Aeneid
Virgil
Vergil. The Aeneid of Virgil. Williams, Theodore, C, translator. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1910.
- Deep in the city's heart there was a grove
- of beauteous shade, where once the Tyrians,
- cast here by stormful waves, delved out of earth
- that portent which Queen Juno bade them find,—
- the head of a proud horse,—that ages long
- their boast might be wealth, luxury and war.
- Upon this spot Sidonian Dido raised
- a spacious fane to Juno, which became
- splendid with gifts, and hallowed far and wide
- for potency divine. Its beams were bronze,
- and on loud hinges swung the brazen doors.
- A rare, new sight this sacred grove did show,
- which calmed Aeneas' fears, and made him bold
- to hope for safety, and with lifted heart
- from his low-fallen fortunes re-aspire.
- For while he waits the advent of the Queen,
- he scans the mighty temple, and admires
- the city's opulent pride, and all the skill
- its rival craftsmen in their work approve.
- Behold! he sees old Ilium's well-fought fields
- in sequent picture, and those famous wars
- now told upon men's lips the whole world round.
- There Atreus' sons, there kingly Priam moved,
- and fierce Pelides pitiless to both.
- Aeneas paused, and, weeping, thus began:
- “Alas, Achates, what far region now,
- what land in all the world knows not our pain?
- See, it is Priam! Virtue's wage is given—
- O even here! Here also there be tears
- for what men bear, and mortal creatures feel
- each other's sorrow. Therefore, have no fear!
- This story of our loss forbodes us well.”
- So saying, he received into his heart
- that visionary scene, profoundly sighed,
- and let his plenteous tears unheeded flow.
- There he beheld the citadel of Troy
- girt with embattled foes; here, Greeks in flight
- some Trojan onset 'scaped; there, Phrygian bands
- before tall-plumed Achilles' chariot sped.
- The snowy tents of Rhesus spread hard by
- (he sees them through his tears), where Diomed
- in night's first watch burst o'er them unawares
- with bloody havoc and a host of deaths;
- then drove his fiery coursers o'er the plain
- before their thirst or hunger could be stayed
- on Trojan corn or Xanthus' cooling stream.
- Here too was princely Troilus, despoiled,
- routed and weaponless, O wretched boy!
- Ill-matched against Achilles! His wild steeds
- bear him along, as from his chariot's rear
- he falls far back, but clutches still the rein;
- his hair and shoulders on the ground go trailing,
- and his down-pointing spear-head scrawls the dust.
- Elsewhere, to Pallas' ever-hostile shrine,
- daughters of Ilium, with unsnooded hair,
- and lifting all in vain her hallowed pall,
- walked suppliant and sad, beating their breasts,
- with outspread palms. But her unswerving eyes
- the goddess fixed on earth, and would not see.
- Achilles round the Trojan rampart thrice
- had dragged the fallen Hector, and for gold
- was making traffic of the lifeless clay.
- Aeneas groaned aloud, with bursting heart,
- to see the spoils, the car, the very corpse
- of his lost friend,—while Priam for the dead
- stretched forth in piteous prayer his helpless hands.
- There too his own presentment he could see
- surrounded by Greek kings; and there were shown
- hordes from the East, and black-browed Memnon's arms;
- her band of Amazons, with moon-shaped shields,
- Penthesilea led; her martial eye
- flamed on from troop to troop; a belt of gold
- beneath one bare, protruded breast she bound—
- a warrior-virgin braving mail-clad men.
- While on such spectacle Aeneas' eyes
- looked wondering, while mute and motionless
- he stood at gaze, Queen Dido to the shrine
- in lovely majesty drew near; a throng
- of youthful followers pressed round her way.
- So by the margin of Eurotas wide
- or o'er the Cynthian steep, Diana leads
- her bright processional; hither and yon
- are visionary legions numberless
- of Oreads; the regnant goddess bears
- a quiver on her shoulders, and is seen
- emerging tallest of her beauteous train;
- while joy unutterable thrills the breast
- of fond Latona: Dido not less fair
- amid her subjects passed, and not less bright
- her glow of gracious joy, while she approved
- her future kingdom's pomp and vast emprise.
- Then at the sacred portal and beneath
- the temple's vaulted dome she took her place,
- encompassed by armed men, and lifted high
- upon a throne; her statutes and decrees
- the people heard, and took what lot or toil
- her sentence, or impartial urn, assigned.
