Aeneid Comparisons

This page allows you to compare 10 versions of The Aeneid side by side, nine verse renderings and one prose translation.
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VIRGIL (Original Latin)

L. R. LIND (1963)






SARAH RUDEN (2008)   



Book 1: Invocation
ARMA virumque cano, Troiae qui primus ab oris
Italiam, fato profugus, Laviniaque venit
litora, multum ille et terris iactatus et alto
vi superum saevae memorem Iunonis ob iram;
multa quoque et bello passus, dum conderet urbem,
inferretque deos Latio, genus unde Latinum,
Albanique patres, atque altae moenia Romae.
I sing of arms and the man who first from Troy's shores,
Fate's fugitive, came to Italy and Lavinium's
Coast, a man much tossed on land and sea
By the gods' force, through Juno's mindful fury;
He suffered greatly in war until he could found
A city and bring his gods to Latium, whence
The Latins would spring, the Alban fathers, and Rome
With its lofty walls.
I sing of warfare and a man at war.
From the sea-coast of Troy in early days
He came to Italy by destiny,
To our Lavinian western shore,
A fugitive, this captain, buffeted
Cruelly on land as on the sea
By blows from powers of the air—behind them
Baleful Juno in her sleepless rage.
And cruel losses were his lot in war,
Till he could found a city and bring home
His gods to Latium, land of the Latin race,
The Alban lords, and the high walls of Rome.
I sing of arms and of a man: his fate
had made him fugitive; he was the first
to journey from the coasts of Troy as far
as Italy and the Lavinian shores.
Across the lands and waters he was battered
beneath the violence of High Ones, for
the savage Juno's unforgetting anger;
and many sufferings were his in war—
until he brought a city into being
and carried in his gods to Latium;
from this have come the Latin race, the lords
of Alba, and the ramparts of high Rome.
Arms I sing—and a man,
The first to come from the shores
Of Troy, exiled by Fate, to Italy
And the Lavinian coast; a man battered
On land and sea by the powers above
In the face of Juno's relentless wrath;
A man who also suffered greatly in war
Until he could found his city and bring his gods
Into Latium, from which arose 
The Latin people, our Alban forefathers,
And the high walls of everlasting Rome.
Wars and a man I sing—an exile driven on by Fate,
he was the first to flee the coast of Troy,
destined to reach Lavinian shores and Italian soil,
yet many blows he took on land and sea from the gods above—
thanks to cruel Juno's relentless rages—and many losses
he bore in battle too, before he could found a city,
bring his gods to Latium, source of the Latin race,
the Alban lords and the high walls of Rome.
Arms and the man I sing of Troy, who first from its seashores
Italy-bound, fate's refugee, arrived at Lavinia's
Coastlands. How he was battered about over land, over high deep
Seas by the powers above! Savage Juno's anger remembered
Him, and he suffered profoundly in war to establish a city,
Settle his gods into Latium, making this land of the Latins
Future home to the Elders of Alba and Rome's mighty ramparts.
Arms and a man I sing, the first from Troy,
A fated exile to Lavinian shores
In Italy. On land and sea, divine will—
And Juno's unforgetting rage—harassed him.
War racked him too, until he set his city
And gods in Latium. There his Latin race rose,
With Alban patriarchs, and Rome's high walls.
My song is of war and a man: a refugee by fate,
the first from Troy to Italy's Lavinian shores,
battered much on land and sea by blows from gods
obliging brutal Juno's unforgetting rage;
he suffered much in war as well, all to plant
his town and gods in Latium. From here would rise
the Latin race, the Alban lords, and Rome's high walls.
I sing of arms and a man, fated to be an exile, who long since left the the land of Troy and came to Italy to the shores of Lavinium; and a great pounding he took by land and sea at the hands of the heavenly gods because of the fierce and unforgetting anger of Juno. Great too were his suffererings in war before he could found his city and carry his gods into Latium. This was the beginning of the Latin, the Alban fathers and the high walls of Rome.
Book 2: Troy Burns
Dixerat, et spissis noctis se condidit umbris.
Adparent dirae facies inimicaque Troiae
numina magna deum.
Tum vero omne mihi visum considere in ignis
Ilium et ex imo verti Neptunia Troia;
ac veluti summis antiquam in montibus ornum
cum ferro accisam crebrisque bipennibus instant
eruere agricolae certatim,—-illa usque minatur
et tremefacta comam concusso vertice nutat,
volneribus donec paulatim evicta, supremum
congemuit, traxitque iugis avolsa ruinam.
Then truly all Ilium seemed to settle in flames,
And Neptune's Troy turn upside down to its depths,
Like an ancient ash that stands high on the mountains
Cut by the steel, as farmers take turns at the task
To topple it under their twin-edged axes until
It threatens to fall, the shivering leaves at the tip
Nodding downward, and, conquered at last by continual wounds,
The tree groans, is torn from the ridge, carries ruin before it.
She hid herself in the deep gloom of night,
And now the dire forms appeared to me
Of great immortals, enemies of Troy.
I knew the end then: Ilium was going down
In fire, the Troy of Neptune going down,
As in high mountains when the countrymen
Have notched an ancient ash, then make their axes
Ring with might and main, chopping away
To fell the tree—ever on the point of falling,
Shaken through all its foliage, and the treetop
Nodding; bit by bit the strokes prevail
Until it gives a final groan at last
And crashes down in ruin from the height.
"At this, indeed, I saw all Ilium
sink down into the fires; Neptune's Troy
is overturned: even as when the woodsmen
along a mountaintop are rivals in
their striving to bring down with ancient ash,
hacked at with many blows of iron and ax;
it always threatens falling, nodding with
its trembling leaves and tossing crest until,
slowly, slowly, the wounds have won; it gives
one last great groan, then wrenches from the ridges
and crashes into ruin...
To my eyes it seemed that all Ilium
Was sinking in flames, and Neptune's Troy
Was being overturned from its base.

