  He halts, looks back to find his friend: in vain. “Euryalus, Euryalus, where are you? Where have I lost you? How am I to follow Back through the tangled wood, the treacherous thickets? Euryalus, Euryalus!” He turns, Tries to retrace his step, is lost in the woods, And hears the horses, hears the shouts and signals As the pursuit comes closer, and he hears A cry, he sees Euryalus, dragged along Out of the treason of the night and darkness, Bewildered by the uproar, fighting vainly In the hands of Volcens’ squadron. There is nothing Nisus can do, or is there? With what arms, What force, redeem his friend? Or is it better To hurl himself to death, dash in, regardless, To glorious wounds? His spear is poised, his arm Drawn back; he looks to the moon on high, and prays:— “Dear goddess, daughter of Latona, aid me, Pride of the stars and glory of the groves, If ever my father Hyrtacus brought honors In my name to the altar, if ever I Have brought gifts home from my own hunting, aid me! Let me confound that troop, direct my weapon!” The straining body flung the spear; it whistled Across the shadow of night, and Sulmo took it In his turned back; the point snaps off; it lodges With part of the splintered wood deep in the lungs. Sulmo goes down, his mouth spurts blood, his body Sobs, straining, in the gasp and chill and shudder Of a cold death. They look in all directions, Fiercer this time. This pierces Tagus’ temples, Clings, warm, in the split brain. And Volcens rages, And cannot find the spearman, and his anger Has no sure place to go, but for his vengeance Turns on Euryalus, sword drawn, and rushing He cries:—“You will pay for both of them, your blood Be the atonement.” Nisus, from the darkness, Shrieks in his terror:—“Here I am, I did it, The guilt is mine, let him alone, come get me, Rutulians! How could he have dared or done it? God knows, the only thing he did was love A luckless friend too well.” But the sword is driven Deep in the breast. Euryalus rolls over, Blood veins the handsome limbs, and on the shoulder The neck droops over, as a bright-colored flower Droops when the ploughshare bends it, or as poppies Sink under the weight of heavy summer rainfall. And Nisus rushes them; he is after Volcens, Volcens alone. They mass around him, cluster, Batter him back, but through them all he charges, Whirling the blade like fire, until he drives it Full in the face while the Rutulian, shrieking, Goes down, and Nisus, dying, sees him die, Falls over his lifeless friend, and there is quiet In the utter peace of death. Fortunate boys! If there is any power in my verses, You will not be forgotten in time and story While rock stands firm beneath the Capitol, With victory and tears, with spoil and plunder, They brought Rutulian Volcens home to camp-ground, And a great wail arose, for Rhamnes slaughtered, For Numa, for Serranus, for so many Slain in one fight. They rush to see the bodies, To heroes dead or dying, to the ground Reeking with carnage, the red foaming rivers. They recognize the spoil, the shining helmet Brought back for Messapus, and all the trappings It cost them sweat to win. And the Dawn-goddess Came from her husband’s saffron couch, bestowing Fresh light across the world. Turnus, in armor, Summoned his men to arms, and every leader Marshalled his ranks of bronze, and each man sharpens His anger with one rumor or another. And more than that, a pitiful sight, they fix On spears upraised, and follow with loud shouting, The heads of Nisus and Euryalus. On the left of the wall the Trojans form their line Whose right rests on the river. They hold the trenches, Stand on the high towers, sorrowing; they know, And all too well, those heads with spears for bodies, And the black blood running down. And meanwhile Rumor Goes flying through the panic of the city, Comes to Euryalus’ mother. That poor woman Is cold as death; the shuttle falls from her hands, The yarn is all unwound. She rushes, shrieking, Heedless of men, heedless of darts and danger To fill the air with terrible lamentation:— “Is this thing you I see, Euryalus? Could you, a poor old woman’s only comfort, Leave her to loneliness? O cruel, cruel! To go to danger, and never a farewell word Between the mother and son! And now you lie On a strange land for dogs and birds to pick at, No mother to bathe the wounds, or close the eyes, To veil the body with the robe I worked on For quite another purpose, night and day, Comforting, so, the cares of age. Where can I Go now, to find you? In what land are lying The limbs, dismembered, and the mangled body? Is this thing all you bring me from the wars, Is this what I have followed on land and sea? If you have anything of decent feeling, Rutulians, kill me; hurl your weapons on me, All of you, all of them: let steel destroy me. Or, father of the gods, have pity on me And strike with the bolt of lightning; hurl to Hell The life I hate; no other way is left me To break the cruel thread.” And at her wailing The Trojan spirit sank, and a groan of sorrow Passed through the ranks, their will t o shame at all, for your unhappy country, Your ancient household gods, and great Aeneas?” That gave them courage; and the column thickened, And they were firm, and stood. And very slowly Turnus drew back, retreating toward the river, And they came on, more boldly now, with yelling And massing rank on rank, a crowd of hunters With deadly spears, after a deadly lion, And the beast they hunt is frightened, but still deadly, Still dangerous, still glaring, and neither anger Nor courage lets him turn his back, and forward He cannot go, however much he wants to, Through all that press of men and spears. So Turnus, Doubtful, kept stepping back, little by little, Burning, inside, with anger. Two more times He made a sudden charge, sent the foe flying Along the walls, but they came back, and Juno Dared not assist him further; Jove had sent Iris from heaven, with no uncertain message If Turnus does not leave the Trojan ramparts, He can no longer hold his own against them, The shield and sword-arm falter; darts like hail Rain down from everywhere. The helmet rings Around his temples, and the brass cracks open Under the storm of stones; the horsehair crest Is shot away; the boss of the shield is dented; Multiply spears. The sweat all over his body Runs in a tarry stream; he cannot breathe. At last, with one great leap, in all his armor, He plunges into the stream, and Tiber takes him On the yellow flood, held up by the buoyant water, Washing away the stains of war, a hero, Returning happily to his warrior-comrades. |
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