Aeneid
Virgil
Vergil. The Aeneid of Virgil. Williams, Theodore, C, translator. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1910.
- 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.
- Him the god Ammon got by forced embrace
- upon a Libyan nymph; his kingdoms wide
- possessed a hundred ample shrines to Jove,
- a hundred altars whence ascended ever
- the fires of sacrifice, perpetual seats
- for a great god's abode, where flowing blood
- enriched the ground, and on the portals hung
- garlands of every flower. The angered King,
- half-maddened by malignant Rumor's voice,
- unto his favored altars came, and there,
- surrounded by the effluence divine,
- upraised in prayer to Jove his suppliant hands.
- “Almighty Jupiter, to whom each day,
- at banquet on the painted couch reclined,
- Numidia pours libation! Do thine eyes
- behold us? Or when out of yonder heaven,
- o sire, thou launchest the swift thunderbolt,
- is it for naught we fear thee? Do the clouds
- shoot forth blind fire to terrify the soul
- with wild, unmeaning roar? O, Iook upon
- that woman, who was homeless in our realm,
- and bargained where to build her paltry town,
- receiving fertile coastland for her farms,
- by hospitable grant! She dares disdain
- our proffered nuptial vow. She has proclaimed
- Aeneas partner of her bed and throne.
- And now that Paris, with his eunuch crew,
- beneath his chin and fragrant, oozy hair
- ties the soft Lydian bonnet, boasting well
- his stolen prize. But we to all these fanes,
- though they be thine, a fruitless offering bring,
- and feed on empty tales our trust in thee.”
- As thus he prayed and to the altars clung,
- th' Omnipotent gave ear, and turned his gaze
- upon the royal dwelling, where for love
- the amorous pair forgot their place and name.
- Then thus to Mercury he gave command:
- “Haste thee, my son, upon the Zephyrs call,
- and take thy winged way! My mandate bear
- unto that prince of Troy who tarries now
- in Tyrian Carthage, heedless utterly
- of empire Heaven-bestowed. On winged winds
- hasten with my decrees. Not such the man
- his beauteous mother promised; not for this
- twice did she shield him from the Greeks in arms:
- but that he might rule Italy, a land
- pregnant with thrones and echoing with war;
- that he of Teucer's seed a race should sire,
- and bring beneath its law the whole wide world.
- If such a glory and event supreme
- enkindle not his bosom; if such task
- to his own honor speak not; can the sire
- begrudge Ascanius the heritage
- of the proud name of Rome? What plans he now?
- What mad hope bids him linger in the lap
- of enemies, considering no more
- the land Lavinian and Ausonia's sons.
- Let him to sea! Be this our final word:
- this message let our herald faithful bear.”
- He spoke. The god a prompt obedience gave
- to his great sire's command. He fastened first
- those sandals of bright gold, which carry him
- aloft o'er land or sea, with airy wings
- that race the fleeting wind; then lifted he
- his wand, wherewith he summons from the grave
- pale-featured ghosts, or, if he will, consigns
- to doleful Tartarus; or by its power
- gives slumber or dispels; or quite unseals
- the eyelids of the dead: on this relying,
- he routs the winds or cleaves th' obscurity
- of stormful clouds. Soon from his flight he spied
- the summit and the sides precipitous
- of stubborn Atlas, whose star-pointing peak
- props heaven; of Atlas, whose pine-wreathed brow
- is girdled evermore with misty gloom
- and lashed of wind and rain; a cloak of snow
- melts on his shoulder; from his aged chin
- drop rivers, and ensheathed in stiffening ice
- glitters his great grim beard. Here first was stayed
- the speed of Mercury's well-poising wing;
- here making pause, from hence he headlong flung
- his body to the sea; in motion like
- some sea-bird's, which along the levelled shore
- or round tall crags where rove the swarming fish,
- flies Iow along the waves: o'er-hovering so
- between the earth and skies, Cyllene's god
- flew downward from his mother's mountain-sire,
- parted the winds and skimmed the sandy merge
- of Libya. When first his winged feet
- came nigh the clay-built Punic huts, he saw
- Aeneas building at a citadel,
- and founding walls and towers; at his side
- was girt a blade with yellow jaspers starred,
- his mantle with the stain of Tyrian shell
- flowed purple from his shoulder, broidered fair
- by opulent Dido with fine threads of gold,
- her gift of love; straightway the god began:
- “Dost thou for lofty Carthage toil, to build
- foundations strong? Dost thou, a wife's weak thrall,
- build her proud city? Hast thou, shameful loss!
- Forgot thy kingdom and thy task sublime?
- From bright Olympus, I. He who commands
- all gods, and by his sovran deity
- moves earth and heaven—he it was who bade
- me bear on winged winds his high decree.
