The Aeneid (36 page)
Scanning all of this from the walls aloft,
the Trojans hold the heights with men-at-arms
while edgy, anxious, they reinforce the gates,
building bulwarks, joining ramps to the outworks,
bringing weapons up. Mnestheus, fierce Serestus
are spurring on the work, the men whom captain Aeneas
charged, should crisis call, to marshal troops in ranks
and take command of the outpost. The whole army’s on guard,
tense along the walls. With perilous posts assigned
they stand watch by turns, each fighter defending
what he must defend.
Now Nisus guarded a gate—
matchless in battle, Hyrtacus’ son, Aeneas’ comrade.
Ida the Huntress sent him, quick as the wind with spears
and winging arrows, and right beside him came his friend,
Euryalus. None more winning among Aeneas’ soldiers,
none who strapped on Trojan armor, a young boy
sporting the first down of manhood, cheeks unshaved.
One love bound them, side by side they’d rush to attack,
so now, standing the same watch, they held one gate.
“Euryalus,”
Nisus asks, “do the gods light this fire in our hearts
or does each man’s mad desire become his god?
For a while now a craving’s urged me on
to swing into action, some great exploit—
no peace and quiet for me. See those Rutulians?
What trust they put in their own blind luck!
Watchfires flickering far apart. Men sprawling,
sunk in their wine and sleep. Dead silence all around.
Now listen to what I’m mulling over, what new plan
is shaping in my mind. The people, the elders
all demand that Aeneas be recalled and
men dispatched to tell him how the land lies.
If they promise you my reward—the fame of the work’s
enough for me—I think I can just make out a path,
under that hill, to Pallanteum’s city walls.”
the Trojans hold the heights with men-at-arms
while edgy, anxious, they reinforce the gates,
building bulwarks, joining ramps to the outworks,
bringing weapons up. Mnestheus, fierce Serestus
are spurring on the work, the men whom captain Aeneas
charged, should crisis call, to marshal troops in ranks
and take command of the outpost. The whole army’s on guard,
tense along the walls. With perilous posts assigned
they stand watch by turns, each fighter defending
what he must defend.
Now Nisus guarded a gate—
matchless in battle, Hyrtacus’ son, Aeneas’ comrade.
Ida the Huntress sent him, quick as the wind with spears
and winging arrows, and right beside him came his friend,
Euryalus. None more winning among Aeneas’ soldiers,
none who strapped on Trojan armor, a young boy
sporting the first down of manhood, cheeks unshaved.
One love bound them, side by side they’d rush to attack,
so now, standing the same watch, they held one gate.
“Euryalus,”
Nisus asks, “do the gods light this fire in our hearts
or does each man’s mad desire become his god?
For a while now a craving’s urged me on
to swing into action, some great exploit—
no peace and quiet for me. See those Rutulians?
What trust they put in their own blind luck!
Watchfires flickering far apart. Men sprawling,
sunk in their wine and sleep. Dead silence all around.
Now listen to what I’m mulling over, what new plan
is shaping in my mind. The people, the elders
all demand that Aeneas be recalled and
men dispatched to tell him how the land lies.
If they promise you my reward—the fame of the work’s
enough for me—I think I can just make out a path,
under that hill, to Pallanteum’s city walls.”
Euryalus froze, his heart pounding with love of praise
and he checks his fiery friend at once: “So, Nisus,
grudging your friend a share in your fine exploit?
I’m to send you out alone into so much danger?
That’s not how father, the old soldier, Opheltes,
brought me up in the thick of the Greek terror,
the death-throes at Troy. Nor has it been my way,
soldiering on beside you, following out the fate
of great-hearted Aeneas, right to the bitter end.
Here is a heart that spurns the light, that counts
the honor you’re after cheap at the price of life!”
and he checks his fiery friend at once: “So, Nisus,
grudging your friend a share in your fine exploit?
I’m to send you out alone into so much danger?
That’s not how father, the old soldier, Opheltes,
brought me up in the thick of the Greek terror,
the death-throes at Troy. Nor has it been my way,
soldiering on beside you, following out the fate
of great-hearted Aeneas, right to the bitter end.
Here is a heart that spurns the light, that counts
the honor you’re after cheap at the price of life!”
