Produced by Tim Lindell, Chuck Greif and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from images made available by the
HathiTrust Digital Library.)









                                  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 news will be my comfort
    In the deep world below.” She broke it off,
    Leaving the words unfinished; even light
    Was unendurable; sick at heart, she turned
    And left him, stammering, afraid, attempting
    To make some kind of answer. And her servants
    Support her to her room, that bower of marble,
    A marriage-chamber once; here they attend her,
    Help her lie down.

                          And good Aeneas, longing
    To ease her grief with comfort, to say something
    To turn her pain and hurt away, sighs often,
    His heart being moved by this great love, most deeply,
    And still--the gods give orders, he obeys them;
    He goes back to the fleet. And then the Trojans
    Bend, really, to their work, launching the vessels
    All down the shore. The tarred keel swims in the water,
    The green wood comes from the forest, the poles are lopped
    For oars, with leaves still on them. All are eager
    For flight; all over the city you see them streaming,
    Bustling about their business, a black line moving
    The way ants do when they remember winter
    And raid a hill of grain, to haul and store it
    At home, across the plain, the column moving
    In thin black line through grass, part of them shoving
    Great seeds on little shoulders, and part bossing
    The job, rebuking laggards, and all the pathway
    Hot with the stream of work.

                                And Dido saw them
    With who knows what emotion: there she stood
    On the high citadel, and saw, below her,
    The whole beach boiling, and the water littered
    With one ship after another, and men yelling,
    Excited over their work, and there was nothing
    For her to do but sob or choke with anguish.
    There is nothing to which the hearts of men and women
    Cannot be driven by love. Break into tears,
    Try prayers again, humble the pride, leave nothing
    Untried, and die in vain:--“Anna, you see them
    Coming from everywhere; they push and bustle
    All up and down the shore: the sails are swelling,
    The happy sailors garlanding the vessels.
    If I could hope for grief like this, my sister,
    I shall be able to bear it. But one service
    Do for me first, dear Anna, out of pity.
    You were the only one that traitor trusted,
    Confided in; you know the way to reach him,
    The proper time and place. Give him this message,
    Our arrogant enemy: tell him I never
    Swore with the Greeks at Aulis to abolish
    The Trojan race, I never sent a fleet
    To Pergamus, I never desecrated
    The ashes or the spirit of Anchises:
    Why does he, then, refuse to listen to me?
    What is the hurry? Let him give his lover
    The one last favor: only wait a little,
    Only a little while, for better weather
    And easy flight. He has betrayed the marriage,
    I do not ask for that again; I do not
    Ask him to give up Latium and his kingdom.
    Mere time is all I am asking, a breathing-space,
    A brief reprieve, until my luck has taught me
    To reconcile defeat and sorrow. This
    Is all I ask for, sister; pity and help me:
    If he grants me this, I will pay it ten times over
    After my death.” And Anna, most unhappy,
    Over and over, told her tears, her pleading;
    No tears, no pleading, move him; no man can yield
    When a god stops his ears. As northern winds
    Sweep over Alpine mountains, in their fury
    Fighting each other to uproot an oak-tree
    Whose ancient strength endures against their roaring
    And the trunk shudders and the leaves come down
    Strewing the ground, but the old tree clings to the mountain,
    Its roots as deep toward hell as its crest toward heaven,
    And still holds on--even so, Aeneas, shaken
    By storm-blasts of appeal, by voices calling
    From every side, is tossed and torn, and steady.
    His will stays motionless, and tears are vain.

      Then Dido prays for death at last; the fates
    Are terrible, her luck is out, she is tired
    Of gazing at the everlasting heaven.
    The more to goad her will to die, she sees--
    Oh terrible!--the holy water blacken,
    Libations turn to blood, on ground and altar,
    When she makes offerings. But she tells no one,
    Not even her sister. From the marble shrine,
    Memorial to her former lord, attended,
    Always, by her, with honor, fleece and garland,
    She hears his voice, his words, her husband calling
    When darkness holds the world, and from the house-top
    An owl sends out a long funereal wailing,
    And she remembers warnings of old seers,
    Fearful, foreboding. In her dreams Aeneas
    Appears to hunt her down; or she is going
    Alone in a lost country, wandering
    Trying to find her Tyrians, mad as Pentheus,
    Or frenzied as Orestes, when his mother
    Is after him with whips of snakes, or firebrands,
    While the Avengers menace at the threshold.

      She was beaten, harboring madness, and resolved
    On dying; alone, she plotted time and method;
    Keeping the knowledge from her sorrowing sister,
    She spoke with calm composure:--“I have found
    A way (wish me good luck) to bring him to me
    Or set me free from loving him forever.
    Near Ocean and the west there is a country,
    The Ethiopian land, far-off, where Atlas
    Turns on his shoulders the star-studded world;
    I know a priestess there; she guards the temple
    Of the daughters of the Evening Star; she feeds
    The dragon there, and guards the sacred branches,
    She sprinkles honey-dew, strews drowsy poppies,
    And she knows charms to free the hearts of lovers
    When she so wills it, or to trouble others;
    She can reverse the wheeling of the planets,
    Halt rivers in their flowing; she can summon
    The ghosts of night-time; you will see earth shaking
    Under her tread, and trees come down from mountains.
    Dear sister mine, as heaven is my witness,
    I hate to take these arts of magic on me!
    Be secret, then; but in the inner courtyard,
    Raise up a funeral-pyre, to hold the armor
    Left hanging in the bower, by that hero,
    That good devoted man, and all his raiment,
    And add the bridal bed, my doom: the priestess
    Said to do this, and it will be a pleasure
    To see the end of all of it, every token
    Of that unspeakable knave.”

                                  And so, thought Anna,
    Things are no worse than when Sychaeus perished.
    She did not know the death these rites portended,
    Had no suspicion, and carried out her orders.

      The pyre is raised in the court; it towers high
    With pine and holm-oak, it is hung with garlands
    And funeral wreaths, and on the couch she places
    Aeneas’ sword, his garments, and his image,
    Knowing the outcome. Round about are altars,
    Where, with her hair unbound, the priestess calls
    On thrice a hundred gods, Erebus, Chaos,
    Hecate, queen of Hell, triple Diana.
    Water is sprinkled, from Avernus fountain,
    Or said to be, and herbs are sought, by moonlight
    Mown with bronze sickles, and the stem-ends running
    With a black milk, and the caul of a colt, new-born.
    Dido, with holy meal and holy hands,
    Stands at the altar, with one sandal loosened
    And robes unfastened, calls the gods to witness,
    Prays to the stars that know her doom, invoking,
    Beyond them, any powers, if there are any,
    Who care for lovers in unequal bondage.

      Night: and tired creatures over all the world
    Were seeking slumber; the woods and the wild waters
    Were quiet, and the silent stars were wheeling
    Their course half over; every field was still;
    The beasts of the field, the brightly colored birds,
    Dwellers in lake and pool, in thorn and thicket,
    Slept through the tranquil night, their sorrows over,
    Their troubles soothed. But no such blessèd darkness
    Closes the eyes of Dido; no repose
    Comes to her anxious heart. Her pangs redouble,
    Her love swells up, surging, a great tide rising
    Of wrath and doubt and passion. “What do I do?
    What now? Go back to my Numidian suitors,
    Be scorned by those I scorned? Pursue the Trojans?
    Obey their orders? They were grateful to me,
    Once, I remember. But who would let them take me?
    Suppose I went. They hate me now; they were always
    Deceivers: is Laomedon forgotten,
    Whose blood runs through their veins? What then? Attend them,
    Alone, be their companion, the loud-mouthed sailors?
    Or with my own armada follow after,
    Wear out my sea-worn Tyrians once more
    With vengeance and adventure? Better die.
    Die; you deserve to; end the hurt with the sword.
    It is your fault, Anna; you were sorry for me,
    Won over by my tears; you put this load
    Of evil on me. It was not permitted,
    It seems, for me to live apart from wedlock,
    A blameless life. An animal does better.
    I vowed Sychaeus faith. I have been faithless.”
    So, through the night, she tossed in restless torment.

      Meanwhile Aeneas, on the lofty stern,
    All things prepared, sure of his going, slumbers
    As Mercury comes down once more to warn him,
    Familiar blond young god: “O son of Venus,
    Is this a time for sleep? The wind blows fair,
    And danger rises all around you. Dido,
    Certain to die, however else uncertain,
    Plots treachery, harbors evil. Seize the moment
    While it can still be seized, and hurry, hurry!
    The sea will swarm with ships, the fiery torches
    Blaze, and the shore rankle with fire by morning.
    Shove off, be gone! A shifty, fickle object
    Is woman, always.” He vanished into the night.
    And, frightened by that sudden apparition,
    Aeneas started from sleep, and urged his comrades:--
    “Hurry, men, hurry; get to the sails and benches,
    Get the ships under way. A god from heaven
    Again has come to speed our flight, to sever
    The mooring-ropes. O holy one, we follow,
    Whoever you are, we are happy in obeying.
    Be with us, be propitious; let the stars
    Be right in heaven!” He drew his sword; the blade
    Flashed, shining, at the hawser; and all the men
    Were seized in the same restlessness and rushing.
    They have left the shore, they have hidden the sea-water
    With the hulls of the ships; the white foam flies, the oars
    Dip down in dark-blue water.

                                  And Aurora
    Came from Tithonus’ saffron couch to freshen
    The world with rising light, and from her watch-tower
    The queen saw day grow whiter, and the fleet
    Go moving over the sea, keep pace together
    To the even spread of the sail; she knew the harbors
    Were empty of sailors now; she struck her breast
    Three times, four times; she tore her golden hair,
    Crying, “God help me, will he go, this stranger,
    Treating our kingdom as a joke? Bring arms,
    Bring arms, and hurry! follow from all the city,
    Haul the ships off the ways, some of you! Others,
    Get fire as fast as you can, give out the weapons,
    Pull oars! What am I saying? Or where am I?
    I must be going mad. Unhappy Dido,
    Is it only now your wickedness strikes home?
    The time it should have was when you gave him power.
    Well, here it is, look at it now, the honor,
    The faith of the hero who, they tell me, carries
    With him his household gods, who bore on his shoulders
    His agèd father! Could I not have seized him,
    Torn him to pieces, scattered him over the waves?
    What was the matter? Could I not have murdered
    His comrades, and Iulus, and served the son
    For a dainty at the table of his father?
    But fight would have a doubtful fortune. It might have,
    What then? I was going to die; whom did I fear?
    I would have, should have, set his camp on fire,
    Filled everything with flame, choked off the father,
    The son, the accursèd race, and myself with them.
    Great Sun, surveyor of all the works of earth,
    Juno, to whom my sorrows are committed,
    Hecate, whom the cross-roads of the cities
    Wail to by night, avenging Furies, hear me,
    Grant me divine protection, take my prayer.
    If he must come to harbor, then he must,
    If Jove ordains it, however vile he is,
    False, and unspeakable. If Jove ordains,
    The goal is fixed. So be it. Take my prayer.
    Let him be driven by arms and war, an exile,
    Let him be taken from his son Iulus,
    Let him beg for aid, let him see his people dying
    Unworthy deaths, let him accept surrender
    On unfair terms, let him never enjoy the kingdom,
    The hoped-for light, let him fall and die, untimely,
    Let him lie unburied on the sand. Oh, hear me,
    Hear the last prayer, poured out with my last blood!
    And you, O Tyrians, hate, and hate forever
    The Trojan stock. Offer my dust this homage.
    No love, no peace, between these nations, ever!
    Rise from my bones, O great unknown avenger,
    Hunt them with fire and sword, the Dardan settlers,
    Now, then, here, there, wherever strength is given.
    Shore against shore, wave against wave, and war,
    War after war, for all the generations.”

      She spoke, and turned her purpose to accomplish
    The quickest end to the life she hated. Briefly
    She spoke to Barce, Sychaeus’ nurse; her own
    Was dust and ashes in her native country:--
    “Dear nurse, bring me my sister, tell her to hurry,
    Tell her to sprinkle her body with river water,
    To bring the sacrificial beast and offerings,
    And both of you cover your temples with holy fillets.
    I have a vow to keep; I have made beginning
    Of rites to Stygian Jove, to end my sorrows,
    To burn the litter of that Trojan leader.”
    Barce, with an old woman’s fuss and bustle,
    Went hurrying out of sight; but Dido, trembling,
    Wild with her project, the blood-shot eyeballs rolling,
    Pale at the death to come, and hectic color
    Burning the quivering cheeks, broke into the court,
    Mounted the pyre in madness, drew the sword,
    The Trojan gift, bestowed for no such purpose,
    And she saw the Trojan garments, and the bed
    She knew so well, and paused a little, weeping,
    Weeping, and thinking, and flung herself down on it,
    Uttering her last words:--
    “Spoils that were sweet while gods and fate permitted,
    Receive my spirit, set me free from suffering.
    I have lived, I have run the course that fortune gave me,
    And now my shade, a great one, will be going
    Below the earth. I have built a noble city,
    I have seen my walls, I have avenged a husband,
    Punished a hostile brother. I have been
    Happy, I might have been too happy, only
    The Trojans made their landing.” She broke off,
    Pressed her face to the couch, cried:--“So, we shall die,
    Die unavenged; but let us die. So, so,--
    I am glad to meet the darkness. Let his eyes
    Behold this fire across the sea, an omen
    Of my death going with him.”

                                    As she spoke,
    Her handmaids saw her, fallen on the sword,
    The foam of blood on the blade, and blood on the hands.
    A scream rings through the house; Rumor goes reeling,
    Rioting, through the shaken town; the palace
    Is loud with lamentation, women sobbing,
    Wailing and howling, and the vaults of heaven
    Echo the outcry, as if Tyre or Carthage
    Had fallen to invaders, and the fury
    Of fire came rolling over homes and temples.
    Anna, half lifeless, heard in panic terror,
    Came rushing through them all, beating her bosom,
    Clawing her face:--“Was it for this, my sister?
    To trick me so? The funeral pyre, the altars,
    Prepared this for me? I have, indeed, a grievance,
    Being forsaken; you would not let your sister
    Companion you in death? You might have called me
    To the same fate; we might have both been taken,
    One sword, one hour. I was the one who built it,
    This pyre, with my own hands; it was my voice
    That called our fathers’ gods, for what?--to fail you
    When you were lying here. You have killed me, sister,
    Not only yourself, you have killed us all, the people,
    The town. Let me wash the wounds with water,
    Let my lips catch what fluttering breath still lingers.”
    She climbed the lofty steps, and held her sister,
    A dying woman, close; she used her robe
    To try to stop the bleeding. And Dido tried
    In vain to raise her heavy eyes, fell back,
    And her wound made a gurgling hissing sound.
    Three times she tried to lift herself; three times
    Fell back; her rolling eyes went searching heaven
    And the light hurt when she found it, and she moaned.

      At last all-powerful Juno, taking pity,
    Sent Iris from Olympus, in compassion
    For the long racking agony, to free her
    From the limbs’ writhing and the struggle of spirit.
    She had not earned this death, she had only sought it
    Before her time, driven by sudden madness,
    Therefore, the queen of Hades had not taken
    The golden lock, consigning her to Orcus.
    So Iris, dewy on saffron wings, descending,
    Trailing a thousand colors through the brightness
    Comes down the sky, poises above her, saying,
    “This lock I take as bidden, and from the body
    Release the soul,” and cuts the lock; and cold
    Takes over, and the winds receive the spirit.




BOOK V

THE FUNERAL GAMES FOR ANCHISES


      Meanwhile Aeneas and the fleet were holding
    The sure course over the sea, cutting the waters
    That darkened under the wind. His gaze went back
    To the walls of Carthage, glowing in the flame
    Of Dido’s funeral pyre. What cause had kindled
    So high a blaze, they did not know, but anguish
    When love is wounded deep, and the way of a woman
    With frenzy in her heart, they knew too well,
    And dwelt on with foreboding.