- But, lo! Aeneas sees among the throng
- Antheus, Sergestus, and Cloanthus bold,
- with other Teucrians, whom the black storm flung
- far o'er the deep and drove on alien shores.
- Struck dumb was he, and good Achates too,
- half gladness and half fear. Fain would they fly
- to friendship's fond embrace; but knowing not
- what might befall, their hearts felt doubt and care.
- Therefore they kept the secret, and remained
- forth-peering from the hollow veil of cloud,
- haply to learn what their friends' fate might be,
- or where the fleet was landed, or what aim
- had brought them hither; for a chosen few
- from every ship had come to sue for grace,
- and all the temple with their voices rang.
- The doors swung wide; and after access given
- and leave to speak, revered Ilioneus
- with soul serene these lowly words essayed:
- “O Queen, who hast authority of Jove
- to found this rising city, and subdue
- with righteous governance its people proud,
- we wretched Trojans, blown from sea to sea,
- beseech thy mercy; keep the curse of fire
- from our poor ships! We pray thee, do no wrong
- unto a guiltless race. But heed our plea!
- No Libyan hearth shall suffer by our sword,
- nor spoil and plunder to our ships be borne;
- such haughty violence fits not the souls
- of vanquished men. We journey to a land
- named, in Greek syllables, Hesperia:
- a storied realm, made mighty by great wars
- and wealth of fruitful land; in former days
- Oenotrians had it, and their sons, 't is said,
- have called it Italy, a chieftain's name
- to a whole region given. Thitherward
- our ships did fare; but with swift-rising flood
- the stormful season of Orion's star
- drove us on viewless shoals; and angry gales
- dispersed us, smitten by the tumbling surge,
- among innavigable rocks. Behold,
- we few swam hither, waifs upon your shore!
- What race of mortals this? What barbarous land,
- that with inhospitable laws ye thrust
- a stranger from your coasts, and fly to arms,
- nor grant mere foothold on your kingdom's bound?
- If man thou scornest and all mortal power,
- forget not that the gods watch good and ill!
- A king we had; Aeneas,—never man
- in all the world more loyal, just and true,
- nor mightier in arms! If Heaven decree
- his present safety, if he now do breathe
- the air of earth and is not buried low
- among the dreadful shades, then fear not thou!
- For thou wilt never rue that thou wert prompt
- to do us the first kindness. O'er the sea
- in the Sicilian land, are cities proud,
- with martial power, and great Acestes there
- is of our Trojan kin. So grant us here
- to beach our shattered ships along thy shore,
- and from thy forest bring us beam and spar
- to mend our broken oars. Then, if perchance
- we find once more our comrades and our king,
- and forth to Italy once more set sail,
- to Italy, our Latin hearth and home,
- we will rejoicing go. But if our weal
- is clean gone by, and thee, blest chief and sire,
- these Libyan waters keep, and if no more
- Iulus bids us hope,—then, at the least,
- to yon Sicilian seas, to friendly lands
- whence hither drifting with the winds we came,
- let us retrace the journey and rejoin
- good King Acestes.” So Ilioneus
- ended his pleading; the Dardanidae
- murmured assent.
- Then Dido, briefly and with downcast eyes,
- her answer made: “O Teucrians, have no fear!
- Bid care begone! It was necessity,
- and my young kingdom's weakness, which compelled
- the policy of force, and made me keep
- such vigilant sentry my wide co'ast along.
- Aeneas and his people, that fair town
- of Troy—who knows them not? The whole world knows
- those valorous chiefs and huge, far-flaming wars.
- Our Punic hearts are not of substance all
- insensible and dull: the god of day
- drives not his fire-breathing steeds so far
- from this our Tyrian town. If ye would go
- to great Hesperia, where Saturn reigned,
- or if voluptuous Eryx and the throne
- of good Acestes be your journey's end,
- I send you safe; I speed you on your way.
- But if in these my realms ye will abide,
- associates of my power, behold, I build
- this city for your own! Choose haven here
- for your good ships. Beneath my royal sway
- Trojan and Tyrian equal grace will find.
- But O, that this same storm had brought your King.
- Aeneas, hither! I will bid explore
- our Libya's utmost bound, where haply he
- in wilderness or hamlet wanders lost.”
- By these fair words to joy profoundly stirred,
- Father Aeneas and Achates brave
- to cast aside the cloud that wrapped them round
- yearned greatly; and Achates to his King
- spoke thus: “O goddess-born, in thy wise heart
- what purpose rises now? Lo! All is well!
- Thy fleet and followers are safe at land.
