The Aeneid Virgil (the top 100 crime novels of all time .TXT) đ
- Author: Virgil
Book online «The Aeneid Virgil (the top 100 crime novels of all time .TXT) đ». Author Virgil
Throâ the short circuit of thâ Arcadian town,
Of Pallas slainâ âby Fame, which just before
His triumphs on distended pinions bore.
Rushing from out the gate, the people stand,
Each with a funâral flambeau in his hand.
Wildly they stare, distracted with amaze:
The fields are lightenâd with a fiery blaze,
That cast a sullen splendour on their friends,
The marching troop which their dead prince attends.
Both parties meet: they raise a doleful cry;
The matrons from the walls with shrieks reply,
And their mixâd mourning rends the vaulted sky.
The town is fillâd with tumult and with tears,
Till the loud clamours reach Evanderâs ears:
Forgetful of his state, he runs along,
With a disorderâd pace, and cleaves the throng;
Falls on the corpse; and groaning there he lies,
With silent grief, that speaks but at his eyes.
Short sighs and sobs succeed; till sorrow breaks
A passage, and at once he weeps and speaks:
âO Pallas! thou hast failâd thy plighted word,
To fight with caution, not to tempt the sword!
I warnâd thee, but in vain; for well I knew
What perils youthful ardour would pursue,
That boiling blood would carry thee too far,
Young as thou wert in dangers, raw to war!
O curst essay of arms, disastrous doom,
Prelude of bloody fields, and fights to come!
Hard elements of unauspicious war,
Vain vows to Heavân, and unavailing care!
Thrice happy thou, dear partner of my bed,
Whose holy soul the stroke of Fortune fled,
Prescious of ills, and leaving me behind,
To drink the dregs of life by fate assignâd!
Beyond the goal of nature I have gone:
My Pallas late set out, but reachâd too soon.
If, for my league against thâ Ausonian state,
Amidst their weapons I had found my fate,
(Deservâd from them,) then I had been returnâd
A breathless victor, and my son had mournâd.
Yet will I not my Trojan friend upbraid,
Nor grudge thâ alliance I so gladly made.
âTwas not his fault, my Pallas fell so young,
But my own crime, for having livâd too long.
Yet, since the gods had destinâd him to die,
At least he led the way to victory:
First for his friends he won the fatal shore,
And sent whole herds of slaughterâd foes before;
A death too great, too glorious to deplore.
Nor will I add new honours to thy grave,
Content with those the Trojan hero gave:
That funeral pomp thy Phrygian friends designâd,
In which the Tuscan chiefs and army joinâd.
Great spoils and trophies, gainâd by thee, they bear:
Then let thy own achievements be thy share.
Even thou, O Turnus, hadst a trophy stood,
Whose mighty trunk had better gracâd the wood,
If Pallas had arrivâd, with equal length
Of years, to match thy bulk with equal strength.
But why, unhappy man, dost thou detain
These troops, to view the tears thou sheddâst in vain?
Go, friends, this message to your lord relate:
Tell him, that, if I bear my bitter fate,
And, after Pallasâ death, live lingâring on,
âTis to behold his vengeance for my son.
I stay for Turnus, whose devoted head
Is owing to the living and the dead.
My son and I expect it from his hand;
âTis all that he can give, or we demand.
Joy is no more; but I would gladly go,
To greet my Pallas with such news below.â
The morn had now dispellâd the shades of night,
Restoring toils, when she restorâd the light.
The Trojan king and Tuscan chief command
To raise the piles along the winding strand.
Their friends convey the dead funâral fires;
Black smouldâring smoke from the green wood expires;
The light of heavân is chokâd, and the new day retires.
Then thrice around the kindled piles they go
(For ancient custom had ordainâd it so);
Thrice horse and foot about the fires are led;
And thrice, with loud laments, they hail the dead.
Tears, trickling down their breasts, bedew the ground,
And drums and trumpets mix their mournful sound.
Amid the blaze, their pious brethren throw
The spoils, in battle taken from the foe:
Helms, bits embossâd, and swords of shining steel;
One casts a target, one a chariot wheel;
Some to their fellows their own arms restore:
The falchions which in luckless fight they bore,
Their bucklers piercâd, their darts bestowâd in vain,
And shiverâd lances gatherâd from the plain.
Whole herds of offerâd bulls, about the fire,
And bristled boars, and woolly sheep expire.
Around the piles a careful troop attends,
To watch the wasting flames, and weep their burning friends;
Lingâring along the shore, till dewy night
New decks the face of heavân with starry light.
The conquerâd Latians, with like pious care,
Piles without number for their dead prepare.
Part in the places where they fell are laid;
And part are to the neighbâring fields conveyâd.
The corps of kings, and captains of renown,
Borne off in state, are buried in the town;
The rest, unhonourâd, and without a name,
Are cast a common heap to feed the flame.
Trojans and Latians vie with like desires
To make the field of battle shine with fires,
And the promiscuous blaze to heavân aspires.
Now had the morning thrice renewâd the light,
And thrice dispellâd the shadows of the night,
When those who round the wasted fires remain,
Perform the last sad office to the slain.
They rake the yet warm ashes from below;
These, and the bones unburnâd, in earth bestow;
These relics with their country rites they grace,
And raise a mount of turf to mark the place.
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.
All in that universal sorrow share,
And curse the cause of this unhappy war:
A broken league, a bride unjustly sought,
A crown usurpâd, which with their blood is bought!
These are the crimes with which they load the name
Of Turnus, and on him alone exclaim:
âLet him who lords it oâer thâ Ausonian land
Engage the Trojan hero hand to hand:
His is the gain; our lot is but to serve;
âTis just, the sway he seeks, he should deserve.â
This Drancës aggravates; and adds, with spite:
âHis foe expects, and dares him to the fight.â
Nor Turnus wants a party, to support
His cause and credit in the Latian court.
His former acts secure his present fame,
And the queen shades him with her mighty name.
While thus their factious minds with fury burn,
The legates from thâ Aetolian prince return:
Sad news they bring, that, after all the cost
And care employâd, their embassy is lost;
That Diomedes refusâd
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