      They were out of sight of land, with only sea
    Around them on all sides, alone with ocean,
    Ocean and sky, when a cloud, black-blue, loomed over
    With night and tempest in it; the water roughened
    In shadow, and the pilot Palinurus
    Cried from the lofty stern. “What clouds are these
    Filling the sky? What threat is father Neptune
    Preparing over our heads? Trim ship,” he ordered,
    “Bend to the oars, reef down the sail.” The course
    Was changed, on a slant across the wind, and the pilot
    Turned to Aeneas: “With a sky like this,
    I’d have no hope of reaching Italy,
    Even if Jove himself should guarantee it.
    The winds have changed, they roar across our course
    From the black evening, thickening into cloud.
    We have no strength for headway. Luck is against us,
    Let us change the course, and follow. I remember
    Fraternal shores near by, the land of Eryx,
    Sicilian harbors; we were here before
    If I recall my stars.”

                            Aeneas answered:
    “I saw it long ago, the will of the winds,
    The uselessness of struggle. Change the course,
    Steer to the land most welcome to me; there
    My friend Acestes dwells, and there my father
    Anchises lies at rest. What better land
    To rest our weary ships?” They made for the harbor,
    With favoring wind, a swift run over the water,
    A happy turn to a familiar shore.

      High on a hill-top look-out, king Acestes,
    Son of a Trojan mother and Crinisus,
    A river-god, saw friendly vessels coming,
    With wonder and delight, came hurrying toward them,
    With a bear-skin over his shoulder, and javelins
    Bristling in his grasp, and he remembered
    The old relationship, and gave them welcome
    With all his rustic treasure, a glad returning,
    Friendly assurance for their weariness.
    A good night’s rest, and a bright morning followed,
    And from the shore Aeneas called his comrades,
    Stood on a little rise of ground, and told them:
    “Great sons of Dardanus, heaven-born, a year
    Draws to an end, a year ago we buried
    My father in this land, and consecrated
    Sorrowful altars to his shade. The day
    Comes round again, which I shall always cherish,
    Always lament, with reverence, in the mourning,
    For the gods’ will. If I were held, an exile,
    In the Gaetulian quicksands, or a captive
    In some Greek ship or city, I would honor
    This day with solemn rites, and pile the altars
    With sacrificial offering. But now,--
    This must be heaven’s purpose--we have entered
    A friendly harbor. Come, then, all of us,
    Let us be happy in our celebration,
    Let us pray for winds, and that the god hereafter
    Receive his rites in temples for his honor
    Built in the city we found. Two heads of oxen
    Acestes gives each vessel; bring the gods
    Of our own household, and the ones Acestes
    Pays worship to. Nine days from now, if dawn
    Comes bright and shining over the world of men,
    There will be games, a contest for the boats,
    A foot-race, javelin-throw or archery, a battle
    With rawhide gloves; let all attend, competing
    For victory’s palm and prize. And now, in silence,
    Garland the brow with leaves.”

                                      He bound his temples
    With Venus’ myrtle, and the others followed,
    Acestes, Helymus, and young Iulus,
    And the other lads, and Aeneas, from the meeting,
    Moved to Anchises’ tomb, and many thousands
    Came thronging there. He poured libation, duly,
    Bowls of pure wine, and milk, and victim-blood,
    And strewed bright flowers, praying: “Holy father,
    Hail, once again; hail once again, O ashes,
    Regained in vain; hail, holy shade and spirit!
    Hail, from a son, destined to seek alone
    The fated fields, Italian soil, alone
    To seek, whatever it is, Ausonian Tiber.”
    And as he finished speaking, a huge serpent
    Slid over the ground, seven shining loops, surrounding
    The tomb, peacefully gliding around the altars,
    Dappled with blue and gold, such iridescence
    As rainbow gives to cloud, when the sun strikes it.
    Aeneas stood amazed; and the great serpent
    Crawled to the bowls and cups, tasted the offerings,
    And slid again, without a hint of menace,
    Under the altar-stone. Intent, Aeneas
    Resumed the rites; the serpent might have been,
    For all he knew, a guardian of the altar,
    Or some familiar spirit of Anchises.
    Two sheep he sacrificed, two swine, two heifers,
    Poured wine, invoked the spirit of his father,
    And the shade loosed from Acheron. His comrades
    Also bring gifts, whatever they can, slay bullocks,
    Load altars high; others prepare the kettles,
    Sprawl on the greensward, keep the live coals glowing
    Under the roasting-spits, and the meat turning.

      And the day came, the ninth they had awaited
    With eagerness, bright and clear, and the crowd gathered
    Under Acestes’ sanction; they were eager
    To see the Trojans, or to join the contests.
    There were the prizes, tripods, and green garlands,
    And palms for the winners, armor, crimson garments,
    Talents of silver and gold. And a trumpet heralds
    The start of the games.

                              For the first contest
    Four ships are entered, heavy-oared, and chosen,
    The pick of the fleet. Mnestheus is one captain,
    His ship the _Dragon_, and his crew is eager,--
    (Later the Memmian line will call him father).
    Gyas commands the big _Chimaera_, a vessel
    Huge as a town; it takes three tiers of oarsmen
    To keep her moving. Then there is Sergestus
    Riding the _Centaur_, and the sea-blue _Scylla_
    Cloanthus leads. (The Sergian house at Rome
    Descends from one, Cluentians from the other.)

      Far out in the water, facing the foaming shores,
    There lies a rock, which the swollen waves beat over
    On stormy days when gales blot out the stars,
    But quiet in calm weather, a level landing
    For the sun-loving sea-gulls. Here Aeneas
    Sets a green bough of holm-oak, as a signal
    To mark the turning-point; to this the sailors
    Must row, then turn, and double back. The places
    Are chosen by lot; the captains are set off,
    Shining in gold and purple; all the sailors
    Wear poplar-wreaths, and their naked shoulders glisten
    With the smear of oil. They are at their places, straining
    Arms stretched to the oars, waiting the word, and their chests
    Heave, and their hearts are pumping fast; ambition
    And nervousness take hold of them. The signal!
    They shoot away; the noise goes up to the heavens,
    The arms pull back to the chests, the water is churned
    To a foam like snow; the start is very even,
    The sea gapes open under the rush of the beaks
    And the pull of the oars. The racers go no faster
    When the chariots take the field, and the barrier springs
    Cars into action, and the drivers lash
    Whipping and shaking the reins. Applause and shouting
    Volley and ring, and shrill excitement rises
    From some with bets on the issue; all the woodland
    Resounds, the shores are loud, and the beaten hillside
    Sends back the uproar.

                              Gyas beats the others
    In the rush of the starting sprint; Cloanthus follows,
    With a better crew, but a slower, heavier vessel;
    Behind them come the _Dragon_ and the _Centaur_,
    With no advantage either way; first one,
    And then the other, has it, moving even
    With long keels through salt water; and the leader
    Has almost reached the rock, the turn; that’s Gyas,
    The captain, yelling loudly at his pilot:--
    “Menoetes, what the hell! Why are you steering
    So far off to the right? Bring her in closer,
    This way, let the oars just miss the rocks, hug shore,
    Cut her close here on the left; let the other fellows
    Stay out as far as they like.” Menoetes, though,
    Feared unseen rocks, and made for open water.
    “Why so far off the course? The rock, Menoetes,
    Keep close to the rock!” And while he shouted, Gyas
    Could see Cloanthus coming up behind him
    Inside him, on the left, and gaining, gaining.
    Between the roar of the rock and the ship of Gyas,
    Cloanthus grazed his way, and passed the leader,
    Made the turn safely, and reached open water.
    Then Gyas really was burnt up; he was crying
    In rage; to hell with pride, to hell with safety!
    He grabbed that cautious pilot of his, and heaved him
    Over the stern, he took the rudder over,
    Steering for shore, and yelling at the sailors,
    As old Menoetes slowly came to the surface,
    His heavy garments dripping, clawing and scrambling
    Up to the top of the rock, to perch there, drying,
    A good laugh for the Trojans, as they watched him
    Taking his header, coming up, and swimming,
    And spitting out salt water.

                                The two last ones,
    Mnestheus and Sergestus, were encouraged;
    Gyas was easy now; Sergestus managed
    To get ahead, a little; he neared the rock,
    Less than a length ahead; the rival _Dragon_
    Was lapped on him, and up and down, amidships,
    Went Mnestheus, cheering on his crew:--“Get going,
    Rise to the oars, my comrades, men of Hector
    Whom I picked out for mine in Troy’s last moment.
    Show the old spirit and the nerve that took us
    Through the Gaetulian sands, Ionian waters,
    Off Cape Malea! We can’t hope to win it,--
    Let Neptune look to that!--maybe--at least,
    Whatever we do, don’t come in last! We could not
    Bear any such disgrace.” They did their utmost,
    Straining with all their might, the bronze deck shaking
    Under the effort, and the quiet ocean
    Streamed under and past them. Arms and legs were weary,
    Wobbly, shaking; breath came hard, they gulped
    And gasped for air, and sweat ran down in rivers,
    And they had some luck. Sergestus, out of his senses,
    Drove in, too close, and piled up on the rock,
    Which almost bounced as he hit there, and the oars
    Were sheared away, and the bow hung up, and the sailors,
    Shouting like mad, pushed hard with pikes or boat-hooks,
    Or the wreck of the oars, to shove them off. And Mnestheus
    Easier now, and with exalted spirit
    From this much victory, with a prayer to the winds
    And the oars’ swift drive, was running down-hill waters,
    Over the open ocean, as a dove
    Suddenly startled out of her nest in a cavern
    Where the young brood waits, wings to the fields in fright,
    Flapping on anxious pinions, and recovers,
    And skims down peaceful air, with never a motion
    Of wing in the lifting air, so Mnestheus sped,
    So sped the _Dragon_, racing home, and the sweep
    Of her own speed made a wind. She passed Sergestus
    Struggling, rock-bound, in shallow water, howling
    For help, in vain, and learning how to manage
    A boat when the oars are broken. She overhauled
    Gyas, in the _Chimaera_, wallowing heavy
    Without a pilot. Only Cloanthus was left;
    They were after him with all their might, the clamor
    Rose twice as loud; they were cheering the pursuer,
    And the sky was a crash of shouting. On the _Scylla_
    They would give their lives to hold their place, they have won it,
    The glory and honor are theirs already, almost;
    And Mnestheus’ men take courage from their nearness;
    They can because they think they can. They would have,
    Perhaps, or tied, at least had not Cloanthus
    Taken to prayer:--“Gods of the seas, whose waters
    I skim, whose empire lifts me up, I gladly
    Promise you sacrifice, a snow-white bullock
    At altars on this shore, and wine for the ocean,
    And the entrails flung to the flood!” Under the waves
    The Nereids heard him, Phorcus, Panopea
    The maiden, and Portunus, the big-handed,
    Boosted him on his way. Swifter than arrow,
    Swifter than wind, the ship swept into the harbor.

      The herald’s cry proclaimed Cloanthus victor,
    When all were summoned, and Anchises’ son
    Put the green bay leaf on his temples, silver
    And wine for the ships, a steer for each. The captains
    Have special prizes; the winner has a mantle,
    Woven with gold, and a double seam of crimson,
    With a story in the texture, Ganymede
    Hunting on Ida, breathless, tossing darts
    And racing after the deer, and caught and carried
    In the talons of Jove’s eagle, soaring skyward,
    While the boy’s old guardians reach their hands up, vainly,
    And the hounds set up a cry. Mnestheus, second,
    Has a coat of mail, with triple links of gold,
    A trophy of Demoleos; Aeneas
    Had beaten him at Troy, by Simois river,
    And taken the armor, glory and guard in battle.
    The servants, Sagaris and Phegeus, hardly
    Can lift it up, but when Demoleos wore it,
    He could go, full-speed, after the flying Trojans.
    The third award is a pair of brazen caldrons,
    And bowls embossed in silver.

                                    They had their prizes
    And went their way, proud of their wealth, and shining
    With foreheads garlanded, when with much effort,
    Scraped off the rock, oars lost, and one bank crippled,
    Here came Sergestus, butt of jeering laughter,
    Like a snake with a broken back, which a wagon-wheel
    Runs over on the road, or a traveller smashes
    With the weight of a stone, and, crushed, it writhes and struggles,
    Looping the coils, and half of it is angry
    With fiery eyes and hissing mouth, and half
    Keeps dragging back the rest and doubles over
    On useless muscles, powerless; Sergestus
    Came home like such a serpent, maimed and broken,
    But the sail went bravely up as they made the harbor,
    And Aeneas kept his promise to the captain,
    Glad for the ship’s return, and the safe sailors.
    A slave-girl, Pholoe from Crete, accomplished
    At weaving, was his prize, and her twin children,
    Boy-infants, at the breast.
    The boat-race over, Aeneas makes his way
    To a grassy plain, with wooded hills surrounding
    The race-course in the valley. All the crowd
    Come trooping after, group themselves around
    The central prominence. Rewards and prizes
    Draw the competitors, travellers and natives,
    Trojans, Sicilians; in the foremost ranks
    Are Nisus and Euryalus, the latter
    Conspicuous in the flower of youth and beauty,
    Whom Nisus follows with entire devotion:
    Diores, of the royal house of Priam,
    Was ready; Salius, an Acarnanian;
    Patron, Tegean-born; and two Sicilians,
    Panopes, Helymus, trained to the forests,
    Companions of Acestes; and many others
    Whose fame by now the darkness hides. Aeneas
    Speaks to their hope:--“No one goes unrewarded:
    To each I give two Cretan arrows, gleaming
    With polished steel, and a double-bitted axe
    Embossed with silver. Everybody wins
    These prizes, but the first three runners also
    Shall wear the wreath of olive, and the winner
    Ride home a horse equipped with splendid trappings;
    For second place, an Amazonian quiver
    With Thracian arrows, a broad belt of gold
    With jeweled buckle; and this Argive helmet
    For the one who comes in third.”

                                      They take their places,
    And when the signal is given, away they go,
    Like rain from storm-cloud, bodies leaning forward,
    Eyes on the goal. And for the lead it’s Nisus,
    Swifter than winds or lightning; running second,
    A good way back, comes Salius; and the third one,
    Third at some distance, is Euryalus,
    Helymus next; right on his heels Diores.
    There’s a little crowding there, the course too narrow,
    Diores, full of run, is in a pocket,
    He can’t get through. The race is almost over,
    Their breath comes hard, they are almost at the finish,--
    There’s a pool of blood on the ground, where the slain bullocks
    Fell in the sacrifice, a slippery puddle
    Red on green ground, and Nisus does not see it,
    Nisus, still leading, thinking himself the winner,
    Is out of luck, his feet slide out from under,
    He wobbles, totters, recovers himself a little,
    Slips and goes forward, in a beautiful header
    Through blood and mud. But he keeps his wits about him,
    Does not forget his friend Euryalus; rising,
    And sort of accidentally on purpose,
    Gets in the way of Salius and spills him,
    A cartwheel, head over heels on the flying sand.
    Euryalus flashes past, an easy winner
    Thanks to his friend’s assistance, and they cheer him;
    Helymus second; in third place, Diores.

      Immediately there’s a loud howl of protest,
    Salius shrieking in the elders’ faces
    With cries of _Foul!_ and _Outrage!_ “I was robbed,
    Give me first prize!” But all the popular favor
    Sides with Euryalus, who is young, and weeping,
    And better-looking; and Diores backs him,
    Loudly, of course, since who would get the helmet
    If Salius was first? Aeneas ends it:--
    “The race will stand as run; you get your prizes
    As first proposed; no one will change the order;
    But one thing I can do, and will do,--offer
    A consolation to our innocent friend.”
    With this, he gives a lion-skin to Salius,
    Heavy with shaggy hair, and the claws gilded.
    Nisus is heard from:--“If you’re giving prizes
    For falling down, what’s good enough for Nisus?
    I would have won it surely, only Fortune
    Gave me the same bad deal she handed Salius!”
    And with the words he made a sudden gesture
    Showing his muddy face. Aeneas, laughing,
    Ordered another prize, a shield for him,
    The work of Didymaon, stolen by Greeks,
    From Neptune’s temple sometime, but recovered,
    A worthy prize for a distinguished hero.