      It was just like and ancient mountain ash
      That woodsmen are straining to fell. Iron axes
      Ring thick and fast on its trunk, hacking it through
      And it threatens to fall, nodding from its crest
      Its foliage trembling, until, bit by bit, 
      Overcome with wounds, it gives one last groan
      And torn from the hillside comes crashing down.
Then at last I saw it all, all Ilium settling into her embers,
Neptune's Troy, toppling over now from her roots
like a proud, veteran ash on its mountain summit,
chopped by stroke after stroke of the iron axe as
woodsmen fight to bring it down, and over and
over it threatens to fall, its boughs shudder,
its leafy crown quakes and back and forth it sways
till overwhelmed by its wounds, with a long last groan
it goes—torn up from its heights it crashes down
in ruins from its ridge...
This said, she merged herself back among ghostly shadows of night-time.
And, in her place, there appeared the appalling faces and mighty
Forces divine that detested Troy.
That's when my eyes really saw all Ilium slowly subsiding
Into the fires, saw Neptune's Troy prised up from its deep-set
Roots, like an ancient ash on a mountain's peak when the farmers
Cut her and hack her with steel, with relentless blows of their axes,
Vying to fell her for sport. She's been threatening to crash, she's been yawing,
Tresses of foliage shivered, her head in incessant convulsion,
Slowly succumbing to gashes and rips before her final
Death crackle, torn from her ridge, sprawled prone in destructive destruction.
Truly, I saw the whole of Troy collapsing
In flames, and Neptune's city overthrown,
Like an ancient mountain ash that several farmers
Hack with unresting axes in a contest
To tear it loose. It menaces, its leaves
Tremble and dip when its high top is shaken.
Wounds slowly weaken it. It gives a last groan,
Rips loose, drags devastation down the hillside.
She spoke, then vanished in the night's thick shadow.
Awful shapes appeared, and the power
of the god that hated Troy. Now I clearly
saw all Ilium collapsing in the flames,
and Troy, once Neptune's city, toppled from her roots—
like an ancient ash that mountain woodsmen
hurry to uproot. They strike the wounded trunk
with axes many times. As each blow shakes
the leafy crown, the tree seems just about to fall.
Bit by bit, it's overwhelmed. It groans
and topples, leaving ruin in its wake.
She finished speaking, and melted into the denses shadows of that night, and there before my eyes I saw the dreadful vision of the gods in all their might, the enemies of Troy.
At that moment I seemed to see the whole of Ilium settling into the flames and Neptune's Troy toppling over from its foundations like an ancient ash high in the mountains which farmers have hacked with blow upon blow of their double axes, labouring to fell it; again and again it threatens to fall, its foliage shudders and its head trembles and nods until at last it succumbs to its wounds and breaks with a dying groan, spreading ruin along the ridge.
Book 5: Rest After the Funeral Games
Iamque fere mediam caeli Nox humida metam
contigerat; placida laxabant membra quiete
sub remis fusi per dura sedilia nautae:
cum levis aetheriis delapsus Somnus ab astris
aera dimovit tenebrosum et dispulit umbras,
te, Palinure, petens, tibi somnia tristia portans
insonti; puppique deus consedit in alta,
Phorbanti similis, funditque has ore loquelas:
'Iaside Palinure, ferunt ipsa aequora classem;
aequatae spirant aurae; datur hora quieti.
Pone caput, fessosque oculos furare labori:
ipse ego paulisper pro te tua munera inibo.'
...Now misty night had almost reached her goal
In the middle of heaven (the sailors, stretched out on hard benches,
Had loosened their limbs in repose beneath the oars),
When soft Sleep glided down from the stars of the topmost sky,
dispelled the dark air and scattered the shadows in search
Of you, Palinurus, and brought you sad dreams, undeserving.
The god settled down on the lofty stern in the likeness
Of Phorbus and poured out these utterances from his mouth:
"Son of Iasius, Palinurus, the sea-surface itself
Is bearing the fleet; the winds blow evenly; time
Is given for rest. Lay your head down and steal from their labor
Your eyes that are weary. I'll take over the helm in your place."
Now dewy Night had touched her midway mark
Or nearly, and the crews, relaxed in peace
On their hard rowing benches, took their rest,
When Somnus, gliding softly from the stars
Put the night air aside, parted the darkness,
Palinurus, in quest of you. He brought
Bad dreams to you, in all your guiltlessness.
Upon the high poop deck the god sat down
In Phorbas' guise, and said:
"Son of Iasius,
Palinurus, the very sea itself
Moves the ships onward. There's a steady breeze.
The hour for rest has come. Put down your head
And steal a respite for your tired eyes.
I'll man your tiller for a while."
And now damp Night had almost reached her midpoint
along the skies; beneath their oars the sailors
were stretching out on their hard rowing benches,
their bodies sinking into easy rest,
when, gliding lightly from the stars of heaven,
Sleep split the darkened air, cast back the shadows,
searching for you, o Palinurus, bringing
his dismal dreams to you, an innocent.
The god sat down upon the high stern,
taking the shape of Phorbas, pouring out these words:
"Palinurus, son of Iasus,
the seas themselves bear on the fleet; the breezes
blow steadily; this is a time for rest.
Lay down your head and steal your tired eyes
from trials; and for a brief while I myself
will take your place, your duties," ...
Dewy Night had almost reached its midpoint,
And the sailors were slumped over their oars
Up and down the hard benches, when Sleep
Drifted down from the stars of heaven,
Parting the shadows as he moved through the air
Seeking you, Palinurus, bringing grim dreams
To your innocent soul. The god settled
On the high stern, the image of Phorbas,
And said in a soft, insinuating voice:

"Palinurus, son of Iasius, the sea
Bears the fleet onward, steady blows the wind.
It is time for rest. Put your head down
And steal your weary eyes from their vigil.
I'll fill in for you for a little while."
...By now
dark Night had nearly reached her turning-point in the sky,
and stretched on the hard thwarts beneath their oars
the crews gave way to a deep, quiet rest, when down
from the stars the God of Sleep came gliding gently,
cleaving the dark mists and scattering shadows,
hunting you, Palinurus, bringing you fatal sleep
in all your innocence. Like Phorbas to the life,
the god sat high astern, pouring his persuasions
into your ears: "Son of Iasius, Palinurus, the sea,
all on its own, is sweeping the squadrons on,
the wind is blowing steady. Time to sleep.
Come, put your head down, steal some rest
for your eyes worn out from labor.
For a moment I'll take on your work myself."
Damp Night now has almost attained her mid-point in heaven.
Gratefully, sailors, relaxing their limbs, sprawl over unyielding
Benches and under the oars for a rest. Then, out from the high sky's
Stars, soft Sleep slithers down and he nudges apart the tenacious
Darkness of air, pushing on through the dankness of shadows,
Making for you, Palinarus, for you, in your innocence, bringing
Nightmarish horrors. Alighting upon the raised aft-deck, adopting
Phorbus' features, the god streams words in a soothing profusion.
'Iasus's son, Palinarus: the fair seas are moving your navy
All by themselves. Fair winds now blow. It's a good time for resting.
Lay down your head, steal weary eyes from their labour of vigil.
I'll offer you a replacement—myself—for a while. I will spell you.
The dewy night was near its turning point
In the sky, and sailors sprawled, relaxed and peaceful,
Under the oars and on the rigid benches,
When Sleep slipped gently down from starry heaven,
Parting the dusky air and scattering shadows,
To bring grim dreams to guiltless Palinurus.
High on the stern Sleep sat, disguised as Phorbas,
And let these words come flowing from his mouth:
"Iasus' son, the sea itself transports us.
The wind breathes evenly; it's time to rest.
Lay down your head, steal shut your weary eyes,
And I myself will see your tasks are done."
Damp Night was near the midpoint of the sky,
and the sailors, sprawling by their oars
on rigid benches, were resting peacefully,
when Sleep, gliding from the stars above,
breached the dark and chased away the shadows,
looking for you, Palinurus, bringing fatal
slumber to a guiltless man. In Phorbas' shape,
the god sat on the ship's high stern and made his pitch:
"Palinurus, Iäsus' son, the seas themselves
propel us, the winds blow evenly—there's time to rest.
Lay down your head, steal your tired eyes from work.
I'll take on your duties for a while."
