Aeneid

Virgil

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

She said. From point to point her purpose flew,
seeking without delay to quench the flame
of her loathed life. Brief bidding she addressed
to Barce then, Sichaeus' nurse (her own
lay dust and ashes in a lonely grave
beside the Tyrian shore), “Go, nurse, and call
my sister Anna! Bid her quickly bathe
her limbs in living water, and procure
due victims for our expiating fires.
bid her make haste. Go, bind on thy own brow
the sacred fillet. For to Stygian Jove
it is my purpose now to consummate
the sacrifice ordained, ending my woe,
and touch with flame the Trojan's funeral pyre.”
The aged crone to do her bidding ran
with trembling zeal. But Dido (horror-struck
at her own dread design, unstrung with fear,
her bloodshot eyes wide-rolling, and her cheek
twitching and fever-spotted, her cold brow
blanched with approaching death)—sped past the doors
into the palace garden; there she leaped,
a frenzied creature, on the lofty pyre
and drew the Trojan's sword; a gift not asked
for use like this! When now she saw the garb
of Ilian fashion, and the nuptial couch
she knew too well, she lingered yet awhile
for memory and tears, and, falling prone
on that cold bed, outpoured a last farewell:
“Sweet relics! Ever dear when Fate and Heaven
upon me smiled, receive my parting breath,
and from my woe set free! My life is done.
I have accomplished what my lot allowed;
and now my spirit to the world of death
in royal honor goes. The founder I
of yonder noble city, I have seen
walls at my bidding rise. I was avenged
for my slain husband: I chastised the crimes
of our injurious brother. Woe is me!
Blest had I been, beyond deserving blest,
if but the Trojan galleys ne'er had moored
upon my kingdom's bound!”So saying, she pressed
one last kiss on the couch. “Though for my death
no vengeance fall, O, give me death!” she cried.
“O thus! O thus! it is my will to take
the journey to the dark. From yonder sea
may his cold Trojan eyes discern the flames
that make me ashes! Be this cruel death
his omen as he sails!” She spoke no more.
But almost ere she ceased, her maidens all
thronged to obey her cry, and found their Queen
prone fallen on the sword, the reeking steel
still in her bloody hands. Shrill clamor flew
along the lofty halls; wild rumor spread
through the whole smitten city: Ioud lament,
groans and the wail of women echoed on
from roof to roof, and to the dome of air
the noise of mourning rose. Such were the cry
if a besieging host should break the walls
of Carthage or old Tyre, and wrathful flames
o'er towers of kings and worshipped altars roll.
Her sister heard. Half in a swoon, she ran
with trembling steps, where thickest was the throng,
beating her breast, while with a desperate hand
she tore at her own face, and called aloud
upon the dying Queen. “Was it for this
my own true sister used me with such guile?
O, was this horrid deed the dire intent
of altars, Iofty couch, and funeral fires?
What shall I tell for chiefest of my woes?
Lost that I am! Why, though in death, cast off
thy sister from thy heart? Why not invite
one mortal stroke for both, a single sword,
one agony together? But these hands
built up thy pyre; and my voice implored
the blessing of our gods, who granted me
that thou shouldst perish thus—and I not know!
In thy self-slaughter, sister, thou hast slain
myself, thy people, the grave counsellors
of Sidon, and yon city thou didst build
to be thy throne!—Go, fetch me water, there!
That I may bathe those gashes! If there be
one hovering breath that stays, let my fond lips
discover and receive!” So saying, she sprang up
from stair to stair, and, clasping to her breast
her sister's dying form, moaned grievously,
and staunched the dark blood with her garment's fold.
Vainly would Dido lift her sinking eyes,
but backward fell, while at her heart the wound
opened afresh; three times with straining arm
she rose; three times dropped helpless, her dimmed eyes
turned skyward, seeking the sweet light of day, —
which when she saw, she groaned. Great Juno then
looked down in mercy on that lingering pain
and labor to depart: from realms divine
she sent the goddess of the rainbow wing,
Iris, to set the struggling spirit free
and loose its fleshly coil. For since the end
came not by destiny, nor was the doom
of guilty deed, but of a hapless wight
to sudden madness stung, ere ripe to die,
therefore the Queen of Hades had not shorn
the fair tress from her forehead, nor assigned
that soul to Stygian dark. So Iris came
on dewy, saffron pinions down from heaven,
a thousand colors on her radiant way,
from the opposing sun. She stayed her flight
above that pallid brow: “I come with power
to make this gift to Death. I set thee free
from thy frail body's bound.” With her right hand
she cut the tress: then through its every limb
the sinking form grew cold; the vital breath
fled forth, departing on the viewless air.

