The Aeneid by Virgil (best novel books to read TXT) 📕

your female foes by night,
Nor shun the feast, when the full bowls invite;
When to fat off’rings the glad augur calls,
And the shrill hornpipe sounds to bacchanals.
These are your studied cares, your lewd delight:
Swift to debauch, but slow to manly fight.”
Thus having said, he spurs amid the foes,
Not managing the life he meant to lose.
The first he found he seiz’d with headlong haste,
In his strong gripe, and clasp’d around the waist;
’Twas Venulus, whom from his horse he tore,
And, laid athwart his own, in triumph bore.
Loud shouts ensue; the Latins turn their eyes,
And view th’ unusual sight with vast surprise.
The fiery Tarchon, flying o’er the plains,
Press’d in his arms the pond’rous prey sustains;
Then, with his shorten’d spear, explores around
His jointed arms, to fix a deadly wound.
Nor less the captive struggles for his life:
He writhes his body to prolong the strife,
And, fencing for his naked throat, exerts
His utmost vigour, and the point averts.
So stoops the yellow eagle from on high,
And bears a speckled serpent thro’ the sky,
Fast’ning his crooked talons on the prey:
The pris’ner hisses thro’ the liquid way;
Resists the royal hawk; and, tho’ oppress’d,
She fights in volumes, and erects her crest:
Turn’d to her foe, she stiffens ev’ry scale,
And shoots her forky tongue, and whisks her threat’ning tail.
Against the victor, all defence is weak:
Th’ imperial bird still plies her with his beak;
He tears her bowels, and her breast he gores;
Then claps his pinions, and securely soars.
Thus, thro’ the midst of circling enemies,
Strong Tarchon snatch’d and bore away his prize.
The Tyrrhene troops, that shrunk before, now press
The Latins, and presume the like success.

Then Aruns, doom’d to death, his arts assay’d,
To murder, unespied, the Volscian maid:
This way and that his winding course he bends,
And, whereso’er she turns, her steps attends.
When she retires victorious from the chase,
He wheels about with care, and shifts his place;
When, rushing on, she seeks her foes in fight,
He keeps aloof, but keeps her still in sight:
He threats, and trembles, trying ev’ry way,
Unseen to kill, and safely to betray.
Chloreus, the priest of Cybele, from far,
Glitt’ring in Phrygian arms amidst the war,
Was by the virgin view’d. The steed he press’d
Was proud with trappings, and his brawny chest
With scales of gilded brass was cover’d o’er;
A robe of Tyrian dye the rider wore.
With deadly wounds he gall’d the distant foe;
Gnossian his shafts, and Lycian was his bow:
A golden helm his front and head surrounds
A gilded quiver from his shoulder sounds.
Gold, weav’d with linen, on his thighs he wore,
With flowers of needlework distinguish’d o’er,
With golden buckles bound, and gather’d up before.
Him the fierce maid beheld with ardent eyes,
Fond and ambitious of so rich a prize,
Or that the temple might his trophies hold,
Or else to shine herself in Trojan gold.
Blind in her haste, she chases him alone.
And seeks his life, regardless of her own.

This lucky moment the sly traitor chose:
Then, starting from his ambush, up he rose,
And threw, but first to Heav’n address’d his vows:
“O patron of Socrates’ high abodes,
Phoebus, the ruling pow’r among the gods,
Whom first we serve, whole woods of unctuous pine
Are fell’d for thee, and to thy glory shine;
By thee protected with our naked soles,
Thro’ flames unsing’d we march, and tread the kindled coals
Give me, propitious pow’r, to wash away
The stains of this dishonourable day:
Nor spoils, nor triumph, from the fact I claim,
But with my future actions trust my fame.
Let me, by stealth, this female plague o’ercome,
And from the field return inglorious home.”
Apollo heard, and, granting half his pray’r,
Shuffled in winds the rest, and toss’d in empty air.
He gives the death desir’d; his safe return
By southern tempests to the seas is borne.

Now, when the jav’lin whizz’d along the skies,
Both armies on Camilla turn’d their eyes,
Directed by the sound. Of either host,
Th’ unhappy virgin, tho’ concern’d the most,
Was only deaf; so greedy was she bent
On golden spoils, and on her prey intent;
Till in her pap the winged weapon stood
Infix’d, and deeply drunk the purple blood.
Her sad attendants hasten to sustain
Their dying lady, drooping on the plain.
Far from their sight the trembling Aruns flies,
With beating heart, and fear confus’d with joys;
Nor dares he farther to pursue his blow,
Or ev’n to bear the sight of his expiring foe.
As, when the wolf has torn a bullock’s hide
At unawares, or ranch’d a shepherd’s side,
Conscious of his audacious deed, he flies,
And claps his quiv’ring tail between his thighs:
So, speeding once, the wretch no more attends,
But, spurring forward, herds among his friends.

She wrench’d the jav’lin with her dying hands,
But wedg’d within her breast the weapon stands;
The wood she draws, the steely point remains;
She staggers in her seat with agonizing pains:
(A gath’ring mist o’erclouds her cheerful eyes,
And from her cheeks the rosy colour flies:)
Then turns to her, whom of her female train
She trusted most, and thus she speaks with pain:
“Acca, ’tis past! he swims before my sight,
Inexorable Death; and claims his right.
Bear my last words to Turnus; fly with speed,
And bid him timely to my charge succeed,
Repel the Trojans, and the town relieve:
Farewell! and in this kiss my parting breath receive.”
She said, and, sliding, sunk upon the plain:
Dying, her open’d hand forsakes the rein;
Short, and more short, she pants; by slow degrees
Her mind the passage from her body frees.
She drops her sword; she nods her plumy crest,
Her drooping head declining on her breast:
In the last sigh her struggling soul expires,
And, murm’ring with disdain, to Stygian sounds retires.

A shout, that struck the golden stars, ensued;
Despair and rage the languish’d fight renew’d.
The Trojan troops and Tuscans, in a line,
Advance to charge; the mix’d Arcadians join.

But Cynthia’s maid, high seated, from afar
Surveys the field, and fortune of the war,
Unmov’d a while, till, prostrate on the plain,
Welt’ring in blood, she sees Camilla slain,
And, round her corpse, of friends and foes a fighting train.
Then, from the bottom of her breast, she drew
A mournful sigh, and these sad words ensue:
“Too dear a fine, ah, much lamented maid,
For warring with the Trojans, thou hast paid!
Nor aught avail’d, in this unhappy strife,
Diana’s sacred arms, to save thy life.
Yet unreveng’d thy goddess will not leave
Her vot’ry’s death, nor; with vain sorrow grieve.
Branded the wretch, and be his name abhorr’d;
But after ages