Aeneid
Virgil
Vergil. The Aeneid of Virgil. Williams, Theodore, C, translator. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1910.
- 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.”
- Forthwith Aeneas summons all who will
- to contest of swift arrows, and displays
- reward and prize. With mighty hand he rears
- a mast within th' arena, from the ship
- of good Sergestus taken; and thereto
- a fluttering dove by winding cord is bound
- for target of their shafts. Soon to the match
- the rival bowmen came and cast the lots
- into a brazen helmet. First came forth
- Hippocoon's number, son of Hyrtacus,
- by cheers applauded; Mnestheus was the next,
- late victor in the ship-race, Mnestheus crowned
- with olive-garland; next Eurytion,
- brother of thee, O bowman most renowned,
- Pandarus, breaker of the truce, who hurled
- his shaft upon the Achaeans, at the word
- the goddess gave. Acestes' Iot and name
- came from the helmet last, whose royal hand
- the deeds of youth dared even yet to try.
- Each then with strong arm bends his pliant bow,
- each from the quiver plucks a chosen shaft.
- First, with loud arrow whizzing from the string,
- the young Hippocoon with skyward aim
- cuts through the yielding air; and lo! his barb
- pierces the very wood, and makes the mast
- tremble; while with a fluttering, frighted wing
- the bird tugs hard,—and plaudits fill the sky.
- Boldly rose Mnestheus, and with bow full-drawn
- aimed both his eye and shaft aloft; but he
- failing, unhappy man, to bring his barb
- up to the dove herself, just cut the cord
- and broke the hempen bond, whereby her feet
- were captive to the tree: she, taking flight,
- clove through the shadowing clouds her path of air.
- But swiftly—for upon his waiting bow
- he held a shaft in rest—Eurytion
- invoked his brother's shade, and, marking well
- the dove, whose happy pinions fluttered free
- in vacant sky, pierced her, hard by a cloud;
- lifeless she fell, and left in light of heaven
- her spark of life, as, floating down, she bore
- the arrow back to earth. Acestes now
- remained, last rival, though the victor's palm
- to him was Iost; yet did the aged sire,
- to show his prowess and resounding bow,
- hurl forth one shaft in air; then suddenly
- all eyes beheld such wonder as portends
- events to be (but when fulfilment came,
- too late the fearful seers its warning sung):
- for, soaring through the stream of cloud, his shaft
- took fire, tracing its bright path in flame,
- then vanished on the wind,—as oft a star
- will fall unfastened from the firmament,
- while far behind its blazing tresses flow.
- Awe-struck both Trojan and Trinacrian stood,
- calling upon the gods. Nor came the sign
- in vain to great Aeneas. But his arms
- folded the blest Acestes to his heart,
- and, Ioading him with noble gifts, he cried:
- “Receive them, sire! The great Olympian King
- some peerless honor to thy name decrees
- by such an omen given. I offer thee
- this bowl with figures graven, which my sire,
- good gray Anchises, for proud gift received
- of Thracian Cisseus, for their friendship's pledge
- and memory evermore.” Thereon he crowned
- his brows with garland of the laurel green,
- and named Acestes victor over all.
- Nor could Eurytion, noble youth, think ill
- of honor which his own surpassed, though he,
- he only, pierced the bird in upper air.
- Next gift was his whose arrow cut the cord;
- last, his whose light shaft clove the lofty pine.
- Father Aeneas now, not making end
- of game and contest, summoned to his side
- Epytides, the mentor and true friend
- of young Iulus, and this bidding gave
- to his obedient ear: “Arise and go
- where my Ascanius has lined his troop
- of youthful cavalry, and trained the steeds
- to tread in ranks of war. Bid him lead forth
- the squadron in our sire Anchises' name,
- and wear a hero's arms!” So saying, he bade
- the course be cleared, and from the whole wide field
- th' insurging, curious multitude withdrew.
- In rode the boys, to meet their parents' eyes,
- in even lines, a glittering cavalry;
- while all Trinacria and the host from Troy
- made loud applause. On each bright brow
- a well-trimmed wreath the flowing tresses bound;
- two javelins of corner tipped with steel
- each bore for arms; some from the shoulder slung
- a polished quiver; to each bosom fell
- a pliant necklace of fine, twisted gold.
