bookssland.com Ā» Other Ā» The Aeneid - Virgil (13 ebook reader .TXT) šŸ“—

Book online Ā«The Aeneid - Virgil (13 ebook reader .TXT) šŸ“—Ā». Author Virgil



1 ... 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 ... 95
Go to page:
promisā€™d my Lavinia for your bride:
Her from her plighted lord by force I took;
All ties of treaties, and of honour, broke:
On your account I wagā€™d an impious warā ā€”
With what success, ā€™tis needless to declare;
I and my subjects feel, and you have had your share.
Twice vanquishā€™d while in bloody fields we strive,
Scarce in our walls we keep our hopes alive:
The rolling flood runs warm with human gore;
The bones of Latians blanch the neighbā€™ring shore.
Why put I not an end to this debate,
Still unresolvā€™d, and still a slave to fate?
If Turnusā€™ death a lasting peace can give,
Why should I not procure it whilst you live?
Should I to doubtful arms your youth betray,
What would my kinsmen, the Rutulians, say?
And, should you fall in fight, (which Heavā€™n defend!)
How curse the cause which hastenā€™d to his end
The daughterā€™s lover and the fatherā€™s friend?
Weigh in your mind the various chance of war;
Pity your parentā€™s age, and ease his care.ā€

Such balmy words he pourā€™d, but all in vain:
The profferā€™d medā€™cine but provokā€™d the pain.
The wrathful youth, disdaining the relief,
With intermitting sobs thus vents his grief:
ā€œThe care, O best of fathers, which you take
For my concerns, at my desire forsake.
Permit me not to languish out my days,
But make the best exchange of life for praise.
This arm, this lance, can well dispute the prize;
And the blood follows, where the weapon flies.
His goddess mother is not near, to shroud
The flying coward with an empty cloud.ā€

But now the queen, who fearā€™d for Turnusā€™ life,
And loathā€™d the hard conditions of the strife,
Held him by force; and, dying in his death,
In these sad accents gave her sorrow breath:
ā€œO Turnus, I adjure thee by these tears,
And whateā€™er price Amataā€™s honour bears
Within thy breast, since thou art all my hope,
My sickly mindā€™s repose, my sinking ageā€™s prop;
Since on the safety of thy life alone
Depends Latinus, and the Latian throne:
Refuse me not this one, this only prayā€™r,
To waive the combat, and pursue the war.
Whatever chance attends this fatal strife,
Think it includes, in thine, Amataā€™s life.
I cannot live a slave, or see my throne
Usurpā€™d by strangers or a Trojan son.ā€

At this, a flood of tears Lavinia shed;
A crimson blush her beauteous face oā€™erspread,
Varying her cheeks by turns with white and red.
The driving colours, never at a stay,
Run here and there, and flush, and fade away.
Delightful change! Thus Indian ivā€™ry shows,
Which with the bordā€™ring paint of purple glows;
Or lilies damaskā€™d by the neighbā€™ring rose.

The lover gazā€™d, and, burning with desire,
The more he lookā€™d, the more he fed the fire:
Revenge, and jealous rage, and secret spite,
Roll in his breast, and rouse him to the fight.
Then fixing on the queen his ardent eyes,
Firm to his first intent, he thus replies:
ā€œO mother, do not by your tears prepare
Such boding omens, and prejudge the war.
Resolvā€™d on fight, I am no longer free
To shun my death, if Heavā€™n my death decree.ā€
Then turning to the herald, thus pursues:
ā€œGo, greet the Trojan with ungrateful news;
Denounce from me, that, when tomorrowā€™s light
Shall gild the heavā€™ns, he need not urge the fight;
The Trojan and Rutulian troops no more
Shall dye, with mutual blood, the Latian shore:
Our single swords the quarrel shall decide,
And to the victor be the beauteous bride.ā€

He said, and striding on, with speedy pace,
He sought his coursers of the Thracian race.
At his approach they toss their heads on high,
And, proudly neighing, promise victory.
The sires of these Orythia sent from far,
To grace Pilumnus, when he went to war.
The drifts of Thracian snows were scarce so white,
Nor northern winds in fleetness matchā€™d their flight.
Officious grooms stand ready by his side;
And some with combs their flowing manes divide,
And others stroke their chests and gently soothe their pride.

He sheathā€™d his limbs in arms; a temperā€™d mass
Of golden metal those, and mountain brass.
Then to his head his glittā€™ring helm he tied,
And girt his faithful falchion to his side.
In his Aetnaean forge, the God of Fire
That falchion labourā€™d for the heroā€™s sire;
Immortal keenness on the blade bestowā€™d,
And plungā€™d it hissing in the Stygian flood.
Proppā€™d on a pillar, which the ceiling bore,
Was placā€™d the lance Auruncan Actor wore;
Which with such force he brandishā€™d in his hand,
The tough ash trembled like an osier wand:
Then cried: ā€œO pondā€™rous spoil of Actor slain,
And never yet by Turnus tossā€™d in vain,
Fail not this day thy wonted force; but go,
Sent by this hand, to pierce the Trojan foe!
Give me to tear his corslet from his breast,
And from that eunuch head to rend the crest;
Draggā€™d in the dust, his frizzled hair to soil,
Hot from the vexing irā€™n, and smearā€™d with fragrant oil!ā€

Thus while he raves, from his wide nostrils flies
A fiery steam, and sparkles from his eyes.
So fares the bull in his lovā€™d femaleā€™s sight:
Proudly he bellows, and preludes the fight;
He tries his goring horns against a tree,
And meditates his absent enemy;
He pushes at the winds; he digs the strand
With his black hoofs, and spurns the yellow sand.

Nor less the Trojan, in his Lemnian arms,
To future fight his manly courage warms:
He whets his fury, and with joy prepares
To terminate at once the lingā€™ring wars;
To cheer his chiefs and tender son, relates
What Heavā€™n had promisā€™d, and expounds the fates.
Then to the Latian king he sends, to cease
The rage of arms, and ratify the peace.

The morn ensuing, from the mountainā€™s height,
Had scarcely spread the skies with rosy light;
Thā€™ ethereal coursers, bounding from the sea,
From out their flaming nostrils breathā€™d the day;
When now the Trojan and Rutulian guard,
In friendly labour joinā€™d, the list preparā€™d.
Beneath the walls they measure out the space;
Then sacred altars rear, on sods of grass,
Where, with religious their common gods they place.
In purest white the priests their heads attire;
And living waters bear, and holy fire;
And, oā€™er their linen hoods and shaded hair,
Long twisted wreaths of sacred vervain wear.

In order issuing from the town appears
The Latin legion, armā€™d with pointed spears;
And from the fields, advancing on a line,
The Trojan and the Tuscan forces join:
Their various arms afford a pleasing sight;
A peaceful train they seem, in peace preparā€™d for fight.
Betwixt the ranks the proud commanders ride,
Glittā€™ring with gold, and vests in purple dyed;
Here Mnestheus, author of the Memmian line,
And there Messapus,

1 ... 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 ... 95
Go to page:

Free e-book Ā«The Aeneid - Virgil (13 ebook reader .TXT) šŸ“—Ā» - read online now

Comments (0)

There are no comments yet. You can be the first!
Add a comment