Meanwhile Aurora, rising, left the ocean.
Aeneas’ heart was troubled—so much dying,
So great a need for funeral rites,—but first
Vows must be paid for victory. At dawn
He sets an oak-trunk on a mound, the branches
Stripped off on every side, and hangs upon it
Mezentius’ gleaming arms, the war-god’s trophy.
He adds the crest, blood-stained, the broken darts,
The riddled breast-plate; binds, to the left, the shield,
Hangs from the neck the ivory sword. His comrades
Hail him, and gather close around, and listen:—
“The greatest task is done: as for the future,
Fear not, my heroes! Here are spoils and first-fruits
Of one proud king; Mezentius is in our hands.
We march, now, on Latinus and his cities.
Prepare your arms, your nerve; let your hopes run
Onward before the war. When the gods grant us
To raise our standards and to lead our army
Out of this camp, let no delay impede us
Through ignorance, no fear retard our courage.
Meanwhile, let us commit to earth the unburied bodies
Of our dear comrades, for no other honor
Waits them below the world. Go, offer homage,
The final rites to those whose blood has won us
This fatherland; let Pallas be sent home
To the mourning city of Evander: Pallas
Had courage, and the day was black that took him
To the bitterness of death.”

He spoke with tears
And went back to the threshold, where old Acoetes,
An armor-bearer, once, to king Evander,
And then, less happily, guardian over Pallas,
Kept watch beside the body. A Trojan throng
Stood all around, an honor-guard, and the women
Loosened their hair in ceremonial mourning,
And when Aeneas came, the lofty portal
Sounded with groaning and with lamentation,
And wailing reached the stars. He looked at Pallas,
The pillowed head, the face as white as snow,
The jagged wound in the smooth breast, and spoke,
And could not check his weeping:—“Ah, poor youngster!
Fortune, a little while, was happy for us
And then turned evil and grudging, and refused me
The joy of seeing you ride back in triumph
To your father’s house with news of our new kingdom.
I have not kept my promise to Evander,
Whose arms went round me when I left, who sent me
To win great empire, and who gave me warning
That these were men of spirit, tough in battle.
And now, perhaps even at this very moment,
The dupe of empty hope, he is making prayers,
Heaping the altars high with gifts, while we
In sorrow attend his lifeless son, with honor
As empty as the father’s hope, for Pallas
Owes nothing more to any god in heaven.
Unhappy Evander, our long-awaited triumph,
Our glorious return, comes to this only,
The bitter funeral of a son; and so
Aeneas keeps his promise!

And yet, O king,
You will not see him slain by shameful wounds,
You will not long for a dire death to cancel
The memory of a son, safe, but a coward.
We have lost a great protection, all of us,
Ausonia, Iulus.”

He gave orders
To raise the pitiful body for its journey,
And chose a thousand men to honor Pallas
With this last escort, to share Evander’s tears,
Poor comfort for so great a grief, but due him.
Men weave the bier with osier and soft willow
And shadow it over with leaves of oak, and Pallas
Rests on his country litter, like a flower
Some girl has picked and lost, a violet
Or drooping hyacinth, and all its luster
Still there, though earth is kind to it no longer.
And then Aeneas brought two robes, whose crimson
Was stiff with gold, robes that the queen of Carthage
Had woven for him, happy in her labor,
Running the gold through crimson. Over Pallas
The robes are cast, the sad and final honor,
The hair is veiled for the fire, and many trophies
Are added, prizes from the Latin battles,
Horses, and weapons, captured from the Latins,
And human victims, offerings to the shades,
Their blood to sprinkle funeral fire, are led
Hands bound behind them, and the names of foemen
Are cut in the trunks of trees that bear their armor.
Unhappy old Acoetes trudges with them,
Beating his breast, clawing his face, or flinging
His wretched body down in the dust. And chariots
Follow, Rutulian blood on wheel and axle,
And Pallas’ war-horse Aethon, riderless,
Without caparison, weeps for his master,
The great tears rolling down. Other men carry
The spear and helmet only, for the rest
Turnus had taken as spoil. And then there follows
A long array of mourners, Trojans, Tuscans,
Arcadians, with arms reversed: so they pass
In long procession, comrade after comrade,
Far on and almost out of sight. Aeneas
Halts, and sighs deeply:—“The same grim fates of war
Call us from here to other tears. Forever
Hail, O great Pallas, and farewell forever!”
He said no more, but turned to the high walls,
Strode back to the camp.

And envoys came
From the Latin city, veiled with boughs of olive,
Asking for truce: let him return the bodies
Strewn by the sword across the battlefield,
Let them be given burial. No war
Is fought with vanquished men, deprived of light:
Let him be merciful—had he not called them
Hosts at one time, and fathers? And good Aeneas
Granted, of right, the truce they sought, and added
Brief words:—“What evil destiny, O Latins,
We have seen enough of death and desolation.
If glory moves you, you with the heart of oak,
Or if the royal dowry is your passion,
Be bold, have confidence,—and face Aeneas!
So Turnus have his royal bride, no matter
If we, cheap souls, a herd unwept, unburied,
Lie strewn across the field. O son of Mars,
If son you really are, the challenger
Is calling: dare you look him in the face?”

