No More Learning

The famed physician tucks his robes around
With ready hands, and hastens to the wound.
With gentle touches he performs his part, }
This way and that, soliciting the dart, }
And exercises all his heavenly art. }
All softening simples, known of sovereign use,
He presses out, and pours their noble juice.
These first infused, to lenify the pain--
He tugs with pincers, but he tugs in vain.
Then to the patron of his art he prayed:
The patron of his art refused his aid.
Meantime the war approaches to the tents:
The alarm grows hotter, and the noise augments:
The driving dust proclaims the danger near; }
And first their friends, and then their foes, appear: }
Their friends retreat; their foes pursue the rear. }
The camp is filled with terror and affright:
The hissing shafts within the trench alight;
An undistinguished noise ascends the sky--
The shouts of those who kill, and groans of those who die.
But now the goddess mother, moved with grief,
And pierced with pity, hastens her relief.
A branch of healing dittany she brought,
Which in the Cretan fields with care she sought--
(Rough is the stem, which woolly leaves surround;
The leaves with flowers, the flowers with purple crowned,)
Well known to wounded goats; a sure relief
To draw the pointed steel, and ease the grief.
This Venus brings, in clouds involved, and brews
The extracted liquor with ambrosian dews,
And odorous panacee. Unseen she stands,
Tempering the mixture with her heavenly hands,
And pours it in a bowl, already crowned
With juice of medicinal herbs prepared to bathe the wound.
The leech, unknowing of superior art }
Which aids the cure, with this foments the part; }
And in a moment ceased the raging smart. }
Stanched is the blood, and in the bottom stands:
The steel, but scarcely touched with tender hands,
Moves up, and follows of its own accord,
And health and vigour are at once restored.
Iäpis first perceived the closing wound,
And first the footsteps of a god he found.
"Arms! arms! " he cries: "the sword and shield prepare,
And send the willing chief, renewed, to war.
This is no mortal work, no cure of mine,
Nor art's effect, but done by hands divine.
Some god our general to the battle sends;
Some god preserves his life for greater ends. "
The hero arms in haste: his hands enfold
His thighs with cuishes of refulgent gold:
Inflamed to fight, and rushing to the field,
That hand sustaining the celestial shield,
This gripes the lance, and with such vigour shakes,
That to the rest the beamy weapon quakes.
Then with a close embrace he strained his son,
And, kissing through his helmet, thus begun:--
"My son! from my example learn the war, }
In camps to suffer, and in fields to dare; }
But happier chance than mine attend thy care! }
This day my hand thy tender age shall shield,
And crown with honours of the conquered field:
Thou, when thy riper years shall send thee forth
To toils of war, be mindful of my worth:
Assert thy birth-right; and in arms be known,
For Hector's nephew, and Æneas' son. "
He said; and, striding, issued on the plain.
Antheus and Mnestheus, and a numerous train,
Attend his steps: the rest their weapons take,
And, crowding to the field, the camp forsake.
A cloud of blinding dust is raised around,
Labours beneath their feet the trembling ground.
Now Turnus, posted on a hill, from far
Beheld the progress of the moving war:
With him the Latins viewed the covered plains,
And the chill blood ran backward in their veins.
Juturna saw the advancing troops appear,
And heard the hostile sound, and fled for fear.
Æneas leads; and draws a sweeping train,
Closed in their ranks, and pouring on the plain.
As when a whirlwind, rushing to the shore
From the mid ocean, drives the waves before;
The painful hind with heavy heart foresees
The flatted fields, and slaughter of the trees;
With such impetuous rage the prince appears,
Before his doubled front, nor less destruction bears.
And now both armies shock in open field;
Osiris is by strong Thymbræus killed.
Archetius, Ufens, Epulon, are slain,
(All famed in arms, and of the Latian train,)
By Gyas', Mnestheus', and Achates' hand.
The fatal augur falls, by whose command
The truce was broken, and whose lance, embrued
With Trojan blood, the unhappy fight renewed.
Loud shouts and clamours rend the liquid sky;
And o'er the field the frighted Latins fly.
The prince disdains the dastards to pursue,
Nor moves to meet in arms the fighting few.
Turnus alone, amid the dusky plain,
He seeks, and to the combat calls in vain.
Juturna heard, and, seized with mortal fear,
Forced from the beam her brother's charioteer;
Assumes his shape, his armour, and his mien,
And, like Metiscus, in his seat is seen.
As the black swallow near the palace plies;
O'er empty courts, and under arches, flies;
Now hawks aloft, now skims along the flood,
To furnish her loquacious nest with food:
So drives the rapid goddess o'er the plains;
The smoking horses run with loosened reins.
She steers a various course among the foes;
Now here, now there, her conquering brother shows;
Now with a straight, now with a wheeling flight,
She turns, and bends, but shuns the single fight.
Æneas, fired with fury, breaks the crowd,
And seeks his foe, and calls by name aloud:
He runs within a narrower ring, and tries
To stop the chariot; but the chariot flies.
If he but gain a glimpse, Juturna fears,
And far away the Daunian hero bears.
What should he do? Nor arts nor arms avail;
And various cares in vain his mind assail.
The great Messapus, thundering through the field,
In his left hand two pointed javelins held:
Encountering on the prince, one dart he drew,
And with unerring aim, and utmost vigour, threw.
Æneas saw it come, and, stooping low
Beneath his buckler, shunned the threat'ning blow.
The weapon hissed above his head, and tore
The waving plume, which on his helm he wore.
Forced by this hostile act, and fired with spite,
That flying Turnus still declined the fight,
The prince, whose piety had long repelled
His inborn ardour, now invades the field;
Invokes the powers of violated peace,
Their rites and injured altars to redress;
Then, to his rage abandoning the rein,
With blood and slaughtered bodies fills the plain.
What god can tell, what numbers can display,
The various labours of that fatal day?
What chiefs and champions fell on either side,
In combat slain, or by what deaths they died?
Whom Turnus, whom the Trojan hero killed?
Who shared the fame and fortune of the field?
Jove! could'st thou view, and not avert thy sight, }
Two jarring nations joined in cruel fight, }
Whom leagues of lasting love so shortly shall unite? }
Æneas first Rutulian Sucro found,
Whose valour made the Trojans quit their ground;
Betwixt his ribs the javelin drove so just,
It reached his heart, nor needs a second thrust.
Now Turnus, at two blows, two brethren slew;
First from his horse fierce Amycus he threw:
Then, leaping on the ground, on foot assailed
Diores, and in equal fight prevailed.
Their lifeless trunks he leaves upon the place;
Their heads, distilling gore, his chariot grace.
Three cold on earth the Trojan hero threw,
Whom without respite at one charge he slew:
