But Sire Aeneas, hearing Turnus' name,
down the steep rampart from the citadel
unlingering tried, all lesser task laid by,
with joy exultant and dread-thundering arms.
Like Athos' crest he loomed, or soaring top
of Eryx, when the nodding oaks resound,
or sovereign Apennine that lifts in air
his forehead of triumphant snow. All eyes
of Troy, Rutulia, and Italy
were fixed his way; and all who kept a guard
on lofty rampart, or in siege below
were battering the foundations, now laid by
their implements and arms. Latinus too
stood awestruck to behold such champions, born
in lands far-sundered, met upon one field
for one decisive stroke of sword with sword.
Swift striding forth where spread the vacant plain,
they hurled their spears from far; then in close fight
the brazen shields rang. Beneath their tread
Earth groaned aloud, as with redoubling blows
their falchions fell; nor could a mortal eye
'twixt chance and courage the dread work divide.
As o'er Taburnus' top, or spacious hills
of Sila, in relentless shock of war,
two bulls rush brow to brow, while terror-pale
the herdsmen fly; the herd is hushed with fear;
the heifers dumbly marvel which shall be
true monarch of the grove, whom all the kine
obedient follow; but the rival twain,
commingling mightily wound after wound,
thrust with opposing horns, and bathe their necks
in streams of blood; the forest far and wide
repeats their bellowing rage: not otherwise
Trojan Aeneas and King Daunus' son
clashed shield on shield, till all the vaulted sky
felt the tremendous sound. The hand of Jove
held scales in equipoise, and threw thereon
th' unequal fortunes of the heroes twain:
one to vast labors doomed and one to die.
Soon Turnus, reckless of the risk, leaped forth,
upreached his whole height to his lifted sword,
and struck: the Trojans and the Latins pale
cried mightily, and all eyes turned one way
expectant. But the weak, perfidious sword
broke off, and as the blow descended, failed
its furious master, whose sole succor now
was flight; and swifter than the wind he flew.
But, lo! a hilt of form and fashion strange
lay in his helpless hand. For in his haste,
when to the battle-field his team he drove,
his father's sword forgotten (such the tale),
he snatched Metiscus' weapon. This endured
to strike at Trojan backs, as he pursued,
but when on Vulcan's armory divine
its earthly metal smote, the brittle blade
broke off like ice, and o'er the yellow sands
in flashing fragments scattered. Turnus now
takes mad flight o'er the distant plain, and winds
in wavering gyration round and round;
for Troy's close ring confines him, and one way
a wide swamp lies, one way a frowning wall.
But lo! Aeneas—though the arrow's wound
still slackens him and oft his knees refuse
their wonted step—pursues infuriate
his quailing foe, and dogs him stride for stride.
As when a stag-hound drives the baffled roe
to torrent's edge (or where the flaunting snare
of crimson feathers fearfully confines)
and with incessant barking swift pursues;
while through the snared copse or embankment high
the frightened creature by a thousand ways
doubles and turns; but that keen Umbrian hound
with wide jaws, undesisting, grasps his prey,
or, thinking that he grasps it, snaps his teeth
cracking together, and deludes his rage,
devouring empty air: then peal on peal
the cry of hunters bursts; the lake and shore
reecho, and confusion fills the sky:—
such was the flight of Turnus, who reviled
the Rutules as he fled, and loudly sued
of each by name to fetch his own lost sword.
Aeneas vowed destruction and swift death
to all who dared come near, and terrified
their trembling souls with menace that his power
would raze their city to the ground. Straightway,
though wounded, he gave chase, and five times round
in circles ran; then winding left and right
coursed the swift circles o'er. For, lo! the prize
is no light laurel or a youthful game:
for Turnus' doom and death their race is run.
But haply in that place a sacred tree,
a bitter-leaved wild-olive, once had grown,
to Faunus dear, and venerated oft
by mariners safe-rescued from the waves,
who nailed their gifts thereon, or hung in air
their votive garments to Laurentum's god.
But, heeding not, the Teucrians had shorn
the stem away, to clear the field for war.
'T was here Aeneas' lance stuck fast; its speed
had driven it firmly inward, and it clave
to the hard, clinging root. Anchises' son
bent o'er it, and would wrench his weapon free,
and follow with a far-flung javelin
the swift out-speeding foe. But Turnus then,
bewildered and in terror, cried aloud:
“O Faunus, pity me and heed my prayer!
Hold fast his weapon, O benignant Earth!
If ere these hands have rendered offering due,
where yon polluting Teucrians fight and slay.”
He spoke; invoking succor of the god,
with no Iost prayer. For tugging valiantly
and laboring long against the stubborn stem,
Aeneas with his whole strength could but fail
to loose the clasping tree. While fiercely thus
he strove and strained, Juturna once again,
wearing the charioteer Metiscus' shape,
ran to her brother's aid, restoring him
his own true sword. But Venus, wroth to see
what license to the dauntless nymph was given,
herself came near, and plucked from that deep root
the javelin forth. So both with lofty mien
strode forth new-armed, new-hearted: one made bold
by his good sword, the other, spear in hand,
uptowered in wrath, and with confronting brows
they set them to the war-god's breathless game.
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