Chapter 12
"Now, sister, the fates control. Desist! It is too late, I will be shamed no more!" Leaping from his chariot, he rushed forward, demanding that war cease in order that he and Aeneas might decide the battle in single combat.
When Turnus's sword broke on the helmet of Aeneas,--the sword of his charioteer, that he had seized by mistake instead of his own Styx-hardened blade,--he turned and fled, Aeneas pursuing.
Above, in Olympus, Jupiter and Juno quarrelled, as they watched the heroes circling over the yellow sand.
"Give over thy enmity," said the omnipotent father. "Thou hast caused the treaty to be violated; even now thou hast made Juturna return the lost sword to Turnus--in vain. Grieve no more, and goad no longer these suffering men of Troy."
Then Juno yielded, stipulating only that the Trojans lay aside their ancient name, that Latium remain Latium, and the future growth Roman.
Juturna, warned by Jove's messenger, a bird of evil omen, tore her locks and beat her breast, regretting the gift of immortality conferred on her by Jove. Then wrapping her gray veil about her, she fled to her watery throne that she might not see the death of her brother. The frightened Turnus, still fleeing from Aeneas, abandoned his sword and took up instead a mighty rock, a landmark such as scarce six men could uplift.
Hurling this at Aeneas, he stood, his blood running chill, his eyes cast towards the Rutuli, the town, and the spear of Aeneas, that, shrieking through the air, doom laden, wrecked his heavy shield and pierced his thigh.
"Mercy!" he prayed. "Fate hath given thee the advantage. Think, thou duteous son, of my old father, Daunus."
As Aeneas stood, softened, and ready to grant the request, the sword-belt of Pallas caught his eye.
"Shalt thou escape, decked out with Pallas's spoils? No, not I slay thee, but Pallas! His hand immolates thee!" As he spoke he plunged his sword in Turnus's breast.
Chilly death came, and the warrior's spirit fled, groaning to the shades.
SELECTION FROM THE AENEID.
NISUS AND EURYALUS.
While Aeneas, finding the Latins hostile to him, sailed up the Tiber in search of allies, the troops he left behind under Ascanius were attacked by Turnus, and their slight fortifications besieged. They were sorely pressed, and longed to be able to inform Aeneas of their need.
Nisus was guardian of the gate, No bolder heart in war's debate, The son of Hyrtacus, whom Ide Sent, with his quiver at his side, From hunting beasts in mountain brake To follow in Aeneas' wake: With him Euryalus, fair boy; None fairer donned the arms of Troy; His tender cheek as yet unshorn And blossoming with youth new-born. Love made them one in every thought: In battle side by side they fought; And now in duty at the gate The twain in common station wait. "Can it be Heaven," said Nisus then, "That lends such warmth to hearts of men, Or passion surging past control That plays the god to each one's soul? Long time, impatient of repose, My swelling heart within me glows, And yearns its energy to fling On war, or some yet grander thing. See there the foe, with vain hope flushed! Their lights are scant, their stations hushed: Unnerved by slumber and by wine Their bravest chiefs are stretched supine. Now to my doubting thought give heed And listen where its motions lead. Our Trojan comrades, one and all, Cry loud, Aeneas to recall, And where, they say, the men to go And let him of our peril know? Now if the meed I ask they swear To give you--nay, I claim no share, Content with bare renown-- Meseems, beside yon grassy heap The way I well might find and keep, To Pallanteum's town." The youth returns, while thirst of praise Infects him with a strange amaze: "Can Nisus aim at heights so great, Nor take his friend to share his fate? Shall I look on, and let you go Alone to venture 'mid the foe? Not thus my sire Opheltes, versed In war's rude toil, my childhood nursed, When Argive terror filled the air And Troy was battling with despair: Nor such the lot my youth has tried, In hardship ever at your side, Since, great Aeneas' liegeman sworn, I followed Fortune to her bourne: Here, here within this bosom burns A soul that mere existence spurns, And holds the fame you seek to reap, Though bought with life, were bought full cheap."
