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