      Next is a boxing-bout. “Whoever has courage
    And fighting spirit in his heart, step forward
    And put the gloves on!” There are double prizes,
    For the winner a bullock, decked with gold and ribbons,
    A sword and shining helmet for the loser.
    Without delay, Dares gets up; a murmur
    Runs through the crowd as this big man comes forward.
    They know that he was Paris’ sparring-partner,
    And they recall his famous match with Butes
    At Hector’s tomb, where he knocked out that champion
    And stretched him dying on the yellow sand.
    Now Dares holds his head up for the battle,
    Shakes his broad shoulders loose, warms up a little,
    A left, a right, a left, in shadow-boxing.
    Who will oppose him? No one puts the gloves on,
    No one, from all that throng, is in a hurry
    To take on Dares. So, exultant, thinking
    Himself a winner by default, he grabs
    The bullock by one horn, says to Aeneas:--
    “If no man, goddess-born, is taking chances,
    How long must I keep standing here? How long
    Hang around waiting? Give the order, let me
    Lead home my prize!” The Trojans all applaud him.
    But king Acestes, sprawling on the greensward
    Beside Entellus, nudges him a little:--
    “What was the use, Entellus, of being a hero,
    Of having been our bravest, under Eryx?
    Where is that old Sicilian reputation,
    And all those prizes hanging from the rafters?
    Does Dares get away with this, no contest,
    And all those prizes, and you sit here tamely?”
    Entellus answers, “Oh, I still love glory
    And praise; there’s nothing the matter with my courage,
    But I’m too old, the blood is slow and colder,
    The strength not what it used to be. That bragger
    Has one thing, youth, and how he revels in it!
    If I had what he has, I’d not need prizes,
    Bullocks or helmets either, to get me fighting.”
    From somewhere he produced the gloves of Eryx
    And tossed them into the ring, all stiff and heavy,
    Seven layers of hide, and insewn lead and iron.
    The people stand amazed, and Dares shudders,
    Wanting no part of gloves like these; Aeneas
    Inspects them, turning them slowly, over and over,
    And old Entellus adds a word of comment:--
    “Why, these are nothing! What if you had seen
    The gloves of Hercules? He used to fight here.
    These are the gloves that Eryx wore against him.
    You still can see the blood and a splash of brains
    That stained them long ago. I used to wear them
    Myself when I was younger, and unchallenged
    By Time, that envious rival. But if Dares
    Declines these arms, all right, make matters equal,
    Don’t be afraid; I waive the gloves of Eryx,
    You put the Trojan gloves aside; Aeneas
    Will see fair play, Acestes be my second.”
    He throws the double cloak from off his shoulders,
    Strips down to the great limbs, great bones, great muscles
    A giant in the ring. Aeneas brings them
    Matched pairs of gloves.

                                They take their stand, each rising
    On the balls of his feet, their arms upraised, and rolling
    Their heads back from the punch. They spar, they lead,
    They watch for openings. Dares, much the younger,
    Is much the better in footwork; old Entellus
    Has to rely on strength; his knees are shaky,
    His wind not what it was. They throw their punches,
    And many miss; and some, with a solid thump,
    Land on the ribs or chest; temples and ears
    Feel the wind of a miss, or the jaws rattle
    When a punch lands. Entellus stands flat-footed,
    Wasting no motion, just a slip of the body,
    The watchful eyes alert. And Dares, feinting,
    Like one who artfully attacks a city,
    Tries this approach, then that, dancing around him
    In varied vain attack. Entellus, rising,
    Draws back his right (in fact, he telegraphs it),
    And Dares, seeing it coming, slips aside;
    Entellus lands on nothing but the wind
    And, thrown off balance, heavily comes down
    Flat on his face, as falls on Erymanthus
    A thunder-smitten oak, and so on, and so on.
    Roaring, the Trojans and Sicilians both
    Rise to their feet; the noise goes up to heaven;
    Acestes rushes in, to raise his comrade
    In pity and sorrow. But that old-time fighter
    Is not slowed down a bit, nor made more wary;
    His rage is terrible, and his shame awakens
    A consciousness of strength. He chases Dares
    All over the ring, left, right, left, right, the punches
    Rattle like hailstones on a roof; he batters Dares,
    Spins him halfway around with one hand, clouts him
    Straight with the other again. At last Aeneas
    Steps in and stops it, with a word of comfort
    For the exhausted Dares:--“Luckless fellow,
    Yield to the god! What madness blinds your vision
    To strength beyond your own?” They rescue Dares,
    And drag him to the ships, with his knees caving,
    Head rolling side to side, spitting out blood
    And teeth; he hardly sees the sword and helmet.
    They leave the palm and bullock for Entellus,
    Who, in the pride of victory, cries aloud:
    “Look, goddess-born! Watch, Trojans, and discover
    Two things--how strong I was when I was younger,
    And what a death you’ve kept away from Dares!”
    And, with the word, he faced his prize, the bullock,
    Drew back his right hand, poised it, sent it smashing
    Between the horns, shattering the skull, and splashing
    Brains on the bones, as the great beast came down, lifeless.
    “This life, a better one than Dares’, Eryx,
    I vow as sacrifice, and so, victorious,
    Retire, and lay aside the gloves forever.”

      Next comes an archery contest. Aeneas offers
    Prizes and summons; on Serestus’ vessel
    The mast is raised, and from its top a cord
    With a fluttering dove bound to it as the mark.
    Four enter; a bronze helmet takes the lots,
    Hippocoön’s leaps out first; then Mnestheus follows,
    Green with the olive garland, sign and token
    Of ship well driven; and third was Pandarus’ brother,
    Eurytion; Pandarus was the archer
    Who once broke truce with the Greeks, firing an arrow
    In the days of peace; and last came king Acestes,
    Willing to try his hand with younger men.

      They bend the pliant bows, each archer straining,
    Draw shaft from quiver. First from the twanging string
    Hippocoön’s arrow flew, through sky, through wind,
    Reaching its mark in the wood of the mast, which trembled
    And the bird flapped wings in terror, and the crowd
    Rang with applause. Mnestheus took his stand,
    Drawing the bow back, aiming a little higher,
    And missed the bird, but severed knot and tether,
    And the dove sped free to the south. Eurytion, waiting
    And ready, called in prayer upon his brother,
    Let the dart fly, brought down the bird, exulting,
    From under the dark of the cloud. She came down lifeless,
    Pierced by the arrow still. No prize was left
    For king Acestes, but he fired his arrow,
    High as he could, to prove his skill. And a wonder
    Came to their eyes; it proved an omen later
    When seers explained its meaning. The shaft caught fire
    Flying amid the clouds, a course of flame,
    Vanishing into space, as comets stream
    Sweeping across the heaven, their long train flying
    Behind them through the sky. All hearts were shaken,
    Sicilian, Trojan, both, and all men prayed
    To the powers on high. Aeneas hailed the omen,
    Embraced Acestes, loaded him with presents,
    Saying, “Receive them, father; for the king
    Of heaven has willed it so, unusual honors
    For skill surpassing. This bowl, with graven figures,
    Anchises owned, given him by a Thracian,
    King Cisseus, memorial and token,
    Of everlasting friendship.” On his brows
    He bound green laurel, hailing Acestes victor
    Over the rest, and no one grudged the honor,
    Not even Eurytion, who had shot the dove;
    Mnestheus, for the cutting of the tether,
    Took his reward, and the one who hit the mast,
    Hippocoön, was not forgotten either.

      But while the shoot was on, Aeneas called
    Epytides, Iulus’ guardian, to him,
    With words for a loyal ear:--“Go, tell Iulus,
    If the boys are ready, and the horses marshalled,
    To lead them, for Anchises’ sake, presenting
    Himself in arms.” And he bade the throng draw back,
    Leaving the long course clear and the field open.
    The boys rode in, shining on bridled ponies
    Before their fathers’ eyes, in true formation,
    To a murmur of delight. The garlands weighed
    The young hair down, they carried cornel spear-wands
    With iron at the tip; and some had quivers
    Bright-polished, at their shoulders; torques of gold
    Looped high on the breast in pliant rings. Three leaders
    Led, each, three squadrons, and a dozen followed
    Each gay young captain. One of them was Priam,
    Son of Polites, and King Priam’s grandson,
    On a piebald Thracian, white of brow and fetlock.
    Young Atys led another line--(The Atii,
    In Latium, claim descent from him)--young Atys,
    Iulus’ special friend. And last, most handsome,
    Iulus rode a Carthaginian courser,
    Queen Dido’s gift. Sicilian horses carried
    The other riders, who rode up to the cheering
    Shy, as they heard the sound, and the fond welcome
    Of crowds that saw the fathers in the children.
    They rode full circle once, and then a signal,
    A crack of the whip, was given, and they parted
    Into three groups, went galloping off, recalled,
    Wheeled, made mock charge, with lances at the ready,
    Made march and counter-march, troops intermingled
    With troops, to right and left, in mimic battle,
    Mimic retreat, and mimic peace, a course
    Confusing as the Labyrinth in Crete
    Whose path runs through blind walls, where craft has hidden
    A thousand wandering ways, mistake and error
    Threading insoluble mazes, so the children,
    The sons of Troy, wove in and out, in conflict
    In flight and sport, as happy as dolphins leaping
    Through the Carpathian waters. This was a custom
    Ascanius, when grown, himself established
    At Alba Longa, his own town, and taught there
    What he had learned in boyhood, and the Albans
    In turn informed their children, and the Romans
    Keep this ancestral rite; the boys are Troy,
    And the game Trojan, to this very day,
    From its first observance, in Anchises’ honor.

      Here fortune changed, not keeping faith; for Juno,
    While the ritual of sport went on, sent Iris,
    With a fair wind, to the Trojan fleet. She was angry,
    Still, and the ancient grudge unsatisfied,
    And Iris, over her thousand-colored rainbow,
    Ran her swift path, unseen, beheld the crowd,
    Surveyed the shore, harbor and fleet deserted,
    While far off on the lonely coast the women
    Mourned for Anchises lost, weeping and watching
    The unfathomable deep. “For weary people,
    Alas! how much remains, of shoal and ocean!”
    So ran the common sigh. They crave a city,
    They are tired of bearing the vast toil of sailing,
    And into their midst came Iris, versed in mischief,
    Laying aside her goddess-guise, becoming
    Old Beroe, Doryclus’ wife, who sometime
    Had children, fame, and lineage. Now Iris,
    Resembling her, came down to the Trojan mothers.
    “Alas for us!” she cried, “on whom the Greeks
    Never laid hands, to drag us down to death
    Before our native walls! Unfortunate people,
    For what is fortune saving us, what doom,
    What dying? It is seven weary summers
    Since Troy’s destruction, and still we wander over
    All lands, all seas, with rocks and stars forever
    Implacable, as we go on pursuing
    A land that flees forever over the waters.
    Here lived our brother Eryx, here we find
    A welcomer, king Acestes; who forbids us
    To found the walls, to build our city here?
    O fatherland, O household gods in vain
    Saved from the Greeks, will there never be any walls
    For Troy again? No Simois or Xanthus,
    The rivers Hector loved? Come with me, burn
    These vessels of ill-omen. Let me tell you,
    I have been given warnings; in a dream
    I saw Cassandra, she was giving me firebrands,
    _Here seek your Troy, here is your home_, she told me;
    It is time for us to act, be quick about it!
    Neptune himself, with fire on these four altars,
    Provides the method, and the resolution.”

      She was the first to seize a brand; she raised it
    Above her head, and swung it, streaming and glowing,
    And flung it forth. The women, for a moment,
    Stood in bewilderment, and one, the oldest,
    Named Pyrgo, nurse to Priam’s many children,
    Cried out:--“This is no Beroe, I tell you,
    Mothers! Look at her flashing eyes, her spirit,
    Her stride, her features; every mark of the goddess
    Attends her presence. Beroe I myself
    Have just now come from; she lies ill and grieving
    All by herself, in sorrow for her absence
    From reverence for Anchises.”

                                      As they gazed
    Doubtfully at the ships, with sullen eyes,
    Distracted, torn between a sickly yearning
    For present land and rest, and the kingdoms calling
    Them fatefully over the sea, the goddess, cleaving
    The air on her bright pinions, rose to heaven.
    They were shaken then, amazed, and frenzy-driven;
    They cried aloud; tore fire from the hearths and altars;
    Made tinder of the altar-decorations,
    The garlandry and wreaths. And the fire, let loose,
    Rioted over thwarts and oars and rigging.

      To theatre and tomb Eumelus brought
    Word of the ships on fire; and the men could see
    The black ash billowing in the smoky cloud,
    And first Ascanius, as full of spirit
    As when he led the games, rushed to the trouble
    As fast as he could ride; no troubled masters
    Could hold him back. “Poor things, what are you doing?
    What craziness is this? what are you up to?
    It is no Greek camp, no enemy you’re burning
    But your own hopes! Look at me! Here I am,
    Your own Ascanius!” And before their feet
    He flung the helmet he had worn when leading
    The little war-game. And Aeneas hurried
    With others to the troubled camp. The women
    Scattered and fled along the shore, in terror
    And guilt, wherever they could, to hiding-places
    In woods or caves in the rock; they are ashamed
    Of daylight and their deed; Juno is shaken
    Out of their hearts, and they recognize their own.
    That does not stop the fire; it burns in fury
    Under wet oak, tow smoulders, and the stubborn
    Steam eats the keels away, destruction seizing
    On deck and hull, and water can not quench it,
    Nor any strength of men. Tearing his garment
    Loose from his shoulders, Aeneas prays to heaven:--
    “Almighty Jove, if the Trojans are not hateful
    To the last man, if any record of goodness
    Alleviates human trouble, let our fleet
    Escape this flame, O father; save from doom
    This little Trojan remnant; or with lightning,
    If I deserve it, strike us down forever!”
    He had scarcely spoken, when a cloudburst fell
    Full force, with darkness and black tempest streaming,
    And thunder rumbling over plain and hillock,
    The whole sky pouring rain; the ships were drowned
    With water from above, the half-burnt timbers
    Were soaked, and the hiss of steam died out; four vessels
    Were gone, the others rescued from disaster.

      And now Aeneas, stunned by the bitter evil,
    Was troubled at heart, uncertain, anxious, grieving:
    What could be done? forget the call of the fates
    And settle here in Sicily, or keep on
    To the coast of Italy? An old man, Nautes,
    Whom Pallas had instructed in deep wisdom,
    Gave him the answer. “Goddess-born, wherever
    Fate pulls or hauls us, there we have to follow;
    Whatever happens, fortune can be beaten
    By nothing but endurance. We have here
    A friend, Acestes, Trojan-born, divine
    In parentage; make him an ally in counsel,
    Partner in enterprise; to him hand over
    The ones whose ships are lost, and all the weary,
    The sick and tired, the old men, and the mothers
    Who have had too much of the sea, and the faint-hearted,
    Whose weariness may find a city for them
    Here in this land; Acesta, let them call it.”
    The old man’s words still troubled him; the mind
    Was torn this way and that. Night rode the heavens
    In her dark chariot, and there came from the darkness
    The image of Anchises, speaking to him
    In words of comfort:--“Son, more dear to me
    Than life, when life was mine; son, sorely troubled
    By Trojan fate, I come at Jove’s command,
    Who drove the fire away, and from the heaven
    Has taken pity. Obey the words of Nautes,
    He gives the best of counsel; the flower of the youth,
    The bravest hearts, lead on to Italy.
    There will be trouble there, a rugged people
    Must be subdued in Latium. Come to meet me,
    First, in the lower world; come through Avernus
    To find me, son. Tartarus’ evil prison
    Of gloomy shades I know not, for I dwell
    Among the happy spirits in Elysium.
    Black sheep are good for sacrifice. The Sibyl,
    A holy guide, will lead the way, foretelling
    The race to come, the given walls. Farewell,
    My son; the dewy night is almost over,
    I feel the breath of the morning’s cruel horses.”
    He spoke, and vanished, smoke into airy thinness,
    From the cries of his son, who woke, and roused the embers
    Of the drowsing altar-fires, with meal and censer
    Propitiating Vesta, making worship
    To Trojan household gods.

