Behold, his mournful followers bear him slain!
O'er his broad shield still gush'd the yawning wound, And drew a bloody trail along the ground.
Far off he heard their cries, far off divin'd The dire event, with a foreboding mind.
With dust he sprinkled first his hoary head;Then both his lifted hands to heav'n he spread;Last, the dear corpse embracing, thus he said:
"What 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 preserv'd, and art thou lost?
How much too dear has that redemption cost!
'T is 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 unblemish'd name.
Chas'd from a throne, abandon'd, and exil'd For foul misdeeds, were punishments too mild:
I ow'd 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." With that he rais'd from ground His fainting limbs, that stagger'd with his wound;Yet, with a mind resolv'd, and unappall'd With pains or perils, for his courser call'd Well-mouth'd, well-manag'd, 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 seem'd sensible, while thus he spoke:
"O Rhoebus, we have liv'd too long for me-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 murther'd Lausus, on his cruel foe;Or, if inexorable fate deny Our conquest, with thy conquer'd master die:
For, after such a lord, rest secure, Thou wilt no foreign reins, or Trojan load endure."He said; and straight th' officious courser kneels, To take his wonted weight.His hands he fills With pointed jav'lins; on his head he lac'd His glitt'ring helm, which terribly was grac'd With waving horsehair, nodding from afar;Then spurr'd his thund'ring steed amidst the war.
Love, anguish, wrath, and grief, to madness wrought, Despair, and secret shame, and conscious thought Of inborn worth, his lab'ring soul oppress'd, Roll'd in his eyes, and rag'd within his breast.
Then loud he call'd Aeneas thrice by name:
The loud repeated voice to glad Aeneas came.
"Great Jove," he said, "and the far-shooting god, Inspire thy mind to make thy challenge good!"He spoke no more; but hasten'd, void of fear, And threaten'd with his long protended spear.
To whom Mezentius thus: "Thy vaunts are vain.
My Lausus lies extended on the plain:
He's lost! thy conquest is already won;
The wretched sire is murther'd in the son.
Nor fate I fear, but all the gods defy.
Forbear thy threats: my bus'ness is to die;But first receive this parting legacy."
He said; and straight a whirling dart he sent;Another after, and another went.
Round in a spacious ring he rides the field, And vainly plies th' impenetrable shield.
Thrice rode he round; and thrice Aeneas wheel'd, Turn'd as he turn'd: the golden orb withstood The strokes, and bore about an iron wood.
Impatient of delay, and weary grown, Still to defend, and to defend alone, To wrench the darts which in his buckler light, Urg'd and o'er-labor'd in unequal fight;At length resolv'd, he throws with all his force Full at the temples of the warrior horse.
Just where the stroke was aim'd, th' unerring spear Made way, and stood transfix'd thro' either ear.
Seiz'd with unwonted pain, surpris'd with fright, The wounded steed curvets, and, rais'd upright, Lights on his feet before; his hoofs behind Spring up in air aloft, and lash the wind.
Down comes the rider headlong from his height:
His horse came after with unwieldy weight, And, flound'ring forward, pitching on his head, His lord's incumber'd shoulder overlaid.
From either host, the mingled shouts and cries Of Trojans and Rutulians rend the skies.
Aeneas, hast'ning, wav'd his fatal sword High o'er his head, with this reproachful word:
"Now; where are now thy vaunts, the fierce disdain Of proud Mezentius, and the lofty strain?"Struggling, and wildly staring on the skies, With scarce recover'd sight he thus replies:
"Why these insulting words, this waste of breath, To souls undaunted, and secure of death?
'T is no dishonor for the brave to die, Nor came I here with hope victory;Nor ask I life, nor fought with that design:
As I had us'd my fortune, use thou thine.
My dying son contracted no such band;
The gift is hateful from his murd'rer's hand.
For this, this only favor let me sue, If pity can to conquer'd foes be due:
Refuse it not; but let my body have The last retreat of humankind, a grave.
Too well I know th' insulting people's hate;Protect me from their vengeance after fate:
This refuge for my poor remains provide, And lay my much-lov'd Lausus by my side."He said, and to the sword his throat applied.
The crimson stream distain'd his arms around, And the disdainful soul came rushing thro' the wound.