- One only comes not, who before our eyes
- sank in the soundless sea. All else fulfils
- thy mother's prophecy.” Scarce had he spoke
- when suddenly that overmantling cloud
- was cloven, and dissolved in lucent air;
- forth stood Aeneas. A clear sunbeam smote
- his god-like head and shoulders. Venus' son
- of his own heavenly mother now received
- youth's glowing rose, an eye of joyful fire,
- and tresses clustering fair. 'T is even so
- the cunning craftsman unto ivory gives
- new beauty, or with circlet of bright gold
- encloses silver or the Parian stone.
- Thus of the Queen he sued, while wonderment
- fell on all hearts. “Behold the man ye seek,
- for I am here! Aeneas, Trojan-born,
- brought safely hither from yon Libyan seas!
- O thou who first hast looked with pitying eye
- on Troy's unutterable grief, who even to us
- (escaped our Grecian victor, and outworn
- by all the perils land and ocean know),
- to us, bereft and ruined, dost extend
- such welcome to thy kingdom and thy home!
- I have no power, Dido, to give thanks
- to match thine ample grace; nor is there power
- in any remnant of our Dardan blood,
- now fled in exile o'er the whole wide world.
- May gods on high (if influence divine
- bless faithful lives, or recompense be found
- in justice and thy self-approving mind)
- give thee thy due reward. What age was blest
- by such a birth as thine? What parents proud
- such offspring bore? O, while the rivers run
- to mingle with the sea, while shadows pass
- along yon rounded hills from vale to vale,
- and while from heaven's unextinguished fire
- the stars be fed—so Iong thy glorious name,
- thy place illustrious and thy virtue's praise,
- abide undimmed.—Yet I myself must go
- to lands I know not where.” After this word
- his right hand clasped his Ioved Ilioneus,
- his left Serestus; then the comrades all,
- brave Gyas, brave Cloanthus, and their peers.
- Sidonian Dido felt her heart stand still
- when first she looked on him; and thrilled again
- to hear what vast adventure had befallen
- so great a hero. Thus she welcomed him:
- “What chance, O goddess-born, o'er danger's path
- impels? What power to this wild coast has borne?
- Art thou Aeneas, great Anchises' son,
- whom lovely Venus by the Phrygian stream
- of Simois brought forth unto the day?
- Now I bethink me of when Teucer came
- to Sidon, exiled, and of Belus' power
- desired a second throne. For Belus then,
- our worshipped sire, despoiled the teeming land
- of Cyprus, as its conqueror and king.
- And since that hour I oft have heard the tale
- of fallen Troy, of thine own noble name,
- and of Achaean kings. Teucer was wont,
- although their foe, to praise the Teucrian race,
- and boasted him of that proud lineage sprung.
- Therefore, behold, our portals are swung wide
- for all your company. I also bore
- hard fate like thine. I too was driven of storms
- and after long toil was allowed at last
- to call this land my home. O, I am wise
- in sorrow, and I help all suffering souls!”
- So saying, she bade Aeneas welcome take
- beneath her royal roof, and to the gods
- made sacrifice in temples, while she sent
- unto the thankful Trojans on the shore
- a score of bulls, and of huge, bristling swine,
- a herd of a whole hundred, and a flock
- of goodly lambs, a hundred, who ran close
- beside the mother-ewes: and all were given
- in joyful feast to please the Heavenly Powers.
- Her palace showed a monarch's fair array
- all glittering and proud, and feasts were spread
- within the ample court. Rich broideries
- hung deep incarnadined with Tyrian skill;
- the board had massy silver, gold-embossed,
- where gleamed the mighty deeds of all her sires,
- a graven chronicle of peace and war
- prolonged, since first her ancient line began,
- from royal sire to son.
- Aeneas now
- (for love in his paternal heart spoke loud
- and gave no rest) bade swift Achates run
- to tell Ascanius all, and from the ship
- to guide him upward to the town,—for now
- the father's whole heart for Ascanius yearned.
- And gifts he bade them bring, which had been saved
- in Ilium's fall: a richly broidered cloak
- heavy with golden emblems; and a veil
- by leaves of saffron lilies bordered round,
- which Argive Helen o'er her beauty threw,
- her mother Leda's gift most wonderful,
- and which to Troy she bore, when flying far
- in lawless wedlock from Mycenae's towers;
- a sceptre, too, once fair Ilione's,
- eldest of Priam's daughters; and round pearls
- strung in a necklace, and a double crown
- of jewels set in gold. These gifts to find,
- Achates to the tall ships sped away.
