While thus in distant region moves the war,
down to bold Turnus Saturn's daughter sends
celestial Iris. In a sacred vale,
the seat of worship at his grandsire's tomb,
Pilumnus, Faunus' son, the hero mused.
And thus the wonder-child of Thaumas called
with lips of rose: “O Turnus, what no god
dared give for reward of thy fondest vow,
has come unbidden on its destined day.
Behold, Aeneas, who has left behind
the city with his fleet and followers,
is gone to kingly Palatine, the home
of good Evander. Yea, his march invades
the far Etrurian towns, where now he arms
the Lydian rustics. Wilt thou longer muse?
Call for thy chariot and steeds! Away!
Take yonder tents by terror and surprise!”
She spoke; and heavenward on poising wings
soared, cleaving as she fled from cloud to cloud
a vast, resplendent bow. The warrior saw,
and, lifting both his hands, pursued with prayer
the fading glory: “Beauteous Iris, hail!
Proud ornament of heaven! who sent thee here
across yon cloud to earth, and unto me?
Whence may this sudden brightness fall? I see
the middle welkin lift, and many a star,
far-wandering in the sky. Such solemn sign
I shall obey, and thee, O god unknown!”
So saying, he turned him to a sacred stream,
took water from its brim, and offered Heaven
much prayer, with many an importuning vow.
Soon o'er the spreading fields in proud array
the gathered legions poured; no lack was there
of steeds all fire, and broidered pomp and gold.
Messapus led the van; in rearguard rode
the sons of Tyrrheus; kingly Turnus towered
from the mid-column eminent: the host
moved as great Ganges lifting silently
his seven peaceful streams, or when the flood
of fructifying Nile from many a field
back to his channel flows. A swift-blown cloud
of black, uprolling dust the Teucrians see
o'ershadowing the plain; Calcus calls
from lofty outpost: “O my countrymen,
I see a huge, black ball of rolling smoke.
Your swords and lances! Man the walls! To arms!
The foe is here! What ho!” With clamors loud
the Teucrians through the city-gates retire,
and muster on the walls. For, wise in war,
Aeneas, ere he went, had left command
they should not range in battle-line, nor dare,
whate'er might hap, to risk in open plain
the bold sortie, but keep them safe entrenched
in mounded walls. So now, though rage and shame
prick to a close fight, they defensive bar
each portal strong, and, patient of control,
from hollow towers expect th' encircling foe.
Turnus, at full speed, had outridden far
his laggard host, and, leading in his train
a score of chosen knights, dashed into view
hard by the walls. A barb of Thracian breed
dappled with white he rode; a crimson plume
flamed over his golden helmet. “Who,” he cries,
“Is foremost at the foe? Who follows me?
Behold!” And, with the word, he hurled in air
a javelin, provoking instant war:
and, towering from his horse, charged o'er the field.
With answering shout his men-at-arms pursue,
and war-cries terrible. They laugh to scorn
“the craven hearts of Troy, that cannot give
fair, equal vantage, matching man to man,
but cuddle into camp.” This way and that
Turnus careers, and stormily surveys
the frowning rampart, and where way is none
some entering breach would find: so prowls a wolf
nigh the full sheepfold, and through wind and rain
stands howling at the postern all night long;
beneath the ewes their bleating lambs lie safe;
but he, with undesisting fury, more
rages from far, made frantic for his prey
by hunger of long hours, his foaming jaws
athirst for blood: not less the envy burned
of the Rutulian, as he scanned in vain
the stronghold of his foe. Indignant scorn
thrilled all his iron frame.
But how contrive
to storm the fortress or by force expel
the Trojans from the rampart, and disperse
along the plain? Straightway he spied the ships,
in hiding near the camp, defended well
by mounded river-bank and fleeting wave.
On these he fell; while his exultant crew
brought firebrands, and he with heart aflame
grasped with a vengeful hand the blazing pine.
To the wild work his followers sped; for who
could prove him craven under Turnus' eye?
The whole troop for the weapon of their rage
seized smoking coals, of many a hearth the spoil;
red glare of fuming torches burned abroad,
and Vulcan starward flung a sparkling cloud.
What god, O Muses, saved the Trojans then
from wrathful flame? Who shielded then the fleet,
I pray you tell, from bursting storm of fire?
From hoary eld the tale, but its renown
sings on forever. When Aeneas first
on Phrygian Ida hewed the sacred wood
for rib and spar, and soon would put to sea,
that mighty mother of the gods, they say,
the Berecynthian goddess, thus to Jove
addressed her plea: “Grant, O my son, a boon,
which thy dear mother asks, who aided thee
to quell Olympian war. A grove I have
of sacred pine, long-loved from year to year.
On lofty hill it grew, and thither came
my worshippers with gifts, in secret gloom
of pine-trees dark and shadowing maple-boughs.;
these on the Dardan warrior at his need
I, not unwilling, for his fleet bestowed.
But I have fears. O, Iet a parent's prayer
in this prevail, and bid my care begone!
Let not rude voyages nor the shock of storm
my ships subdue, but let their sacred birth
on my charmed hills their strength and safety be!”
Then spake her son, who guides the wheeling spheres:
“Wouldst thou, my mother, strive to oversway
the course of Fate? What means this prayer of thine?
Can it be granted ships of mortal mould
to wear immortal being? Wouldst thou see
Aeneas pass undoubting and secure
through doubtful strait and peril? On what god
was e'er such power bestowed? Yet will I grant
a different boon. Whatever ships shall find
a safe Ausonian haven, and convey
safe through the seas to yon Laurentian plain
the Dardan King, from such I will remove
their perishable shapes, and bid them be
sea-nymphs divine, like Nereus' daughters fair,
Doto and Galatea, whose white breasts
divide the foaming wave.” He said, and swore
by his Tartarean brother's mournful stream,
the pitch-black floods and dark engulfing shore
of Styx; then great Jove bowed his head, and all
Olympus quaked at his consenting brow.
Now was the promised day at hand (for Fate
had woven the web so far) when Turnus' rage
stirred the divine progenitress to save
her sacred ships from fire. Then sudden shone
a strange effulgence in the eastern air;
and in a storm-cloud wafted o'er the sky
were Corybantic choirs, whose dreadful song
smote both on Teucrian and Rutulian ear:
“O Teucrians, fear not for the sure defence
of all the ships, nor arm your mortal hands.
Yon impious Turnus shall burn up the seas
before my pine-trees blest. Arise! Be free,
ye goddesses of ocean, and obey
your mother's mighty word.” Then instant broke
the hawsers of the sterns; the beaked prows
went plunging like great dolphins from the shore
down to the deeps, and, wonderful to tell,
the forms of virgin goddesses uprose,
one for each ship, and seaward sped away.
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