Aeneid

Virgil

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

When from the deep the shores had faded far,
and only sky and sea were round our way,
full in the zenith hung a purple cloud,
storm-laden, dark as night, and every wave
grew black and angry, while perpetual gales
came rolling o'er the main, and mountain-high
the wreckful surges rose; our ships were hurled
wide o'er the whirling waters; thunder-clouds
and misty murk of night made end of all
the light of heaven, save where the rifted storm
flashed with the oft-reiterate shaft of Jove.
Then went we drifting, beaten from our course,
upon a trackless sea. Not even the eyes
of Palinurus could tell night from noon
or ken our way. Three days of blinding dark,
three nights without a star, we roved the seas;
The fourth, land seemed to rise. Far distant hills
and rolling smoke we saw. Down came our sails,
out flew the oars, and with prompt stroke the crews
swept the dark waves and tossed the crested foam.
From such sea-peril safe, I made the shores
of Strophades,—a name the Grecians gave
to islands in the broad Ionic main, —
the Strophades, where dread Celaeno bides,
with other Harpies, who had quit the halls
of stricken Phineus, and for very fear
fled from the routed feast; no prodigy
more vile than these, nor plague more pitiless
ere rose by wrath divine from Stygian wave;
birds seem they, but with face like woman-kind;
foul-flowing bellies, hands with crooked claws,
and ghastly lips they have, with hunger pale.
Scarce had we made the haven, when, behold!
Fair herds of cattle roaming a wide plain,
and horned goats, untended, feeding free
in pastures green, surprised our happy eyes.
with eager blades we ran to take and slay,
asking of every god, and chicfly Jove,
to share the welcome prize: we ranged a feast,
with turf-built couches and a banquet-board
along the curving strand. But in a trice,
down from the high hills swooping horribly,
the Harpies loudly shrieking, flapped their wings,
snatched at our meats, and with infectious touch
polluted all; infernal was their cry,
the stench most vile. Once more in covert far
beneath a caverned rock, and close concealed
with trees and branching shade, we raised aloft
our tables, altars, and rekindled fires.
Once more from haunts unknown the clamorous flock
from every quarter flew, and seized its prey
with taloned feet and carrion lip most foul.
I called my mates to arms and opened war
on that accursed brood. My band obeyed;
and, hiding in deep grass their swords and shields,
in ambush lay. But presently the foe
swept o'er the winding shore with loud alarm :
then from a sentry-crag, Misenus blew
a signal on his hollow horn. My men
flew to the combat strange, and fain would wound
with martial steel those foul birds of the sea;
but on their sides no wounding blade could fall,
nor any plume be marred. In swiftest flight
to starry skies they soared, and left on earth
their half-gnawed, stolen feast, and footprints foul.
Celaeno only on a beetling crag
took lofty perch, and, prophetess of ill,
shrieked malediction from her vulture breast:
“Because of slaughtered kine and ravished herd,
sons of Laomedon, have ye made war?
And will ye from their rightful kingdom drive
the guiltless Harpies? Hear, O, hear my word
(Long in your bosoms may it rankle sore!)
which Jove omnipotent to Phoebus gave,
Phoebus to me: a word of doom, which I,
the Furies' elder sister, here unfold:
‘To Italy ye fare. The willing winds
your call have heard; and ye shall have your prayer
in some Italian haven safely moored.
But never shall ye rear the circling walls
of your own city, till for this our blood
by you unjustly spilt, your famished jaws
bite at your tables, aye,—and half devour.’”

She spoke: her pinions bore her to the grove,
and she was seen no more. But all my band
shuddered with shock of fear in each cold vein;
their drooping spirits trusted swords no more,
but turned to prayers and offerings, asking grace,
scarce knowing if those creatures were divine,
or but vast birds, ill-omened and unclean.
Father Anchises to the gods in heaven
uplifted suppliant hands, and on that shore
due ritual made, crying aloud; “Ye gods
avert this curse, this evil turn away!
Smile, Heaven, upon your faithful votaries.”
Then bade he launch away, the chain undo,
set every cable free and spread all sail.
O'er the white waves we flew, and took our way
where'er the helmsman or the winds could guide.
Now forest-clad Zacynthus met our gaze,
engirdled by the waves; Dulichium,
same, and Neritos, a rocky steep,
uprose. We passed the cliffs of Ithaca
that called Laertes king, and flung our curse
on fierce Ulysses' hearth and native land.
nigh hoar Leucate's clouded crest we drew,
where Phoebus' temple, feared by mariners,
loomed o'er us; thitherward we steered and reached
the little port and town. Our weary fleet
dropped anchor, and lay beached along the strand.