- What plan is thine? By what mad hope dost thou
- linger so Iong in lap of Libyan land?
- If the proud reward of thy destined way
- move not thy heart, if all the arduous toil
- to thine own honor speak not, Iook upon
- Iulus in his bloom, thy hope and heir
- Ascanius. It is his rightful due
- in Italy o'er Roman lands to reign.”
- After such word Cyllene's winged god
- vanished, and e'er his accents died away,
- dissolved in air before the mortal's eyes.
- Aeneas at the sight stood terror-dumb
- with choking voice and horror-rising hair.
- He fain would fly at once and get him gone
- from that voluptuous land, much wondering
- at Heaven's wrathful word. Alas! how stir?
- What cunning argument can plead his cause
- before th' infuriate Queen? How break such news?
- Flashing this way and that, his startled mind
- makes many a project and surveys them all.
- But, pondering well, his final counsel stopped
- at this resolve: he summoned to his side
- Mnestheus, Sergestus, and Serestus bold,
- and bade them fit the fleet, all silently
- gathering the sailors and collecting gear,
- but carefully dissembling what emprise
- such novel stir intends: himself the while
- (Since high-born Dido dreamed not love so fond
- could have an end) would seek an audience,
- at some indulgent time, and try what shift
- such matters may require. With joy they heard,
- and wrought, assiduous, at their prince's plan.
- But what can cheat true love? The Queen foreknew
- his stratagem, and all the coming change
- perceived ere it began. Her jealous fear
- counted no hour secure. That unclean tongue
- of Rumor told her fevered heart the fleet
- was fitting forth, and hastening to be gone.
- Distractedly she raved, and passion-tossed
- roamed through her city, like a Maenad roused
- by the wild rout of Bacchus, when are heard
- the third year's orgies, and the midnight scream
- to cold Cithaeron calls the frenzied crew.
- Finding Aeneas, thus her plaint she poured:
- “Didst hope to hide it, false one, that such crime
- was in thy heart,—to steal without farewell
- out of my kingdom? Did our mutual joy
- not move thee; nor thine own true promise given
- once on a time? Nor Dido, who will die
- a death of sorrow? Why compel thy ships
- to brave the winter stars? Why off to sea
- so fast through stormy skies? O, cruelty!
- If Troy still stood, and if thou wert not bound
- for alien shore unknown, wouldst steer for Troy
- through yonder waste of waves? Is it from me
- thou takest flight? O, by these flowing tears,
- by thine own plighted word (for nothing more
- my weakness left to miserable me),
- by our poor marriage of imperfect vow,
- if aught to me thou owest, if aught in me
- ever have pleased thee—O, be merciful
- to my low-fallen fortunes! I implore,
- if place be left for prayer, thy purpose change!
- Because of thee yon Libyan savages
- and nomad chiefs are grown implacable,
- and my own Tyrians hate me. Yes, for thee
- my chastity was slain and honor fair,
- by which alone to glory I aspired,
- in former days. To whom dost thou in death
- abandon me? my guest!—since but this name
- is left me of a husband! Shall I wait
- till fell Pygmalion, my brother, raze
- my city walls? Or the Gaetulian king,
- Iarbas, chain me captive to his car? .
- O, if, ere thou hadst fled, I might but bear
- some pledge of love to thee, and in these halls
- watch some sweet babe Aeneas at his play,
- whose face should be the memory of thine own —
- I were not so forsaken, Iost, undone!”
- She said. But he, obeying Jove's decree,
- gazed steadfastly away; and in his heart
- with strong repression crushed his cruel pain;
- then thus the silence broke: “O Queen, not one
- of my unnumbered debts so strongly urged
- would I gainsay. Elissa's memory
- will be my treasure Iong as memory holds,
- or breath of life is mine. Hear my brief plea!
- 'T was not my hope to hide this flight I take,
- as thou hast dreamed. Nay, I did never light
- a bridegroom's torch, nor gave I thee the vow
- of marriage. Had my destiny decreed,
- that I should shape life to my heart's desire,
- and at my own will put away the weight
- of foil and pain, my place would now be found
- in Troy, among the cherished sepulchres
- of my own kin, and Priam's mansion proud
- were standing still; or these my loyal hands
- had rebuilt Ilium for her vanquished sons.
- But now to Italy Apollo's power
- commands me forth; his Lycian oracles
- are loud for Italy. My heart is there,
- and there my fatherland. If now the towers
- of Carthage and thy Libyan colony
- delight thy Tyrian eyes; wilt thou refuse
- to Trojan exiles their Ausonian shore?
- I too by Fate was driven, not less than thou,
- to wander far a foreign throne to find.
- Oft when in dewy dark night hides the world,
- and flaming stars arise, Anchises' shade
- looks on me in my dreams with angered brow.
- I think of my Ascanius, and the wrong
- to that dear heart, from whom I steal away
- Hesperia, his destined home and throne.
- But now the winged messenger of Heaven,
- sent down by Jove (I swear by thee and me!),
- has brought on winged winds his sire's command.
- My own eyes with unclouded vision saw
- the god within these walls; I have received
- with my own ears his word. No more inflame
- with lamentation fond thy heart and mine.
- 'T is not my own free act seeks Italy.”
- She with averted eyes and glance that rolled
- speechless this way and that, had listened long
- to his reply, till thus her rage broke forth:
- “No goddess gave thee birth. No Dardanus
- begot thy sires. But on its breast of stone
- Caucasus bore thee, and the tigresses
- of fell Hyrcania to thy baby lip
- their udders gave. Why should I longer show
- a lying smile? What worse can I endure?
- Did my tears draw one sigh? Did he once drop
- his stony stare? or did he yield a tear
- to my lament, or pity this fond heart?
- Why set my wrongs in order? Juno, now,
- and Jove, the son of Saturn, heed no more
- where justice lies. No trusting heart is safe
- in all this world. That waif and castaway
- I found in beggary and gave him share—
- fool that I was!—in my own royal glory.
- His Iost fleet and his sorry crews I steered
- from death away. O, how my fevered soul
- unceasing raves! Forsooth Apollo speaks!
- His Lycian oracles! and sent by Jove
- the messenger of Heaven on fleeting air
- the ruthless bidding brings! Proud business
- for gods, I trow, that such a task disturbs
- their still abodes! I hold thee back no more,
- nor to thy cunning speeches give the lie.
- Begone! Sail on to Italy, thy throne,
- through wind and wave! I pray that, if there be
- any just gods of power, thou mayest drink down
- death on the mid-sea rocks, and often call
- with dying gasps on Dido's name—while I
- pursue with vengeful fire. When cold death rends
- the body from the breath, my ghost shall sit
- forever in thy path. Full penalties
- thy stubborn heart shall pay. They'll bring me never
- in yon deep gulf of death of all thy woe.”
- Abrupt her utterance ceased; and sick at heart
- she fled the light of day, as if to shrink
- from human eyes, and left Aeneas there
- irresolute with horror, while his soul
- framed many a vain reply. Her swooning shape
- her maidens to a marble chamber bore
- and on her couch the helpless limbs reposed.
- Aeneas, faithful to a task divine,
- though yearning sore to remedy and soothe
- such misery, and with the timely word
- her grief assuage, and though his burdened heart
- was weak because of love, while many a groan
- rose from his bosom, yet no whit did fail
- to do the will of Heaven, but of his fleet
- resumed command. The Trojans on the shore
- ply well their task and push into the sea
- the lofty ships. Now floats the shining keel,
- and oars they bring all leafy from the grove,
- with oak half-hewn, so hurried was the flight.
- Behold them how they haste—from every gate
- forth-streaming!—just as when a heap of corn
- is thronged with ants, who, knowing winter nigh,
- refill their granaries; the long black line
- runs o'er the levels, and conveys the spoil
- in narrow pathway through the grass; a part
- with straining and assiduous shoulder push
- the kernels huge; a part array the file,
- and whip the laggards on; their busy track
- swarms quick and eager with unceasing toil.
- O Dido, how thy suffering heart was wrung,
- that spectacle to see! What sore lament
- was thine, when from the towering citadel
- the whole shore seemed alive, the sea itself
- in turmoil with loud cries! Relentless Love,
- to what mad courses may not mortal hearts
- by thee be driven? Again her sorrow flies
- to doleful plaint and supplication vain;
- again her pride to tyrant Love bows down
- lest, though resolved to die, she fail to prove
- each hope of living: “O Anna, dost thou see
- yon busy shore? From every side they come.
- their canvas wooes the winds, and o'er each prow
- the merry seamen hang their votive flowers.
- Dear sister, since I did forebode this grief,
- I shall be strong to bear it. One sole boon
- my sorrow asks thee, Anna! Since of thee,
- thee only, did that traitor make a friend,
- and trusted thee with what he hid so deep —
- the feelings of his heart; since thou alone
- hast known what way, what hour the man would yield
- to soft persuasion—therefore, sister, haste,
- and humbly thus implore our haughty foe:
- ‘I was not with the Greeks what time they swore
- at Aulis to cut off the seed of Troy;
- I sent no ships to Ilium. Pray, have I
- profaned Anchises' tomb, or vexed his shade?’
- Why should his ear be deaf and obdurate
- to all I say? What haste? May he not make
- one last poor offering to her whose love
- is only pain? O, bid him but delay
- till flight be easy and the winds blow fair.