Cethegus, Tanaïs, Talus, fell oppressed,
And sad Onytes, added to the rest--
Of Theban blood, whom Peridia bore.
Turnus two brothers from the Lycian shore,
And from Apollo's fane to battle sent,
O'erthrew; nor Phœbus could their fate prevent.
Peaceful Menœtes after these he killed,
Who long had shunned the dangers of the field:
On Lerna's lake a silent life he led,
And with his nets and angle earned his bread.
Nor pompous cares, nor palaces, he knew,
But wisely from the infectious world withdrew.
Poor was his house: his father's painful hand
Discharged his rent, and ploughed another's land.
As flames among the lofty woods are thrown
On different sides, and both by winds are blown;
The laurels crackle in the sputtering fire;
The frighted sylvans from their shades retire:
Or as two neighbouring torrents fall from high,
Rapid they run; the foamy waters fry;
They roll to sea with unresisted force,
And down the rocks precipitate their course
Not with less rage the rival heroes take
Their different ways; nor less destruction make.
With spears afar, with swords at hand, they strike;
And zeal of slaughter fires their souls alike.
Like them, their dauntless men maintain the field;
And hearts are pierced, unknowing how to yield:
They blow for blow return, and wound for wound;
And heaps of bodies raise the level ground.
Murrhanus, boasting of his blood, that springs
From a long royal race of Latian kings,
Is by the Trojan from his chariot thrown,
Crushed with the weight of an unwieldy stone:
Betwixt the wheels he fell; the wheels, that bore
His living load, his dying body tore.
His starting steeds, to shun the glittering sword,
Paw down his trampled limbs, forgetful of their lord.
Fierce Hyllus threatened high, and, face to face,
Affronted Turnus in the middle space:
The prince encountered him in full career,
And at his temples aimed the deadly spear:
So fatally the flying weapon sped,
That through his brazen helm it pierced his head.
Nor, Cisseus, could'st thou 'scape from Turnus' hand,
In vain the strongest of the Arcadian band:
Nor to Cupencus could his gods afford
Availing aid against the Ænean sword,
Which to his naked heart pursued the course;
Nor could his plated shield sustain the force.
Iölas fell, whom not the Grecian powers,
Nor great subverter of the Trojan towers,
Were doomed to kill, while heaven prolonged his date:
But who can pass the bounds prefixed by Fate?
In high Lyrnessus, and in Troy, he held
Two palaces, and was from each expelled:
Of all the mighty man, the last remains
A little spot of foreign earth contains.
And now both hosts their broken troops unite
In equal ranks, and mix in mortal fight.
Serestus and undaunted Mnestheus join
The Trojan, Tuscan, and Arcadian line:
Sea-born Messapus, with Atinas, heads
The Latin squadrons, and to battle leads.
They strike, they push, they throng the scanty space, }
Resolved on death, impatient of disgrace; }
And, where one falls, another fills his place. }
The Cyprian goddess now inspires her son
To leave the unfinished fight, and storm the town:
For, while he rolls his eyes around the plain
In quest of Turnus, whom he seeks in vain,
He views the unguarded city from afar,
In careless quiet, and secure of war.
Occasion offers, and excites his mind
To dare beyond the task he first designed.
Resolved, he calls his chiefs: they leave the fight:
Attended thus, he takes a neighbouring height:
The crowding troops about their general stand,
All under arms, and wait his high command.
Then thus the lofty prince:--"Hear and obey,
Ye Trojan bands, without the least delay.
Jove is with us; and what I have decreed,
Requires our utmost vigour, and our speed.
Your instant arms against the town prepare,
The source of mischief, and the seat of war.
This day the Latian towers, that mate the sky,
Shall, level with the plain, in ashes lie:
The people shall be slaves, unless in time
They kneel for pardon, and repent their crime.
Twice have our foes been vanquished on the plain:
Then shall I wait till Turnus will be slain?
Your force against the perjured city bend;
There it began, and there the war shall end;
The peace profaned our rightful arms requires;
Cleanse the polluted place with purging fires. "
He finished; and--one soul inspiring all--
Formed in a wedge, the foot approach the wall.
Without the town, an unprovided train
Of gaping gazing citizens are slain.
Some firebrands, others scaling ladders, bear,
And those they toss aloft, and these they rear:
The flames now launched, the feathered arrows fly,
And clouds of missive arms obscure the sky.
Advancing to the front, the hero stands,
And, stretching out to heaven his pious hands,
Attests the gods, asserts his innocence,
Upbraids with breach of faith the Ausonian prince;
Declares the royal honour doubly stained,
And twice the rites of holy peace profaned.
Dissenting clamours in the town arise:
Each will be heard, and all at once advise.
One part for peace, and one for war, contends:
Some would exclude their foes, and some admit their friends.
The helpless king is hurried in the throng,
And (whate'er tide prevails) is borne along.
Thus, when the swain, within a hollow rock,
Invades the bees with suffocating smoke,
They run around, or labour on their wings,
Disused to flight, and shoot their sleepy stings;
To shun the bitter fumes, in vain they try;
Black vapours, issuing from the vent, involve the sky.
But Fate and envious Fortune now prepare
To plunge the Latins in the last despair.
The queen, who saw the foes invade the town,
And brands on tops of burning houses thrown,
Cast round her eyes, distracted with her fear:--
No troops of Turnus in the field appear.
Once more she stares abroad, but still in vain,
And then concludes the royal youth is slain.
Mad with her anguish, impotent to bear
The mighty grief, she loaths the vital air.
She calls herself the cause of all this ill,
And owns the dire effects of her ungoverned will:
She raves against the gods; she beats her breast;
She tears with both her hands her purple vest:
Then round a beam a running noose she tied,
And, fastened by the neck, obscenely died.
Soon as the fatal news by fame was blown,
And to her dames and to her daughter known,
The sad Lavinia rends her yellow hair, }
And rosy cheeks: the rest her sorrow share: }
With shrieks the palace rings, and madness of despair. }
The spreading rumour fills the public place: }
Confusion, fear, distraction, and disgrace, }
And silent shame, are seen in every face. }
Latinus tears his garments as he goes,
Both for his public and his private woes;
With filth his venerable beard besmears,
And sordid dust deforms his silver hairs.
And much he blames the softness of his mind, }
Obnoxious to the charms of woman-kind, }
And soon reduced to change what he so well designed-- }
To break the solemn league so long desired,
Nor finish what his fates, and those of Troy, required.
Now Turnus rolls aloof o'er empty plains,
And here and there some straggling foes he gleans.
His flying coursers please him less and less,
Ashamed of easy fight, and cheap success.
Thus half-contented, anxious in his mind,
The distant cries come driving in the wind--
