Aeneid
Virgil
Vergil. The Aeneid of Virgil. Williams, Theodore, C, translator. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1910.
- Scarce had Aurora's purple from the sky
- warned off the stars, when Iying very low
- along th' horizon, the dimmed hills we saw
- of Italy; Achates first gave cry
- “Italia!” with answering shouts of joy,
- my comrades' voices cried, “Italia, hail!”
- Anchises, then, wreathed a great bowl with flowers
- and filled with wine, invoking Heaven to bless,
- and thus he prayed from our ship's lofty stern:
- “O Iords of land and sea and every storm!
- Breathe favoring breezes for our onward way!”
- Fresh blew the prayed-for winds. A haven fair
- soon widened near us; and its heights were crowned
- by a Greek fane to Pallas. Yet my men
- furled sail and shoreward veered the pointing prow.
- the port receding from the orient wave
- is curved into a bow; on either side
- the jutting headlands toss the salt sea-foam
- and hide the bay itself. Like double wall
- the towered crags send down protecting arms,
- while distant from the shore the temple stands.
- Here on a green sward, the first omen given,
- I saw four horses grazing through the field,
- each white as snow. Father Anchises cried:
- “Is war thy gift, O new and alien land?
- Horses make war; of war these creatures bode.
- Yet oft before the chariot of peace
- their swift hoofs go, and on their necks they bear
- th' obedient yoke and rein. Therefore a hope
- of peace is also ours.” Then we implored
- Minerva's mercy, at her sacred shrine,
- the mail-clad goddess who gave welcome there;
- and at an altar, mantling well our brows
- the Phrygian way, as Helenus ordained,
- we paid the honors his chief counsel urged,
- with blameless rite, to Juno, Argive Queen.
- No tarrying now, but after sacrifice
- we twirled the sailyards and shook out all sail,
- leaving the cities of the sons of Greece
- and that distrusted land. Tarentum's bay
- soon smiled before us, town of Hercules,
- if fame be true; opposing it uptowers
- Lacinia's headland unto Juno dear,
- the heights of Caulon, and that sailors' bane,
- ship-shattering Scylaceum. Thence half seen,
- trinacrian Aetna cleaves th' horizon line;
- we hear from far the crash of shouting seas,
- where lifted billows leap the tide-swept sand.
- Father Anchises cried: “'T is none but she—
- Charybdis! Helenus this reef foretold,
- and rocks of dreadful name. O, fly, my men!
- Rise like one man with long, strong sweep of oars!”
- Not unobedient they! First Palinure
- veered to the leftward wave the willing keel,
- and sails and oars together leftward strove.
- We shot to skyward on the arching surge,
- then, as she sank, dropped deeper than the grave;
- thrice bellowed the vast cliffs from vaulted wall;
- thrice saw we spouted foam and showers of stars.
- After these things both wind and sun did fail;
- and weary, worn, not witting of our way,
- we drifted shoreward to the Cyclops' land.
- A spreading bay is there, impregnable
- to all invading storms; and Aetna's throat
- with roar of frightful ruin thunders nigh.
- Now to the realm of light it lifts a cloud
- of pitch-black, whirling smoke, and fiery dust,
- shooting out globes of flame, with monster tongues
- that lick the stars; now huge crags of itself,
- out of the bowels of the mountain torn,
- its maw disgorges, while the molten rock
- rolls screaming skyward; from the nether deep
- the fathomless abyss makes ebb and flow.
- Enceladus, his body lightning-scarred,
- lies prisoned under all, so runs the tale:
- o'er him gigantic Aetna breathes in fire
- from crack and seam; and if he haply turn
- to change his wearied side, Trinacria's isle
- trembles and moans, and thick fumes mantle heaven.
- That night in screen and covert of a grove
- we bore the dire convulsion, unaware
- whence the loud horror came. For not a star
- its lamp allowed, nor burned in upper sky
- the constellated fires, but all was gloom,
- and frowning night confined the moon in cloud.