"Not mine the thought," brave Nisus said, "To wound you with so base a dread: So may great Jove, or whosoe'er Marks with just eyes how mortals fare, Protect me going, and restore In triumph to your arms once more. But if--for many a chance, you wis, Besets an enterprise like this-- If accident or power divine The scheme to adverse end incline, Your life at least I would prolong: Death does your years a deeper wrong. Leave me a friend to tomb my clay, Rescued or ransomed, which you may; Or, e'en that boon should chance refuse, To pay the absent funeral dues. Nor let me cause so dire a smart To that devoted mother's heart, Who, sole of all the matron train, Attends her darling o'er the main, Nor cares like others to sit down An inmate of Acestes' town." He answers brief: "Your pleas are naught: Firm stands the purpose of my thought: Come, stir we: why so slow?" Then calls the guards to take their place, Moves on by Nisus, pace with pace, And to the prince they go. All other creatures wheresoe'er Were stretched in sleep, forgetting care: Troy's chosen chiefs in high debate Were pondering o'er the reeling state, What means to try, or whom to speed To show Aeneas of their need. There stand they, midway in the field, Still hold the spear, still grasp the shield: When Nisus and his comrade brave With eager tones admittance crave; The matter high; though time be lost, The occasion well were worth the cost, Iulus hails the impatient pair, Bids Nisus what they wish declare. Then spoke the youth: "Chiefs I lend your ears, Nor judge our proffer by our years. The Rutules, sunk in wine and sleep, Have ceased their former watch to keep: A stealthy passage have we spied Where on the sea the gate opes wide: The line of fires is scant and broke, And thick and murky rolls the smoke. Give leave to seek, in these dark hours, Aeneas at Evander's towers, Soon will you see us here again Decked with the spoils of slaughtered men. Nor strange the road: ourselves have seen The city, hid by valleys green, Just dimly dawning, and explored In hunting all the river-board." Out spoke Aletes, old and gray: "Ye gods, who still are Ilium's stay, No, no, ye mean not to destroy Down to the ground the race of Troy, When such the spirit of her youth, And such the might of patriot truth." Then, as the tears roll down his face, He clasps them both in strict embrace: "Brave warriors! what rewards so great, For worth like yours to compensate? From Heaven and from your own true heart Expect the largest, fairest part: The rest, and at no distant day, The good Aeneas shall repay, Nor he, the royal youth, forget Through all his life the mighty debt." "Nay, hear me too," Ascanius cried, "Whose life is with my father's tied: O Nisus! by the home-god powers We jointly reverence, yours and ours, The god of ancient Capys' line, And Vesta's venerable shrine, By these dread sanctions I appeal To you, the masters of my weal; Oh, bring me back my sire again! Restore him, and I feel no pain. Two massy goblets will I give; Rich sculptures on the silver live; The plunder of my sire, What time he took Arisba's hold; Two chargers, talents twain of gold, A bowl beside of antique mould By Dido brought from Tyre. Then, too, if ours the lot to reign O'er Italy by conquest ta'en, And each man's spoil assign,-- Saw ye how Turnus rode yestreen, His horse and arms of golden sheen? That horse, that shield and glowing crest I separate, Nisus, from the rest And count already thine. Twelve female slaves, at your desire, Twelve captives with their arms entire, My sire shall give you, and the plain That forms Latinus' own domain. But you, dear youth, of worth divine, Whose blooming years are nearer mine, Here to my heart I take, and choose My comrade for whate'er ensues. No glory will I e'er pursue, Unmotived by the thought of you: Let peace or war my state befall, Thought, word, and deed, you share them all." The youth replied: "No after day This hour's fair promise shall betray, Be fate but kind. Yet let me claim One favor, more than all you name: A mother in the camp is mine, Derived from Priam's ancient line: No home in Sicily or Troy Has kept her from her darling boy. She knows not, she, the paths I tread; I leave her now, no farewell said; By night and this your hand I swear, A parent's tears I could not bear. Vouchsafe your pity, and engage To solace her unchilded age: And I shall meet whate'er betide By such assurance fortified." With sympathy and tender grief All melt in tears, Iulus chief, As filial love in other shown Recalled the semblance of his own: And, "Tell your doubting heart," he cries, "All blessings wait your high emprise: I take your mother for my own, Creusa, save in name alone, Nor lightly deem the affection due To her who bore a child like you. Come what come may, I plight my troth By this my head, my father's oath, The bounty to yourself decreed Should favoring gods your journey speed, The same shall in your line endure, To parent and to kin made sure." He spoke, and weeping still, untied A gilded falchion from his side, Lycaon's work, the man of Crete, With sheath of ivory complete: Brave Mnestheus gives for Nisus' wear A lion's hide with shaggy hair; Aletes, old in danger grown, His helmet takes, and gives his own. Then to the gates, as forth they fare, The band of chiefs with many a prayer The gallant twain attends: Iulus, manlier than his years, Oft whispering, for his father's ears Full many a message sends: But be it message, be it prayer, Alike 'tis lost, dispersed in air.