The dank night was near the mid-point of the sky. The sailors were taking their rest in peace and quiet, stretched out under their oars along the hard benches, when the God of Sleep, parting the dark and misty air, came gliding lightly down from the stars of heaven. He was coming to you, Palinurus, bringing deadly dreams you did not deserve. The god took the shapeof Phrobas and sat on the high poop pouring these soft words into the ears of Palinurus: "Son of Iasius, the sea is carrying the ships along itself. The breeze is gentle and steady. This is an hour for sleep. Put down your head and steal a little time from your labours to rest your tired eys. I'll take over short watch for you myself."
Book 8: Old Tiber Comes to Aeneas at Night
cuncta videns magno curarum fluctuat aestu,
atque animum nunc huc celerem, nunc dividit illuc.
In partisque rapit varias perque omnia versat:
sicut aquae tremulum labris ubi lumen aenis
sole repercussum aut radiantis imagine lunae
omnia pervolitat late loca iamque sub auras
erigitur summique ferit lacuaria tecti.
Nox erat, et terras animalia fessa per omnis
alituum pecudumque genus sopor altus habebat:
cum pater in ripa gelidique sub aetheris axe
Aeneas, tristi turbatus pectora bello,
procubuit seramque dedit per membra quietem.
Huic deus ipse loci fluvio Tiberinus amoeno
populeas inter senior se attollere frondes
visus; eum tenuis glauco velabat amictu
carbasus, et crinis umbrosa tegebat harundo,
...The hero-son
Of Laomedon, seeing all, was buffetted
Upon a great tide of cares; now here, now there
He divided his agile mind among different thoughts,
Turning it this way and that, traversing all
The problem's possibilities, as when
A trembling light on water in a bronze
Vessel, reflected from the sun or from
The shining moon, flits widely everywhere
And now is lifted to the air and strikes
The panelled ceiling.
           It was night. Through all
The lands the tired animals, the tribes
Of winged things, of herds, were gripped by heavy
Sleep, when Father Aeneas on the river
Bank, beneath the chilly height of heaven,
Disturbed in heart by grim war, sank to sleep
And gave his limbs belated rest. The local
God Tiberinus from his lovely stream
Appeared to him, an old man rising up
Among the poplar leaves: a slender veil
Of grey-green linen covered him, and shady
Reeds his hair...
He let his mind run, passing quickly over
All he might do, as when from basins full
Of unstilled water, struck by a ray of sun
Or the bright disk of moon, a flickering light
Plays over walls and corners and flies up
To hit high roofbeams and coffered ceiling.
Now it was night, and through the lands of earth
Deep slumber held all weary living things
Of bird and beast kind, when the Trojan prince,
Aeneas, heartsick at the woe of war,
Lay down upon the riverside
In the cold air, under the open sky,
And gave his body at long last repose.
Before him as he slept the very god
Of that place, Tiberinus of fair waters,
Lifting his hoary head through poplar leaves,
Appeared all veiled in cobweb cloak of grey
And crowned with shady sedge.
...and when the Trojan hero has seen this,
he wavers on a giant tide of troubles;
his racing mind is split; it shifts here, there,
and rushes on to many different plans,
turning to everything: even as when
the quivering light of water in bronze basins
reflected from the sun or from the moon's 
glittering image glides across all things
and now darts skyward, strikes the roof's high ceiling.