- But Cytherea in her heart revolved
- new wiles, new schemes: how Cupid should transform
- his countenance, and, coming in the guise
- of sweet Ascanius, still more inflame
- the amorous Queen with gifts, and deeply fuse
- through all her yielding frame his fatal fire.
- Sooth, Venus feared the many-languaged guile
- which Tyrians use; fierce Juno's hate she feared,
- and falling night renewed her sleepless care.
- Therefore to Love, the light-winged god, she said:
- “Sweet son, of whom my sovereignty and power
- alone are given! O son, whose smile may scorn
- the shafts of Jove whereby the Titans fell,
- to thee I fly, and humbly here implore
- thy help divine. Behold, from land to land
- Aeneas, thine own brother, voyages on
- storm-driven, by Juno's causeless enmity.
- Thou knowest it well, and oft hast sighed to see
- my sighs and tears. Dido the Tyrian now
- detains him with soft speeches; and I fear
- such courtesy from Juno means us ill;
- she is not one who, when the hour is ripe,
- bids action pause. I therefore now intend
- the Tyrian Queen to snare, and siege her breast
- with our invading fire, before some god
- shall change her mood. But let her bosom burn
- with love of my Aeneas not less than mine.
- This thou canst bring to pass. I pray thee hear
- the plan I counsel. At his father's call
- Ascanius, heir of kings, makes haste to climb
- to yon Sidonian citadel; my grace
- protects him, and he bears gifts which were saved
- from hazard of the sea and burning Troy.
- Him lapped in slumber on Cythera's hill,
- or in Idalia's deep and hallowing shade,
- myself will hide, lest haply he should learn
- our stratagem, and burst in, foiling all.
- Wear thou his shape for one brief night thyself,
- and let thy boyhood feign another boy's
- familiar countenance; when Dido there,
- beside the royal feast and flowing wine,
- all smiles and joy, shall clasp thee to her breast
- while she caresses thee, and her sweet lips
- touch close with thine, then let thy secret fire
- breathe o'er her heart, to poison and betray.”
- The love-god to his mother's dear behest
- gave prompt assent. He put his pinions by
- and tripped it like Iulus, light of heart.
- But Venus o'er Ascanius' body poured
- a perfect sleep, and, to her heavenly breast
- enfolding him, far, far away upbore
- to fair Idalia's grove, where fragrant buds
- of softly-petalled marjoram embower
- in pleasurable shade.
- Cupid straightway
- obeyed his mother's word and bore the gifts,
- each worthy of a king, as offerings
- to greet the Tyrian throne; and as he went
- he clasped Achates' friendly hand, and smiled.
- Father Aeneas now, and all his band
- of Trojan chivalry, at social feast,
- on lofty purple-pillowed couches lie;
- deft slaves fresh water on their fingers pour,
- and from reed-woven basketry renew
- the plenteous bread, or bring smooth napery
- of softest weave; fifty handmaidens serve,
- whose task it is to range in order fair
- the varied banquet, or at altars bright
- throw balm and incense on the sacred fires.
- A hundred more serve with an equal band
- of beauteous pages, whose obedient skill
- piles high the generous board and fills the bowl.
- The Tyrians also to the festal hall
- come thronging, and receive their honor due,
- each on his painted couch; with wondering eyes
- Aeneas' gifts they view, and wondering more,
- mark young Iulus' radiant brows divine,
- his guileful words, the golden pall he bears,
- and broidered veil with saffron lilies bound.
- The Tyrian Queen ill-starred, already doomed
- to her approaching woe, scanned ardently,
- with kindling cheek and never-sated eyes,
- the precious gifts and wonder-gifted boy.
- He round Aeneas' neck his arms entwined,
- fed the deep yearning of his seeming sire,
- then sought the Queen's embrace; her eyes, her soul
- clave to him as she strained him to her breast.
- For Dido knew not in that fateful hour
- how great a god betrayed her. He began,
- remembering his mother (she who bore
- the lovely Acidalian Graces three),
- to make the dear name of Sichaeus fade,
- and with new life, new love, to re-possess
- her Iong-since slumbering bosom's Iost desire.