The trenches past, through night's deep gloom The hostile camp they near: Yet many a foe shall meet his doom Or ere that hour appear. There see they bodies stretched supine, O'ercome with slumber and with wine; The cars, unhorsed, are drawn up high; 'Twixt wheels and harness warriors lie, With arms and goblets on the grass In undistinguishable mass. "Now," Nisus cried, "for hearts and hands: This, this the hour our force demands. Here pass we: yours the rear to mind, Lest hostile arm be raised behind; Myself will go before and slay, While carnage opes a broad highway." So whispers he with bated breath, And straight begins the work of death On Rhamnes, haughty lord; On rugs he lay, in gorgeous heap, From all his bosom breathing sleep, A royal seer by Turnus loved: But all too weak his seer-craft proved To stay the rushing sword. Three servants next the weapon found Stretched 'mid their armor on the ground: Then Remus' charioteer he spies Beneath the coursers as he lies, And lops his downdropt head; The ill-starred master next he leaves, A headless trunk, that gasps and heaves: Forth spouts the blood from every vein, And deluges with crimson rain, Green earth and broidered bed. Then Lamyrus and Lamus died, Serranus, too, in youth's fair pride: That night had seen him long at play: Now by the dream-god tamed he lay: Ah, had his play but matched the night, Nor ended till the dawn of light! So famished lion uncontrolled Makes havoc through the teeming fold, As frantic hunger craves; Mangling and harrying far and near The meek, mild victims, mute with fear, With gory jaws he raves. Nor less Euryalus performs: The thirst of blood his bosom warms; 'Mid nameless multitudes he storms, Herbesus, Fadus, Abaris kills Slumbering and witless of their ills, While Rhoetus wakes and sees the whole, But hides behind a massy bowl. There, as to rise the trembler strove, Deep in his breast the sword he drove, And bathed in death withdrew. The lips disgorge the life's red flood, A mingled stream of wine and blood: He plies his blade anew. Now turns he to Messapus' band, For there the fires he sees Burnt out, while coursers hard at hand Are browsing at their ease, When Nisus marks the excess of zeal, The maddening fever of the steel, And checks him thus with brief appeal: "Forbear we now; 't will soon be day: Our wrath is slaked, and hewn our way." Full many a spoil they leave behind Of solid silver thrice refined, Armor and bowls of costliest mould And rugs in rich confusion rolled. A belt Euryalus puts on With golden knobs, from Rhamnes won, Of old by Caedicus 't was sent, An absent friendship to cement, To Remulus, fair Tibur's lord, Who, dying, to his grandson left The shining prize: the Rutule sword In after days the trophy reft. Athwart his manly chest in vain He binds these trappings of the slain; Then 'neath his chin in triumph laced Messapus' helm, with plumage graced, The camp at length they leave behind, And round the lake securely wind.
