit--let Turnus seek his own!-- Yea, we shall deem it joy forsooth about your fateful town: 130 To raise the walls, and Trojan stones upon our backs to lay."

Such words he spake, and with one mouth did all men murmur yea.

For twice six days they covenant; and in war-sundering peace The Teucrians and the Latins blent about the woods increase, About the hill-sides wander safe; the smitten ash doth know The ring of steel; the pines that thrust heaven-high they overthrow; Nor cease with wedge to cleave the oak and cedar shedding scent, Or on the wains to lead away the rowan's last lament.

And now the very Winged Fame, with that great grief she bears, Filleth Evander's town and house, filleth Evander's ears; 140 Yea, Fame, who erst of Pallas' deeds in conquered Latium told: Rush the Arcadians to the gates, and as they used of old, s.n.a.t.c.h up the torches of the dead, and with the long array Of flames the acre-cleaving road gleams litten far away: Then meeteth them the Phrygian crowd, and swells the wailing band; And when the mothers saw them come amid the house-built land, The woeful town they set afire with clamour of their ill.

But naught there is hath any might to hold Evander still; He comes amidst, and on the bier where Pallas lies alow He grovels, and with weeping sore and groaning clings thereto; 150 And scarce from sorrow at the last his speech might win a way: "Pallas, this holdeth not the word thou gavest me that day, That thou wouldst ward thee warily in game of bitter Mars: Though sooth I knew how strong it is, that first fame of the wars; How strong is that o'er-sweet delight of earliest battle won.

O wretched schooling of my child! O seeds of war begun, How bitter hard! O prayers of mine, O vows that none would hear Of all the G.o.ds! O holiest wife, thy death at least was dear, And thou art happy to be gone, not kept for such a tide.

But I--my life hath conquered Fate, that here I might abide 160 A lonely father. Ah, had I gone with the Trojan host, To fall amid Rutulian spears! were mine the life-days lost; If me, not Pallas, this sad pomp were bringing home today!-- Yet, Teucrians, on your troth and you no blaming would I lay, Nor on our hands in friendship joined: 'twas a foreordered load For mine old age: and if my son untimely death abode, 'Tis sweet to think he fell amidst the thousand Volscians slain, And leading on the men of Troy the Latin lands to gain.

Pallas, no better funeral rites mine heart to thee awards Than good aeneas giveth thee, and these great Phrygian lords, 170 The Tyrrhene dukes, the Tyrrhene host, a mighty company; While they whom thine own hand hath slain great trophies bear for thee.

Yea, Turnus, thou wert standing there, a huge trunk weapon-clad, If equal age, if equal strength from lapse of years ye had.

--But out!--why should a hapless man thus stay the Teucrian swords?

Go, and be mindful to your king to carry these my words: If here by loathed life I bide, with Pallas dead and gone, Thy right hand is the cause thereof, which unto sire and son Owes Turnus, as thou wottest well: no other place there is Thy worth and fate may fill. G.o.d wot I seek no life-days' bliss, 180 But might I bear my son this tale amid the ghosts of earth!"

Meanwhile the loveliness of light Aurora brought to birth For heartsick men, and brought aback the toil of heart and hand: Father aeneas therewithal down on the hollow strand, And Tarchon with him, rear the bales; and each man thither bears His dead friend in the ancient guise: beneath the black flame flares, The heaven aloft for reek thereof with night is overlaid: Three times about the litten bales in glittering arms arrayed They run the course; three times on steed they beat the earth about Those woeful candles of the dead and sing their wailing out; 190 The earth is strewn with tears of men, and arms of men forlorn, And heavenward goes the shout of men and blaring of the horn: But some upon the bale-fires cast gear stripped from Latins slain: War-helms, and well-adorned swords, and harness of the rein, And glowing wheels: but overwell some knew the gifts they brought, The very shields of their dead friends and weapons sped for nought.