Aeneid
Virgil
Vergil. The Aeneid of Virgil. Williams, Theodore, C, translator. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1910.
- When Asia's power and Priam's race and throne,
- though guiltless, were cast down by Heaven's decree,
- when Ilium proud had fallen, and Neptune's Troy
- in smouldering ash lay level with the ground,
- to wandering exile then and regions wild
- the gods by many an augury and sign
- compelled us forth. We fashioned us a fleet
- within Antander's haven, in the shade
- of Phrygian Ida's peak (though knowing not
- whither our fate would drive, or where afford
- a resting-place at last), and my small band
- of warriors I arrayed. As soon as smiled
- the light of summer's prime, my reverend sire
- Anchises bade us on the winds of Fate
- to spread all sail. Through tears I saw recede
- my native shore, the haven and the plains
- where once was Troy. An exile on the seas,
- with son and followers and household shrines,
- and Troy's great guardian-gods, I took my way.
- There is a far-off land where warriors breed,
- where Thracians till the boundless plains, and where
- the cruel-eyed Lycurgus once was king.
- Troy's old ally it was, its deities
- had brotherhood with ours before our fall.
- Thither I fared, and on its winding shores
- set my first walls, though partial Fate opposed
- our entrance there. In memory of my name
- I called its people the Aeneadae.
- Unto Dione's daughter, and all gods
- who blessed our young emprise, due gifts were paid;
- and unto the supreme celestial King
- I slew a fair white bull beside the sea.
- But haply near my place of sacrifice
- a mound was seen, and on the summit grew
- a copse of corner and a myrtle tree,
- with spear-like limbs outbranched on every side.
- This I approached, and tried to rend away
- from its deep roots that grove of gloomy green,
- and dress my altars in its leafy boughs.
- But, horrible to tell, a prodigy
- smote my astonished eyes: for the first tree,
- which from the earth with broken roots I drew,
- dripped black with bloody drops, and gave the ground
- dark stains of gore. Cold horror shook my frame,
- and every vein within me froze for fear.
- Once more I tried from yet another stock
- the pliant stem to tear, and to explore
- the mystery within,—but yet again
- the foul bark oozed with clots of blackest gore!
- From my deep-shaken soul I made a prayer
- to all the woodland nymphs and to divine
- Gradivus, patron of the Thracian plain,
- to bless this sight, to lift its curse away.
- But when at a third sheaf of myrtle spears
- I fell upon my knees, and tugged amain
- against the adverse ground (I dread to tell!),
- a moaning and a wail from that deep grave
- burst forth and murmured in my listening ear:
- “Why wound me, great Aeneas, in my woe?
- O, spare the dead, nor let thy holy hands
- do sacrilege and sin! I, Trojan-born,
- was kin of thine. This blood is not of trees.
- Haste from this murderous shore, this land of greed.
- O, I am Polydorus! Haste away!
- Here was I pierced; a crop of iron spears
- has grown up o'er my breast, and multiplied
- to all these deadly javelins, keen and strong.”
- Then stood I, burdened with dark doubt and fear
- I quailed, my hair rose and my utterance choked.