Meanwhile a troop is on its way, From Latium's city sped, An offshoot from the host that lay Along the host in close array, Three hundred horsemen, sent to bring A message back to Turnus, king, With Volscens at their head. Now to the camp they draw them nigh, Beneath the rampart's height, When from afar the twain they spy, Still steering from the right; The helmet through the glimmering shade At once the unwary boy betrayed, Seen in the moon's full light. Not lost the sight on jealous eyes: "Ho! stand! who are ye?" Volscens cries, "Whence come, or whither tend?" No movement deign they of reply, But swifter to the forest fly, And make the night their friend. With fatal speed the mounted foes Each avenue as with network close, And every outlet bar. It was a forest bristling grim With shade of ilex, dense and dim: Thick brushwood all the ground o'ergrew: The tangled ways a path ran through, Faint glimmering like a star. The darkling boughs, the cumbering prey Euryalus's flight delay: His courage fails, his footsteps stray: But Nisus onward flees; No thought he takes, till now at last The enemy is all o'erpast, E'en at the grove, since Alban called, Where then Latinus' herds were stalled: Sudden he pauses, looks behind In eager hope his friend to find: In vain: no friend he sees. "Euryalus, my chiefest care, Where left I you, unhappy? where? What clue may guide my erring tread This leafy labyrinth back to thread?" Then, noting each remembered track, He thrids the wood, dim-seen and black. Listening, he hears the horse-hoofs' beat, The clatter of pursuing feet. A little moment--shouts arise, And lo! Euryalus he spies, Whom now the foemen's gathered throng Is hurrying helplessly along. While vain resistance he essays, Trapped by false night and treacherous ways. What should he do? what force employ To rescue the beloved boy? Plunge through the spears that line the wood, And death and glory win with blood? Not unresolved, he poises soon A javelin, looking to the Moon: "Grant, goddess, grant thy present aid, Queen of the stars, Latonian maid, The greenwood's guardian power; If, grateful for success of mine, With gifts my sire has graced thy shrine, If e'er myself have brought thee spoil, The tribute of my hunter's toil, To ornament thy roof divine, Or glitter on thy tower, These masses give me to confound, And guide through air my random wound." He spoke, and hurled with all his might; The swift spear hurtles through the night: Stout Sulmo's back the stroke receives: The wood, though snapped, the midriff cleaves. He falls, disgorging life's warm tide, And long-drawn sobs distend his side. All gaze around: another spear The avenger levels from his ear, And launches on the sky. Tagus lies pierced through temples twain, The dart deep buried in his brain. Fierce Volscens storms, yet finds no foe, Nor sees the hand that dealt the blow, Nor knows on whom to fly. "Your heart's warm blood for both shall pay," He cries, and on his beauteous prey With naked sword he sprang. Scared, maddened, Nisus shrieks aloud: No more he hides in night's dark shroud, Nor bears the o'erwhelming pang: "Me, guilty me, make me your aim, O Rutules! mine is all the blame; He did no wrong, nor e'er could do; That sky, those stars attest 't is true; Love for his friend too freely shown, This was his crime, and this alone." In vain he spoke: the sword, fierce driven, That alabaster breast had riven. Down falls Euryalus, and lies In death's enthralling agonies: Blood trickles o'er his limbs of snow; "His head sinks gradually low": Thus, severed by the ruthless plough, Dim fades a purple flower: Their weary necks so poppies bow, O'erladen by the shower. But Nisus on the midmost flies, With Volscens, Volscens in his eyes: In clouds the warriors round him rise, Thick hailing blow on blow: Yet on he bears, no stint, no stay, Like thunderbolt his falchion's sway: Till as for aid the Rutule shrieks Plunged in his throat the weapon reeks: The dying hand has reft away The life-blood of its foe. Then, pierced to death, asleep he fell On the dead breast he loved so well.
Blest pair! if aught my verse avail, No day shall make your memory fail From off the heart of time, While Capitol abides in place, The mansion of the Aeneian race, And throned upon that moveless base Rome's father sits sublime. _Conington's Translation, Book IX_.
BEOWULF.
Beowulf, the only Anglo-Saxon epic preserved entire, was composed in southwest Sweden probably before the eighth century, and taken to England, where it was worked over and Christianized by the Northumbrian poets.
It is variously attributed to the fifth, seventh, and eighth centuries; but the seventh is most probably correct, since the Higelac of the poem has been identified with Chocilaicus of the "Gesta Regum Francorum," a Danish king who invaded Gaul in the days of Theuderic, son of Clovis, and died near the close of the sixth century.
The only manuscript of the poem in existence is thought to be of the tenth century. It is preserved in the British Museum. Since 1837 much interest has been manifested in the poem, and many editions of it have been given to the public.
Beowulf contains three thousand one hundred and eighty-four lines. It is written in alliterative verse. The lines are written in pairs, and each perfect line contains three alliterating words,--two in the first part, and one in the second.