“No,” Nisus insisted, “I had no such qualm about you—
how wrong I’d be. Just let great Jove or whatever
god looks down with friendly eyes on what we do,
carry me back to you in triumph! Ah, but if—
and you often see such things in risky straits—
if anything sends me down to death, some god,
some twist of Fate, you must live on, I say,
you’re young, your life’s worth more than mine.
Let someone commit my body to the earth,
snatched from battle or ransomed back for gold.
Or if Fortune, up to her old tricks, denies me rites,
pay them when I am gone and honor me with a hollow tomb.
Nor would I cause your mother so much grief, dear boy.
She alone, out of so many Trojan mothers, dared
to follow you all the way. She had no love
for great Acestes’ city.”
Euryalus countered:
“You’re spinning empty arguments, they won’t work.
No, my mind won’t change, won’t budge an inch.
Let’s be gone!”
With that, he stirs the sentries
and up they march to take their turn on watch.
Leaving his post, he and his comrade, Nisus,
stride off to find the prince.
Across the earth
all other creatures were stretched out in sleep,
easing their cares, their spirits blank to hardship.
But the leading Trojan chiefs, the chosen men of rank
were holding a council now on grave affairs of state—
what should they do? Who’ll take word to Aeneas?
There they stand, out on the open campgrounds,
leaning on spears, hands at rest on shields
when in rush Nisus and Euryalus side by side,
clamoring for admittance, being heard at once:
“We’ve something urgent, well worth your while!”
So intense, that Iulus was first to welcome both,
inviting Hyrtacus’ son to speak, and so he did:
“Men of Aeneas, hear us out with open minds,
don’t judge what we say by our young years.
The enemy’s sunken deep in sleep and wine,
dead to the world. There’s a place for mischief—
we’ve seen it ourselves—an open fork in the road,
at the gate that fronts the coast. It’s dark there,
gaps in their watchfires, smoke blackens the sky.
Give us this chance to make our way to Aeneas,
Pallanteum too, and you’ll soon see us back,
loaded with spoils, some bloody killing done.
The road won’t play us false. Hunting the dark glens,
day after day, we’ve scouted the city’s outposts,
reconnoitered every bend in the river.”
Aletes,
bowed with the years, a seasoned adviser, cried out:
“Gods of our fathers, Troy’s eternal shield! So,
you’re not about to destroy us root and branch,
not if you plant such courage, such resolve
in our young soldiers’ hearts.”
He grasped them
both by the hands and hugged their shoulders,
tears rivering down his cheeks: “For you,
good men, what reward can I find to equal
the noble work you’re set on? First and best
the gods will give, and your own sense of worth.
The rest a thankful Aeneas will repay at once,
and young Ascanius too. As long as he lives
he’ll never forget such meritorious service.”
how wrong I’d be. Just let great Jove or whatever
god looks down with friendly eyes on what we do,
carry me back to you in triumph! Ah, but if—
and you often see such things in risky straits—
if anything sends me down to death, some god,
some twist of Fate, you must live on, I say,
you’re young, your life’s worth more than mine.
Let someone commit my body to the earth,
snatched from battle or ransomed back for gold.
Or if Fortune, up to her old tricks, denies me rites,
pay them when I am gone and honor me with a hollow tomb.
Nor would I cause your mother so much grief, dear boy.
She alone, out of so many Trojan mothers, dared
to follow you all the way. She had no love
for great Acestes’ city.”
Euryalus countered:
“You’re spinning empty arguments, they won’t work.
No, my mind won’t change, won’t budge an inch.
Let’s be gone!”
With that, he stirs the sentries
and up they march to take their turn on watch.
Leaving his post, he and his comrade, Nisus,
stride off to find the prince.
Across the earth
all other creatures were stretched out in sleep,
easing their cares, their spirits blank to hardship.
But the leading Trojan chiefs, the chosen men of rank
were holding a council now on grave affairs of state—
what should they do? Who’ll take word to Aeneas?
There they stand, out on the open campgrounds,
leaning on spears, hands at rest on shields
when in rush Nisus and Euryalus side by side,
clamoring for admittance, being heard at once:
“We’ve something urgent, well worth your while!”
So intense, that Iulus was first to welcome both,
inviting Hyrtacus’ son to speak, and so he did:
“Men of Aeneas, hear us out with open minds,
don’t judge what we say by our young years.
The enemy’s sunken deep in sleep and wine,
dead to the world. There’s a place for mischief—
we’ve seen it ourselves—an open fork in the road,
at the gate that fronts the coast. It’s dark there,
gaps in their watchfires, smoke blackens the sky.
