So much she said, and wrapped her round with mantle dusky-grey, And, groaning sore, she hid herself within the watery way.
But forth aeneas goes, and high his spear he brandisheth, A mighty tree, and from his heart grown fell a word he saith: "And wherewith wilt thou tarry me? hangs Turnus back again?
No foot-strife but the armed hand must doom betwixt us twain. 890 Yea, turn thyself to every shape, and, gathering everything Wherewith thine heart, thy craft is strong, go soaring on the wing, And chase the stars; or deep adown in hollow earth lie stored."
But Turnus shakes his head and saith: ""Tis not thy bitter word That frights me, fierce one; but the G.o.ds, but Jove my foeman grown."
No more he said, but, looking round, espied a weighty stone, An ancient mighty rock indeed, that lay upon the lea, Set for a landmark, judge and end of acre-strife to be, Which scarce twice six of chosen men upon their backs might raise, Of bodies such as earth brings forth amid the latter days: 900 But this in hurrying hand he caught, and rising to the cast, He hurled it forth against the foe, and followed on it fast; Yet while he raised the mighty stone, and flung it to its fall.
Knew nought that he was running there, or that he moved at all: Totter his knees, his chilly blood freezes with deadly frost, And e"en the hero-gathered stone, through desert distance tossed, O"ercame not all the s.p.a.ce betwixt, nor home its blow might bring: E"en as in dreaming-tide of night, when sleep, the heavy thing, Weighs on the eyes, and all for nought we seem so helpless-fain Of eager speed, and faint and fail amidmost of the strain; 910 The tongue avails not; all our limbs of their familiar skill Are cheated; neither voice nor words may follow from our will: So Turnus, by whatever might he strives to win a way, The Dread One bans his hope; strange thoughts about his heart-strings play; He stareth on his Rutuli, and on the Latin town Lingering for dread, trembling to meet the spear this instant thrown: No road he hath to flee, no might against the foe to bear; Nowhither may he see his car, or sister charioteer.
aeneas, as he lingereth there, shaketh the fateful shaft, And, following up its fate with eyes, afar the steel doth waft 920 With all the might his body hath: no stone the wall-sling bears E"er roars so loud: no thunderclap with such a crashing tears Amid the heaven: on flew the spear, huge as the whirlwind black, And speeding on the dreadful death: it brings to utter wrack The hauberk"s skirt and outer rim of that seven-folded shield, And goeth grating through the thigh: then falleth unto field Huge Turnus, with his hampered knee twi-folded with the wound: Then with a groan the Rutuli rise up, and all around Roar back the hill-sides, and afar the groves cast back the cry: But he, downcast and suppliant saith, with praying hand and eye: 930
"Due doom it is; I pray no ruth; use what hath chanced to fall.
Yet, if a wretched father"s woe may touch thine heart at all, I pray thee--since Anchises once was even such to thee,-- Pity my father Daunus" eld, and send me, or, maybe, My body stripped of light and life, back to my kin and land.
Thou, thou hast conquered: Italy has seen my craven hand Stretched forth to pray a grace of thee; Lavinia is thy wife: Strain not thine hatred further now!"
Fierce in the gear of strife aeneas stood with rolling eyes, and held back hand and sword, 939 And more and more his wavering heart was softening "neath the word-- When lo, upon the shoulder showed that hapless thong of war!
Lo, glittering with familiar boss the belt child Pallas bore, Whom Turnus with a wound overcame and laid on earth alow, And on his body bore thenceforth those ensigns of his foe.
But he, when he awhile had glared upon that spoil of fight, That monument of bitter grief, with utter wrath alight, Cried terrible: "And shalt thou, clad in my beloved one"s prey, Be s.n.a.t.c.hed from me?--Tis Pallas yet, "tis Pallas thus doth slay, And taketh of thy guilty blood atonement for his death!"
Deep in that breast he driveth sword e"en as the word he saith: 950 But Turnus,--waxen cold and spent, the body of him lies, And with a groan through dusk and dark the scornful spirit flies.
THE END.