Aeneid

Virgil

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

As thus he prayed and to the altars clung,
th' Omnipotent gave ear, and turned his gaze
upon the royal dwelling, where for love
the amorous pair forgot their place and name.
Then thus to Mercury he gave command:
“Haste thee, my son, upon the Zephyrs call,
and take thy winged way! My mandate bear
unto that prince of Troy who tarries now
in Tyrian Carthage, heedless utterly
of empire Heaven-bestowed. On winged winds
hasten with my decrees. Not such the man
his beauteous mother promised; not for this
twice did she shield him from the Greeks in arms:
but that he might rule Italy, a land
pregnant with thrones and echoing with war;
that he of Teucer's seed a race should sire,
and bring beneath its law the whole wide world.
If such a glory and event supreme
enkindle not his bosom; if such task
to his own honor speak not; can the sire
begrudge Ascanius the heritage
of the proud name of Rome? What plans he now?
What mad hope bids him linger in the lap
of enemies, considering no more
the land Lavinian and Ausonia's sons.
Let him to sea! Be this our final word:
this message let our herald faithful bear.”

He spoke. The god a prompt obedience gave
to his great sire's command. He fastened first
those sandals of bright gold, which carry him
aloft o'er land or sea, with airy wings
that race the fleeting wind; then lifted he
his wand, wherewith he summons from the grave
pale-featured ghosts, or, if he will, consigns
to doleful Tartarus; or by its power
gives slumber or dispels; or quite unseals
the eyelids of the dead: on this relying,
he routs the winds or cleaves th' obscurity
of stormful clouds. Soon from his flight he spied
the summit and the sides precipitous
of stubborn Atlas, whose star-pointing peak
props heaven; of Atlas, whose pine-wreathed brow
is girdled evermore with misty gloom
and lashed of wind and rain; a cloak of snow
melts on his shoulder; from his aged chin
drop rivers, and ensheathed in stiffening ice
glitters his great grim beard. Here first was stayed
the speed of Mercury's well-poising wing;
here making pause, from hence he headlong flung
his body to the sea; in motion like
some sea-bird's, which along the levelled shore
or round tall crags where rove the swarming fish,
flies Iow along the waves: o'er-hovering so
between the earth and skies, Cyllene's god
flew downward from his mother's mountain-sire,
parted the winds and skimmed the sandy merge
of Libya. When first his winged feet
came nigh the clay-built Punic huts, he saw
Aeneas building at a citadel,
and founding walls and towers; at his side
was girt a blade with yellow jaspers starred,
his mantle with the stain of Tyrian shell
flowed purple from his shoulder, broidered fair
by opulent Dido with fine threads of gold,
her gift of love; straightway the god began:
“Dost thou for lofty Carthage toil, to build
foundations strong? Dost thou, a wife's weak thrall,
build her proud city? Hast thou, shameful loss!
Forgot thy kingdom and thy task sublime?
From bright Olympus, I. He who commands
all gods, and by his sovran deity
moves earth and heaven—he it was who bade
me bear on winged winds his high decree.
What plan is thine? By what mad hope dost thou
linger so Iong in lap of Libyan land?
If the proud reward of thy destined way
move not thy heart, if all the arduous toil
to thine own honor speak not, Iook upon
Iulus in his bloom, thy hope and heir
Ascanius. It is his rightful due
in Italy o'er Roman lands to reign.”
After such word Cyllene's winged god
vanished, and e'er his accents died away,
dissolved in air before the mortal's eyes.

Aeneas at the sight stood terror-dumb
with choking voice and horror-rising hair.
He fain would fly at once and get him gone
from that voluptuous land, much wondering
at Heaven's wrathful word. Alas! how stir?
What cunning argument can plead his cause
before th' infuriate Queen? How break such news?
Flashing this way and that, his startled mind
makes many a project and surveys them all.
But, pondering well, his final counsel stopped
at this resolve: he summoned to his side
Mnestheus, Sergestus, and Serestus bold,
and bade them fit the fleet, all silently
gathering the sailors and collecting gear,
but carefully dissembling what emprise
such novel stir intends: himself the while
(Since high-born Dido dreamed not love so fond
could have an end) would seek an audience,
at some indulgent time, and try what shift
such matters may require. With joy they heard,
and wrought, assiduous, at their prince's plan.

