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Raise all thy winds; with night involve the skies; Sink or disperse my fatal enemies. Twice sev'n, the charming daughters of the main, Around my person wait, and bear my train: Succeed my wish, and second my design; The fairest, Deiopeia, shall be thine, And make thee father of a happy line.

These airy kingdoms, and this wide command, Are all the presents of your bounteous hand: Yours is my sov'reign's grace; and, as your guest, I sit with gods at their celestial feast; Raise tempests at your pleasure, or subdue; Dispose of empire, which I hold from you.

The raging winds rush thro' the hollow wound, And dance aloft in air, and skim along the ground; Then, settling on the sea, the surges sweep, Raise liquid mountains, and disclose the deep. South, East, and West with mix'd confusion roar, And roll the foaming billows to the shore. The cables crack; the sailors' fearful cries Ascend; and sable night involves the skies; And heav'n itself is ravish'd from their eyes.

Loud peals of thunder from the poles ensue; Then flashing fires the transient light renew; The face of things a frightful image bears, And present death in various forms appears.

Struck with unusual fright, the Trojan chief, With lifted hands and eyes, invokes relief; And, "Thrice and four times happy those," he cried, "That under Ilian walls before their parents died! Tydides, bravest of the Grecian train! Why could not I by that strong arm be slain, And lie by noble Hector on the plain, Or great Sarpedon, in those bloody fields Where Simois rolls the bodies and the shields Of heroes, whose dismember'd hands yet bear The dart aloft, and clench the pointed spear!

Three ships were hurried by the southern blast, And on the secret shelves with fury cast. Those hidden rocks th' Ausonian sailors knew: They call'd them Altars, when they rose in view, And show'd their spacious backs above the flood.

Three more fierce Eurus, in his angry mood, Dash'd on the shallows of the moving sand, And in mid ocean left them moor'd aland. Our absent prince both camp and council mourn; By message both would hasten his return: If they confer what I demand on thee, For fame is recompense enough for me, Methinks, beneath yon hill, I have espied A way that safely will my passage guide. Not so my father taught my childhood arms; Born in a siege, and bred among alarms! But if some chance—as many chances are, And doubtful hazards, in the deeds of war— If one should reach my head, there let it fall, And spare thy life; I would not perish all.

Or, if hard fortune shall those dues deny, Thou canst at least an empty tomb supply. No more delays, but haste! They vote a message to their absent chief, Shew their distress, and beg a swift relief. Amid the camp a silent seat they chose, Remote from clamour, and secure from foes.

Expect each hour to see him safe again, Loaded with spoils of foes in battle slain. The greatest, sure, and best you can receive, The gods and your own conscious worth will give. Be wholly mine; Take full possession; all my soul is thine. Ignorant of this Whatever danger, neither parting kiss, Nor pious blessing taken, her I leave, And in this only act of all my life deceive.

By this right hand and conscious night I swear, My soul so sad a farewell could not bear. That hope alone will fortify my breast Against the worst of fortunes, and of fears. Thy mother all the dues shall justly claim, Creusa had, and only want the name.

He said, and weeping, while he spoke the word, From his broad belt he drew a shining sword, Magnificent with gold. This was his gift. The noble Trojans wait Their issuing forth, and follow to the gate With prayers and vows. Above the rest appears Ascanius, manly far beyond his years, And messages committed to their care, Which all in winds were lost, and flitting air.

Him and his sleeping slaves he slew; then spies Where Remus, with his rich retinue, lies. Lamus the bold, and Lamyrus the strong, He slew, and then Serranus fair and young. The wound pours out a stream of wine and blood; The purple soul comes floating in the flood. The fires were fainting there, and just alive; The warrior-horses, tied in order, fed. No more, my friend; Here let our glutted execution end. Of arms, and arras, and of plate, they find A precious load; but these they leave behind.

Proud of their conquest, prouder of their prey, They leave the camp, and take the ready way. And whither bent? From whence, to whom, and on what errand sent? The speedy horse all passages belay, And spur their smoking steeds to cross their way, And watch each entrance of the winding wood. Black was the forest: thick with beech it stood, Horrid with fern, and intricate with thorn; Few paths of human feet, or tracks of beasts, were worn. The darkness of the shades, his heavy prey, And fear, misled the younger from his way.

Or what way take? What should he next attempt? He staggers round; his eyeballs roll in death, And with short sobs he gasps away his breath. He neither could nor durst, the guiltless youth: Ye moon and stars, bear witness to the truth!

