With fresh wiles she marked the spot
where beautiful Iulus was trapping and coursing game on the bank; here
the infernal maiden suddenly crosses his hounds with the maddening touch
of a familiar scent, and drives them hotly on the stag-hunt.
where beautiful Iulus was trapping and coursing game on the bank; here
the infernal maiden suddenly crosses his hounds with the maddening touch
of a familiar scent, and drives them hotly on the stag-hunt.
Virgil - Aeneid
But amid his utterance a quick
shudder overruns his limbs; his eyes are fixed in horror; so thickly
hiss the snakes of the Fury, so vast her form expands. Then rolling her
fiery eyes, she thrust him back as he would stammer out more, raised two
serpents in her hair, and, sounding her whip, resumed with furious tone:
'Behold me the overworn! me whom old age, exhausted and untrue, mocks
with false dismay amid embattled kings! Look on this! I am come from the
home of the Dread Sisters: war and death are in my hand. . . . '
So speaking, she hurled her torch at him, and pierced his breast with
the lurid smoking brand. He breaks from sleep in overpowering fear, his
limbs and body bathed in [459-494]sweat that breaks out all over him;
he shrieks madly for arms, searches for arms on his bed and in his
palace. The passion of the sword rages high, the accursed fury of war,
and wrath over all: even as when flaming sticks are heaped roaring loud
under the sides of a seething cauldron, and the boiling water leaps up;
the river of water within smokes furiously and swells high in
overflowing foam, and now the wave contains itself no longer; the dark
steam flies aloft. So, for the stain of the broken peace, he orders his
chief warriors to march on King Latinus, and bids prepare for battle, to
defend Italy and drive the foe from their borders; himself will suffice
for Trojans and Latins together. When he uttered these words and called
the gods to hear his vows, the Rutulians stir one another up to arms.
One is moved by the splendour of his youthful beauty, one by his royal
ancestry, another by the noble deeds of his hand.
While Turnus fills the Rutulian minds with valour, Allecto on Stygian
wing hastens towards the Trojans.
With fresh wiles she marked the spot
where beautiful Iulus was trapping and coursing game on the bank; here
the infernal maiden suddenly crosses his hounds with the maddening touch
of a familiar scent, and drives them hotly on the stag-hunt. This was
the source and spring of ill, and kindled the country-folk to war. The
stag, beautiful and high-antlered, was stolen from his mother's udder
and bred by Tyrrheus' boys and their father Tyrrheus, master of the
royal herds, and ranger of the plain. Their sister Silvia tamed him to
her rule, and lavished her care on his adornment, twining his antlers
with delicate garlands, and combed his wild coat and washed him in the
clear spring. Tame to her hand, and familiar to his master's table, he
would wander the woods, and, however late the night, return home to the
door he knew. Far astray, he floated idly down the stream, and allayed
his heat on the green bank, when Iulus' [495-528]mad hounds started him
in their hunting; and Ascanius himself, kindled with desire of the chief
honour, aimed a shaft from his bended bow. A present deity suffered not
his hand to stray, and the loud whistling reed came driven through his
belly and flanks. But the wounded beast fled within the familiar roof
and crept moaning to the courtyard, dabbled with blood, and filling all
the house with moans as of one beseeching. Sister Silvia, smiting her
arms with open hands, begins to call for aid, and gathers the hardy
rustics with her cries. They, for a fell destroyer is hidden in the
silent woodland, are there before her expectation, one armed with a
stake hardened in the fire, one with a heavy knotted trunk; what each
one searches and finds, wrath turns into a weapon. Tyrrheus cheers on
his array, panting hard, with his axe caught up in his hand, as he was
haply splitting an oaken log in four clefts with cross-driven wedges.
But the grim goddess, seizing from her watch-tower the moment of
mischief, seeks the steep farm-roof and sounds the pastoral war-note
from the ridge, straining the infernal cry on her twisted horn; it
spread shuddering over all the woodland, and echoed through the deep
forests: the lake of Trivia heard it afar; Nar river heard it with white
sulphurous water, and the springs of Velinus; and fluttered mothers
clasped their children to their breast. Then, hurrying to the voice of
the terrible trumpet-note, on all sides the wild rustics snatch their
arms and stream in: therewithal the men of Troy pour out from their
camp's open gates to succour Ascanius. The lines are ranged; not now in
rustic strife do they fight with hard trunks or burned stakes; the
two-edged steel sways the fight, the broad cornfields bristle dark with
drawn swords, and brass flashes smitten by the sunlight, and casts a
gleam high into the cloudy air: as when the wind begins to blow and the
flood [529-560]to whiten, gradually the sea lifts his waves higher and
yet higher, then rises from the bottom right into the air. Here in the
front rank young Almo, once Tyrrheus' eldest son, is struck down by a
whistling arrow; for the wound, staying in his throat, cut off in blood
the moist voice's passage and the thin life. Around many a one lies
dead, aged Galaesus among them, slain as he throws himself between them
for a peacemaker, once incomparable in justice and wealth of Ausonian
fields; for him five flocks bleated, a five-fold herd returned from
pasture, and an hundred ploughs upturned the soil.
