A) Iliad 20.288-308: Aeneas would then have struck Achilles as he was springing towards him, either on the helmet, or on the shield that covered him, and Achilles would have closed with him and dispatched him with his sword, had not Poseidon lord of the earthquake been quick to mark, and said forthwith to the immortals, "Alas, I feel grief [akhos] for great Aeneas, who will now go down to the house of Hades, vanquished by the son of Peleus. Fool that he was to give ear to the counsel of Apollo. Apollo will never save him from destruction. Why should this man have grief [akhos] when he is guiltless, to no purpose, and in another's quarrel? Has he not at all times offered acceptable sacrifice to the gods that dwell in heaven? Let us then snatch him from death's jaws, lest the son of Kronos be angry should Achilles slay him. It is fated, moreover, that he should escape, and that the race of Dardanos, whom Zeus loved above all the sons born to him of mortal women, shall not perish utterly without seed or sign. For now indeed has Zeus hated the blood of Priam, while Aeneas shall reign over the Trojans, he and his children's children that shall be born hereafter."

B) Aeneid 1.142-156: So Neptune speaks and, quicker than his tongue, brings quiet to the swollen waters, sets the gathered clouds to flight, calls back the sun. Together, then, Cymothoë and Triton, thrusting, dislodge the ships from jagged crags. But now the god himself takes up his trident to lift the galleys, and he clears a channel across the vast sandbank. He stills the sea and glides along the waters on light wheels. And just as, often, when a crowd of people is rocked by rebellion, and the rabble rage in their minds, and firebrands and stones fly fast - for fury finds its weapons - if, by chance, they see a man remarkable for righteousness and service, they are silent and stand attentively; and he controls their passion by his words and cools their spirits: so all the clamor of the sea subsided after the Father, gazing on the waters and riding under cloudless skies, had guided his horses, let his willing chariot run. (trans. A. Mandelbaum [Bantam Books, 1971])

C) Aeneid 2.469-558: And then, before the very porch, along the outer portal Pyrrhus leaps with pride; his armor glitters with a brazen brilliance he is like a snake that, fed on poisonous plants and swollen underground all winter, now his slough cast off, made new and bright with youth, uncoils his slippery body to light; his breast erect, he towers toward the sun; he flickers from his mouth a three-forked tongue.

… Perhaps you will now ask the end of Priam. When he had seen his beaten city ruined - the wrenchings of the gates, the enemy among the sanctuaries - then in vain the old man throws his armor, long unused, across his shoulders, tottering with age; and he girds on his useless sword; about to die, he hurries toward the crowd of Greeks.

Beneath the naked round of heaven, at the center of the palace, stood a giant shrine; at its side an ancient laurel [tree] leaned across the altar stone, and it embraced the household gods within its shadow. Here around that useless altar, Hecuba, together with her daughters - just like doves when driven headlong by a dark storm - huddled; and they held fast the statues of the gods. But when she saw her Priam putting on the armor he had worn when he was young, she cried: "Poor husband, what wild thought drives you to wear these weapons now? Where would you rush? This is no time for such defense and help, not even were my Hector here himself. Come near and pray: this altar shall yet save us all, or you shall die together with us." When this was said she took the old man to her and drew him down upon the sacred seat.

But then Polites, one of Priam's sons who had escaped from Pyrrhus' slaughter, down long porticoes, past enemies and arrows, races, wounded, across empty courts. But after him, and hot to thrust, is Pyrrhus; now, even now, he clutches, closing in; he presses with his shaft until at last Polites falls before his parents' eyes, within their presence; he pours out his life in streams of blood. Though in the fist of death, at this Priam does not spare voice or wrath: "If there is any goodness in the heavens to oversee such acts, for this offense and outrage may you find your fitting thanks and proper payment from the gods, for you have made me see the murder of my son, defiled a father's face with death. Achilles - you lie to call him father - never dealt with Priam so - and I, his enemy; for he had shame before the claims and trust that are a suppliant's. He handed back for burial the bloodless corpse of Hector and sent me off in safety to my kingdom." The old man spoke; his feeble spear flew off - harmless; the hoarse bronze beat it back at once; it dangled, useless now, from the shield's boss. And Pyrrhus: "Carry off these tidings; go and bring this message to my father, son of Peleus; and remember, let him know my sorry doings, how degenerate is Neoptolemus. Now die." This said, he dragged him to the very altar stone, with Priam shuddering and slipping in the blood that streamed from his own son. And Pyrrhus with left hand clutched tight the hair of Priam; his right hand drew his glistening blade, and then he buried it hilt-high in the king's side. This was the end of Priam's destinies, the close that fell to him by fate: to see his Troy in flames and Pergamus laid low - who once was proud king over many nations and lands of Asia. Now he lies along the shore, a giant trunk, his head torn from his shoulders, as a corpse without a name. (trans. A. Mandelbaum [Bantam Books, 1971])

D) Aeneid 12.930-952: Then humble, suppliant, he (Turnus) lifts his eyes and, stretching out his hand, entreating, cries: "I have indeed deserved this; I do not appeal against it; use your chance. But if there is a thought of a dear parent's grief that can now touch you, then I beg you, pity old Daunus - in Anchises you had such a father - send me back, or, if you wish, send back my lifeless body to my kin. For you have won, and the Ausonians have seen me, beaten, stretch my hands; Lavinia is yours; then do not press your hatred further."

Aeneas stood, ferocious in his armor; his eyes were restless and he stayed his hand; and as he hesitated, Turnus' words began to move him more and more - until high on the Latin's shoulder he made out the luckless belt of Pallas, of the boy, whom Turnus had defeated, wounded, stretched upon the battlefield, from whom he took this fatal sign to wear upon his back, this girdle glittering with familiar studs. 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. (trans. A. Mandelbaum [Bantam Books, 1971])

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More Resources

If you would like the read the Aeneid in its entirety, I recommend the translation of Allen Mandelbaum (easily obtainable, published by Bantam Books). The only complete on-line translation available is that of Dryden (from the 17th century, see the Perseus Project or the Internet Classics Archive, or follow the links below).

Check out Virgil.org and the Virgil Homepage for texts and many other Virgil resources and links.