His only crime if friendship can offend Is too much love to his unhappy friend. O happy friends! Meantime the Trojans run, where danger calls; They line their trenches, and they man their walls. In front extended to the left they stood; Safe was the right, surrounded by the flood. An icy cold benumbs her limbs; she shakes; Her cheeks the blood, her hand the web forsakes. She runs the rampires round amidst the war, Nor fears the flying darts; she rends her hair, And fills with loud laments the liquid air.

Thus looks the prop of my declining years! Not one kind kiss from a departing son! No look, no last adieu before he went, In an ill-boding hour to slaughter sent! Cold on the ground, and pressing foreign clay, To Latian dogs and fowls he lies a prey!

Nor was I near to close his dying eyes, To wash his wounds, to weep his obsequies, To call about his corpse his crying friends, Or spread the mantle made for other ends On his dear body, which I wove with care, Nor did my daily pains or nightly labour spare.

Where shall I find his corpse? For this, alas! If any pity touch Rutulian hearts, Here empty all your quivers, all your darts; Or, if they fail, thou, Jove, conclude my woe, And send me thunderstruck to shades below! And now the trumpets terribly, from far, With rattling clangour, rouse the sleepy war. The Volscians bear their shields upon their head, And, rushing forward, form a moving shed. These fill the ditch; those pull the bulwarks down: Some raise the ladders; others scale the town.

But, where void spaces on the walls appear, Or thin defence, they pour their forces there. With poles and missive weapons, from afar, The Trojans keep aloof the rising war. They shrink for fear, abated of their rage, Nor longer dare in a blind fight engage; Contented now to gall them from below With darts and slings, and with the distant bow.

Elsewhere Mezentius, terrible to view, A blazing pine within the trenches threw. Calliope, begin! Ye sacred Nine, Inspire your poet in his high design, To sing what slaughter manly Turnus made, What souls he sent below the Stygian shade, What fame the soldiers with their captain share, And the vast circuit of the fatal war; For you in singing martial facts excel; You best remember, and alone can tell.

Helenor, elder of the two: by birth, On one side royal, one a son of earth, Whom to the Lydian king Licymnia bare, And sent her boasted bastard to the war A privilege which none but freemen share. Light as he fell, so light the youth arose, And rising, found himself amidst his foes; Nor flight was left, nor hopes to force his way. But Lycus, swifter of his feet by far, Runs, doubles, winds and turns, amidst the war; Springs to the walls, and leaves his foes behind, And snatches at the beam he first can find; Looks up, and leaps aloft at all the stretch, In hopes the helping hand of some kind friend to reach.

So seizes the grim wolf the tender lamb, In vain lamented by the bleating dam. By the same hand, Clonius and Itys fall, Sagar, and Ida, standing on the wall. Who dare not issue forth in open field, But hold your walls before you for a shield. Thus treat you war? You shall not find the sons of Atreus here, Nor need the frauds of sly Ulysses fear.

No sports, but what belong to war, they know: To break the stubborn colt, to bend the bow. Our youth, of labour patient, earn their bread; Hardly they work, with frugal diet fed. From plows and harrows sent to seek renown, They fight in fields, and storm the shaken town.

Our helms defend the young, disguise the gray: We live by plunder, and delight in prey. Your vests have sweeping sleeves; with female pride Your turbans underneath your chins are tied. Go, Phrygians, to your Dindymus again!

Go, less than women, in the shapes of men! The Phrygians, twice subdued, yet make this third return. Troy is too narrow for thy name. The god of archers gives thy youth a part Of his own praise, nor envies equal art. Now tempt the war no more. Undaunted, they themselves no danger shun; From wall to wall the shouts and clamours run. They bend their bows; they whirl their slings around; Heaps of spent arrows fall, and strew the ground; And helms, and shields, and rattling arms resound.

Drawn from their lines, and issuing on the plain, The Trojans hand to hand the fight maintain. He thrust amid the crowd, securely bold, Like a fierce tiger pent amid the fold. Too late his blazing buckler they descry, And sparkling fires that shot from either eye, His mighty members, and his ample breast, His rattling armour, and his crimson crest.

Far from that hated face the Trojans fly, All but the fool who sought his destiny. Of hope bereft, No means of safe return by flight are left. Strong Halys stands in vain; weak Phlegys flies; Saturnia, still at hand, new force and fire supplies. He calls new succours, and assaults the prince: But weak his force, and vain is their defence. He joints the neck; and, with a stroke so strong, The helm flies off, and bears the head along.