- When the main feast is over, they replace
- the banquet with huge bowls, and crown the wine
- with ivy-leaf and rose. Loud rings the roof
- with echoing voices; from the gilded vault
- far-blazing cressets swing, or torches bright
- drive the dark night away. The Queen herself
- called for her golden chalice studded round
- with jewels, and o'er-brimming it with wine
- as Belus and his proud successors use,
- commanded silence, and this utterance made:
- “Great Jove, of whom are hospitable laws
- for stranger-guest, may this auspicious day
- bless both our Tyrians and the wanderers
- from Trojan shore. May our posterity
- keep this remembrance! Let kind Juno smile,
- and Bacchus, Iord of mirth, attend us here!
- And, O ye Tyrians, come one and all,
- and with well-omened words our welcome share!”
- So saying, she outpoured the sacred drop
- due to the gods, and lightly from the rim
- sipped the first taste, then unto Bitias gave
- with urgent cheer; he seized it, nothing loth,
- quaffed deep and long the foaming, golden bowl,
- then passed to others. On a gilded Iyre
- the flowing-haired Iopas woke a song
- taught him by famous Atlas: of the moon
- he sang, the wanderer, and what the sun's
- vast labors be; then would his music tell
- whence man and beast were born, and whence were bred
- clouds, lightnings, and Arcturus' stormful sign,
- the Hyades, rain-stars, and nigh the Pole
- the great and lesser Wain; for well he knew
- why colder suns make haste to quench their orb
- in ocean-stream, and wintry nights be slow.
- Loudly the Tyrians their minstrel praised,
- and Troy gave prompt applause. Dido the while
- with varying talk prolonged the fateful night,
- and drank both long and deep of love and wine.
- Now many a tale of Priam would she crave,
- of Hector many; or what radiant arms
- Aurora's son did wear; what were those steeds
- of Diomed, or what the stature seemed
- of great Achilles. “Come, illustrious guest,
- begin the tale,” she said, “begin and tell
- the perfidy of Greece, thy people's fall,
- and all thy wanderings. For now,—Ah, me!
- Seven times the summer's burning stars have seen
- thee wandering far o'er alien lands and seas.”
- A general silence fell; and all gave ear,
- while, from his lofty station at the feast,
- Father Aeneas with these words began :—
- A grief unspeakable thy gracious word,
- o sovereign lady, bids my heart live o'er:
- how Asia's glory and afflicted throne
- the Greek flung down; which woeful scene I saw,
- and bore great part in each event I tell.
- But O! in telling, what Dolopian churl,
- or Myrmidon, or gory follower
- of grim Ulysses could the tears restrain?
- 'T is evening; lo! the dews of night begin
- to fall from heaven, and yonder sinking stars
- invite to slumber. But if thy heart yearn
- to hear in brief of all our evil days
- and Troy's last throes, although the memory
- makes my soul shudder and recoil in pain,
- I will essay it. Wearied of the war,
- and by ill-fortune crushed, year after year,
- the kings of Greece, by Pallas' skill divine,
- build a huge horse, a thing of mountain size,
- with timbered ribs of fir. They falsely say
- it has been vowed to Heaven for safe return,
- and spread this lie abroad. Then they conceal
- choice bands of warriors in the deep, dark side,
- and fill the caverns of that monstrous womb
- with arms and soldiery. In sight of Troy
- lies Tenedos, an island widely famed
- and opulent, ere Priam's kingdom fell,
- but a poor haven now, with anchorage
- not half secure; 't was thitherward they sailed,
- and lurked unseen by that abandoned shore.
- We deemed them launched away and sailing far,
- bound homeward for Mycenae. Teucria then
- threw off her grief inveterate; all her gates
- swung wide; exultant went we forth, and saw
- the Dorian camp untenanted, the siege
- abandoned, and the shore without a keel.
- “Here!” cried we, “the Dolopian pitched; the host
- of fierce Achilles here; here lay the fleet;
- and here the battling lines to conflict ran.”
- Others, all wonder, scan the gift of doom
- by virgin Pallas given, and view with awe
- that horse which loomed so large. Thymoetes then
- bade lead it through the gates, and set on high
- within our citadel,—or traitor he,
- or tool of fate in Troy's predestined fall.
- But Capys, as did all of wiser heart,
- bade hurl into the sea the false Greek gift,
- or underneath it thrust a kindling flame
- or pierce the hollow ambush of its womb
- with probing spear. Yet did the multitude
- veer round from voice to voice and doubt of all.
- Then from the citadel, conspicuous,
- Laocoon, with all his following choir,
- hurried indignant down; and from afar
- thus hailed the people: “O unhappy men!
- What madness this? Who deems our foemen fled?
- Think ye the gifts of Greece can lack for guile?
