The Aeneid of Virgil

_Poetry By Rolfe Humphries_

THE AENEID OF VIRGIL: A VERSE TRANSLATION THE WIND OF TIME FORBID THY RAVENS THE SUMMER LANDSCAPE OUT OF THE JEWEL THE POET IN NEW YORK (TRANSLATION FROM LORCA) AND SPAIN SINGS (WITH M. J. Benardete) EUROPA, AND OTHER POEMS, AND SONNETS POEMS, COLLECTED AND NEW GREEN ARMOR ON GREEN GROUND

The Aeneid Of Virgil

A Verse Translation By Rolfe Humphries

Charles Scribner’S Sons, New York

This translation is dedicated to the memory of my first and best Latin teacher, my father, John Henry Humphries.

_laus illi debetur et a me gratia maior_

Introduction

Virgil’s Aeneid is, of course, a major poem; it is also a great and beautiful one. The scope of an epic requires, in the writing, a designed variety, a calculated unevenness, now and then some easy-going carelessness. So the reader win find, here and there, transitional passages, the stock epithet, the conventional phrase, a few lines of vamping, and, in this or that line, what the Spanish call _ripios_. Over and above these matters of small detail, in the large panorama the reader will find valleys as well as peaks, dry ravines as well as upland meadows: the landscape is not always the same height above sea level, and its flora and fauna vary more than a little. The epic terrain of the Odyssey differs greatly from that of the Iliad, and both Iliad and Odyssey differ from the Aeneid, but there is nothing obtrusive in Virgil’s relatively studied concern with composition. Less wild and “natural,” the demesnes of the Aeneid have their full measure of more than pleasant countryside, loftiness also, majesty, grandeur.

Virgil, we have been told, wanted to burn the Aeneid; he was not satisfied with it. This attitude, it seems to me, reflects fatigue and exhaustion of spirit rather than considered literary judgment. The last revisions are always the most enervating, and Virgil, one can well believe, having worked on the poem for over a decade, had reached the point where he felt he would rather do anything, including die, than go over the poem one more time. If we had never known the poem was believed incomplete, we would, I think, find it difficult to decide which were the unsatisfactory portions. Who wants an epic poem absolutely perfect, anyway? and how could the Aeneid be improved, really?

A charge is brought against the Aeneid that it is propaganda. I do not know when this criticism first came to be brought; I suspect it is only our own time, with its persistent devotion to all the aspects of advertising and sloganeering, that feels sufficiently guilty about these activities to project the accusation across twenty centuries. Virgil, with whatever cheerfulness his nature was capable of, would readily have agreed that the Aeneid was propaganda; but then he did not know the invidious connotations of the word,--he would have taken it to mean only “things that ought to be propagated.” An institute of propaganda analysis would be completely baffled by the Aeneid; the conclusion might be that the poem was either the best or the worst propaganda that had ever been written. What kind of propaganda is it to begin a nationalist epic with the sorrowful sigh, “It was such a great burden,--a millstone around the neck--to found the Roman race”? What kind of propaganda is it to make the enemies, by and large, more interesting and sympathetic and colorful fellows than our own side? Lausus and Mezentius, for example, are a far more engaging father-and-son combination than Aeneas-Anchises, Aeneas-Ascanius, or Evander-Pallas. Dido and Camilla command our admiration much more than the blushing Lavinia or the fading Creusa. We respond to Turnus, and are at best coldly respectful to Aeneas. What goes on here, anyway? Shouldn’t some patriotic organization investigate this subversive writer, secretly in the pay of a foreign power? On the other hand, it is just possible that this is the very best form which national propaganda can take, the implicit and pervasive doctrine that great and good as our enemies may be, we can admire them, surpass them, be just to them, and not be afraid of them, either.

A word or two about the character of Aeneas. It may be that the trouble with him is really the trouble with us. We are not mature enough to accept, as epic hero, a man who is imaginative, sensitive, compassionate (everywhere except in parts of Books IV and X), and, in short, civilized; in other words, a paradox. There seems to be almost no aggression at all in the character of Aeneas: even in his dreams he wants to get out of trouble and avoid fighting. We don’t like this; we find most satisfactory those moments when he is telling Dido off, or making bitter sarcastic speeches at Lucagus and Liger. We object, further, that when he does fight, he knows very well that he is protected by the gods and by magic armor. (Yet we do not mind the latter in the case of, for instance, Superman; and would we rather have our hero sponsored by devils?) In the matter of invulnerability we are, I think, a little unjust: Virgil takes some pains to show that he can be hurt: he rushes in, unarmed, to preserve the truce; he is grievously wounded by the death of Pallas. In any event, we need not feel too guilty if we are not crazy about Aeneas; there is little in the record to show that the Romans left enthusiastic encomia, either.

As between Virgil and Homer, there can be no real comparison. Judged by any standard, Homer is the greater writer; judged by our own, Virgil is sometimes the better one. His immediate audience consisted of men much more like ourselves than did Homer’s; and Virgil is considerate of their special sensitivities in a way that Homer did not have to bother to be. What he thought he might require of Homer, of course he went and took; it seems to me that in the taking he always modifies, often, from our point of view, improves. He will, for one thing, always design and order more carefully: Book VI, for example, is much more artistically worked out than the descent to the dead in the Odyssey. And the games in Book V, though many details are lifted entire from the Iliad, have quite their own quality, a light-heartedness in the horseplay, a humor and gaiety entirely different from the uncouth bragging and brawling of the Homeric competitors. I think it is only literary scholars who could possibly look down their noses at this book. And in his scenes and stories of battle Virgil, it seems to me, is far more respectful to the modern reader’s sense of credulity than Homer is; no student of a work rather current in 1917, _Small Problems of Infantry_, would have any difficulty in understanding what went wrong with the mission of Nisus and Euryalus in Book IX.

It is too bad that the Aeneid, as a whole, is not better known in America. The general practice in our secondary schools has come to be that of reading Books I, II, IV, and VI, and that’s all. This seems to me a peculiar way to deal with a work of art, like looking at selected portions of the Venus of Milo. I do not see how any intelligent American boys or girls can go this slowly, unless they stop to scan every line, note every example of synecdoche or synizesis, and parse all the grammatical constructions, with special attention to the poetical dative of agent and the Greek middle voice accusative of respect. And where the impression grew that the last six books are inferior in interest to the first I do not understand. Virgil, for one, did not think so. _Maius opus moveo._

It is a peculiar, paradoxical kind of great poem, this Aeneid. For us, I think, its greatness can be found in ways that may have had less appeal to the Roman mind. Its references may mean less, its music more. Not only the music of the lines, but the music of the whole: this is a composition, and the pleasure comes in listening to it as one would to a great symphony (and not too much attention, please, to the program notes). This is a composition, the Aeneid, beautifully wrought, beautifully balanced. Professor Conway has written an illuminating essay dealing with the poem in terms of its architecture; in detail, his analysis is excellent, but the central metaphor is a little unhappy if it leads you to envisage the Aeneid as an impressive pile, frozen and static. The poem _moves_, in more senses than one: the thing to do is to feel it and listen to it. Hear how the themes vary and recur; how the tone lightens and darkens, the volume swells or dies, the tempo rushes or lingers. Take in the poem with the mind, to be sure; take it in with the eye as well; but above all, hearken to it with the ear.

This translation is a quick and unscrupulous job. I am not being modest: a modest man would never have started, and a scrupulous one never finished. I have, nevertheless, been not entirely without principles. I have been trying to translate the poem, rather than transliterate its words. In doing so, I have transposed lines, cut some proper names and allusions where I thought they would excessively slow down reader interest, substituted the general for the specific or the specific for the general, and in short taken all kinds of liberties, such as no pure scholar could possibly approve. But I doubt if there is any such thing as an absolutely pure scholar, anyhow. A loose iambic pentameter has seemed to me the most convenient medium, though in some passages, where the tempo runs faster, you might not recognize it; and I have, by no means faithfully following Virgil, occasionally used his device of the half-line. I have preferred solecisms to archaisms: thus I have never used the second person singular pronoun. I know I have committed anachronisms, but, then, I know Virgil did too, and I have, in my opinion heroically, resisted one or two obvious temptations in this regard. What I have tried to be faithful to is the meaning of the poem as I understand it, to make it sound to you, wherever I can, the way it feels to me. Working on it, I have been impressed, more than ever through the thirty-odd years I have read it, by its richness and variety: to mention only one point, the famous Virgilian melancholy, the tone of _Sunt lacrimae rerum_, is, I begin to notice, a recurring, not a sustained, theme. There is much more rugged and rough, harsh and bitter, music in Virgil than you might suspect if you have only read _about_ him. A recent essay by Mark Van Doren has given me considerable heart in offering this new translation: there is a kind of scholastic snobbishness, he points out, in the insistence that no man knows anything who has not read the classics in the original. It is better, no doubt, to read Virgil in his own Latin, but still--I hope some people may have some pleasure of him, some idea of how good he was, through this English arrangement.

Rolfe Humphries

New York City,

January, 1951

Contents

Book I

The Landing near Carthage 3

Book II

The Fall of Troy 31

Book III

The Wanderings of Aeneas 61

Book IV

Aeneas and Dido 87

Book V

The Funeral Games for Anchises 113

Book VI

The Lower World 143

Book VII

Italy: the Outbreak of War 177

Book VIII

Aeneas at the Site of Rome 207

Book IX

In the Absence of Aeneas 233

Book X

Arms and the Man 263

Book XI

The Despair of the Latins 299

Book XII

The Final Combat 335

Appendix 371

The Aeneid Of Virgil

Book I

The Landing Near Carthage

Arms and the man I sing, the first who came, Compelled by fate, an exile out of Troy, To Italy and the Lavinian coast, Much buffeted on land and on the deep By violence of the gods, through that long rage, That lasting hate, of Juno’s. And he suffered Much, also, in war, till he should build his town And bring his gods to Latium, whence, in time, The Latin race, the Alban fathers, rose And the great walls of everlasting Rome.

Help me, O Muse, recall the reasons: why, Why did the queen of heaven drive a man So known for goodness, for devotion, through So many toils and perils? Was there slight, Affront, or outrage? Is vindictiveness An attribute of the celestial mind?

There was an ancient city, Carthage, once Founded by Tyrians, facing Italy And Tiber’s mouth, far-off, a wealthy town, War-loving, and aggressive; and Juno held Even her precious Samos in less regard. Here were her arms, her chariot, and here, Should fate at all permit, the goddess burned To found the empire of the world forever. But, she had heard, a Trojan race would come, Some day, to overthrow the Tyrian towers, A race would come, imperious people, proud In war, with wide dominion, bringing doom For Libya. Fate willed it so. And Juno Feared, and remembered: there was the old war She fought at Troy for her dear Greeks; her mind Still fed on hurt and anger; deep in her heart Paris’ decision rankled, and the wrong Offered her slighted beauty; and the hatred Of the whole race; and Ganymede’s honors-- All that was fuel to fire; she tossed and harried All over the seas, wherever she could, those Trojans Who had survived the Greeks and fierce Achilles, And so they wandered over many an ocean, Through many a year, fate-hounded. Such a struggle It was to found the race of Rome!

They were happy Spreading the sail, rushing the foam with bronze, And Sicily hardly out of sight, when Juno, Still nourishing the everlasting wound, Raged to herself: “I am beaten, I suppose; It seems I cannot keep this Trojan king From Italy. The fates, no doubt, forbid me. Pallas, of course, could burn the Argive ships, Could drown the sailors, all for one man’s guilt, The crazy acts of Ajax. Her own hand Hurled from the cloud Jove’s thunderbolt, and shattered Their ships all over the sea; she raised up storm And tempest; she spiked Ajax on the rocks, Whirled him in wind, blasted his heart with fire. And I, who walk my way as queen of the gods, Sister of Jove, and wife of Jove, keep warring With one tribe through the long, long years. Who cares For Juno’s godhead? Who brings sacrifice Devoutly to her altars?”

Brooding, burning, She sought Aeolia, the storm-clouds’ dwelling, A land that sweeps and swarms with the winds’ fury, Whose monarch, Aeolus, in his deep cave rules Imperious, weighing down with bolt and prison Those boisterous struggling roarers, who go raging Around their bars, under the moan of the mountain. High over them their sceptered lord sits watching, Soothing, restraining, their passionate proud spirit, Lest, uncontrolled, they seize, in their wild keeping, The land, the sea, the arch of sky, in ruin Sweeping through space. This Jupiter feared; he hid them Deep in dark caverns, with a mass of mountain Piled over above them, and a king to give them Most certain regulation, with a knowledge When to hold in, when to let go. Him Juno Approached in supplication:--“Aeolus, Given by Jove the power to still the waters, Or raise them with a gale, a tribe I hate Is on its way to Italy, and they carry Troy with them, and their household gods, once beaten. Shake anger into those winds of yours, turn over Their ships, and drown them; drive them in all directions, Litter the sea with bodies! For such service The loveliest nymph I have, Deiopea, Shall be your bride forever, and you will father Fair children on her fairness.” Aeolus Made answer: “Yours, O Queen, the task of seeking Whatever it is you will; and mine the duty To follow with performance. All my empire, My sceptre, Jove’s indulgence, are beholden To Juno’s favor, by whose blessing I Attend the feasts of the gods and rule this storm-land.”

His spear-butt struck the hollow mountain-side, And the winds, wherever they could, came sweeping forth, Whirled over the land, swooped down upon the ocean. East, South, Southwest, they heave the billows, howl, Storm, roll the giant combers toward the shore. Men cry; the rigging creaks and strains; the clouds Darken, and men see nothing; a weight of darkness Broods over the deep; the heavy thunder rumbles From pole to pole; the lightning rips and dazzles; There is no way out but death. Aeneas shudders In the chill shock, and lifts both hands to heaven:-- “O happy men, thrice happy, four times happy, Who had the luck to die, with their fathers watching Below the walls of Troy! Ah, Diomedes, Bravest of Greeks, why could I not have fallen, Bleeding my life away on plains of Ilium In our encounter there, where mighty Hector Went down before Achilles’ spear, and huge Sarpedon lay in dust, and Simois river Rolled to the sea so many noble heroes, All drowned in all their armor?” And the gale Howls from the north, striking the sail, head on; The waves are lifted to the stars; the oars Are broken, and the prow slews round; the ship Lies broadside on; a wall of water, a mountain, Looms up, comes pouring down; some ride the crest, Some, in the trough, can see the boil of the sand. The South wind hurls three ships on the hidden rocks, That sea-reef which Italians call the Altars; The West takes three, sweeping them from the deep On shoal and quicksand; over the stern of one, Before Aeneas’ eyes, a great sea falls, Washing the helmsman overboard; the ship Whirls thrice in the suck of the water and goes down In the devouring gulf; and here and there A few survivors swim, the Lycian men Whose captain was Orontes; now their arms, Their Trojan treasures, float with the broken timbers On the swing and slide of the waves. The storm, triumphant, Rides down more boats, and more; there goes Achates; Abas, Aletes, Ilioneus, Receive the hostile water; the walls are broken; The enemy pours in.

