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;
These their brown mother, brooding on her care,
Indulged 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 bcw,
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 enclosed 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 chillness 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 further 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.
Naught could his sevenfold shield the Prince avail,
Nor aught beneath his arms the coat of mail;
It pierced through all, and with a grizzly 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 spoils 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.
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.
LONDON AND EDINBURGH
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