Shouts from the walls, but shouts in murmurs drowned;
A jarring mixture, and a boding sound.
"Alas! " said he, "what mean these dismal cries?
What doleful clamours from the town arise? "
Confused, he stops, and backward pulls the reins.
She, who the drivers office now sustains,
Replies:--"Neglect, my lord, these new alarms:
Here fight, and urge the fortune of your arms:
There want not others to defend the wall.
If by your rival's hand the Italians fall,
So shall your fatal sword his friends oppress,
In honour equal, equal in success. "
To this, the prince:--"O sister! --for I knew,
The peace infringed proceeded first from you:
I knew you, when you mingled first in fight:
And now in vain you would deceive my sight--
Why, goddess, this unprofitable care?
Who sent you down from heaven, involved in air,
Your share of mortal sorrows to sustain,
And see your brother bleeding on the plain?
For to what power can Turnus have recourse,
Or how resist his fate's prevailing force?
These eyes beheld Murrhanus bite the ground--
Mighty the man, and mighty was the wound.
I heard my dearest friend, with dying breath,
My name invoking to revenge his death.
Brave Ufens fell with honour on the place,
To shun the shameful sight of my disgrace.
On earth supine, a manly corpse he lies;
His vest and armour are the victor's prize.
Then, shall I see Laurentum in a flame,
Which only wanted, to complete my shame?
How will the Latins hoot their champion's flight!
How Drances will insult and point them to the sight!
Is death so hard to bear? --Ye gods below!
(Since those above so small compassion show,)
Receive a soul unsullied yet with shame,
Which not belies my great forefathers' name. "
He said: and while he spoke, with flying speed
Came Saces urging on his foamy steed:
Fixed on his wounded face a shaft he bore,
And, seeking Turnus, sent his voice before:
"Turnus! on you, on you alone, depends
Our last relief:--compassionate your friends!
Like lightning, fierce Æneas, rolling on,
With arms invests, with flames invades, the town:
The brands are tossed on high; the winds conspire
To drive along the deluge of the fire.
All eyes are fixed on you: your foes rejoice;
Even the king staggers, and suspends his choice--
Doubts to deliver or defend the town,
Whom to reject, or whom to call his son.
The queen, on whom your utmost hopes were placed,
Herself suborning death, has breathed her last.
'Tis true, Messapus, fearless of his fate,
With fierce Atinas' aid, defends the gate:
On every side surrounded by the foe, }
The more they kill, the greater numbers grow; }
An iron harvest mounts, and still remains to mow. }
You, far aloof from your forsaken bands,
Your rolling chariot drive o'er empty sands. "
Stupid he sate, his eyes on earth declined,
And various cares revolving in his mind:
Rage, boiling from the bottom of his breast,
And sorrow mixed with shame, his soul oppressed;
And conscious worth lay labouring in his thought,
And love by jealousy to madness wrought.
By slow degrees his reason drove away
The mists of passion, and resumed her sway.
Then, rising on his car, he turned his look,
And saw the town involved in fire and smoke.
A wooden tower with flames already blazed,
Which his own hands on beams and rafters raised,
And bridges laid above to join the space,
And wheels below to roll from place to place.
"Sister! the Fates have vanquished: let us go
The way which heaven and my hard fortune show.
The fight is fixed; nor shall the branded name
Of a base coward blot your brother's fame.
Death is my choice; but suffer me to try
My force, and vent my rage before I die. "
He said: and leaping down without delay,
Through crowds of scattered foes he freed his way.
Striding he passed, impetuous as the wind,
And left the grieving goddess far behind.
As, when a fragment, from a mountain torn
By raging tempests, or by torrents borne,
Or sapped by time, or loosened from the roots--
Prone through the void the rocky ruin shoots,
Rolling from crag to crag, from steep to steep;
Down sink, at once, the shepherds and their sheep:
Involved alike, they rush to nether ground;
Stunned with the shock they fall, and stunned from earth rebound:
So Turnus, hasting headlong to the town,
Shouldering and shoving, bore the squadrons down.
Still pressing onward, to the walls he drew, }
Where shafts and spears and darts promiscuous flew, }
And sanguine streams the slippery ground embrue. }
First stretching out his arm, in sign of peace,
He cries aloud, to make the combat cease:--
"Rutulians, hold! and Latin troops, retire!
The fight is mine; and me the gods require.
'Tis just that I should vindicate alone
The broken truce, or for the breach atone.
This day shall free from wars the Ausonian state,
Or finish my misfortunes in my fate. "
Both armies from their bloody work desist,
And, bearing backward, form a spacious list.
The Trojan hero, who received from fame
The welcome sound, and heard the champion's name,
Soon leaves the taken works and mounted walls:
Greedy of war where greater glory calls,
He springs to fight, exulting in his force;
His jointed armour rattles in the course.
Like Eryx, or like Athos, great he shows,
Or father Apennine, when, white with snows,
His head divine obscure in clouds he hides,
And shakes the sounding forest on his sides.
The nations, overawed, surcease the fight;
Immoveable their bodies, fixed their sight.
Even death stands still; nor from above they throw
Their darts, nor drive their battering-rams below.
In silent order either army stands,
And drop their swords, unknowing, from their hands.
The Ausonian king beholds, with wondering sight,
Two mighty champions matched in single fight,
Born under climes remote, and brought by fate,
With swords to try their titles to the state.
Now, in closed field, each other from afar
They view; and, rushing on, begin the war.
They launch their spears; then hand to hand they meet,
The trembling soil resounds beneath their feet:
Their bucklers clash; thick blows descend from high,
And flakes of fire from their hard helmets fly.
Courage conspires with chance; and both engage
With equal fortune yet, and mutual rage.
As, when two bulls for their fair female fight
In Sila's shades, or on Taburnus' height,
With horns adverse they meet; the keeper flies;
Mute stands the herd; the heifers roll their eyes,
And wait the event--which victor they shall bear,
And who shall be the lord, to rule the lusty year:
With rage of love the jealous rivals burn,
And push for push, and wound for wound, return;
Their dewlaps gored, their sides are laved in blood;
Loud cries and roaring sounds rebellow through the wood:
Such was the combat in the listed ground;
So clash their swords, and so their shields resound.
Jove sets the beam: in either scale he lays
The champions' fate, and each exactly weighs.
On this side, life, and lucky chance ascends;
Loaded with death, that other scale descends.
Raised on the stretch, young Turnus aims a blow
Full on the helm of his unguarded foe:
Shrill shouts and clamours ring on either side,
As hopes and fears their panting hearts divide.
But all in pieces flies the traitor sword,
And, in the middle stroke, deserts his lord.