Give us this chance to make our way to Aeneas,
Pallanteum too, and you’ll soon see us back,
loaded with spoils, some bloody killing done.
The road won’t play us false. Hunting the dark glens,
day after day, we’ve scouted the city’s outposts,
reconnoitered every bend in the river.”
Aletes,
bowed with the years, a seasoned adviser, cried out:
“Gods of our fathers, Troy’s eternal shield! So,
you’re not about to destroy us root and branch,
not if you plant such courage, such resolve
in our young soldiers’ hearts.”
He grasped them
both by the hands and hugged their shoulders,
tears rivering down his cheeks: “For you,
good men, what reward can I find to equal
the noble work you’re set on? First and best
the gods will give, and your own sense of worth.
The rest a thankful Aeneas will repay at once,
and young Ascanius too. As long as he lives
he’ll never forget such meritorious service.”
“Never!” Ascanius steps in, “my life depends
on father’s safe return. By our great household gods,
by Assaracus’ hearth-god and white-haired Vesta’s shrine,
I swear to you both, Nisus, all my hope, my fortune
lies in your laps alone. Just call father back,
bring him back to my eyes. If he returns,
all griefs are gone! Two cups I’ll give you,
struck in silver, ridged with engraving—father
took them both when Arisba fell—and a pair of tripods,
two large bars of gold, and a winebowl full of years,
Dido of Sidon’s gift.
“But if, in fact, we capture
Italy, seize the scepter in triumph, allot the plunder . . .
You’ve seen the stallion Turnus rides, the armor he sports,
all gold—that mount, the shield, the blood-red plumes,
I exempt from the lot. Your trophies, Nisus, now.
Also, father will give twelve women, beauties all,
and a dozen captive soldiers, each in armor—more,
whatever lands their King Latinus claims for himself.
But you, Euryalus, you who outstrip me by a year,
I admire you, I receive you with all my heart,
through thick and thin embrace you as my comrade.
Never without you, when I am bent on glory,
whether in word or action, peace or war,
you have my trust forever.”
Euryalus replied:
“No day will show me unequal to such brave work,
if only the dice of Fortune fall out well, not badly.
But topping all your gifts, I beg you, just one more.
My mother, of Priam’s ancient stock—poor woman!
Neither the land of Troy could hold her back,
setting sail with me, nor King Acestes’ city.
Now I leave her, unaware of the risk I run,
whatever it is, with no parting words because—
I swear by the night and your right hand—I cannot
bear the sight of my mother’s tears. But you,
I beg you, comfort her in her frailty, brace her
in desolation. Let me carry this hope of you
and all the bolder I go to face the worst.”
on father’s safe return. By our great household gods,
by Assaracus’ hearth-god and white-haired Vesta’s shrine,
I swear to you both, Nisus, all my hope, my fortune
lies in your laps alone. Just call father back,
bring him back to my eyes. If he returns,
all griefs are gone! Two cups I’ll give you,
struck in silver, ridged with engraving—father
took them both when Arisba fell—and a pair of tripods,
two large bars of gold, and a winebowl full of years,
Dido of Sidon’s gift.
“But if, in fact, we capture
Italy, seize the scepter in triumph, allot the plunder . . .
You’ve seen the stallion Turnus rides, the armor he sports,
all gold—that mount, the shield, the blood-red plumes,
I exempt from the lot. Your trophies, Nisus, now.
Also, father will give twelve women, beauties all,
and a dozen captive soldiers, each in armor—more,
whatever lands their King Latinus claims for himself.
But you, Euryalus, you who outstrip me by a year,
I admire you, I receive you with all my heart,
through thick and thin embrace you as my comrade.
Never without you, when I am bent on glory,
whether in word or action, peace or war,
you have my trust forever.”
Euryalus replied:
“No day will show me unequal to such brave work,
if only the dice of Fortune fall out well, not badly.
But topping all your gifts, I beg you, just one more.
My mother, of Priam’s ancient stock—poor woman!
Neither the land of Troy could hold her back,
setting sail with me, nor King Acestes’ city.
Now I leave her, unaware of the risk I run,
whatever it is, with no parting words because—
I swear by the night and your right hand—I cannot
bear the sight of my mother’s tears. But you,
I beg you, comfort her in her frailty, brace her
in desolation. Let me carry this hope of you
and all the bolder I go to face the worst.”
