Here ends his life; his stately palace stood
Beneath fair Ida's consecrated wood :.
There liv'd the mighty man; his cold remains
At length lie bury'd in the Latian plains.
Now in all parts the martial squadrons wage
A gen'ral war, with undistinguish'd rage.
The Latian, Trojan, and Rutulian force,
The Tuscan cohorts, and Arcadian horse,
Beneath their chiefs, embattled, spread the plain;
Here Mnestheus, there Serestus, fires the train ;
Here great Asylas swept the field; and there
Storm'd brave Messapus, the renown'd in war.
Each fights, as in his arm the mighty day,
With all the fate of his great gen'ral, lay;
No stop, no check the fiery warriors knew ;
With their long toils their kindling ardour grew,
And with fresh vigour to the combat flew.

But Venus now inspires her godlike son
To leave the field, and storm th' imperial town.
As following Turnus through the ranks he flies,
From side to side he darts his eager eyes;
When, lo! before him, in a full survey,
Exempt from war, the fenceless city lay.
He views the promis'd prize with stern delight;
His soul takes fire, and kindles at the sight.
Sudden the hero calls his chiefs around,
With all his bands, and mounts a rising ground.
Then, as they rais'd their ample shields, and shook
Their pointed lances, their bold leader spoke.

Attend, and instant these commands obey;
Inspir'd by favouring Jove, who points the way:
All speed this noble enterprise demands,
Claims all your care, and urges all your hands.
This day, this hour, unless the Latians yield,
And own your chief the victor of the field,
Ev'n from the lowest stone my rage shall tear
Yon town, the source of this destructive war.
Yon perjur'd court my vengeance shall confound,
And those proud tow'rs lie smoking on the ground.
Twice have we vanquish'd the Rutulian train;
Still must I wait till Turnus will be slain;
No!-at yon walls the sure destruction aim;
Revenge the broken league with sword and flame;
Your arms against the guilty city bend:
There the dire war began, and there shall end."
Rous'd at the word, all wedg'd in firm array,
Straight to the town the squadrons urge their
way.

They toss the brands, the scaling engines rear,
And round the ramparts rose the sudden war.
Some to the portals fly with speed, and slay
The guards or citizens, who cross their way.
Some hurl the vengeful darts; the jav'lins fly
In dusky clonds, and intercept the sky.
Æneas rais'd his hand amid the crowd,
Calls, and upbraids the Latian prince aloud,
Obtesting Heaven, that, wounded, and compell'd
By his perfidious foes, he took the field;
That twice the rites of peace their arms profane,
And from their impious rage a second war began.
But mad confusions in the city rise:
'Tis tumult all; for all at once advise.
These arm, and fly to guard the walls; and those,
More loud, demand admission for the foes.
Some, to renew the peace, with clamours bring
Ev'n to the gates the helpless hoary king.

So when the swain invades, with stifling smoke,
The bees close-cluster'd in a cavern'd rock,
They rise; and, trembling for th' endanger'd state,
Inflam'd with wrath, with fell revenge and hate,

This way, and that, in loud tumultuous swarms,,
Fly o'er their waxen town with hoarse alarms.
The steams offensive roll the cells around;
Their sullen murmurs through the rock resound
While thick'ning, thro' the cleft the smokes arise,
And in a length of vapours mount the skies.

But to complete and aggravate their fears, A new mischance involv'd the town in tears. For, when the wretched queen beheld on high O'er the proud domes the fiery tempest fly; The ramparts storm'd; th' exulting Trojans near; Nor Turnus' troops before the town appear; Many a long look she cast, but cast in vain; And in her fears concludes the hero slain; She raves against the gods in wild despair; She calls herself the auth'ress of the war: A thousand plaints she vented o'er and o'er, And in her rage her purple garments tore. Then, on a lofty beam, the matron ty'd The noose dishonest, and obscenely dy'd. Soon through the court the dreadful rumour ranj With frantic sorrow rave the female train. Struck with superior grief, Lavinia tears Her blooming rosy cheeks, and golden hairs. To their loud shrieks the palace walls reply; Thence through the town the fatal tidings fly." All feel the stroke; and all the loss lament; His royal robes the rev'rend monarch rent. In wild despair, with furious hands he spread A cloud of dust o'er all his hoary head; And weeps and mourns aloud (a moving scene!) His ruin'd empire, and self-murder'd queen. Oft, but in vain, he blam'd himself alone, That rashly he refus'd the Trojan for his son.

But now more slow his progress Turnus held, And chas'd a few poor stragglers o'er the field. With heartless chear, dejected, he proceeds; And with their master flag the fiery steeds.