But what can cheat true love? The Queen foreknew
his stratagem, and all the coming change
perceived ere it began. Her jealous fear
counted no hour secure. That unclean tongue
of Rumor told her fevered heart the fleet
was fitting forth, and hastening to be gone.
Distractedly she raved, and passion-tossed
roamed through her city, like a Maenad roused
by the wild rout of Bacchus, when are heard
the third year's orgies, and the midnight scream
to cold Cithaeron calls the frenzied crew.
Finding Aeneas, thus her plaint she poured:
“Didst hope to hide it, false one, that such crime
was in thy heart,—to steal without farewell
out of my kingdom? Did our mutual joy
not move thee; nor thine own true promise given
once on a time? Nor Dido, who will die
a death of sorrow? Why compel thy ships
to brave the winter stars? Why off to sea
so fast through stormy skies? O, cruelty!
If Troy still stood, and if thou wert not bound
for alien shore unknown, wouldst steer for Troy
through yonder waste of waves? Is it from me
thou takest flight? O, by these flowing tears,
by thine own plighted word (for nothing more
my weakness left to miserable me),
by our poor marriage of imperfect vow,
if aught to me thou owest, if aught in me
ever have pleased thee—O, be merciful
to my low-fallen fortunes! I implore,
if place be left for prayer, thy purpose change!
Because of thee yon Libyan savages
and nomad chiefs are grown implacable,
and my own Tyrians hate me. Yes, for thee
my chastity was slain and honor fair,
by which alone to glory I aspired,
in former days. To whom dost thou in death
abandon me? my guest!—since but this name
is left me of a husband! Shall I wait
till fell Pygmalion, my brother, raze
my city walls? Or the Gaetulian king,
Iarbas, chain me captive to his car? .
O, if, ere thou hadst fled, I might but bear
some pledge of love to thee, and in these halls
watch some sweet babe Aeneas at his play,
whose face should be the memory of thine own —
I were not so forsaken, Iost, undone!”

She said. But he, obeying Jove's decree,
gazed steadfastly away; and in his heart
with strong repression crushed his cruel pain;
then thus the silence broke: “O Queen, not one
of my unnumbered debts so strongly urged
would I gainsay. Elissa's memory
will be my treasure Iong as memory holds,
or breath of life is mine. Hear my brief plea!
'T was not my hope to hide this flight I take,
as thou hast dreamed. Nay, I did never light
a bridegroom's torch, nor gave I thee the vow
of marriage. Had my destiny decreed,
that I should shape life to my heart's desire,
and at my own will put away the weight
of foil and pain, my place would now be found
in Troy, among the cherished sepulchres
of my own kin, and Priam's mansion proud
were standing still; or these my loyal hands
had rebuilt Ilium for her vanquished sons.
But now to Italy Apollo's power
commands me forth; his Lycian oracles
are loud for Italy. My heart is there,
and there my fatherland. If now the towers
of Carthage and thy Libyan colony
delight thy Tyrian eyes; wilt thou refuse
to Trojan exiles their Ausonian shore?
I too by Fate was driven, not less than thou,
to wander far a foreign throne to find.
Oft when in dewy dark night hides the world,
and flaming stars arise, Anchises' shade
looks on me in my dreams with angered brow.
I think of my Ascanius, and the wrong
to that dear heart, from whom I steal away
Hesperia, his destined home and throne.
But now the winged messenger of Heaven,
sent down by Jove (I swear by thee and me!),
has brought on winged winds his sire's command.
My own eyes with unclouded vision saw
the god within these walls; I have received
with my own ears his word. No more inflame
with lamentation fond thy heart and mine.
'T is not my own free act seeks Italy.”