Night. Over all the lands deep sleep held fast
the tired creatures, birds and herds. And father
Aeneas, restless over bitter war,
stretched out along the riverbank beneath
the cold, let late-come rest seep through his limbs.
The river god himself, old Tiberinus,
lord of that place and gentle stream, rising
from poplar leaves, then stood before Aeneas;
thin linen covered him with sea-green dress,
and shady reeds were covering for his head.
...And Aeneas, hero in the line
Of Laomedon, saw it all, and was tossed
On a great sea of troubles. His mind darted
This way and that, turning and shifting.

      Sunlight, or the radiant moon, reflected from water
      Trembling in a bronze bowl, will glance and flit
      All over a room—and then flash suddenly
      Onto the coffered ceiling high above.

It was night, and all over earth deep slumber
Held weary creatures of the air and field.
Father Aeneas, heart troubled by war,
Lay down on the riverbank under a cold sky
And drifted off at last to sleep. He dreamed
That Tiberius, the old rivergod himself,
Lifted his head amid the poplar leaves
Draped in a fine, grey-linen mantle,
His hair crowned with shady reeds...
...Watching it all,
the Trojan hero heaved in a churning sea of anguish,
his thoughts racing, here, there, probing his options,
shifting to this plan, that—as quick as flickering light
thrown off by water in bronze bowls reflects the sun
or radiant moon, now flittering near and far, now
rising to strike a ceiling's gilded fretwork.
The dead of night.
Over the earth all weary living things, all birds and flocks
were fast asleep when captain Aeneas, his heart racked
by the threat of war, lay down on a bank beneath
the chilly arc of the sky and at long last
indulged his limbs in sleep. Before his eyes
the god of the lovely river, old Tiber himself,
seemed to rise from among the poplar leaves
gowned in his blue-grey linen fine as mist
with a shady crown of reeds to wreathe his hair...
...the hero is swept on a swell of emotions,
Scurrying thoughts into this or that channel of choice and decision,
Surging in random directions, examining every perspective,
Just as the shimmering light from a watery surface in bronze-lipped
Cauldrons—itself but reflected sun, or the radiant, mirrored
Face of the moon—ripples all round a room, leaps up through the yielding
Air where it flickers on fretted beams panelled high on the ceiling.

