When Asia's power and Priam's race and throne,though guiltless, were cast down by Heaven's decree,when Ilium proud had fallen, and Neptune's Troy
in smouldering ash lay level with the ground,to wandering exile then and regions wildthe gods by many an augury and signcompelled us forth. We fashioned us a fleetwithin Antander's haven, in the shadeof Phrygian Ida's peak (though knowing notwhither our fate would drive, or where afforda resting-place at last), and my small bandof warriors I arrayed. As soon as smiledthe light of summer's prime, my reverend sireAnchises bade us on the winds of Fateto spread all sail. Through tears I saw recedemy native shore, the haven and the plainswhere once was Troy. An exile on the seas,with son and followers and household shrines,and Troy's great guardian-gods, I took my way. There is a far-off land where warriors breed,where Thracians till the boundless plains, and wherethe cruel-eyed Lycurgus once was king.Troy's old ally it was, its deitieshad brotherhood with ours before our fall.Thither I fared, and on its winding shoresset my first walls, though partial Fate opposedour entrance there. In memory of my nameI called its people the Aeneadae.
Unto Dione's daughter, and all godswho blessed our young emprise, due gifts were paid;and unto the supreme celestial KingI slew a fair white bull beside the sea.But haply near my place of sacrificea mound was seen, and on the summit grewa copse of corner and a myrtle tree,with spear-like limbs outbranched on every side.This I approached, and tried to rend awayfrom its deep roots that grove of gloomy green,and dress my altars in its leafy boughs.But, horrible to tell, a prodigysmote my astonished eyes: for the first tree,which from the earth with broken roots I drew,dripped black with bloody drops, and gave the grounddark stains of gore. Cold horror shook my frame,and every vein within me froze for fear.Once more I tried from yet another stockthe pliant stem to tear, and to explorethe mystery within,—but yet againthe foul bark oozed with clots of blackest gore!From my deep-shaken soul I made a prayerto all the woodland nymphs and to divineGradivus, patron of the Thracian plain,to bless this sight, to lift its curse away.But when at a third sheaf of myrtle spearsI fell upon my knees, and tugged amainagainst the adverse ground (I dread to tell!),a moaning and a wail from that deep graveburst forth and murmured in my listening ear:“Why wound me, great Aeneas, in my woe?O, spare the dead, nor let thy holy handsdo sacrilege and sin! I, Trojan-born,was kin of thine. This blood is not of trees.Haste from this murderous shore, this land of greed.O, I am Polydorus! Haste away!Here was I pierced; a crop of iron spears has grown up o'er my breast, and multiplied to all these deadly javelins, keen and strong.”Then stood I, burdened with dark doubt and fearI quailed, my hair rose and my utterance choked.
For once this Polydorus, with much gold,ill-fated Priam sent by stealth awayfor nurture with the Thracian king, what timeDardania's war Iooked hopeless, and her towerswere ringed about by unrelenting siege.That king, when Ilium's cause was ebbing low,and fortune frowned, gave o'er his plighted faithto Agamemnon's might and victory;he scorned all honor and did murder foulon Polydorus, seizing lawlesslyon all the gold. O, whither at thy will,curst greed of gold, may mortal hearts be driven?Soon as my shuddering ceased, I told this taleof prodigies before the people's chiefs,who sat in conclave with my kingly sire,and bade them speak their reverend counsel forth.All found one voice; to leave that land of sin,where foul abomination had profaneda stranger's right; and once more to resignour fleet unto the tempest and the wave.But fit and solemn funeral rites were paidto Polydorus. A high mound we rearedof heaped-up earth, and to his honored shadebuilt a perpetual altar, sadly dressedin cypress dark and purple pall of woe.Our Ilian women wailed with loosened hair;new milk was sprinkled from a foaming cup,and from the shallow bowl fresh blood out-pouredupon the sacred ground. So in its tombwe laid his ghost to rest, and loudly sang,with prayer for peace, the long, the last farewell. After these things, when first the friendly sealooked safe and fair, and o'er its tranquil plainlight-whispering breezes bade us launch away,my men drew down our galleys to the brine,thronging the shore. Soon out of port we ran,and watched the hills and cities fading far.There is a sacred island in mid-seas,to fruitful Doris and to Neptune dear,which grateful Phoebus, wielder of the bow,the while it drifted loose from land to land,chained firmly where the crags of Gyarosand Myconos uptower, and bade it restimmovable, in scorn of wind and wave.Thither I sped; by this my weary shipsfound undisturbed retreat and haven fair.To land we came and saw with reverent eyesApollo's citadel. King Anius,his people's king, and priest at Phoebus' fane,came forth to meet us, wearing on his browthe fillets and a holy laurel crown.Unto Anchises he gave greeting kind,claimed old acquaintance, grasped us by the hand,and bade us both his roof and welcome share.