- Have ye not known Ulysses? The Achaean
- hides, caged in yonder beams; or this is reared
- for engin'ry on our proud battlements,
- to spy upon our roof-tops, or descend
- in ruin on the city. 'T is a snare.
- Trust not this horse, O Troy, whate'er it bode!
- I fear the Greeks, though gift on gift they bear.”
- So saying, he whirled with ponderous javelin
- a sturdy stroke straight at the rounded side
- of the great, jointed beast. A tremor struck
- its towering form, and through the cavernous womb
- rolled loud, reverberate rumbling, deep and long.
- If heaven's decree, if our own wills, that hour,
- had not been fixed on woe, his spear had brought
- a bloody slaughter on our ambushed foe,
- and Troy were standing on the earth this day!
- O Priam's towers, ye were unfallen still!
- But, lo! with hands fast bound behind, a youth
- by clamorous Dardan shepherds haled along,
- was brought before our king,—to this sole end
- a self-surrendered captive, that he might,
- although a nameless stranger, cunningly
- deliver to the Greek the gates of Troy.
- His firm-set mind flinched not from either goal,—
- success in crime, or on swift death to fall.
- The thronging Trojan youth made haste his way
- from every side, all eager to see close
- their captive's face, and clout with emulous scorn.
- Hear now what Greek deception is, and learn
- from one dark wickedness the whole. For he,
- a mark for every eye, defenceless, dazed,
- stood staring at our Phrygian hosts, and cried:
- “Woe worth the day! What ocean or what shore
- will have me now? What desperate path remains
- for miserable me? Now have I lost
- all foothold with the Greeks, and o'er my head
- Troy's furious sons call bloody vengeance down.”
- Such groans and anguish turned all rage away
- and stayed our lifted hands. We bade him tell
- his birth, his errand, and from whence might be
- such hope of mercy for a foe in chains.
- Then fearing us no more, this speech he dared:
- “O King! I will confess, whate'er befall,
- the whole unvarnished truth. I will not hide
- my Grecian birth. Yea, thus will I begin.
- For Fortune has brought wretched Sinon low;
- but never shall her cruelty impair
- his honor and his truth. Perchance the name
- of Palamedes, Belus' glorious son,
- has come by rumor to your listening ears;
- whom by false witness and conspiracy,
- because his counsel was not for this war,
- the Greeks condemned, though guiltless, to his death,
- and now make much lament for him they slew.
- I, his companion, of his kith and kin,
- sent hither by my humble sire's command,
- followed his arms and fortunes from my youth.
- Long as his throne endured, and while he throve
- in conclave with his kingly peers, we twain
- some name and lustre bore; but afterward,
- because that cheat Ulysses envied him
- (Ye know the deed), he from this world withdrew,
- and I in gloom and tribulation sore
- lived miserably on, lamenting loud
- my lost friend's blameless fall. A fool was I
- that kept not these lips closed; but I had vowed
- that if a conqueror home to Greece I came,
- I would avenge. Such words moved wrath, and were
- the first shock of my ruin; from that hour,
- Ulysses whispered slander and alarm;
- breathed doubt and malice into all men's ears,
- and darkly plotted how to strike his blow.
- Nor rest had he, till Calchas, as his tool,-
- but why unfold this useless, cruel story?
- Why make delay? Ye count all sons of Greece
- arrayed as one; and to have heard thus far
- suffices you. Take now your ripe revenge!
- Ulysses smiles and Atreus' royal sons
- with liberal price your deed of blood repay.”
- We ply him then with passionate appeal
- and question all his cause: of guilt so dire
- or such Greek guile we harbored not the thought.
- So on he prates, with well-feigned grief and fear,
- and from his Iying heart thus told his tale:
- “Full oft the Greeks had fain achieved their flight,
- and raised the Trojan siege, and sailed away
- war-wearied quite. O, would it had been so!
- Full oft the wintry tumult of the seas
- did wall them round, and many a swollen storm
- their embarcation stayed. But chiefly when,
- all fitly built of beams of maple fair,
- this horse stood forth,— what thunders filled the skies!
- With anxious fears we sent Eurypylus
- to ask Apollo's word; and from the shrine
- he brings the sorrowful commandment home:
- ‘By flowing blood and by a virgin slain
- the wild winds were appeased, when first ye came,
- ye sons of Greece, to Ilium's distant shore.