Now 'tis but death or flight: disarmed he flies,
When in his hand an unknown hilt he spies.
Fame says that Turnus, when his steeds he joined, }
Hurrying to war, disordered in his mind, }
Snatched the first weapon which his haste could find. }
'Twas not the fated sword his father bore,
But that his charioteer Metiscus wore.
This, while the Trojans fled, the toughness held:
But, vain against the great Vulcanian shield,
The mortal-tempered steel deceived his hand:
The shivered fragments shone amid the sand.
Surprised with fear, he fled along the field,
And now forthright, and now in orbits wheeled:
For here the Trojan troops the list surround,
And there the pass is closed with pools and marshy ground.
Æneas hastens, though with heavier pace--
His wound, so newly knit, retards the chase,
And oft his trembling knees their aid refuse--
Yet, pressing foot by foot, his foe pursues.
Thus, when a fearful stag is closed around
With crimson toils, or in a river found,
High on the bank the deep-mouthed hound appears,
Still opening, following still, where'er he steers;
The persecuted creature, to and fro,
Turns here and there, to 'scape his Umbrian foe:
Steep is the ascent, and, if he gains the land,
The purple death is pitched along the strand:
His eager foe, determined to the chase,
Stretched at his length, gains ground at every pace:
Now to his beamy head he makes his way,
And now he holds, or thinks he holds, his prey:
Just at the pinch, the stag springs out with fear;
He bites the wind, and fills his sounding jaws with air:
The rocks, the lakes, the meadows, ring with cries;
The mortal tumult mounts, and thunders in the skies.
Thus flies the Daunian prince, and, flying, blames
His tardy troops, and calling by their names,
Demands his trusty sword. The Trojan threats
The realm with ruin, and their ancient seats
To lay in ashes, if they dare supply,
With arms or aid, his vanquished enemy;
Thus menacing, he still pursues the course,
With vigour, though diminished of his force.
Ten times already, round the listed place,
One chief had fled, and t'other given the chase:
No trivial prize is played; for on the life
Or death of Turnus, now depends the strife.
Within the space, an olive-tree had stood, }
A sacred shade, a venerable wood, }
For vows to Faunus paid, the Latins' guardian god. }
Here hung the vests, and tablets were engraved,
Of sinking mariners from shipwreck saved.
With heedless hands the Trojans felled the tree,
To make the ground inclosed for combat free.
Deep in the root, whether by fate, or chance,
Or erring haste, the Trojan drove his lance;
Then stooped, and tugged with force immense, to free
The encumbered spear from the tenacious tree;
That, whom his fainting limbs pursued in vain,
His flying weapon might from far attain.
Confused with fear, bereft of human aid,
Then Turnus to the gods, and first to Faunus, prayed:--
"O Faunus! pity! and thou, mother Earth,
Where I thy foster-son received my birth,
Hold fast the steel! If my religious hand
Your plant has honoured, which your foes profaned,
Propitious hear my pious prayer! " He said,
Nor with successless vows invoked their aid.
The incumbent hero wrenched, and pulled, and strained;
But still the stubborn earth the steel detained.
Juturna took her time; and, while in vain
He strove, assumed Metiscus' form again,
And, in that imitated shape, restored
To the despairing prince his Daunian sword.
The queen of love--who, with disdain and grief,
Saw the bold nymph afford this prompt relief--
To assert her offspring with a greater deed,
From the tough root the lingering weapon freed.
Once more erect, the rival chiefs advance: }
One trusts the sword, and one the pointed lance; }
And both resolved alike, to try their fatal chance. }
Meantime imperial Jove to Juno spoke,
Who from a shining cloud beheld the shock:--
"What new arrest, O queen of heaven! is sent
To stop the Fates now labouring in the event?
What further hopes are left thee to pursue? }
Divine Æneas, (and thou know'st it too,) }
Fore-doomed, to these celestial seats is due. }
What more attempts for Turnus can be made,
That thus thou lingerest in this lonely shade?
Is it becoming of the due respect
And awful honour of a god elect,
A wound unworthy of our state to feel,
Patient of human hands, and earthly steel?
Or seems it just, the sister should restore }
A second sword, when one was lost before, }
And arm a conquered wretch against his conqueror? }
For what, without thy knowledge and avow,
Nay more, thy dictate, durst Juturna do?
At last, in deference to my love, forbear
To lodge within thy soul this anxious care:
Reclined upon my breast, thy grief unload:--
Who should relieve the goddess, but the god?
Now all things to their utmost issue tend,
Pushed by the Fates to their appointed end.
While leave was given thee, and a lawful hour
For vengeance, wrath, and unresisted power,
Tossed on the seas thou could'st thy foes distress,
And, driven ashore, with hostile arms oppress;
Deform the royal house; and, from the side
Of the just bridegroom, tear the plighted bride:--
Now cease at my command. " The Thunderer said;
And, with dejected eyes, this answer Juno made:--
"Because your dread decree too well I knew,
From Turnus and from earth unwilling I withdrew.
Else should you not behold me here, alone,
Involved in empty clouds, my friends bemoan,
But, girt with vengeful flames, in open sight,
Engaged against my foes in mortal fight.
'Tis true, Juturna mingled in the strife
By my command, to save her brother's life,
At least to try; but (by the Stygian lake--
The most religious oath the gods can take)
With this restriction, not to bend the bow,
Or toss the spear, or trembling dart to throw.
And now, resigned to your superior might,
And tired with fruitless toils, I loath the fight.
This let me beg (and this no fates withstand)
Both for myself and for your father's land,
That, when the nuptial bed shall bind the peace,
(Which I, since you ordain, consent to bless,)
The laws of either nation be the same;
But let the Latins still retain their name,
Speak the same language which they spoke before,
Wear the same habits which their grandsires wore.
Call them not Trojans: perish the renown
And name of Troy, with that detested town.
Latium be Latium still; let Alba reign,
And Rome's immortal majesty remain. "
Then thus the founder of mankind replies:--
(Unruffled was his front, serene his eyes,)
"Can Saturn's issue, and heaven's other heir,
Such endless anger in her bosom bear?
Be mistress, and your full desires obtain;
But quench the choler you foment in vain.
From ancient blood, the Ausonian people, sprung,
Shall keep their name, their habit, and their tongue:
The Trojans to their customs shall be tied. }
I will, myself, their common rites provide. }
The natives shall command, the foreigners subside. }
All shall be Latium; Troy without a name;
And her lost sons forget from whence they came.
From blood so mixed, a pious race shall flow,
Equal to gods, excelling all below.
No nation more respect to you shall pay,
Or greater offerings on your altars lay. "
Juno consents, well pleased that her desires
Had found success, and from the cloud retires.