- Three bands of horsemen ride, three captains proud
- prance here and there, assiduous in command,
- each of his twelve, who shine in parted lines
- which lesser captains lead. One cohort proud
- follows a little Priam's royal name —
- one day, Polites, thy illustrious race
- through him prolonged, shall greater glory bring
- to Italy. A dappled Thracian steed
- with snow-white spots and fore-feet white as snow
- bears him along, its white face lifted high.
- Next Atys rode, young Atys, sire to be
- of th' Atian house in Rome, a boy most dear
- unto the boy Iulus; last in line,
- and fairest of the throng, Iulus came,
- astride a steed from Sidon, the fond gift
- of beauteous Dido and her pledge of love.
- Close followed him the youthful chivalry
- of King Acestes on Trinacrian steeds.
- The Trojans, with exultant, Ioud acclaim,
- receive the shy-faced boys, and joyfully
- trace in the features of the sons their sires.
- After, with smiling eyes, the horsemen proud
- have greeted each his kin in all the throng,
- Epytides th' appointed signal calls,
- and cracks his lash; in even lines they move,
- then, Ioosely sundering in triple band,
- wheel at a word and thrust their lances forth
- in hostile ranks; or on the ample field
- retreat or charge, in figure intricate
- of circling troop with troop, and swift parade
- of simulated war; now from the field
- they flee with backs defenceless to the foe;
- then rally, lance in rest—or, mingling all,
- make common front, one legion strong and fair.
- As once in Crete, the lofty mountain-isle,
- that-fabled labyrinthine gallery
- wound on through lightless walls, with thousand paths
- which baffled every clue, and led astray
- in unreturning mazes dark and blind:
- so did the sons of Troy their courses weave
- in mimic flights and battles fought for play,
- like dolphins tumbling in the liquid waves,
- along the Afric or Carpathian seas.
- This game and mode of march Ascanius,
- when Alba Longa's bastions proudly rose,
- taught to the Latin people of the prime;
- and as the princely Trojan and his train
- were wont to do, so Alba to her sons
- the custom gave; so glorious Rome at last
- the heritage accepted and revered;
- and still we know them for the “Trojan Band,”
- and call the lads a “Troy.” Such was the end
- of game and contest at Anchises' grave.
- Then fortune veered and different aspect wore.
- For 'ere the sacred funeral games are done,
- Saturnian Juno from high heaven sent down
- the light-winged Iris to the ships of Troy,
- giving her flight good wind—still full of schemes
- and hungering to avenge her ancient wrong.
- Unseen of mortal eye, the virgin took
- her pathway on the thousand-colored bow,
- and o'er its gliding passage earthward flew.
- She scanned the vast assemblage; then her gaze
- turned shoreward, where along the idle bay
- the Trojan galleys quite unpeopled rode.
- But far removed, upon a lonely shore,
- a throng of Trojan dames bewailed aloud
- their lost Anchises, and with tears surveyed
- the mighty deep. “O weary waste of seas!
- What vast, untravelled floods beyond us roll!”
- So cried they with one voice, and prayed the gods
- for an abiding city; every heart
- loathed utterly the long, laborious sea.
- Then in their midst alighted, not unskilled
- in working woe, the goddess; though she wore
- nor garb nor form divine, but made herself
- one Beroe, Doryclus' aged wife,
- who in her happier days had lineage fair
- and sons of noble name; in such disguise
- she called the Trojan dames:“O ye ill-starred,
- that were not seized and slain by Grecian foes
- under your native walls! O tribe accursed,
- what death is Fate preparing? Since Troy fell
- the seventh summer flies, while still we rove
- o'er cruel rocks and seas, from star to star,
- from alien land to land, as evermore
- we chase, storm-tossed, that fleeting Italy
- across the waters wide. Behold this land
- of Eryx, of Acestes, friend and kin;
- what hinders them to raise a rampart here
- and build a town? O city of our sires!
- O venerated gods from haughty foes
- rescued in vain! Will nevermore a wall
- rise in the name of Troy? Shall I not see
- a Xanthus or a Simois, the streams
- to Hector dear? Come now! I lead the way.
- Let us go touch their baneful ships with fire!