He hears the tumult in the walls behind, [wind.
Shrieks, cries, and shouts, that thicken in the
Alas!" he cries, "what clamours strike my ear!
What sounds distressful from the town I hear!"
Then to the hero, as the steeds he stay'd,
Thus in the driver's form the sister said;
"This way, my lord, your former course pursue,
And urge your conquest o'er the hostile crew.
Your friends defend the town; th' Italians there
Wage with the Dardan chief an equal war.
Against his Trojans let us bend our way,
As num'rous, valiant, and renown'd, as they."
"Sister," the chief replies, " whom well I knew
(Though in a mortal form conceal'd from view)
When you dissolv'd the league, by art with-held
The single fight, and mingled in the field,

O say! what pow'r dispatch'd thee from the skies,
With this sad scene to shock thy mournful eyes?
To share the labours of the dire debate,
A weeping witness of thy brother's fate?
That brother soon must perish on the plains!
For ah! what chance, what beam of hope remains?
I saw my dear Murranus yield his breath,
Who call'd on Turnus in the pangs of death;
Ev'n yet I see the warrior bite the ground,
And the soul rushing through the mighty wound!
I saw, where, stretch'd in dust, brave Ufens lay,
Nor liv'd this scene of ruin to survey,
But shut out bondage from his closing eyes;
His corse and arms remain the victor's prize.
And shall I see the city wrapt in flame?
What else was wanting to complete my shame?

How will the Latians hoot their hero's flight!
Gods!-how will Drances point them to the sight?
But oh!-shall Latium see her hero fly?—
Is it so terrible but once to die?-
Hear me, oh hear me, all ye gods below!
Since ev'ry power celestial is my foe;
Lo! I descend to your infernal coast,
From realms of light, a great and glorious ghost,
White, and unsully'd with that dire disgrace,
Nor stain the splendours of my regal race!"

While yet he spoke, athwart the war with speed
Flew bleeding Sages on his foaming steed.
Full in his face a feather'd arrow stood;
And to the Daunian chief he calls aloud.
"Turnus, on you, our last, last hope depends;
Oh! haste in pity, and relieve your friends:
For, raging, to the town Æneas pours,
To level with the dust the Latian tow'rs.
See! o'er the roofs the fires tempestuous rise!
Bark!-how they roar, and thunder in the skies!
All eyes are fixt on you, and you alone:
The king himself stands doubtful which to own,
You, or your Trojan rival, for his son.
Yet worse his queen, till now your chief support,
Self-murder'd, fills with terrour all the court.
Messapus only with Atinas stands,

To guard the gates and animate the bands; Whom in wedg'd ranks the hostile troops enclose, And round them thick an iron harvest grows; While you, for whom they fight, neglect the train, And idly wheel your chariot round the plain!"

A thousand various thoughts confound the
chief,

He stood; he gaz'd; his bosom swell'd with grief:
Pride, conscious valour, fury, love, and shame,
At once set all the hero in a flame.
Soon as his soul recover'd from the stroke;
Soon as, dispers'd, the cloud of passion broke;
Back from his car, the ruin to behold,
His eager eyes the mournful warrior roll'd,
Where the fierce fires in burning torrents rise
O'er the tall roofs; and, curling to the skies,
Had wrapt a tow'r in flames, sublime and strong,
Rais'd by himself, that roll'd on wheels along;
Whence the bold soldier broke the war below,
And rain'd an iron tempest on the foe.

"Now, sister, fate prevails; no more delay; I'll go where rigorous fortune points the way, Prepar'd the bitterness of death to bear, I'll meet this Trojan hand to hand in war. No more those eyes shall view thy brother's shame,

Pursu'd, and flying o'er the field of fame;
Give, give me, goddess, in this martial fire,
This high-wrought blaze of fury, to expire."

He said; and sudden, with an eager bound,
Leap'd from the trembling chariot to the ground;
Leaves his lamenting sister, in despair;
Springs thro' a storm of darts, the prince to dare ;
And bursts impetuous through the ranks of war.
As when by age, or rains, or tempests, torn,
A rock from some high precipice is borne ;
Trees, herds, and swains, involving in the sweep,
The mass flies furious from th' aërial steep;
Leaps down the mountain's side, with many a
bound,

In fiery whirls, and smokes along the ground;
So to the city, through the cleaving train,
Thro' streams of blood, that drench'd the purpled
plain

While round bis head the whistling jav'lins play,
As swift, the raging hero breaks his way.
Then from afar, he beckons with his hand,
And loudly thus bespoke his social band:
"To me, ye Latians, the whole war resign,
All, all the fortune of the field is mine.
'Tis just, ye warriors, that your chief alone
Assert the compact, or its breach atone.
I claim, I claim the right, in single fray,
To meet my rival, and decide the day."
Back at the word the squadrons are compell'd,
And for the champions form an open field.