The peace thus made, the Thunderer next prepares
To force the watery goddess from the wars.
Deep in the dismal regions void of light,
Three daughters, at a birth, were born to Night:[14]
These their brown mother, brooding on her care, }
Endued with windy wings to flit in air, }
With serpents girt alike, and crowned with hissing hair. }
In heaven the Diræ called, and still at hand,
Before the throne of angry Jove they stand,
His ministers of wrath, and ready still
The minds of mortal men with fears to fill,
Whene'er the moody sire, to wreak his hate
On realms or towns deserving of their fate,
Hurls down diseases, death, and deadly care,
And terrifies the guilty world with war.
One sister plague of these from heaven he sent,
To fright Juturna with a dire portent.
The pest comes whirling down: by far more slow
Springs the swift arrow from the Parthian bow,
Or Cydon yew, when, traversing the skies,
And drenched in poisonous juice, the sure destruction flies.
With such a sudden, and unseen a flight,
Shot through the clouds the daughter of the Night.
Soon as the field inclosed she had in view,
And from afar her destined quarry knew--
Contracted, to the boding bird she turns,
Which haunts the ruined piles and hallowed urns,
And beats about the tombs with nightly wings,
Where songs obscene on sepulchres she sings.
Thus lessened in her form, with frightful cries }
The Fury round unhappy Turnus flies, }
Flaps on his shield, and flutters o'er his eyes. }
A lazy chilness crept along his blood;
Choked was his voice; his hair with horror stood.
Juturna from afar beheld her fly,
And knew the ill omen, by her screaming cry,
And stridor of her wing. Amazed with fear,
Her beauteous breast she beat, and rent her flowing hair.
"Ah me! " she cries--"in this unequal strife,
What can thy sister more to save thy life?
Weak as I am, can I, alas! contend
In arms with that inexorable fiend?
Now, now, I quit the field! forbear to fright
My tender soul, ye baleful birds of night!
The lashing of your wings I know too well,
The sounding flight, and funeral screams of hell!
These are the gifts you bring from haughty Jove,
The worthy recompense of ravished love!
Did he for this exempt my life from fate?
O hard conditions of immortal state!
Though born to death, not privileged to die,
But forced to bear imposed eternity!
Take back your envious bribes, and let me go
Companion to my brother's ghost below!
The joys are vanished: nothing now remains
Of life immortal, but immortal pains.
What earth will open her devouring womb,
To rest a weary goddess in the tomb? "
She drew a length of sighs; nor more she said,
But in her azure mantle wrapped her head,
Then plunged into her stream, with deep despair,
And her last sobs came bubbling up in air.
Now stern Æneas waves his weighty spear
Against his foe, and thus upbraids his fear:--
"What farther subterfuge can Turnus find?
What empty hopes are harboured in his mind?
'Tis not thy swiftness can secure thy flight;
Not with their feet, but hands, the valiant fight.
Vary thy shape in thousand forms, and dare
What skill and courage can attempt in war;
Wish for the wings of winds, to mount the sky; }
Or hid within the hollow earth to lie! " }
The champion shook his head, and made this short reply:-- }
"No threats of thine my manly mind can move;
Tis hostile heaven I dread, and partial Jove. "
He said no more, but, with a sigh, repressed
The mighty sorrow in his swelling breast.
Then, as he rolled his troubled eyes around, }
An antique stone he saw, the common bound }
Of neighbouring fields, and barrier of the ground-- }
So vast, that twelve strong men of modern days
The enormous weight from earth could hardly raise.
He heaved it at a lift, and, poised on high,
Ran staggering on against his enemy,
But so disordered, that he scarcely knew
His way, or what unwieldy weight he threw.
His knocking knees are bent beneath the load,
And shivering cold congeals his vital blood.
The stone drops from his arms, and, falling short
For want of vigour, mocks his vain effort.
And as, when heavy sleep has closed the sight,
The sickly fancy labours in the night;
We seem to run; and, destitute of force,
Our sinking limbs forsake us in the course:
In vain we heave for breath; in vain we cry; }
The nerves, unbraced, their usual strength deny; }
And on the tongue the faltering accents die; }
So Turnus fared; whatever means he tried, }
All force of arms, and points of art employed, }
The Fury flew athwart, and made the endeavour void. }
A thousand various thoughts his soul confound; }
He stared about, nor aid nor issue found; }
His own men stop the pass, and his own walls surround. }
Once more he pauses, and looks out again,
And seeks the goddess charioteer in vain.
Trembling he views the thundering chief advance,
And brandishing aloft the deadly lance:
Amazed he cowers beneath his conquering foe,
Forgets to ward, and waits the coming blow.
Astonished while he stands, and fixed with fear,
Aimed at his shield he sees the impending spear.
The hero measured first, with narrow view, }
The destined mark; and, rising as he threw, }
With its full swing the fatal weapon flew. }
Not with less rage the rattling thunder falls,
Or stones from battering-engines break the walls:
Swift as a whirlwind, from an arm so strong,
The lance drove on, and bore the death along.
Nought could his sevenfold shield the prince avail,
Nor aught, beneath his arms, the coat of mail:
It pierced through all, and with a grisly wound
Transfixed his thigh, and doubled him to ground.
With groans the Latins rend the vaulted sky:
Woods, hills, and valleys, to the voice reply.
Now low on earth the lofty chief is laid, }
With eyes cast upwards, and with arms displayed, }
And, recreant, thus to the proud victor prayed:-- }
"I know my death deserved, nor hope to live:
Use what the gods and thy good fortune give.
Yet think, oh! think, if mercy may be shown,
(Thou hadst a father once, and hast a son,)
Pity my sire, now sinking to the grave;
And, for Anchises' sake, old Daunus save!
Or, if thy vowed revenge pursue my death,
Give to my friends my body void of breath!
The Latian chiefs have seen me beg my life: }
Thine is the conquest, thine the royal wife: }
Against a yielded man, 'tis mean ignoble strife. " }
In deep suspense the Trojan seemed to stand,
And, just prepared to strike, repressed his hand.
He rolled his eyes, and every moment felt
His manly soul with more compassion melt;
When, casting down a casual glance, he spied
The golden belt that glittered on his side,
The fatal spoil which haughty Turnus tore
From dying Pallas, and in triumph wore.
Then, roused anew to wrath, he loudly cries,
(Flames, while he spoke, came flashing from his eyes)
"Traitor! dost thou, dost thou to grace pretend,
Clad, as thou art, in trophies of my friend?
To his sad soul a grateful offering go!
'Tis Pallas, Pallas gives this deadly blow. "
He raised his arm aloft, and, at the word,
Deep in his bosom drove the shining sword.
The streaming blood distained his arms around,
And the disdainful soul came rushing through the wound.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 13: Note I. ]