- I saw Cassandra in a dream. Her shade,
- prophetic ever, gave me firebrands,
- and cried, ‘Find Ilium so! The home for thee
- is where thou art.’ Behold, the hour is ripe
- for our great act! No longer now delay
- to heed the heavenly omen. Yonder stand
- four altars unto Neptune. 'T is the god,
- the god himself, gives courage for the deed,
- and swift-enkindling fire.” So having said,
- she seized a dreadful brand; then, lifting high,
- waved it all flaming, and with furious arm
- hurled it from far. The Ilian matrons gazed,
- bewildered and appalled. But one, of all
- the eldest, Pyrgo, venerated nurse
- of Priam's numerous sons, exclaimed, “Nay, nay!
- This is no Beroe, my noble dames.
- Doryclus knew her not. Behold and see
- her heavenly beauty and her radiant eyes!
- What voice of music and majestic mien,
- what movement like a god! Myself am come
- from Beroe sick, and left her grieving sore
- that she, she only, had no gift to bring
- of mournful honor to Anchises' shade.”
- She spoke. The women with ill-boding eyes
- looked on the ships. Their doubting hearts were torn
- 'twixt tearful passion for the beauteous isle
- their feet then trod, and that prophetic call
- of Fate to lands unknown. Then on wide wings
- soared Iris into heaven, and through the clouds
- clove a vast arch of light. With wonder dazed,
- the women in a shrieking frenzy rose,
- took embers from the hearth-stones, stole the fires
- upon the altars—faggots, branches, brands —
- and rained them on the ships. The god of fire,
- through thwarts and oars and bows of painted fir,
- ran in unbridled flame. Swift to the tomb
- of Sire Anchises, to the circus-seats,
- the messenger Eumelus flew, to bring
- news of the ships on fire; soon every eye
- the clouds of smoke and hovering flame could see.
- Ascanius, who had led with smiling brow
- his troops of horse, accoutred as he was,
- rode hot-haste to the turmoil of the camp,
- nor could his guards restrain . “What madness now?
- What is it ye would do?” he cried. “Alas!
- Ill-fated women! Not our enemies,
- nor the dread bulwarks of the Greek ye burn,
- but all ye have to hope for. Look at me,
- your own Ascanius!” His helmet then
- into their midst he flung, which he had worn
- for pageantry of war. Aeneas, too,
- with Trojan bands sped thither. But far off,
- the women, panic-scattered on the shore,
- fled many ways, and deep in caverned crags
- or shadowed forests hid them, for they Ioathed
- their deed and life itself; their thoughts were changed;
- they knew their kin and husbands, and their hearts
- from Juno were set free. But none the less
- the burning and indomitable flames
- raged without stay; beneath the ships' smeared sides
- the hempen fuel puffed a lingering smoke,
- as, through the whole bulk creeping, the slow fire
- devoured its way; and little it availed
- that strong men fought the fire with stream on stream.
- Then good Aeneas from his shoulder rent
- his garment, and with lifted hands implored
- the help of Heaven. “O Jove omnipotent!
- If thou not yet thy wrath implacable
- on every Trojan pourest, if thou still
- hast pity, as of old, for what men bear,
- O, grant my fleet deliverance from this flame!
- From uttermost destruction, Father, save
- our desperate Trojan cause! Or even now —
- last cruelty! thy fatal thunders throw.
- If this be my just meed, let thy dread arm
- confound us all.” But scarce the prayer is said,
- when with a bursting deluge a dark storm
- falls, marvellous to see; while hills and plains
- with thunder shake, and to each rim of heaven
- spreads swollen cloud-rack, black with copious rain
- and multitudinous gales. The full flood pours
- on every ship, and all the smouldering beams
- are drenched, until the smoke and flames expire
- and (though four ships be lost) the burning fleet
- rides rescued from its doom. But smitten sore
- by this mischance, Aeneas doubtfully
- weighs in his heart its mighty load of cares,
- and ponders if indeed he may abide
- in Sicily, not heeding prophet-songs,
- or seek Italian shores. Thereon uprose
- Nautes, an aged sire, to whom alone
- Tritonian Pallas of her wisdom gave
- and made his skill renowned; he had the power
- to show celestial anger's warning signs,
- or tell Fate's fixed decree. The gifted man
- thus to Aeneas comfortably spoke:
- “O goddess-born, we follow here or there,
- as Fate compels or stays. But come what may,
- he triumphs over Fortune, who can bear
- whate'er she brings. Behold, Acestes draws
- from Dardanus his origin divine!