Now the great Trojan chief, at Turnus' name,
Fierce from the town in all his terrours came;
Leaves ev'ry second work of war behind;
Joy, pride, and courage, raise his daring mind.
All flush'd with hopes, and glorying in his might,
The godlike prince moves forward to the fight:
He burns impatient for the dire alarms;
And thunders in the bright Vulcanian arms.
With vast gigantic striries, he tow'rs on high,
And looks a second Athos in the sky;
Or Eryx, that in Heav'n his forehead shrouds;
Or father Apennine involv'd in clouds,
When with a depth of snows his brows are crown'd,
And all his nodding groves, majestic, wave around.

Meantime the warriors, who defend the town, Or with huge engines break the bulwarks down, And all the nations, studious of the sight, Their arms unbuckled, to survey the fight, [plains, Ev'n Death stands still; and, o'er the crowded Through the long ranks, a solemn silence reigns. Nor less amaz'd, the Latian lord beheld Two chiefs engag'd in combat on the field, By love, fate, honour, and ambition, led To try their title to his daughter's bed.

Soon as each army from the field withdrew, Fierce, to the fight, the mighty heroes flew. They lanch their spears; their clashing shields resound:

Beneath their fury groans the trembling ground, Then their bright swords the raging champions And with repeated blows the charge renew. [drew, Courage, and chance, and strength, in both unite; And the bold chiefs maintain an equal fight.

As, where proud Sila's tow'ring summits rise, Or huge Taburnus heaves into the skies, With frowning fronts two mighty bulls engage; A dreadful war the bellowing rivals wage; Far from the scene the trembling keepers fly; Struck dumb with teṛrour, stand the heifers by ; Nor know which lord the subject herds shall lead, And reign at large the inonarch of the mead. Pierce strokes they aim, repeated o'er and o'er; Their dewlaps, necks, and sides, are bath'd in gore; The mountains, streams, and woods rebellow to the So to the fight the furious beroes fly, So clash their shields, and echo to the sky. Now Jove suspends his scales; two diff'rent

weights

[roar,

He cast in both, and try'd the warriors' fates. This, light with conquest, to the gods ascends; That, charg'd with death, sinks downwards to the fiends.

With his drawn falchion Turraus strikes the foe On his full stretch, and rises to the blow. Loud shouts and groans succeed; each army bent Their eager eyes, and wait the great event; When lo! all shatter'd flies the traitor sword, And in the stroke deserts the Daunian lord

A stranger hilt he spies, and shakes in vain :
All, all his hopes in flight alone remain;
And, swifter than the wind, he darts along the
plain.

For when the chief first vaulted on the car

With headlong haste, and rush'd into the war,
He left his father's temper'd sword, 'tis said,
And seiz'd his charioteer Metiscus' blade;
And, ev'n with this, the growing slaughter spread,
While from his rage the trembling Trojans fled.
But when the mortal steel a stroke bestow'd
On heav'nly arms, the labour of a god!
The falchion, faithless to the warrior's hand,
Broke short-the fragments glitter'd on the sand.
O'er the wide field distracted Turnus springs,
And flies with wild affright in mazy rings:
For here he views th' embattled Trojan pow'rs;
Here a vast lake; and there the Latian tow'rs.
But still his foe, though tardy from his wound,
Treads all his steps, unrav'ling ev'ry round.
As the fleet stag, by the stanch hound pursu'd,
Now bounds above the banks, now shoots along the
flood;