The Trojans were moved to tears, handsome Iulus
the most of all. Touched by love for his own father,
this image stirred his heart. “Trust me,” he said,
“all I do will be worthy of your great exploit:
your mother will be mine in all but the name, Creusa.
No small thanks awaits the one who bore such a son.
Whatever comes of your exploit—I swear by my life,
the oath my father used to take—all I promise you
on your return in glory, the same rewards await
your mother and your kin.”
He weeps as he speaks
and draws from his shoulder-strap a sword of gold,
forged by one Lycaon of Crete: marvelous work,
fitted with ivory sheath and set for action.
Mnestheus hands Nisus a fine shaggy hide
stripped from a lion, and trusty old Aletes
exchanges helmets with him. Now, both armed,
they move out at once, and as they go an escort
of ranking Trojans, warriors young and old,
sees them off at the gates with many prayers.
Yet first the handsome Iulus—beyond his years,
filled with a man’s courage, a man’s concerns as well—
gives them many messages to carry to his father.
But the winds scatter them all, all useless,
fling them into the clouds.
Now out they go,
crossing the trench and threading through the dark,
heading toward the enemy camp, destined to die
but make a bloodbath first. Bodies everywhere—
they can see them stretched in the grasses, sunk
in a drunken stupor, chariot poles tipped up on shore,
bodies of fighters trapped in the wheels and harness,
weapons and winecups too are strewn about . . .
and Nisus speaks up first: “Euryalus, now
for the daring sword-hand. Now the moment calls.
Here’s the way. You keep guard at our back,
so no patrol can attack us from the rear—
you be on the alert,
a hawk’s eye all around. I’ll make a slaughter,
cut you a good clean swath.”
Nisus breaks off
as he plants his sword in lofty Rhamnes,
propped up by chance on a pile of rugs,
his chest puffed out, and heaving, dead asleep,
a king himself, King Turnus’ favorite prophet,
but no prophecy now could save him from his death.
Three aides at his side the Trojan killed—off guard,
sprawled in a snarl of arms, then Remus’ armor-bearer,
then his charioteer, he caught him under his horses’ hoofs.
He hacks their lolling necks and lops the head of their master,
leaves the trunk of him spouting blood, the earth and bedding
warmed with the wet black gore. He cuts down Lamyrus too,
Lamus and Serranus—well-built soldier, he’d gamed away
till late at night and now lay numb in a drunken haze.
Lucky man, if only he’d stretched his gambling through the night
and played it out till dawn! Nisus, wild as a starved lion
raging through crowded pens as the hunger drives him mad,
and he mangles sheep, dumb with terror, rips to shreds
their tender flesh and roars from bloody jaws.
No less
bloody Euryalus’ work—the man’s on fire, storming
down on the common ruck before him, Fadus, Herbesus,
Rhoetus, Abaris, quite unconscious now. But Rhoetus,
waking, witnessed it all and cowered, crouching
behind an enormous mixing-bowl, but Euryalus pounced
as Rhoetus rose—he rushed him, drove a sword in his heart,
up to the hilt then wrenched it back, dripping death.
Rhoetus vomits his red lifeblood, spewing out
gore and wine mixed with the man’s last gasp.
But still Euryalus glowed with a killer’s stealth,
he was stalking nearer Messapus’ henchmen now,
he could spot the outer campfires flickering low
and horses tethered securely, grazing grass—the cavalry—
when Nisus, sensing his comrade run amok with bloodlust,
cuts him short: “Call it quits, the dawn’s at hand,
our old foe. Enough revenge. We’ve hacked a path
through enemy lines—enough!”
And they leave behind
a haul of soldiers’ armor struck in solid silver,
mixing-bowls in the bargain, gorgeous rugs.
But Euryalus tears off Rhamnes’ battle-emblems
and gold-studded belt: gifts that lavish Caedicus
once sent Remulus of Tibur, hoping to seal a pact
with a friend then far away, and Remulus, dying,
passed them on to his grandson and, once he died,
the Latins commandeered them in battle, spoils of war.
Euryalus seizes them, fits them onto his gallant shoulders
all for nothing. He dons Messapus’ helmet crested
with tossing plumes. The raiders quit the camp
and race for safety.