                                  And called Acestes
    And the Trojan counsellors, told them of Jove
    And his good father’s orders, the decision
    He has reached at last. They all agree, Acestes
    Accepts the trust. They make a roll for the city,
    The women-folk, the people willing to linger,
    The unadventurous; and they make ready
    The thwarts again, replace the fire-scorched timbers,
    Fit out new oars and rigging. There are not many,
    But a living company, for war brave-hearted.
    Aeneas ploughs the limits for the city,
    Sets out new homes, Ilium, again, and Troy,
    A kingdom welcome to Acestes, senate
    And courts, and laws, established; and a shrine
    High on the crest of Eryx, is given Venus,
    Near the high stars, and a priest assigned as warden
    To the wide boundaries of Anchises’ grove.

      Nine days they hold farewells, one tribe together
    For the last time, with honor at the altars,
    And seas are calm, and winds go down, and the whisper
    Of a little breeze calls to the sail; the shore
    Hears a great wail arise; they cling to each other
    All through the night and day. Even the mothers,
    The weary men, to whom the face of the sea
    Once seemed so cruel, and its very name
    A menacing monster, want to go now, willing
    For all the toil of exile. These Aeneas
    Comforts with friendly words, and bids Acestes
    Be their good brother. Then he slays to Eryx
    Three bullocks, and a lamb to the gods of storm-cloud.
    It is time to loose the cables. At the bow
    He stands, his temples garlanded with olive,
    Makes to the sea libation of wine and entrails,
    And the wind comes up astern, and they sweep the waters
    In happy rivalry.

                      But meanwhile Venus,
    Driven by worry, went to Neptune, pouring
    Complaints from a full heart:--“Neptune, the anger
    Of Juno, her insatiable vengeance,
    Which neither time nor any goodness softens,
    Drives me to humble prayer. She never weakens
    For Jove’s command, nor the orders of the fates;
    It is not enough for her that the Trojan city
    Is quite consumed by hatred, and the remnants
    Of that poor town harried all over the world
    With every kind of punishment; she still follows
    Even their bones and ashes. She may know
    The reasons for that wrath of hers. Remember
    How great a weight of water she stirred up lately
    In the Libyan seas, confusing sky and ocean,
    With Aeolus conspiring, and in your kingdom!
    And now her crime has driven the Trojan mothers
    To burn their ships, to give their comrades over
    To a coast unknown. Let what is left come safely
    Over the sea, to reach Laurentian Tiber,
    If what I ask is just, if those are walls
    Due them by fate’s decree.”

                                    And Neptune answered:--
    “None has a better right to trust my kingdom
    Than the goddess born of the sea-foam. And I have earned
    This confidence. I have often checked the anger
    Of sea and sky. And the rivers of Troy are witness
    I have helped on land as well, and saved Aeneas.
    When thousands died at Troy, with fierce Achilles
    In hot pursuit, and the rivers groaned, and Xanthus
    Could hardly find the sea, I formed a cloud
    Around Aeneas, when he met Achilles
    With the gods adverse, and no great strength to help him
    I rescued him, in spite of my own anger
    At the perjury of Troy, in spite of my passion
    To raze the walls I had built. Now too my purpose
    Remains; have done with fear; he will reach in safety
    The haven of Avernus; the prayer is granted.
    Let one be lost in the flood, one life alone
    Be given for the many.”

                                This comfort given,
    To bring the goddess joy, he yoked his horses,
    Gold bridle, foaming bit, and sent them flying
    With the lightest touch of the reins, skimming the surface
    In the bright blue car; and the waves went down, the axle
    Subdued the swell of the wave, and storm-clouds melted
    To nothing in the sky, and his attendants
    Followed along, great whales, and ancient Glaucus,
    Palaemon, Ino’s son, and the rushing Tritons,
    The army of Phorcus, Melite and Thetis
    Watching the left, and the maiden Panopea,
    Cymodoce and Thalia and Spio,
    So that Aeneas, in his turn, was happy,
    Less anxious at heart. The masts are raised, and sail
    Stretched from the halyards; right and left they bend
    The canvas to fair winds: at the head of the fleet
    Rides Palinurus, and the others follow,
    As ordered, close behind him; dewy night
    Has reached mid-heaven, while the sailors, sleeping,
    Relax on the hard benches under the oars,
    All calm, all quiet. And the god of Sleep
    Parting the shadowy air, comes gently down,
    Looking for Palinurus, bringing him,
    A guiltless man, ill-omened dreams. He settles
    On the high stern, a god disguised as a man,
    Speaking in Phorbas’ guise, “O Palinurus,
    The fleet rides smoothly in the even weather,
    The hour is given for rest. Lay down the head,
    Rest the tired eyes from toil. I will take over
    A little while.” But Palinurus, barely
    Lifting his eyes, made answer: “Trust the waves,
    However quiet? trust a peaceful ocean?
    Put faith in such a monster? Never! I
    Have been too often fooled by the clear stars
    To trust Aeneas to their faithless keeping.”
    And so he clung to the tiller, never loosed
    His hand from the wood, his eyes from the fair heaven.
    But lo, the god over his temples shook
    A bough that dripped with dew from Lethe, steeped
    With Stygian magic, so the swimming eyes,
    Against his effort close, blink open, close
    Again, and slumber takes the drowsy limbs.
    Bending above him, leaning over, the god
    Shoves him, still clinging to the tiller, calling
    His comrades vainly, into the clear waves.
    And the god is gone like a bird to the clear air,
    And the fleet is going safely over its journey
    As Neptune promised. But the rocks were near,
    The Siren-cliffs, most perilous of old,
    White with the bones of many mariners,
    Loud with their hoarse eternal warning sound.
    Aeneas starts from sleep, aware, somehow,
    Of a lost pilot, and a vessel drifting,
    Himself takes over guidance, with a sigh
    And heartache for a friend’s mishap, “Alas,
    Too trustful in the calm of sea and sky,
    O Palinurus, on an unknown shore,
    You will be lying, naked.”




BOOK VI

THE LOWER WORLD


      Mourning for Palinurus, he drives the fleet
    To Cumae’s coast-line; the prows are turned, the anchors
    Let down, the beach is covered by the vessels.
    Young in their eagerness for the land in the west,
    They flash ashore; some seek the seeds of flame
    Hidden in veins of flint, and others spoil
    The woods of tinder, and show where water runs.
    Aeneas, in devotion, seeks the heights
    Where stands Apollo’s temple, and the cave
    Where the dread Sibyl dwells, Apollo’s priestess,
    With the great mind and heart, inspired revealer
    Of things to come. They enter Diana’s grove,
    Pass underneath the roof of gold.

                                      The story
    Has it that Daedalus fled from Minos’ kingdom,
    Trusting himself to wings he made, and travelled
    A course unknown to man, to the cold north,
    Descending on this very summit; here,
    Earth-bound again, he built a mighty temple,
    Paying Apollo homage, the dedication
    Of the oarage of his wings. On the temple doors
    He carved, in bronze, Androgeos’ death, and the payment
    Enforced on Cecrops’ children, seven sons
    For sacrifice each year: there stands the urn,
    The lots are drawn--facing this, over the sea,
    Rises the land of Crete: the scene portrays
    Pasiphae in cruel love, the bull
    She took to her by cunning, and their offspring,
    The mongrel Minotaur, half man, half monster,
    The proof of lust unspeakable; and the toil
    Of the house is shown, the labyrinthine maze
    Which no one could have solved, but Daedalus
    Pitied a princess’ love, loosened the tangle,
    Gave her a skein to guide her way. His boy,
    Icarus, might have been here, in the picture,
    And almost was--his father had made the effort
    Once, and once more, and dropped his hands; he could not
    Master his grief that much. The story held them;
    They would have studied it longer, but Achates
    Came from his mission; with him came the priestess,
    Deiphobe, daughter of Glaucus, who tends the temple
    For Phoebus and Diana; she warned Aeneas:
    “It is no such sights the time demands; far better
    To offer sacrifice, seven chosen bullocks,
    Seven chosen ewes, a herd without corruption.”
    They were prompt in their obedience, and the priestess
    Summoned the Trojans to the lofty temple.

      The rock’s vast side is hollowed into a cavern,
    With a hundred mouths, a hundred open portals,
    Whence voices rush, the answers of the Sibyl.
    They had reached the threshold, and the virgin cried:
    “It is time to seek the fates; the god is here,
    The god is here, behold him.” And as she spoke
    Before the entrance, her countenance and color
    Changed, and her hair tossed loose, and her heart was heaving,
    Her bosom swollen with frenzy; she seemed taller,
    Her voice not human at all, as the god’s presence
    Drew nearer, and took hold on her. “Aeneas,”
    She cried, “Aeneas, are you praying?
    Are you being swift in prayer? Until you are,
    The house of the gods will not be moved, nor open
    Its mighty portals.” More than her speech, her silence
    Made the Trojans cold with terror, and Aeneas
    Prayed from the depth of his heart: “Phoebus Apollo,
    Compassionate ever, slayer of Achilles
    Through aim of Paris’ arrow, helper and guide
    Over the seas, over the lands, the deserts,
    The shoals and quicksands, now at last we have come
    To Italy, we hold the lands which fled us:
    Grant that thus far, no farther, a Trojan fortune
    Attend our wandering. And spare us now,
    All of you, gods and goddesses, who hated
    Troy in the past, and Trojan glory. I beg you,
    Most holy prophetess, in whose foreknowing
    The future stands revealed, grant that the Trojans--
    I ask with fate’s permission--rest in Latium
    Their wandering storm-tossed gods. I will build a temple,
    In honor of Apollo and Diana,
    Out of eternal marble, and ordain
    Festivals in their honor, and for the Sibyl
    A great shrine in our kingdom, and I will place there
    The lots and mystic oracles for my people
    With chosen priests to tend them. Only, priestess,
    This once, I pray you, chant the sacred verses
    With your own lips; do not trust them to the leaves,
    The mockery of the rushing wind’s disorder.”

      But the priestess, not yet subject to Apollo,
    Went reeling through the cavern, wild, and storming
    To throw the god, who presses, like a rider,
    With bit and bridle and weight, tames her wild spirit,
    Shapes her to his control. The doors fly open,
    The hundred doors, of their own will, fly open,
    And through the air the answer comes:--“O Trojans,
    At last the dangers of the sea are over;
    That course is run, but graver ones are waiting
    On land. The sons of Dardanus will reach
    The kingdom of Lavinia--be easy
    On that account--the sons of Dardanus, also,
    Will wish they had not come there. War, I see,
    Terrible war, and the river Tiber foaming
    With streams of blood. There will be another Xanthus,
    Another Simois, and Greek encampment,
    Even another Achilles, born in Latium,
    Himself a goddess’ son. And Juno further
    Will always be there: you will beg for mercy,
    Be poor, turn everywhere for help. A woman
    Will be the cause once more of so much evil,
    A foreign bride, receptive to the Trojans,
    A foreign marriage. Do not yield to evil,
    Attack, attack, more boldly even than fortune
    Seems to permit. An offering of safety,--
    Incredible!--will come from a Greek city.”

      So, through the amplifiers of her cavern,
    The hollow vaults, the Sibyl cast her warnings,
    Riddles confused with truth; and Apollo rode her,
    Reining her rage, and shaking her, and spurring
    The fierceness of her heart. The frenzy dwindled,
    A little, and her lips were still. Aeneas
    Began:--“For me, no form of trouble, maiden,
    Is new, or unexpected; all of this
    I have known long since, lived in imagination.
    One thing I ask: this is the gate of the kingdom,
    So it is said, where Pluto reigns, the gloomy
    Marsh where the water of Acheron runs over.
    Teach me the way from here, open the portals
    That I may go to my belovèd father,
    Stand in his presence, talk with him. I brought him,
    Once, on these shoulders, through a thousand weapons
    And following fire, and foemen. He shared with me
    The road, the sea, the menaces of heaven,
    Things that an old man should not bear; he bore them,
    Tired as he was. And he it was who told me
    To come to you in humbleness. I beg you
    Pity the son, the father. You have power,
    Great priestess, over all; it is not for nothing
    Hecate gave you this dominion over
    Avernus’ groves. If Orpheus could summon
    Eurydice from the shadows with his music,
    If Pollux could save his brother, coming, going,
    Along this path,--why should I mention Theseus,
    Why mention Hercules? I, too, descended
    From the line of Jupiter.” He clasped the altar,
    Making his prayer, and she made answer to him:
    “Son of Anchises, born of godly lineage,
    By night, by day, the portals of dark Dis
    Stand open: it is easy, the descending
    Down to Avernus. But to climb again,
    To trace the footsteps back to the air above,
    There lies the task, the toil. A few, beloved
    By Jupiter, descended from the gods,
    A few, in whom exalting virtue burned,
    Have been permitted. Around the central woods
    The black Cocytus glides, a sullen river;
    But if such love is in your heart, such longing
    For double crossing of the Stygian lake,
    For double sight of Tartarus, learn first
    What must be done. In a dark tree there hides
    A bough, all golden, leaf and pliant stem,
    Sacred to Proserpine. This all the grove
    Protects, and shadows cover it with darkness.
    Until this bough, this bloom of light, is found,
    No one receives his passport to the darkness
    Whose queen requires this tribute. In succession,
    After the bough is plucked, another grows,
    Gold-green with the same metal. Raise the eyes,
    Look up, reach up the hand, and it will follow
    With ease, if fate is calling; otherwise,
    No power, no steel, can loose it. Furthermore,
    (Alas, you do not know this!), one of your men
    Lies on the shore, unburied, a pollution
    To all the fleet, while you have come for counsel
    Here to our threshold. Bury him with honor;
    Black cattle slain in expiation for him
    Must fall before you see the Stygian kingdoms,
    The groves denied to living men.”

                                        Aeneas,
    With sadness in his eyes, and downcast heart,
    Turned from the cave, and at his side Achates
    Accompanied his anxious meditations.
    They talked together: who could be the comrade
    Named by the priestess, lying there unburied?
    And they found him on dry sand; it was Misenus,
    Aeolus’ son, none better with the trumpet
    To make men burn for warfare. He had been
    Great Hector’s man-at-arms; he was good in battle
    With spear as well as horn, and after Hector
    Had fallen to Achilles, he had followed
    Aeneas, entering no meaner service.
    Some foolishness came over him; he made
    The ocean echo to the blare of his trumpet
    That day, and challenged the sea-gods to a contest
    In martial music, and Triton, jealous, caught him,
    However unbelievable the story,
    And held him down between the rocks, and drowned him
    Under the foaming waves. His comrades mourned,
    Aeneas most of all, and in their sorrow
    They carry out, in haste, the Sibyl’s orders,
    Construct the funeral altar, high as heaven,
    They go to an old wood, and the pine-trees fall
    Where wild beasts have their dens, and holm-oak rings
    To the stroke of the axe, and oak and ash are riven
    By the splitting wedge, and rowan-trees come rolling
    Down the steep mountain-side. Aeneas helps them,
    And cheers them on; studies the endless forest,
    Takes thought, and prays: “If only we might see it,
    That golden bough, here in the depth of the forest,
    Bright on some tree. She told the truth, our priestess,
    Too much, too bitter truth, about Misenus.”
    No sooner had he spoken than twin doves
    Came flying down before him, and alighted
    On the green ground. He knew his mother’s birds,
    And made his prayer, rejoicing,--“Oh, be leaders,
    Wherever the way, and guide me to the grove
    Where the rich bough makes rich the shaded ground.
    Help me, O goddess-mother!” And he paused,
    Watching what sign they gave, what course they set.
    The birds flew on a little, just ahead
    Of the pursuing vision; when they came
    To the jaws of dank Avernus, evil-smelling,
    They rose aloft, then swooped down the bright air,
    Perched on the double tree, where the off-color
    Of gold was gleaming golden through the branches.
    As mistletoe, in the cold winter, blossoms
    With its strange foliage on an alien tree,
    The yellow berry gilding the smooth branches,
    Such was the vision of the gold in leaf
    On the dark holm-oak, so the foil was rustling,
    Rattling, almost, the bract in the soft wind
    Stirring like metal. Aeneas broke it off
    With eager grasp, and bore it to the Sibyl.

