Gawin Douglas - The Æneid of Virgil Translated Into Scottish Verse

Wyth this, the hevyn sa quhyrlit about his speir
Out of the sey the dym nycht gan appeir,
With hir dyrk weid bath erth and firmament
Involwyng, by hir secret schaddowis quent
Covering Gregion and Myrmydonys slyght;
Within the wallis to bed went euere wyght:
Still warin all, and soft vapour of sleip
Apon thar wery lymmys fast doith creip.
Be than the army of mony a Gregioun,
Stuffit in schippis, come fra Tenedon,
Stil, vnder frendly sylens of the moyn,
To the kend costis speding thame ful soyn;
And quhen the takynnyng, or the bail of fyre,
Rays from the kyngis schip, vp byrnand schyre,
Of the goddis be frawart destany
Synon preservit couth this syng aspy;
The fyrryn closeris oppynnys, but noys or dyn,
And Grekis, hyd the horssis cost within,
Patent war maid to fight and to the ayr.
Joyfull and blyth, from that boys statw thar,
Discending thai downlat by cordis atanys
Thersander and Sthenelus, twa capitanys,
The dowr Vlixes als, and Athamas,
Pelyus nevo Pyrrus, and kyng Thoas,
The first Machaon, and Menelaus,
And the engyne forgyar hait Epeus;
The cite thai invaid, and fast infest,
With wyne and sleip yberyit and at rest.
Slane ar the wachis liggyng on the wall;
Opnyt the portis, leyt in thar feris all,
Togidder jonyt euery cumpany:
Throu the cite sone rays the noys and scry.
Thys was that tyme quhen the fyrst quyete
Of naturale sleip, to quham na gyft mair swete,
Stelis on fordoverit mortale creaturis,
And in thar swewynnys metis quent figuris.
Lo! in my sleip, I se stand me befor,
As to my syght, maist lamentabil Hector,
Wyth large flude of teris, and al besprent,
As he, vmquhile, eftyr the cart was rent,
With barknyt blude and powder: O God, quhat skath!
Boldynnyt ful gret war feit and lymmys baith,
By bandis of the cordis quhilk thame drewch.
Ha! walloway! quhat harm and wo eneuch!
Quhat ane was he! how far changit from joy
Of that Hector, quhilum returnyt to Troy,
Cled with the spulȝe of hym Achillys,
Or quhen the Troiane fyry blesis, I wys,
On Grekis schippis, thyk fald he slang that day
Quhen that he slew the Duke Prothesylay!
Hys fax and berd was fadyt quhar he stude,
And all hys hayr was glotnyt ful of blude;
Full mony woundis on his body bayr he,
Quhilk, in defens of hys natyve cuntre,
About the wallys of Troy ressavyt he had.
Me thocht, I first, wepyng and na thing glaid,
Rycht reuerently begouth to clepe this man,
And with sik dolorus wordis thus began:
O thou, of Troy the lemand lamp of lycht!
O Troiane hope, maist ferm defens in fyght!
Quhat has the tareit? quhy maid thou this delay,
Hector, quham we desyrit mony a day?
From quhat cuntre this wys cummyn art thou?
That, eftir feil slauchter of thi frendis now,
And of thi folkis and cite efter huge payn,
Quhen we beyn irkit, we se the heir agayn!
Quhat hard myschance fylyt so thi plesand face?
Or quhy se I tha feil woundis, allace!
Onto thir wordis he nane answer maid,
Nor to my voyd demandis na thyng said,
Bot with ane hevy murmour, as it war draw
Furth of the boddum of his breste weil law,
Allace! allace! thou goddes son, quod he,
Salf thi self from this fyre, and fast thou fle;
Our ennemys has thir worthy wallys tane;
Troy from the top down fallys, and all is gane.
Enewch has lestit of Priamus the ryng,
The fatis wil na mair it induryng.
Gif Pargama, the Troiane wallys wyght,
Mycht langar haue beyn fendit into fyght,
With this rycht hand thai suld haue be defendit;
Adew! fair weil! for euer it is endit.
In thi keping committis Troy, but les,
Hir kyndly goddis clepit Penates;
Tak thir in falloschip of thi fatis all,
And large wallis for thame seik thou sall,
Quhilk at the last thi self sall beld vp hie,
Eftir lang wandryng and errour our the see.
Thus said Hectour, and schew furth in his handis
The dreidfull valis, wymplis, and garlandis
Of Vesta, goddes of the erth and fyre,
Quhilk in hir tempil eternaly byrnys schyre.

In seyr placis throu the cite, wyth this,
The murmur rays, ay mair and mair, I wys,
And clerar wolx the rumour and the dyne:
So that, suppos Anchysis my faderis In
With treys abowt stude secrete by the way,
So bustuus grew the noys and furyus fray,
And ratlyng of thar armour on the streit,
Affrayit, I glystnyt of sleip, and start on feit;
Syne to the hows hed ascendis onone,
With eris prest stude thar als stil as stone.
