Aeneid

Virgil

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

Much moved Aeneas was by this wise word
of his gray friend, though still his anxious soul
was vexed by doubt and care. But when dark night
had brought her chariot to the middle sky,
the sacred shade of Sire Anchises seemed,
from heaven descending, thus to speak aloud:
“My son, than life more dear, when life was mine!
O son, upon whose heart the Trojan doom
has weighed so Iong! Beside thy couch I stand,
at pleasure of great Jove, whose hand dispelled
the mad fire from thy ships; and now he looks
from heaven with pitying brow. I bid thee heed
the noble counsels aged Nautes gave.
Only with warriors of dauntless breast
to Italy repair; of hardy breed,
of wild, rough life, thy Latin foes will be.
But first the shores of Pluto and the Shades
thy feet must tread, and through the deep abyss
of dark Avernus come to me, thy sire:
for I inhabit not the guilty gloom
of Tartarus, but bright Elysian day,
where all the just their sweet assemblies hold.
Hither the virgin Sibyl, if thou give
full offerings of the blood of sable kine,
shall lead thee down; and visions I will show
of cities proud and nations sprung from thee.
Farewell, for dewy Night has wheeled her way
far past her middle course; the panting steeds
of orient Morn breathe pitiless upon me.”
He spoke, and passed, like fleeting clouds of smoke,
to empty air. “O, whither haste away?”
Aeneas cried. “Whom dost thou fly? What god
from my fond yearning and embrace removes?”
Then on the altar of the gods of Troy
he woke the smouldering embers, at the shrine
of venerable Vesta, worshipping
with hallowed bread and incense burning free.

Straightway he calls assembly of his friends, —
Acestes first in honor,—and makes known
Jove's will, the counsel of his cherished sire,
and his own fresh resolve. With prompt assent
they hear his word, nor does Acestes fail
the task to share. They people the new town
with women; and leave every wight behind
who wills it—souls not thirsting for high praise.
Themselves re-bench their ships, rebuild, and fit
with rope and oar the flame-swept galleys all;
a band not large, but warriors bold and true.
Aeneas, guiding with his hand a plough,
marks out the city's ground, gives separate lands
by lot, and bids within this space appear
a second Troy. Trojan Acestes takes
the kingly power, and with benignant joy
appoints a forum, and decrees just laws
before a gathered senate. Then they raise
on that star-circled Erycinian hill,
the temple to Idalian Venus dear;
and at Anchises' sepulchre ordain
a priesthood and wide groves of hallowed shade.

Now the nine days of funeral pomp are done,
and every altar has had honors due
from all the folk. Now tranquil-breathing winds
have levelled the great deep, while brisk and free,
a favoring Auster bids them launch away.
But sound of many a wailing voice is heard
along the winding shore; for ere they go,
in fond embraces for a night and day
they linger still. The women—aye, and men! —
who hated yesterday the ocean's face
and loathed its name, now clamor to set sail
and bear all want and woe to exiles known.
But good Aeneas with benignant words
their sorrow soothes, and, not without a tear,
consigns them to Acestes' kindred care.
Then bids he sacrifice to Eryx' shade
three bulls, and to the wind-gods and the storm
a lamb, then loose the ships in order due.
He, with a garland of shorn olive, stood
holding aloft the sacrificial bowl
from his own vessel's prow, and scattered far
the sacred entrails o'er the bitter wave,
with gift of flowing wine. Swift at the stern
a fair wind rose and thrust them; while the crews
with rival strokes swept o'er the spreading sea.

Venus, the while, disturbed with grief and care,
to Neptune thus her sorrowing heart outpoured:
“Stern Juno's wrath and breast implacable
compel me, Neptune, to abase my pride
in lowly supplication. Lapse of days,
nor prayers, nor virtues her hard heart subdue,
nor Jove's command; nor will she rest or yield
at Fate's decree. Her execrable grudge
is still unfed, although she did consume
the Trojan city, Phrygia's midmost throne,
and though she has accomplished stroke on stroke
of retribution. But she now pursues
the remnant—aye! the ashes and bare bones
of perished Ilium; though the cause and spring
of wrath so great none but herself can tell.
Wert thou not witness on the Libyan wave
what storm she stirred, immingling sea and sky,
and with Aeolian whirlwinds made her war, —
in vain and insolent invasion, sire,
of thine own realm and power? Behold, but now,
goading to evil deeds the Trojan dames,
she basely burned his ships; he in strange lands
must leave the crews of his Iost fleet behind.
O, I entreat thee, let the remnant sail
in safety o'er thy sea, and end their way
in Tiber's holy stream;—if this my prayer
be lawful, and that city's rampart proud
be still what Fate intends.”Then Saturn's son,
the ruler of the seas profound, replied:
“Queen of Cythera, it is meet for thee
to trust my waves from which thyself art sprung.
Have I not proved a friend, and oft restrained
the anger and wild wrath of seas and skies?
On land, let Simois and Xanthus tell
if I have loved Aeneas! On that day
Achilles drove the shuddering hosts of Troy
in panic to the walls, and hurled to death
innumerable foes, until the streams
were choked with dead, and Xanthus scarce could find
his wonted path to sea; that self-same day,
aeneas, spent, and with no help of Heaven,
met Peleus' dreadful son:—who else but I
in cloudy mantle bore him safe afar?
Though 't was my will to cast down utterly
the walls of perjured Troy, which my own hands
had built beside the sea. And even to-day
my favor changes not. Dispel thy fear!
Safe, even as thou prayest, he shall ride
to Cumae's haven, where Avernus lies.
One only sinks beneath th' engulfing seas, —
one life in lieu of many.” Having soothed
and cheered her heart divine, the worshipped sire
flung o'er his mated steeds a yoke of gold,
bridled the wild, white mouths, and with strong hand
shook out long, Ioosened reins. His azure car
skimmed light and free along the crested waves;
before his path the rolling billows all
were calm and still, and each o'er-swollen flood
sank 'neath his sounding wheel; while from the skies
the storm-clouds fled away. Behind him trailed
a various company; vast bulk of whales,
the hoary band of Glaucus, Ino's son,
Palaemon and the nimble Tritons all,
the troop of Phorcus; and to leftward ranged
Thalia, Thetis, and fair Alelite,
with virgin Panopea, and the nymphs
Nesaea, Spio and Cymodoce.