- Through blood ye must return. Let some Greek life
- your expiation be.’ The popular ear
- the saying caught, all spirits were dimmed o'er;
- cold doubt and horror through each bosom ran,
- asking what fate would do, and on what wretch
- Apollo's choice would fall. Ulysses, then,
- amid the people's tumult and acclaim,
- thrust Calchas forth, some prophecy to tell
- to all the throng: he asked him o'er and o'er
- what Heaven desired. Already not a few
- foretold the murderous plot, and silently
- watched the dark doom upon my life impend.
- Twice five long days the seer his lips did seal,
- and hid himself, refusing to bring forth
- His word of guile, and name what wretch should die.
- At last, reluctant, and all loudly urged
- By false Ulysses, he fulfils their plot,
- and, lifting up his voice oracular,
- points out myself the victim to be slain.
- Nor did one voice oppose. The mortal stroke
- horribly hanging o'er each coward head
- was changed to one man's ruin, and their hearts
- endured it well. Soon rose th' accursed morn;
- the bloody ritual was ready; salt
- was sprinkled on the sacred loaf; my brows
- were bound with fillets for the offering.
- But I escaped that death—yes! I deny not!
- I cast my fetters off, and darkling lay
- concealed all night in lake-side sedge and mire,
- awaiting their departure, if perchance
- they should in truth set sail. But nevermore
- shall my dear, native country greet these eyes.
- No more my father or my tender babes
- shall I behold. Nay, haply their own lives
- are forfeit, when my foemen take revenge
- for my escape, and slay those helpless ones,
- in expiation of my guilty deed.
- O, by yon powers in heaven which witness truth,
- by aught in this dark world remaining now
- of spotless human faith and innocence,
- I do implore thee look with pitying eye
- on these long sufferings my heart hath borne.
- O, pity! I deserve not what I bear.”
- Pity and pardon to his tears we gave,
- and spared his life. King Priam bade unbind
- the fettered hands and loose those heavy chains
- that pressed him sore; then with benignant mien
- addressed him thus: “ Whate'er thy place or name,
- forget the people thou hast Iost, and be
- henceforth our countryman. But tell me true!
- What means the monstrous fabric of this horse?
- Who made it? Why? What offering to Heaven,
- or engin'ry of conquest may it be?”
- He spake; and in reply, with skilful guile,
- Greek that he was! the other lifted up
- his hands, now freed and chainless, to the skies:
- “O ever-burning and inviolate fires,
- witness my word! O altars and sharp steel,
- whose curse I fled, O fillets of the gods,
- which bound a victim's helpless forehead, hear!
- 'T is lawful now to break the oath that gave
- my troth to Greece. To execrate her kings
- is now my solemn duty. Their whole plot
- I publish to the world. No fatherland
- and no allegiance binds me any more.
- O Troy, whom I have saved, I bid thee keep
- the pledge of safety by good Priam given,
- for my true tale shall my rich ransom be.
- The Greeks' one hope, since first they opened war,
- was Pallas, grace and power. But from the day
- when Diomed, bold scorner of the gods,
- and false Ulysses, author of all guile,
- rose up and violently bore away
- Palladium, her holy shrine, hewed down
- the sentinels of her acropolis,
- and with polluted, gory hands dared touch
- the goddess, virgin fillets, white and pure,—
- thenceforth, I say, the courage of the Greeks
- ebbed utterly away; their strength was Iost,
- and favoring Pallas all her grace withdrew.
- No dubious sign she gave. Scarce had they set
- her statue in our camp, when glittering flame
- flashed from the staring eyes; from all its limbs
- salt sweat ran forth; three times (O wondrous tale!)
- it gave a sudden skyward leap, and made
- prodigious trembling of her lance and shield.
- The prophet Calchas bade us straightway take
- swift flight across the sea; for fate had willed
- the Trojan citadel should never fall
- by Grecian arm, till once more they obtain
- new oracles at Argos, and restore
- that god the round ships hurried o'er the sea.
- Now in Mycenae, whither they are fled,
- new help of heaven they find, and forge anew
- the means of war. Back hither o'er the waves
- they suddenly will come. So Calchas gave
- the meaning of the god. Warned thus, they reared
- in place of Pallas, desecrated shrine
- yon image of the horse, to expiate
- the woeful sacrilege. Calchas ordained
- that they should build a thing of monstrous size
- of jointed beams, and rear it heavenward,
- so might it never pass your gates, nor come
- inside your walls, nor anywise restore
- unto the Trojans their lost help divine.
- For had your hands Minerva's gift profaned,
- a ruin horrible—O, may the gods
- bring it on Calchas rather!—would have come
- on Priam's throne and all the Phrygian power.