- I plead no more that bygone marriage-vow
- by him forsworn, nor ask that he should lose
- his beauteous Latium and his realm to be.
- Nothing but time I crave! to give repose
- and more room to this fever, till my fate
- teach a crushed heart to sorrow. I implore
- this last grace. (To thy sister's grief be kind!)
- I will requite with increase, till I die.”
- Such plaints, such prayers, again and yet again,
- betwixt the twain the sorrowing sister bore.
- But no words move, no lamentations bring
- persuasion to his soul; decrees of Fate
- oppose, and some wise god obstructs the way
- that finds the hero's ear. Oft-times around
- the aged strength of some stupendous oak
- the rival blasts of wintry Alpine winds
- smite with alternate wrath: Ioud is the roar,
- and from its rocking top the broken boughs
- are strewn along the ground; but to the crag
- steadfast it ever clings; far as toward heaven
- its giant crest uprears, so deep below
- its roots reach down to Tartarus:—not less
- the hero by unceasing wail and cry
- is smitten sore, and in his mighty heart
- has many a pang, while his serene intent
- abides unmoved, and tears gush forth in vain.
- Then wretched Dido, by her doom appalled,
- asks only death. It wearies her to see
- the sun in heaven. Yet that she might hold fast
- her dread resolve to quit the light of day,
- behold, when on an incense-breathing shrine
- her offering was laid—O fearful tale!—
- the pure libation blackened, and the wine
- flowed like polluting gore. She told the sight
- to none, not even to her sister's ear.
- A second sign was given: for in her house
- a marble altar to her husband's shade,
- with garlands bright and snowy fleeces dressed,
- had fervent worship; here strange cries were heard
- as if her dead spouse called while midnight reigned,
- and round her towers its inhuman song
- the lone owl sang, complaining o'er and o'er
- with lamentation and long shriek of woe.
- Forgotten oracles by wizards told
- whisper old omens dire. In dreams she feels
- cruel Aeneas goad her madness on,
- and ever seems she, friendless and alone,
- some lengthening path to travel, or to seek
- her Tyrians through wide wastes of barren lands.
- Thus frantic Pentheus flees the stern array
- of the Eumenides, and thinks to see
- two noonday lights blaze oer his doubled Thebes;
- or murdered Agamemnon's haunted son,
- Orestes, flees his mother's phantom scourge
- of flames and serpents foul, while at his door
- avenging horrors wait. Now sorrow-crazed
- and by her grief undone, resolved on death,
- the manner and the time her secret soul
- prepares, and, speaking to her sister sad,
- she masks in cheerful calm her fatal will:
- “I know a way—O, wish thy sister joy!—
- to bring him back to Iove, or set me free.
- On Ocean's bound and next the setting sun
- lies the last Aethiop land, where Atlas tall
- lifts on his shoulder the wide wheel of heaven,
- studded with burning stars. From thence is come
- a witch, a priestess, a Numidian crone,
- who guards the shrine of the Hesperides
- and feeds the dragon; she protects the fruit
- of that enchanting tree, and scatters there
- her slumb'rous poppies mixed with honey-dew.
- Her spells and magic promise to set free
- what hearts she will, or visit cruel woes
- on men afar. She stops the downward flow
- of rivers, and turns back the rolling stars;
- on midnight ghosts she calls: her vot'ries hear
- earth bellowing loud below, while from the hills
- the ash-trees travel down. But, sister mine,
- thou knowest, and the gods their witness give,
- how little mind have I to don the garb
- of sorcery. Depart in secret, thou,
- and bid them build a lofty funeral pyre
- inside our palalce-wall, and heap thereon
- the hero's arms, which that blasphemer hung
- within my chamber; every relic bring,
- and chiefly that ill-omened nuptial bed,
- my death and ruin! For I must blot out
- all sight and token of this husband vile.
- 'T is what the witch commands.” She spoke no more,
- and pallid was her brow. Yet Anna's mind
- knew not what web of death her sister wove
- by these strange rites, nor what such frenzy dares;
- nor feared she worse than when Sichaeus died,
- but tried her forth the errand to fulfil.
- Soon as the funeral pyre was builded high
- in a sequestered garden, Iooming huge
- with boughs of pine and faggots of cleft oak,
- the queen herself enwreathed it with sad flowers
- and boughs of mournful shade; and crowning all
- she laid on nuptial bed the robes and sword
- by him abandoned; and stretched out thereon
- a mock Aeneas;—but her doom she knew.