But meanwhile Neptune Saw ocean in a welter of confusion, The roar of storm, and deep and surface mingled. Troublesome business, this; he rose, majestic, From under the waves, and saw the Trojan vessels Scattered all over the sea by the might of the waves And the wreck of sky; he recognized the anger And cunning of his sister, and he summoned The winds by name:--“What arrogance is this, What pride of birth, you winds, to meddle here Without my sanction, raising all this trouble? I’ll--No, the waves come first: but listen to me, You are going to pay for this! Get out of here! Go tell your king the lordship of the ocean, The trident, are not his, but mine. His realm Reaches no further than the rocks and caverns You brawlers dwell in; let him rule that palace, Big as he pleases, shut you in, and stay there!”

This said, he calmed the swollen sea and cloud, Brought back the sun; Cymothoe and Triton, Heaving together, pulled the ships from the reef, As Neptune used his trident for a lever, Opened the quicksand, made the water smooth, And the flying chariot skimmed the level surface. Sometimes, in a great nation, there are riots With the rabble out of hand, and firebrands fly And cobblestones; whatever they lay their hands on Is a weapon for their fury, but should they see One man of noble presence, they fall silent, Obedient dogs, with ears pricked up, and waiting, Waiting his word, and he knows how to bring them Back to good sense again. So ocean, roaring, Subsided into stillness, as the sea-god Looked forth upon the waters, and clear weather Shone over him as he drove his flying horses.

Aeneas’ weary children make for harbor, Whichever lies most near, and the prows are turned To Libya’s coast-line. In a bay’s deep curve They find a haven, where the water lies With never a ripple. A little island keeps The sea-swell off, and the waves break on its sides And slide back harmless. The great cliffs come down Steep to deep water, and the background shimmers, Darkens and shines, the tremulous aspen moving And the dark fir pointing still. And there is a cave Under the overhanging rocks, alive With water running fresh, a home of the Nymphs, With benches for them, cut from the living stone. No anchor is needed here for weary ships, No mooring-cable. Aeneas brings them in, Seven weary vessels, and the men are glad To be ashore again, to feel dry sand Under the salt-stained limbs. Achates strikes The spark from the flint, catches the fire on leaves, Adds chips and kindling, blows and fans the flame, And they bring out the soaked and salty corn, The hand-mills, stone and mortar, and make ready, As best they can, for bread.

Meanwhile Aeneas Climbs to a look-out, for a view of the ocean, Hoping for some good luck; the Phrygian galleys Might meet his gaze, or Capys’ boats, or a pennon On a far-off mast-head flying. There is nothing, Nothing to see out yonder, but near the water Three stags are grazing, with a herd behind them, A long line browsing through the peaceful valley. He reaches for the bow and the swift arrows Borne by Achates, and he shoots the leaders, High-antlered, routs the common herd, and ceases Only when seven are slain, a number equal To the ships’ tally, and then he seeks the harbor, Divides the spoil, broaches the wine Acestes Had stowed for them at Drepanum on their leaving, A kingly present, and he calms their trouble, Saying: “O comrades, we have been through evil Together before this; we have been through worse, Scylla, Charybdis, and the Cyclops’ dwelling, The sounding rocks. This, too, the god will end. Call the nerve back; dismiss the fear, the sadness. Some day, perhaps, remembering even this Will be a pleasure. We are going on Through whatsoever chance and change, until We come to Latium, where the fates point out A quiet dwelling-place, and Troy recovered. Endure, and keep yourself for better days.” He kept to himself the sorrow in the heart, Wearing, for them, a mask of hopefulness. They were ready for the feasting. Part lay bare The flesh from the torn hides, part cut the meat Impaling it, still quivering, on spits, Setting the kettles, keeping the water boiling, And strong with food again, sprawling stretched out On comfortable grass, they take their fill Of bread and wine and venison, till hunger Is gone, and the board cleared. And then they talk For a long time, of where their comrades are, Are, or may be, hopeful and doubtful both. Could they believe them living? or would a cry Fall on deaf ears forever? All those captains, Brave Gyas, brave Cloanthus, Amycus, Lycus, Orontes,--in his secret heart Aeneas mourns them.

Meanwhile, from the heaven Jupiter watched the lands below, and the seas With the white points of sails, and far-off people, Turning his gaze toward Libya. And Venus Came to him then, a little sadly, tears Brimming in those bright eyes of hers. “Great father,” She said, “Great ruler of the world Of men and gods, great wielder of the lightning, What has my poor Aeneas done? what outrage Could Trojans perpetrate, so that the world Rejects them everywhere, and many a death Inflicted on them over Italy? There was a promise once, that as the years Rolled onward, they would father Rome and rulers Of Roman stock, to hold dominion over All sea and land. That was a promise, father; What changed it? Once that promise was my comfort; Troy fell; I weighed one fate against another And found some consolation. But disaster Keeps on; the same ill-fortune follows after. What end of it all, great king? One man, Antenor, Escaped the Greeks, came through Illyrian waters Safe to Liburnian regions, where Timavus Roars underground, comes up nine times, and reaches The floodland near the seas. One man, Antenor, Founded a city, Padua, a dwelling For Trojan men, a resting-place from labor, And shares their quietude. But we, your children, To whom heaven’s height is granted, we are betrayed, We have lost our ships, we are kept from Italy, Kept far away. One enemy--I tell you This is a shameful thing! Do we deserve it? Is this our rise to power?”

He smiled, in answer, The kind of smile that clears the air, and kissed her. “Fear not, my daughter; fate remains unmoved For the Roman generations. You will witness Lavinium’s rise, her walls fulfill the promise; You will bring to heaven lofty-souled Aeneas. There has been no change in me whatever. Listen! To ease this care, I will prophesy a little, I will open the book of fate. Your son Aeneas Will wage a mighty war in Italy, Beat down proud nations, give his people laws, Found them a city, a matter of three years From victory to settlement. His son, The boy Ascanius, named Ilus once, When Troy was standing, and now called Iulus, Shall reign for thirty years, and great in power Forsake Lavinium, transfer the kingdom To Alba Longa, new-built capital. Here, for three hundred years, the line of Hector Shall govern, till a royal priestess bears Twin sons to Mars, and Romulus, rejoicing In the brown wolf-skin of his foster-mother, Takes up the tribe, and builds the martial walls And calls the people, after himself, the Romans. To these I set no bounds in space or time; They shall rule forever. Even bitter Juno Whose fear now harries earth and sea and heaven Will change to better counsels, and will cherish The race that wears the toga, Roman masters Of all the world. It is decreed. The time Will come, as holy years wheel on, when Troy Will subjugate Mycenae, vanquish Phthia, Be lord of Argos. And from this great line Will come a Trojan, Caesar, to establish The limit of his empire at the ocean, His glory at the stars, a man called Julius Whose name recalls Iulus. Welcome waits For him in heaven; all the spoils of Asia Will weigh him down, and prayer be made before him. Then wars will cease, and a rough age grow gentler, White Faith and Vesta, Romulus and Remus, Give law to nations. War’s grim gates will close, Tight-shut with bars of iron, and inside them The wickedness of war sit bound and silent, The red mouth straining and the hands held tight In fastenings of bronze, a hundred hundred.”

With that, he sent down Mercury from heaven That Carthage might be kindly, and her land And new-built towers receive them with a welcome, And their queen, Dido, knowing the will of fate, Swing wide her doors. On the oarage of his wings He flies through the wide sweep of air to Libya, Where, at the will of the god, the folk make ready In kindliness of heart, and their queen’s purpose Is gracious and gentle.

All night long Aeneas Had pondered many a care, and with bright morning Resolved to reconnoiter; the winds have brought him To a new country: who lives in it, men Or only beasts? The fields appear untended. The fleet lies under a hollow cliff, surrounded By spikes of shade, and groves arch overhead, Ample concealment. Aeneas and Achates Went forth together, armed, down the trail in the forest, And there his mother met him, a girl, it seemed, From Thrace or Sparta, trim as any huntress Who rides her horses hard, or outspeeds rivers In her swift going. A bow hung over her shoulder, Her hair blew free, her knees were bare, her garments Tucked at the waist and knotted. As she saw them, “Ho there, young men,” she cried, “have you seen my sister Around here anywhere? She wears a quiver, And a spotted lynx-hide; maybe you have heard her Hunting the boar and shouting?”

But her son Responded: “No; we have heard no sounds of hunting. We have seen no one here. But tell me, maiden, What name to call you by? In voice and feature You are, I think, no mortal; a goddess, surely,-- Nymph, or Apollo’s sister? Whoever you are, Be kind to us, lighten our trouble, tell us Under what sky, along what coast of the world, We wander, knowing neither land nor people, Driven by gales and billows. Many a victim We shall make ready for your altar.” Venus Answered: “I have no title to such honor. The Tyrian girls all wear these crimson leggings Lake mine, and carry quivers. Tyrian folk Live here; their city is Carthage; over the border Lies Libya, warlike people. Our queen, Dido, Came here from Tyre; she was fleeing from her brother,-- A long and complicated story; outrage,-- No matter; here it is, in brief. Her husband Was Sychaeus, wealthiest of all Phoenicians, At least in land, and Dido loved him dearly Since first her father gave her to him, virgin, And then unlucky bride. She had a brother, Pygmalion, king of Tyre, a monster, evil In wickedness, and madness came between Those men, the two of them. Pygmalion murdered Sychaeus at the altar; he was crazy And blind for gold and crafty; what did he care About his sister’s love? And he kept it quiet For a long time, kept telling Dido something To fool her with false comfort, but Sychaeus Came to her in a dream, a ghost, unburied, With the wounds in his breast, the story of the altar, The pale lips blurting out the secret horror, The crime in the dark of the household. _Flee_, he told her, _Forsake this land_; and he told her where the treasure Lay hidden in earth, uncounted gold and silver. Dido was moved to flight, secured companions, All those possessed by fear, all those whom hatred Had made relentless; ships were standing ready, As it so happened; they put the gold aboard, And over the sea the greedy tyrant’s treasure Went sailing, with a woman for a captain. They came here; you will see the walls arising And the great citadel of the town called Carthage. Here they bought ground; they used to call it Byrsa, That being a word for bull’s hide; they bought only What a bull’s hide could cover. And now tell me Who you might be yourselves? what land do you come from, Bound for what coast?”

And he began his answer With a long sigh: “O goddess, if I told you All from the first beginning, if you had leisure To listen to the record of our trouble, It would take me all day long. From ancient Troy, In case that name means anything, we come Driven over many seas, and now a storm Has whipped us on this coast. I am Aeneas, A good, devoted man; I carry with me My household gods, saved from the Greeks; I am known In heaven; it is Italy I seek, A homeland for me there, and a race descended From lofty Jove. With a score of ships we started Over the Phrygian ocean, following fate And the way my mother pointed. Only seven Are left us now, battered survivors, after The rage of wind and wave. And here I wander The wastes of Libya, unknown and needy, Driven from Europe and Asia.” And his mother Broke in on his complaining:--“Whoever you are, Some god must care for you, I think, to bring you Here to the city of Carthage. Follow on, Go to the royal palace. For, I tell you, Your comrades have returned, your fleet is safe, Brought to good haven by the turn of the winds, Unless the augury my parents taught me Was foolish nonsense. In the heaven yonder You see twelve swans, rejoicing in long column, Scattered, a little while ago, and driven By the swooping eagle, over all the sky, But now, it seems, they light on land, or watch Those who came down before them; as they circle In company, and make a cheerful sound With whir of wing or song, so, let me tell you, Your ships and men already enter harbor Or near it under full sail. Keep on, go forward Where the path leads.”

And as she turned, her shoulders Shone with a radiant light; her hair shed fragrance, Her robes slipped to her feet, and the true goddess Walked in divinity. He knew his mother, And his voice pursued her flight: “Cruel again! Why mock your son so often with false phantoms? Why may not hand be joined to hand, and words Exchanged in truthfulness?” So, still reproachful, He went on toward the city, with Achates, But Venus cast dark air around their going, A veil of mist, so that no man might see them Or lay a hand on them, or halt them, asking The reasons of their coming. She soared upward To Paphos, happily home to temple and altars Steaming with incense, redolent with garlands.

And they went on, where the little pathway led them To rising ground; below them lay the city, Majestic buildings now, where once were hovels, A wonder to Aeneas, gates and bustle And well-paved streets, the busy Tyrians toiling With stones for walls and citadel, or marking Foundations for their homes, drainage and furrow, All under ordered process. They dredge harbors, Set cornerstones, quarry the rock, where someday Their theater will tower. They are like bees In early summer over the country flowers When the sun is warm, and the young of the hive emerge, And they pack the molten honey, bulge the cells With the sweet nectar, add new loads, and harry The drones away from the hive, and the work glows, And the air is sweet with bergamot and clover. “Happy the men whose walls already rise!” Exclaims Aeneas, gazing on the city, And enters there, still veiled in cloud--a marvel!-- And walks among the people, and no one sees him.

There was a grove in the middle of the city, Most happy in its shade; this was the place Where first the Tyrians, tossed by storm and whirlwind, Dug up the symbol royal Juno showed them, The skull of a war-horse, a sign the race to come Would be supreme in war and wealth, for ages, And Dido here was building a great temple In Juno’s honor, rich in gifts, and blessed With the presence of the goddess. Lintel and rafter Were bronze above bronze stairways, and bronze portals Swung on bronze hinges. Here Aeneas first Dared hope for safety, find some reassurance In hope of better days: a strange sight met him, To take his fear away. Waiting the queen, He stood there watching, under the great temple, Letting his eyes survey the city’s fortune, The artist’s workmanship, the craftsman’s labor, And there, with more than wonder, he sees the battles Fought around Troy, and the wars whose fame had travelled The whole world over; there is Agamemnon, Priam, and Menelaus, and Achilles, A menace to them all. He is moved to tears. “What place in all the world,” he asks Achates, “Is empty of our sorrow? There is Priam! Look! even here there are rewards for praise, There are tears for things, and what men suffer touches The human heart. Dismiss your fear; this story Will bring some safety to you.” Sighing often, He could not turn his gaze away; it was only A picture on a wall, but the sight afforded Food for the spirit’s need. He saw the Greeks, Hard-pressed, in flight, and Trojans coming after, Or, on another panel, the scene reversed, Achilles in pursuit, his own men fleeing; He saw, and tears came into his eyes again, The tents of Rhesus, snowy-white, betrayed In their first sleep by bloody Diomedes With many a death, and the fiery horses driven Into the camp, before they ever tasted The grass of Troy, or drank from Xanthus’ river. Another scene showed Troilus, poor youngster, Running away, his arms flung down; Achilles Was much too good for him; he had fallen backward Out of his car, but held the reins, and the horses Dragged him along the ground, his hair and shoulders Bounding in dust, and the spear making a scribble. And there were Trojan women, all in mourning, With streaming hair, on their way to Pallas’ temple, Bearing, as gift, a robe, but the stern goddess Kept her gaze on the ground. Three times Achilles Had dragged the body of Hector around the walls, And was selling it for money. What a groan Came from Aeneas’ heart, seeing that spoil, That chariot, and helpless Priam reaching His hands, unarmed, across the broken body! And he saw himself there, too, fighting in battle Against Greek leaders, he saw the Eastern columns, And swarthy Memnon’s arms. Penthesilea, The Amazon, blazes in fury, leading Her crescent-shielded thousands, a golden buckle Below her naked breast, a soldieress Fighting with men.

