Aeneid

Virgil

Vergil. The Aeneid of Virgil. Williams, Theodore, C, translator. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1910.

Cupid straightway
obeyed his mother's word and bore the gifts,
each worthy of a king, as offerings
to greet the Tyrian throne; and as he went
he clasped Achates' friendly hand, and smiled.
Father Aeneas now, and all his band
of Trojan chivalry, at social feast,
on lofty purple-pillowed couches lie;
deft slaves fresh water on their fingers pour,
and from reed-woven basketry renew
the plenteous bread, or bring smooth napery
of softest weave; fifty handmaidens serve,
whose task it is to range in order fair
the varied banquet, or at altars bright
throw balm and incense on the sacred fires.
A hundred more serve with an equal band
of beauteous pages, whose obedient skill
piles high the generous board and fills the bowl.
The Tyrians also to the festal hall
come thronging, and receive their honor due,
each on his painted couch; with wondering eyes
Aeneas' gifts they view, and wondering more,
mark young Iulus' radiant brows divine,
his guileful words, the golden pall he bears,
and broidered veil with saffron lilies bound.
The Tyrian Queen ill-starred, already doomed
to her approaching woe, scanned ardently,
with kindling cheek and never-sated eyes,
the precious gifts and wonder-gifted boy.
He round Aeneas' neck his arms entwined,
fed the deep yearning of his seeming sire,
then sought the Queen's embrace; her eyes, her soul
clave to him as she strained him to her breast.
For Dido knew not in that fateful hour
how great a god betrayed her. He began,
remembering his mother (she who bore
the lovely Acidalian Graces three),
to make the dear name of Sichaeus fade,
and with new life, new love, to re-possess
her Iong-since slumbering bosom's Iost desire.

When the main feast is over, they replace
the banquet with huge bowls, and crown the wine
with ivy-leaf and rose. Loud rings the roof
with echoing voices; from the gilded vault
far-blazing cressets swing, or torches bright
drive the dark night away. The Queen herself
called for her golden chalice studded round
with jewels, and o'er-brimming it with wine
as Belus and his proud successors use,
commanded silence, and this utterance made:
“Great Jove, of whom are hospitable laws
for stranger-guest, may this auspicious day
bless both our Tyrians and the wanderers
from Trojan shore. May our posterity
keep this remembrance! Let kind Juno smile,
and Bacchus, Iord of mirth, attend us here!
And, O ye Tyrians, come one and all,
and with well-omened words our welcome share!”
So saying, she outpoured the sacred drop
due to the gods, and lightly from the rim
sipped the first taste, then unto Bitias gave
with urgent cheer; he seized it, nothing loth,
quaffed deep and long the foaming, golden bowl,
then passed to others. On a gilded Iyre
the flowing-haired Iopas woke a song
taught him by famous Atlas: of the moon
he sang, the wanderer, and what the sun's
vast labors be; then would his music tell
whence man and beast were born, and whence were bred
clouds, lightnings, and Arcturus' stormful sign,
the Hyades, rain-stars, and nigh the Pole
the great and lesser Wain; for well he knew
why colder suns make haste to quench their orb
in ocean-stream, and wintry nights be slow.
Loudly the Tyrians their minstrel praised,
and Troy gave prompt applause. Dido the while
with varying talk prolonged the fateful night,
and drank both long and deep of love and wine.
Now many a tale of Priam would she crave,
of Hector many; or what radiant arms
Aurora's son did wear; what were those steeds
of Diomed, or what the stature seemed
of great Achilles. “Come, illustrious guest,
begin the tale,” she said, “begin and tell
the perfidy of Greece, thy people's fall,
and all thy wanderings. For now,—Ah, me!
Seven times the summer's burning stars have seen
thee wandering far o'er alien lands and seas.”

A general silence fell; and all gave ear,
while, from his lofty station at the feast,
Father Aeneas with these words began :—
A grief unspeakable thy gracious word,
o sovereign lady, bids my heart live o'er:
how Asia's glory and afflicted throne
the Greek flung down; which woeful scene I saw,
and bore great part in each event I tell.
But O! in telling, what Dolopian churl,
or Myrmidon, or gory follower
of grim Ulysses could the tears restrain?
'T is evening; lo! the dews of night begin
to fall from heaven, and yonder sinking stars
invite to slumber. But if thy heart yearn
to hear in brief of all our evil days
and Troy's last throes, although the memory
makes my soul shudder and recoil in pain,
I will essay it. Wearied of the war,
and by ill-fortune crushed, year after year,
the kings of Greece, by Pallas' skill divine,
build a huge horse, a thing of mountain size,
with timbered ribs of fir. They falsely say
it has been vowed to Heaven for safe return,
and spread this lie abroad. Then they conceal
choice bands of warriors in the deep, dark side,
and fill the caverns of that monstrous womb
with arms and soldiery. In sight of Troy
lies Tenedos, an island widely famed
and opulent, ere Priam's kingdom fell,
but a poor haven now, with anchorage
not half secure; 't was thitherward they sailed,
and lurked unseen by that abandoned shore.
We deemed them launched away and sailing far,
bound homeward for Mycenae. Teucria then
threw off her grief inveterate; all her gates
swung wide; exultant went we forth, and saw
the Dorian camp untenanted, the siege
abandoned, and the shore without a keel.
“Here!” cried we, “the Dolopian pitched; the host
of fierce Achilles here; here lay the fleet;
and here the battling lines to conflict ran.”
Others, all wonder, scan the gift of doom
by virgin Pallas given, and view with awe
that horse which loomed so large. Thymoetes then
bade lead it through the gates, and set on high
within our citadel,—or traitor he,
or tool of fate in Troy's predestined fall.
But Capys, as did all of wiser heart,
bade hurl into the sea the false Greek gift,
or underneath it thrust a kindling flame
or pierce the hollow ambush of its womb
with probing spear. Yet did the multitude
veer round from voice to voice and doubt of all.