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Notes Display Latin text | translated by Theodore C. Williams Book XI Chapter 6: Lament over Pallas | Next chapter Return to index Previous chapter |
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Now Rumor, herald of prodigious woe, to king Evander hied, Evander's house and city filling, where, but late, her word had told in Latium Pallas' victory. th' Arcadians thronging to the city-gates bear funeral torches, the accustomed way; in lines of flame the long street flashes far, lighting the fields beyond. To meet them moves a Phrygian company, to join with theirs its lamentation loud. The Latin wives, soon as they saw them entering, aroused the whole sad city with shrill songs of woe. No hand could stay Evander. Forth he flew into the midmost tumult, and fell prone on his dead Pallas, on the resting bier; he clung to the pale corse with tears, with groans, till anguish for a space his lips sealed: Not this thy promise, Pallas, to thy sire, to walk not rashly in the war-god's [Note 1] way. I knew too well how honor' morning-star, and sweet, foretasted glory tempt and woo in a first battle. O first-fruit forlorn of youth so fair! O prelude pitiless of war approaching! O my vows and prayers, which not one god would hear! My blessed wife [Note 2], how happy was the death that spared thee not to taste this bitterness! But I, the while, by living longer lived to meet my doom, -- a father sole-surviving. Would I myself had perished by the Rutule's cruel spear, the Trojan's cause espousing! This breath of life how gladly had I given! And O, that now yon black solemnity were bearing home myself, not Pallas, dead! Yet blame I not, O Teucrians, the hallowed pact we made, nor hospitable bond and clasp of hands. This doom ye bring me was writ long ago, for my old age. And though my child is fallen untimely, I take comfort that he fell where thousands of the Volscians slaughtered lie, and into Latium led the Teucrian arms. What brighter glory could I crave in death for thee, my Pallas, than Aeneas brings, and Phrygian princes, and Etrurian lords with all Etruria's legions? Lo, they bear yon glittering spoils of victims of thy sword! Thou, Turnus, too, wert now an effigy in giant armor clad, if but his years and strength full ripe had been fair match for thine! But now my woes detain the Trojan host from battle. I beseech ye haste away, and bear this faithful message to your king: since I but linger out a life I loathe, without my Pallas, nothing but thy sword can bid me live. Then let thy sword repay its debt to sire and son by Turnus slain! Such deed alone may with thy honor fit, and happier fortunes. But my life to me has no joy left to pray for, save to bring my son that solace in the shadowy land. Note 1: war-god = Mars Event: The Funeral of Pallas |
139-181 Et iam Fama uolans, tanti praenuntia luctus, Euandrum Euandrique domos et moenia replet, quae modo uictorem Latio Pallanta ferebat. Arcades ad portas ruere et de more uetusto funereas rapuere faces; lucet uia longo ordine flammarum et late discriminat agros. contra turba Phrygum ueniens plangentia iungit agmina. quae postquam matres succedere tectis uiderunt, maestam incendunt clamoribus urbem. at non Euandrum potis est uis ulla tenere, sed uenit in medios. feretro Pallante reposto procubuit super atque haeret lacrimansque gemensque, et uia uix tandem uoci laxata dolore est: 'non haec, o Palla, dederas promissa parenti, cautius ut saeuo uelles te credere Marti. haud ignarus eram quantum noua gloria in armis et praedulce decus primo certamine posset. primitiae iuuenis miserae bellique propinqui dura rudimenta, et nulli exaudita deorum uota precesque meae! tuque, o sanctissima coniunx, felix morte tua neque in hunc seruata dolorem! contra ego uiuendo uici mea fata, superstes restarem ut genitor. Troum socia arma secutum obruerent Rutuli telis! animam ipse dedissem atque haec pompa domum me, non Pallanta, referret! nec uos arguerim, Teucri, nec foedera nec quas iunximus hospitio dextras: sors ista senectae debita erat nostrae. quod si immatura manebat mors gnatum, caesis Volscorum milibus ante ducentem in Latium Teucros cecidisse iuuabit. quin ego non alio digner te funere, Palla, quam pius Aeneas et quam magni Phryges et quam Tyrrhenique duces, Tyrrhenum exercitus omnis. magna tropaea ferunt quos dat tua dextera leto; tu quoque nunc stares immanis truncus in aruis, esset par aetas et idem si robur ab annis, Turne. sed infelix Teucros quid demoror armis? uadite et haec memores regi mandata referte: quod uitam moror inuisam Pallante perempto dextera causa tua est, Turnum gnatoque patrique quam debere uides. meritis uacat hic tibi solus fortunaeque locus. non uitae gaudia quaero, nec fas, sed gnato manis perferre sub imos.' |