[Footnote 14: Note IV. ]




NOTES

ON

ÆNEÏS, BOOK XII.


Note I.

_At this, a flood, of tears Lavinia shed; }
A crimson blush her beauteous face o'erspread, } P. 146.
Varying her cheeks by turns with white and red. _ }

Amata, ever partial to the cause of Turnus, had just before desired
him, with all manner of earnestness, not to engage his rival in single
fight; which was his present resolution. Virgil, though (in favour of
his hero) he never tells us directly that Lavinia preferred Turnus to
Æneas, yet has insinuated this preference twice before. For mark, in
the seventh Æneïd, she left her father, (who had promised her to Æneas
without asking her consent,) and followed her mother into the woods,
with a troop of Bacchanals, where Amata sung the marriage-song, in the
name of Turnus; which, if she had disliked, she might have opposed.
Then, in the eleventh Æneïd, when her mother went to the temple of
Pallas, to invoke her aid against Æneas, whom she calls by no better
name than _Phrygius prædo_, Lavinia sits by her in the same chair or
litter, _juxtaque comes Lavinia virgo,--oculos dejecta decoros_. What
greater sign of love, than fear and concernment for the lover? In
the lines which I have quoted, she not only sheds tears, but changes
colour. She had been bred up with Turnus; and Æneas was wholly a
stranger to her. Turnus, in probability, was her first love, and
favoured by her mother, who had the ascendant over her father. But I
am much deceived, if (besides what I have said) there be not a secret
satire against the sex, which is lurking under this description of
Virgil, who seldom speaks well of women--better indeed of Camilla, than
any other--for he commends her beauty and valour--because he would
concern the reader for her death. But valour is no very proper praise
for woman-kind; and beauty is common to the sex. He says also somewhat
of Andromache, but transiently: and his Venus is a better mother than a
wife; for she owns to Vulcan she had a son by another man. The rest are
Junos, Dianas, Didos, Amatas, two mad prophetesses, three Harpies on
earth, and as many Furies under ground. This fable of Lavinia includes
a secret moral; that women, in their choice of husbands, prefer the
younger of their suitors to the elder; are insensible of merit, fond
of handsomeness, and, generally speaking, rather hurried away by their
appetite, than governed by their reason.


Note II.

_Sea-born Messapus, with Atinas, heads
The Latin squadrons, and to battle leads. _--P. 166.

The poet had said, in the preceding lines, that Mnestheus, Serestus,
and Asylas, led on the Trojans, the Tuscans, and the Arcadians: but
none of the printed copies, which I have seen, mention any leader of
the Rutulians and Latins, but Messapus the son of Neptune. Ruæus takes
notice of this passage, and seems to wonder at it; but gives no reason,
why Messapus is alone without a coadjutor.

The four verses of Virgil run thus:

_Totæ adeo conversæ acies, omnesque Latini,
Omnes Dardanidæ; Mnestheus, ucerque Serestus,
Et Messapus equûm domitor, et fortis Asylas,
Tuscorumque phalanx, Evandrique Arcades alæ. _

I doubt not but the third line was originally thus:

_Et Messapus equûm domitor, et fortis Atinas:_

for the two names of Asylas and Atinas are so like, that one might
easily be mistaken for the other by the transcribers. And to fortify
this opinion, we find afterward, in the relation of Saces to Turnus,
that Atinas is joined with Messapus:

_Soli, pro portis, Messapus et acer Atinas
Sustentant aciem_----

In general I observe, not only in this Æneïd, but in all the six last
Books, that Æneas is never seen on horseback, and but once before,
as I remember, in the fourth, where he hunts with Dido. The reason of
this, if I guess aright, was a secret compliment which the poet made to
his countrymen the Romans, the strength of whose armies consisted most
in foot, which, I think, were all Romans and Italians. But their wings
or squadrons were made up of their allies, who were foreigners.


Note III.

_This let me beg (and this no fates withstand)
Both for myself and for your father's land, &c. _--P. 176.

The words in the original are these:

_Pro Latio obtestor, pro majestate tuorum_.