She with averted eyes and glance that rolled
speechless this way and that, had listened long
to his reply, till thus her rage broke forth:
“No goddess gave thee birth. No Dardanus
begot thy sires. But on its breast of stone
Caucasus bore thee, and the tigresses
of fell Hyrcania to thy baby lip
their udders gave. Why should I longer show
a lying smile? What worse can I endure?
Did my tears draw one sigh? Did he once drop
his stony stare? or did he yield a tear
to my lament, or pity this fond heart?
Why set my wrongs in order? Juno, now,
and Jove, the son of Saturn, heed no more
where justice lies. No trusting heart is safe
in all this world. That waif and castaway
I found in beggary and gave him share—
fool that I was!—in my own royal glory.
His Iost fleet and his sorry crews I steered
from death away. O, how my fevered soul
unceasing raves! Forsooth Apollo speaks!
His Lycian oracles! and sent by Jove
the messenger of Heaven on fleeting air
the ruthless bidding brings! Proud business
for gods, I trow, that such a task disturbs
their still abodes! I hold thee back no more,
nor to thy cunning speeches give the lie.
Begone! Sail on to Italy, thy throne,
through wind and wave! I pray that, if there be
any just gods of power, thou mayest drink down
death on the mid-sea rocks, and often call
with dying gasps on Dido's name—while I
pursue with vengeful fire. When cold death rends
the body from the breath, my ghost shall sit
forever in thy path. Full penalties
thy stubborn heart shall pay. They'll bring me never
in yon deep gulf of death of all thy woe.”
Abrupt her utterance ceased; and sick at heart
she fled the light of day, as if to shrink
from human eyes, and left Aeneas there
irresolute with horror, while his soul
framed many a vain reply. Her swooning shape
her maidens to a marble chamber bore
and on her couch the helpless limbs reposed.

Aeneas, faithful to a task divine,
though yearning sore to remedy and soothe
such misery, and with the timely word
her grief assuage, and though his burdened heart
was weak because of love, while many a groan
rose from his bosom, yet no whit did fail
to do the will of Heaven, but of his fleet
resumed command. The Trojans on the shore
ply well their task and push into the sea
the lofty ships. Now floats the shining keel,
and oars they bring all leafy from the grove,
with oak half-hewn, so hurried was the flight.
Behold them how they haste—from every gate
forth-streaming!—just as when a heap of corn
is thronged with ants, who, knowing winter nigh,
refill their granaries; the long black line
runs o'er the levels, and conveys the spoil
in narrow pathway through the grass; a part
with straining and assiduous shoulder push
the kernels huge; a part array the file,
and whip the laggards on; their busy track
swarms quick and eager with unceasing toil.
O Dido, how thy suffering heart was wrung,
that spectacle to see! What sore lament
was thine, when from the towering citadel
the whole shore seemed alive, the sea itself
in turmoil with loud cries! Relentless Love,
to what mad courses may not mortal hearts
by thee be driven? Again her sorrow flies
to doleful plaint and supplication vain;
again her pride to tyrant Love bows down
lest, though resolved to die, she fail to prove
each hope of living: “O Anna, dost thou see
yon busy shore? From every side they come.
their canvas wooes the winds, and o'er each prow
the merry seamen hang their votive flowers.
Dear sister, since I did forebode this grief,
I shall be strong to bear it. One sole boon
my sorrow asks thee, Anna! Since of thee,
thee only, did that traitor make a friend,
and trusted thee with what he hid so deep —
the feelings of his heart; since thou alone
hast known what way, what hour the man would yield
to soft persuasion—therefore, sister, haste,
and humbly thus implore our haughty foe:
‘I was not with the Greeks what time they swore
at Aulis to cut off the seed of Troy;
I sent no ships to Ilium. Pray, have I
profaned Anchises' tomb, or vexed his shade?’
Why should his ear be deaf and obdurate
to all I say? What haste? May he not make
one last poor offering to her whose love
is only pain? O, bid him but delay
till flight be easy and the winds blow fair.
I plead no more that bygone marriage-vow
by him forsworn, nor ask that he should lose
his beauteous Latium and his realm to be.
Nothing but time I crave! to give repose
and more room to this fever, till my fate
teach a crushed heart to sorrow. I implore
this last grace. (To thy sister's grief be kind!)
I will requite with increase, till I die.”