- But if your hands should lift the holy thing
- to your own citadel, then Asia's host
- would hurl aggression upon Pelops' land,
- and all that curse on our own nation fall.”
- Thus Sinon's guile and practiced perjury
- our doubt dispelled. His stratagems and tears
- wrought victory where neither Tydeus' son,
- nor mountain-bred Achilles could prevail,
- nor ten years' war, nor fleets a thousand strong.
- But now a vaster spectacle of fear
- burst over us, to vex our startled souls.
- Laocoon, that day by cast of lot
- priest unto Neptune, was in act to slay
- a huge bull at the god's appointed fane.
- Lo! o'er the tranquil deep from Tenedos
- appeared a pair (I shudder as I tell)
- of vastly coiling serpents, side by side,
- stretching along the waves, and to the shore
- taking swift course; their necks were lifted high,
- their gory dragon-crests o'ertopped the waves;
- all else, half seen, trailed low along the sea;
- while with loud cleavage of the foaming brine
- their monstrous backs wound forward fold on fold.
- Soon they made land; the furious bright eyes
- glowed with ensanguined fire; their quivering tongues
- lapped hungrily the hissing, gruesome jaws.
- All terror-pale we fled. Unswerving then
- the monsters to Laocoon made way.
- First round the tender limbs of his two sons
- each dragon coiled, and on the shrinking flesh
- fixed fast and fed. Then seized they on the sire,
- who flew to aid, a javelin in his hand,
- embracing close in bondage serpentine
- twice round the waist; and twice in scaly grasp
- around his neck, and o'er him grimly peered
- with lifted head and crest; he, all the while,
- his holy fillet fouled with venomous blood,
- tore at his fetters with a desperate hand,
- and lifted up such agonizing voice,
- as when a bull, death-wounded, seeks to flee
- the sacrificial altar, and thrusts back
- from his doomed head the ill-aimed, glancing blade.
- then swiftly writhed the dragon-pair away
- unto the templed height, and in the shrine
- of cruel Pallas sure asylum found
- beneath the goddess' feet and orbed shield.
- Such trembling horror as we ne'er had known
- seized now on every heart. “ Of his vast guilt
- Laocoon,” they say, “receives reward;
- for he with most abominable spear
- did strike and violate that blessed wood.
- Yon statue to the temple! Ask the grace
- of glorious Pallas!” So the people cried
- in general acclaim.Ourselves did make
- a breach within our walls and opened wide
- the ramparts of our city. One and all
- were girded for the task. Smooth-gliding wheels
- were 'neath its feet; great ropes stretched round its neck,
- till o'er our walls the fatal engine climbed,
- pregnant with men-at-arms. On every side
- fair youths and maidens made a festal song,
- and hauled the ropes with merry heart and gay.
- So on and up it rolled, a tower of doom,
- and in proud menace through our Forum moved.
- O Ilium, my country, where abode
- the gods of all my sires! O glorious walls
- of Dardan's sons! before your gates it passed,
- four times it stopped and dreadful clash of arms
- four times from its vast concave loudly rang.
- Yet frantic pressed we on, our hearts all blind,
- and in the consecrated citadel
- set up the hateful thing. Cassandra then
- from heaven-instructed heart our doom foretold;
- but doomed to unbelief were Ilium's sons.
- Our hapless nation on its dying day
- flung free o'er streets and shrines the votive flowers.
- The skies rolled on; and o'er the ocean fell
- the veil of night, till utmost earth and heaven
- and all their Myrmidonian stratagems
- were mantled darkly o'er. In silent sleep
- the Trojan city lay; dull slumber chained
- its weary life. But now the Greek array
- of ordered ships moved on from Tenedos,
- their only light the silent, favoring moon,
- on to the well-known strand. The King displayed
- torch from his own ship, and Sinon then,
- whom wrathful Heaven defended in that hour,
- let the imprisoned band of Greeks go free
- from that huge womb of wood; the open horse
- restored them to the light; and joyfully
- emerging from the darkness, one by one,
- princely Thessander, Sthenelus, and dire
- Ulysses glided down the swinging cord.
- Closely upon them Neoptolemus,
- the son of Peleus, came, and Acamas,
- King Menelaus, Thoas and Machaon,
- and last, Epeus, who the fabric wrought.
- Upon the town they fell, for deep in sleep
- and drowsed with wine it lay; the sentinels
- they slaughtered, and through gates now opened wide
- let in their fellows, and arrayed for war
- th' auxiliar legions of the dark design.