- Make him thy willing friend, to share with thee
- thy purpose and thy counsel. Leave with him
- the crews of the lost ships, and all whose hearts
- repine at thy high task and great emprise:
- the spent old men, the women ocean-weary,
- whate'er is feeble found, or faint of heart
- in danger's hour,—set that apart, and give
- such weary ones within this friendly isle
- a city called Acesta,—if he will.”
- Much moved Aeneas was by this wise word
- of his gray friend, though still his anxious soul
- was vexed by doubt and care. But when dark night
- had brought her chariot to the middle sky,
- the sacred shade of Sire Anchises seemed,
- from heaven descending, thus to speak aloud:
- “My son, than life more dear, when life was mine!
- O son, upon whose heart the Trojan doom
- has weighed so Iong! Beside thy couch I stand,
- at pleasure of great Jove, whose hand dispelled
- the mad fire from thy ships; and now he looks
- from heaven with pitying brow. I bid thee heed
- the noble counsels aged Nautes gave.
- Only with warriors of dauntless breast
- to Italy repair; of hardy breed,
- of wild, rough life, thy Latin foes will be.
- But first the shores of Pluto and the Shades
- thy feet must tread, and through the deep abyss
- of dark Avernus come to me, thy sire:
- for I inhabit not the guilty gloom
- of Tartarus, but bright Elysian day,
- where all the just their sweet assemblies hold.
- Hither the virgin Sibyl, if thou give
- full offerings of the blood of sable kine,
- shall lead thee down; and visions I will show
- of cities proud and nations sprung from thee.
- Farewell, for dewy Night has wheeled her way
- far past her middle course; the panting steeds
- of orient Morn breathe pitiless upon me.”
- He spoke, and passed, like fleeting clouds of smoke,
- to empty air. “O, whither haste away?”
- Aeneas cried. “Whom dost thou fly? What god
- from my fond yearning and embrace removes?”
- Then on the altar of the gods of Troy
- he woke the smouldering embers, at the shrine
- of venerable Vesta, worshipping
- with hallowed bread and incense burning free.
- Straightway he calls assembly of his friends, —
- Acestes first in honor,—and makes known
- Jove's will, the counsel of his cherished sire,
- and his own fresh resolve. With prompt assent
- they hear his word, nor does Acestes fail
- the task to share. They people the new town
- with women; and leave every wight behind
- who wills it—souls not thirsting for high praise.
- Themselves re-bench their ships, rebuild, and fit
- with rope and oar the flame-swept galleys all;
- a band not large, but warriors bold and true.
- Aeneas, guiding with his hand a plough,
- marks out the city's ground, gives separate lands
- by lot, and bids within this space appear
- a second Troy. Trojan Acestes takes
- the kingly power, and with benignant joy
- appoints a forum, and decrees just laws
- before a gathered senate. Then they raise
- on that star-circled Erycinian hill,
- the temple to Idalian Venus dear;
- and at Anchises' sepulchre ordain
- a priesthood and wide groves of hallowed shade.
- Now the nine days of funeral pomp are done,
- and every altar has had honors due
- from all the folk. Now tranquil-breathing winds
- have levelled the great deep, while brisk and free,
- a favoring Auster bids them launch away.
- But sound of many a wailing voice is heard
- along the winding shore; for ere they go,
- in fond embraces for a night and day
- they linger still. The women—aye, and men! —
- who hated yesterday the ocean's face
- and loathed its name, now clamor to set sail
- and bear all want and woe to exiles known.
- But good Aeneas with benignant words
- their sorrow soothes, and, not without a tear,
- consigns them to Acestes' kindred care.
- Then bids he sacrifice to Eryx' shade
- three bulls, and to the wind-gods and the storm
- a lamb, then loose the ships in order due.
- He, with a garland of shorn olive, stood
- holding aloft the sacrificial bowl
- from his own vessel's prow, and scattered far
- the sacred entrails o'er the bitter wave,
- with gift of flowing wine. Swift at the stern
- a fair wind rose and thrust them; while the crews
- with rival strokes swept o'er the spreading sea.