Meanwhile Aeneas, now well launched away,
steered forth with all the fleet to open sea,
on his unswerving course, and ploughed the waves,
sped by a driving gale; but when his eyes
looked back on Carthage, they beheld the glare
of hapless Dido's fire. Not yet was known
what kindled the wild flames; but that the pang
of outraged love is cruel, and what the heart
of desperate woman dares, they knew too well,
and sad foreboding shook each Trojan soul.
Soon in mid-sea, beyond all chart of shore,
when only seas and skies were round their way,
full in the zenith loomed a purple cloud,
storm-laden, dark as night, and every wave
grew black and angry; from his Iofty seat
the helmsman Palinurus cried, “Alas!
What means this host of storms encircling heaven?
What, Neptune, wilt thou now?” He, having said,
bade reef and tighten, bend to stronger stroke,
and slant sail to the wind; then spake again:
“High-souled Aeneas, not if Jove the King
gave happy omen, would I have good hope
of making Italy through yonder sky.
Athwart our course from clouded evening-star
rebellious winds run shifting, and the air
into a cloud-wrack rolls. Against such foes
too weak our strife and strain! Since now the hand
of Fortune triumphs, let us where she calls
obedient go. For near us, I believe,
lies Eryx' faithful and fraternal shore:
here are Sicilian havens, if my mind
of yon familiar stars have knowledge true.”
then good Aeneas: “For a friendly wind
long have I sued, and watched thee vainly strive.
Shift sail! What happier land for me and mine,
or for our storm-beat ships what safer shore,
than where Dardanian Acestes reigns;
the land whose faithful bosom cherishes
Anchises' ashes?” Heedful of his word,
they landward steer, while favoring zephyrs fill
the spreading sail. On currents swift and strong
the fleet is wafted, and with thankful soul
they moor on Sicily's familiar strand.

From a far hill-top having seen with joy
the entering ships, and knowing them for friends,
good King Acestes ran to bid them hail.
Garbed in rough pelt of Libyan bear was he,
and javelins he bore, in sylvan guise:
for him the river-god Crimisus sired
of Trojan wife. Remembering in his heart
his ancient blood, he greeted with glad words
the wanderers returned; bade welcome to
his rude abundance, and with friendly gifts
their weariness consoled. The morrow morn,
soon as the new beams of a golden day
had banished every star, Aeneas called
a council of his followers on the shore,
and from a fair green hillock gave this word:
“Proud sons of Dardanus, whose lofty line
none but the gods began! This day fulfils
the annual cycle of revolving time,
since the dear relics of my god-like sire
to earth we gave, and with dark offerings due
built altars sorrowful. If now I err not,
this is my day—ye gods have willed it so! —
for mourning and for praise. Should it befall
me exiled in Gaetulia's wilderness,
or sailing some Greek sea, or at the walls
of dire Mycenae, still would I renew
unfailing vows, and make solemnity
with thankful rites, and worshipful array,
at altars rich with gifts. But, lo, we come,
beyond all hope, where lie the very bones
of my great sire. Nor did it come to pass
without divine intent and heavenly power,
that on these hospitable shores we stand.
Up, then! For we will make a festal day,
imploring lucky winds! O, may his spirit
grant me to build my city, where his shrines
forever shall receive perpetual vows
made in his name! This prince of Trojan line,
Acestes, upon every ship bestows
a pair of oxen. To our offerings call
the powers that bless the altars and the fires
of our ancestral hearth; and join with these
the gods of good Acestes. Presently,
when the ninth dawn shall bring its beam benign
to mortal men, and show the radiant world,
or all my Teucrian people I ordain
a holiday of games; the flying ships
shall first contend; then swiftest runners try
a foot-race; after that the champions bold
who step forth for a cast of javelins,
or boast the soaring arrow; or fear not
the boxing-bout, with gauntlet of thick thongs.
This summons is for all; let all have hope
to earn some noble palm! And from this hour
speak but well-boding words, and bind your brows
with garlands green.” So saying, he twined a wreath
of his own mother's myrtle-tree, to shade
his sacred brow; the hero Helymus,
and King Acestes for his tresses gray,
like coronals took on; Ascanius
and all the warrior youth like emblems wore.
Then in th' attendant throng conspicuous,
with thousands at his side, the hero moved
from place of council to his father's tomb.
There on the ground he poured libation due,
two beakers of good wine, of sweet milk two,
two of the victim's blood—and scattered flowers
of saddest purple stain, while thus he prayed:
“Hail, hallowed sire! And hail, ye ashes dear
of him I vainly saved! O soul and shade
of my blest father! Heaven to us denied
to find together that predestined land
of Italy, or our Ausonian stream
of Tiber—ah! but where?” He scarce had said,
when from the central shrine a gliding snake,
coiled seven-fold in seven spirals wide,
twined round the tomb and trailed innocuous o'er
the very altars; his smooth back was flecked
with green and azure, and his changeful scales
gleamed golden, as the cloud-born rainbow flings
its thousand colors from th' opposing sun.
Aeneas breathless watched the serpent wind
among the bowls and cups of polished rim,
tasting the sacred feast; where, having fed,
back to the tomb all harmless it withdrew.
Then with new zeal his sacrifice he brings
in honor of his sire; for he must deem
that serpent the kind genius of the place,
or of his very father's present shade
some creature ministrant. Two lambs he slew,
the wonted way, two swine, and, sable-hued,
the yoke of bulls; from shallow bowl he poured
libation of the grape, and called aloud
on great Anchises' spirit, and his shade,
from Acheron set free. Then all the throng,
each from his separate store, heap up the shrines
with victims slain; some range in order fair
the brazen cauldrons; or along the grass,
scattered at ease, hold o'er the embers bright
the spitted flesh and roast it in the flames.