And as he watched these marvels In one long fascinated stare of wonder, Dido, the queen, drew near; she came to the temple With a great train, all majesty, all beauty, As on Eurotas’ riverside, or where Mount Cynthus towers high, Diana leads Her bands of dancers, and the Oreads follow In thousands, right and left, the taller goddess, The quiver-bearing maiden, and Latona Is filled with secret happiness, so Dido Moved in her company, a queen, rejoicing, Ordering on her kingdom’s rising glory. At Juno’s portal, under the arch of the temple, She took her throne, a giver of law and justice, A fair partitioner of toil and duty, And suddenly Aeneas, from the crowd, Saw Trojan men approaching, brave Cloanthus, Sergestus, Antheus, and all those others Whom the black storm had driven here and yonder. This he cannot believe, nor can Achates, Torn between fear and joy. They burn with ardor To seek their comrades’ handclasp, but confusion Still holds them in the cloud: what can have happened? They watch from the cover of mist: men still were coming From all the ships, chosen, it seemed, as pleaders For graciousness before the temple, calling Aloud: what fortune had been theirs, he wonders, Where had they left the ships; why were they coming? They were given audience; Ilioneus, Senior to all, began: “O Queen, whom Jove Has given the founding of a great new city, Has given to bridle haughty tribes with justice, We, pitiful Trojans, over every ocean Driven by storm, make our appeal: keep from us The terrible doom of fire; protect our vessels; Have mercy on a decent race; consider Our lot with closer interest. We have not come To ravish Libyan homes, or carry plunder Down to the shore. We lack the arrogance Of conquerors; there is no aggression in us. There is a place which Greeks have given a name, The Land in the West; it is powerful in arms, Rich in its soil; Oenotrians used to live there, And now, the story goes, a younger people Inhabit it, calling themselves Italians After their leader’s name. We were going there When, big with storm and cloud, Orion rising Drove us on hidden quicksands, and wild winds Scattered us over the waves, by pathless rocks And the swell of the surge. A few of us have drifted Here to your shores. What kind of men are these, What barbarous land permits such attitudes? We have been denied the welcome of the beach, Forbidden to set foot on land; they rouse All kinds of war against us. You despise, It may be, human brotherhood, and arms Wielded by men. But there are gods, remember, Who care for right and wrong. Our king Aeneas May be alive; no man was ever more just, More decent ever, or greater in war and arms. If fate preserves him still, if he still breathes The welcome air, above the world of shadows, Fear not; to have treated us with kindly service Need bring you no repentance. We have cities In Sicily as well, and King Acestes Is one of us, from Trojan blood. We ask you To let us beach our battered fleet, make ready Beams from the forest timber, mend our oarage, Seek Italy and Latium, glad at knowing Our king and comrades rescued. But if safety Is hopeless for him now, and Libyan water Has been his grave, and if his son Iulus Is desperate, or lost, grant us permission At least to make for Sicily, whence we came here, Where king Acestes has a dwelling for us.” The Trojans, as he ended, all were shouting, And Dido, looking down, made a brief answer: “I am sorry, Trojans; put aside your care, Have no more fear. The newness of the kingdom And our strict need compel to me such measures-- Sentries on every border, far and wide. But who so ignorant as not to know The nation of Aeneas, manly both In deeds and people, and the city of Troy? We are not as dull as that, we folk from Carthage; The sun shines on us here. Whether you seek The land in the west, the sometime fields of Saturn, Or the Sicilian realms and king Acestes, I will help you to the limit; should you wish To settle here and share this kingdom with me, The city I found is yours; draw up your ships; Trojan and Tyrian I treat alike. Would, also, that your king were here, Aeneas, Driven by that same wind. I will send good men Along the coast to seek him, under orders To scour all Libya; he may be wandering Somewhere, in woods or town, surviving shipwreck.”

Aeneas and Achates both were eager To break the cloud; the queen inspired their spirit With her address. Achates asked Aeneas:-- “What do we do now, goddess-born? You see They all are safe, our vessels and our comrades, Only one missing, and we saw him drowning, Ourselves, beneath the waves; all other things Confirm what Venus told us.” And as he finished, The cloud around them broke, dissolved in air, Illumining Aeneas, like a god, Light radiant around his face and shoulders, And Venus gave him all the bloom of youth. Its glow, its liveliness, as the artist adds Luster to ivory, or sets in gold Silver or marble. No one saw him coming Until he spoke:--“You seek me; here I am, Trojan Aeneas, saved from the Libyan waves. Worn out by all the perils of land and sea, In need of everything, blown over the great world, A remnant left by the Greeks, Dido, we lack The means to thank our only pitier For offer of a city and a home. If there is justice anywhere, if goodness Means anything to any power, if gods At all regard good people, may they give The great rewards you merit. Happy the age, Happy the parents who have brought you forth! While rivers run to sea, while shadows move Over the mountains, while the stars burn on, Always, your praise, your honor, and your name, Whatever land I go to, will endure.” His hand went out to greet his men, Serestus, Gyas, Cloanthus, Ilioneus, The others in their turn. And Dido marvelled At his appearance, first, and all that trouble He had borne up under; there was a moment’s silence Before she spoke: “What chance, what violence, O goddess-born, has driven you through danger, From grief to grief? Are you indeed that son Whom Venus bore Anchises? I remember When Teucer came to Sidon, as an exile Seeking new kingdoms, and my father helped him, My father, Belus, conqueror of Cyprus. From that time on I have known about your city, Your name, and the Greek kings, and the fall of Troy. Even their enemies would praise the Trojans, Or claim descent from Teucer’s line. I bid you Enter my house. I, too, am fortune-driven Through many sufferings; this land at last Has brought me rest. Not ignorant of evil, I know one thing, at least,--to help the wretched.” And so she led Aeneas to the palace, Proclaiming sacrifice at all the temples In honor of his welcome, and sent presents To his comrades at the shore, a score of bullocks, A hundred swine, a hundred ewes and lambs In honor of the joyous day. The palace, Within, is made most bright with pomp and splendor, The halls prepared for feasting. Crimson covers Are laid, with fine embroidery, and silver Is heavy on the tables; gold, engraven, Recalls ancestral prowess, a tale of heroes From the race’s first beginnings.

And Aeneas, Being a thoughtful father, speeds Achates Back to the ships, with tidings for Iulus, He is to join them; all the father’s fondness Is centred on the son. Orders are given To bring gifts with him, saved from the Trojan ruins, A mantle stiff with figures worked in gold; A veil with gold acanthus running through it, Once worn by Helen, when she sailed from Sparta Toward that forbidden marriage, a wondrous gift Made by her mother Leda; and the sceptre That Ilione, Priam’s eldest daughter, Had carried once; a necklace hung with pearls; A crown of gold and jewels. Toward the ships Achates sped the message.

Meanwhile Venus Plotted new stratagems, that Cupid, changed In form and feature, should appear instead Of young Ascanius, and by his gifts Inspire the queen to passion, with his fire Burning her very bones. She feared the house Held dubious intentions; men of Tyre Were always two-faced people, and Juno’s anger Vexed her by night. She spoke to her wingèd son:-- “O my one strength and source of power, my son, Disdainful of Jove’s thunderbolt, to you I come in prayer for help. You know that Juno Is hateful toward Aeneas, keeps him tossing All over the seas in bitterness; you have often Grieved with me for your brother. And now Dido Holds him with flattering words; I do not trust Juno’s ideas of welcome; she will never Pause at a point like this. Therefore I purpose To take the queen by cunning, put around her A wall of flame, so that no power can change her, So that a blazing passion for Aeneas Will bind her to us. Listen! I will tell you How you can manage this. The royal boy, My greatest care, has heard his father’s summons To come to the city, bringing presents, rescued From the flames of Troy and the sea; and he is ready. But I will make him drowsy, carry him off In slumber over Cythera, or hide him Deep on Idalium in a secret bower Before he learns the scheme or interrupts it. You, for one night, no more, assume his features, The boy’s familiar guise, yourself a boy, So that when Dido takes you to her bosom During the royal feast, with the wine flowing, And happiness abounding, you, receiving The sweetness of her kiss, will overcome her With secret fire and poison.”

For his mother Cupid put off his wings, and went rejoicing With young Iulus’ stride; the real Iulus Venus had lulled in soft repose, and borne him Warm in her bosom to Idalian groves, Where the soft marjoram cradled him with blossom Exhaling shadowy sweetness over his slumber. And, with Achates leading, Cupid came Obedient to his mother, bringing gifts. The queen receives them, on a golden couch Below the royal tapestries, where spreads Of crimson wait Aeneas and his Trojans. Servants bring water for their hands, and bread In baskets, and fine napkins. At the fire Are fifty serving-maids, to set the feast, A hundred more, girls, and a hundred boys To load the tables, and bring the goblets round, As through the happy halls the Tyrians throng, Admire the Trojan gifts, admire Iulus, The young god with the glowing countenance, The charming words, the robe, the saffron veil Edged with acanthus. More than all the rest, Disaster-bound, the unhappy queen takes fire, And cannot have enough of looking, moved Alike by boy and gifts. She watches him Cling to his father’s neck, or come to her For fondling, and her eyes, her heart, receive him, Alas, poor queen, not knowing what a god Is plotting for her sorrow. He remembers What Venus told him; she forgets a little About Sychaeus; the heart unused to love Stirs with a living passion. When the first quiet settled over the tables, And the boards were cleared, they set the great bowls down, Crowning the wine with garlands. A great hum Runs through the halls, the voices reach the rafters, The burning lamps below the fretted gold, The torches flaring, put the night to rout. The queen commands the loving-cup of Belus, Heavy with gems and gold, and fills it full, And silence fills the halls before her prayer:-- “Jupiter, giver of laws for host and guest, Grant this to be a happy day for all, Both Tyrians and travellers from Troy, And something for our children to remember! May Bacchus, giver of joy, attend, and Juno Be kind, and all my Tyrians be friendly!” She poured libation on the table, touched The gold rim with her lips, passed on the bowl To Bitias, who dove deep, and other lords Took up the challenge. And a minstrel played A golden lyre, Iopas, taught by Atlas: Of the sun’s labors and the wandering moon He sang, whence came the race of beasts and man, Whence rain and fire, the stars and constellations, Why suns in winter hasten to the sea, Or what delay draws out the dawdling nights. The Tyrians roar, applauding, and the Trojans Rejoice no less, and the poor queen prolongs The night with conversation, drinking deep Of her long love, and asking many questions Of Priam, Hector; of the arms of Memnon; How big Achilles was; and Diomedes, What were his horses like? “Tell us, my guest,” She pleads, “from the beginning, all the story, The treachery of the Greeks, the wanderings, The perils of the seven tiresome years.”

Book II

The Fall Of Troy

They all were silent, watching. From his couch Aeneas spoke: “A terrible grief, O Queen, You bid me live again, how Troy went down Before the Greeks, her wealth, her pitiful kingdom, Sorrowful things I saw myself, wherein I had my share and more. Even Ulysses, Even his toughest soldiery might grieve At such a story. And the hour is late Already; night is sliding down the sky And setting stars urge slumber. But if you long To learn our downfall, to hear the final chapter Of Troy, no matter how I shrink, remembering, And turn away in grief, let me begin it.

Broken in war, set back by fate, the leaders Of the Greek host, as years went by, contrived, With Pallas’ help, a horse as big as a mountain. They wove its sides with planks of fir, pretending This was an offering for their safe return, At least, so rumor had it. But inside They packed, in secret, into the hollow sides The fittest warriors; the belly’s cavern, Huge as it was, was filled with men in armor. There is an island, Tenedos, well-known, Rich in the days of Priam; now it is only A bay, and not too good an anchorage For any ship to trust. They sailed there, hid On the deserted shore. We thought they had gone, Bound for Mycenae, and Troy was very happy, Shaking off grief, throwing the gates wide open. It was a pleasure, for a change, to go See the Greek camp, station and shore abandoned; Why, this was where Achilles camped, his minions, The Dolopes, were here; and the fleet just yonder, And that was the plain where we used to meet in battle. Some of us stared in wonder at the horse, Astounded by its vastness, Minerva’s gift, Death from the virgin goddess, had we known it. Thymoetes, whether in treachery, or because The fates of Troy so ordered, was the first one To urge us bring it in to the heart of the city, But Capys, and some others, knowing better, Suspicious of Greek plotting, said to throw it Into the sea, to burn it up with fire, To cut it open, see what there was inside it. The wavering crowd could not make up its mind.

And, at that point, Laocoön came running, With a great throng at his heels, down from the hilltop As fast as ever he could, and before he reached us, Cried in alarm: ‘Are you crazy, wretched people? Do you think they have gone, the foe? Do you think that any Gifts of the Greeks lack treachery? Ulysses,-- What was his reputation? Let me tell you, Either the Greeks are hiding in this monster, Or it’s some trick of war, a spy, or engine, To come down on the city. Tricky business Is hiding in it. Do not trust it, Trojans, Do not believe this horse. Whatever it may be, I fear the Greeks, even when bringing presents.’ With that, he hurled the great spear at the side With all the strength he had. It fastened, trembling, And the struck womb rang hollow, a moaning sound. He had driven us, almost, to let the light in With the point of the steel, to probe, to tear, but something Got in his way, the gods, or fate, or counsel, Ill-omened, in our hearts; or Troy would be standing And Priam’s lofty citadel unshaken.