Now in Aeneas' ever-burdened breast
the voice of hope revived. He bade make haste
to raise the masts, spread canvas on the spars;
all hands hauled at the sheets, and left or right
shook out the loosened sails, or twirled in place
the horn-tipped yards. Before a favoring wind
the fleet sped on. The line in close array
was led by Palinurus, in whose course
all ships were bid to follow. Soon the car
of dewy Night drew near the turning-point
of her celestial round. The oarsmen all
yielded their limbs to rest, and prone had fallen
on the hard thwarts, in deep, unpillowed slumber.
Then from the high stars on light-moving wings,
the God of Sleep found passage through the dark
and clove the gloom,—to bring upon thy head,
O Palinurus, an ill-boding sleep,
though blameless thou. Upon thy ship the god
in guise of Phorbas stood, thus whispering:
“Look, Palinurus, how the flowing tides
lift on thy fleet unsteered, and changeless winds
behind thee breathe! 'T is now a happy hour
take thy rest. Lay down the weary head.
Steal tired eyes from toiling. I will do
thine office for thee, just a little space.”
But Palinurus, lifting scarce his eyes,
thus answered him: “Have I not known the face
of yonder placid seas and tranquil waves?
Put faith in such a monster? Could I trust —
I, oft by ocean's treacherous calm betrayed —
my lord Aeneas to false winds and skies?”

So saying, he grasped his rudder tight, and clung
more firmly, fixing on the stars his eyes.
Then waved the god above his brows a branch
wet with the dews of Lethe and imbued
with power of Stygian dark, until his eyes
wavered and slowly sank. The slumberous snare
had scarce unbound his limbs, when, leaning o'er,
the god upon the waters flung him forth,
hands clutching still the helm and ship-rail torn,
and calling on his comrades, but in vain.
Then soared th' immortal into viewless air;
and in swift course across the level sea
the fleet sped safe, protected from all fear
by Neptune's vow. Yet were they drawing nigh
the sirens' island-steep, where oft are seen
white, bleaching bones, and to the distant ear
the rocks roar harshly in perpetual foam.
Then of his drifting fleet and pilot gone
Aeneas was aware, and, taking helm,
steered through the midnight waves, with many a sigh;
and, by his comrade's pitiable death
sore-smitten, cried, “O, thou didst trust too far
fair skies and seas, and liest without a grave,
my Palinurus, in a land unknown!”

After such words and tears, he flung free rein
To the swift fleet, which sped along the wave
To old Euboean Cumae's sacred shore.
They veer all prows to sea; the anchor fluke
Makes each ship sure, and shading the long strand
The rounded sterns jut o'er. Impetuously
The eager warriors leap forth to land
Upon Hesperian soil. One strikes the flint
To find the seed-spark hidden in its veins;
One breaks the thick-branched trees, and steals away
The shelter where the woodland creatures bide;
One leads his mates where living waters flow.
Aeneas, servant of the gods, ascends
The templed hill where lofty Phoebus reigns,
And that far-off, inviolable shrine
Of dread Sibylla, in stupendous cave,
O'er whose deep soul the god of Delos breathes
Prophetic gifts, unfolding things to come.
Here are pale Trivia's golden house and grove.

Here Daedalus, the ancient story tells,
Escaping Minos' power, and having made
Hazard of heaven on far-mounting wings,
Floated to northward, a cold, trackless way,
And lightly poised, at last, o'er Cumae's towers.
Here first to earth come down, he gave to thee
His gear of wings, Apollo! and ordained
Vast temples to thy name and altars fair.
On huge bronze doors Androgeos' death was done;
And Cecrops' children paid their debt of woe,
Where, seven and seven,—0 pitiable sight!—
The youths and maidens wait the annual doom,
Drawn out by lot from yonder marble urn.
Beyond, above a sea, lay carven Crete:—
The bull was there; the passion, the strange guile;
And Queen Pasiphae's brute-human son,
The Minotaur—of monstrous loves the sign.
Here was the toilsome, labyrinthine maze,
Where, pitying love-lorn Ariadne's tears,
The crafty Daedalus himself betrayed
The secret of his work; and gave the clue
To guide the path of Theseus through the gloom.
0 Icarus, in such well-graven scene
How proud thy place should be! but grief forbade:
Twice in pure gold a father's fingers strove
To shape thy fall, and twice they strove in vain.
Aeneas long the various work would scan;
But now Achates comes, and by his side
Deiphobe, the Sibyl, Glaucus' child.
Thus to the prince she spoke :
“Is this thine hour
To stand and wonder? Rather go obtain
From young unbroken herd the bullocks seven,
And seven yearling ewes, our wonted way.”
Thus to Aeneas; his attendants haste
To work her will; the priestess, calling loud,
Gathers the Trojans to her mountain-shrine.