Aeneid

Virgil

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

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!”