- Altars were there; and with loose locks unbound
- the priestess with a voice of thunder called
- three hundred gods, Hell, Chaos, the three shapes
- of triple Hecate, the faces three
- of virgin Dian. She aspersed a stream
- from dark Avernus drawn, she said; soft herbs
- were cut by moonlight with a blade of bronze,
- oozing black poison-sap; and she had plucked
- that philter from the forehead of new foal
- before its dam devours. Dido herself,
- sprinkling the salt meal, at the altar stands;
- one foot unsandalled, and with cincture free,
- on all the gods and fate-instructed stars,
- foreseeing death, she calls. But if there be
- some just and not oblivious power on high,
- who heeds when lovers plight unequal vow,
- to that god first her supplications rise.
- Soon fell the night, and peaceful slumbers breathed
- on all earth's weary creatures; the loud seas
- and babbling forests entered on repose;
- now midway in their heavenly course the stars
- wheeled silent on; the outspread lands below
- lay voiceless; all the birds of tinted wing,
- and flocks that haunt the merge of waters wide
- or keep the thorny wold, oblivious lay
- beneath the night so still; the stings of care
- ceased troubling, and no heart its burden knew.
- Not so the Tyrian Queen's deep-grieving soul!
- To sleep she could not yield; her eyes and heart
- refused the gift of night; her suffering
- redoubled, and in full returning tide
- her love rebelled, while on wild waves of rage
- she drifted to and fro. So, ceasing not
- from sorrow, thus she brooded on her wrongs:
- “What refuge now? Shall I invite the scorn
- of my rejected wooers, or entreat
- of some disdainful, nomad blackamoor
- to take me to his bed—though many a time
- such husbands I made mock of? Shall I sail
- on Ilian ships away, and sink to be
- the Trojans' humble thrall? Do they rejoice
- that once I gave them bread? Lives gratitude
- in hearts like theirs for bygone kindnesses?
- O, who, if so I stooped, would deign to bear
- on yon proud ships the scorned and fallen Queen?
- Lost creature! Woe betide thee! Knowest thou not
- the perjured children of Laomedon?
- What way is left? Should I take flight alone
- and join the revelling sailors? Or depart
- with Tyrians, the whole attending train
- of my own people? Hard the task to force
- their hearts from Sidon's towers; how once more
- compel to sea, and bid them spread the sail?
- Nay, perish! Thou hast earned it. Let the sword
- from sorrow save thee! Sister of my blood—
- who else but thee,—my own tears borne down,
- didst heap disaster on my frantic soul,
- and fling me to this foe? Why could I not
- pass wedlock by, and live a blameless life
- as wild things do, nor taste of passion's pain?
- But I broke faith! I cast the vows away
- made at Sichaeus' grave.” Such loud lament
- burst from her breaking heart with doleful sound.
- Meanwhile Aeneas on his lofty ship,
- having made ready all, and fixed his mind
- to launch away upon brief slumher fell.
- But the god came; and in the self-same guise
- once more in monitory vision spoke,
- all guised as Mercury,—his voice, his hue,
- his golden locks, and young limbs strong and fair.
- “Hail, goddess-born! Wouldst linger on in sleep
- at such an hour? Nor seest thou the snares
- that hem thee round? Nor hearest thou the voice
- of friendly zephyrs calling? Senseless man!
- That woman's breast contrives some treachery
- and horrid stroke; for, resolute to die,
- she drifts on swollen floods of wrath and scorn.
- Wilt thou not fly before the hastening hour
- of flight is gone? To-morrow thou wilt see
- yon waters thronged with ships, the cruel glare
- of fire-brands, and yonder shore all flame,
- if but the light of morn again surprise
- thee loitering in this land. Away! Away!
- Stay not! A mutable and shifting thing
- is woman ever.” Such command he spoke,
- then melted in the midnight dark away.
- Aeneas, by that fleeting vision struck
- with an exceeding awe, straightway leaped forth
- from slumber's power, and to his followers cried :
- “Awake, my men! Away! Each to his place
- upon the thwarts! Unfurl at once the sails!
- A god from heaven a second time sent down
- urges our instant flight and bids us cut
- the twisted cords. Whatever be thy name,
- behold, we come, O venerated Power!
- Again with joy we follow! Let thy grace
- assist us as we go! And may thy power
- bring none but stars benign across our sky.”
- So saying, from its scabbard forth he flashed
- the lightning of his sword, with naked blade
- striking the hawsers free. Like ardor seized
- on all his willing men, who raced and ran;
- and, while their galleys shadowed all the sea,
- clean from the shore they scudded, with strong strokes
- sweeping the purple waves and crested foam.
- Aurora's first young beams to earth were pouring
- as from Tithonus' saffron bed she sprang;
- while from her battlements the wakeful Queen
- watched the sky brighten, saw the mated sails
- push forth to sea, till all her port and strand
- held not an oar or keel. Thrice and four times
- she smote her lovely breast with wrathful hand,
- and tore her golden hair. “Great Jove,” she cries,
- “Shall that departing fugitive make mock
- of me, a queen? Will not my men-at-arms
- draw sword, give chase, from all my city thronging?
