The Aeneid - Virgil (13 ebook reader .TXT) š
- Author: Virgil
Book online Ā«The Aeneid - Virgil (13 ebook reader .TXT) šĀ». Author Virgil
Thou wilt no foreign reins, or Trojan load endure.ā
He said; and straight thā officious courser kneels,
To take his wonted weight. His hands he fills
With pointed javālins; on his head he lacād
His glittāring helm, which terribly was gracād
With waving horsehair, nodding from afar;
Then spurrād his thundāring steed amidst the war.
Love, anguish, wrath, and grief, to madness wrought,
Despair, and secret shame, and conscious thought
Of inborn worth, his labāring soul oppressād,
Rollād in his eyes, and ragād within his breast.
Then loud he callād Aeneas thrice by name:
The loud repeated voice to glad Aeneas came.
āGreat Jove,ā he said, āand the far-shooting god,
Inspire thy mind to make thy challenge good!ā
He spoke no more; but hastenād, void of fear,
And threatenād with his long protended spear.
To whom Mezentius thus: āThy vaunts are vain.
My Lausus lies extended on the plain:
Heās lost! thy conquest is already won;
The wretched sire is murderād in the son.
Nor fate I fear, but all the gods defy.
Forbear thy threats: my busāness is to die;
But first receive this parting legacy.ā
He said; and straight a whirling dart he sent;
Another after, and another went.
Round in a spacious ring he rides the field,
And vainly plies thā impenetrable shield.
Thrice rode he round; and thrice Aeneas wheelād,
Turnād as he turnād: 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,
Urgād and oāer-labourād in unequal fight;
At length resolvād, he throws with all his force
Full at the temples of the warrior horse.
Just where the stroke was aimād, thā unerring spear
Made way, and stood transfixād throā either ear.
Seizād with unwonted pain, surprisād with fright,
The wounded steed curvets, and, raisād 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, floundāring forward, pitching on his head,
His lordās encumberād shoulder overlaid.
From either host, the mingled shouts and cries
Of Trojans and Rutulians rend the skies.
Aeneas, hastāning, wavād his fatal sword
High oāer his head, with this reproachful word:
āNow; where are now thy vaunts, the fierce disdain
Of proud Mezentius, and the lofty strain?ā
Struggling, and wildly staring on the skies,
With scarce recoverād sight he thus replies:
āWhy these insulting words, this waste of breath,
To souls undaunted, and secure of death?
āTis no dishonour for the brave to die,
Nor came I here with hope victory;
Nor ask I life, nor fought with that design:
As I had usād my fortune, use thou thine.
My dying son contracted no such band;
The gift is hateful from his murdārerās hand.
For this, this only favour let me sue,
If pity can to conquerād foes be due:
Refuse it not; but let my body have
The last retreat of humankind, a grave.
Too well I know thā insulting peopleās hate;
Protect me from their vengeance after fate:
This refuge for my poor remains provide,
And lay my much-lovād Lausus by my side.ā
He said, and to the sword his throat applied.
The crimson stream distainād his arms around,
And the disdainful soul came rushing throā the wound.
Aeneas erects a trophy of the spoils of Mezentius, grants a truce for burying the dead, and sends home the body of Pallas with great solemnity. Latinus calls a council, to propose offers of peace to Aeneas; which occasions great animosity betwixt Turnus and Drancƫs. In the mean time there is a sharp engagement of the horse; wherein Camilla signalizes herself, is killed, and the Latine troops are entirely defeated.
Scarce had the rosy Morning raisād her head
Above the waves, and left her watāry bed;
The pious chief, whom double cares attend
For his unburied soldiers and his friend,
Yet first to Heavān performād a victorās vows:
He barād an ancient oak of all her boughs;
Then on a rising ground the trunk he placād,
Which with the spoils of his dead foe he gracād.
The coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn,
Now on a naked snag in triumph borne,
Was hung on high, and glitterād from afar,
A trophy sacred to the God of War.
Above his arms, fixād on the leafless wood,
Appearād his plumy crest, besmearād with blood:
His brazen buckler on the left was seen;
Truncheons of shiverād lances hung between;
And on the right was placed his corslet, borād;
And to the neck was tied his unavailing sword.
A crowd of chiefs inclose the godlike man,
Who thus, conspicuous in the midst, began:
āOur toils, my friends, are crownād with sure success;
The greater part performād, 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.
Preparād in arms, pursue your happy chance;
That none unwarnād may plead his ignorance,
And I, at Heavānās appointed hour, may find
Your warlike ensigns waving in the wind.
Meantime the rites and funāral pomps prepare,
Due to your dead companions of the war:
The last respect the living can bestow,
To shield their shadows from contempt below.
That conquerād 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 ageās bloom,
Was hurried hence by too severe a doom.ā
Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way,
Where, new in death, lamented Pallas lay.
Acoetes watchād the corpse; whose youth deservād
The fatherās trust; and now the son he servād
With equal faith, but less auspicious care.
Thā attendants of the slain his sorrow share.
A troop of Trojans mixād with these appear,
And mourning matrons with dishevelād hair.
Soon as the prince appears, they raise a cry;
All beat their breasts, and echoes rend the sky.
They rear his drooping forehead from the ground;
But, when Aeneas viewād the grisly wound
Which Pallas in his manly bosom bore,
And the fair flesh distainād with purple gore;
First, melting into tears, the pious man
Deplorād so sad a sight, then thus began:
āUnhappy youth! when Fortune gave the rest
Of my full wishes, she refusād the best!
She came; but brought not thee along, to bless
My longing eyes, and share in my
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