But just then a troop
of cavalry sent on ahead from the Latin city—
the rest of the army waits, poised on the plain—
comes riding in with messages for King Turnus.
Three hundred strong, all men bearing shields
with Volcens in command. Just nearing the camp,
just coming up to the earthworks when they spot
at a distance two men swerving off to the left.
The helmet—Euryalus forgot—it glints in the dark,
it gives him away, it’s caught in a shaft of moonlight.
A sight not lost on Volcens, shouting out from the vanguard:
“Soldiers, halt!
Why on the road?—in armor!
Who are you?
Where are you headed?” No answer given. Off they scurry
into the woods and trust to night. But the troopers
fan out left and right, blocking the well-known paths,
the sentries ringing all ways out. The dense woods
spread far, the thickets and black ilex bristle,
briars crowd the entire place, with a rare track
showing a faint trace through the thick blind glades.
The dark branches, the heft of the plunder, all weigh down
Euryalus—fear leads him astray in the tangled paths.
But Nisus gets away, unthinkingly flees the foe
to a place called Alban later, named for Alba then,
a spot where Latinus kept his sturdy sheepfolds.
Here Nisus halts, looking back for his lost friend,
no use—
“My poor Euryalus! Where did I lose you?
Where can I find you now?”
Nisus already picks his way,
wheeling, groping back through the whole deceptive wood,
retracing, scouring his tracks through the silent brush . . .
he hears hoofbeats, hears a commotion, orders, hot pursuit.
The next moment a cry hits his ears, and look, Euryalus!
Caught by the full band, undone by the dark, the place,
the treachery, sudden crashing attack—he’s overwhelmed,
they’re dragging him off, struggling, desperate, doomed.
What can Nisus do? How can he save his young friend—
what force, weapons, what bold stroke?
Pitch himself at the swords and die at once?
Race through wounds to a swift and noble death?
Quickly cocking his arm, his lance brandished high,
he cranes up at the moon and prays his heart out:
“You, goddess, Latona’s daughter! Stand by me now!
Help me now in the thick of danger—glory of stars,
guard of the groves! If father Hyrtacus ever
gave you gifts in my name to grace your altars,
if I have ever adorned them with hunting trophies,
hanging them from your dome, fixing them to your roofs—
help me rout my enemies! Wing my spears through the air!”
the most of all. Touched by love for his own father,
this image stirred his heart. “Trust me,” he said,
“all I do will be worthy of your great exploit:
your mother will be mine in all but the name, Creusa.
No small thanks awaits the one who bore such a son.
Whatever comes of your exploit—I swear by my life,
the oath my father used to take—all I promise you
on your return in glory, the same rewards await
your mother and your kin.”
He weeps as he speaks
and draws from his shoulder-strap a sword of gold,
forged by one Lycaon of Crete: marvelous work,
fitted with ivory sheath and set for action.
Mnestheus hands Nisus a fine shaggy hide
stripped from a lion, and trusty old Aletes
exchanges helmets with him. Now, both armed,
they move out at once, and as they go an escort
of ranking Trojans, warriors young and old,
sees them off at the gates with many prayers.
Yet first the handsome Iulus—beyond his years,
filled with a man’s courage, a man’s concerns as well—
gives them many messages to carry to his father.
But the winds scatter them all, all useless,
fling them into the clouds.
Now out they go,
crossing the trench and threading through the dark,
heading toward the enemy camp, destined to die
but make a bloodbath first. Bodies everywhere—
they can see them stretched in the grasses, sunk
in a drunken stupor, chariot poles tipped up on shore,
bodies of fighters trapped in the wheels and harness,
weapons and winecups too are strewn about . . .
and Nisus speaks up first: “Euryalus, now
for the daring sword-hand. Now the moment calls.
Here’s the way. You keep guard at our back,
so no patrol can attack us from the rear—
you be on the alert,
a hawk’s eye all around. I’ll make a slaughter,
cut you a good clean swath.”
Nisus breaks off
as he plants his sword in lofty Rhamnes,
propped up by chance on a pile of rugs,
his chest puffed out, and heaving, dead asleep,
a king himself, King Turnus’ favorite prophet,
but no prophecy now could save him from his death.
Three aides at his side the Trojan killed—off guard,
sprawled in a snarl of arms, then Remus’ armor-bearer,
then his charioteer, he caught him under his horses’ hoofs.
