Aeneid
Virgil
Vergil. The Aeneid of Virgil. Williams, Theodore, C, translator. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1910.
- 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.
- First, side by side, with sturdy, rival oars,
- four noble galleys, pride of all the fleet,
- come forward to contend. The straining crew
- of Mnestheus bring his speedy Pristis on, —
- Mnestheus in Italy erelong the sire
- of Memmius' noble line. Brave Gyas guides
- his vast Chimaera, a colossal craft,
- a floating city, by a triple row
- of Dardan sailors manned, whose banks of oars
- in triple order rise. Sergestus, he
- of whom the Sergian house shall after spring,
- rides in his mighty Centaur. Next in line,
- on sky-blue Scylla proud Cloanthus rides —
- whence thy great stem, Cluentius of Rome!
- Fronting the surf-beat shore, far out at sea
- rises a rock, which under swollen waves
- lies buffeted unseen, when wintry storms
- mantle the stars; but when the deep is calm,
- lifts silently above the sleeping wave
- its level field,—a place where haunt and play
- flocks of the sea-birds, Iovers of the sun.
- Here was the goal; and here Aeneas set
- a green-leaved flex-tree, to be a mark
- for every captain's eye, from whence to veer
- the courses of their ships in sweeping curves
- and speed them home. Now places in the line
- are given by lot. Upon the lofty sterns
- the captains ride, in beautiful array
- of Tyriao purple and far-flaming gold;
- the crews are poplar-crowned, the shoulders bare
- rubbed well with glittering oil; their straining arms
- make long reach to the oar, as on the thwarts
- they sit attentive, listening for the call
- of the loud trumpet; while with pride and fear
- their hot hearts throb, impassioned for renown.
- Soon pealed the signal clear; from all the line
- instant the galleys bounded, and the air
- rang to the rowers, shouting, while their arms
- pulled every inch and flung the waves in foam;
- deep cut the rival strokes; the surface fair
- yawned wide beneath their blades and cleaving keels.
- Not swifter scour the chariots o'er the plain,
- sped headlong from the line behind their teams
- of mated coursers, while each driver shakes
- loose, rippling reins above his plunging pairs,
- and o'er the lash leans far. With loud applause
- vociferous and many an urgent cheer
- the woodlands rang, and all the concave shores
- back from the mountains took the Trojan cry
- in answering song. Forth-flying from his peers,
- while all the crowd acclaims, sped Gyas' keel
- along the outmost wave. Cloanthus next
- pushed hard upon, with stronger stroke of oars
- but heavier ship. At equal pace behind
- the Pristis and the Centaur fiercely strive
- for the third place. Now Pristis seems to lead,
- now mightier Centaur past her flies, then both
- ride on together, prow with prow, and cleave
- long lines of foaming furrow with swift keels.
- Soon near the rock they drew, and either ship
- was making goal,—when Gyas, in the lead,
- and winner of the half-course, Ioudly hailed
- menoetes, the ship's pilot: “Why so far
- to starboard, we? Keep her head round this way!
- Hug shore! Let every oar-blade almost graze
- that reef to larboard! Let the others take
- the deep-sea course outside!” But while he spoke,
- Menoetes, dreading unknown rocks below,
- veered off to open sea. “Why steer so wide?
- Round to the rock, Menoetes!” Gyas roared, —
- again in vain, for looking back he saw
- cloanthus hard astern, and ever nearer,
- who, in a trice, betwixt the booming reef
- and Gyas' galley, lightly forward thrust
- the beak of Scylla to the inside course,
- and, quickly taking lead, flew past the goal
- to the smooth seas beyond. Then wrathful grief
- flamed in the warrior's heart, nor was his cheek
- unwet with tears; and, reckless utterly
- of his own honor and his comrades, lives,
- he hurled poor, slack Menoetes from the poop
- headlong upon the waters, while himself,
- pilot and master both, the helm assuming,
- urged on his crew, and landward took his way.
- But now, with heavy limbs that hardly won
- his rescue from the deep, engulfing wave,
- up the rude rock graybeard Menoetes climbed
- with garment dripping wet, and there dropped down
- upon the cliff's dry top. With laughter loud
- the Trojan crews had watched him plunging, swimming,
- and now to see his drink of bitter brine
- spewed on the ground, the sailors laughed again.
- But Mnestheus and Sergestus, coming last,
- have joyful hope enkindled in each heart
- to pass the laggard Gyas. In the lead
- Sergestus' ship shoots forth; and to the rock
- runs boldly nigh; but not his whole long keel
- may pass his rival; the projecting beak
- is followed fast by Pristis' emulous prow.
- Then, striding straight amidships through his crew,
- thus Mnestheus urged them on: “O Hector's friends!
- Whom in the dying hours of Troy I chose
- for followers! Now stand ye to your best!
- Put forth the thews of valor that ye showed
- in the Gaetulian Syrtes, or that sea
- Ionian, or where the waves race by
- the Malean promontory! Mnestheus now
- hopes not to be the first, nor do I strive
- for victory. O Father Neptune, give
- that garland where thou wilt! But O, the shame
- if we are last! Endure it not, my men!
- The infamy refuse!” So, bending low,
- they enter the home-stretch. Beneath their stroke
- the brass-decked galley throbs, and under her
- the sea-floor drops away. On, on they fly!
- Parched are the panting lips, and sweat in streams
- pours down their giant sides; but lucky chance
- brought the proud heroes what their honor craved.
- For while Sergestus furiously drove
- his ship's beak toward the rock, and kept inside
- the scanty passage, by his evil star
- he grounded on the jutting reef; the cliffs
- rang with the blow, and his entangled oars
- grated along the jagged granite, while
- the prow hung wrecked and helpless. With loud cry
- upsprang the sailors, while the ship stood still,
- and pushed off with long poles and pointed iron,
- or snatched the smashed oars from the whirling tide.
- Mnestheus exults; and, roused to keener strife
- by happy fortune, with a quicker stroke
- of each bright rank of oars, and with the breeze
- his prayer implored, skims o'er the obedient wave
- and sweeps the level main. Not otherwise
- a startled dove, emerging o'er the fields
- from secret cavern in the crannied hill
- where her safe house and pretty nestlings lie,
- soars from her nest, with whirring wings—but soon
- through the still sky she takes her path of air
- on pinions motionless. So Pristis sped
- with Mnestheus, cleaving her last stretch of sea,
- by her own impulse wafted. She outstripped
- Sergestus first; for he upon the reef
- fought with the breakers, desperately shouting
- for help, for help in vain, with broken oars
- contriving to move on. Then Mnestheus ran
- past Gyas, in Chimaera's ponderous hulk,
- of pilot now bereft; at last remains
- Cloanthus his sole peer, whom he pursues
- with a supreme endeavor. From the shore
- burst echoing cheers that spur him to the chase,
- and wild applause makes all the welkin ring.
- The leaders now with eager souls would scorn
- to Iose their glory, and faint-hearted fail
- to grasp a prize half-won, but fain would buy
- honor with life itself; the followers too
- are flushed with proud success, and feel them strong
- because their strength is proven. Both ships now
- with indistinguishable prows had sped
- to share one prize,—but with uplifted hands
- spread o'er the sea, Cloanthus, suppliant,
- called on the gods to bless his votive prayer:
- “Ye gods who rule the waves, whose waters be
- my pathway now; for you on yonder strand
- a white bull at the altar shall be slain
- in grateful tribute for a granted vow;
- and o'er the salt waves I will scatter far
- the entrails, and outpour the flowing wine.”
- He spoke; and from the caverns under sea
- Phorcus and virgin Panopea heard,
- and all the sea-nymphs' choir; while with strong hand
- the kindly God of Havens rose and thrust
- the gliding ship along, that swifter flew
- than south wind, or an arrow from the string,
- and soon made land in haven safe and sure.
- Aeneas then, assembling all to hear,
- by a far-sounding herald's voice proclaimed
- Cloanthus victor, and arrayed his brows
- with the green laurel-garland; to the crews
- three bulls, at choice, were given, and plenteous wine
- and talent-weight of silver; to the chiefs
- illustrious gifts beside; the victor had
- a gold-embroidered mantle with wide band
- of undulant Meliboean purple rare,
- where, pictured in the woof, young Ganymede
- through Ida's forest chased the light-foot deer
- with javelin; all flushed and panting he.