Virgil very artfully uses here the word _majestas_, which the Romans
loved so well, that they appropriated it to themselves--_Majestas
populi Romani_. This title, applied to kings, is very modern; and that
is all I will say of it at present, though the word requires a larger
note. In the word _tuorum_, is included the sense of my translation,
_Your father's land_, because Saturn, the father of Jove, had governed
that part of Italy, after his expulsion from Crete. But that on which I
most insist, is the address of the poet, in this speech of Juno. Virgil
was sufficiently sensible, as I have said in the preface, that whatever
the common opinion was, concerning the descent of the Romans from the
Trojans, yet the ancient customs, rites, laws, and habits of those
Trojans were wholly lost, and perhaps also that they had never been:
and, for this reason, he introduces Juno in this place, requesting of
Jupiter that no memory might remain of Troy (the town she hated), that
the people hereafter should not be called Trojans, nor retain any thing
which belonged to their predecessors. And why might not this also be
concerted betwixt our author and his friend Horace, to hinder Augustus
from re-building Troy, and removing thither the seat of empire, a
design so unpleasing to the Romans? But of this I am not positive,
because I have not consulted Dacier, and the rest of the critics,
to ascertain the time in which Horace writ the ode relating to that
subject.


Note IV.

_Deep in the dismal regions void of light,
Three daughters, at a birth, were born to Night. _--P. 177.

The father of these (not here mentioned) was Acheron: the names of
the three were Alecto, Megæra, and Tisiphone. They were called Furies
in hell, on earth Harpies, and in heaven Diræ. Two of these assisted
at the throne of Jupiter, and were employed by him to punish the
wickedness of mankind. These two must be Megæra and Tisiphone--not
Alecto; for Juno expressly commands her to return to hell, from whence
she came; and gives this reason:

_Te super ætherias errare licentius auras
Haud pater ipse velit, summi regnator Olympi,
Cede locis_.

Probably this Dira, unnamed by the poet in this place, might be
Tisiphone; for, though we find her in hell, in the Sixth Æneïd,
employed in the punishment of the damned,

_Continuo sontes ultrix, accincta flagello,
Tisiphone quatit insultans, &c. _

yet afterwards she is on earth in the tenth Æneïd, and amidst the
battle,

_Pallida Tisiphone media inter millia sævit_--

which I guess to be Tisiphone, the rather, by the etymology of her
name, which is compounded of τιω ulciscor, and φονος cœdes;
part of her errand being to affright Turnus with the stings
of a guilty conscience, and denounce vengeance against him for breaking
the first treaty, by refusing to yield Lavinia to Æneas, to whom she
was promised by her father--and, consequently, for being the author of
an unjust war; and also for violating the second treaty, by declining
the single combat, which he had stipulated with his rival, and called
the gods to witness before their altars. As for the names of the
Harpies, (so called on earth,) Hesiod tells us they were Iris, Aëllo,
and Ocypete. Virgil calls one of them Celæno: this, I doubt not, was
Alecto, whom Virgil calls, in the Third Æneïd, _Furiarum maxima_, and
in the sixth again by the same name--_Furiarum maxima juxta accubat_.
That she was the chief of the Furies, appears by her description in the
Seventh Æneïd; to which, for haste, I refer the reader.




POSTSCRIPT

TO

THE READER.


What Virgil wrote in the vigour of his age, in plenty and at ease,
I have undertaken to translate in my declining years; struggling
with wants, oppressed with sickness, curbed in my genius, liable to
be misconstrued in all I write; and my judges, if they are not very
equitable, already prejudiced against me, by the lying character which
has been given them of my morals. Yet, steady to my principles, and not
dispirited with my afflictions, I have, by the blessing of God on my
endeavours, overcome all difficulties, and, in some measure, acquitted
myself of the debt which I owed the public when I undertook this work.
In the first place, therefore, I thankfully acknowledge to the Almighty
Power the assistance he has given me in the beginning, the prosecution,
and conclusion, of my present studies, which are more happily performed
than I could have promised to myself, when I laboured under such
discouragements. For, what I have done, imperfect as it is for want
of health and leisure to correct it, will be judged in after-ages,
and possibly in the present, to be no dishonour to my native country,
whose language and poetry would be more esteemed abroad, if they were
better understood. Somewhat (give me leave to say) I have added to both
of them in the choice of words, and harmony of numbers, which were
wanting (especially the last) in all our poets, even in those who,
being endued with genius, yet have not cultivated their mother-tongue
with sufficient care; or, relying on the beauty of their thoughts, have
judged the ornament of words, and sweetness of sound, unnecessary.
One is for raking in Chaucer (our English Ennius) for antiquated
words, which are never to be revived, but when sound or significancy
is wanting in the present language. But many of his deserve not this
redemption, any more than the crowds of men who daily die, or are slain
for sixpence in a battle, merit to be restored to life, if a wish could
revive them. Others have no ear for verse, nor choice of words, nor
distinction of thoughts; but mingle farthings with their gold, to make
up the sum. Here is a field of satire opened to me: but, since the
Revolution, I have wholly renounced that talent: for who would give
physic to the great, when he is uncalled--to do his patient no good,
and endanger himself for his prescription? Neither am I ignorant, but I
may justly be condemned for many of those faults, of which I have too
liberally arraigned others.

----_Cynthius aurem
Vellit, et admonuit_----

It is enough for me, if the government will let me pass unquestioned.
In the mean time, I am obliged, in gratitude, to return my thanks
to many of them, who have not only distinguished me from others of
the same party, by a particular exception of grace, but, without
considering the man, have been bountiful to the poet--have encouraged
Virgil to speak such English as I could teach him, and rewarded his
interpreter for the pains he has taken in bringing him over into
Britain, by defraying the charges of his voyage. Even Cerberus, when
he had received the sop, permitted Æneas to pass freely to Elysium.
Had it been offered me, and I had refused it, yet still some gratitude
is due to such who were willing to oblige me: but how much more to
those from whom I have received the favours which they have offered
to one of a different persuasion! amongst whom I cannot omit naming
the Earls of Derby[15] and of Peterborough[16]. To the first of these
I have not the honour to be known; and therefore his liberality
was as much unexpected, as it was undeserved. The present Earl of
Peterborough has been pleased long since to accept the tenders of my
service: his favours are so frequent to me, that I receive them almost
by prescription. No difference of interests or opinion has been able
to withdraw his protection from me. And I might justly be condemned
for the most unthankful of mankind, if I did not always preserve for
him a most profound respect and inviolable gratitude. I must also add,
that, if the last Æneïd shine amongst its fellows, it is owing to the
commands of Sir William Trumball,[17] one of the principal secretaries
of state, who recommended it, as his favourite, to my care; and, for
his sake particularly, I have made it mine: for who would confess
weariness, when he enjoined a fresh labour? I could not but invoke the
assistance of a Muse, for this last office.