- Down from the docks, my ships! Out, out! Begone!
- Take fire and sword! Bend to your oars, ye slaves!
- What have I said? Where am I? What mad thoughts
- delude this ruined mind? Woe unto thee,
- thou wretched Dido, now thy impious deeds
- strike back upon thee. Wherefore struck they not,
- as was most fit, when thou didst fling away
- thy sceptre from thy hand? O Iying oaths!
- O faith forsworn! of him who brings, they boast,
- his father's gods along, and bowed his back
- to lift an age-worn sire! Why dared I not
- seize on him, rend his body limb from limb,
- and hurl him piecemeal on the rolling sea?
- Or put his troop of followers to the sword,
- ascanius too, and set his flesh before
- that father for a feast? Such fearful war
- had been of doubtful issue. Be it so!
- What fears a woman dying? Would I had
- attacked their camp with torches, kindled flame
- from ship to ship, until that son and sire,
- with that whole tribe, were unto ashes burned
- in one huge holocaust—myself its crown!
- Great orb of light whose holy beam surveys
- all earthly deeds! Great Juno, patroness
- of conjugal distress, who knowest all!
- Pale Hecate, whose name the witches cry
- at midnight crossways! O avenging furies!
- O gods that guard Queen Dido's dying breath!
- Give ear, and to my guiltless misery
- extend your power. Hear me what I pray!
- If it be fated that yon creature curst
- drift to the shore and happy haven find,
- if Father Iove's irrevocable word
- such goal decree—there may he be assailed
- by peoples fierce and bold. A banished man,
- from his Iulus' kisses sundered far,
- may his own eyes see miserably slain
- his kin and kind, and sue for alien arms.
- nor when he basely bows him to receive
- terms of unequal peace, shall he be blest
- with sceptre or with life; but perish there
- before his time, and lie without a grave
- upon the barren sand. For this I pray.
- This dying word is flowing from my heart
- with my spilt blood. And—O ye Tyrians! I
- sting with your hatred all his seed and tribe
- forevermore. This is the offering
- my ashes ask. Betwixt our nations twain,
- No Iove! No truce or amity! Arise,
- Out of my dust, unknown Avenger, rise!
- To harry and lay waste with sword and flame
- those Dardan settlers, and to vex them sore,
- to-day, to-morrow, and as long as power
- is thine to use! My dying curse arrays
- shore against shore and the opposing seas
- in shock of arms with arms. May living foes
- pass down from sire to son insatiate war!”
- She said. From point to point her purpose flew,
- seeking without delay to quench the flame
- of her loathed life. Brief bidding she addressed
- to Barce then, Sichaeus' nurse (her own
- lay dust and ashes in a lonely grave
- beside the Tyrian shore), “Go, nurse, and call
- my sister Anna! Bid her quickly bathe
- her limbs in living water, and procure
- due victims for our expiating fires.
- bid her make haste. Go, bind on thy own brow
- the sacred fillet. For to Stygian Jove
- it is my purpose now to consummate
- the sacrifice ordained, ending my woe,
- and touch with flame the Trojan's funeral pyre.”
- The aged crone to do her bidding ran
- with trembling zeal. But Dido (horror-struck
- at her own dread design, unstrung with fear,
- her bloodshot eyes wide-rolling, and her cheek
- twitching and fever-spotted, her cold brow
- blanched with approaching death)—sped past the doors
- into the palace garden; there she leaped,
- a frenzied creature, on the lofty pyre
- and drew the Trojan's sword; a gift not asked
- for use like this! When now she saw the garb
- of Ilian fashion, and the nuptial couch
- she knew too well, she lingered yet awhile
- for memory and tears, and, falling prone
- on that cold bed, outpoured a last farewell:
- “Sweet relics! Ever dear when Fate and Heaven
- upon me smiled, receive my parting breath,
- and from my woe set free! My life is done.
- I have accomplished what my lot allowed;
- and now my spirit to the world of death
- in royal honor goes. The founder I
- of yonder noble city, I have seen
- walls at my bidding rise. I was avenged
- for my slain husband: I chastised the crimes
- of our injurious brother. Woe is me!
- Blest had I been, beyond deserving blest,
- if but the Trojan galleys ne'er had moored
- upon my kingdom's bound!”So saying, she pressed
- one last kiss on the couch. “Though for my death
- no vengeance fall, O, give me death!” she cried.
- “O thus! O thus! it is my will to take
- the journey to the dark. From yonder sea
- may his cold Trojan eyes discern the flames
- that make me ashes! Be this cruel death
- his omen as he sails!” She spoke no more.
