Book XII
When Turnus saw the Latins leave the field,
Their armies broken, and their courage quellâd,
Himself become the mark of public spite,
His honor questionâd for the promisâd fight;
The more he was with vulgar hate oppressâd,
The more his fury boilâd within his breast:
He rousâd his vigor for the last debate,
And raisâd his haughty soul to meet his fate.
As, when the swains the Libyan lion chase,
He makes a sour retreat, nor mends his pace;
But, if the pointed javâlin pierce his side,
The lordly beast returns with double pride:
He wrenches out the steel, he roars for pain;
His sides he lashes, and erects his mane:
So Turnus fares; his eyeballs flash with fire,
Throâ his wide nostrils clouds of smoke expire.
Trembling with rage, around the court he ran,
At length approachâd the king, and thus began:
âNo more excuses or delays: I stand
In arms preparâd to combat, hand to hand,
This base deserter of his native land.
The Trojan, by his word, is bound to take
The same conditions which himself did make.
Renew the truce; the solemn rites prepare,
And to my single virtue trust the war.
The Latians unconcernâd shall see the fight;
This arm unaided shall assert your right:
Then, if my prostrate body press the plain,
To him the crown and beauteous bride remain.â
To whom the king sedately thus replied:
âBrave youth, the more your valor has been tried,
The more becomes it us, with due respect,
To weigh the chance of war, which you neglect.
You want not wealth, or a successive throne,
Or cities which your arms have made your own:
My towns and treasures are at your command,
And storâd with blooming beauties is my land;
Laurentum more than one Lavinia sees,
Unmarried, fair, of noble families.
Now let me speak, and you with patience hear,
Things which perhaps may grate a loverâs ear,
But sound advice, proceeding from a heart
Sincerely yours, and free from fraudful art.
The gods, by signs, have manifestly shown,
No prince Italian born should heir my throne:
Oft have our augurs, in prediction skillâd,
And oft our priests, foreign son revealâd.
Yet, won by worth that cannot be withstood,
Bribâd by my kindness to my kindred blood,
Urgâd by my wife, who would not be denied,
I promisâd my Lavinia for your bride:
Her from her plighted lord by force I took;
All ties of treaties, and of honor, broke:
On your account I wagâd an impious warâ
With what success, âtis needless to declare;
I and my subjects feel, and you have had your share.
Twice vanquishâd while in bloody fields we strive,
Scarce in our walls we keep our hopes alive:
The rolling flood runs warm with human gore;
The bones of Latians blanch the neighbâring shore.
Why put I not an end to this debate,
Still unresolvâd, and still a slave to fate?
If Turnusâ death a lasting peace can give,
Why should I not procure it whilst you live?
Should I to doubtful arms your youth betray,
What would my kinsmen the Rutulians say?
And, should you fall in fight, (which Heavân defend!)
How curse the cause which hastenâd to his end
The daughterâs lover and the fatherâs friend?
Weigh in your mind the various chance of war;
Pity your parentâs age, and ease his care.â
Such balmy words he pourâd, but all in vain:
The profferâd medâcine but provokâd the pain.
The wrathful youth, disdaining the relief,
With intermitting sobs thus vents his grief:
âThe care, O best of fathers, which you take
For my concerns, at my desire forsake.
Permit me not to languish out my days,
But make the best exchange of life for praise.
This arm, this lance, can well dispute the prize;
And the blood follows, where the weapon flies.
His goddess mother is not near, to shroud
The flying coward with an empty cloud.â
But now the queen, who fearâd for Turnusâ life,
And loathâd the hard conditions of the strife,
Held him by force; and, dying in his death,
In these sad accents gave her sorrow breath:
âO Turnus, I adjure thee by these tears,
And whateâer price Amataâs honor bears
Within thy breast, since thou art all my hope,
My sickly mindâs repose, my sinking ageâs prop;
Since on the safety of thy life alone
Depends Latinus, and the Latian throne:
Refuse me not this one, this only prayâr,
To waive the combat, and pursue the war.
Whatever chance attends this fatal strife,
Think it includes, in thine, Amataâs life.
I cannot live a slave, or see my throne
Usurpâd by strangers or a Trojan son.â
At this, a flood of tears Lavinia shed;
A crimson blush her beauteous face oâerspread,
Varying her cheeks by turns with white and red.
The driving colors, never at a stay,
Run here and there, and flush, and fade away.
Delightful change! Thus Indian ivâry shows,
Which with the bordâring paint of purple glows;
Or lilies damaskâd by the neighbâring rose.
The lover gazâd, and, burning with desire,
The more he lookâd, the more he fed the fire:
Revenge, and jealous rage, and secret spite,
Roll in his breast, and rouse him to the fight.
Then fixing on the queen his ardent eyes,
Firm to his first intent, he th...