      Meanwhile, along the shore, the Trojans mourned,
    Paying Misenus’ dust the final honors.
    A mighty pyre was raised, of pine and oak,
    The sides hung with dark leaves, and somber cypress
    Along the front, and gleaming arms above.
    Some made the water hot, and some made ready
    Bronze caldrons, shimmering over fire, and others
    Lave and anoint the body, and with weeping
    Lay on the bier his limbs, and place above them
    Familiar garments, crimson color; and some
    Take up the heavy burden, a sad office,
    And, as their fathers did, they kept their eyes
    Averted, as they brought the torches nearer.
    They burn gifts with him, bowls of oil, and viands,
    And frankincense; and when the flame is quiet
    And the ashes settle to earth, they wash the embers
    With wine, and slake the thirsty dust. The bones
    Are placed in a bronze urn by Corynaeus,
    Who, with pure water, thrice around his comrades
    Made lustral cleansing, shaking gentle dew
    From the fruitful branch of olive; and they said
    _Hail and farewell!_ And over him Aeneas
    Erects a mighty tomb, with the hero’s arms,
    His oar and trumpet, where the mountain rises
    Memorial for ever, and named Misenus.

      These rites performed, he hastened to the Sibyl.
    There was a cavern, yawning wide and deep,
    Jagged, below the darkness of the trees,
    Beside the darkness of the lake. No bird
    Could fly above it safely, with the vapor
    Pouring from the black gulf (the Greeks have named it
    Avernus, or A-Ornos, meaning _birdless_),
    And here the priestess for the slaughter set
    Four bullocks, black ones, poured the holy wine
    Between the horns, and plucked the topmost bristles
    For the first offering to the sacred fire,
    Calling on Hecate, a power in heaven,
    A power in hell. Knives to the throat were driven,
    The warm blood caught in bowls. Aeneas offered
    A lamb, black-fleeced, to Night and her great sister,
    A sterile heifer for the queen; for Dis
    An altar in the night, and on the flames
    The weight of heavy bulls, the fat oil pouring
    Over the burning entrails. And at dawn,
    Under their feet, earth seemed to shake and rumble,
    The ridges move, and bitches bay in darkness,
    As the presence neared. The Sibyl cried a warning,
    “Keep off, keep off, whatever is unholy,
    Depart from here! Courage, Aeneas; enter
    The path, unsheathe the sword. The time is ready
    For the brave heart.” She strode out boldly, leading
    Into the open cavern, and he followed.

      Gods of the world of spirit, silent shadows,
    Chaos and Phlegethon, areas of silence,
    Wide realms of dark, may it be right and proper
    To tell what I have heard, this revelation
    Of matters buried deep in earth and darkness!

      Vague forms in lonely darkness, they were going
    Through void and shadow, through the empty realm
    Like people in a forest, when the moonlight
    Shifts with a baleful glimmer, and shadow covers
    The sky, and all the colors turn to blackness.
    At the first threshold, on the jaws of Orcus,
    Grief and avenging Cares have set their couches,
    And pale Diseases dwell, and sad Old Age,
    Fear, evil-counselling Hunger, wretched Need,
    Forms terrible to see, and Death, and Toil,
    And Death’s own brother, Sleep, and evil Joys,
    Fantasies of the mind, and deadly War,
    The Furies’ iron chambers, Discord, raving,
    Her snaky hair entwined in bloody bands.
    An elm-tree loomed there, shadowy and huge,
    The aged boughs outspread, beneath whose leaves,
    Men say, the false dreams cling, thousands on thousands.
    And there are monsters in the dooryard, Centaurs,
    Scyllas, of double shape, the beast of Lerna,
    Hissing most horribly, Briareus,
    The hundred-handed giant, a Chimaera
    Whose armament is fire, Harpies, and Gorgons,
    A triple-bodied giant. In sudden panic
    Aeneas drew his sword, the edge held forward,
    Ready to rush and flail, however blindly,
    Save that his wise companion warned him, saying
    They had no substance, they were only phantoms
    Flitting about, illusions without body.

      From here, the road turns off to Acheron,
    River of Hell; here, thick with muddy whirling,
    Cocytus boils with sand. Charon is here,
    The guardian of these mingling waters, Charon,
    Uncouth and filthy, on whose chin the hair
    Is a tangled mat, whose eyes protrude, are burning,
    Whose dirty cloak is knotted at the shoulder.
    He poles a boat, tends to the sail, unaided,
    Ferrying bodies in his rust-hued vessel.
    Old, but a god’s senility is awful
    In its raw greenness. To the bank come thronging
    Mothers and men, bodies of great-souled heroes,
    Their life-time over, boys, unwedded maidens,
    Young men whose fathers saw their pyres burning,
    Thick as the forest leaves that fall in autumn
    With early frost, thick as the birds to landfall
    From over the seas, when the chill of the year compels them
    To sunlight. There they stand, a host, imploring
    To be taken over first. Their hands, in longing,
    Reach out for the farther shore. But the gloomy boatman
    Makes choice among them, taking some, and keeping
    Others far back from the stream’s edge. Aeneas,
    Wondering, asks the Sibyl, “Why the crowding?
    What are the spirits seeking? What distinction
    Brings some across the livid stream, while others
    Stay on the farther bank?” She answers, briefly:
    “Son of Anchises, this is the awful river,
    The Styx, by which the gods take oath; the boatman
    Charon; those he takes with him are the buried,
    Those he rejects, whose luck is out, the graveless.
    It is not permitted him to take them over
    The dreadful banks and hoarse-resounding waters
    Till earth is cast upon their bones. They haunt
    These shores a hundred restless years of waiting
    Before they end postponement of the crossing.”
    Aeneas paused, in thoughtful mood, with pity
    Over their lot’s unevenness; and saw there,
    Wanting the honor given the dead, and grieving,
    Leucaspis, and Orontes, the Lycian captain,
    Who had sailed from Troy across the stormy waters,
    And drowned off Africa, with crew and vessel,
    And there was Palinurus, once his pilot,
    Who, not so long ago, had been swept over,
    Watching the stars on the journey north from Carthage.
    The murk was thick; Aeneas hardly knew him,
    Sorrowful in that darkness, but made question:
    “What god, O Palinurus, took you from us?
    Who drowned you in the deep? Tell me. Apollo
    Never before was false, and yet he told me
    You would be safe across the seas, and come
    Unharmed to Italy; what kind of promise
    Was this, to fool me with?” But Palinurus
    Gave him assurance:--“It was no god who drowned me,
    No falsehood on Apollo’s part, my captain,
    But as I clung to the tiller, holding fast
    To keep the course, as I should do, I felt it
    Wrenched from the ship, and I fell with it, headlong.
    By those rough seas I swear, I had less fear
    On my account than for the ship, with rudder
    And helmsman overboard, to drift at the mercy
    Of rising seas. Three nights I rode the waters,
    Three nights of storm, and from the crest of a wave,
    On the fourth morning, sighted Italy,
    I was swimming to land, I had almost reached it, heavy
    In soaking garments; my cramped fingers struggled
    To grasp the top of the rock, when barbarous people,
    Ignorant men, mistaking me for booty,
    Struck me with swords; waves hold me now, or winds
    Roll me along the shore. By the light of heaven,
    The lovely air, I beg you, by your father,
    Your hope of young Iulus, bring me rescue
    Out of these evils, my unconquered leader!
    Cast over my body earth--you have the power--
    Return to Velia’s harbor,--or there may be
    Some other way--your mother is a goddess,
    Else how would you be crossing this great river,
    This Stygian swamp?--help a poor fellow, take me
    Over the water with you, give a dead man
    At least a place to rest in.” But the Sibyl
    Broke in upon him sternly:--“Palinurus,
    Whence comes this mad desire? No man, unburied,
    May see the Stygian waters, or Cocytus,
    The Furies’ dreadful river; no man may come
    Unbidden to this bank. Give up the hope
    That fate is changed by praying, but hear this,
    A little comfort in your harsh misfortune:
    Those neighboring people will make expiation,
    Driven by signs from heaven, through their cities
    And through their countryside; they will build a tomb,
    Thereto bring offerings yearly, and the place
    Shall take its name from you, Cape Palinurus.”
    So he was comforted a little, finding
    Some happiness in the promise.

                                      And they went on,
    Nearing the river, and from the stream the boatman
    Beheld them cross the silent forest, nearer,
    Turning their footsteps toward the bank. He challenged:--
    “Whoever you are, O man in armor, coming
    In this direction, halt where you are, and tell me
    The reason why you come. This is the region
    Of shadows, and of Sleep and drowsy Night;
    I am not allowed to carry living bodies
    In the Stygian boat; and I must say I was sorry
    I ever accepted Hercules and Theseus
    And Pirithous, and rowed them over the lake,
    Though they were sons of gods and great in courage.
    One of them dared to drag the guard of Hell,
    Enchained, from Pluto’s throne, shaking in terror,
    The others to snatch our queen from Pluto’s chamber.”
    The Sibyl answered briefly: “No such cunning
    Is plotted here; our weapons bring no danger.
    Be undisturbed: the hell-hound in his cavern
    May bark forever, to keep the bloodless shadows
    Frightened away from trespass; Proserpine,
    Untouched, in pureness guard her uncle’s threshold.
    Trojan Aeneas, a man renowned for goodness,
    Renowned for nerve in battle, is descending
    To the lowest shades; he comes to find his father.
    If such devotion has no meaning to you,
    Look on this branch at least, and recognize it!”
    And with the word she drew from under her mantle
    The golden bough; his swollen wrath subsided.
    No more was said; he saw the bough, and marvelled
    At the holy gift, so long unseen; came sculling
    The dark-blue boat to the shore, and drove the spirits,
    Lining the thwarts, ashore, and cleared the gangway,
    And took Aeneas aboard; as that big man
    Stepped in, the leaky skiff groaned under the weight,
    And the strained seams let in the muddy water,
    But they made the crossing safely, seer and soldier,
    To the far margin, colorless and shapeless,
    Grey sedge and dark-brown ooze. They heard the baying
    Of Cerberus, that great hound, in his cavern crouching,
    Making the shore resound, as all three throats
    Belled horribly; and serpents rose and bristled
    Along the triple neck. The priestess threw him
    A sop with honey and drugged meal; he opened
    The ravenous throat, gulped, and subsided, filling
    The den with his huge bulk. Aeneas, crossing,
    Passed on beyond the bank of the dread river
    Whence none return.

                              A wailing of thin voices
    Came to their ears, the souls of infants crying,
    Those whom the day of darkness took from the breast
    Before their share of living. And there were many
    Whom some false sentence brought to death. Here Minos
    Judges them once again; a silent jury
    Reviews the evidence. And there are others,
    Guilty of nothing, but who hated living,
    The suicides. How gladly, now, they would suffer
    Poverty, hardship, in the world of light!
    But this is not permitted; they are bound
    Nine times around by the black unlovely river;
    Styx holds them fast.

                            They came to the Fields of Mourning,
    So-called, where those whom cruel love had wasted
    Hid in secluded pathways, under myrtle,
    And even in death were anxious. Procris, Phaedra,
    Eriphyle, displaying wounds her son
    Had given her, Caeneus, Laodamia,
    Caeneus, a young man once, and now again
    A young man, after having been a woman.
    And here, new come from her own wound, was Dido,
    Wandering in the wood. The Trojan hero,
    Standing near by, saw her, or thought he saw her,
    Dim in the shadows, like the slender crescent
    Of moon when cloud drifts over. Weeping, he greets her:--
    “Unhappy Dido, so they told me truly
    That your own hand had brought you death. Was I--
    Alas!--the cause? I swear by all the stars,
    By the world above, by everything held sacred
    Here under the earth, unwillingly, O queen,
    I left your kingdom. But the gods’ commands,
    Driving me now through these forsaken places,
    This utter night, compelled me on. I could not
    Believe my loss would cause so great a sorrow.
    Linger a moment, do not leave me; whither,
    Whom, are you fleeing? I am permitted only
    This last word with you.”

                                But the queen, unmoving
    As flint or marble, turned away, her eyes
    Fixed on the ground: the tears were vain, the words,
    Meant to be soothing, foolish; she turned away,
    His enemy forever, to the shadows
    Where Sychaeus, her former husband, took her
    With love for love, and sorrow for her sorrow.
    And still Aeneas wept for her, being troubled
    By the injustice of her doom; his pity
    Followed her going.

                              They went on. They came
    To the farthest fields, whose tenants are the warriors,
    Illustrious throng. Here Tydeus came to meet him,
    Parthenopaeus came, and pale Adrastus,
    A fighter’s ghost, and many, many others,
    Mourned in the world above, and doomed in battle,
    Leaders of Troy, in long array; Aeneas
    Sighed as he saw them: Medon; Polyboetes,
    The priest of Ceres; Glaucus; and Idaeus
    Still keeping arms and chariot; three brothers,
    Antenor’s sons; Thersilochus; a host
    To right and left of him, and when they see him,
    One sight is not enough; they crowd around him,
    Linger, and ask the reasons for his coming.
    But Agamemnon’s men, the Greek battalions,
    Seeing him there, and his arms in shadow gleaming,
    Tremble in panic, turn to flee for refuge,
    As once they used to, toward their ships, but where
    Are the ships now? They try to shout, in terror;
    But only a thin and piping treble issues
    To mock their mouths, wide-open.

                                        One he knew
    Was here, Deiphobus, a son of Priam,
    With his whole body mangled, and his features
    Cruelly slashed, and both hands cut, and ears
    Torn from his temples, and his nostrils slit
    By shameful wounds. Aeneas hardly knew him,
    Shivering there, and doing his best to hide
    His marks of punishment; unhailed, he hailed him:--
    “Deiphobus, great warrior, son of Teucer,
    Whose cruel punishment was this? Whose license
    Abused you so? I heard, it seems, a story
    Of that last night, how you had fallen, weary
    With killing Greeks at last; I built a tomb,
    Although no body lay there, in your honor,
    Three times I cried, aloud, over your spirit,
    Where now your name and arms keep guard. I could not,
    Leaving my country, find my friend, to give him
    Proper interment in the earth he came from.”
    And Priam’s son replied:--“Nothing, dear comrade,
    Was left undone; the dead man’s shade was given
    All ceremony due. It was my own fortune
    And a Spartan woman’s deadliness that sunk me
    Under these evils; she it was who left me
    These souvenirs. You know how falsely happy
    We were on that last night; I need not tell you.
    When that dread horse came leaping over our walls,
    Pregnant with soldiery, she led the dancing,
    A solemn rite, she called it, with Trojan women
    Screaming their bacchanals; she raised the torches
    High on the citadel; she called the Greeks.
    Then--I was worn with trouble, drugged in slumber,
    Resting in our ill-omened bridal chamber,
    With sleep as deep and sweet as death upon me--
    Then she, that paragon of helpmates, deftly
    Moved all the weapons from the house; my sword,
    Even, she stole from underneath my pillow,
    Opened the door, and called in Menelaus,
    Hoping, no doubt, to please her loving husband,
    To win forgetfulness of her old sinning.
    It is quickly told: they broke into the chamber,
    The two of them, and with them, as accomplice,
    Ulysses came, the crime-contriving bastard.
    O gods, pay back the Greeks; grant the petition
    If goodness asks for vengeance! But you, Aeneas,
    A living man--what chance has brought you here?
    Vagrant of ocean, god-inspired,--which are you?
    What chance has worn you down, to come, in sadness,
    To these confusing sunless dwelling-places?”