And Turnus’ violence blazed out in fury,
A groan or a growl and savage words erupting:—
“A flow of talk is what you have, O Drances,
Always, when wars need men; and you come running
The first one there, whenever the senate gathers.
But this is not the time for words, that fly
From your big mouth in safety, in a meeting,
While the walls keep off the foe, and the dry trenches
Have not yet swum in blood. As usual,
Orator, thunder on! Convict me, Drances,
Of cowardice, you having slain so many
Tremendous heaps of Trojans, all the fields
Stacked with your trophies! Try your courage, Drances:
The enemy are not far to seek, our walls
Are circled with them. Coming? Why the coyness?
Will your idea of Mars be found forever
In windy tongue and flying feet? I, beaten?
Who says so? What foul liar calls me beaten,
Seeing the Tiber red with blood, Evander
Laid low with all his house, and the Arcadians
Stripped of their arms? Ask Pandarus and Bitias,
The thousands I have sent to hell, cut off
Inside their walls, hedged by a ring of foemen.
In war there is no safety. Sing that song,
Madman, to your own cause and prince Aeneas!
Keep on, don’t stop, confound confusion further
With panic fear, and praise those noble heroes
Of that twice-beaten race, despite the arms
Of King Latinus. Now the Myrmidons,
Or so we hear, are trembling, and their river
Runs backward in sheer fright, and Diomedes
Turns pale, and I suppose Achilles also!
Now he pretends my threats, my anger, scare him—
A nice artistic piece of work!—he sharpens
Slander with apprehension. Listen to him!
Listen to me: I tell you, you will never
Lose such a life as yours by this right hand,
Quit worrying, keep that great and fighting spirit
Forever in that breast! And now, my father,
I turn to you and more important counsels.
If you have hope no longer in our arms,
If we are so forsaken, if we are lost,
Utterly, over one repulse, if fortune
Cannot retrace her steps, let us pray for peace,
Let us hold out helpless hands in supplication.
But still, if only some of our valor, something—
Happy the men who died before they saw it!
But if we still have any power, warriors
Standing unhurt, any Italian city,
Any ally at all, if any Trojans
Have ever died (their glory has been costly
As well as ours, and the storm has no more spared them),
Why do we fail like cowards on the edge
Of victory? Why do we shudder and tremble
Before the trumpet sounds? Many an evil
Has turned to good in time; and many a mortal
Fate has despised and raised. Diomede, Arpi,
Refuse us help; so be it. There are others,
There is Messapus for one, Tolumnius
Whose luck is good, and all those other leaders
Sent by so many nations, and great glory
Will follow Latium’s pride. We have Camilla
Of Volscian stock, leading her troop of horsemen,
Her warriors bright in bronze. If I am summoned
Alone to meet Aeneas, if I alone
Am obstinate about the common welfare,
If such is your decision, my hands have never
Found victory so shrinking or elusive
That I should fear the risk. Bring on your Trojan!
Let him surpass Achilles, and wear armor
Made by the hands of Vulcan! Second to no one
Of all my ancestors in pride and courage,
I, Turnus, vow this life to you, Latinus,
My king, my father. The challenger is calling—
Well, let him call, I hope he does. No Drances,
If heaven’s wrath is here, will ever appease it,
No Drances take away my honor and glory.”

So, in the midst of doubt, they brawled and quarreled,
And all the time Aeneas’ line came forward.
A messenger rushed through the royal palace,
Through scenes of noise and uproar, through the city
Filling the town with panic: They are coming,
He cries, they are ready for battle, all the Trojans,
All the Etruscans, rank on rank, from Tiber,
All over the plain! And the people’s minds are troubled,
Their hearts are shaken, their passion and their anger
Pricked by no gentle spur. However frightened,
They call for arms, they make impatient gestures,
The young men shout, and the old ones moan and mutter;
The noise, from every side, goes up to heaven
Loud and discordant, the way jays rasp and chatter
Or swans along Padusa’s fishy river
Utter their raucous clamor over the pools.
And Turnus, seizing on the moment, cries:—
“A fine time, citizens, to call a council,
To sit there praising peace. The enemy
Is up in arms against us!” That was all,
And he went rushing from the lofty palace.
“Volusus, arm the squadrons of the Volscians,
Lead the Rutulians forth! Messapus, Coras,
Deploy the horsemen over the plains! You others,
Some of you, guard the city gates and towers!
The rest, be ready to charge where I direct you!”