So, safe at land, our hopeless peril past,
we offered thanks to Jove, and kindled high
his altars with our feast and sacrifice;
then, gathering on Actium's holy shore,
made fair solemnities of pomp and game.
My youth, anointing their smooth, naked limbs,
wrestled our wonted way. For glad were we,
who past so many isles of Greece had sped
and 'scaped our circling foes. Now had the sun
rolled through the year's full circle, and the waves
were rough with icy winter's northern gales.
I hung for trophy on that temple door
a swelling shield of brass (which once was worn
by mighty Abas) graven with this line:
SPOIL OF AENEAS FROM TRIUMPHANT FOES.
Then from that haven I command them forth;
my good crews take the thwarts, smiting the sea
with rival strokes, and skim the level main.
Soon sank Phaeacia's wind-swept citadels
out of our view; we skirted the bold shores
of proud Epirus, in Chaonian land,
and made Buthrotum's port and towering town.

Here wondrous tidings met us, that the son
of Priam, Helenus, held kingly sway
o'er many Argive cities, having wed
the Queen of Pyrrhus, great Achilles' son,
and gained his throne; and that Andromache
once more was wife unto a kindred lord.
Amazement held me; all my bosom burned
to see the hero's face and hear this tale
of strange vicissitude. So up I climbed,
leaving the haven, fleet, and friendly shore.
That self-same hour outside the city walls,
within a grove where flowed the mimic stream
of a new Simois, Andromache,
with offerings to the dead, and gifts of woe,
poured forth libation, and invoked the shade
of Hector, at a tomb which her fond grief
had consecrated to perpetual tears,
though void; a mound of fair green turf it stood,
and near it rose twin altars to his name.
She saw me drawing near; our Trojan helms
met her bewildered eyes, and, terror-struck
at the portentous sight, she swooning fell
and lay cold, rigid, lifeless, till at last,
scarce finding voice, her lips addressed me thus :
“Have I true vision? Bringest thou the word
Of truth, O goddess-born? Art still in flesh?
Or if sweet light be fled, my Hector, where?”
With flood of tears she spoke, and all the grove
reechoed to her cry. Scarce could I frame
brief answer to her passion, but replied
with broken voice and accents faltering:
“I live, 't is true. I lengthen out my days
through many a desperate strait. But O, believe
that what thine eyes behold is vision true.
Alas! what lot is thine, that wert unthroned
from such a husband's side? What after-fate
could give thee honor due? Andromache,
once Hector's wife, is Pyrrhus still thy lord?”

With drooping brows and lowly voice she cried :
“O, happy only was that virgin blest,
daughter of Priam, summoned forth to die
in sight of Ilium, on a foeman's tomb!
No casting of the lot her doom decreed,
nor came she to her conqueror's couch a slave.
Myself from burning Ilium carried far
o'er seas and seas, endured the swollen pride
of that young scion of Achilles' race,
and bore him as his slave a son. When he
sued for Hermione, of Leda's line,
and nuptial-bond with Lacedaemon's Iords,
I, the slave-wife, to Helenus was given,
and slave was wed with slave. But afterward
Orestes, crazed by loss of her he loved,
and ever fury-driven from crime to crime,
crept upon Pyrrhus in a careless hour
and murdered him upon his own hearth-stone.
Part of the realm of Neoptolemus
fell thus to Helenus, who called his lands
Chaonian, and in Trojan Chaon's name
his kingdom is Chaonia. Yonder height
is Pergamus, our Ilian citadel.
What power divine did waft thee to our shore,
not knowing whither? Tell me of the boy
Ascanius! Still breathes he earthly air?
In Troy she bore him—is he mourning still
that mother ravished from his childhood's eyes?
what ancient valor stirs the manly soul
of thine own son, of Hector's sister's child?”
Thus poured she forth full many a doleful word
with unavailing tears. But as she ceased,
out of the city gates appeared the son
of Priam, Helenus, with princely train.
He welcomed us as kin, and glad at heart
gave guidance to his house, though oft his words
fell faltering and few, with many a tear.
Soon to a humbler Troy I lift my eyes,
and of a mightier Pergamus discern
the towering semblance; there a scanty stream
runs on in Xanthus' name, and my glad arms
the pillars of a Scaean gate embrace.
My Teucrian mariners with welcome free
enjoyed the friendly town; his ample halls
our royal host threw wide; full wine-cups flowed
within the palace; golden feast was spread,
and many a goblet quaffed. Day followed day,
while favoring breezes beckoned us to sea,
and swelled the waiting canvas as they blew.
Then to the prophet-priest I made this prayer:
“Offspring of Troy, interpreter of Heaven!
Who knowest Phoebus' power, and readest well
the tripod, stars, and vocal laurel leaves
to Phoebus dear, who know'st of every bird
the ominous swift wing or boding song,
o, speak! For all my course good omens showed,
and every god admonished me to sail
in quest of Italy's far-distant shores;
but lone Celaeno, heralding strange woe,
foretold prodigious horror, vengeance dark,
and vile, unnatural hunger. How elude
such perils? Or by what hard duty done
may such huge host of evils vanquished be?”
Then Helenus, with sacrifice of kine
in order due, implored the grace of Heaven,
unloosed the fillets from his sacred brow,
and led me, Phoebus, to thy temple's door,
awed by th' o'er-brooding godhead, whose true priest,
with lips inspired, made this prophetic song: