第105章

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 forefather's name!"He said; and while he spoke, with flying speed Came Sages urging on his foamy steed:

Fix'd 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 Aeneas, rolling on, With arms invests, with flames invades the town:

The brands are toss'd on high; the winds conspire To drive along the deluge of the fire.

All eyes are fix'd on you: your foes rejoice;Ev'n 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 plac'd, Herself suborning death, has breath'd her last.

'T is true, Messapus, fearless of his fate, With fierce Atinas' aid, defends the gate:

On ev'ry 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 emptyStupid he sate, his eyes on earth declin'd, And various cares revolving in his mind:

Rage, boiling from the bottom of his breast, And sorrow mix'd with shame, his soul oppress'd;And conscious worth lay lab'ring in his thought, And love by jealousy to madness wrought.

By slow degrees his reason drove away The mists of passion, and resum'd her sway.

Then, rising on his car, he turn'd his look, And saw the town involv'd in fire and smoke.

A wooden tow'r with flames already blaz'd, Which his own hands on beams and rafters rais'd;And bridges laid above to join the space, And wheels below to roll from place to place.

"Sister, the Fates have vanquish'd: let us go The way which Heav'n and my hard fortune show.

The fight is fix'd; 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, Thro' crowds of scatter'd foes he freed his way.

Striding he pass'd, 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 sapp'd by time, or loosen'd from the roots-Prone thro' the void the rocky ruin shoots, Rolling from crag to crag, from steep to steep;Down sink, at once, the shepherds and their sheep:

Involv'd alike, they rush to nether ground;Stunn'd with the shock they fall, and stunn'd from earth rebound:

So Turnus, hasting headlong to the town, Should'ring 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 slipp'ry 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.

'T is just that I should vindicate alone The broken truce, or for the breach atone.

This day shall free from wars th' 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 receiv'd 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 armor 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, overaw'd, surcease the fight;Immovable their bodies, fix'd their sight.

Ev'n death stands still; nor from above they throw Their darts, nor drive their batt'ring-rams below.

In silent order either army stands, And drop their swords, unknowing, from their hands.

Th' Ausonian king beholds, with wond'ring sight, Two mighty champions match'd in single fight, Born under climes remote, and brought by fate, With swords to try their titles to the state.

Now, in clos'd 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 ingage 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 th' 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 gor'd, their sides are lav'd in blood;Loud cries and roaring sounds rebellow thro' 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.

Rais'd on the stretch, young Turnus aims a blow Full on the helm of his unguarded foe:

Shrill shouts and clamors 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 is but death, or flight; disarm'd he flies, When in his hand an unknown hilt he spies.

Fame says that Turnus, when his steeds he join'd, Hurrying to war, disorder'd in his mind, Snatch'd the first weapon which his haste could find.

'T was not the fated sword his father bore, But that his charioteer Metiscus wore.