Meanwhile, some Trojan shepherds, pulling and hauling, Had a young fellow, with his hands behind him, Tied up, and they were dragging him to Priam. He had let himself be taken so, on purpose, To open Troy to the Greeks, a stranger, ready For death or shifty cunning, a cool intriguer, Let come what may. They crowd around to see him, Take turns in making fun of him, that captive. Listen, and learn Greek trickiness; learn all Their crimes from one. He stopped in the middle, frightened and defenceless, Looked at the Trojan ranks,--‘What land, what waters, Can take me now?’ he cried, ‘There is nothing, nothing Left for me any more, no place with the Greeks, And here are the Trojans howling for my blood!’ Our mood was changed. We pitied him, poor fellow, Sobbing his heart out. We bade him tell his story, His lineage, his news: what can he count on, The captive that he is? His fear had gone As he began: ‘O King, whatever happens, I will tell the truth, tell all of it; to start with, I own I am a Greek. Sinon is wretched, Fortune has made him so, but she will never Make him a liar. You may perhaps have heard Rumors of Palamedes, son of Belus, A man of glorious fame. But the Greeks killed him,-- He was against the war, and so they killed him, An innocent man, by perjury and lying False witness. Now that he is dead they mourn him. My father, his poor relative, had sent me To soldier in his company; I was then Scarcely beyond my boyhood. Palamedes Held, for some time, some influence and standing In royal councils, and we shared his glory, But, and all men know this, Ulysses’ hatred, His cunning malice, pulled him down; thereafter I lived in darkness, dragging out a lifetime In sorrow for my innocent lord, and anger, And in my anger I was very foolish, I talked; I vowed, if I got home to Argos, I would have vengeance: so I roused Ulysses To hate me in his turn, and that began it, Downfall and evil, Ulysses always trying To frighten me with hint and accusation, With rumors planted where the crowd would listen; Oh yes, Ulysses knew what he was doing, He never stopped, until with Calchas working Hand in glove with him--why am I telling this, And what’s the use? I am stalling. All the Greeks, You think, are all alike; what more do you want? Inflict the punishment. That would be something Ulysses would rejoice in, and some others Pay handsome money for!’

But we were all on fire to hear him further. Pelasgian craft meant nothing to our folly. Trembling and nervous, he resumed his lying: ‘The Greeks were tired of the long war; they often Wanted to sail from Troy for home. Oh, would That they had only done it! But a storm Would cut them off, or the wrong wind terrify them. Especially, just after the horse was finished, With the joined planks of maple, all the heaven Roared loud with storm-clouds. In suspense and terror We sent Eurypylus to ask Apollo What could be done; the oracle was gloomy, Foreboding: “Blood, O Greeks, and a slain virgin Appeased the winds when first you came here; blood Must pay for your return, a life be given, An Argive life.” The word came to our ears With terror in it, our blood ran cold in our veins, For whom was fate preparing? who would be The victim of Apollo? Then Ulysses Dragged Calchas into our midst, with a great uproar, Trying his best to make the prophet tell us What the gods wanted. And there were many then Who told me what was coming, or kept silent Because they saw, and all too well, the scheme Ulysses had in mind. For ten days Calchas Said nothing at all, hid in his tent, refusing To have a word of his pronounce the sentence, And all the time Ulysses kept on shouting, Till Calchas broke, and doomed me to the altar. And all assented; what each man had feared In his own case, he bore with great composure When turned another way. The terrible day was almost on me; fillets Were ready for my temples, the salted meal Prepared, the altars standing. But I fled, I tore myself away from death, I admit it, I hid all night in sedge and muddy water At the edge of the lake, hoping, forever hoping, They might set sail. And now I hope no longer To see my home, my parents, or my children, Poor things, whom they will kill because I fled them, Whom they will murder for my sacrilege. But oh, by the gods above, by any power That values truth, by any uncorrupted Remnant of faith in all the world, have pity, Have pity on a soul that bears such sorrow, More than I ever deserved.’ He had no need to ask us. Priam said, _Untie him_, and we did so with a promise To spare his life. Our king, with friendly words, Addressed him, saying, ‘Whoever you are, forget The Greeks, from now on. You are ours; but tell me Why they have built this monstrous horse? who made it, Who thought of it? What is it, war-machine, Religious offering?’ And he, instructed In every trick and artifice, made answer, Lifting his hands, now free: ‘Eternal fires, Inviolable godhead, be my witness, You altars, you accursèd swords, you fillets Which I as victim wore, I had the right To break those solemn bonds, I had the right To hate those men, to bring whatever they hide Into the light and air; I am bound no longer To any country, any laws, but, Trojans, Keep to the promise, if I tell the truth, If I pay back with interest. All the Greek hope, since first the war began, Rested in Pallas, always. But Ulysses, The crime-contriver, and the son of Tydeus Attacked Minerva’s temple, stole her image Out of the holy shrine, and slew the guards, And laid their bloody hands upon the goddess, And from that time the Danaan hopes were broken, Faltered and failed. It was no doubtful anger Pallas revealed; she gave them signs and portents. From her image in the camp the upraised eyes Shot fire, and sweat ran salty down the limbs, Thrice from the ground she seemed to flash and leap With vibrant spear and clashing shield. The priest, Calchas, made prophecy: they must take to flight Over the sea, and Troy could not be taken Without new omens; they must go to Argos, Bring back the goddess again, whom they have taken In curved ships over the sea. And if they have gone, They are bound for home, Mycenae, for new arms, New gods, new soldiers; they will be here again When least expected. Calchas’ message warned them, And so they built this image, to replace The one they had stolen, a gigantic offering For a tremendous sacrilege. It was Calchas, Again, who bade them build a mass so mighty It almost reached the stars, too big to enter Through any gate, or be brought inside the walls. For if your hands should damage it, destruction, (May God avert it) would come upon the city, But if your hands helped bring it home, then Asia Would be invading Greece, and doom await Our children’s children.’

We believed him, we Whom neither Diomede nor great Achilles Had taken, nor ten years, nor that armada, A thousand ships of war. But Sinon did it By perjury and guile.

Then something else, Much greater and more terrible, was forced Upon us, troubling our unseeing spirits. Laocoön, allotted priest of Neptune, Was slaying a great bull beside the altars, When suddenly, over the tranquil deep From Tenedos,--I shudder even now, Recalling it--there came a pair of serpents With monstrous coils, breasting the sea, and aiming Together for the shore. Their heads and shoulders Rose over the waves, upright, with bloody crests, The rest of them trailing along the water, Looping in giant spirals; the foaming sea Hissed under their motion. And they reached the land, Their burning eyes suffused with blood and fire, Their darting tongues licking the hissing mouths. Pale at the sight, we fled. But they went on Straight toward Laocoön, and first each serpent Seized in its coils his two young sons, and fastened The fangs in those poor bodies. And the priest Struggled to help them, weapons in his hand. They seized him, bound him with their mighty coils, Twice round his waist, twice round his neck, they squeezed With scaly pressure, and still towered above him. Straining his hands to tear the knots apart, His chaplets stained with blood and the black poison, He uttered horrible cries, not even human, More like the bellowing of a bull, when, wounded It flees the altar, shaking from the shoulder The ill-aimed axe. And on the pair went gliding To the highest shrine, the citadel of Pallas, And vanished underneath the feet of the goddess And the circle of her shield.

The people trembled Again; they said Laocoön deserved it, Having, with spear, profaned the sacred image. It must be brought to its place, they cried, the goddess Must be appeased. We broke the walls, exposing The city’s battlements, and all were busy Helping the work, with rollers underfoot And ropes around the neck. It climbed our walls, The deadly engine. Boys, unwedded girls Sang alleluias round it, all rejoicing To have a hand on the tow-rope. It came nearer, Threatening, gliding, into the very city. O motherland! O Ilium, home of gods, O walls of Troy! Four times it stopped, four times The sound of arms came from it, and we pressed on, Unheedful, blind in madness, till we set it, Ill-omened thing, on the citadel we worshipped. And even when Cassandra gave us warning, We never believed her; so a god had ordered. That day, our last, poor wretches, we were happy, Garlanding the temples of the gods All through the town.

And the sky turned, and darkness Came from the ocean, the great shade covering earth And heaven, and the trickery of the Greeks. Sprawling along the walls, the Trojans slumbered, Sleep holding their weary limbs, and the Greek armada, From Tenedos, under the friendly silence Of a still moon, came surely on. The flagship Blazed at the masthead with a sudden signal, And Sinon, guarded by the fates, the hostile Will of the gods, swung loose the bolts; the Greeks Came out of the wooden womb. The air received them The happy captains, Sthenelus, Ulysses, Thessandrus, Acamas, Achilles’ son Called Neoptolemus, Thoas, Machaon, Epeos, who designed the thing,--they all Came sliding down the rope, and Menelaus Was with them in the storming of a city Buried in sleep and wine. The watch was murdered, The open doors welcome the rush of comrades, They marshal the determined ranks for battle.

It was the time when the first sleep begins For weary mortals, heaven’s most welcome gift. In sleep, before my eyes, I seemed to see Hector, most sorrowful, black with bloody dust, Torn, as he had been, by Achilles’ car, The thong-marks on his swollen feet. How changed He was from that great Hector who came, once, Triumphant in Achilles’ spoil, from hurling Fire at the Grecian ships. With ragged beard, Hair matted with his blood, wearing the wounds He earned around the walls of Troy, he stood there. It seemed that I spoke first:--‘O light of Troy, Our surest hope, we have long been waiting for you, What shores have kept you from us? Many deaths, Much suffering, have visited our city, And we are tired. Why do I see these wounds? What shame has caused them?’ Those were foolish questions; He made no answer but a sigh or a groan, And then: ‘Alas, O goddess-born! Take flight, Escape these flames! The enemy has the walls, Troy topples from her lofty height; enough Has been paid out to Priam and to country. Could any hand have saved them, Hector’s would have. Troy trusts to you her household gods, commending Her holy things to you; take them, companions Of destiny; seek walls for them, and a city To be established, a long sea-wandering over.’ From the inner shrine he carried Vesta’s chaplets In his own hands, and her undying fire.

Meanwhile, the city is all confusion and sorrow; My father Anchises’ house, remote and sheltered Among its trees, was not so far away But I could hear the noises, always clearer, The thickening din of war. Breaking from sleep, I climb to the roof-top, listening and straining The way a shepherd does on the top of a mountain When fire goes over the corn, and the winds are roaring, Or the rush of a mountain torrent drowns the fields And the happy crops and the work of men and oxen And even drags great trees over. And then I knew The truth indeed; the craft of the Greeks was hidden No longer from my sight. The house of a neighbor, Deiphobus, went up in flames; next door, Ucalegon was burning. Sigeum’s water Gave back the glow. Men shouted, and the trumpets Blared loud. I grab my arms, with little purpose, There was no sense in it, but my heart was burning To mass a band for war, rush to the hilltop With comrades at my side. Anger and frenzy Hurry me on. A decent death in battle Is a helpful thought, sometimes.

And here came Panthus, running from the weapons, Priest of Apollo, and a son of Othrys, With holy relics in his hands, and dragging His little grandson, here came Panthus, running In madness to my door. ‘How goes it, Panthus? What stronghold still is ours?’ I had hardly spoken, When he began, with a groan: ‘It has come, this day Will be our last, and we can not escape it. Trojans we have been, Troy has been, and glory Is ours no more. Fierce Jupiter has taken Everything off to Argos, and Greeks lord it In a town on fire. The horse, high in the city, Pours out armed men, and Sinon, arrogant victor, Lights up more fires. The gates are standing open, And men are there by the thousands, ever as many As came once from Mycenae; others block The narrow streets, with weapons drawn; the blades Flash in the dark; the point is set for murder. A few of the guards are trying, striking blindly, For all the good it does.’

His words, or the gods’ purpose, swept me on Toward fire and arms, where the grim furies call, And the clamor and confusion, reaching heaven. Ripheus joined me, Epytus, mighty in arms, Came to my side in the moonlight, Hypanis, Dymas, And young Coroebus, Mygdon’s son, poor youngster, Mad with a hopeless passion for Cassandra, He wanted to help Priam, but never heeded The warnings of his loved one.

As they ranged Themselves for battle, eager, I addressed them: ‘O brave young hearts, it will do no good; no matter. Even if your will is fixed, to follow a leader Taking the final risk, you can’t help seeing The fortune of our state. The gods have gone, They have left their shrines and altars, and the power They once upheld is fallen. You are helping A town already burnt. So let us die, Rush into arms. One safety for the vanquished Is to have hope of none.’

They were young, and angry. Like wolves, marauders in black mist, whom hunger Drives blindly on, whose whelps, abandoned, wait them Dry-jawed, so we went on, through foes, through weapons, To certain death; we made for the heart of the city, Black night around us with its hollow shadow. Who could explain that night’s destruction, equal Its agony with tears? The ancient city, A power for many years, comes down, and corpses Lie littering the streets and homes and altars. Not only Trojans die. The old-time valor Returns to the vanquished heart, and the Greek victors Know what it is to fall. Everywhere sorrow, Everywhere panic, everywhere the image Of death, made manifold.

Out of a crowd of Greeks comes one Androgeos, Thinking us allies, hailing us as friendly: ‘Why men, where have you been, you dawdling fellows? Hurry along! Here is plunder for the taking, Others are busy at it, and you just coming From the high ships!’ And then he knew he had blundered; He had fallen in with foes, who gave no answer. He stopped, stepped back, like a man who treads on a serpent Unseen in the rough brush, and then in panic Draws back as the purple neck swells out in anger. Even so, Androgeos pulled away in terror. We rush them, swarm all over them; they are frightened, They do not know their ground, and fortune favors Our first endeavor. Coroebus, a little crazy With nerve and luck, cries out: ‘Comrades, where fortune First shows the way and sides with us, we follow. Let us change our shields, put on the Grecian emblems! All’s fair in war: we lick them or we trick them, And what’s the odds?’ He takes Androgeos’ helmet, Whose plume streams over his head, takes up the shield With proud device, and fits the sword to his side. And Ripheus does the same, and so does Dymas, And all the others, happily, being armed With spoil, new-won. We join the Greeks, all going Under no gods of ours, in the night’s darkness Wade into many a fight, and Greeks by the dozens We send to hell. And some of them in panic Speed to the ships; they know that shore, and trust it, And some of them--these were the abject cowards-- Climb scrambling up the horse’s sides, again Take refuge in the womb.

It is not for men to trust unwilling gods. Cassandra was being dragged from Pallas’ temple, Her hair loosed to the wind, her eyes turned upward To heaven for mercy; they had bound her hands. Coroebus could not bear that sight; in madness He threw himself upon them, and he died. We followed, all of us, into the thick of it, And were cut down, not only by Greeks; the rooftops, Held by our friends, rained weapons: we were wearing Greek crests and armor, and they did not know us. And the Greeks came on, shouting with anger, burning To foil that rescue; there was Menelaus, And Agamemnon, and the savage Ajax, And a whole army of them. Hurricanes Rage the same way, when winds from different quarters Clash in the sky, and the forest groans, and Neptune Storms underneath the ocean. Those we routed Once in the dark came back again from the byways And alleys of the town; they mark our shields, Our lying weapons, and our foreign voices. Of course we are outnumbered. Peneleus It was, who slew Coroebus, at the altar Sacred to Pallas. Ripheus fell, a man Most just of all the Trojans, most fair-minded. The gods thought otherwise. Hypanis, Dymas, Were slain by their own men, and Panthus’ goodness Was no protection, nor his priestly office. I call to witness Troy, her fires, her ashes, And the last agonies of all our people That in that hour I ran from no encounter With any Greek, and if the fates had been For me to fall in battle, there I earned it. The current swept me off, with two companions, One, Iphitus, too slow with age, the other, Pelias, limping from Ulysses’ wound. The noise kept calling us to Priam’s palace.