The unknown writer of Beowulf cannot be praised for his skill in composition; the verse is rude, as was the language in which it was written. But it is of the greatest interest to us because of the pictures it gives of the everyday lives of the people whose heroic deeds it relates,--the drinking in the mead-halls, the relation of the king to his warriors, the description of the armor, the ships, and the halls. The heroes are true Anglo-Saxon types,--bold, fearless, ready to go to the assistance of any one in trouble, no matter how great the risk to themselves; and as ready to drink mead and boast of their valor after the peril is over. In spite of the attempt to Christianize the poem, it is purely pagan; the most careless reader can discover the priestly interpolations. And it has the greater value to us because it refused to be moulded by priestly hands, but remained the rude but heroic monument of our Saxon ancestors.
BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, BEOWULF.
B. Ten Brink's Early English Literature, Tr. by Kennedy;
S. A. Brooke's History of Early English Literature, 1892, p. 12;
W. F. Collier's History of English Literature, p. 19;
G. W. Cox and E. H. Jones's Popular Romances of the Middle Ages, 1871, pp. 382-398; in 1880 ed. pp. 189-201;
Isaac Disraeli's Amenities of Literature, i. 65-73;
J. Earle's Anglo-Saxon Literature;
T. W. Hunt's Ethical Teaching in Beowulf (in his Ethical Teachings in Old English Literature, 1892, pp. 66-77);
H. Morley's English Writers, 1887, pp. 276-354;
H. A. Taine's History of English Literature, 1886, i. 62;
S. Turner's Anglo-Saxons, iii. 326; in ed. 3, i. 456;
J. Harrison's Old Teutonic Life in Beowulf (in the Overland Monthly, July, 1894);
F. A. March's The World of Beowulf (in Proceedings of American Philological Association, 1882).
STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, BEOWULF.
Beowulf, edition with English translation, notes and glossary by Thomas Arnold, 1876;
The Deeds of Beowulf, 1892;
Beowulf, Tr. by J. M. Garnett, 1882 (translated line for line);
Beowulf, Tr. by J. L. Hall, 1892, metrical translation;
Beowulf, Tr. by J. M. Kemble, with copious glossary, preface, and philological notes, 2 vols., 1833-37;
Beowulf translated into modern rhymes, by H. W. Lumsden, 1881;
Beowulf, Tr. by Benjamin Thorpe, Literal translation, notes and glossary, 1875.
THE STORY OF BEOWULF.
A mighty man was Scyld, ruler of the Gar-Danes. From far across the whale-path men paid him tribute and bore witness to his power. Beowulf was his son, a youth endowed with glory, whose fame spread far and wide through all the Danish land.
When the time came for Scyld to die he ordered his thanes to prepare the ring-stemmed ship, laden with treasures, battle-weed, and swords, and place him in the death-chamber. Laden with his people's gifts, and sailing under a golden banner, he passed from sight, none knew whither.
After him ruled Beowulf, and after him Healfdene,--brave warriors and kind monarchs. When, after Healfdene's death, his son Hrothgar succeeded him, his fame in war inclined all his kinsmen towards him, and he, too, became a mighty monarch.
To the mind of Hrothgar it came to build a lordly mead-hall where he and his men could find pleasure in feasting, drinking mead, and hearing the songs of the minstrels. Heorot it was called, and when its high spires rose glistening in the air, all hailed it with delight.
But, alas! The joy in hall, the melody of the harp, and the shouts of the warriors penetrated to the dismal fen where lay concealed the monster Grendel, descendant of sin-cursed Cain. At night came Grendel to the hall, found sleeping the troop of warriors, and bore away in his foul hands thirty of the honored thanes. Great was the sorrow in Heorot when in the morning twilight the deed of Grendel became known.
For twelve long winters did this sorrow continue; for so long a time was Hrothgar plunged in grief; for so many years did this beautiful mead-hall, destined for joyful things, stand idle.
While thus the grief-stricken lord of the Scyldings brooded over his wrongs, and the people besought their idols vainly for aid, the tidings of Grendel's ravages were conveyed to the court of the Gothic king, Higelac, and thus reached the ears of a highborn thane, Beowulf. A strong man was he, his grasp equal to that of thirty men.
Straightway commanded he a goodly ship to be made ready, chose fifteen of his bravest Goths, and swiftly they sailed over the swan-path to the great headlands and bright sea-cliffs of the Scyldings.
High on the promontory stood the guard of Hrothgar. "What men be ye who hither come?" cried he. "Not foes, surely. Ye know no pass word, yet surely ye come on no evil errand. Ne'er saw I a greater lord than he who leads the band. Who are ye?"