HKB
like him, they shall be forc’d to sea By strength united, and forego the prey. Your timely succour to your country bring, Haste to the rescue, and redeem your king.”
He said; and, pressing onward thro’ the crew, Pois’d in his lifted arm, his lance he threw. The winged weapon, whistling in the wind, Came driving on, nor miss’d the mark design’d. At once the cornel rattled in the skies; At once tumultuous shouts and clamours rise. Nine brothers in a goodly band there stood, Born of Arcadian mix’d with Tuscan blood, Gylippus’ sons: the fatal jav’lin flew, Aim’d at the midmost of the friendly crew. A passage thro’ the jointed arms it found, Just where the belt was to the body bound, And struck the gentle youth extended on the ground. Then, fir’d with pious rage, the gen’rous train Run madly forward to revenge the slain. And some with eager haste their jav’lins throw; And some with sword in hand assault the foe.
The wish’d insult the Latine troops embrace, And meet their ardour in the middle space. The Trojans, Tuscans, and Arcadian line, With equal courage obviate their design. Peace leaves the violated fields, and hate Both armies urges to their mutual fate. With impious haste their altars are o’erturn’d, The sacrifice half-broil’d, and half-unburn’d. Thick storms of steel from either army fly, And clouds of clashing darts obscure the sky; Brands from the fire are missive weapons made, With chargers, bowls, and all the priestly trade. Latinus, frighted, hastens from the fray, And bears his unregarded gods away. These on their horses vault; those yoke the car; The rest, with swords on high, run headlong to the war.
Messapus, eager to confound the peace, Spurr’d his hot courser thro’ the fighting press, At King Aulestes, by his purple known A Tuscan prince, and by his regal crown; And, with a shock encount’ring, bore him down. Backward he fell; and, as his fate design’d, The ruins of an altar were behind: There, pitching on his shoulders and his head, Amid the scatt’ring fires he lay supinely spread. The beamy spear, descending from above, His cuirass pierc’d, and thro’ his body drove. Then, with a scornful smile, the victor cries: “The gods have found a fitter sacrifice.” Greedy of spoils, th’ Italians strip the dead Of his rich armour, and uncrown his head.
Priest Corynaeus, arm’d his better hand, From his own altar, with a blazing brand; And, as Ebusus with a thund’ring pace Advanc’d to battle, dash’d it on his face: His bristly beard shines out with sudden fires; The crackling crop a noisome scent expires. Following the blow, he seiz’d his curling crown With his left hand; his other cast him down. The prostrate body with his knees he press’d, And plung’d his holy poniard in his breast.
While Podalirius, with his sword, pursued The shepherd Alsus thro’ the flying crowd, Swiftly he turns, and aims a deadly blow Full on the front of his unwary foe. The broad ax enters with a crashing sound, And cleaves the chin with one continued wound; Warm blood, and mingled brains, besmear his arms around An iron sleep his stupid eyes oppress’d, And seal’d their heavy lids in endless rest.
But good Aeneas rush’d amid the bands; Bare was his head, and naked were his hands, In sign of truce: then thus he cries aloud: “What sudden rage, what new desire of blood, Inflames your alter’d minds? O Trojans, cease From impious arms, nor violate the peace! By human sanctions, and by laws divine, The terms are all agreed; the war is mine. Dismiss your fears, and let the fight ensue; This hand alone shall right the gods and you: Our injur’d altars, and their broken vow, To this avenging sword the faithless Turnus owe.”