Aeneid

Virgil

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

Now felt the Queen the sharp, slow-gathering pangs
of love; and out of every pulsing vein
nourished the wound and fed its viewless fire.
Her hero's virtues and his lordly line
keep calling to her soul; his words, his glance,
cling to her heart like lingering, barbed steel,
and rest and peace from her vexed body fly.
A new day's dawn with Phoebus' lamp divine
lit up all lands, and from the vaulted heaven
Aurora had dispelled the dark and dew;
when thus unto the ever-answering heart
of her dear sister spoke the stricken Queen:
“Anna, my sister, what disturbing dreams
perplex me and alarm? What guest is this
new-welcomed to our house? How proud his mien!
What dauntless courage and exploits of war!
Sooth, I receive it for no idle tale
that of the gods he sprang. 'T is cowardice
betrays the base-born soul. Ah me! How fate
has smitten him with storms! What dire extremes
of war and horror in his tale he told!
O, were it not immutably resolved
in my fixed heart, that to no shape of man
I would be wed again (since my first love
left me by death abandoned and betrayed);
loathed I not so the marriage torch and train,
I could—who knows?—to this one weakness yield.
Anna, I hide it not! But since the doom
of my ill-starred Sichaeus, when our shrines
were by a brother's murder dabbled o'er,
this man alone has moved me; he alone
has shaken my weak will. I seem to feel
the motions of love's lost, familiar fire.
But may the earth gape open where I tread,
and may almighty Jove with thunder-scourge
hurl me to Erebus' abysmal shade,
to pallid ghosts and midnight fathomless,
before, O Chastity! I shall offend
thy holy power, or cast thy bonds away!
He who first mingled his dear life with mine
took with him all my heart. 'T is his alone —
o, let it rest beside him in the grave!”
She spoke: the bursting tears her breast o'erflowed.

“O dearer to thy sister than her life,”
Anna replied, “wouldst thou in sorrow's weed
waste thy long youth alone, nor ever know
sweet babes at thine own breast, nor gifts of love?
Will dust and ashes, or a buried ghost
reck what we do? 'T is true thy grieving heart
was cold to earlier wooers, Libya's now,
and long ago in Tyre. Iarbas knew
thy scorn, and many a prince and captain bred
in Afric's land of glory. Why resist
a love that makes thee glad? Hast thou no care
what alien lands are these where thou dost reign?
Here are Gaetulia's cities and her tribes
unconquered ever; on thy borders rove
Numidia's uncurbed cavalry; here too
lies Syrtis' cruel shore, and regions wide
of thirsty desert, menaced everywhere
by the wild hordes of Barca. Shall I tell
of Tyre's hostilities, the threats and rage
of our own brother? Friendly gods, I bow,
wafted the Teucrian ships, with Juno's aid,
to these our shores. O sister, what a throne,
and what imperial city shall be thine,
if thus espoused! With Trojan arms allied
how far may not our Punic fame extend
in deeds of power? Call therefore on the gods
to favor thee; and, after omens fair,
give queenly welcome, and contrive excuse
to make him tarry, while yon wintry seas
are loud beneath Orion's stormful star,
and on his battered ships the season frowns.”

So saying, she stirred a passion-burning breast
to Iove more madly still; her words infused
a doubting mind with hope, and bade the blush
of shame begone. First to the shrines they went
and sued for grace; performing sacrifice,
choosing an offering of unblemished ewes,
to law-bestowing Ceres, to the god
of light, to sire Lyeus, Iord of wine;
but chiefly unto Juno, patroness
of nuptial vows. There Dido, beauteous Queen
held forth in her right hand the sacred bowl
and poured it full between the lifted horns
of the white heifer; or on temple floors
she strode among the richly laden shrines,
the eyes of gods upon her, worshipping
with many a votive gift; or, peering deep
into the victims' cloven sides, she read
the fate-revealing tokens trembling there.
How blind the hearts of prophets be! Alas!
Of what avail be temples and fond prayers
to change a frenzied mind? Devouring ever,
love's fire burns inward to her bones; she feels
quick in her breast the viewless, voiceless wound.
Ill-fated Dido ranges up and down
the spaces of her city, desperate
her life one flame—like arrow-stricken doe
through Cretan forest rashly wandering,
pierced by a far-off shepherd, who pursues
with shafts, and leaves behind his light-winged steed,
not knowing; while she scours the dark ravines
of Dicte and its woodlands; at her heart
the mortal barb irrevocably clings.
around her city's battlements she guides
aeneas, to make show of Sidon's gold,
and what her realm can boast; full oft her voice
essays to speak and frembling dies away:
or, when the daylight fades, she spreads anew
a royal banquet, and once more will plead
mad that she is, to hear the Trojan sorrow;
and with oblivious ravishment once more
hangs on his lips who tells; or when her guests
are scattered, and the wan moon's fading horn
bedims its ray, while many a sinking star
invites to slumber, there she weeps alone
in the deserted hall, and casts her down
on the cold couch he pressed. Her love from far
beholds her vanished hero and receives
his voice upon her ears; or to her breast,
moved by a father's image in his child,
she clasps Ascanius, seeking to deceive
her unblest passion so. Her enterprise
of tower and rampart stops: her martial host
no Ionger she reviews, nor fashions now
defensive haven and defiant wall;
but idly all her half-built bastions frown,
and enginery of sieges, high as heaven.

But soon the chosen spouse of Jove perceived
the Queen's infection; and because the voice
of honor to such frenzy spoke not, she,
daughter of Saturn, unto Venus turned
and counselled thus: “How noble is the praise,
how glorious the spoils of victory,
for thee and for thy boy! Your names should be
in lasting, vast renown—that by the snare
of two great gods in league one woman fell!
it 'scapes me not that my protected realms
have ever been thy fear, and the proud halls
of Carthage thy vexation and annoy.
Why further go? Prithee, what useful end
has our long war? Why not from this day forth
perpetual peace and nuptial amity?
Hast thou not worked thy will? Behold and see
how Iove-sick Dido burns, and all her flesh
'The madness feels! So let our common grace
smile on a mingled people! Let her serve
a Phrygian husband, while thy hands receive
her Tyrian subjects for the bridal dower!”

In answer (reading the dissembler's mind
which unto Libyan shores were fain to shift
italia's future throne) thus Venus spoke:
“'T were mad to spurn such favor, or by choice
be numbered with thy foes. But can it be
that fortune on thy noble counsel smiles?
To me Fate shows but dimly whether Jove
unto the Trojan wanderers ordains
a common city with the sons of Tyre,
with mingling blood and sworn, perpetual peace.
His wife thou art; it is thy rightful due
to plead to know his mind. Go, ask him, then!
For humbly I obey!” With instant word
Juno the Queen replied: “Leave that to me!
But in what wise our urgent task and grave
may soon be sped, I will in brief unfold
to thine attending ear. A royal hunt
in sylvan shades unhappy Dido gives
for her Aeneas, when to-morrow's dawn
uplifts its earliest ray and Titan's beam
shall first unveil the world. But I will pour
black storm-clouds with a burst of heavy hail
along their way; and as the huntsmen speed
to hem the wood with snares, I will arouse
all heaven with thunder. The attending train
shall scatter and be veiled in blinding dark,
while Dido and her hero out of Troy
to the same cavern fly. My auspices
I will declare—if thou alike wilt bless;
and yield her in true wedlock for his bride.
Such shall their spousal be!” To Juno's will
Cythera's Queen inclined assenting brow,
and laughed such guile to see. Aurora rose,
and left the ocean's rim. The city's gates
pour forth to greet the morn a gallant train
of huntsmen, bearing many a woven snare
and steel-tipped javelin; while to and fro
run the keen-scented dogs and Libyan squires.
The Queen still keeps her chamber; at her doors
the Punic lords await; her palfrey, brave
in gold and purple housing, paws the ground
and fiercely champs the foam-flecked bridle-rein.
At last, with numerous escort, forth she shines:
her Tyrian pall is bordered in bright hues,
her quiver, gold; her tresses are confined
only with gold; her robes of purple rare
meet in a golden clasp. To greet her come
the noble Phrygian guests; among them smiles
the boy Iulus; and in fair array
Aeneas, goodliest of all his train.
In such a guise Apollo (when he leaves
cold Lycian hills and Xanthus' frosty stream
to visit Delos to Latona dear)
ordains the song, while round his altars cry
the choirs of many islands, with the pied,
fantastic Agathyrsi; soon the god
moves o'er the Cynthian steep; his flowing hair
he binds with laurel garland and bright gold;
upon his shining shoulder as he goes
the arrows ring:—not less uplifted mien
aeneas wore; from his illustrious brow
such beauty shone. Soon to the mountains tall
the cavalcade comes nigh, to pathless haunts
of woodland creatures; the wild goats are seen,
from pointed crag descending leap by leap
down the steep ridges; in the vales below
are routed deer, that scour the spreading plain,
and mass their dust-blown squadrons in wild flight,
far from the mountain's bound. Ascanius
flushed with the sport, spurs on a mettled steed
from vale to vale, and many a flying herd
his chase outspeeds; but in his heart he prays
among these tame things suddenly to see
a tusky boar, or, leaping from the hills,
a growling mountain-lion, golden-maned.

Meanwhile low thunders in the distant sky
mutter confusedly; soon bursts in full
the storm-cloud and the hail. The Tyrian troop
is scattered wide; the chivalry of Troy,
with the young heir of Dardan's kingly line,
of Venus sprung, seek shelter where they may,
with sudden terror; down the deep ravines
the swollen torrents roar. In that same hour
Queen Dido and her hero out of Troy
to the same cavern fly. Old Mother-Earth
and wedlock-keeping Juno gave the sign;
the flash of lightnings on the conscious air
were torches to the bridal; from the hills
the wailing wood-nymphs sobbed a wedding song.
Such was that day of death, the source and spring
of many a woe. For Dido took no heed
of honor and good-name; nor did she mean
her loves to hide; but called the lawlessness
a marriage, and with phrases veiled her shame.

Swift through the Libyan cities Rumor sped.
Rumor! What evil can surpass her speed?
In movement she grows mighty, and achieves
strength and dominion as she swifter flies.
small first, because afraid, she soon exalts
her stature skyward, stalking through the lands
and mantling in the clouds her baleful brow.
The womb of Earth, in anger at high Heaven,
bore her, they say, last of the Titan spawn,
sister to Coeus and Enceladus.
Feet swift to run and pinions like the wind
the dreadful monster wears; her carcase huge
is feathered, and at root of every plume
a peering eye abides; and, strange to tell,
an equal number of vociferous tongues,
foul, whispering lips, and ears, that catch at all.
At night she spreads midway 'twixt earth and heaven
her pinions in the darkness, hissing loud,
nor e'er to happy slumber gives her eyes:
but with the morn she takes her watchful throne
high on the housetops or on lofty towers,
to terrify the nations. She can cling
to vile invention and malignant wrong,
or mingle with her word some tidings true.
She now with changeful story filled men's ears,
exultant, whether false or true she sung:
how, Trojan-born Aeneas having come,
Dido, the lovely widow, Iooked his way,
deigning to wed; how all the winter long
they passed in revel and voluptuous ease,
to dalliance given o'er; naught heeding now
of crown or kingdom—shameless! lust-enslaved!
Such tidings broadcast on the lips of men
the filthy goddess spread; and soon she hied
to King Iarbas, where her hateful song
to newly-swollen wrath his heart inflamed.