A sownd or swowch I hard thar at the last,
Lyke quhen the fyre, be fellon wyndis blast,
Is drevyn amyd the flat of cornys rank;
Or quhen the burn on spait hurlys down the bank,
Owder throu a watir brek, or spait of flude,
Ryvand vp rede erd, as it war wod,
Down dyngand cornys, all the pleuch laubour atanys,
And dryvis on swyftly stokkis, treis and stanys:
The sylly hyrd, seand this grysly syght,
Set on a pynnakill of sum cragis hycht,
Al abasit, nocht knawand quhat this may meyn,
Wondris of the sovnd and ferly at he has seyn.
Rychtso I than, by cleyr takynnys enew,
Manifestly al the Grekis falshed knew;
Thair hyd dissait wolx patent than to ws.
The nobil lugyng of worthy Deyphobus
Was fal to grond, the fyre vpspred onone;
The nixt hows byrnys of Vcalegon:
The large seys and costis Sygean,
Throu lycht of flambis and brycht fyris, schane.
Vpsprang the cry of men and trumpys blist:
As out of mynd, myne armour on I thryst,
Thocht be na rayson: persave I mycht, but fail,
Quhat than the fors of armys couth avail;
Ȝit, hand for hand, to thryng out throw the pres
With my feris, and rynnyng or we ces
To the castel, our hartis brynt for desyre;
The fury cachit our myndis hait as fyre,
So that we thocht maist semly in a feld
To de feghtand, enarmyt vnder scheld.
Bot lo! Panthus, slippit the Grekis speris,
Panthus Othriades son, that, mony ȝheris,
Was of the strenth, and Phebus tempill preste,
Into his armys, lappit to his breist,
The haly rellykkis of the sanctuary,
And eik our venquist goddis, by and by
With hym beryng, and, in his hand alsso,
Harlyng hym efter his litil nevo,
Cummys lyke a wodman til our ȝet rynnyng.
How now, Panthus, quhat tythingis do ȝe bryng?
In quhat estait is sanctuary and haly geir?
To quhilk other fortres sall we speir?
Skars said I this, quhen, gowlyng petuusly,
With thir wordis he answerd me in hy:
The lattir day is cummyn of Dardanus end,
The fatale tyme quham na walyng may mend;
We war Troianys; vmquhile was Ilion;
The schynand glory of Phrygianys now is gone:
Fers Jupiter to Grece all has translait;
Our al the cite, kyndillit in flambis hait,
The Grekis now ar lordis but ony fors.
Within the wallis, ȝone mekil standand hors
Ȝettis furth armyt men; and now Synon
Is victour haill, kyndilland eueron
The new fyris glaidly, as it war sport.
At athir ȝet beyn ruschit in sik a sort,
Sa mony thousandis come neuer from Myce nor Arge;
Sum cumpanyis, with speris, lance and targe,
Walkis wachand in rewis and narow stretis;
Arrayit batalis, with drawyn swerdis at gletis,
Standis reddy forto styk, gor and sla:
Skarsly the wachis of the portis twa
Begouth defens and melle as thai mycht,
Quhen blyndlyngis in the batail fey tha fyght.
Throu thir wordis of Panthus, and goddis heste,
Amyd the flambis and armour in I preste;
Ruschand thidder quhar sorofull Erynnys,
The noys and brute me drew, and quhar, I wys,
The clamour hard I rys vp to the ayr.
And of our fallowis to me come twa pair:
Repheus fyrst, be the lycht of the moyn,
Valiant in armys Ephitus followit soyn;
Hypanys syne, and eik Dymas in hy,
Fast to our syde adionyt by and by;
Mygdoneus son alsso, Chorebus ȝyng,
Quhilk in tha days, for fey luf hait byrnyng
Of Cassandra, to Troy was cummyn that ȝeir,
To help Priam and Troianys in the weir;
Onhappy he was, wald not beleif fermly
Hys sayd spowsis command and prophecy!
Quhen I thame saw this wys adionyt to me,
And wilful forto stryke in the melle,
Thus I begouth thame forthirmar to steir:
O ȝe maist forsy ȝong men that beyn heir,
Wyth brestis strang, and sa bald curage hie,
Invayn ȝe pres to succur this cite
Quhilk byrnys al in fyre and flambys rede;
The goddis al ar fled out of this stede,
Throu quhais mycht stude our empyre mony day:
Now all thar templis and altaris waist leif thai.
Bot gif ȝour desyre be sa fermly prest
To follow me dar tak the vtyrmest,
Quhat fortune is betyd, al thingis ȝe se;
Thar is na mair; lat ws togidder de,
And in amyd our ennemyis army schute.
To venquist folkis is a comfort and bute
Nane hope of help to beleif, or reskew.
Swa, with thir wordis, the ȝong menis curage grew,
That in the dyrk lyke ravenus wolffis, on rawis,
Quham the blynd fury of thar empty mawis
Dryvis furth of thar den to seik thar pray,
Thar litil quhelpis left with dry throtis quhil day;
So, throw the wapynnys and our fays went we,
Apon the ded ondowtit, and wald nocht fle.
Amyd the cite we held the master streit,
The dyrk nycht hyd ws with cloys schaddowis meit.