Now from the meshy toils with terrour springs,
Scar'd by the plumes, that dance upon the strings:
He starts, he pants, he stares with wild amaze,
And flies his op'ning foe a thousand ways.
Close at his heels, the deep-mouth'd furious hound
Turns, as he turns, and traces all the ground.
On his full stretch he makes his eager way,
And holds, or thinks he holds, the trembling prey.
Forth darts the stag-his foe, cast far behind,
Catches but empty air, and bites the wind.
The hunters shout; the streams, the rocks, reply;
And the tumultuous peals run rattling round the
Thus, flying in distress, the Daunian lord [sky.
Calls on his friends; demands his trusty sword.
But the great Trojan, with a lofty cry,
Forbids the bands the weapon to supply;
Denouncing death, and threat'ning all around,
Th' imperial town to level with the ground.
O'er ten large circuits, with a rapid pace,
This hero leads, and that pursues, the chase.
No light reward must crown their eager strife;
The long-contending prize is Turnus' noble life!
To Faunus sacred had an olive stood:
The shipwreck'd sailors, on the hallow'd wood,
Hung their devoted vests in honour of the god.
But late, to leave the field for combat free,
The Trojans fell'd the venerable tree.
Full in the root, Eneas drove his spear:
The dart, deep riveted, stood trembling there:
The hero, struggling with incessant pain,
Now bends to disengage the lance again;
And with his dart, at least, o'ertake the foe,
Who, frighted, to the god preferr'd his vow.
66 Thy suppliant's pray'r, in pity, Faunus, hear,
And thou, kind mother Earth, detain the spear;
If still I honour'd with a pious hand
Your plant, by guilty Troy with steel profan'd."
Thus he; the god attends his humble strain;
The Trojan labours at the root in vain :
There as he tugs the lance with all his might,
Fierce, and impatient to renew the fight,
Once more Ju urna to the chief restor'd
(In brave Metiscus' form) his temper'd sword.
This heav'nly Venus view'd with high disdain,
And from the root releas'd the dart again.
Renew'd in might, the tow'ring chiefs advance ;
One shook the sword, and one the flaming lance,

Their heaving bosoms swell with stern delight,
Pant for the combat, and demand the fight.
Then to his consort, who the war survey'd
Thron'd on a golden cloud, the thund'rer said:
"What schemes, my queen, are left, with vain
debate,

Ev'n yet to check the ripe events of fate?
You know, and own, Æneas soon must rise
From Earth, already sacred to the skies.
Long since, those glories to the chief are ow'd,
And Heav'n now opens to receive the god.
To what fond purpose then this fruitless care?
To linger in the clouds, and urge the war?
Say, was it just, to wake the dire alarms?
To violate a god with mortal arms,
When the bold sister to the chief restor❜d,
By thy assistance, his paternal sword?
(For what without thy succour could she dare?)
And sent the vanquish'd Turnus to the war?
At length, at length, the needless strife give 'er,
At my request, indulge your rage no more;
Nor let revenge, dire enemy to rest,
For ever prey on that immortal breast.
Oh! let thy lord thy secret sorrow share,
Or, more than share it, give me all thy care!
To their last sacred point the fates are come;
Here, here they fix'd th' unalterable doom,
The Latian court in ruins could you lay,
And drive the Trojans o'er the land and sea;
Profane with blood the holy bridal rite,
Rekindle war, and urge them to the fight;
This we indulg'd: now give thy efforts o'er
At our command; and thwart the fates no more."
So spoke th' imperial sov'reign of the skies;
And, in submissive terms, the queea replies:
"Great sire! because thy sacred will I know,
I left my Turnus to his doom below.
Nor had I sat, but at the will of Jove,
Disgrac'd and pensive, in the clouds above;
But in the front of fight my foes engag'd,
And, wrapt in flames, thro' all the battle rag'd;
I bade Juturna mingle in the strife,
Nay, venture more, to save a brother's life.
That charge I own; but not to bend a bow,
Or hurl a single jav'lin at the foe.

This, this, I swear, by the black Stygian floods,
The sole dread sanction of th' immortal gods:
Now back to Heav'n, great father, I repair,
And from this hour renounce the hateful war.
But yet I beg, O sov'reign of the sky!
What not the hardest laws of fate deny;
For your own Latium I implore this grace,
This honour for your own majestic race;
When by these nuptials both the realms combine,
And in firm leagues of peace and friendship join;
Still may the Latians, still remain the same,
Nor take from Troy their language, garb, or
name!

May the great race of Alban monarchs reign;
Kings after kings the regal line sustain ;
And from th' Italian blood may Rome arise,
In all her pride and glory, to the skies.
But may a long oblivion quite destroy,
The last, last ruins, with the name of Troy !"

The goddess spoke; and, with a smile, replies
The sire of men, and monarch of the skies :
"Can Saturn's other heir, who reigns above,
Th' imperial sister, and the wife, of Jove,
With endless schemes of vengeance break her rest?
Why burns such wrath in a celestial breast?