Then, kneeling at the shrine of time-worn stone:“Thou who at Thymbra on the Trojan shorehast often blessed my prayer, O, give to mea hearth and home, and to this war-worn banddefensive towers and offspring multipliedin an abiding city; give to Troy
a second citadel, that shall surviveAchilles' wrath and all our Argive foe.Whom shall we follow? Whither lies our way?Where wilt thou grant us an abiding-place?Send forth, O King, thy voice oracular,and on our spirits move.” Scarce had I spokewhen sudden trembling through the laurels ranand smote the holy portals; far and widethe mighty ridges of the mountain shook,and from the opening shrine the tripod moaned.Prostrate to earth we fall, as on our earsthis utterance breaks: “O breed of iron men,ye sons of Dardanus! the self-same landwhere bloomed at first your far-descended stemshall to its bounteous bosom draw ye home.Seek out your ancient Mother! There at lastAeneas' race shall reign on every shore,and his sons' sons, and all their house to be.”So Phoebus spoke; and mighty joy uprosefrom all my thronging people, who would knowwhere Phoebus' city lay, and whitherwardthe god ordained the wandering tribe's return.Then spake my father, pondering olden daysand sacred memories of heroes gone:“Hear, chiefs and princes, what your hopes shall be!The Isle of Crete, abode of lofty Jove,rests in the middle sea. Thence Ida soars;there is the cradle of our race. It boastsa hundred cities, seats of fruitful power.Thence our chief sire, if duly I recallthe olden tale, King Teucer sprung, who firsttouched on the Trojan shore, and chose his seatof kingly power. There was no Ilium thennor towered Pergama; in lowly valestheir dwelling; hence the ancient worship givento the Protectress of Mount Cybele,mother of Gods, what time in Ida's grovethe brazen Corybantic cymbals clang,or sacred silence guards her mystery,and lions yoked her royal chariot draw.Up, then, and follow the behests divine!Pour offering to the winds, and point your keelsunto that realm of Minos. It is near.if Jove but bless, the third day's dawn should seeour ships at Cretan land.” So, having said,he slew the victims for each altar's praise.A bull to Neptune, and a bull to thee,o beauteous Apollo! A black lambunto the clouds and storms; but fleece of snowto the mild zephyrs was our offering. The tale was told us that Idomeneus,from his hereditary kindgom driven,had left his Crete abandoned, that no foenow harbored there, but all its dwellings layuntenanted of man. So forth we sailedout of the port of Delos, and sped faralong the main. The maenad-haunted hillsof Naxos came in view; the ridges greenof fair Donysa, with Olearos,and Paros, gleaming white, and Cyclades
scattered among the waves, as close we ranwhere thick-strewn islands vex the channelled seaswith rival shout the sailors cheerly called:“On, comrades! On, to Crete and to our sires!”Freely behind us blew the friendly winds, and gave smooth passage to that fabled shore,the land of the Curetes, friends of Jove.There eagerly I labored at the wallsof our long-prayed-for city; and its namewas Pergamea; to my Trojan band,pleased with such name, I gave command to buildaltar and hearth, and raise the lofty tower. But scarce the ships were beached along the strand(While o'er the isle my busy marinersploughed in new fields and took them wives once more, —I giving homes and laws) when suddenlya pestilence from some infectious skyseized on man's flesh, and horribly exhaledo'er trees and crops a fatal year of plague.Some breathed their last, while others weak and wornlived on; the dog-star parched the barren fields;grass withered, and the sickly, mouldering cornrefused us life. My aged father thenbade us re-cross the waves and re-imploreApollo's mercy at his island shrine;if haply of our weariness and woehe might vouchsafe the end, or bid us findhelp for our task, or guidance o'er the sea.