He hacks their lolling necks and lops the head of their master,
leaves the trunk of him spouting blood, the earth and bedding
warmed with the wet black gore. He cuts down Lamyrus too,
Lamus and Serranus—well-built soldier, he’d gamed away
till late at night and now lay numb in a drunken haze.
Lucky man, if only he’d stretched his gambling through the night
and played it out till dawn! Nisus, wild as a starved lion
raging through crowded pens as the hunger drives him mad,
and he mangles sheep, dumb with terror, rips to shreds
their tender flesh and roars from bloody jaws.
No less
bloody Euryalus’ work—the man’s on fire, storming
down on the common ruck before him, Fadus, Herbesus,
Rhoetus, Abaris, quite unconscious now. But Rhoetus,
waking, witnessed it all and cowered, crouching
behind an enormous mixing-bowl, but Euryalus pounced
as Rhoetus rose—he rushed him, drove a sword in his heart,
up to the hilt then wrenched it back, dripping death.
Rhoetus vomits his red lifeblood, spewing out
gore and wine mixed with the man’s last gasp.
But still Euryalus glowed with a killer’s stealth,
he was stalking nearer Messapus’ henchmen now,
he could spot the outer campfires flickering low
and horses tethered securely, grazing grass—the cavalry—
when Nisus, sensing his comrade run amok with bloodlust,
cuts him short: “Call it quits, the dawn’s at hand,
our old foe. Enough revenge. We’ve hacked a path
through enemy lines—enough!”
And they leave behind
a haul of soldiers’ armor struck in solid silver,
mixing-bowls in the bargain, gorgeous rugs.
But Euryalus tears off Rhamnes’ battle-emblems
and gold-studded belt: gifts that lavish Caedicus
once sent Remulus of Tibur, hoping to seal a pact
with a friend then far away, and Remulus, dying,
passed them on to his grandson and, once he died,
the Latins commandeered them in battle, spoils of war.
Euryalus seizes them, fits them onto his gallant shoulders
all for nothing. He dons Messapus’ helmet crested
with tossing plumes. The raiders quit the camp
and race for safety.
But just then a troop
of cavalry sent on ahead from the Latin city—
the rest of the army waits, poised on the plain—
comes riding in with messages for King Turnus.
Three hundred strong, all men bearing shields
with Volcens in command. Just nearing the camp,
just coming up to the earthworks when they spot
at a distance two men swerving off to the left.
The helmet—Euryalus forgot—it glints in the dark,
it gives him away, it’s caught in a shaft of moonlight.
A sight not lost on Volcens, shouting out from the vanguard:
“Soldiers, halt!
Why on the road?—in armor!
Who are you?
Where are you headed?” No answer given. Off they scurry
into the woods and trust to night. But the troopers
fan out left and right, blocking the well-known paths,
the sentries ringing all ways out. The dense woods
spread far, the thickets and black ilex bristle,
briars crowd the entire place, with a rare track
showing a faint trace through the thick blind glades.
The dark branches, the heft of the plunder, all weigh down
Euryalus—fear leads him astray in the tangled paths.
But Nisus gets away, unthinkingly flees the foe
to a place called Alban later, named for Alba then,
a spot where Latinus kept his sturdy sheepfolds.
Here Nisus halts, looking back for his lost friend,
no use—
“My poor Euryalus! Where did I lose you?
Where can I find you now?”
Nisus already picks his way,
wheeling, groping back through the whole deceptive wood,
retracing, scouring his tracks through the silent brush . . .
he hears hoofbeats, hears a commotion, orders, hot pursuit.
The next moment a cry hits his ears, and look, Euryalus!
Caught by the full band, undone by the dark, the place,
the treachery, sudden crashing attack—he’s overwhelmed,
they’re dragging him off, struggling, desperate, doomed.
What can Nisus do? How can he save his young friend—
what force, weapons, what bold stroke?
Pitch himself at the swords and die at once?
Race through wounds to a swift and noble death?
Quickly cocking his arm, his lance brandished high,
he cranes up at the moon and prays his heart out:
“You, goddess, Latona’s daughter! Stand by me now!
Help me now in the thick of danger—glory of stars,
guard of the groves! If father Hyrtacus ever
gave you gifts in my name to grace your altars,
if I have ever adorned them with hunting trophies,
hanging them from your dome, fixing them to your roofs—
help me rout my enemies! Wing my spears through the air!”
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