His eyes and hands the vanquish'd hero rear'd, And to the chief his moving pray'r preferr'd:

Prince, I deserve, nor deprecate, my death: Then, use thy fortune; take my forfeit breath! Yet, if a parent's woes thy soul incline, Think what thy father was; then pity mine! Think at thy feet the hoary monarch thrown, Grov'ling, and pleading for an only son! Then save the son! in him the father save! Nor bow his age, with sorrow, to the grave! Or, oh! at least, this mercy I implore, My breathless relics to my friends restore. Thine is the conquest, lo! the Latian bands Behold their gen'ral stretch his suppliant hands! Restrain thy farther vengeance; I resign My former claim; the royal fair is thine."

Awhile, the hero, touch'd with gen'rous woe, Repress'd his hand, and gaz'd upon the foe.

His melting words to mercy now inclin'd,
Still more and more, the victor's noble mind;
When, lo! by chance, the golden belt he spy'd,
The belt of Pallas, glitt'ring at his side;
Which from the dying youth the warrior tore,
And the refulgent prize in triumph wore.
His eyes, fierce-flaming, o'er the trophy roll,
That wakes the slumb'ring vengeance in his soul.
Then with loud accents, and a dreadful look,
Stern and terrific, to the prince he spoke : [tend?
"Thou! wretch accurs'd! canst thou to grace pre-
Clad in the spoils of my dear murder'd friend?
Go then, a victim to his spirit, go;
'Tis Pallas, Pallas, gives the fatal blow.
Thus is his ghost aton'd."-The hero said;
And bury'd in his breast the furious blade.
With a deep groan the dying warrior fell,
And the majestic soul disdainful plung'd to Hell.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE PHILIP,

Give me, ye sacred Muses, to impart
The hidden secrets of your tuneful art;
Give me your awful mysteries to sing,
Unlock, and open wide, your sacred spring;
While from his infancy the bard I lead,
And set him on your mountain's lofty head;
Direct his course, and point him out the road
To sing in epic strains an hero or a god.

What youth, whose generous bosom pants for
praise,

Will dare with me to beat those arduous ways?
O'er high Parnassus' painful steeps to go,
And leave the groveling multitude below :
Where the glad Muses sing, and form the choir,
While bright Apollo strikes the silver lyre,
Approach thou first, great Francis, nor refuse
To pay due honours to the sacred Muse;
While Gallia waits for thy auspicious reign,
Till age completes the monarch in the man;
Meantime the Muse may bring some small relief,
To charm thy anguish, and suspend thy grief;
While guilty fortune's stern decrees detain
Thee and thy brother in the realms of Spain;
Far, far transported from your native place,
Your country's, father's, and your friend's embrace!
Such are the terms the cruel fates impose
On your great father, struggling with his woes,
Such are their hard conditions:-they require
The sons to purchase, and redeem, the sire.
But yet, brave youth, from grief, from tears, abstain,
Fate may relent, and Heaven grow mild again;
At last, perhaps, the glorious day may come,
The day that brings our royal exile home;

When, to thy native realms in peace restor❜d,
The ravish'd crowds shall hail their passing lord;
When each transported city shall rejoice,
And nations bless thee with a public voice;
To the throng'd fanes the matrons shall repair;
Absolve their vows, and breathe their souls in prayer
Till then, let every Muse engage thy love,
With me at large o'er high Parnassus rove,
Range every bower, and sport in every grove.

First then observe, that verse is ne'er confin'd
To one fixt measure, or determin'd kind;
Though at its birth it sung the gods alone,
And then religion claim'd it for her own;
In sacred strains address'd the deity,
And spoke a language worthy of the sky;
New themes succeeding bards began to choose,
And in a wider field engag'd the Muse;
The common bulk of subjects to rehearse
In all the rich varieties of verse.

Yet none of all with equal honours shine
(But those which celebrate the Power Divine)
To those exalted measures, which declare
The deeds of heroes, and the sons of war.
From hence posterity the name bestow'd
On this rich present of the Delphic god;
Fame says, Phæmonoe in this measure gave
Apollo's answers from the Pythian cave. [choose,
But ere you. write, consult your strength, and
A theme proportion'd justly to your Muse.
For though in chief these precepts are bestow'd
On him who sings an hero or a god;
To other themes their general use extends,
And serves in different views to different ends.
Whether the lofty Muse, with tragic rage,
Would proudly stalk in buskins on the stage;
Or in soft elegies our pity move,

And show the youth in all the flames of love;
Or sing the shepherd's woes in humble strains,
And the low humours of contending swains:
These faithful rules shall guide the bard along
In every measure, argument, and song.

Be sure (whatever you propose to write)
Let the chief motive be your own delight,
And well-weigh'd choice ;-a task enjoiu'd refuse,
Unless a monarch should command your Muse.