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