There might have been no fighting and no dying Through all the city, such a battle raged Here, from the ground to roof-top. At the threshold Waves of assault were breaking, and the Greeks Were climbing, rung by rung, along the ladders, Using one hand, the right one up and forward Over the battlements, the left one thrust In the protecting shield. And over their heads The Trojans pried up towers and planking, wrecking The building; gilded beams, the spoils of their fathers, Were ample weapons for the final moment. Some had the doorways blocked, others, behind them, Were ready with drawn swords. We had a moment When help seemed possible: new reinforcement Might yet relieve the palace. There was a secret entrance there, a passage All the way through the building, a postern gate, Where, while the kingdom stood, Andromache Would go, alone, or bring the little boy, Astyanax, to Hector’s father and mother. I climbed to the top of the roof, where the poor Trojans Were hurling down their unavailing darts. A tower stood on the very edge, a look-out Over all Troy, the ships and camp of the Greeks. This we attacked with steel, where the joints were weakest, And pried it up, and shoved it over. It crashed. A noisy ruin, over the hostile columns; But more kept coming up; the shower of stones And darts continued raining. Before the entrance, at the very threshold Stood Pyrrhus, flashing proudly in bronze light, Sleek as a serpent coming into the open, Fed on rank herbs, wintering under the ground, The old slough cast, the new skin shining, rolling His slippery length, reaching his neck to the sun, While the forked tongue darts from the mouth. Automedon Was with him, Periphas, Achilles’ driver, A giant of a man, and the host from Scyros, All closing in on the palace, and hurling flames. Among the foremost, Pyrrhus, swinging an axe, Burst through, wrenched the bronze doors out of their hinges, Smashed through the panelling, turned it into a window. The long halls came to view, the inner chambers Of Priam and the older kings; they see Armed warriors at the threshold. Within, it is all confusion, women wailing, Pitiful noise, groaning, and blows; the din Reaches the golden stars. The trembling mothers Wander, not knowing where, or find a spot To cling to; they would hold and kiss the doors. Pyrrhus comes on, aggressive as his father; No barrier holds him back; the gate is battered As the ram smashes at it; the doors come down. Force finds a way: the Greeks pour in, they slaughter The first ones in their path; they fill the courtyard With soldiery, wilder than any river In flood over the banks and dikes and ploughland. I saw them, Pyrrhus, going mad with murder, And Atreus’ twin sons, and Hecuba I saw, and all her daughters, and poor old Priam, His blood polluting the altars he had hallowed. The fifty marriage-chambers, the proud hope Of an everlasting line, are violated, The doors with the golden spoil are turned to splinters. Whatever the fire has spared the Greeks take over.

You would ask, perhaps, about the fate of Priam? When he saw the city fall, and the doors of the palace Ripped from the hinge, and the enemy pouring in, Old as he was, he went and found his armor, Unused so many years, and his old shoulders Shook as he put it on. He took his sword, A useless weapon, and, doomed to die, went rushing Into the midst of the foe. There was an altar In the open court-yard, shaded by a laurel Whose shadow darkened the household gods, and here Hecuba and her daughters had come thronging, Like doves by a black storm driven. They were praying Here at the altar, and clinging to the gods, Whatever image was left. And the queen saw Priam In the arms of his youth. ‘O my unhappy husband,’ She cried, ‘have you gone mad, to dress yourself For battle, so? It is all no use; the time Needs better help than yours; not even my Hector Could help us now. Come to me, come to the altar; It will protect us, or at least will let us Die all together.’ And she drew him to her.

Just then through darts, through weapons, came Polites, A son of Priam, fleeing deadly Pyrrhus, Down the long colonnades and empty hallways, Wounded, and Pyrrhus after him, vicious, eager For the last spear-thrust, and he drives it home; Polites falls, and his life goes out with his blood, Father and mother watching. And then Priam, In the very grip of death, cried out in anger:-- ‘If there is any righteousness in heaven, To care about such wickedness, the gods Will have the right reward and thanks to offer A man like this, who has made a father witness The murder of his son, the worst pollution! You claim to be Achilles’ son. You liar! Achilles had some reverence, respected A suppliant’s right and trust; he gave me back My Hector’s lifeless body for the tomb, And let me go to my kingdom.’ With the word He flung a feeble spear, which dropped, deflected From the rough bronze; it had hung there for a moment. And Pyrrhus sneered: ‘So, go and tell my father The latest news: do not forget to mention, Old messenger-boy, my villainous behavior, And what a bastard Pyrrhus is. Now die!’ He dragged the old man, trembling, to the altar, Slipping in his son’s blood; he grabbed his hair With the left hand, and the right drove home the sword Deep in the side, to the hilt. And so fell Priam, Who had seen Troy burn and her walls come down, once monarch, Proud ruler over the peoples and lands of Asia. He lies, a nameless body, on the shore, Dismembered, huge, the head torn from the shoulders.

Grim horror, then, came home to me. I saw My father when I saw the king, the life Going out with the cruel wound. I saw Creusa Forsaken, my abandoned home, Iulus, My little son. I looked around. They all Had gone, exhausted, flung down from the walls, Or dead in the fire, and I was left alone.

And I saw Helen, hiding, of all places, At Vesta’s shrine, and clinging there in silence, But the bright flames lit the scene. That hated woman, Fearing both Trojan anger and Greek vengeance, A common fury to both lands, was crouching Beside the altar. Anger flared up in me For punishment and vengeance. Should she then, I thought, come home to Sparta safe, uninjured Walk through Mycenae, a triumphant queen? See husband, home, parents and children, tended By Trojan slave-girls? This, with Priam fallen And Troy burnt down, and the shore soaked in blood? Never! No memorable name, I knew, Was won by punishing women, yet, for me, There might be praise for the just abolition Of this unholiness, and satisfaction In vengeance for the ashes of my people. All this I may have said aloud, in frenzy, As I rushed on, when to my sight there came A vision of my lovely mother, radiant In the dark night, a goddess manifest, As tall and fair as when she walks in heaven. She caught me by the hand and stopped me:--‘Son, What sorrow rouses this relentless anger, This violence? Do you care for me no longer? Consider others first, your aged father, Anchises; is your wife Creusa living? Where is Iulus? Greeks are all around them, Only my love between them, fire and sword. It is not for you to blame the Spartan woman, Daughter of Tyndareus, or even Paris. The gods are the ones, the high gods are relentless It is they who bring this power down, who topple Troy from the high foundation. Look! Your vision Is mortal dull, I will take the cloud away,-- Fear not a mother’s counsel. Where you see Rock torn from rock, and smoke and dust in billows, Neptune is working, plying the trident, prying The walls from their foundations. And see Juno, Fiercest of all, holding the Scaean gates, Girt with the steel, and calling from the ships Implacable companions. On the towers,-- Turn, and be certain--Pallas takes command Gleaming with Gorgon and storm-cloud. Even Jove, Our father, nerves the Greeks with fire and spirit, And spurs the other gods against the Trojans. Hasten the flight, my son; no other labor Waits for accomplishment. I promise safety Until you reach your father’s house.’ She had spoken And vanished in the thickening night of shadows. Dread shapes come into vision, mighty powers, Great gods at war with Troy, which, so it seemed, Was sinking as I watched, with the same feeling As when on mountain-tops you see the loggers Hacking an ash-tree down, and it always threatens To topple, nodding a little, and the leaves Trembling when no wind stirs, and dies of its wounds With one long loud last groan, and dirt from the ridges Heaves up as it goes down with roots in air. Divinity my guide, I leave the roof-top, I pass unharmed through enemies and blazing, Weapons give place to me, and flames retire.

At last I reached the house, I found my father, The first one that I looked for. I meant to take him To the safety of the hills, but he was stubborn, Refusing longer life or barren exile, Since Troy was dead. ‘You have the strength,’ he told me, ‘You are young enough, take flight. For me, had heaven Wanted to save my life, they would have spared This home for me. We have seen enough destruction, More than enough, survived a captured city. Speak to me as a corpse laid out for burial, A quick farewell, and go. Death I shall find With my own hand; the enemy will pity, Or look for spoil. The loss of burial Is nothing at all. I have been living too long Hated by gods and useless, since the time Jove blasted me with lightning wind and fire.’ He would not move, however we wept, Creusa, Ascanius, all the house, insistent, pleading That he should not bring all to ruin with him. He would not move, he would not listen. Again I rush to arms, I pray for death; what else Was left to me? ‘Dear father, were you thinking I could abandon you, and go? what son Could bear a thought so monstrous? If the gods Want nothing to be left of so great a city, If you are bound, or pleased, to add us all To the wreck of Troy, the way is open for it-- Pyrrhus will soon be here; from the blood of Priam He comes; he slays the son before the father, The sire at the altar-stone; O my dear mother, Was it for this you saved me, brought me through The fire and sword, to see our enemies Here in the very house, and wife and son And father murdered in each other’s blood? Bring me my arms; the last light calls the conquered. Let me go back to the Greeks, renew the battle, We shall not all of us die unavenged.’

Sword at my side, I was on the point of going, Working the left arm into the shield. Creusa Clung to me on the threshold, held my feet, And made me see my little son:--‘Dear husband, If you are bent on dying, take us with you, But if you think there is any hope in fighting, And you should know, stay and defend the house! To whom are we abandoned, your father and son, And I, once called your wife?’ She filled the house With moaning outcry. And then something happened, A wonderful portent. Over Iulus’ head, Between our hands and faces, there appeared A blaze of gentle light; a tongue of flame, Harmless and innocent, was playing over The softness of his hair, around his temples. We were afraid, we did our best to quench it With our own hands, or water, but my father Raised joyous eyes to heaven, and prayed aloud:-- ‘Almighty Jupiter, if any prayer Of ours has power to move you, look upon us, Grant only this, if we have ever deserved it, Grant us a sign, and ratify the omen!’ He had hardly spoken, when thunder on the left Resounded, and a shooting star from heaven Drew a long trail of light across the shadows. We saw it cross above the house, and vanish In the woods of Ida, a wake of gleaming light Where it had sped, and a trail of sulphurous odor. This was a victory: my father rose In worship of the gods and the holy star, Crying: ‘I follow, son, wherever you lead; There is no delay, not now; Gods of my fathers, Preserve my house, my grandson; yours the omen, And Troy is in your keeping. O my son, I yield, I am ready to follow.’ But the fire Came louder over the walls, the flames rolled nearer Their burning tide. ‘Climb to my shoulders, father, It will be no burden, so we are together, Meeting a common danger or salvation. Iulus, take my hand; Creusa, follow A little way behind. Listen, you servants! You will find, when you leave the city, an old temple That once belonged to Ceres; it has been tended For many years with the worship of our fathers. There’s a little hill there, and a cypress tree; And that’s where we shall meet, one way or another. And one thing more: you, father, are to carry The holy objects and the gods of the household, My hands are foul with battle and blood, I could not Touch them without pollution.’

I bent down And over my neck and shoulders spread the cover Of a tawny lion-skin, took up my burden; Little Iulus held my hand, and trotted, As best he could, beside me; Creusa followed. We went on through the shadows. I had been Brave, so I thought, before, in the rain of weapons And the cloud of massing Greeks. But now I trembled At every breath of air, shook at a whisper, Fearful for both my burden and companion.

I was near the gates, and thinking we had made it, But there was a sound, the tramp of marching feet, And many of them, it seemed; my father, peering Through the thick gloom, cried out:--‘Son, they are coming! Flee, flee! I see their shields, their gleaming bronze.’ Something or other took my senses from me In that confusion. I turned aside from the path, I do not know what happened then. Creusa Was lost; she had missed the road, or halted, weary, For a brief rest. I do not know what happened, She was not seen again; I had not looked back, Nor even thought about her, till we came To Ceres’ hallowed home. The count was perfect, Only one missing there, the wife and mother. Whom did I not accuse, of gods and mortals, Then in my frenzy? What worse thing had happened In the city overthrown? I left Anchises, My son, my household gods, to my companions, In a hiding-place in the valley; and I went back Into the city again, wearing my armor, Ready, still one more time, for any danger. I found the walls again, the gate’s dark portals, I followed my own footsteps back, but terror, Terror and silence were all I found. I went On to my house. She might, just might, have gone there. Only the Greeks were there, and fire devouring The very pinnacles. I tried Priam’s palace; In the empty courtyards Phoenix and Ulysses Guarded the spoils piled up at Juno’s altar. They had Trojan treasure there, loot from the altars, Great drinking-bowls of gold, and stolen garments, And human beings. A line of boys and women Stood trembling there. I took the risk of crying through the shadows, Over and over, ‘Creusa!’ I kept calling, ‘Creusa!’ and ‘Creusa!’ but no answer. No sense, no limit, to my endless rushing All through the town; and then at last I saw her, Or thought I did, her shadow a little taller Than I remembered. And she spoke to me Beside myself with terror:--‘O dear husband, What good is all this frantic grief? The gods Have willed it so, Creusa may not join you Out of this city; Jupiter denies it. Long exile lies ahead, and vast sea-reaches The ships must furrow, till you come to land Far in the West; rich fields are there, and a river Flowing with gentle current; its name is Tiber, And happy days await you there, a kingdom, A royal wife. Banish the tears of sorrow Over Creusa lost. I shall never see The arrogant houses of the Myrmidons, Nor be a slave to any Grecian woman; I am a Dardan woman; I am the wife Of Venus’ son; it is Cybele who keeps me Here on these shores. And now farewell, and love Our son.’ I wept, there was more to say; she left me, Vanishing into empty air. Three times I reached out toward her, and three times her image Fled like the breath of a wind or a dream on wings. The night was over; I went back to my comrades.

I was surprised to find so many more Had joined us, ready for exile, pitiful people, Mothers, and men, and children, streaming in From everywhere, looking for me to lead them Wherever I would. Over the hills of Ida The morning-star was rising; in the town The Danaans held the gates, and help was hopeless. I gave it up, I lifted up my father, Together we sought the hills.

Book III

The Wanderings Of Aeneas

“After the gods’ decision to overthrow The Asian world, the innocent house of Priam, And the proud city, built by Neptune, smoked From the ruined ground, we were driven, different ways, By heaven’s auguries, seeking lands forsaken. Below Antandros, under Phrygian Ida, We built a fleet, and gathered men, uncertain Of either direction or settlement. The summer Had scarce begun, when at my father’s orders, We spread our sails. I wept as I left the harbor, The fields where Troy had been. I was borne, an exile Over the deep, with son, companions, household, And household gods.

Far off there lies a land, Sacred to Mars; the Thracians used to till it, Whose king was fierce Lycurgus; they were friendly, Of old, to Troy, when we were prosperous. Hither I sailed, and on its curving shore established A city site; Aeneadae, I called it. This I began, not knowing fate was adverse.