- But almost ere she ceased, her maidens all
- thronged to obey her cry, and found their Queen
- prone fallen on the sword, the reeking steel
- still in her bloody hands. Shrill clamor flew
- along the lofty halls; wild rumor spread
- through the whole smitten city: Ioud lament,
- groans and the wail of women echoed on
- from roof to roof, and to the dome of air
- the noise of mourning rose. Such were the cry
- if a besieging host should break the walls
- of Carthage or old Tyre, and wrathful flames
- o'er towers of kings and worshipped altars roll.
- Her sister heard. Half in a swoon, she ran
- with trembling steps, where thickest was the throng,
- beating her breast, while with a desperate hand
- she tore at her own face, and called aloud
- upon the dying Queen. “Was it for this
- my own true sister used me with such guile?
- O, was this horrid deed the dire intent
- of altars, Iofty couch, and funeral fires?
- What shall I tell for chiefest of my woes?
- Lost that I am! Why, though in death, cast off
- thy sister from thy heart? Why not invite
- one mortal stroke for both, a single sword,
- one agony together? But these hands
- built up thy pyre; and my voice implored
- the blessing of our gods, who granted me
- that thou shouldst perish thus—and I not know!
- In thy self-slaughter, sister, thou hast slain
- myself, thy people, the grave counsellors
- of Sidon, and yon city thou didst build
- to be thy throne!—Go, fetch me water, there!
- That I may bathe those gashes! If there be
- one hovering breath that stays, let my fond lips
- discover and receive!” So saying, she sprang up
- from stair to stair, and, clasping to her breast
- her sister's dying form, moaned grievously,
- and staunched the dark blood with her garment's fold.
- Vainly would Dido lift her sinking eyes,
- but backward fell, while at her heart the wound
- opened afresh; three times with straining arm
- she rose; three times dropped helpless, her dimmed eyes
- turned skyward, seeking the sweet light of day, —
- which when she saw, she groaned. Great Juno then
- looked down in mercy on that lingering pain
- and labor to depart: from realms divine
- she sent the goddess of the rainbow wing,
- Iris, to set the struggling spirit free
- and loose its fleshly coil. For since the end
- came not by destiny, nor was the doom
- of guilty deed, but of a hapless wight
- to sudden madness stung, ere ripe to die,
- therefore the Queen of Hades had not shorn
- the fair tress from her forehead, nor assigned
- that soul to Stygian dark. So Iris came
- on dewy, saffron pinions down from heaven,
- a thousand colors on her radiant way,
- from the opposing sun. She stayed her flight
- above that pallid brow: “I come with power
- to make this gift to Death. I set thee free
- from thy frail body's bound.” With her right hand
- she cut the tress: then through its every limb
- the sinking form grew cold; the vital breath
- fled forth, departing on the viewless air.
- Meanwhile Aeneas, now well launched away,
- steered forth with all the fleet to open sea,
- on his unswerving course, and ploughed the waves,
- sped by a driving gale; but when his eyes
- looked back on Carthage, they beheld the glare
- of hapless Dido's fire. Not yet was known
- what kindled the wild flames; but that the pang
- of outraged love is cruel, and what the heart
- of desperate woman dares, they knew too well,
- and sad foreboding shook each Trojan soul.
- Soon in mid-sea, beyond all chart of shore,
- when only seas and skies were round their way,
- full in the zenith loomed a purple cloud,
- storm-laden, dark as night, and every wave
- grew black and angry; from his Iofty seat
- the helmsman Palinurus cried, “Alas!
- What means this host of storms encircling heaven?
- What, Neptune, wilt thou now?” He, having said,
- bade reef and tighten, bend to stronger stroke,
- and slant sail to the wind; then spake again:
- “High-souled Aeneas, not if Jove the King
- gave happy omen, would I have good hope
- of making Italy through yonder sky.
- Athwart our course from clouded evening-star
- rebellious winds run shifting, and the air
- into a cloud-wrack rolls. Against such foes
- too weak our strife and strain! Since now the hand
- of Fortune triumphs, let us where she calls
- obedient go. For near us, I believe,
- lies Eryx' faithful and fraternal shore:
- here are Sicilian havens, if my mind
- of yon familiar stars have knowledge true.”
- then good Aeneas: “For a friendly wind
- long have I sued, and watched thee vainly strive.
- Shift sail! What happier land for me and mine,
- or for our storm-beat ships what safer shore,
- than where Dardanian Acestes reigns;
- the land whose faithful bosom cherishes
- Anchises' ashes?” Heedful of his word,
- they landward steer, while favoring zephyrs fill
- the spreading sail. On currents swift and strong
- the fleet is wafted, and with thankful soul
- they moor on Sicily's familiar strand.
- From a far hill-top having seen with joy
- the entering ships, and knowing them for friends,
- good King Acestes ran to bid them hail.