_Extremum hunc, Arethusa----
----Negat quis carmina Gallo? _

Neither am I to forget the noble present which was made me by Gilbert
Dolben, Esq. the worthy son of the late Archbishop of York,[18] who,
when I began this work, enriched me with all the several editions of
Virgil, and all the commentaries of those editions in Latin; amongst
which, I could not but prefer the Dauphin's, as the last, the shortest,
and the most judicious. Fabrini[19] I had also sent me from Italy; but
either he understands Virgil very imperfectly, or I have no knowledge
of my author.

Being invited by that worthy gentleman, Sir William Bowyer, to Denham
Court, I translated the First Georgic at his house, and the greatest
part of the last Æneïd. [20] A more friendly entertainment no man ever
found. No wonder, therefore, if both those versions surpass the rest,
and own the satisfaction I received in his converse, with whom I had
the honour to be bred in Cambridge, and in the same college. The
Seventh Æneïd was made English at Burleigh, the magnificent abode of
the Earl of Exeter. [21] In a village belonging to his family I was
born;[22] and under his roof I endeavoured to make that Æneïd appear in
English with as much lustre as I could; though my author has not given
the finishing strokes either to it, or to the eleventh, as I perhaps
could prove in both, if I durst presume to criticise my master.

By a letter from William Walsh, of Abberley, Esq. [23] (who has so long
honoured me with his friendship, and who, without flattery, is the
best critic of our nation,) I have been informed, that his grace the
Duke of Shrewsbury[24] has procured a printed copy of the Pastorals,
Georgics, and six first Æneïds, from my bookseller, and has read them
in the country, together with my friend. This noble person having been
pleased to give them a commendation, which I presume not to insert,
has made me vain enough to boast of so great a favour, and to think
I have succeeded beyond my hopes; the character of his excellent
judgment, the acuteness of his wit, and his general knowledge of good
letters, being known as well to all the world, as the sweetness of
his disposition, his humanity, his easiness of access, and desire of
obliging those who stand in need of his protection, are known to all
who have approached him, and to me in particular, who have formerly
had the honour of his conversation. Whoever has given the world the
translation of part of the Third Georgic, which he calls "The Power of
Love," has put me to sufficient pains to make my own not inferior to
his;[25] as my Lord Roscommon's "Silenus" had formerly given me the
same trouble. The most ingenious Mr Addison of Oxford has also been as
troublesome to me as the other two, and on the same account. After his
"Bees," my latter swarm is scarcely worth the hiving. [26] Mr Cowley's
"Praise of a Country Life" is excellent, but is rather an imitation
of Virgil, than a version. That I have recovered, in some measure, the
health which I had lost by too much application to this work, is owing,
next to God's mercy, to the skill and care of Dr Guibbons[27] and Dr
Hobbs,[28] the two ornaments of their profession, whom I can only pay
by this acknowledgment. The whole faculty has always been ready to
oblige me; and the only one of them, who endeavoured to defame me, had
it not in his power. [29] I desire pardon from my readers for saying
so much in relation to myself, which concerns not them; and, with my
acknowledgments to all my subscribers, have only to add, that the few
Notes which follow, are _par manière d'acquit_, because I had obliged
myself by articles to do somewhat of that kind. [30] These scattering
observations are rather guesses at my author's meaning in some
passages, than proofs that so he meant. The unlearned may have recourse
to any poetical dictionary in English, for the names of persons,
places, or fables, which the learned need not: but that little which I
say, is either new or necessary; and the first of these qualifications
never fails to invite a reader, if not to please him.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 15: William Richard George, ninth earl of Derby. He died 5th
November, 1702. He joined early in the Revolution. ]

[Footnote 16: Charles Mordaunt, third earl of Peterborough, and first
earl of Monmouth of his family, is one of the most heroic characters,
according to ancient ideas of heroism, which occur in English history.
Under every disadvantage of want of money, and provisions, and men,
from England, of the united opposition of France, and almost all Spain,
and of the untoward and untractable disposition of Charles of Austria,
he had almost placed that prince upon the Spanish throne, in defiance
of all opposition, as well as of Charles's own imprudence. With an
army, which never amounted to 10,000 men, he drove triple the number
out of Spain before him; and, had he not been removed by a wretched
intrigue, he would have secured the kingdom, which he had effectually
conquered. Like other heroes, he was attached to literature, and
especially to poetry; and the conqueror of Spain was the patron of
Dryden, and the friend of Swift, Pope, and Gay. He was a keen Whig,
but not in favour with his party. "It is a perfect jest," says Swift,
in a letter to Archbishop King, 5th February, 1707-8, "to see my Lord
Peterborough, reputed as great a Whig as any man in England, abhorred
by his own party, and caressed by the Tories. " This great man died at
Lisbon, 1737, aged seventy-seven. ]

[Footnote 17: The name of Sir William Trumball is eminent among
those statesmen, who, amidst the fatigues of state, have found
leisure to cultivate the Muses. He had been ambassador to France
and Constantinople; and, in 1695, was raised to the high situation
mentioned in the text. In 1697, he resigned his employments, and
retired to East Hamstead, in Berkshire, where he early distinguished
the youthful genius of Pope. During the remaining years of Sir
William's life, the young bard and the old statesman were almost
inseparable companions. ]

[Footnote 18: Gilbert was the eldest son of John Dolben, Archbishop
of York; a man distinguished for bravery in the civil wars, and for
dignity of conduct in his episcopal station. Sir William Trumball
wrote a character of him, which is inserted in the new edition of the
_Biographia_, Vol. V. p. 330. The archbishop is celebrated by Dryden,
as a friend of David, in the first part of "Absalom and Achitophel. "
See Vol. IX. p. 243, 303. Of Gilbert Dolben's life, the munificence
extended to Dryden is perhaps the most memorable incident. ]

[Footnote 19: Printed at Venice, 1623. His countrymen claim for Fabrini
more respect than Dryden allows him. ]

[Footnote 20: Dryden gives a beautiful description of this spot in a
note on the beginning of the Second Georgic, Vol. XIV. p. 49. ]

[Footnote 21: John Cecil, fifth earl of Exeter. He was a non-juror,
and lived in retirement at his noble seat of Burleigh.