      While they were talking, Aurora’s rosy car
    Had halfway crossed the heaven; all their time
    Might have been spent in converse, but the Sibyl
    Hurried them forward:--“Night comes on, Aeneas;
    We waste the hours with tears. We are at the cross-road,
    Now; here we turn to the right, where the pathway leads
    On to Elysium, under Pluto’s ramparts.
    Leftward is Tartarus, and retribution,
    The terminal of the wicked, and their dungeon.”
    Deiphobus left them, saying, “O great priestess,
    Do not be angry with me; I am going;
    I shall not fail the roll-call of the shadows.
    Pride of our race, go on; may better fortune
    Attend you!” and, upon the word, he vanished.

      As he looked back, Aeneas saw, to his left,
    Wide walls beneath a cliff, a triple rampart,
    A river running fire, Phlegethon’s torrent,
    Rocks roaring in its course, a gate, tremendous,
    Pillars of adamant, a tower of iron,
    Too strong for men, too strong for even gods
    To batter down in warfare, and behind them
    A Fury, sentinel in bloody garments,
    Always on watch, by day, by night. He heard
    Sobbing and groaning there, the crack of the lash,
    The clank of iron, the sound of dragging shackles.
    The noise was terrible; Aeneas halted,
    Asking, “What forms of crime are these, O maiden?
    What harrying punishment, what horrible outcry?”
    She answered:--“O great leader of the Trojans,
    I have never crossed that threshold of the wicked;
    No pure soul is permitted entrance thither,
    But Hecate, by whose order I was given
    Charge of Avernus’ groves, my guide, my teacher,
    Told me how gods exact the toll of vengeance.
    The monarch here, merciless Rhadamanthus,
    Punishes guilt, and hears confession; he forces
    Acknowledgment of crime; no man in the world,
    No matter how cleverly he hides his evil,
    No matter how much he smiles at his own slyness,
    Can fend atonement off; the hour of death
    Begins his sentence. Tisiphone, the Fury,
    Leaps at the guilty with her scourge; her serpents
    Are whips of menace as she calls her sisters.
    Imagine the gates, on jarring hinge, rasp open,
    You would see her in the doorway, a shape, a sentry,
    Savage, implacable. Beyond, still fiercer,
    The monstrous Hydra dwells; her fifty throats
    Are black, and open wide, and Tartarus
    Is black, and open wide, and it goes down
    To darkness, sheer deep down, and twice the distance
    That earth is from Olympus. At the bottom
    The Titans crawl, Earth’s oldest breed, hurled under
    By thunderbolts; here lie the giant twins,
    Aloeus’ sons, who laid their hands on heaven
    And tried to pull down Jove; Salmoneus here
    Atones for high presumption,--it was he
    Who aped Jove’s noise and fire, wheeling his horses
    Triumphant through his city in Elis, cheering
    And shaking the torch, and claiming divine homage,
    The arrogant fool, to think his brass was lightning,
    His horny-footed horses beat out thunder!
    Jove showed him what real thunder was, what lightning
    Spoke from immortal cloud, what whirlwind fury
    Came sweeping from the heaven to overtake him.
    Here Tityos, Earth’s giant son, lies sprawling
    Over nine acres, with a monstrous vulture
    Gnawing, with crooked beak, vitals and liver
    That grow as they are eaten; eternal anguish,
    Eternal feast. Over another hangs
    A rock, about to fall; and there are tables
    Set for a banquet, gold with royal splendor,
    But if a hand goes out to touch the viands,
    The Fury drives it back with fire and yelling.
    Why name them all, Pirithous, the Lapiths,
    Ixion? The roll of crime would take forever.
    Whoever, in his lifetime, hated his brother,
    Or struck his father down; whoever cheated
    A client, or was miserly--how many
    Of these there seem to be!--whoever went
    To treasonable war, or broke a promise
    Made to his lord, whoever perished, slain
    Over adultery, all these, walled in,
    Wait here their punishment. Seek not to know
    Too much about their doom. The stone is rolled,
    The wheel keeps turning; Theseus forever
    Sits in dejection; Phlegyas, accursed,
    Cries through the halls forever: _Being warned,
    Learn justice; reverence the gods!_ The man
    Who sold his country is here in hell; the man
    Who altered laws for money; and a father
    Who knew his daughter’s bed. All of them dared,
    And more than dared, achieved, unspeakable
    Ambitions. If I had a hundred tongues,
    A hundred iron throats, I could not tell
    The fullness of their crime and punishment.”
    And then she added:--“Come: resume the journey,
    Fulfill the mission; let us hurry onward.
    I see the walls the Cyclops made, the portals
    Under the archway, where, the orders tell us,
    Our tribute must be set.” They went together
    Through the way’s darkness, came to the doors, and halted,
    And at the entrance Aeneas, having sprinkled
    His body with fresh water, placed the bough
    Golden before the threshold. The will of the goddess
    Had been performed, the proper task completed.

      They came to happy places, the joyful dwelling,
    The lovely greenery of the groves of the blessèd.
    Here ampler air invests the fields with light,
    Rose-colored, with familiar stars and sun.
    Some grapple on the grassy wrestling-ground
    In exercise and sport, and some are dancing,
    And others singing; in his trailing robe
    Orpheus strums the lyre; the seven clear notes
    Accompany the dance, the song. And heroes
    Are there, great-souled, born in the happier years,
    Ilus, Assaracus; the city’s founder,
    Prince Dardanus. Far off, Aeneas wonders,
    Seeing the phantom arms, the chariots,
    The spears fixed in the ground, the chargers browsing,
    Unharnessed, over the plain. Whatever, living,
    The men delighted in, whatever pleasure
    Was theirs in horse and chariot, still holds them
    Here under the world. To right and left, they banquet
    In the green meadows, and a joyful chorus
    Rises through groves of laurel, whence the river
    Runs to the upper world. The band of heroes
    Dwell here, all those whose mortal wounds were suffered
    In fighting for the fatherland; and poets,
    The good, the pure, the worthy of Apollo;
    Those who discovered truth and made life nobler;
    Those who served others--all, with snowy fillets
    Binding their temples, throng the lovely valley.
    And these the Sibyl questioned, most of all
    Musaeus, for he towered above the center
    Of that great throng:--“O happy souls, O poet,
    Where does Anchises dwell? For him we come here.
    For him we have traversed Erebus’ great rivers.”
    And he replied:--“It is all our home, the shady
    Groves, and the streaming meadows, and the softness
    Along the river-banks. No fixed abode
    Is ours at all; but if it is your pleasure,
    Cross over the ridge with me; I will guide you there
    By easy going.” And so Musaeus led them
    And from the summit showed them fields, all shining,
    And they went on over and down.

      Deep in a valley of green, father Anchises
    Was watching, with deep earnestness, the spirits
    Whose destiny was light, and counting them over,
    All of his race to come, his dear descendants,
    Their fates and fortunes and their works and ways,
    And as he saw Aeneas coming toward him
    Over the meadow, his hands reached out with yearning,
    He was moved to tears, and called:--“At last, my son,--
    Have you really come, at last? and the long road nothing
    To a son who loves his father? Do I, truly,
    See you, and hear your voice? I was thinking so,
    I was hoping so, I was counting off the days,
    And I was right about it. O my son!
    What a long journey, over land and water,
    Yours must have been! What buffeting of danger!
    I feared, so much, the Libyan realm would hurt you.”
    And his son answered:--“It was your spirit, father,
    Your sorrowful shade, so often met, that led me
    To find these portals. The ships ride safe at anchor,
    Safe in the Tuscan sea. Embrace me, father;
    Let hand join hand in love; do not forsake me.”
    And as he spoke, the tears streamed down. Three times
    He reached out toward him, and three times the image
    Fled like the breath of the wind or a dream on wings.

      He saw, in a far valley, a separate grove
    Where the woods stir and rustle, and a river,
    The Lethe, gliding past the peaceful places,
    And tribes of people thronging, hovering over,
    Innumerable as the bees in summer
    Working the bright-hued flowers, and the shining
    Of the white lilies, murmuring and humming.
    Aeneas, filled with wonder, asks the reason
    For what he does not know, who are the people
    In such a host, and to what river coming?
    Anchises answers:--“These are spirits, ready
    Once more for life; they drink of Lethe’s water
    The soothing potion of forgetfulness.
    I have longed, for long, to show them to you, name them,
    Our children’s children; Italy discovered,
    So much the greater happiness, my son.”
    “But, O my father, is it thinkable
    That souls would leave this blessedness, be willing
    A second time to bear the sluggish body,
    Trade Paradise for earth? Alas, poor wretches,
    Why such a mad desire for light?” Anchises
    Gives detailed answer: “First, my son, a spirit
    Sustains all matter, heaven and earth and ocean,
    The moon, the stars; mind quickens mass, and moves it.
    Hence comes the race of man, of beast, of wingèd
    Creatures of air, of the strange shapes which ocean
    Bears down below his mottled marble surface.
    All these are blessed with energy from heaven;
    The seed of life is a spark of fire, but the body
    A clod of earth, a clog, a mortal burden.
    Hence humans fear, desire, grieve, and are joyful,
    And even when life is over, all the evil
    Ingrained so long, the adulterated mixture,
    The plagues and pestilences of the body
    Remain, persist. So there must be a cleansing,
    By penalty, by punishment, by fire,
    By sweep of wind, by water’s absolution,
    Before the guilt is gone. Each of us suffers
    His own peculiar ghost. But the day comes
    When we are sent through wide Elysium,
    The Fields of the Blessed, a few of us, to linger
    Until the turn of time, the wheel of ages,
    Wears off the taint, and leaves the core of spirit
    Pure sense, pure flame. A thousand years pass over
    And the god calls the countless host to Lethe
    Where memory is annulled, and souls are willing
    Once more to enter into mortal bodies.”

      The discourse ended; the father drew his son
    And his companion toward the hum, the center
    Of the full host; they came to rising ground
    Where all the long array was visible,
    Anchises watching, noting, every comer.
    “Glory to come, my son, illustrious spirits
    Of Dardan lineage, Italian offspring,
    Heirs of our name, begetters of our future!
    These I will name for you and tell our fortunes:
    First, leaning on a headless spear, and standing
    Nearest the light, that youth, the first to rise
    To the world above, is Silvius; his name
    Is Alban; in his veins Italian blood
    Will run with Trojan; he will be the son
    Of your late age; Lavinia will bear him,
    A king and sire of kings; from him our race
    Will rule in Alba Longa. Near him, Procas,
    A glory to the Trojan race; and Capys,
    And Numitor, and Silvius Aeneas,
    Resembling you in name, in arms, in goodness,
    If ever he wins the Alban kingdom over.
    What fine young men they are! What strength, what prowess!
    The civic oak already shades their foreheads.
    These will found cities, Gabii, Fidenae,
    Nomentum; they will crown the hills with towers
    Above Collatia, Inuus fortress, Bola,
    Cora, all names to be, thus far ungiven.

      “And there will be a son of Mars; his mother
    Is Ilia, and his name is Romulus,
    Assaracus’ descendant. On his helmet
    See, even now, twin plumes; his father’s honor
    Confers distinction on him for the world.
    Under his auspices Rome, that glorious city,
    Will bound her power by earth, her pride by heaven,
    Happy in hero sons, one wall surrounding
    Her seven hills, even as Cybele, riding
    Through Phrygian cities, wears her crown of towers,
    Rejoicing in her offspring, and embracing
    A hundred children of the gods, her children,
    Celestials, all of them, at home in heaven.
    Turn the eyes now this way; behold the Romans,
    Your very own. These are Iulus’ children,
    The race to come. One promise you have heard
    Over and over: here is its fulfillment,
    The son of a god, Augustus Caesar, founder
    Of a new age of gold, in lands where Saturn
    Ruled long ago; he will extend his empire
    Beyond the Indies, beyond the normal measure
    Of years and constellations, where high Atlas
    Turns on his shoulders the star-studded world.
    Maeotia and the Caspian seas are trembling
    As heaven’s oracles predict his coming,
    And all the seven mouths of Nile are troubled.
    Not even Hercules, in all his travels,
    Covered so much of the world, from Erymanthus
    To Lerna; nor did Bacchus, driving his tigers
    From Nysa’s summit. How can hesitation
    Keep us from deeds to make our prowess greater?
    What fear can block us from Ausonian land?

      “And who is that one yonder, wearing the olive,
    Holding the sacrifice? I recognize him,
    That white-haired king of Rome, who comes from Cures,
    A poor land, to a mighty empire, giver
    Of law to the young town. His name is Numa.
    Near him is Tullus; he will rouse to arms
    A race grown sluggish, little used to triumph.
    Beyond him Ancus, even now too boastful,
    Too fond of popular favor. And then the Tarquins,
    And the avenger Brutus, proud of spirit,
    Restorer of the balance. He shall be
    First holder of the consular power; his children
    Will stir up wars again, and he, for freedom
    And her sweet sake, will call down judgment on them,
    Unhappy, however future men may praise him,
    In love of country and intense ambition.

      “There are the Decii, and there the Drusi,
    A little farther off, and stern Torquatus,
    The man with the axe, and Camillus, the regainer
    Of standards lost. And see those two, resplendent
    In equal arms, harmonious friendly spirits
    Now, in the shadow of night, but if they ever
    Come to the world of light, alas, what warfare,
    What battle-lines, what slaughter they will fashion,
    Each for the other, one from Alpine ramparts
    Descending, and the other ranged against him
    With armies from the east, father and son
    Through marriage, Pompey and Caesar. O my children,
    Cast out the thoughts of war, and do not murder
    The flower of our country. O my son,
    Whose line descends from heaven, let the sword
    Fall from the hand, be leader in forbearing!

      “Yonder is one who, victor over Corinth,
    Will ride in triumph home, famous for carnage
    Inflicted on the Greeks; near him another,
    Destroyer of old Argus and Mycenae
    Where Agamemnon ruled; he will strike down
    A king descended from Achilles; Pydna
    Shall be revenge for Pallas’ ruined temple,
    For Trojan ancestors. Who would pass over,
    Without a word, Cossus, or noble Cato,
    The Gracchi, or those thunderbolts of warfare,
    The Scipios, Libya’s ruin, or Fabricius
    Mighty with little, or Serranus, ploughing
    The humble furrow? My tale must hurry on:
    I see the Fabii next, and their great Quintus
    Who brought us back an empire by delaying.
    Others, no doubt, will better mould the bronze
    To the semblance of soft breathing, draw, from marble,
    The living countenance; and others plead
    With greater eloquence, or learn to measure,
    Better than we, the pathways of the heaven,
    The risings of the stars: remember, Roman,
    To rule the people under law, to establish
    The way of peace, to battle down the haughty,
    To spare the meek. Our fine arts, these, forever.”

      Anchises paused a moment, and they marvelled.
    And he went on:--“See, how Marcellus triumphs,
    Glorious over all, with the great trophies
    Won when he slew the captain of the Gauls,
    Leader victorious over leading foeman.
    When Rome is in great trouble and confusion
    He will establish order, Gaul and Carthage
    Go down before his sword, and triple trophies
    Be given Romulus in dedication.”