- But lo! Jove's thunder-bearing eagle fell,
- and his strong talons snatched from Ida far
- the royal boy, whose aged servitors
- reached helpless hands to heaven; his faithful hound
- bayed fiercely at the air. To him whose worth
- the second place had won, Aeneas gave
- a smooth-linked golden corselet, triple-chained,
- of which his own victorious hand despoiled
- Demoleos, by the swift, embattled stream
- of Simois, under Troy,—and bade it be
- a glory and defence on valor's field;
- scarce might the straining shoulders of two slaves,
- Phegeus and Sagaris, the load endure,
- yet oft Demoleos in this armor dressed
- charged down full speed on routed hosts of Troy.
- The third gift was two cauldrons of wrought brass,
- and bowls of beaten silver, cunningly
- embossed with sculpture fair. Bearing such gifts,
- th' exultant victors onward moved, each brow
- bound with a purple fillet. But behold!
- Sergestus, from the grim rock just dragged off
- by cunning toil, one halting rank of oars
- left of his many lost, comes crawling in
- with vanquished ship, a mockery to all.
- As when a serpent, on the highway caught,
- some brazen wheel has crushed, or traveller
- with heavy-smiting blow left half alive
- and mangled by a stone; in vain he moves
- in writhing flight; a part is lifted high
- with hissing throat and angry, glittering eyes;
- but by the wounded part a captive still
- he knots him fold on fold: with such a track
- the maimed ship labored slow; but by her sails
- she still made way, and with full canvas on
- arrived at land. Aeneas then bestowed
- a boon upon Sergestus, as was meet
- for reward of the ship in safety brought
- with all its men; a fair slave was the prize,
- the Cretan Pholoe, well taught to weave,
- and twin boy-babes upon her breast she bore.
- Then good Aeneas, the ship-contest o'er,
- turned to a wide green valley, circled round
- with clasp of wood-clad hills, wherein was made
- an amphitheatre; entering with a throng
- of followers, the hero took his seat
- in mid-arena on a lofty mound.
- For the fleet foot-race, now, his summons flies, —
- he offers gifts, and shows the rewards due.
- The mingling youth of Troy and Sicily
- hastened from far. Among the foremost came
- the comrades Nisus and Euryalus,
- Euryalus for beauty's bloom renowned,
- Nisus for loyal love; close-following these
- Diores strode, a prince of Priam's line;
- then Salius and Patron, who were bred
- in Acarnania and Arcady;
- then two Sicilian warriors, Helymus
- and Panopes, both sylvan bred and born,
- comrades of King Acestes; after these
- the multitude whom Fame forgets to tell.
- Aeneas, so surrounded, thus spake forth:
- “Hear what I purpose, and with joy receive!
- of all your company, not one departs
- with empty hand. The Cretan javelins
- bright-tipped with burnished steel, and battle-axe
- adorned with graven silver, these shall be
- the meed of all. The three first at the goal
- shall bind their foreheads with fair olive green,
- and win the rewards due. The first shall lead,
- victorious, yon rich-bridled steed away;
- this Amazonian quiver, the next prize,
- well-stocked with Thracian arrows; round it goes
- a baldrick broad and golden,—in its clasp
- a lustrous gem. The third man goes away
- taking this helmet from the Argive spoil.”
- They heard, and took their places. The loud horn
- gave signal, and impetuous from the line,
- swift as a bursting storm they sped away,
- eyes fixed upon the goal. Far in advance
- Nisus shot forward, swifter than the winds
- or winged thunderbolt; the next in course,
- next, but out-rivalled far, was Salius,
- and after him a space, Euryalus
- came third; him Helymus was hard upon;
- and, look! Diores follows, heel on heel,
- close at his shoulder—if the race be long
- he sure must win, or claim a doubtful prize.
- Now at the last stretch, spent and panting, all
- pressed to the goal, when in a slime of blood
- Nisus, hard fate! slipped down, where late the death
- of victims slain had drenched the turf below.
