Meanwhile the warrior Turnus far afield
pursued a scattered few; but less his speed,
for less and less his worn steeds worked his will;
and now wind-wafted to his straining ear
a nameless horror came, a dull, wild roar,
the city's tumult and distressful cry.
“Alack,” he cried, “what stirs in yonder walls
such anguish? Or why rings from side to side
such wailing through the city?” Asking so,
he tightened frantic grasp upon the rein.
To him his sister, counterfeiting still
the charioteer Metiscus, while she swayed
rein, steeds, and chariot, this answer made:
“Hither, my Turnus, let our arms pursue
the sons of Troy. Here lies the nearest way
to speedy triumph. There be other swords
to keep yon city safe. Aeneas now
storms against Italy in active war;
we also on this Trojan host may hurl
grim havoc. Nor shalt thou the strife give o'er
in glory second, nor in tale of slain.”
Turnus replied, “O sister, Iong ago
I knew thee what thou wert, when guilefully
thou didst confound their treaty, and enlist
thy whole heart in this war. No longer now
thy craft divine deceives me. But what god
compelled thee, from Olympus fallen so far,
to bear these cruel burdens? Wouldst thou see
thy wretched brother slaughtered? For what else
is in my power?
What flattering hazard still
holds forth deliverance? My own eyes have seen
Murranus (more than any now on earth
my chosen friend) who, calling on my name,
died like a hero by a hero's sword.
Ill-fated Ufens fell, enduring not
to Iook upon my shame; the Teucrians
divide his arms for spoil and keep his bones.
Shall I stand tamely, till my hearth and home
are levelled with the ground? For this would be
the only blow not fallen. Shall my sword
not give the lie to Drances' insolence?
Shall I take flight and let my country see
her Turnus renegade? Is death a thing
so much to weep for? O propitious dead,
O spirits of the dark, receive and bless
me whom yon gods of light have cast away!
Sacred and guiltless shall my soul descend
to join your company; I have not been
unworthy offspring of my kingly sires.”
Scarce had he said, when through the foeman's line
Saces dashed forth upon a foaming steed,
his face gashed by an arrow. He cried loud
on Turnus' name: “O Turnus, but in thee
our last hope lies. Have pity on the woe
of all thy friends and kin!
Aeneas hurls
his thunderbolt of war, and menaces
to crush the strongholds of all Italy,
and lay them low; already where we dwell
his firebrands are raining. Unto thee
the Latins Iook, and for thy valor call.
The King sits dumb and helpless, even he,
in doubt which son-in-law, which cause to choose.
Yea, and the Queen, thy truest friend, is fallen
by her own hand; gone mad with grief and fear,
she fled the light of day. At yonder gates
Messapus only and Atinas bear
the brunt of battle; round us closely draw
the serried ranks; their naked blades of steel
are thick as ripening corn; wilt thou the while
speed in thy chariot o'er this empty plain?”
Dazed and bewildered by such host of ills,
Turnus stood dumb; in his pent bosom stirred
shame, frenzy, sorrow, a despairing love
goaded to fury, and a warrior's pride
of valor proven.
But when first the light
of reason to his blinded soul returned,
he strained his flaming eyeballs to behold
the distant wall, and from his chariot gazed
in wonder at the lordly citadel.
For, lo, a pointed peak of flame uprolled
from tier to tier, and surging skyward seized
a tower—the very tower his own proud hands
had built of firm-set beams and wheeled in place,
and slung its Iofty bridges high in air.
“Fate is too strong, my sister! Seek no more
to stay the stroke. But let me hence pursue
that path where Heaven and cruel Fortune call.
Aeneas I must meet; and I must bear
the bitterness of death, whate'er it be.
O sister, thou shalt look upon my shame
no longer. But first grant a madman's will!”
He spoke; and leaping from his chariot, sped
through foes and foemen's spears, not seeing now
his sister's sorrow, as in swift career
he burst from line to line. Thus headlong falls
a mountain-boulder by a whirlwind flung
from lofty peak, or loosened by much rain,
or by insidious lapse of seasons gone;
the huge, resistless crag goes plunging down
by leaps and bounds, o'erwhelming as it flies
tall forests, Bocks and herds, and mortal men:
so through the scattered legions Turnus ran
straight to the city walls, where all the ground
was drenched with blood, and every passing air
shrieked with the noise of spears. His lifted hand
made sign of silence as he loudly called:
“Refrain, Rutulians! O ye Latins all,
your spears withhold! The issue of the fray
is all my own. I only can repair
our broken truce by judgment of the sword.”
Back fell the hostile lines, and cleared the field.
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