- Venus, the while, disturbed with grief and care,
- to Neptune thus her sorrowing heart outpoured:
- “Stern Juno's wrath and breast implacable
- compel me, Neptune, to abase my pride
- in lowly supplication. Lapse of days,
- nor prayers, nor virtues her hard heart subdue,
- nor Jove's command; nor will she rest or yield
- at Fate's decree. Her execrable grudge
- is still unfed, although she did consume
- the Trojan city, Phrygia's midmost throne,
- and though she has accomplished stroke on stroke
- of retribution. But she now pursues
- the remnant—aye! the ashes and bare bones
- of perished Ilium; though the cause and spring
- of wrath so great none but herself can tell.
- Wert thou not witness on the Libyan wave
- what storm she stirred, immingling sea and sky,
- and with Aeolian whirlwinds made her war, —
- in vain and insolent invasion, sire,
- of thine own realm and power? Behold, but now,
- goading to evil deeds the Trojan dames,
- she basely burned his ships; he in strange lands
- must leave the crews of his Iost fleet behind.
- O, I entreat thee, let the remnant sail
- in safety o'er thy sea, and end their way
- in Tiber's holy stream;—if this my prayer
- be lawful, and that city's rampart proud
- be still what Fate intends.”Then Saturn's son,
- the ruler of the seas profound, replied:
- “Queen of Cythera, it is meet for thee
- to trust my waves from which thyself art sprung.
- Have I not proved a friend, and oft restrained
- the anger and wild wrath of seas and skies?
- On land, let Simois and Xanthus tell
- if I have loved Aeneas! On that day
- Achilles drove the shuddering hosts of Troy
- in panic to the walls, and hurled to death
- innumerable foes, until the streams
- were choked with dead, and Xanthus scarce could find
- his wonted path to sea; that self-same day,
- aeneas, spent, and with no help of Heaven,
- met Peleus' dreadful son:—who else but I
- in cloudy mantle bore him safe afar?
- Though 't was my will to cast down utterly
- the walls of perjured Troy, which my own hands
- had built beside the sea. And even to-day
- my favor changes not. Dispel thy fear!
- Safe, even as thou prayest, he shall ride
- to Cumae's haven, where Avernus lies.
- One only sinks beneath th' engulfing seas, —
- one life in lieu of many.” Having soothed
- and cheered her heart divine, the worshipped sire
- flung o'er his mated steeds a yoke of gold,
- bridled the wild, white mouths, and with strong hand
- shook out long, Ioosened reins. His azure car
- skimmed light and free along the crested waves;
- before his path the rolling billows all
- were calm and still, and each o'er-swollen flood
- sank 'neath his sounding wheel; while from the skies
- the storm-clouds fled away. Behind him trailed
- a various company; vast bulk of whales,
- the hoary band of Glaucus, Ino's son,
- Palaemon and the nimble Tritons all,
- the troop of Phorcus; and to leftward ranged
- Thalia, Thetis, and fair Alelite,
- with virgin Panopea, and the nymphs
- Nesaea, Spio and Cymodoce.
- Now in Aeneas' ever-burdened breast
- the voice of hope revived. He bade make haste
- to raise the masts, spread canvas on the spars;
- all hands hauled at the sheets, and left or right
- shook out the loosened sails, or twirled in place
- the horn-tipped yards. Before a favoring wind
- the fleet sped on. The line in close array
- was led by Palinurus, in whose course
- all ships were bid to follow. Soon the car
- of dewy Night drew near the turning-point
- of her celestial round. The oarsmen all
- yielded their limbs to rest, and prone had fallen
- on the hard thwarts, in deep, unpillowed slumber.
- Then from the high stars on light-moving wings,
- the God of Sleep found passage through the dark
- and clove the gloom,—to bring upon thy head,
- O Palinurus, an ill-boding sleep,
- though blameless thou. Upon thy ship the god
- in guise of Phorbas stood, thus whispering:
- “Look, Palinurus, how the flowing tides
- lift on thy fleet unsteered, and changeless winds
- behind thee breathe! 'T is now a happy hour
- take thy rest. Lay down the weary head.
- Steal tired eyes from toiling. I will do
- thine office for thee, just a little space.”
- But Palinurus, lifting scarce his eyes,
- thus answered him: “Have I not known the face
- of yonder placid seas and tranquil waves?
- Put faith in such a monster? Could I trust —
- I, oft by ocean's treacherous calm betrayed —
- my lord Aeneas to false winds and skies?”