So Turnus gave excited orders: quickly,
The rush to the walls was on, all over the city.
Latinus left the cou all over the field in this confusion?
Why do we carry swords? What silly weapons
Are these in our right hands? You are swift enough
For wrestling in the night time, or for dances
When the curved flute of Bacchus does the piping!
You have, it seems, one pleasure and one passion,
Waiting for feasts and goblets on full tables
When priests announce the sacrifice propitious
And the fat victim calls to the deep woodlands.”
So Tarchon had his say, and spurred his charger,
Himself not loath to die, fell like a whirlwind
On Venulus, and swept him from the saddle,
And lifted him with his right hand, and held him
Before him as he rode, and all the Latins
Cheered with a noisy din that reached the heaven.
The arms and man in front of him, over the plain
Rode Tarchon, swift as fire; broke off the point
Of Venulus’ spear, and sought a place unguarded
Where he might thrust a deadly wound; the other
Struggled against him, kept the hand from the throat,
Matched violence with violence. An eagle,
Soaring to heaven, carries off a serpent
In just that manner, in the grip of talons,
And the wounded reptile writhes the looping coils
And rears the scales erect and keeps on hissing,
While the curved beak strikes at the struggling victim,
So, from the battle-line of the Etruscans,
Tarchon swept off his struggling prey in triumph,
An inspiration to his rallied people.

Then Arruns, as the fates would have it, started
Stalking the fleet Camilla with the javelin,
Ahead of her in cunning. He took no chances,
Seeking the easiest way. When that wild maiden
Dashed fiercely into the battle, there he followed
Stealthily in her footsteps, or turned the reins
When she came back victorious. This way, that way,
Wary in each approach, he circled after,
The sure spear quivering as he poised and held it.
It happened Chloreus, Cybele’s priest, was shining
Far off in Phrygian armor, spurring a horse
Covered with leather, scales of brass and gold
And the rider was a fire of foreign color,
Launching his Cretan darts: the bow was golden,
The helmet golden, and the cloak of saffron,
So stiff it had a metal sound, was fastened
With knots of yellow gold; some foreign needle
Had worked embroidery into hose and tunic.
Camilla picked him out from all the battle,
Either to take that spoil home to the temple,
Or flaunt the gold herself; she was a huntress
In blind pursuit, dazzled by spoil, a woman
Reckless for finery. In hiding, Arruns
Caught up his spear and prayed:—“Most high Apollo,
Soracte’s warden, whose adorers feed
The pine-wood fire, and trustful tread the embers,
Let me wipe out this shame. I seek no plunder,
No spoil, no trophy, of Camilla beaten;
I may perhaps find other ways to glory.
All I ask here is that this scourge may vanish
Under a wound I give; for this I am willing
To make return, however inglorious, home.”
Half of his prayer was heard: Apollo granted
The downfall of Camilla; the returning
Safe home was not to be,—the south winds carried
That much to empty air. So the spear, whirring,
Spun from his hand; the sound turned all the Volscians
With anxious eyes and minds to watch their ruler.
She heard no stir in the air, no sound, no weapon
Along the sky, till the spear went to its lodging
In the bare breast and drank the maiden blood.
Her frightened comrades hurry, catch her falling,
And Arruns, frightened more than any other,
Half joy, half fear, makes off: no further daring
Is his, to trust the lance or face encounter.
As a wolf that kills a bullock or a shepherd
Before the darts can reach him, down the mountains
Goes plunging through the brush, the sign of guilt
His tail clapped under the belly, bent on flight,
So Arruns sneaks to cover through the armies.
Dying, she pulls at the dart, but the point is fast,
Deep in the wound between the ribs; her eyes
Roll, cold in death; her color pales; her breath
Comes hard. She calls to Acca, her companion,
Most loved, most loyal:—“I have managed, Acca,
This far, but now—the bitter wound—I am done for,
There are shadows all around. Hurry to Turnus.
Take him this last direction, to relieve me
Here in the fight, defend the town, keep off—
Farewell!” The reins went slack, the earth received her
Yielding her body to its cold, resigning
The sagging head to death; and she let fall,
For the last time, her weapons, and the spirit
Went with a moan indignant to the shadows.
And then indeed the golden stars were smitten
By a wild outcry; with Camilla fallen,
The fight takes on new fierceness: all the Trojans
Rush in, Etruscan leaders, all the squadrons
That came, once, from Evander.

High in the mountains
Opis, Diana’s sentinel, unfrightened,
Had watched the battle, and seen, through all that fury,
Camilla slain in pitiful death. She sighed
And spoke with deep emotion:—“Cruel, cruel,
The punishment you pay, poor warrior-maiden,
For that attempt to battle down the Trojans!
It comes to nothing, all the lonely service
In woodland thicket, the worship of Diana,
The wearing of our arrows on the shoulder.
And even so, in the last hour of dying,
Your queen has not forsaken you, nor left you
Unhonored altogether; through the nations
This will be known, your death, and with it, surely,
The satisfaction of vengeance. He whose wound
Profaned your body will die as he deserves to.”
Under the lofty moun

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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