Aeneid

Virgil

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

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:

“O goddess-born, indubitably shines
the blessing of great gods upon thy path
across the sea; the heavenly King supreme
thy destiny ordains; 't is he unfolds
the grand vicissitude, which now pursues
a course immutable. I will declare
of thy large fate a certain bounded part;
that fearless thou may'st view the friendly sea,
and in Ausonia's haven at the last
find thee a fixed abode. Than this no more
the Sister Fates to Helenus unveil,
and Juno, Saturn's daughter, grants no more.
First, that Italia (which nigh at hand
thou deemest, and wouldst fondly enter in
by yonder neighboring bays) lies distant far
o'er trackless course and long, with interval
of far-extended lands. Thine oars must ply
the waves of Sicily; thy fleet must cleave
the large expanse of that Ausonian brine;
the waters of Avernus thou shalt see,
and that enchanted island where abides
Aeaean Circe, ere on tranquil shore
thou mayest plant thy nation. Lo! a sign
I tell thee; hide this wonder in thy heart:
Beside a certain stream's sequestered wave,
thy troubled eyes, in shadowy flex grove
that fringes on the river, shall descry
a milk-white, monstrous sow, with teeming brood
of thirty young, new littered, white like her,
all clustering at her teats, as prone she lies.
There is thy city's safe, predestined ground,
and there thy labors' end. Vex not thy heart
about those ‘tables bitten’, for kind fate
thy path will show, and Phoebus bless thy prayer.
But from these lands and yon Italian shore,
where from this sea of ours the tide sweeps in,
escape and flee, for all its cities hold
pernicious Greeks, thy foes: the Locri there
have builded walls; the wide Sallentine fields
are filled with soldiers of Idomeneus;
there Meliboean Philoctetes' town,
petilia, towers above its little wall.
Yea, even when thy fleet has crossed the main,
and from new altars built along the shore
thy vows to Heaven are paid, throw o'er thy head
a purple mantle, veiling well thy brows,
lest, while the sacrificial fire ascends
in offering to the gods, thine eye behold
some face of foe, and every omen fail.
Let all thy people keep this custom due,
and thou thyself be faithful; let thy seed
forever thus th' immaculate rite maintain.
After departing hence, thou shalt be blown
toward Sicily, and strait Pelorus' bounds
will open wide. Then take the leftward way:
those leftward waters in long circuit sweep,
far from that billowy coast, the opposing side.
These regions, so they tell, in ages gone
by huge and violent convulsion riven
(Such mutability is wrought by time),
sprang wide asunder; where the doubled strand
sole and continuous lay, the sea's vast power
burst in between, and bade its waves divide
Hesperia's bosom from fair Sicily,
while with a straitened firth it interflowed
their fields and cities sundered shore from shore.
The right side Scylla keeps; the left is given
to pitiless Charybdis, who draws down
to the wild whirling of her steep abyss
the monster waves, and ever and anon
flings them at heaven, to lash the tranquil stars.
But Scylla, prisoned in her eyeless cave,
thrusts forth her face, and pulls upon the rocks
ship after ship; the parts that first be seen
are human; a fair-breasted virgin she,
down to the womb; but all that lurks below
is a huge-membered fish, where strangely join
the flukes of dolphins and the paunch of wolves.
Better by far to round the distant goal
of the Trinacrian headlands, veering wide
from thy true course, than ever thou shouldst see
that shapeless Scylla in her vaulted cave,
where grim rocks echo her dark sea-dogs' roar.
Yea, more, if aught of prescience be bestowed
on Helenus, if trusted prophet he,
and Phoebus to his heart true voice have given,
o goddess-born, one counsel chief of all
I tell thee oft, and urge it o'er and o'er.
To Juno's godhead lift thy Ioudest prayer;
to Juno chant a fervent votive song,
and with obedient offering persuade
that potent Queen. So shalt thou, triumphing,
to Italy be sped, and leave behind
Trinacria.When wafted to that shore,
repair to Cumae's hill, and to the Lake
Avernus with its whispering grove divine.
There shalt thou see a frenzied prophetess,
who from beneath the hollow scarped crag
sings oracles, or characters on leaves
mysterious names. Whate'er the virgin writes,
on leaves inscribing the portentous song,
she sets in order, and conceals them well
in her deep cave, where they abide unchanged
in due array. Yet not a care has she,
if with some swinging hinge a breeze sweeps in,
to catch them as they whirl: if open door
disperse them flutterlig through the hollow rock,
she will not link their shifted sense anew,
nor re-invent her fragmentary song.
Oft her unanswered votaries depart,
scorning the Sibyl's shrine. But deem not thou
thy tarrying too Iong, whate'er thy stay.
Though thy companions chide, though winds of power
invite thy ship to sea, and well would speed
the swelling sail, yet to that Sibyl go.
Pray that her own lips may sing forth for thee
the oracles, uplifting her dread voice
in willing prophecy. Her rede shall tell
of Italy, its wars and tribes to be,
and of what way each burden and each woe
may be escaped, or borne. Her favoring aid
will grant swift, happy voyages to thy prayer.
Such counsels Heaven to my lips allows.
arise, begone! and by thy glorious deeds
set Troy among the stars! “