Bold Mnestheus rallies first the broken train, Whom brave Seresthus and his troop sustain. Forsaking honour, and renouncing fame, Your gods, your country, and your king you shame! They shout: they bear him back; and, whom by might They cannot conquer, they oppress with weight. The foe, now faint, the Trojans overwhelm; And Mnestheus lays hard load upon his helm.

Jupiter, calling a council of the gods, forbids them to engage in either party. Mezentius is described as an atheist; Lausus as a pious and virtuous youth. The different actions and death of these two are the subject of a noble episode. A lawful time of war at length will come, Nor need your haste anticipate the doom , When Carthage shall contend the world with Rome, Shall force the rigid rocks and Alpine chains, And, like a flood, come pouring on the plains.

Then is your time for faction and debate, For partial favour, and permitted hate. Let now your immature dissension cease; Sit quiet, and compose your souls to peace. How lofty Turnus vaunts amidst his train, In shining arms, triumphant on the plain?

This endless outrage shall they still sustain? One more audacious mortal will be found; And I, thy daughter, wait another wound. Yet, if with fates averse, without thy leave, The Latian lands my progeny receive, Bear they the pains of violated law, And thy protection from their aid withdraw. Now Juno to the Stygian sky descends, Solicits hell for aid, and arms the fiends. That new example wanted yet above: An act that well became the wife of Jove! The father may be cast on coasts unknown, Struggling with fate; but let me save the son.

Did I or Iris give this mad advice, Or made the fool himself the fatal choice? You think it hard, the Latians should destroy With swords your Trojans, and with fires your Troy! Hard and unjust indeed, for men to draw Their native air, nor take a foreign law!

That Turnus is permitted still to live, To whom his birth a god and goddess give! Your son, not knowing what his foes decree, You say, is absent: absent let him be. Why do you then these needless arms prepare, And thus provoke a people prone to war? Was I the cause of mischief, or the man Whose lawless lust the fatal war began? Thus Juno. Rutulians, Trojans, are the same to me; And both shall draw the lots their fates decree.

Let these assault, if Fortune be their friend; And, if she favours those, let those defend: The Fates will find their way.

Some firebrands throw, some flights of arrows send; And some with darts, and some with stones defend. Amid the press appears the beauteous boy, The care of Venus, and the hope of Troy. Tarchon, without delay, the treaty signs, And to the Trojan troops the Tuscan joins. They soon set sail; nor now the fates withstand; Their forces trusted with a foreign hand.

Now, sacred sisters, open all your spring! A thousand spears in warlike order stand, Sent by the Pisans under his command. These grave Auletes leads: a hundred sweep With stretching oars at once the glassy deep.

Him and his martial train the Triton bears; High on his poop the sea-green god appears: Frowning he seems his crooked shell to sound, And at the blast the billows dance around. Now was the world forsaken by the sun, And Phoebe half her nightly race had run. They know him from afar; and in a ring Enclose the ship that bore the Trojan king.

O goddess-born, awake! The rest make up. Unknowing of the cause, The chief admires their speed, and happy omens draws. Firm thy own omens; lead us on to fight; And let thy Phrygians conquer in thy right. He said no more. Yours is the day: you need but only dare; Your swords will make you masters of the war. Your sires, your sons, your houses, and your lands, And dearest wifes, are all within your hands.

Let me securely land—I ask no more; Then sink my ships, or shatter on the shore. Now Turnus leads his troops without delay, Advancing to the margin of the sea. Great Theron fell, an omen of the fight; Great Theron, large of limbs, of giant height. Not far from him was Gyas laid along, Of monstrous bulk; with Cisseus fierce and strong: Vain bulk and strength!

In pride of youth the Sabine Clausus came, And, from afar, at Dryops took his aim. He slew three brothers of the Borean race, And three, whom Ismarus, their native place, Had sent to war, but all the sons of Thrace.

Halesus, next, the bold Aurunci leads: The son of Neptune to his aid succeeds, Conspicuous on his horse. On either hand, These fight to keep, and those to win, the land. Both armies thus perform what courage can; Foot set to foot, and mingled man to man.

See on what foot we stand: a scanty shore, The sea behind, our enemies before; No passage left, unless we swim the main; Or, forcing these, the Trojan trenches gain. Halesus came, fierce with desire of blood; But first collected in his arms he stood: Advancing then, he plied the spear so well, Ladon, Demodocus, and Pheres fell.

His arms and spoils thy holy oak shall bear. Fierce Abas first he slew; Abas, the stay Of Trojan hopes, and hindrance of the day. To the rude shock of war both armies came; Their leaders equal, and their strength the same. Here Pallas urges on, and Lausus there: Of equal youth and beauty both appear, But both by fate forbid to breathe their native air.

And, as a lion—when he spies from far A bull that seems to meditate the war, Bending his neck, and spurning back the sand— Runs roaring downward from his hilly stand: Imagine eager Turnus not more slow, To rush from high on his unequal foe. So many sons of gods, in bloody fight, Around the walls of Troy, have lost the light: My own Sarpedon fell beneath his foe; Nor I, his mighty sire, could ward the blow.

In vain the youth tugs at the broken wood; The soul comes issuing with the vital blood: He falls; his arms upon his body sound; And with his bloody teeth he bites the ground. In an ill hour insulting Turnus tore Those golden spoils, and in a worse he wore. O mortals, blind in fate, who never know To bear high fortune, or endure the low!

O grace and grief of war! A lofty house I have, and wealth untold, In silver ingots, and in bars of gold: All these, and sums besides, which see no day, The ransom of this one poor life shall pay. If I survive, will Troy the less prevail? Then Tarquitus the field in triumph trod; A nymph his mother, his sire a god. On Lycas and Antaeus next he ran, Two chiefs of Turnus, and who led his van. They stare, they start, nor stop their course, before They bear the bounding chariot to the shore.

Now Lucagus and Liger scour the plains, With two white steeds; but Liger holds the reins, And Lucagus the lofty seat maintains: Bold brethren both. Now take your turn; and, as a brother should, Attend your brother to the Stygian flood.

Judge if such warriors want immortal aid. Now let him perish, since you hold it good, And glut the Trojans with his pious blood. Yet from our lineage he derives his name, And, in the fourth degree, from god Pilumnus came; Yet he devoutly pays you rites divine, And offers daily incense at your shrine. Now speedy death attends the guiltless youth, If my presaging soul divines with truth; Which, O! Swift she descends, alighting on the plain, Where the fierce foes a dubious fight maintain.

Thus haunting ghosts appear to waking sight, Or dreadful visions in our dreams by night. The spectre seems the Daunian chief to dare, And flourishes his empty sword in air. Deluded Turnus thought the Trojan fled, And with vain hopes his haughty fancy fed. Receive from me The fated land you sought so long by sea. With wind in poop, the vessel plows the sea, And measures back with speed her former way. Too late young Turnus the delusion found, Far on the sea, still making from the ground.

How, and with what reproach, shall I return? Gape wide, O earth, and draw me down alive! Or, O ye pitying winds, a wretch relieve! And now the sword, and now the sea took place, That to revenge, and this to purge disgrace. Sometimes he thought to swim the stormy main, By stretch of arms the distant shore to gain.

Beneath his feet fell haughty Hebrus dead, Then Latagus, and Palmus as he fled. At Latagus a weighty stone he flung: His face was flatted, and his helmet rung. Evas and Mimas, both of Troy, he slew. Amidst the crowd, infernal Ate shakes Her scourge aloft, and crest of hissing snakes. The Trojan prince beheld him from afar, And dauntless undertook the doubtful war. Those only gods Mezentius will invoke.

His armour, from the Trojan pirate torn, By my triumphant Lausus shall be worn. Thy body on thy parents I bestow, To rest thy soul, at least, if shadows know, Or have a sense of human things below. Behold, his mournful followers bear him slain! To see my son, and such a son, resign His life, a ransom for preserving mine! How much too dear has that redemption cost! And yet I live, and yet sustain the sight Of hated men, and of more hated light: But will not long. Nor fate I fear, but all the gods defy.

From either host, the mingled shouts and cries Of Trojans and Rutulians rend the skies. Aeneas erects a trophy of the spoils of Mezentius, grants a truce for burying the dead, and sends home the body of Pallas with great solemnity. Latinus calls a council, to propose offers of peace to Aeneas; which occasions great animosity betwixt Turnus and Drances.

In the mean time there is a sharp engagement of the horse; wherein Camilla signalizes herself, is killed, and the Latine troops are entirely defeated. Now follow cheerful to the trembling town; Press but an entrance, and presume it won. Fear is no more, for fierce Mezentius lies, As the first fruits of war, a sacrifice. Turnus shall fall extended on the plain, And, in this omen, is already slain. Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way, Where, new in death, lamented Pallas lay.

Soon as the prince appears, they raise a cry; All beat their breasts, and echoes rend the sky. These are my triumphs of the Latian war, Fruits of my plighted faith and boasted care! Of oaken twigs they twist an easy bier, Then on their shoulders the sad burden rear.