Night reigned; all across earth, sleep dulled living creatures' exhausted
Consciousness, ruled all the various species of birds and of livestock.
Under the cold sky's vault, on the river-bank, father Aeneas,
Though sick at heart and confused by the outbreak of war and its grimness,
Lay down, permitting the rest he'd deferred to diffuse through his body.

Then Tiberinus, the region's god, seemed to rise up before him
Out of idyllic waters edged by a border of leafy
Poplars, in person, quite elderly, shrouded in greyish, translucent
Flaxxen attire, hair veiled by a shadowy mantle of sedge-grass.
Meanwhile, great waves of worries tossed the hero,
The son of Troy, at everything he saw.
His thoughts were darting one way, then another,
At every side of his perplexity,
Like shivering light reflected from the water
In bronze urns, from the sun or shining moon;
Flittering everywhere, then shooting upward
To strike the panels of the lofty ceiling.
Now it was night. Deep sleep held weary creatures
Throughout the earth, all kinds that walked and flew.
Under the tall, cold sky Father Aeneas,
Troubled at heart by ruinous war, stretched out
On the bank, to finally give his body rest.
The old man Tiberinus, who was god there,
Appeared: out of the pleasant stream he rose
Through poplar leaves. A thin gray robe of linen
Covered his body, shady reeds his hair.
... The Trojan hero
knew it all; he tossed on a great tide of worry.
His mind flew quickly here and there, shifting
sides, weighing all the options—as quick
as water shimmers back a trembling light
when rays of sunshine or the radian moon
land on the bronze bowl, the beam flutters far
and wide, then angles up and roams the ceiling.

It was night. Deep sleep held the weary animals
of all the lands, the birds and the beasts. Father
Aeneas, heartsick at the threat of war,
lay down on the bank beneath the sky's cold
canopy, and finally let himself sleep.
A local god, old Tiberinus, came to him,
rising from his lovely stream among the poplar
branches. He wore flowing gray-green linen;
a crown of reeds shaded his hair...
His thoughts moved swiftly, now here, now there, darting in every possible direction and turning to every possible event, like light flickering from water in bronze vessels as it is reflected from the sun or its image the moon, now flying far and wide in all directions, now rising to strike the high coffers of a ceiling.
It was night, and over the whole earth the weary animals, all manner of flocks, were already deep in sleep before Father Aeneas, on the bank of the river, under the cold vault of the sky. Heart sick at the sadness of war, lay down at last and gave rest to his body. There on that lovely river he saw in his sleep the god of the place, old Tiber himself, rising among the leaves of the poplars. He was veiled in a blue-green cloak of fine-spun flax and dark reeds shaded his hair.
Book 12: Turnus Dies
Ille, oculis postquam saevi monimenta doloris
exuviasque hausit, furiis accensus et ira
terribilis, 'Tune hinc spoliis indute meorum
eripiare mihi? Pallas te hoc volnere, Pallas
immolat et poenam scelerato ex sanguine sumit,'
hoc dicens ferrum adverso sub pectore condit
fervidus. Ast illi solvuntur frigore membra
vitaque cum gemitu fugit indignata sub umbras.
When he had absorbed with his eyes the spoils and reminder
Of his bitter sorrow, afire with fury and anger,
Spoke terribly: "Shall you escape me with spoils you have taken
From those I have loved? Pallas with this wound shall slay you
In sacrifice, Pallas exacts from your villainous blood 
His penalty!" Saying this, burning with anger, he buried
His sword in the enemy's chest. Then Turnus went slack
In his arms and his legs with the chill of death, and his life
Fled with a groan indignantly down to the shadows.
For when the sight came home to him,
Aeneas raged at the relic of his anguish
Worn by this man as trophy. Blazing up
And terrible in his anger, he called out:
"You in your plunder, torn from one of mine,
Shall I be robbed of you? This wound will come
From Pallas: Pallas makes this offering
And from your criminal blood exacts his due."
He sank his blade in fury in Turnus' chest.
Then all the body slackened in death's chill,
And with a groan for that indignity
His spirit fled into the gloom below.
And when his eyes drank in this plunder, this
memorial of brutal grief, Aeneas,
aflame with rage—his wrath was terrible—
cried: "How can you who wear the spoils of my 
dear comrade now escape me? It is Pallas
who strikes, who sacrifices you, who takes
this payment from your shameless blood." Relentless,
he sinks his sword into the chest of Turnus.
His limbs fell slack with chill; and with a moan
his life, resentful, fled to shades below.
Aeneas' eyes drank in this memorial
Of his own savage grief, and then, burning
With fury and terrible in his wrath, he said:

"Do you think you can get away from me
While wearing the spoils of one of my men?
Sacrifices you with this stroke—Pallas—
And makes you pay with your guilty blood."

Saying this, and seething with rage, Aeneas
Buried his sword in Turnus' chest. The man's limbs
Went limp and cold, and with a moan
His soul fled resentfully down to the shades.
soon as his eyes drank in that plunder—keepsake
of his own savage grief—flaring up in fury,
terrible in his rage, he cries: "Decked in the spoils
you stripped from one I loved—escape my clutches? Never—
Pallas strikes this blow, Pallas sacrifices you now,
makes you pay the price with your own guilty blood!"
In the same breath, blazing with wrath he plants
His iron sword hilt-deep in the enemy's heart.
Turnus' limbs went limp in the chill of death.
his life breath fled with a groan of outrage
down to the shades below.
...As his eyes drink in these mementoes of savage 
Pain, these so bitter spoils, Aeneas grows fearsome in anger, 
Burning with fire of the Furies. 'You, dressed in the spoils of my dearest,
Think that you could escape me? Pallas gives you this death-stroke, yes Pallas
Makes you the sacrifice, spills your criminal blood in atonement!'
And, as he speaks, he buries the steel in the heart that confronts him,
Boiling with rage. Cold shivers send Turnus' limbs into spasm.
Life flutters off on a groan, under protest, down among shadows.
Aeneas stared—the spoils commemorated
His wild grief, and he burned with hideous rage.
"Will you escape, in loot from one of mine?
It's Pallas who's now stabbing you, to offer
Your vicious blood in payment for your crime."
Incensed, he thrust the sword through Turnus' chest.
His enemy's body soon grew cold and helpless,
While the indignant soul flew down to Hades.
Aeneas drank in this reminder of his savage
grief. Ablaze with rage, awful in anger, he cried,
"Should I let you slip away, wearing what you
tore from one I loved? Pallas sacrifices
you, Pallas punishes your profane blood"—and,
seething, planted his sword in that hostile heart.
Turnus' knees buckled with chill. His soul fled
with a groan of protest to the shades below.
Aeneas feasted his eyes on the sight of this spoil, this reminder of his own wild grief, then, burning with mad passion and terrible in his wrath, he cried: "Are you to escape me now, wearing the spoils stripped from the body of those I loved? By this would which I now give, it is Pallas who makes sacrifice of you. It is Pallas who exacts the penalty in your guilty blood."
Blazing with rage, he plunged the steel full into his enemy's breast. The limbs of Turnus were dissolved in cold and his life left him with a groan, fleeing in anger down to the shades.