The Aeneid Virgil (the top 100 crime novels of all time .TXT) đ
- Author: Virgil
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Collected in his strength, and like a rock,
Poisâd on his base, Mezentius stood the shock.
He stood, and, measuring first with careful eyes
The space his spear could reach, aloud he cries:
âMy strong right hand, and sword, assist my stroke!
(Those only gods Mezentius will invoke.)
His armour, from the Trojan pirate torn,
By my triumphant Lausus shall be worn.â
He said; and with his utmost force he threw
The massy spear, which, hissing as it flew,
Reachâd the celestial shield, that stoppâd the course;
But, glancing thence, the yet unbroken force
Took a new bent obliquely, and betwixt
The side and bowels famâd Anthores fixâd.
Anthores had from Argos travelâd far,
Alcidesâ friend, and brother of the war;
Till, tirâd with toils, fair Italy he chose,
And in Evanderâs palace sought repose.
Now, falling by anotherâs wound, his eyes
He cast to heavân, on Argos thinks, and dies.
The pious Trojan then his javâlin sent;
The shield gave way; throâ treble plates it went
Of solid brass, of linen trebly rollâd,
And three bull hides which round the buckler fold.
All these it passâd, resistless in the course,
Transpiercâd his thigh, and spent its dying force.
The gaping wound gushâd out a crimson flood.
The Trojan, glad with sight of hostile blood,
His falchion drew, to closer fight addressâd,
And with new force his fainting foe oppressâd.
His fatherâs peril Lausus viewâd with grief;
He sighâd, he wept, he ran to his relief.
And here, heroic youth, âtis here I must
To thy immortal memory be just,
And sing an act so noble and so new,
Posterity will scarce believe âtis true.
Painâd with his wound, and useless for the fight,
The father sought to save himself by flight:
Encumberâd, slow he draggâd the spear along,
Which piercâd his thigh, and in his buckler hung.
The pious youth, resolvâd on death, below
The lifted sword springs forth to face the foe;
Protects his parent, and prevents the blow.
Shouts of applause ran ringing throâ the field,
To see the son the vanquishâd father shield.
All, firâd with genârous indignation, strive,
And with a storm of darts to distance drive
The Trojan chief, who, held at bay from far,
On his Vulcanian orb sustainâd the war.
As, when thick hail comes rattling in the wind,
The plowman, passenger, and labâring hind
For shelter to the neighbâring covert fly,
Or housâd, or safe in hollow caverns lie;
But, that oâerblown, when heavân above âem smiles,
Return to travel, and renew their toils:
Aeneas thus, oâerwhelmed on evâry side,
The storm of darts, undaunted, did abide;
And thus to Lausus loud with friendly threatâning cried:
âWhy wilt thou rush to certain death, and rage
In rash attempts, beyond thy tender age,
Betrayâd by pious love?â Nor, thus forborne,
The youth desists, but with insulting scorn
Provokes the lingâring prince, whose patience, tirâd,
Gave place; and all his breast with fury firâd.
For now the Fates preparâd their sharpenâd shears;
And lifted high the flaming sword appears,
Which, full descending with a frightful sway,
Throâ shield and corslet forcâd thâ impetuous way,
And buried deep in his fair bosom lay.
The purple streams throâ the thin armour strove,
And drenchâd thâ imbroiderâd coat his mother wove;
And life at length forsook his heaving heart,
Loth from so sweet a mansion to depart.
But when, with blood and paleness all oâerspread,
The pious prince beheld young Lausus dead,
He grievâd; he wept; the sight an image brought
Of his own filial love, a sadly pleasing thought:
Then stretchâd his hand to hold him up, and said:
âPoor hapless youth! what praises can be paid
To love so great, to such transcendent store
Of early worth, and sure presage of more?
Accept whateâer Aeneas can afford;
Untouchâd thy arms, untaken be thy sword;
And all that pleasâd thee living, still remain
Inviolate, and sacred to the slain.
Thy body on thy parents I bestow,
To rest thy soul, at least, if shadows know,
Or have a sense of human things below.
There to thy fellow ghosts with glory tell:
âââTwas by the great Aeneas hand I fell.âââ
With this, his distant friends he beckons near,
Provokes their duty, and prevents their fear:
Himself assists to lift him from the ground,
With clotted locks, and blood that wellâd from out the wound.
Meantime, his father, now no father, stood,
And washâd his wounds by Tiberâs yellow flood:
Oppressâd with anguish, panting, and oâerspent,
His fainting limbs against an oak he leant.
A bough his brazen helmet did sustain;
His heavier arms lay scatterâd on the plain:
A chosen train of youth around him stand;
His drooping head was rested on his hand:
His grisly beard his pensive bosom sought;
And all on Lausus ran his restless thought.
Careful, concernâd his danger to prevent,
He much enquirâd, and many a message sent
To warn him from the fieldâ âalas! in vain!
Behold, his mournful followers bear him slain!
Oâer his broad shield still gushâd the yawning wound,
And drew a bloody trail along the ground.
Far off he heard their cries, far off divinâd
The dire event, with a foreboding mind.
With dust he sprinkled first his hoary head;
Then both his lifted hands to heavân he spread;
Last, the dear corpse embracing, thus he said:
âWhat joys, alas! could this frail being give,
That I have been so covetous to live?
To see my son, and such a son, resign
His life, a ransom for preserving mine!
And am I then preservâd, and art thou lost?
How much too dear has that redemption cost!
âTis now my bitter banishment I feel:
This is a wound too deep for time to heal.
My guilt thy growing virtues did defame;
My blackness blotted thy unblemishâd name.
Chasâd from a throne, abandonâd, and exilâd
For foul misdeeds, were punishments too mild:
I owâd my people these, and, from their hate,
With less resentment could have borne my fate.
And yet I live, and yet sustain the sight
Of hated men, and of more hated light:
But will not long.â With that he raisâd from ground
His fainting limbs, that staggerâd with his wound;
Yet, with a mind resolvâd, and unappallâd
With pains or perils, for his courser callâd
Well-mouthâd, well-managâd, whom himself did dress
With daily care, and mounted with success;
His aid in arms, his ornament in peace.
Soothing his courage with a gentle stroke,
The steed seemâd sensible, while thus he spoke:
âO Rhoebus, we have livâd too long for meâ â
If life and long were terms that could agree!
This day thou either shalt bring back the head
And bloody trophies of the Trojan dead;
This day thou either shalt revenge my woe,
For murderâd Lausus, on his cruel foe;
Or, if inexorable fate deny
Our conquest, with thy conquerâd master die:
For,
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