- Here the young victor, with his triumph flushed,
- lost foothold on the yielding ground, and plunged
- face forward in the pool of filth and gore;
- but not of dear Euryalus was he
- forgetful then, nor heedless of his friend;
- but rising from the mire he hurled himself
- in Salius' way; so he in equal plight
- rolled in the filthy slough. Euryalus
- leaped forth, the winner of the race by gift
- of his true friend, and flying to the goal
- stood first, by many a favoring shout acclaimed.
- Next Helymus ran in; and, for the third, last prize,
- Diores. But the multitude now heard
- the hollowed hill-side ringing with wild wrath
- from Salius, clamoring where the chieftains sate
- for restitution of his stolen prize,
- lost by a cheat. But general favor smiles
- upon Euryalus, whose beauteous tears
- commend him much, and nobler seems the worth
- of valor clothed in youthful shape so fair.
- Diores, too, assists the victor's claim,
- with loud appeal—he too has won a prize,
- and vainly holds his last place, if the first
- to Salius fall. Aeneas then replied:
- “Your gifts, my gallant youths, remain secure.
- None can re-judge the prize. But to console
- the misadventure of a blameless friend,
- is in my power.” Therewith to Salius
- an Afric lion's monstrous pelt he gave,
- with ponderous mane, the claws o'erlaid with gold.
- But Nisus cried: “If such a gift be found
- for less than victory, and men who fall
- are worthy so much sorrow, pray, what prize
- shall Nisus have? For surely I had won
- the proudest of the garlands, if one stroke
- of inauspicious fortune had not fallen
- on Salius and me.” So saying, he showed
- his smeared face and his sorry limbs befouled
- with mire and slime. Then laughed the gracious sire,
- and bade a shield be brought, the cunning work
- of Didymaon, which the Greeks tore down
- from Neptune's temple; with this noble gift
- he sent the high-born youth upon his way.
- The foot-race over and the gifts disbursed,
- “Come forth!” he cries, “if any in his heart
- have strength and valor, let him now pull on
- the gauntlets and uplift his thong-bound arms
- in challenge.” For the reward of this fight
- a two-fold gift he showed: the victor's meed,
- a bullock decked and gilded; but a sword
- and glittering helmet to console the fallen.
- Straightway, in all his pride of giant strength,
- Dares Ioomed up, and wondering murmurs ran
- along the gazing crowd; for he alone
- was wont to match with Paris, he it was
- met Butes, the huge-bodied champion
- boasting the name and race of Amycus,
- Bythinian-born; him felled he at a blow,
- and stretched him dying on the tawny sand.
- Such Dares was, who now held high his head,
- fierce for the fray, bared both his shoulders broad,
- lunged out with left and right, and beat the air.
- Who shall his rival be? Of all the throng
- not one puts on the gauntlets, or would face
- the hero's challenge. Therefore, striding forth,
- believing none now dare but yield the palm,
- he stood before Aeneas, and straightway
- seized with his left hand the bull's golden horn,
- and cried, “O goddess-born, if no man dares
- to risk him in this fight, how Iong delay?
- how Iong beseems it I should stand and wait?
- Bid me bear off my prize.” The Trojans all
- murmured assent, and bade the due award
- of promised gift. But with a brow severe
- Acestes to Entellus at his side
- addressed upbraiding words, where they reclined
- on grassy bank and couch of pleasant green:
- “O my Entellus, in the olden days
- bravest among the mighty, but in vain!
- Endurest thou to see yon reward won
- without a blow? Where, prithee, is that god
- who taught thee? Are thy tales of Eryx vain?
- Does all Sicilia praise thee? Is thy roof
- with trophies hung?” The other in reply:
- “My jealous honor and good name yield not
- to fear. But age, so cold and slow to move,
- makes my blood laggard, and my ebbing powers
- in all my body are but slack and chill.
- O, if I had what yonder ruffian boasts—
- my own proud youth once more! I would not ask
- the fair bull for a prize, nor to the lists
- in search of gifts come forth.” So saying, he threw
- into the mid-arena a vast pair
- of ponderous gauntlets, which in former days
- fierce Eryx for his fights was wont to bind
- on hand and arm, with the stiff raw-hide thong.
- All marvelled; for a weight of seven bulls' hides
- was pieced with lead and iron. Dares stared
- astonished, and step after step recoiled;
- high-souled Anchises' son, this way and that,
- turned o'er the enormous coil of knots and thongs;
- then with a deep-drawn breath the veteran spoke:
- “O, that thy wondering eyes had seen the arms
- of Hercules, and what his gauntlets were!