Such plaints, such prayers, again and yet again,
betwixt the twain the sorrowing sister bore.
But no words move, no lamentations bring
persuasion to his soul; decrees of Fate
oppose, and some wise god obstructs the way
that finds the hero's ear. Oft-times around
the aged strength of some stupendous oak
the rival blasts of wintry Alpine winds
smite with alternate wrath: Ioud is the roar,
and from its rocking top the broken boughs
are strewn along the ground; but to the crag
steadfast it ever clings; far as toward heaven
its giant crest uprears, so deep below
its roots reach down to Tartarus:—not less
the hero by unceasing wail and cry
is smitten sore, and in his mighty heart
has many a pang, while his serene intent
abides unmoved, and tears gush forth in vain.

Then wretched Dido, by her doom appalled,
asks only death. It wearies her to see
the sun in heaven. Yet that she might hold fast
her dread resolve to quit the light of day,
behold, when on an incense-breathing shrine
her offering was laid—O fearful tale!—
the pure libation blackened, and the wine
flowed like polluting gore. She told the sight
to none, not even to her sister's ear.
A second sign was given: for in her house
a marble altar to her husband's shade,
with garlands bright and snowy fleeces dressed,
had fervent worship; here strange cries were heard
as if her dead spouse called while midnight reigned,
and round her towers its inhuman song
the lone owl sang, complaining o'er and o'er
with lamentation and long shriek of woe.
Forgotten oracles by wizards told
whisper old omens dire. In dreams she feels
cruel Aeneas goad her madness on,
and ever seems she, friendless and alone,
some lengthening path to travel, or to seek
her Tyrians through wide wastes of barren lands.
Thus frantic Pentheus flees the stern array
of the Eumenides, and thinks to see
two noonday lights blaze oer his doubled Thebes;
or murdered Agamemnon's haunted son,
Orestes, flees his mother's phantom scourge
of flames and serpents foul, while at his door
avenging horrors wait. Now sorrow-crazed
and by her grief undone, resolved on death,
the manner and the time her secret soul
prepares, and, speaking to her sister sad,
she masks in cheerful calm her fatal will:
“I know a way—O, wish thy sister joy!—
to bring him back to Iove, or set me free.
On Ocean's bound and next the setting sun
lies the last Aethiop land, where Atlas tall
lifts on his shoulder the wide wheel of heaven,
studded with burning stars. From thence is come
a witch, a priestess, a Numidian crone,
who guards the shrine of the Hesperides
and feeds the dragon; she protects the fruit
of that enchanting tree, and scatters there
her slumb'rous poppies mixed with honey-dew.
Her spells and magic promise to set free
what hearts she will, or visit cruel woes
on men afar. She stops the downward flow
of rivers, and turns back the rolling stars;
on midnight ghosts she calls: her vot'ries hear
earth bellowing loud below, while from the hills
the ash-trees travel down. But, sister mine,
thou knowest, and the gods their witness give,
how little mind have I to don the garb
of sorcery. Depart in secret, thou,
and bid them build a lofty funeral pyre
inside our palalce-wall, and heap thereon
the hero's arms, which that blasphemer hung
within my chamber; every relic bring,
and chiefly that ill-omened nuptial bed,
my death and ruin! For I must blot out
all sight and token of this husband vile.
'T is what the witch commands.” She spoke no more,
and pallid was her brow. Yet Anna's mind
knew not what web of death her sister wove
by these strange rites, nor what such frenzy dares;
nor feared she worse than when Sichaeus died,
but tried her forth the errand to fulfil.