I was offering my mother proper homage, And other gods, to bless the new beginnings, I had a white bull ready as a victim To the king of the gods. There was a mound nearby, Bristling with myrtle and with cornel-bushes. I needed greenery to veil the altar, But as I struggled with the leafy branches, A fearful portent met my gaze. Black drops Dripped from the ends of the roots, black blood was falling On the torn ground, and a cold chill went through me. I tried again; the shoot resisted; blood Followed again. Troubled, I prayed to the Nymphs, To the father of the fields, to bless the vision, Remove the curse; and down on my knees I wrestled Once more against the stubborn ground, and heard A groan from under the hillock, and a voice crying: ‘Why mangle a poor wretch, Aeneas? Spare me, Here in the tomb, and save your hands pollution. You know me, I am Trojan-born, no stranger, This is familiar blood. Alas! Take flight, Leave this remorseless land; the curse of greed Lies heavy on it. I am Polydorus, Pierced by an iron harvest; out of my body Rise javelins and lances.’ I was speechless, Stunned, in my terror.

Priam, forever unfortunate, had sent This Polydorus on a secret mission, Once, to the king of Thrace, with gold for hiding When the king despaired of the siege and the city’s fortune. And when Troy fell, and Fortune failed, the Thracian Took Agamemnon’s side, broke off his duty, Slew Polydorus, took the gold. There is nothing To which men are not driven by that hunger. Once over my fear, I summoned all the leaders, My father, too; I told them of the portent, Asked for their counsel. All agreed, a land So stained with violence and violation Was not for us to dwell in. Southward ho! For Polydorus we made restoration With funeral rites anew; earth rose again Above his outraged mound; dark fillets made The altar sorrowful, and cypress boughs, And the Trojan women loosed their hair in mourning. We offered milk in foaming bowls, and blood Warm from the victims, so to rest the spirit, And cry aloud the voice of valediction.

Then, when we trust the sea again, and the wind Calls with a gentle whisper, we crowd the shores, Launch ship again, leave port, the lands and cities Fade out of sight once more.

There is an island In the middle of the sea; the Nereids’ mother And Neptune hold it sacred. It used to wander By various coasts and shores, until Apollo, In grateful memory, bound it fast, unmoving, Unfearful of winds, between two other islands Called Myconos and Gyaros. I sailed there; Our band was weary, and the calmest harbor Gave us safe haven. This was Apollo’s city; We worshipped it on landing. And their king, Priest of Apollo also, came to meet us, His temples bound with holy fillets, and laurel. His name was Anius; he knew Anchises As an old friend, and gave us joyful welcome.

Apollo’s temple was built of ancient rock, And there I prayed: ‘Grant us a home, Apollo, Give walls to weary men, a race, a city That will abide; preserve Troy’s other fortress, The remnant left by the Greeks and hard Achilles. Whom do we follow? where are we bidden to go To find our settlement? An omen, father!’

I had scarcely spoken, when suddenly all things trembled, The doors, and the laurel, and the whole mountain moved, And the shrine was opened, and a rumbling sound Was heard. We knelt, most humbly; and a voice Came to our ears: ‘The land which brought you forth, Men of endurance, will receive you home. Seek out your ancient mother. There your house Will rule above all lands, your children’s children, For countless generations.’ Apollo spoke, And we were joyful and confused, together: What walls were those, calling the wanderers home? My father, pondering history, made answer: ‘Hear, leaders; learn your hopes. There is a land Called Crete, an island in the midst of the sea, The cradle of our race; it has a mountain, Ida, like ours, a hundred mighty cities, Abounding wealth; if I recall correctly, Teucer, our greatest father, came from there To the Rhoetean shores to found his kingdom. Ilium was nothing then, the towers of Troy Undreamed of; men lived in the lowly valleys. And Cybele, the Great Mother, came from Crete With her clashing cymbals, and her grove of Ida Was named from that original; the silence Of her mysterious rites, the harnessed lions Before her chariot wheels, all testify To Cretan legend. Come, then, let us follow Where the gods lead, and seek the Cretan kingdom. It is not far; with Jupiter to favor, Three days will see us there.’ With prayer, he made Most solemn sacrifice, a bull to Neptune, One to Apollo, to Winter a black heifer, A white one for fair winds.

The story ran That no one lived in Crete, Idomeneus Having left his father’s kingdom, that the houses Were empty now, dwellings vacated for us. We sailed from Delos, flying over the water Past Naxos, on whose heights the Bacchae revel, Past green Donysa, snowy Paros, skimming The passages between the sea-sown islands. No crew would yield to another; there is shouting, And the cheer goes up, ‘To Crete, and the land of our fathers!’ A stern wind follows, and we reach the land. I am glad to be there; I lay out the walls For the chosen city, name it Pergamea, And the people are happy. _Love your hearths_, I told them, _Build high the citadel_. The ships were steadied On the dry beach, the young were busy ploughing, Or planning marriage, and I was giving laws, Assigning homes. But the weather turned, the sky Grew sick, and from the tainted heaven came Pestilence and pollution, a deadly year For people and harvest. Those who were not dying Dragged weary bodies around; the Dog-Star scorched The fields to barrenness; grass withered, corn Refused to ripen. ‘Over the sea again!’ My father said, ‘let us return to Delos, Consult the oracle, implore Apollo To show us kindliness; what end awaits Our weary destiny, where does he bid us turn For help in trouble?’

Sleep held all creatures over the earth at rest; In my own darkness visions came, the sacred Images of the household gods I had carried With me from Troy, out of the burning city. I saw them plain, in the flood of light, where the moon Streamed through the dormers. And they eased me, saying: ‘Apollo would tell you this, if you went over The sea again to Delos; from him we come To you, with willing spirit. We came with you From the burnt city, we have followed still The swollen sea in the ships; in time to come We shall raise your sons to heaven, and dominion Shall crown their city. Prepare to build them walls, Great homes for greatness; do not flee the labor, The long, long toil of flight. Crete, says Apollo, Is not the place. There is a land in the West, Called by the Greeks, Hesperia: anciency And might in arms and wealth enrich its soil. The Oenotrians lived there once; now, rumor has it, A younger race has called it Italy After the name of a leader, Italus. Dardanus came from there, our ancestor, As Iasius was. There is our dwelling-place. Be happy, then, waken, and tell Anchises Our certain message: seek the land in the West. Crete is forbidden country.’

The vision shook me, and the voice of the gods; (It was not a dream, exactly; I seemed to know them, Their features, the veiled hair, the living presence.) I woke in a sweat, held out my hands to heaven, And poured the pure libation for the altar, Then, gladly, to Anchises. He acknowledged His own mistake, a natural confusion, Our stock was double, of course; no need of saying We had more ancestors than one. ‘Cassandra,’ Anchises said, ‘alone, now I remember, Foretold this fate; it seemed she was always talking Of a land in the West, and Italian kingdoms, always. But who would ever have thought that any Trojans Would reach the shores in the West? Or, for that matter, Who ever believed Cassandra? Let us yield To the warning of Apollo, and at his bidding Seek better fortunes.’ So we obeyed him, Leaving this place, where a few stayed, and sailing The hollow keels over the mighty ocean.

We were in deep water, and the land no longer Was visible, sky and ocean everywhere. A cloud, black-blue, loomed overhead, with night And tempest in it, and the water roughened In shadow; winds piled up the sea, the billows Rose higher; we were scattered in the surges. Clouds took away the daylight, and the night Was dark and wet in the sky, with lightning flashing. We wandered, off our course, in the dark of ocean, And our pilot, Palinurus, swore he could not Tell day from night, nor the way among the waters. For three lost days, three starless nights, we rode it, Saw land on the fourth, mountains and smoke arising. The sails came down, we bent to the oars; the sailors Made the foam fly, sweeping the dark blue water. I was saved from the waves; the Strophades received me, (The word means Turning-point in the Greek language), Ionian islands where the dire Celaeno And other Harpies live, since Phineus’ house Was closed to them, and they feared their former tables. No fiercer plague of the gods’ anger ever Rose out of hell, girls with the look of birds, Their bellies fouled, incontinent, their hands Like talons, and their faces pale with hunger. We sailed into the harbor, happy to see Good herds of cattle grazing over the grass And goats, unshepherded. We cut them down And made our prayer and offering to Jove, Set trestles on the curving shore for feasting. Down from the mountains with a fearful rush And a sound of wings like metal came the Harpies, To seize our banquet, smearing dirtiness Over it all, with a hideous kind of screaming And a stinking smell. We found a secret hollow Enclosed by trees, under a ledge of rock, Where shade played over; there we moved the tables And lit the fire again; the noisy Harpies Came out of somewhere, sky, or rock, and harried The feast again, the filthy talons grabbing, The taint all through the air. _Take arms_, I ordered, _We have to fight them_. And my comrades, hiding Their shields in the grass, lay with their swords beside them, And when the birds swooped screaming, and Misenus, Sounded the trumpet-signal, they rose to charge them, A curious kind of battle, men with sword-blades Against the winged obscenities of ocean. Their feathers felt no blow, their backs no wound, They rose to the sky as rapidly as ever, Leaving the souvenirs of their foul traces Over the ruined feast. And one, Celaeno, Perched on a lofty rock, squawked out a warning:-- ‘Is it war you want, for slaughtered goats and bullocks, Is it war you bring, you sons of liars, driving The innocent Harpies from their father’s kingdom? Take notice, then, and let my words forever Stick in your hearts; what Jove has told Apollo, Apollo told me, and I, the greatest fury, Shove down your throats; it is Italy you are after, And the winds will help you, Italy and her harbors You will reach, all right; but you will not wall the city Till, for the wrong you have done us, deadly hunger Will make you gnaw and crunch your very tables!’ She flew back to the forest. My companions Were chilled with sudden fear; their spirit wavered, They call on me, to beg for peace, not now With arms, but vows and praying, filthy birds Or ill-foreboding goddesses, no matter. Anchises prayed with outstretched hands, appeasing The mighty gods with sacrifice:--‘Be gracious, Great gods, ward off the threats, spare the devoted!’ He bade us tear the cable from the shore, Shake loose the sails. And a wind sprang up behind us, Driving us northward; we passed many islands, Zacynthus, wooded, Dulichium, and Same, The cliffs of Neritus, Laertes’ kingdom, With a curse as we went by for Ithaca, Land of Ulysses. Soon Leucate’s headland Came into view, a dreadful place for sailors, Where Apollo had a shrine. We were very weary As we drew near the little town; the anchor Was thrown from the prow, the sterns pulled up on the beaches.

This was unhoped-for land; we offered Jove Our purifying rites, and had the altars Burning with sacrifice. We thronged the shore With games of Ilium. Naked, oiled for wrestling, The young held bouts, glad that so many islands Held by the Greeks, were safely passed. A year Went by, and icy winter roughened the waves With gales from the north. A shield of hollow bronze, Borne once by Abas, I fastened to the door-posts, And set a verse below it: _Aeneas won These arms from the Greek victors._ I gave the order To man the thwarts and leave this harbor; all Obeyed, swept oars in rivalry. We left Phaeacia’s airy heights, coasting Epirus, Drawn to Buthrotum, a Chaonian harbor.

And here we met strange news, that Helenus, The son of Priam, was ruling Grecian cities, Having won the wife of Pyrrhus and his crown, And that Andromache once more had married A lord of her own race. Amazed, I burn With a strange longing to seek out that hero, To learn his great adventures. It so happened, Just as I left the landing, that was the day Andromache, in a grove before the city, By the waters of a river that resembled The Simois at home, was offering homage, Her annual mourning-gift to Hector’s ashes, Calling his ghost to the place which she had hallowed With double altars, a green and empty tomb. I found her weeping there, and she was startled At the sight of me, and Trojan arms, a shock Too great to bear: she was rigid for a moment, And then lost consciousness, and a long time later Managed to speak: ‘Is it real, then, goddess-born? What are you, living messenger or phantom, Mortal or ghost? If the dear light has left you, Tell me where Hector is.’ I was moved, so deeply I found it hard to answer to her tears And through my own, but I did say a little:-- ‘I am alive; I seem to keep on living Through all extremes of trouble; do not doubt me, I am no apparition. And what has happened To you, dear wife of Hector? Could any gain Atone for such a loss? Has fortune tried To even matters at all? Does Pyrrhus still Presume on you as husband?’ With lowered gaze And quiet voice she answered:--‘Happy the maiden Slain at the foeman’s tomb, at the foot of the walls; Happy the daughter of Priam, who never knew The drawing of the lots, nor came to the bed Of a conqueror, his captive. After the fire I travelled different seas, endured the pride Achilles filled his son with, bore him children In bondage, till he tired of me and left me For Leda’s daughter and a Spartan marriage. He passed me on to Helenus, fair enough, Slave-woman to slave-man; but then Orestes, Inflamed with passion for his stolen bride, And maddened by the Furies of his vengeance, Caught Pyrrhus off-guard, and slew him at the altar In his ancestral home. And Pyrrhus dying, Part of the kingdom came to Helenus, Who named the fields Chaonian, the land Chaonia, after a man from Troy, And filled the heights, as best he could, with buildings To look like those we knew. But what of yourself? What winds, what fate, have brought you here, or was it Some god? did you know you were on our coast? How is The boy Ascanius, living still, whom Troy Might have--does he ever think about his mother? Does he want to be a hero, a manly spirit, Such as his father was, and his uncle Hector?’ She was in tears again, when the son of Priam, Helenus, with an escort, came from the city, Happy to recognize us, bringing us in With tears and greeting mingled. I went on, Seeing a little Troy, low walls that copied The old majestic ramparts, a tiny river In a dry bed, trying to be the Xanthus, I found the Scaean gates, to hold and cling to. My Trojans, too, were fond of the friendly town, Whose king received them in wide halls; libations Were poured to the gods, and feasts set on gold dishes.

Day after day went by, and the winds were calling And the sails filling with a good south-wester. I put my questions to the king and prophet: ‘O son of Troy, the god’s interpreter, Familiar with the tripod and the laurel Of great Apollo, versed in stars and omens, Bird-song and flying wing, be gracious to me, Tell me,--for Heaven has prophesied a journey Without mischance, and all the gods have sent me The counsel of their oracles, to follow Italy and a far-off country; one, But one, Celaeno, prophesied misfortune, Wrath and revolting hunger,--tell me, prophet, What dangers first to avoid, what presence follow To overcome disaster?’