Arrived the wished-for day; through cloudless sky
the coursers of the Sun's bright-beaming car
bore upward the ninth morn. The neighboring folk
thronged eager to the shore; some hoped to see
Aeneas and his warriors, others fain
would their own prowess prove in bout and game.
Conspicuous lie the rewards, ranged in sight
in the mid-circus; wreaths of laurel green,
the honored tripod, coronals of palm
for conquerors' brows, accoutrements of war,
rare robes of purple stain, and generous weight
of silver and of gold. The trumpet's call
proclaimed from lofty mound the opening games.

First, side by side, with sturdy, rival oars,
four noble galleys, pride of all the fleet,
come forward to contend. The straining crew
of Mnestheus bring his speedy Pristis on, —
Mnestheus in Italy erelong the sire
of Memmius' noble line. Brave Gyas guides
his vast Chimaera, a colossal craft,
a floating city, by a triple row
of Dardan sailors manned, whose banks of oars
in triple order rise. Sergestus, he
of whom the Sergian house shall after spring,
rides in his mighty Centaur. Next in line,
on sky-blue Scylla proud Cloanthus rides —
whence thy great stem, Cluentius of Rome!

Fronting the surf-beat shore, far out at sea
rises a rock, which under swollen waves
lies buffeted unseen, when wintry storms
mantle the stars; but when the deep is calm,
lifts silently above the sleeping wave
its level field,—a place where haunt and play
flocks of the sea-birds, Iovers of the sun.
Here was the goal; and here Aeneas set
a green-leaved flex-tree, to be a mark
for every captain's eye, from whence to veer
the courses of their ships in sweeping curves
and speed them home. Now places in the line
are given by lot. Upon the lofty sterns
the captains ride, in beautiful array
of Tyriao purple and far-flaming gold;
the crews are poplar-crowned, the shoulders bare
rubbed well with glittering oil; their straining arms
make long reach to the oar, as on the thwarts
they sit attentive, listening for the call
of the loud trumpet; while with pride and fear
their hot hearts throb, impassioned for renown.
Soon pealed the signal clear; from all the line
instant the galleys bounded, and the air
rang to the rowers, shouting, while their arms
pulled every inch and flung the waves in foam;
deep cut the rival strokes; the surface fair
yawned wide beneath their blades and cleaving keels.
Not swifter scour the chariots o'er the plain,
sped headlong from the line behind their teams
of mated coursers, while each driver shakes
loose, rippling reins above his plunging pairs,
and o'er the lash leans far. With loud applause
vociferous and many an urgent cheer
the woodlands rang, and all the concave shores
back from the mountains took the Trojan cry
in answering song. Forth-flying from his peers,
while all the crowd acclaims, sped Gyas' keel
along the outmost wave. Cloanthus next
pushed hard upon, with stronger stroke of oars
but heavier ship. At equal pace behind
the Pristis and the Centaur fiercely strive
for the third place. Now Pristis seems to lead,
now mightier Centaur past her flies, then both
ride on together, prow with prow, and cleave
long lines of foaming furrow with swift keels.
Soon near the rock they drew, and either ship
was making goal,—when Gyas, in the lead,
and winner of the half-course, Ioudly hailed
menoetes, the ship's pilot: “Why so far
to starboard, we? Keep her head round this way!
Hug shore! Let every oar-blade almost graze
that reef to larboard! Let the others take
the deep-sea course outside!” But while he spoke,
Menoetes, dreading unknown rocks below,
veered off to open sea. “Why steer so wide?
Round to the rock, Menoetes!” Gyas roared, —
again in vain, for looking back he saw
cloanthus hard astern, and ever nearer,
who, in a trice, betwixt the booming reef
and Gyas' galley, lightly forward thrust
the beak of Scylla to the inside course,
and, quickly taking lead, flew past the goal
to the smooth seas beyond. Then wrathful grief
flamed in the warrior's heart, nor was his cheek
unwet with tears; and, reckless utterly
of his own honor and his comrades, lives,
he hurled poor, slack Menoetes from the poop
headlong upon the waters, while himself,
pilot and master both, the helm assuming,
urged on his crew, and landward took his way.
But now, with heavy limbs that hardly won
his rescue from the deep, engulfing wave,
up the rude rock graybeard Menoetes climbed
with garment dripping wet, and there dropped down
upon the cliff's dry top. With laughter loud
the Trojan crews had watched him plunging, swimming,
and now to see his drink of bitter brine
spewed on the ground, the sailors laughed again.