Soon as the funeral pyre was builded high
in a sequestered garden, Iooming huge
with boughs of pine and faggots of cleft oak,
the queen herself enwreathed it with sad flowers
and boughs of mournful shade; and crowning all
she laid on nuptial bed the robes and sword
by him abandoned; and stretched out thereon
a mock Aeneas;—but her doom she knew.
Altars were there; and with loose locks unbound
the priestess with a voice of thunder called
three hundred gods, Hell, Chaos, the three shapes
of triple Hecate, the faces three
of virgin Dian. She aspersed a stream
from dark Avernus drawn, she said; soft herbs
were cut by moonlight with a blade of bronze,
oozing black poison-sap; and she had plucked
that philter from the forehead of new foal
before its dam devours. Dido herself,
sprinkling the salt meal, at the altar stands;
one foot unsandalled, and with cincture free,
on all the gods and fate-instructed stars,
foreseeing death, she calls. But if there be
some just and not oblivious power on high,
who heeds when lovers plight unequal vow,
to that god first her supplications rise.

Soon fell the night, and peaceful slumbers breathed
on all earth's weary creatures; the loud seas
and babbling forests entered on repose;
now midway in their heavenly course the stars
wheeled silent on; the outspread lands below
lay voiceless; all the birds of tinted wing,
and flocks that haunt the merge of waters wide
or keep the thorny wold, oblivious lay
beneath the night so still; the stings of care
ceased troubling, and no heart its burden knew.
Not so the Tyrian Queen's deep-grieving soul!
To sleep she could not yield; her eyes and heart
refused the gift of night; her suffering
redoubled, and in full returning tide
her love rebelled, while on wild waves of rage
she drifted to and fro. So, ceasing not
from sorrow, thus she brooded on her wrongs:
“What refuge now? Shall I invite the scorn
of my rejected wooers, or entreat
of some disdainful, nomad blackamoor
to take me to his bed—though many a time
such husbands I made mock of? Shall I sail
on Ilian ships away, and sink to be
the Trojans' humble thrall? Do they rejoice
that once I gave them bread? Lives gratitude
in hearts like theirs for bygone kindnesses?
O, who, if so I stooped, would deign to bear
on yon proud ships the scorned and fallen Queen?
Lost creature! Woe betide thee! Knowest thou not
the perjured children of Laomedon?
What way is left? Should I take flight alone
and join the revelling sailors? Or depart
with Tyrians, the whole attending train
of my own people? Hard the task to force
their hearts from Sidon's towers; how once more
compel to sea, and bid them spread the sail?
Nay, perish! Thou hast earned it. Let the sword
from sorrow save thee! Sister of my blood—
who else but thee,—my own tears borne down,
didst heap disaster on my frantic soul,
and fling me to this foe? Why could I not
pass wedlock by, and live a blameless life
as wild things do, nor taste of passion's pain?
But I broke faith! I cast the vows away
made at Sichaeus' grave.” Such loud lament
burst from her breaking heart with doleful sound.
Meanwhile Aeneas on his lofty ship,
having made ready all, and fixed his mind
to launch away upon brief slumher fell.
But the god came; and in the self-same guise
once more in monitory vision spoke,
all guised as Mercury,—his voice, his hue,
his golden locks, and young limbs strong and fair.
“Hail, goddess-born! Wouldst linger on in sleep
at such an hour? Nor seest thou the snares
that hem thee round? Nor hearest thou the voice
of friendly zephyrs calling? Senseless man!
That woman's breast contrives some treachery
and horrid stroke; for, resolute to die,
she drifts on swollen floods of wrath and scorn.
Wilt thou not fly before the hastening hour
of flight is gone? To-morrow thou wilt see
yon waters thronged with ships, the cruel glare
of fire-brands, and yonder shore all flame,
if but the light of morn again surprise
thee loitering in this land. Away! Away!
Stay not! A mutable and shifting thing
is woman ever.” Such command he spoke,
then melted in the midnight dark away.