- Would thou hadst seen the conflict terrible
- upon this self-same shore! These arms were borne
- by Eryx. Look; thy brother's!—spattered yet
- with blood, with dashed-out brains! In these he stood
- when he matched Hercules. I wore them oft
- when in my pride and prime, ere envious age
- shed frost upon my brows. But if these arms
- be of our Trojan Dares disapproved,
- if good Aeneas rules it so, and King
- Acestes wills it, let us offer fight
- on even terms. Let Eryx' bull's-hide go.
- Tremble no more! But strip those gauntlets off —
- fetched here from Troy.” So saying, he dropped down
- the double-folded mantle from his shoulders,
- stripped bare the huge joints, the huge arms and thews,
- and towered gigantic in the midmost ring.
- Anchises' son then gave two equal pairs
- of gauntlets, and accoutred with like arms
- both champions. Each lifted him full height
- on tiptoe; each with mien unterrified
- held both fists high in air, and drew his head
- far back from blows assailing. Then they joined
- in struggle hand to hand, and made the fray
- each moment fiercer. One was light of foot
- and on his youth relied; the other strong
- in bulk of every limb, but tottering
- on sluggish knees, while all his body shook
- with labor of his breath. Without avail
- they rained their blows, and on each hollow side,
- each sounding chest, the swift, reverberate strokes
- fell without pause; around their ears and brows
- came blow on blow, and with relentless shocks
- the smitten jaws cracked loud. Entellus stands
- unshaken, and, the self-same posture keeping,
- only by body-movement or quick eye
- parries attack. Dares (like one in siege
- against a mountain-citadel, who now will drive
- with ram and engine at the craggy wall,
- now wait in full-armed watch beneath its towers)
- tries manifold approach, most craftily
- invests each point of vantage, and renews
- his unsuccessful, ever various war.
- Then, rising to the stroke, Entellus poised
- aloft his ponderous right; but, quick of eye,
- the other the descending wrath foresaw
- and nimbly slipped away; Entellus so
- wasted his stroke on air, and, self-o'erthrown,
- dropped prone to earth his monstrous length along,
- as when on Erymanth or Ida falls
- a hollowed pine from giant roots uptorn.
- Alike the Teucrian and Trinacrian throng
- shout wildly; while Acestes, pitying, hastes
- to lift his gray companion. But, unchecked,
- undaunted by his fall, the champion brave
- rushed fiercer to the fight, his strength now roused
- by rage, while shame and courage confident
- kindle his soul; impetuous he drives
- Dares full speed all round the ring, with blows
- redoubled right and left. No stop or stay
- gives he, but like a storm of rattling hail
- upon a house-top, so from each huge hand
- the champion's strokes on dizzy Dares fall.
- Then Sire Aeneas willed to make a stay
- to so much rage, nor let Entellus' soul
- flame beyond bound, but bade the battle pause,
- and, rescuing weary Dares, thus he spoke
- in soothing words: “Ill-starred! What mad attempt
- is in thy mind? Will not thy heart confess
- thy strength surpassed, and auspices averse?
- Submit, for Heaven decrees!” With such wise words
- he sundered the fell strife. But trusty friends
- bore Dares off: his spent limbs helpless trailed,
- his head he could not lift, and from his lips
- came blood and broken teeth. So to the ship
- they bore him, taking, at Aeneas' word,
- the helmet and the sword—but left behind
- Entellus' prize of victory, the bull.
- He, then, elate and glorying, spoke forth:
- “See, goddess-born, and all ye Teucrians, see,
- what strength was mine in youth, and from what death
- ye have clelivered Dares.” Saying so,
- he turned him full front to the bull, who stood
- for reward of the fight, and, drawing back
- his right hand, poising the dread gauntlet high,
- swung sheer between the horns and crushed the skull;
- a trembling, lifeless creature, to the ground
- the bull dropped forward dead. Above the fallen
- Entellus cried aloud, “This victim due
- I give thee, Eryx, more acceptable
- than Dares' death to thy benignant shade.
- For this last victory and joyful day,
- my gauntlets and my art I leave with thee.”