Bullocks slain With proper covenant, and the chaplets loosened, He led me to the temple of Apollo, The very gates, where the god’s presence awed me, And where he spoke, with eloquent inspiration:-- ‘O goddess-born, the journey over the sea Holds a clear sanction for you, under Jove, Who draws the lots and turns the wheel of Fate. I will tell you some few things, not all, that safely You may go through friendly waters, and in time Come to Ausonian harborage; the rest Helenus does not know, or, if he did, Juno would stop his speaking. First of all, Italy, which you think is near, too fondly Ready to enter her nearest port, is distant, Divided from you by a pathless journey And longer lands between. The oar must bend In the Sicilian ocean, and the ships Sail on a farther coast, beyond the lakes Of an infernal world, beyond the isles Where dwells Aeaean Circe, not till then Can the built city rise on friendly ground. Keep in the mind the sign I give you now: One day, when you are anxious and alone At the wave of a hidden river, you will find Under the oaks on the shore, a sow, a white one, Immense, with a new-born litter, thirty young At the old one’s udders; that will be the place, The site of the city, the certain rest from labor. And do not fear the eating of the tables, The fates will find a way, Apollo answer. Avoid this coast of Italy, the lands Just westward of our own; behind those walls Dwell evil Greeks, Narycian Locri, soldiers Of the Cretan king, Idomeneus; the plains Are full of them; a Meliboean captain Governs Petelia, a tiny town Relying on her fortress! Philoctetes Commands her walls. And furthermore, remember, Even when the ships have crossed the sea and anchored, When the altars stand on the shore, and the vows are paid, Keep the hair veiled, and the robe of crimson drawn Across the eyes, so that no hostile visage May interfere, to gaze on the holy fire Or spoil the sacred omens. This rite observe Through all the generations; keep it holy. From that first landing, when the wind brings you down To Sicily’s coast, and narrow Pelorus widens The waters of her strait, keep to the left, Land on the left, and water on the left, The long way round; the right is dangerous. Avoid it. There’s a story that this land Once broke apart--(time brings so many changes)-- By some immense convulsion, though the lands Had been one country once. But now between them The sea comes in, and now the waters bound Italian coast, Sicilian coast; the tide Washes on severed shores, their fields, their cities. Scylla keeps guard on the right; on the left Charybdis, The unappeasable; from the deep gulf she sucks The great waves down, three times; three times she belches Them high up into the air, and sprays the stars. Scylla is held in a cave, a den of darkness, From where she thrusts her huge jaws out, and draws Ships to her jagged rocks. She looks like a girl Fair-breasted to the waist, from there, all monster, Shapeless, with dolphins’ tails, and a wolf’s belly. Better to go the long way round, make turning Beyond Pachynus, than to catch one glimpse Of Scylla the misshapen, in her cavern, And the rocks resounding with the dark-blue sea-hounds. And one thing more than any, goddess-born, I tell you over and over: pray to Juno, Give Juno vows and gifts and overcome her With everlasting worship. So you will come Past Sicily and reach Italian beaches. You will come to a town called Cumae, haunted lakes, And a forest called Avernus, where the leaves Rustle and stir in the great woods, and there You will find a priestess, in her wildness singing Prophetic verses under the stones, and keeping Symbols and signs on leaves. She files and stores them In the depth of the cave; there they remain unmoving, Keeping their order, but if a light wind stirs At the turn of a hinge, and the door’s draft disturbs them, The priestess never cares to catch them fluttering Around the halls of rock, put them in order, Or give them rearrangement. Men who have come there For guidance leave uncounselled, and they hate The Sibyl’s dwelling. Let no loss of time, However comrades chide and chafe, however The wind’s voice calls the sail, postpone the visit To this great priestess; plead with her to tell you With her own lips the song of the oracles. She will predict the wars to come, the nations Of Italy, the toils to face, or flee from; Meet her with reverence, and she, propitious, Will grant a happy course. My voice can tell you No more than this. Farewell; raise Troy to heaven.’

After the friendly counsel, other gifts Were sent to our ships, carved ivory, and gold, And heavy silver, cauldrons from Dodona, A triple breastplate linked with gold, a helmet Shining with crested plume, the arms of Pyrrhus. My father, too, has gifts; horses and guides Are added, and sailing-men, and arms for my comrades. Anchises bade the fleet prepare; the wind Was rising, why delay? But Helenus Spoke to Anchises, in compliment and honor:-- ‘Anchises, worthy of Venus’ couch, and the blessing Of other gods, twice saved from Trojan ruins, Yonder behold Ausonia! Near, and far, It lies, Apollo’s offering; sail westward. Farewell, made blest by a son’s goodness. I Am a nuisance with my talking.’

And his queen, Sad at the final parting, was bringing gifts, Robes woven with a golden thread, a Trojan Scarf for Ascanius, all courteous honor Given with these:--‘Take them, my child; these are The work of my own hands, memorials Of Hector’s wife Andromache, and her love. Receive these farewell gifts; they are for one Who brings my own son back to me; your hands, Your face, your eyes, remind me of him so,-- He would be just your age.’

I, also, wept, As I spoke my words of parting: ‘Now farewell; Your lot is finished, and your rest is won, No ocean fields to plough, no fleeing fields To follow, you have your Xanthus and your Troy, Built by your hands, and blest by happier omens, Far from the path of the Greeks. But we are called From fate to fate; if ever I enter Tiber And Tiber’s neighboring lands, if ever I see The walls vouchsafed my people, I pray these shores, Italy and Epirus, shall be one, The life of Troy restored, with friendly towns And allied people. A common origin, A common fall, was ours. Let us remember, And our children keep the faith.’

Over the sea we rode, the shortest run To Italy, past the Ceraunian rocks. The sun went down; the hills were dark with shadow. The oars assigned, we drew in to the land For a little welcome rest; sleep overcame us, But it was not yet midnight when our pilot Sprang from his blanket, studying the winds, Alert and listening, noting the stars Wheeling the silent heaven, the twin Oxen, Arcturus and the rainy Kids. All calm, He saw, and roused us; camp was broken; the sail Spread to the rushing breeze, and as day reddened And the stars faded, we saw a coast, low-lying, And made out hills. ‘Italy!’, cried Achates, ‘Italy!’ all the happy sailors shouted. Anchises wreathed a royal wine-bowl, stood On the high stern, calling:--‘Gods of earth and ocean And wind and storm, help us along, propitious With favoring breath!’ And the breeze sprang up, and freshened; We saw a harbor open, and a temple Shone on Minerva’s headland. The sails came down, We headed toward the land. Like the curve of a bow The port turned in from the Eastern waves; its cliffs Foamed with the salty spray, and towering rocks Came down to the sea, on both sides, double walls, And the temple fled the shore. Here, our first omen, I saw four horses grazing, white as snow, And father Anchises cried:--‘It is war you bring us, Welcoming land, horses are armed for war, It is war these herds portend. But there is hope Of peace as well. Horses will bend to the yoke And bear the bridle tamely.’ Then we worshipped The holy power of Pallas, first to hear us, Kept our heads veiled before the solemn altar, And following Helenus’ injunction, offered Our deepest prayer to Juno.

And sailed on, With some misgiving, past the homes of Greeks; Saw, next, a bay, Tarentum, and a town That rumor said was Hercules’; against it, The towers of Caulon rose, and Scylaceum, Most dangerous to ships, and a temple of Juno. Far off, Sicilian Etna rose from the waves, And we heard the loud sea roar, and the rocks resounding, And voices broken on the coast; the shoals Leaped at us, and the tide boiled sand. My father Cried in alarm:--‘This must be that Charybdis Helenus warned us of. Rise to the oars, O comrades, pull from the danger!’ They responded As they did, always, Palinurus swinging The prow to the waves on the left, and all our effort Strained to the left, with oars and sail. One moment We were in the clouds, the next in the gulf of Hell; Three times the hollow rocks and reefs roared at us, Three times we saw spray shower the very stars, And the wind went down at sunset; we were weary, Drifting, in ignorance, to the Cyclops shores.

There is a harbor, safe enough from wind, But Etna thunders near it, crashing and roaring, Throwing black clouds up to the sky, and smoking With swirling pitchy color, and white-hot ashes, With balls of flame puffed to the stars, and boulders, The mountain’s guts, belched out, or molten rock Boiling below the ground, roaring above it. The story goes that Enceladus, a giant, Struck by a bolt of lightning, lies here buried Beneath all Etna’s weight, with the flames pouring Through the broken furnace-flues; he shifts his body, Every so often, to rest his weariness, And then all Sicily seems to moan and tremble And fill the sky with smoke. We spent the night here, Hiding in woods, enduring monstrous portents, Unable to learn the cause. There were no stars, No light or fire in the sky; the dead of the night, The thick of the cloud, obscured the moon.

And day Arrived, at last, and the shadows left the heaven, And a man came out of the woods, a sorry figure, In hunger’s final stages, reaching toward us His outstretched hands. We looked again. His beard Unshorn, his rags pinned up with thorns, and dirty, He was, beyond all doubt of it, a Greek, And one of those who had been at Troy in the fighting. He saw, far off, the Trojan dress and armor, Stopped short, for a moment, almost started back In panic, then, with a wild rush, came on, Pleading and crying:--‘By the stars I beg you, By the gods above, the air we breathe, ah Trojans, Take me away from here, carry me off To any land whatever; that will be plenty. I know I am one of the Greeks, I know I sailed With them, I warred against the gods of Ilium, I admit all that; drown me for evil-doing, Cut me to pieces, scatter me over the waves. Kill me. If I must die, it will be a pleasure To perish at the hands of men.’ He held Our knees and clung there, grovelling before us. We urged him tell his story, his race, his fortune. My father gave him his hand, a pledge of safety, And his fear died down a little.

‘I come,’ he said, ‘From Ithaca, a companion of Ulysses; My name is Achaemenides; my father, His name was Adamastus, was a poor man, And that was why I came to Troy. My comrades Left me behind here, in their terrible hurry, To leave these cruel thresholds. The Cyclops live here In a dark cave, a house of gore, and banquets Soaking with blood. It is dark inside there, monstrous. He hits the stars with his head--Dear gods, abolish This creature from the world!--he is not easy To look at; he is terrible to talk to. His food is the flesh of men, his drink their blood. I saw him once myself, with two of our men In that huge fist of his; he lay on his back In the midst of the cave, and smashed them on a rock, And the whole place swam with blood; I watched him chew them The limbs with black clots dripping, the muscles, warm, Quivering as he bit them. But we got him! Ulysses did not stand for this; he kept His wits about him, never mind the danger. The giant was gorged with food, and drunk, and lolling With sagging neck, sprawling all over the cavern Belching and drooling blood-clots, bits of flesh, And wine all mixed together. And we stood Around him, praying, and drew lots,--we had found a stake And sharpened it at the end,--and so we bored His big eye out; it glowered under his forehead The size of a shield, or a sun. So we got vengeance For the souls of our companions. But flee, I tell you, Get out of here, poor wretches, cut the cables, Forsake this shore. There are a hundred others As big as he is, and just like him, keeping Sheep in the caves of the rocks, a hundred others Wander around this coast and these high mountains. I have managed for three months, hiding in forests, In the caves of beasts, on a rocky look-out, watching The Cyclops, horribly frightened at their cries And the tramp of their feet. I have lived on plants and berries, Gnawed roots and bark. I saw this fleet come in, And I did not care; whatever it was, I gladly Gave myself up. At least, I have escaped them. Whatever death you give is more than welcome.’ And as he finished, we saw that very giant, The shepherd Polyphemus, looming huge Over his tiny flock; he was trying to find His way to the shore he knew, a shapeless monster, Lumbering, clumping, blind in the dark, with a stumble, And the step held up with trunk of a pine. No comfort For him, except in the sheep. He reached the sand, Wading into the sea, and scooped up water To wash the ooze of blood from the socket’s hollow, Grinding his teeth against the pain, and roaring, And striding into the water, but even so The waves were hardly up to his sides. We fled Taking on board our Greek; we cut the cable, Strained every nerve at the oars. He heard, and struggled Toward the splash of the wave, but of course he could not catch us, And then he howled in a rage, and the sea was frightened, Italy deeply shaken, and all Etna Rumbled in echoing terror in her caverns. Out of the woods and the thicket of the mountains The Cyclops came, the others, toward the harbor, Along the coast-line. We could see them standing In impotent anger, the wild eye-ball glaring, A grim assortment, brothers, tall as mountains Where oak and cypress tower, in the groves Of Jove or great Diana. In our speed And terror, we sailed anywhere, forgetting What Helenus had said: Scylla, Charybdis, Were nothing to us then. But we remembered In time, and a north wind came from strait Pelorus, We passed Pantagia, and the harbor-mouth Set in the living-rock, Thapsus, low-lying, The bay called Megara: all these were places That Achaemenides knew well, recalling The scenes of former wanderings with Ulysses.

An island faces the Sicanian bay Against Plemyrium, washed by waves; this island Has an old name, Ortygia. The story Tells of a river, Alpheus, come from Elis, By a secret channel undersea, to join The Arethusan fountains, mingling here With the Sicilian waters. Here we worshipped The land’s great gods; went on, to pass Helorus, A rich and marshy land; and then Pachynus Where the cliffs rose sharp and high; and Camerina, With firm foundation; the Geloan plains, And Gela, named for a river; then Acragas, A towering town, high-walled, and sometime famous For its breed of horses; the city of palms, Selinus; The shoals of Lilybaeum, where the rocks Are a hidden danger; so at last we came To Drepanum, a harbor and a shoreline That I could not rejoice in, a survivor Of all those storms of the sea. For here I lost My comforter in all my care and trouble, My father Anchises. All the storms and perils, All of the weariness endured, seemed nothing Compared with this disaster; and I had No warning of it; neither Helenus, Though he foretold much trouble, nor Celaeno, That evil harpy, prophesied this sorrow. There was nothing more to bear; the long roads ended At that unhappy goal; and when I left there, Some god or other brought me to your shores.’

And so he told the story, a lonely man To eager listeners, destiny and voyage, And made an end of it here, ceased, and was quiet.

Book IV

Aeneas And Dido

But the queen finds no rest. Deep in her veins The wound is fed; she burns with hidden fire. His manhood, and the glory of his race Are an obsession with her, like his voice, Gesture and countenance. On the next morning, After a restless night, she sought her sister: “I am troubled, Anna, doubtful, terrified, Or am I dreaming? What new guest is this Come to our shores? How well he talks, how brave He seems in heart and action! I suppose It must be true; he does come from the gods. Fear proves a bastard spirit. He has been So buffeted by fate. What endless wars He told of! Sister, I must tell you something: Were not my mind made up, once and for all, Never again to marry, having been So lost when Sychaeus left me for the grave, Slain by my murderous brother at the altar, Were I not sick forever of the torch And bridal bed, here is the only man Who has moved my spirit, shaken my weak will. I might have yielded to him. I recognize The marks of an old fire. But I pray, rather, That earth engulf me, lightning strike me down To the pale shades and everlasting night Before I break the laws of decency. My love has gone with Sychaeus; let him keep it, Keep it with him forever in the grave.” She ended with a burst of tears. “Dear sister, Dearer than life,” Anna replied, “why must you Grieve all your youth away in loneliness, Not know sweet children, or the joys of love? Is that what dust demands, and buried shadows? So be it. You have kept your resolution From Tyre to Libya, proved it by denying Iarbas and a thousand other suitors From Africa’s rich kingdoms. Think a little. Whose lands are these you settle in? Getulians, Invincible in war, the wild Numidians, Unfriendly Syrtes, ring us round, and a desert Barren with drought, and the Barcaean rangers. Why should I mention Tyre, and wars arising Out of Pygmalion’s threats? And you, my sister, Why should you fight against a pleasing passion? I think the gods have willed it so, and Juno Has helped to bring the Trojan ships to Carthage. What a great city, sister, what a kingdom This might become, rising on such a marriage! Carthage and Troy together in arms, what glory Might not be ours? Only invoke the blessing Of the great gods, make sacrifice, be lavish In welcome, keep them here while the fierce winter Rages at sea, and cloud and sky are stormy, And ships still wrecked and broken.”