      There was a young man going with Marcellus,
    Brilliant in shining armor, bright in beauty,
    But sorrowful, with downcast eyes. Aeneas
    Broke in, to ask his father: “Who is this youth
    Attendant on the hero? A son of his?
    One of his children’s children? How the crowd
    Murmurs and hums around him! what distinction,
    What presence, in his person! But dark night
    Hovers around his head with mournful shadow.
    Who is he, father?” And Anchises answered:--
    “Great sorrow for our people! O my son,
    Ask not to know it. This one fate will only
    Show to the world; he will not be permitted
    Any long sojourn. Rome would be too mighty,
    Too great in the gods’ sight, were this gift hers.
    What lamentation will the field of Mars
    Raise to the city! Tiber, gliding by
    The new-built tomb, the funeral state, bear witness!
    No youth from Trojan stock will ever raise
    His ancestors so high in hope, no Roman
    Be such a cause for pride. Alas for goodness,
    Alas for old-time honor, and the arm
    Invincible in war! Against him no one,
    Whether on foot or foaming horse, would come
    In battle and depart unscathed. Poor boy,
    If you should break the cruel fates; if only--
    You are to be Marcellus. Let me scatter
    Lilies, or dark-red flowers, bringing honor
    To my descendant’s shade; let the gift be offered,
    However vain the tribute.”

      So through the whole wide realm they went together,
    Anchises and his son; from fields of air
    Learning and teaching of the fame and glory,
    The wars to come, the toils to face, or flee from,
    Latinus’ city and the Latin peoples,
    The love of what would be.

                                  There are two portals,
    Twin gates of Sleep, one made of horn, where easy
    Release is given true shades, the other gleaming
    White ivory, whereby the false dreams issue
    To the upper air. Aeneas and the Sibyl
    Part from Anchises at the second portal.
    He goes to the ships, again, rejoins his comrades,
    Sails to Caieta’s harbor, and the vessels
    Rest on their mooring-lines.




BOOK VII

ITALY: THE OUTBREAK OF WAR


      Here on our shores a woman died, Caieta,
    Nurse of Aeneas, and her name still guards
    Her resting-place with honor, if such glory
    Is comforting to dust.

                            Her funeral mound
    Was raised, and solemn rites performed; Aeneas,
    When the deep water quieted, set sail.
    The wind held fair to the night, and the white moon
    Revealed the way over the tremulous water.
    They skimmed the shores of Circe’s island; there
    The sun’s rich daughter made the secret groves
    Ring with continual singing, and the halls
    Were bright with cedar burning through the night,
    And the strident shuttle ran across the weaving.
    Off shore, they heard the angry growl of lions
    Trying to shake their shackles off, and roaring
    In the late darkness, bristling boars, and bears
    Coughing in cages, and the great wolves howling.
    All these were men, whom cruel Circe’s magic
    Changed into animals. But Neptune kept
    The Trojans safely seaward, filled the sails,
    Carried them safely past these anxious harbors.

      And now the sea is crimson under the dawn,
    Aurora glowing in her ruddy car,
    And the winds go down, and the air is very still,
    The slow oars struggle in the marble sea,
    As from the ship Aeneas sees a grove
    And through its midst a pleasant river running,
    The Tiber, yellow sand and whirling eddy,
    Down to the sea. Around, above and over,
    Fly the bright-colored birds, the water-haunters,
    Charming the air with song. The order given,
    The Trojans turn their course to land; they enter
    The channel and the shade.

                                  Help me, Erato,
    To tell the story: who were kings in Latium,
    What was the state of things, when that strange army
    First made for shore? Dear goddess, help the poet!
    There is much to tell of, the initial trouble,
    The grim development of war, the battles,
    The princes in their bravery driven to death,
    Etruscan cohorts, all the land in the west
    Marshalled in armor. This is a greater mission,
    A greater work, that moves me.

                                      King Latinus
    Was an old man, long ruler over a country
    Blessed with the calm of peace. He was, they tell us,
    The son of Faunus; Marica was his mother,
    A nymph, Laurentian-born. And Faunus’ father
    Was Picus, son of Saturn, the line’s founder.
    Latinus had no sons; they had been taken,
    By fate, in their young manhood; an only daughter
    Survived to keep the house alive, a girl
    Ripe for a husband. She had many suitors
    From Latium, from Ausonia. Most handsome,
    Most blessed in ancestry, was the prince Turnus,
    Whom the queen mother favored, but the portents
    Of the high gods opposed. There was a laurel
    In the palace courtyard, tended through the years
    With sacred reverence, which king Latinus,
    When first he built the city, had discovered,
    And hallowed to Apollo, and the people
    Were called Laurentians, from its name. A marvel,
    So runs the story, occurred here once, a swarm
    Of bees, that came, loud-humming through clear air
    To settle in the branches, a dense jumble
    All through the leafy boughs. “We see a stranger,”
    The prophet cried, “and a strange column coming
    On the same course to the same destination,
    We see him lord it over the height of the city.”
    Another time Lavinia was standing
    Beside her father at the altar, bringing
    The holy torch to light the fire, when--horror!--
    Her hair broke out in flame, sparks leaped and crackled
    From diadem and coronal; her progress
    Was a shower of fire, as she moved through the palace
    Robed with gray smoke and yellow light, a vision
    Fearful and wonderful. She would be glorious,
    They said, in fame and fortune, but the people
    Were doomed, on her account, to war.

                                            Latinus
    Was troubled by such prophecies, and turned
    To Faunus, his prophetic father, seeking
    His oracles for help, in Albunean
    Woodland and forest, where the holy fountain
    Makes music, breathing vapor from the darkness.
    Italian men, Oenotrian tribes, in trouble
    Come here for answers; here the priesthood, bringing
    The offerings for sacrifice, by night-time
    Slumbers on fleece of victims, seeing visions,
    Hearing strange voices, meeting gods in converse,
    Deep down in Acheron. Hither Latinus
    Came, pilgrim and petitioner; the fleeces
    Were spread for him, a hundred woolly victims,
    And as he lay, half waking and half sleeping,
    From the deep grove he heard a voice:--“My son,
    Seek not a Latin husband for the princess;
    Distrust this bridal; stranger sons are coming
    To wed our children, to exalt our title
    High as the stars, and from that marriage offspring
    Will see, as surely as sun looks down on ocean,
    The whole world at their feet.” These answers Faunus
    Gave to his son, warnings in night and silence;
    Latinus may have said no word, but Rumor
    Had spread the news, all up and down the cities
    Throughout Ausonia, by the time the Trojans
    Tied up their vessels at the grassy landing.

      Aeneas and the captains and Iulus
    Sprawled in the shade; a feast was spread; they placed
    The wheels of hardtack on the ground, and on them
    Morsels of food, and sliced or quartered apples,
    And after these were eaten, hunger drove them
    To break the disks beneath with teeth and fingers.
    “Ho!” cries Iulus, “We are eating our tables!”
    A boy’s joke, nothing more. But the spoken word
    Meant something more, and deeper, to Aeneas,
    An end of hardship. He caught up the saying,
    Felt the god’s presence. “Hail!” he cried, remembering,
    “Hail, O my destined land! All hail, ye faithful
    Gods of our homeland! Here our country lies.
    Now I remember what Anchises told me:
    _My son, when hunger overtakes you, driven
    To unknown shores, and the food seems so little
    You find it best to gnaw the tables also,
    There hope for home, there build, however weary,
    The city walls, the moat, the ditch, the rampart._
    This must have been that hunger, and the ending
    Of our misfortunes. Come then, let us gladly
    Explore what lands these are, what people hold them.
    Now pour your cups to Jove, in the light of morning,
    Pray to Anchises; let the wine again
    Go round in happiness.” He wreathed his temples
    With forest greenery, and made his prayers,
    To the genius of the place, to the nymphs, to Earth,
    Oldest of goddesses, to the unknown rivers,
    To Night, and all her rising stars, to Jove,
    To Cybele, to his parents, in heaven or Hades.
    And the almighty father thrice made thunder
    From the clear sky, and a bright cloud blazed above them
    With rays of burning light, and a sudden rumor
    Runs through the Trojan ranks that the day has come
    To build the city due them. Cheered by the omen,
    They hurry on the feast, set out the wine-bowls,
    Crown them with garlands.

                                  And on the next bright morning
    As light streamed over the earth, they took the bearings
    For city and land and coast-line; here they found
    Numicius’ fountain, here the river Tiber,
    Here the brave Latins dwell. A hundred envoys,
    Picked men of every station, Aeneas orders
    To go to King Latinus’ noble city:
    They must bear gifts, be crowned with leaves of olive,
    Appeal for peace. They hurry at his bidding.
    Aeneas himself marks where the walls shall rise,
    With a shallow trench, studies the site, and circles
    The settlement, like a camp, with moat and rampart.
    And his ambassadors had made their journey;
    They were seeing, now, the Latin towers and roof-tops,
    And, on suburban plains, young men in training,
    Breaking their steeds to saddle or car, or drawing
    The bow, or hurling darts, daring each other
    To fights and races. A courier, at the gallop,
    Brought the king word that foreigners were coming,
    Big men, in strange attire. He bade them welcome,
    And took his place, high on the throne, before them.

      That was a mighty palace, rising high
    Over the city, with a hundred columns;
    Picus had ruled from there, and the place was holy
    With sacred forest and revered tradition.
    Here kings received the sceptre, here uplifted
    The bundled rods of power; here was their senate,
    Their banquet-hall, their temple; here the elders
    Made sacrifice, faced the long line of tables.
    And here were statues of the ancient fathers,
    Carved out of cedar, Italus, Sabinus,
    The planter of the vine, whose image guarded
    The curving sickle, and Saturn, and two-faced Janus,
    All standing in the hallways; and other kings
    From the very first beginning; and warriors wounded
    Fighting for homeland. On the door were hanging
    The consecrated arms; and there were chariots,
    Trophies of battle, curving axes, helmets
    And helmet-plumes, bars wrenched from gates, and javelins,
    And shields, and beaks of captured ships. Quirinus,
    The god (on earth the hero, Romulus),
    Was seated, holding the sacred staff of office,
    Wearing the augur’s robe; and near him Picus,
    Tamer of horses, whom that lovesick woman,
    Circe, his wife, had struck with her golden wand,
    And changed by magic spells into a bird
    Whose wings were of many colors.

                                          In this temple,
    Latinus, from his father’s throne, gave summons,
    And the Trojans entered, and he made them greeting
    In courteous oration: “Tell me, Trojans--
    We know, you see, your city and race, your voyage
    Across the oceans--tell me your petition.
    What cause, what need, has brought you here? You have come
    Over the blue-green waters to Ausonia.
    Were you off your course, or driven by storm? Mischances
    On the high seas are not unknown to sailors.
    No matter: you have entered peaceful rivers,
    You rest in a good harbor. We bid you welcome.
    Do not avoid our friendship. We must tell you
    We Latins come from Saturn; we are people
    Whose sense of justice comes from our own nature
    And the custom of our god. No law, no bondage,
    Compels our decency. And I remember,
    Though it was long ago, some story told us
    By older men; it seems that Dardanus,
    An ancestor of yours, was born here, left here
    For towns in Phrygian Ida, and Thracian Samos,
    Or Samothrace, they call it now. He left here,
    When he departed, from his Tuscan dwelling
    Called Corythus, and now the golden palace
    Of starry sky receives him, throned in heaven,
    A god, who multiplies their count of altars.”

      Ilioneus answered:--“Son of Faunus,
    Great king, no tempest and no blackness drove us
    Over the waves to shelter here; no star,
    No shore, has fooled us in our voyage.
    We came on purpose, and with willing hearts,
    To this your city, exiled from a kingdom,
    The greatest, once, that ever the sun looked down on.
    We come from Jove; in Jove as ancestor
    The sons of Troy rejoice; our king, Aeneas,
    Himself is sprung from Jove; it is he who sent us
    To seek your threshold. No one in all the world,
    Whether he lives on the farthest edge of ocean,
    Whether he lives in the deepest heart of the tropics,
    No one, I think, but knows how fierce a storm-cloud
    Broke from Mycenae over the plains of Ida,
    And how two worlds, Europe and Asia, battled
    Driven by fate to war. We have been driven
    By that great tidal wave across vast oceans,
    And now we ask a little home, a harbor--
    We will do no damage--for our country’s gods,
    We ask for nothing more than all should have,
    For air and water. You need not be sorry,
    We shall do nothing shameful in your kingdom,
    Your fame, your kindness, as we tell the story,
    Will grow in greatness. Ausonia, I promise,
    Will not regret receiving Troy. I swear it
    On our captain’s fate and honor, proven often
    In loyalty, in war. There are many nations,
    Nations and people both, who have often sought us,
    Wanted us for their allies--do not scorn us
    For coming as petitioners, with garlands,
    With suppliant words--it was the will of heaven
    That drove us to your shores. Dardanus came
    From here, and over and over again Apollo guides us
    To Tiber and Numicia’s sacred fountain.
    Our king is sending presents, little tokens
    Of former fortune, relics and remainders
    Rescued from Troy on fire. This gold Anchises
    Used when he poured libations at the altar,
    This sceptre and this diadem were Priam’s,
    Who wore these robes, the work of Trojan women,
    When he gave laws to the assembled people.”

      Latinus, at his words, was grave; he held
    His gaze downcast, but his anxious eyes kept turning.
    It was not the crimson color, nor Priam’s sceptre,
    That moved him so; he was thinking of his daughter,
    Her marriage, and the oracle of Faunus.
    This one might be the man, this stranger, coming
    From a far-off land, might be his son, a ruler
    Called, by the fates, to share his power, to father
    Illustrious children, masters of the world.
    He spoke, in gladness:--“Bless, O gods, our project
    And your own augury! It will be given,
    O Trojan, as you ask. I do not scorn
    The gifts you bring. Never, while I am ruling,
    Shall you be lacking fruitful land in plenty,
    And Troy’s abundance shall be yours forever.
    And as for king Aeneas, if you bring us
    True tidings of his longing for our friendship,
    Our hospitality, and our alliance,
    Let him appear in person, let him never
    Shrink from our friendly gaze. To King Latinus
    It will be pact and covenant to meet him,
    To take him by the hand. Give him my answer:
    I have a daughter; prodigies from heaven
    Innumerable, and my father’s warnings,
    Delivered through his oracle, forbid me
    To give my daughter to a native husband.
    They tell me that my son-to-be is coming
    From foreign shores, to raise our name to heaven.
    Such is the prophecy they make for Latium.
    Your king, I think, must be the man they promise,
    If I have any sense of divination.
    He is the one I choose.”

                                  And he brought horses,
    The pick of his stables, out of all his hundreds,
    Assigned them to the Trojans in due order,
    Swift runners they were, caparisoned with crimson,
    With saddle-cloths of gold, and golden halters
    Swung at their shoulders, and the bits were golden.
    He chose a chariot for Aeneas; with it
    Two stallions breathing fire, immortal horses
    Sprung from the stock which Circe, in her cunning,
    Had stolen from the sun, her father, and bred them
    To her own mares. The Trojans rode back happy
    With gifts and peace and welcome from Latinus.