- Garbed in rough pelt of Libyan bear was he,
- and javelins he bore, in sylvan guise:
- for him the river-god Crimisus sired
- of Trojan wife. Remembering in his heart
- his ancient blood, he greeted with glad words
- the wanderers returned; bade welcome to
- his rude abundance, and with friendly gifts
- their weariness consoled. The morrow morn,
- soon as the new beams of a golden day
- had banished every star, Aeneas called
- a council of his followers on the shore,
- and from a fair green hillock gave this word:
- “Proud sons of Dardanus, whose lofty line
- none but the gods began! This day fulfils
- the annual cycle of revolving time,
- since the dear relics of my god-like sire
- to earth we gave, and with dark offerings due
- built altars sorrowful. If now I err not,
- this is my day—ye gods have willed it so! —
- for mourning and for praise. Should it befall
- me exiled in Gaetulia's wilderness,
- or sailing some Greek sea, or at the walls
- of dire Mycenae, still would I renew
- unfailing vows, and make solemnity
- with thankful rites, and worshipful array,
- at altars rich with gifts. But, lo, we come,
- beyond all hope, where lie the very bones
- of my great sire. Nor did it come to pass
- without divine intent and heavenly power,
- that on these hospitable shores we stand.
- Up, then! For we will make a festal day,
- imploring lucky winds! O, may his spirit
- grant me to build my city, where his shrines
- forever shall receive perpetual vows
- made in his name! This prince of Trojan line,
- Acestes, upon every ship bestows
- a pair of oxen. To our offerings call
- the powers that bless the altars and the fires
- of our ancestral hearth; and join with these
- the gods of good Acestes. Presently,
- when the ninth dawn shall bring its beam benign
- to mortal men, and show the radiant world,
- or all my Teucrian people I ordain
- a holiday of games; the flying ships
- shall first contend; then swiftest runners try
- a foot-race; after that the champions bold
- who step forth for a cast of javelins,
- or boast the soaring arrow; or fear not
- the boxing-bout, with gauntlet of thick thongs.
- This summons is for all; let all have hope
- to earn some noble palm! And from this hour
- speak but well-boding words, and bind your brows
- with garlands green.” So saying, he twined a wreath
- of his own mother's myrtle-tree, to shade
- his sacred brow; the hero Helymus,
- and King Acestes for his tresses gray,
- like coronals took on; Ascanius
- and all the warrior youth like emblems wore.
- Then in th' attendant throng conspicuous,
- with thousands at his side, the hero moved
- from place of council to his father's tomb.
- There on the ground he poured libation due,
- two beakers of good wine, of sweet milk two,
- two of the victim's blood—and scattered flowers
- of saddest purple stain, while thus he prayed:
- “Hail, hallowed sire! And hail, ye ashes dear
- of him I vainly saved! O soul and shade
- of my blest father! Heaven to us denied
- to find together that predestined land
- of Italy, or our Ausonian stream
- of Tiber—ah! but where?” He scarce had said,
- when from the central shrine a gliding snake,
- coiled seven-fold in seven spirals wide,
- twined round the tomb and trailed innocuous o'er
- the very altars; his smooth back was flecked
- with green and azure, and his changeful scales
- gleamed golden, as the cloud-born rainbow flings
- its thousand colors from th' opposing sun.
- Aeneas breathless watched the serpent wind
- among the bowls and cups of polished rim,
- tasting the sacred feast; where, having fed,
- back to the tomb all harmless it withdrew.
- Then with new zeal his sacrifice he brings
- in honor of his sire; for he must deem
- that serpent the kind genius of the place,
- or of his very father's present shade
- some creature ministrant. Two lambs he slew,
- the wonted way, two swine, and, sable-hued,
- the yoke of bulls; from shallow bowl he poured
- libation of the grape, and called aloud
- on great Anchises' spirit, and his shade,
- from Acheron set free. Then all the throng,
- each from his separate store, heap up the shrines
- with victims slain; some range in order fair
- the brazen cauldrons; or along the grass,
- scattered at ease, hold o'er the embers bright
- the spitted flesh and roast it in the flames.
- Arrived the wished-for day; through cloudless sky
- the coursers of the Sun's bright-beaming car
- bore upward the ninth morn. The neighboring folk
- thronged eager to the shore; some hoped to see
- Aeneas and his warriors, others fain
- would their own prowess prove in bout and game.
- Conspicuous lie the rewards, ranged in sight
- in the mid-circus; wreaths of laurel green,
- the honored tripod, coronals of palm
- for conquerors' brows, accoutrements of war,
- rare robes of purple stain, and generous weight
- of silver and of gold. The trumpet's call
- proclaimed from lofty mound the opening games.