But Mnestheus and Sergestus, coming last,
have joyful hope enkindled in each heart
to pass the laggard Gyas. In the lead
Sergestus' ship shoots forth; and to the rock
runs boldly nigh; but not his whole long keel
may pass his rival; the projecting beak
is followed fast by Pristis' emulous prow.
Then, striding straight amidships through his crew,
thus Mnestheus urged them on: “O Hector's friends!
Whom in the dying hours of Troy I chose
for followers! Now stand ye to your best!
Put forth the thews of valor that ye showed
in the Gaetulian Syrtes, or that sea
Ionian, or where the waves race by
the Malean promontory! Mnestheus now
hopes not to be the first, nor do I strive
for victory. O Father Neptune, give
that garland where thou wilt! But O, the shame
if we are last! Endure it not, my men!
The infamy refuse!” So, bending low,
they enter the home-stretch. Beneath their stroke
the brass-decked galley throbs, and under her
the sea-floor drops away. On, on they fly!
Parched are the panting lips, and sweat in streams
pours down their giant sides; but lucky chance
brought the proud heroes what their honor craved.
For while Sergestus furiously drove
his ship's beak toward the rock, and kept inside
the scanty passage, by his evil star
he grounded on the jutting reef; the cliffs
rang with the blow, and his entangled oars
grated along the jagged granite, while
the prow hung wrecked and helpless. With loud cry
upsprang the sailors, while the ship stood still,
and pushed off with long poles and pointed iron,
or snatched the smashed oars from the whirling tide.
Mnestheus exults; and, roused to keener strife
by happy fortune, with a quicker stroke
of each bright rank of oars, and with the breeze
his prayer implored, skims o'er the obedient wave
and sweeps the level main. Not otherwise
a startled dove, emerging o'er the fields
from secret cavern in the crannied hill
where her safe house and pretty nestlings lie,
soars from her nest, with whirring wings—but soon
through the still sky she takes her path of air
on pinions motionless. So Pristis sped
with Mnestheus, cleaving her last stretch of sea,
by her own impulse wafted. She outstripped
Sergestus first; for he upon the reef
fought with the breakers, desperately shouting
for help, for help in vain, with broken oars
contriving to move on. Then Mnestheus ran
past Gyas, in Chimaera's ponderous hulk,
of pilot now bereft; at last remains
Cloanthus his sole peer, whom he pursues
with a supreme endeavor. From the shore
burst echoing cheers that spur him to the chase,
and wild applause makes all the welkin ring.
The leaders now with eager souls would scorn
to Iose their glory, and faint-hearted fail
to grasp a prize half-won, but fain would buy
honor with life itself; the followers too
are flushed with proud success, and feel them strong
because their strength is proven. Both ships now
with indistinguishable prows had sped
to share one prize,—but with uplifted hands
spread o'er the sea, Cloanthus, suppliant,
called on the gods to bless his votive prayer:
“Ye gods who rule the waves, whose waters be
my pathway now; for you on yonder strand
a white bull at the altar shall be slain
in grateful tribute for a granted vow;
and o'er the salt waves I will scatter far
the entrails, and outpour the flowing wine.”
He spoke; and from the caverns under sea
Phorcus and virgin Panopea heard,
and all the sea-nymphs' choir; while with strong hand
the kindly God of Havens rose and thrust
the gliding ship along, that swifter flew
than south wind, or an arrow from the string,
and soon made land in haven safe and sure.