The march begins: the trumpets hoarsely sound; The pikes and lances trail along the ground. Peace with the manes of great Pallas dwell! Hail, holy relics! Now suppliants, from Laurentum sent, demand A truce, with olive branches in their hand; Obtest his clemency, and from the plain Beg leave to draw the bodies of their slain.

All cause of hate was ended in their death; Nor could he war with bodies void of breath. You beg a truce, which I would gladly give, Not only for the slain, but those who live.

Turnus then should try His cause in arms, to conquer or to die. My right and his are in dispute: the slain Fell without fault, our quarrel to maintain. In equal arms let us alone contend; And let him vanquish, whom his fates befriend. This is the way so tell him to possess The royal virgin, and restore the peace.

Your answer we shall thankfully relate, And favours granted to the Latian state. Short sighs and sobs succeed; till sorrow breaks A passage, and at once he weeps and speaks:. O curst essay of arms, disastrous doom, Prelude of bloody fields, and fights to come!

I stay for Turnus, whose devoted head Is owing to the living and the dead. Joy is no more; but I would gladly go, To greet my Pallas with such news below. The Trojan king and Tuscan chief command To raise the piles along the winding strand. Tears, trickling down their breasts, bedew the ground, And drums and trumpets mix their mournful sound. But, in the palace of the king, appears A scene more solemn, and a pomp of tears.

Maids, matrons, widows, mix their common moans; Orphans their sires, and sires lament their sons. His former acts secure his present fame, And the queen shades him with her mighty name. Some new alliance must elsewhere be sought, Or peace with Troy on hard conditions bought. Thus, full of anxious thought, he summons all The Latian senate to the council hall.

The princes come, commanded by their head, And crowd the paths that to the palace lead. Majestically sad, he sits in state, And bids his envoys their success relate. Or young Achilles, by his rival slain? What squalid spectres, in the dead of night, Break my short sleep, and skim before my sight!

I war not with its dust; nor am I glad To think of past events, or good or bad. Thus Venulus concluded his report. What hopes you had in Diomedes, lay down: Our hopes must centre on ourselves alone. Yet those how feeble, and, indeed, how vain, You see too well; nor need my words explain. There let them build and settle, if they please; Unless they choose once more to cross the seas, In search of seats remote from Italy, And from unwelcome inmates set us free.

Then twice ten galleys let us build with speed, Or twice as many more, if more they need. Materials are at hand; a well-grown wood Runs equal with the margin of the flood: Let them the number and the form assign; The care and cost of all the stores be mine.

Among yourselves debate This great affair, and save the sinking state. Now, best of kings, since you propose to send Such bounteous presents to your Trojan friend; Add yet a greater at our joint request, One which he values more than all the rest: Give him the fair Lavinia for his bride; With that alliance let the league be tied, And for the bleeding land a lasting peace provide.

O cursed cause of all our ills, must we Wage wars unjust, and fall in fight, for thee! What right hast thou to rule the Latian state, And send us out to meet our certain fate? Let the fair bride to the brave chief remain; If not, the peace, without the pledge, is vain. Pity your own, or pity our estate; Nor twist our fortunes with your sinking fate. Your interest is, the war should never cease; But we have felt enough to wish the peace: A land exhausted to the last remains, Depopulated towns, and driven plains.

Permit not, mighty man, so mean a crew Should share such triumphs, and detain from you The post of honour, your undoubted due. Rather alone your matchless force employ, To merit what alone you must enjoy.

I beaten from the field? Who, but so known a dastard, dares to say? So let it be, But to the Phrygian pirate, and to thee! Dismiss that vanity: Thou, Drances, art below a death from me. Let that vile soul in that vile body rest; The lodging is well worthy of the guest. But, O! This new Achilles, let him take the field, With fated armour, and Vulcanian shield! For you, my royal father, and my fame, I, Turnus, not the least of all my name, Devote my soul.

He calls me hand to hand, And I alone will answer his demand. Drances shall rest secure, and neither share The danger, nor divide the prize of war. Nov 24th, Not a member of Pastebin yet? Sign Up , it unlocks many cool features! The Aeneid by Virgil. Book Cover. Download This eBook Similar Books. Readers also downloaded In Classical Antiquity. The book was published in multiple languages including English language, consists of pages and is available in Paperback format.

The main characters of this poetry, fiction story are Aeneas,. The book has been awarded with National Book Award for Translation , and many others.