So she fanned The flame of the burning heart; the doubtful mind Was given hope, and the sense of guilt was lessened. And first of all they go to shrine and altar Imploring peace; they sacrifice to Ceres, Giver of law, to Bacchus, to Apollo, And most of all to Juno, in whose keeping The bonds of marriage rest. In all her beauty Dido lifts up the goblet, pours libation Between the horns of a white heifer, slowly, Or, slowly, moves to the rich altars, noting The proper gifts to mark the day, or studies The sacrificial entrails for the omens. Alas, poor blind interpreters! What woman In love is helped by offerings or altars? Soft fire consumes the marrow-bones, the silent Wound grows, deep in the heart. Unhappy Dido burns, and wanders, burning, All up and down the city, the way a deer With a hunter’s careless arrow in her flank Ranges the uplands, with the shaft still clinging To the hurt side. She takes Aeneas with her All through the town, displays the wealth of Sidon, Buildings projected; she starts to speak, and falters, And at the end of the day renews the banquet, Is wild to hear the story, over and over, Hangs on each word, until the late moon, sinking, Sends them all home. The stars die out, but Dido Lies brooding in the empty hall, alone, Abandoned on a lonely couch. She hears him, Sees him, or sees and hears him in Iulus, Fondles the boy, as if that ruse might fool her, Deceived by his resemblance to his father. The towers no longer rise, the youth are slack In drill for arms, the cranes and derricks rusting, Walls halt halfway to heaven.

And Juno saw it, The queen held fast by this disease, this passion Which made her good name meaningless. In anger She rushed to Venus:--“Wonderful!--the trophies, The praise, you and that boy of yours are winning! Two gods outwit one woman--splendid, splendid! What glory for Olympus! I know you fear me, Fear Carthage, and suspect us. To what purpose? What good does all this do? Is there no limit? Would we not both be better off, to sanction A bond of peace forever, a formal marriage? You have your dearest wish; Dido is burning With love, infected to her very marrow. Let us--why not?--conspire to rule one people On equal terms; let her serve a Trojan husband; Let her yield her Tyrian people as her dowry.”

This, Venus knew, was spoken with a purpose, A guileful one, to turn Italian empire To Libyan shores: not without reservation She spoke in answer: “Who would be so foolish As to refuse such terms, preferring warfare, If only fortune follows that proposal? I do not know, I am more than a little troubled What fate permits: will Jupiter allow it, One city for the Tyrians and Trojans, This covenant, this mixture? You can fathom His mind, and ask him, being his wife. I follow Wherever you lead.” And royal Juno answered: “That I will tend to. Listen to me, and learn How to achieve the urgent need. They plan, Aeneas, and poor Dido, to go hunting When sunlight floods the world to-morrow morning. While the rush of the hunt is on, and the forest shaken With beaters and their nets, I will pour down Dark rain and hail, and make the whole sky rumble With thunder and threat. The company will scatter, Hidden or hiding in the night and shadow, And Dido and the Trojan come for shelter To the same cave. I will be there and join them In lasting wedlock; she will be his own, His bride, forever; this will be their marriage.” Venus assented, smiling, not ungracious-- The trick was in the open.

Dawn, rising, left the ocean, and the youth Come forth from all the gates, prepared for hunting, Nets, toils, wide spears, keen-scented coursing hounds, And Dido keeps them waiting; her own charger Stands bright in gold and crimson; the bit foams, The impatient head is tossed. At last she comes, With a great train attending, gold and crimson, Quiver of gold, and combs of gold, and mantle Crimson with golden buckle. A Trojan escort Attends her, with Iulus, and Aeneas Comes to her side, more lordly than Apollo Bright along Delos’ ridges in the springtime With laurel in his hair and golden weapons Shining across his shoulders. Equal radiance Is all around Aeneas, equal splendor.

They reach the mountain heights, the hiding-places Where no trail runs; wild goats from the rocks are started, Run down the ridges; elsewhere, in the open Deer cross the dusty plain, away from the mountains. The boy Ascanius, in the midst of the valley, Is glad he has so good a horse, rides, dashing Past one group or another: deer are cowards And wild goats tame; he prays for some excitement, A tawny lion coming down the mountain Or a great boar with foaming mouth.

The heaven Darkens, and thunder rolls, and rain and hail Come down in torrents. The hunt is all for shelter, Trojans and Tyrians and Ascanius dashing Wherever they can; the streams pour down the mountains. To the same cave go Dido and Aeneas, Where Juno, as a bridesmaid, gives the signal, And mountain nymphs wail high their incantations, First day of death, first cause of evil. Dido Is unconcerned with fame, with reputation, With how it seems to others. This is marriage For her, not hole-and-corner guilt; she covers Her folly with this name.

Rumor goes flying At once, through all the Libyan cities, Rumor Than whom no other evil was ever swifter. She thrives on motion and her own momentum; Tiny at first in fear, she swells, colossal In no time, walks on earth, but her head is hidden Among the clouds. Her mother, Earth, was angry, Once, at the gods, and out of spite produced her, The Titans’ youngest sister, swift of foot, Deadly of wing, a huge and terrible monster, With an eye below each feather in her body, A tongue, a mouth, for every eye, and ears Double that number; in the night she flies Above the earth, below the sky, in shadow Noisy and shrill; her eyes are never closed In slumber; and by day she perches, watching From tower or battlement, frightening great cities. She heralds truth, and clings to lies and falsehood, It is all the same to her. And now she was going Happy about her business, filling people With truth and lies: Aeneas, Trojan-born, Has come, she says, and Dido, lovely woman, Sees fit to mate with him, one way or another, And now the couple wanton out the winter, Heedless of ruling, prisoners of passion. They were dirty stories, but the goddess gave them To the common ear, then went to King Iarbas With words that fired the fuel of his anger.

This king was Ammon’s son, a child of rape Begotten on a nymph from Garamantia; He owned wide kingdoms, had a hundred altars Blazing with fires to Jove, eternal outposts In the gods’ honor; the ground was fat with blood, The temple portals blossoming with garlands. He heard the bitter stories, and went crazy, Before the presences of many altars Beseeching and imploring:--“Jove Almighty, To whom the Moorish race on colored couches Pours festive wine, do you see these things, or are we A pack of idiots, shaking at the lightning We think you brandish, when it is really only An aimless flash of light, and silly noises? Do you see these things? A woman, who used to wander Around my lands, who bought a little city, To whom we gave some ploughland and a contract, Disdains me as a husband, takes Aeneas To be her lord and master, in her kingdom, And now that second Paris, with his lackeys, Half-men, I call them, his chin tied up with ribbons, With millinery on his perfumed tresses, Takes over what he stole, and we keep bringing Gifts to your temples, we, devout believers Forsooth, in idle legend.”

And Jove heard him Making his prayer and clinging to the altars, And turned his eyes to Carthage and the lovers Forgetful of their better reputation. He summoned Mercury:--“Go forth, my son, Descend on wing and wind to Tyrian Carthage, Speak to the Trojan leader, loitering there Unheedful of the cities given by fate. Take him my orders through the rapid winds: It was not for this his lovely mother saved him Twice from Greek arms; she promised he would be A ruler, in a country loud with war, Pregnant with empire; he would sire a race From Teucer’s noble line; he would ordain Law for the world. If no such glory moves him, If his own fame and fortune count as nothing, Does he, a father, grudge his son the towers Of Rome to be? What is the fellow doing? With what ambition wasting time in Libya? Let him set sail. That’s all; convey the message.”

Before he ended, Mercury made ready To carry out the orders of his father; He strapped the golden sandals on, the pinions To bear him over sea and land, as swift As the breath of the wind; he took the wand, which summons Pale ghosts from Hell, or sends them there, denying Or giving sleep, unsealing dead men’s eyes, Useful in flight through wind and stormy cloud, And so came flying till he saw the summit And towering sides of Atlas, rugged giant With heaven on his neck, whose head and shoulders Are dark with fir, ringed with black cloud, and beaten With wind and rain, and laden with the whiteness Of falling snow, with rivers running over His agèd chin, and the rough beard ice-stiffened. Here first on level wing the god paused briefly, Poised, plummeted to ocean, like a bird That skims the water’s surface, flying low By shore and fishes’ rocky breeding-ground, So Mercury darted between earth and heaven To Libya’s sandy shore, cutting the wind From the home of Maia’s father. Soon as the winged sandals skim the rooftops, He sees Aeneas founding towers, building New homes for Tyrians; his sword is studded With yellow jasper; he wears across his shoulders A cloak of burning crimson, and golden threads Run through it, the royal gift of the rich queen. Mercury wastes no time:--“What are you doing, Forgetful of your kingdom and your fortunes, Building for Carthage? Woman-crazy fellow, The ruler of the gods, the great compeller Of heaven and earth, has sent me from Olympus With no more word than this: what are you doing, With what ambition wasting time in Libya? If your own fame and fortune count as nothing, Think of Ascanius at least, whose kingdom In Italy, whose Roman land, are waiting As promise justly due.” He spoke, and vanished Into thin air. Apalled, amazed, Aeneas Is stricken dumb; his hair stands up in terror, His voice sticks in his throat. He is more than eager To flee that pleasant land, awed by the warning Of the divine command. But how to do it? How get around that passionate queen? What opening Try first? His mind runs out in all directions, Shifting and veering. Finally, he has it, Or thinks he has: he calls his comrades to him, The leaders, bids them quietly prepare The fleet for voyage, meanwhile saying nothing About the new activity; since Dido Is unaware, has no idea that passion As strong as theirs is on the verge of breaking, He will see what he can do, find the right moment To let her know, all in good time. Rejoicing, The captains move to carry out the orders.

Who can deceive a woman in love? The queen Anticipates each move, is fearful even While everything is safe, foresees this cunning, And the same trouble-making goddess, Rumor, Tells her the fleet is being armed, made ready For voyaging. She rages through the city Like a woman mad, or drunk, the way the Maenads Go howling through the night-time on Cithaeron When Bacchus’ cymbals summon with their clashing. She waits no explanation from Aeneas; She is the first to speak: “And so, betrayer, You hoped to hide your wickedness, go sneaking Out of my land without a word? Our love Means nothing to you, our exchange of vows, And even the death of Dido could not hold you. The season is dead of winter, and you labor Over the fleet; the northern gales are nothing-- You must be cruel, must you not? Why, even, If ancient Troy remained, and you were seeking Not unknown homes and lands, but Troy again, Would you be venturing Troyward in this weather? I am the one you flee from: true? I beg you By my own tears, and your right hand--(I have nothing Else left my wretchedness)--by the beginnings Of marriage, wedlock, what we had, if ever I served you well, if anything of mine Was ever sweet to you, I beg you, pity A falling house; if there is room for pleading As late as this, I plead, put off that purpose. You are the reason I am hated; Libyans, Numidians, Tyrians, hate me; and my honor Is lost, and the fame I had, that almost brought me High as the stars, is gone. To whom, O guest-- I must not call you husband any longer-- To whom do you leave me? I am a dying woman; Why do I linger on? Until Pygmalion, My brother, brings destruction to this city? Until the prince Iarbas leads me captive? At least if there had been some hope of children Before your flight, a little Aeneas playing Around my courts, to bring you back, in feature At least, I would seem less taken and deserted.”

There was nothing he could say. Jove bade him keep Affection from his eyes, and grief in his heart With never a sign. At last, he managed something:-- “Never, O Queen, will I deny you merit Whatever you have strength to claim; I will not Regret remembering Dido, while I have Breath in my body, or consciousness of spirit. I have a point or two to make. I did not, Believe me, hope to hide my flight by cunning; I did not, ever, claim to be a husband, Made no such vows. If I had fate’s permission To live my life my way, to settle my troubles At my own will, I would be watching over The city of Troy, and caring for my people, Those whom the Greeks had spared, and Priam’s palace Would still be standing; for the vanquished people I would have built the town again. But now It is Italy I must seek, great Italy, Apollo orders, and his oracles Call me to Italy. There is my love, There is my country. If the towers of Carthage, The Libyan citadels, can please a woman Who came from Tyre, why must you grudge the Trojans Ausonian land? It is proper for us also To seek a foreign kingdom. I am warned Of this in dreams: when the earth is veiled in shadow And the fiery stars are burning, I see my father, Anchises, or his ghost, and I am frightened; I am troubled for the wrong I do my son, Cheating him out of his kingdom in the west, And lands that fate assigns him. And a herald, Jove’s messenger--I call them both to witness-- Has brought me, through the rush of air, his orders; I saw the god myself, in the full daylight, Enter these walls, I heard the words he brought me. Cease to inflame us both with your complainings; I follow Italy not because I want to.”

Out of the corner of her eye she watched him During the first of this, and her gaze was turning Now here, now there; and then, in bitter silence, She looked him up and down; then blazed out at him:-- “You treacherous liar! No goddess was your mother, No Dardanus the founder of your tribe, Son of the stony mountain-crags, begotten On cruel rocks, with a tigress for a wet-nurse! Why fool myself, why make pretense? what is there To save myself for now? When I was weeping Did he so much as sigh? Did he turn his eyes, Ever so little, toward me? Did he break at all, Or weep, or give his lover a word of pity? What first, what next? Neither Jupiter nor Juno Looks at these things with any sense of fairness. Faith has no haven anywhere in the world. He was an outcast on my shore, a beggar, I took him in, and, like a fool, I gave him Part of my kingdom; his fleet was lost, I found it, His comrades dying, I brought them back to life. I am maddened, burning, burning: now Apollo The prophesying god, the oracles Of Lycia, and Jove’s herald, sent from heaven, Come flying through the air with fearful orders,-- Fine business for the gods, the kind of trouble That keeps them from their sleep. I do not hold you, I do not argue, either. Go. And follow Italy on the wind, and seek the kingdom Across the water. But if any gods Who care for decency have any power, They will land you on the rocks; I hope for vengeance, I hope to hear you calling the name of Dido Over and over, in vain. Oh, I will follow In blackest fire, and when cold death has taken Spirit from body, I will be there to haunt you, A shade, all over the world. I will have vengeance, And hear about it; the