shudder overruns his limbs; his eyes are fixed in horror; so thickly
hiss the snakes of the Fury, so vast her form expands. Then rolling her
fiery eyes, she thrust him back as he would stammer out more, raised two
serpents in her hair, and, sounding her whip, resumed with furious tone:
'Behold me the overworn! me whom old age, exhausted and untrue, mocks
with false dismay amid embattled kings! Look on this! I am come from the
home of the Dread Sisters: war and death are in my hand. . . . '
So speaking, she hurled her torch at him, and pierced his breast with
the lurid smoking brand. He breaks from sleep in overpowering fear, his
limbs and body bathed in [459-494]sweat that breaks out all over him;
he shrieks madly for arms, searches for arms on his bed and in his
palace. The passion of the sword rages high, the accursed fury of war,
and wrath over all: even as when flaming sticks are heaped roaring loud
under the sides of a seething cauldron, and the boiling water leaps up;
the river of water within smokes furiously and swells high in
overflowing foam, and now the wave contains itself no longer; the dark
steam flies aloft. So, for the stain of the broken peace, he orders his
chief warriors to march on King Latinus, and bids prepare for battle, to
defend Italy and drive the foe from their borders; himself will suffice
for Trojans and Latins together. When he uttered these words and called
the gods to hear his vows, the Rutulians stir one another up to arms.
One is moved by the splendour of his youthful beauty, one by his royal
ancestry, another by the noble deeds of his hand.
While Turnus fills the Rutulian minds with valour, Allecto on Stygian
wing hastens towards the Trojans.
With fresh wiles she marked the spot
where beautiful Iulus was trapping and coursing game on the bank; here
the infernal maiden suddenly crosses his hounds with the maddening touch
of a familiar scent, and drives them hotly on the stag-hunt. This was
the source and spring of ill, and kindled the country-folk to war. The
stag, beautiful and high-antlered, was stolen from his mother's udder
and bred by Tyrrheus' boys and their father Tyrrheus, master of the
royal herds, and ranger of the plain. Their sister Silvia tamed him to
her rule, and lavished her care on his adornment, twining his antlers
with delicate garlands, and combed his wild coat and washed him in the
clear spring. Tame to her hand, and familiar to his master's table, he
would wander the woods, and, however late the night, return home to the
door he knew. Far astray, he floated idly down the stream, and allayed
his heat on the green bank, when Iulus' [495-528]mad hounds started him
in their hunting; and Ascanius himself, kindled with desire of the chief
honour, aimed a shaft from his bended bow. A present deity suffered not
his hand to stray, and the loud whistling reed came driven through his
belly and flanks. But the wounded beast fled within the familiar roof
and crept moaning to the courtyard, dabbled with blood, and filling all
the house with moans as of one beseeching. Sister Silvia, smiting her
arms with open hands, begins to call for aid, and gathers the hardy
rustics with her cries. They, for a fell destroyer is hidden in the
silent woodland, are there before her expectation, one armed with a
stake hardened in the fire, one with a heavy knotted trunk; what each
one searches and finds, wrath turns into a weapon. Tyrrheus cheers on
his array, panting hard, with his axe caught up in his hand, as he was
haply splitting an oaken log in four clefts with cross-driven wedges.
But the grim goddess, seizing from her watch-tower the moment of
mischief, seeks the steep farm-roof and sounds the pastoral war-note
from the ridge, straining the infernal cry on her twisted horn; it
spread shuddering over all the woodland, and echoed through the deep
forests: the lake of Trivia heard it afar; Nar river heard it with white
sulphurous water, and the springs of Velinus; and fluttered mothers
clasped their children to their breast. Then, hurrying to the voice of
the terrible trumpet-note, on all sides the wild rustics snatch their
arms and stream in: therewithal the men of Troy pour out from their
camp's open gates to succour Ascanius. The lines are ranged; not now in
rustic strife do they fight with hard trunks or burned stakes; the
two-edged steel sways the fight, the broad cornfields bristle dark with
drawn swords, and brass flashes smitten by the sunlight, and casts a
gleam high into the cloudy air: as when the wind begins to blow and the
flood [529-560]to whiten, gradually the sea lifts his waves higher and
yet higher, then rises from the bottom right into the air. Here in the
front rank young Almo, once Tyrrheus' eldest son, is struck down by a
whistling arrow; for the wound, staying in his throat, cut off in blood
the moist voice's passage and the thin life. Around many a one lies
dead, aged Galaesus among them, slain as he throws himself between them
for a peacemaker, once incomparable in justice and wealth of Ausonian
fields; for him five flocks bleated, a five-fold herd returned from
pasture, and an hundred ploughs upturned the soil.