      And here was Juno coming back from Argos,
    Riding the air, and fierce as ever, seeing,
    As far away as Sicily and Pachynus,
    Aeneas and the Trojan fleet rejoicing.
    She saw them building homes, she saw them trusting
    The friendly land, she saw their ships forsaken.
    She stopped, she tossed her head, in hurt and hatred,
    Speaking, with none to listen:--“There they are,
    The race I hate, the fates that fight my own.
    They could not die on Sigean fields; they could not
    Be captured, and stay captured. Troy went down,
    It seems, in fire, and they rose from the ashes.
    Armies and flame were nothing; they found the way.
    Whereas my power, no doubt, lies weak and weary,
    I have hated them enough, I am tired of hating,
    I have earned my rest. Or have I? I dared to follow
    Those exiles over the water with deadly hatred,
    Used up all threats of sea and sky against them,
    And what good did it do? Scylla, Charybdis,
    The Syrtes, all availed me nothing. Tiber
    Shelters them in his channel now, in safety.
    What do they care for me, or the threats of ocean?
    Mars could destroy the giant race of Lapiths,
    Jupiter put a curse on Calydon
    To soothe Diana’s anger; what had either,
    Calydon or the Lapiths, done to merit
    The vengeance of the gods? But I, great queen
    Of heaven, wife of Jove, I keep enduring,
    Dare everything, turn everywhere, for nothing--
    I am beaten by Aeneas! So, if my power
    Falls short of greatness, I must try another’s,
    Seek aid where I can find it. If I cannot
    Bend Heaven, I can raise Hell. It will not be given,--
    I know, I know--to keep him from his kingdom,
    To keep him from his bride: Lavinia, Latium,
    Will come to him in time. It is permitted
    To keep that time far off. It is permitted
    To strike their people down. It will cost them something,
    Their precious father and son. As for the bride,
    Bloodshed will be her dowry, and Bellona
    Matron of honor. Hecuba bore one firebrand,
    And Venus’ issue shall be such another,
    A funeral torch for Troy re-born.”

                                    She came
    Earthward, with that, and summoned, in her anger,
    One of the evil goddesses, Allecto,
    Dweller in Hell’s dark shadows, sorrow-bringer,
    Lover of gloom and war and plot and hatred.
    Even her father hates her, even her sisters,
    She takes so many forms, such savage guises,
    Her hair a black and tangled nest of serpents.
    And Juno whets the knife-edge of her passion:--
    “Daughter of Night, grant me a boon, a service,
    To keep my pride and honor undefeated.
    Stop it, this Trojan swindle of Latinus
    With marriages, this ravage of his kingdom!
    You have the power: when brothers love each other
    You know the way to arm them, set them fighting,
    You can turn houses upside down with malice,
    Bring under one roof the lash, the funeral torches,
    You have a thousand names of evil-doing,
    A thousand ways and means. Invent, imagine,
    Contrive--break up the peace, sow seeds of warfare,
    Let arms be what they want; in the same moment
    Let arms be what they seize.”

                                    Therewith Allecto,
    Infected with her Gorgon poison, travelled
    To Latium and the palace, where the queen,
    Amata, brooded, womanly resentment
    Burning within her heart, for Turnus’ marriage,
    And, fuel on fire, the coming of the Trojans.
    From her own dark hair, Allecto pulled one serpent
    Meant for the queen, her intimate heart, her bosom,
    Corruption, evil, frenzy, for the household.
    Between the robe and the smooth breasts the serpent
    Went gliding deep, unseen, unfelt; the woman
    Received the viperous menace. The snake grew larger,
    Became a collar of gold, became a ribbon
    Wound through the hair, entwining, sliding smoothly
    Over the limbs, mercurial poison, working
    With slow infection, no great passionate fury,
    So that the queen, at first, spoke low and softly,
    As mothers do, protesting to Latinus
    And weeping for her daughter’s Trojan marriage:--
    “Must she be given, my lord, to Trojan exiles?
    Have you no pity for her, for yourself,
    No pity for a mother? He will desert us,
    This faithless pirate, with our child as booty,
    At the first turn of the wind. That was the way--
    Remember?--the Phrygian shepherd came to Sparta
    And went away with Leda’s daughter, Helen.
    A solemn pledge--does that amount to nothing?
    You loved your people once; you were bound to Turnus.
    Our son must be a stranger; Faunus says so.
    If Faunus speaks, so be it. I remind you
    All lands, not ours, are foreign; and prince Turnus,
    By the letter of the oracle, an alien.
    Trace back his ancestry--Acrisius’ daughter
    Founded his line, and what could be more foreign
    Than the heart of Greece, Mycenae?”

                                            But she found
    Her words were vain: Latinus had decided,
    She saw she could not move him. And the poison
    By now had taken hold, a wild excitement
    Coursing the veins; her bones were turned to water;
    Poor queen, there was no limit to her raging,
    Streeling, one end of the city to another.
    You know how schoolboys, when a top is spinning,
    Snap at it with a whiplash, in a circle
    Around an empty court, and keep it going,
    Wondering at the way it keeps on whirling,
    Driven by blows in this or that direction,
    So, through the midst of cities and proud people,
    Amata drives, is driven. Madness and guilt upon her,
    She flies to the mountains, tries to hide her daughter
    Deep in the woods, acts like a drunken woman,
    Cries, over and over, “This girl is meant for Bacchus,
    And not for any Trojans, only Bacchus
    Is worthy of her; she honors him in dancing,
    Carries his wand, and keeps for him the sacred
    Lock of her hair!” And Rumor, flying over,
    Excites the other wives to leave their houses.
    They come with maddened hearts, with their hair flying,
    Their necks bare to the winds; they shriek to the skies,
    Brandish the vine-bound spears, are dressed as tigers,
    Circle and wheel around their queen, whose frenzy
    Tosses the burning pine-brand high, in gesture
    To suit the marriage-hymn: “O Latin mothers,
    Listen, wherever you are: if any care
    For poor Amata moves you, or any sense
    Of any mother’s rights, come join the revels,
    Loosen the hair, exult!” Allecto drives her
    To the dens of the beasts; her eyes are stained and bloodshot,
    Rolled upward to the white.

                                    So, thought Allecto,
    That should suffice: the palace of Latinus,
    And all the king intended, in confusion.
    She flew on dusky wings, a gloomy goddess,
    To the bold Rutulian’s walls, that city, founded,
    Men say, by Danaë and Acrisian settlers,
    A place once called Ardea, and it keeps
    Its ancient name; its glory has departed.
    And here, in his high palace, Turnus slumbered.
    In the dead of night, Allecto changed her features,
    Her limbs, transformed her glowering, her grimness,
    To an old woman’s wrinkles, bound a ribbon
    Around gray hair, worked in a wreath of olive,
    And she was Calybe then, an aged priestess
    Of Juno’s temple, and so she came to Turnus:--
    “Turnus! Can this be borne, so many labors
    Wasted, the kingdom given to the Trojans?
    The king denies you all, the bride, the dowry
    Bought with your blood; his heir must be a stranger.
    They mock you; never mind. Go forth, protect them,
    Save them from dangers, see what thanks they give you,
    Lay low the Tuscan ranks, hold over the Latins
    The shield of peace. I tell you, Juno told me,
    And you so calmly slumbering all through it,
    Rise up, be doing something, and be happy
    To see the young men armed, and get them going
    Out of the gates! There are ships to burn, and captains
    To set on fire: the mighty gods command it.
    Let King Latinus know it, let him reckon
    With Turnus in arms, unless he keeps his promise.”
    But Turnus, smiling at her, answered:--“Mother,
    You tell me nothing new; I know a fleet
    Has come to Tiber’s waters; do not scare me
    With fears imagined; Juno, I am certain,
    Has not forgotten me. Your age, old woman,
    Worn-down, truth-weary, harries you with worries,
    Makes you ridiculous, a busybody,
    Nervous for nothing in the wars of kings.
    Back to the temple, mind your proper business,
    Leave war and peace where they belong, with warriors.”
    Allecto blazed with anger: Turnus, speaking,
    Was suddenly afraid, so wild her features,
    So fierce her flaming eyes, the snakes of the Fury
    Hissing disaster. She shoves him back; he falters,
    Tries to say more; she plies her whip, she doubles
    The rising serpents, and her wild mouth cries,
    “See me for what I am, worn down, truth-weary,
    Nervous for nothing in the wars of kings!
    See what I am, see where I come from, bringing
    War, war and death, from the Grim Sisters’ home.”
    She flung the firebrand at him, torch and terror
    Smoking with lurid light. The body, sweating,
    Is torn from sleep; he cries for arms, he seeks
    Arms at his bedside, through the hallways, lusting
    For sword and steel, war’s wicked frenzy mounting
    To rampant rage. Even so a cauldron bubbles
    When fire burns hot beneath, and water seethes,
    Stirs, shifts, breaks out in boiling, and the cloud
    Of steam goes toward the sky. The peace is broken.
    The call to arms is given; let the captains
    March on Latinus, drive the foe from Latium,
    Protect the fatherland. Turnus is coming;
    No matter who they are, Trojans or Latins,
    Turnus will take them on. And his example,
    His frenzied prayer, shook his Rutulian comrades,
    All eagerness for war. They all admired him,
    For handsome bearing, youth, or deeds of courage,
    Or kingly birth: boldness engenders boldness.

      Allecto, meanwhile, took a new direction,
    To the Trojans now; she had found a place for mischief
    Along the shore, she had seen Iulus hunting;
    His hounds were driven to madness; the scent was rank,
    Hot in their nostrils; away they went, the pack
    In full cry after the deer, and that pursuit
    Was the first cause of trouble; that first kindled
    The countryside to violence. That deer,
    A handsome animal, with mighty antlers,
    Belonged, a pet, to Tyrrhus and his children,
    Who had raised him from a fawn. Tyrrhus, the father,
    Was keeper of the royal herds, and Silvia,
    The daughter, used to comb the beast, and wash him,
    Twine garlands in his horns, caress and love him,
    And he, grown used to her, would wander freely
    Over the woods and meadows, and come home
    At nightfall to the friendly door and stable.
    This was the deer Iulus’ hounds had started
    Floating downstream, reclining by the river
    For coolness’ sake, where young Ascanius, burning
    For a huntsman’s praise, saw him, and loosed the arrow
    That pierced the belly and side, so the poor creature
    Came wounded to the house he knew, and moaning
    Crept into his stall, bleeding, and like a person
    Asking for help, filled all the house with sorrow.
    First Silvia came, beating her arms, and others,
    Summoned for help, equipped themselves for vengeance,
    With Allecto lurking in the silent forest.
    A knotted club, a sharpened stake, a firebrand,
    Whatever comes to hand will serve, when anger
    Is looking for a weapon. Tyrrhus calls them,
    They are warriors now, not farmers; they leave the logging,
    The quartered oak, the wedges; in breathless anger
    Tyrrhus grabs up the axe. A perfect moment
    For the goddess on her watch-tower!--she comes flying
    To the stable roof; she sounds the shepherds’ call,
    Straining her hellish voice on the curved horn
    Till grove and woodland echo. Diana’s lake
    Hears, and Velinus’ fountain, and white Nar,
    The spring of sulphur; and mothers, in their panic,
    Hold their young children close. But swift to the sound,
    The dire alarum, came the farmers, running;
    They call no man their master; they snatch up weapons.
    And on the other side the youth of the Trojans
    Pour through the open gates to help Iulus.
    They are drawn up now; no more a rustic quarrel
    With stakes and clubs, the double-bladed steel
    Decides the issue, swords are drawn, the harvest
    Is black and spiky; bronze defies the sunlight,
    Tossing its luster cloudward. As waves at sea
    At first are little whitecaps under the wind,
    And slowly turn to billows, and then great combers,
    So rose the swell of war. Young Almo fell,
    Eldest of Tyrrhus’ sons; a whirring arrow,
    Piercing the throat, choked him in his own blood.
    And many around him fell, among them one,
    A good old man, Galaesus, who had come forward
    To plead for peace, and died; he was most just
    Of all Ausonia’s men, and wealthy, counting
    Five flocks of sheep and cattle; a hundred ploughs
    Furrowed his acres.

                          So they fought together,
    And neither won,--Allecto had kept her promise:
    She had soaked the war in blood, she had made beginning
    Of death in battle. She left the western land,
    She soared to Juno in heaven, proud of her triumph:--
    “There it is for you, perfect, war created
    From disagreement! Tell them to join in friendship,
    Let them make treaties, now my hand has spattered
    The Trojans with Ausonian blood! And still
    I can do more, if you desire it: cities
    Near-by, I can plague to war with rumors, burn them
    With wild desire for battle, bring in allies
    From everywhere; I will sow the land with armies.”
    But Juno answered:--“That is plenty, thank you;
    They can not stop it now; man battles man;
    Fresh blood is on the arms that chance first gave.
    Now let them stage that bridal feast, that wedding,
    Venus’ distinguished son, and king Latinus!
    Olympus’ ruler would be most unwilling
    To let you roam thus freely in the heavens;
    Be gone from here; whatever more is needed,
    I will attend to.” So spoke Saturn’s daughter,
    And the serpents hissed as the Fury raised her wings,
    Flew up, swooped down, to Hell. Under high hills
    In Italy’s heart, there lies a vale, Ampsanctus,
    Well known in many lands. Dark forests hide it
    On every side, and in its very centre
    A roaring torrent over the rocks goes brawling,
    And there is a cavern here, a breathing hole
    For terrible Dis, and a gorge, where Acheron river
    Opens the deadly jaws; and here Allecto
    Sank out of sight, relieving earth and heaven.

      And Juno gave the war the final touches.
    The shepherds came to the city from the battle,
    Bearing young Almo, slain, and old Galaesus,
    His peaceful face defiled; they cry to the gods,
    They call on King Latinus. Turnus is there,
    As they cry murder, fuel to their fire,
    Making their terror double: _the kingdom falls
    To the men of Troy_, he shouts; _our blood is tainted;
    I am degraded here!_ And the Latin mothers,
    Trooping the pathless woods in Bacchic orgies,
    Amata’s cause being their cause, assemble
    From every side; it is Mars for whom they clamor,
    Not Bacchus any more. And all the people,
    Against the omens, against the will of the gods,
    Cry out for wicked war. They fight each other,
    Almost, to siege and storm Latinus’ palace.
    He is a rock in the sea; he stands like a sea-rock
    When a crash of water comes, and it is steadfast
    Against the howl of the waves, and the roar is useless,
    And the sea-weed, flung at the side, goes dripping back.
    But even so Latinus could not conquer
    Their blind determination. Things were going
    As Juno willed. He invoked the empty air,
    He invoked the gods, in vain. “Alas, we are broken!
    We are broken by fate, we are swept away by storm.
    You will pay for this, you will pay for it with bloodshed,
    O my poor people! And punishment is waiting,
    Turnus, for you; you will find it very bitter,
    And then you will pray, and it will be too late.
    My rest is won, my voyage almost over;
    I lose a happy death.” He said no more,
    Shut himself in his palace, and relinquished
    The reins of power.

                            There was a Latin custom,
    Cherished, thereafter, by the Alban cities,
    As now by Rome, great empress--when they rouse
    The god of war to battle, against the Getans,
    Arabians, Hyrcanians, no matter;
    Whether they march on India, or strive
    To win back captured standards from the Parthians,
    The custom holds. There are twin gates of Mars,
    Held in both awe and reverence; they are fastened
    By bolts of bronze, a hundred, by the eternal
    Solidity of iron, and their guardian
    Is Janus, always watchful at the threshold.
    These, when the fathers vote for war, the consul,
    Girt in the dress of Romulus, and belted
    Gabinian-wise, with his own hand must open,
    Must swing the portals wide, with his own voice
    Cry war, and the others follow, and the trumpets
    Give tongue in bronze agreement. So Latinus
    Was called on, by that custom, for announcement
    Of war against the Trojans, for the opening
    Of those grim gates. But he refused to touch them,
    Fled from the task he loathed, hid in the darkness,
    And Juno, coming from heaven, shoved them open
    With her own hand; the turning hinges grated,
    The iron was loosed for war. And all Ausonia,
    Listless till then, unmoved, blazed out in fury:
    On foot they came, on horseback; through the dust
    The cry rang out _To arms!_ They oil the shields,
    They make the javelins shine, they hone the axes,
    They love the sight of banner, the sound of trumpet.
    In five great cities, Tibur, Crustumerium,
    Antemnae, and Atina, and Ardea,
    Strong towns, and proud, and turret-crowned, they forge
    New weapons on their anvils; they carve out helmets,
    Make wicker covers for the shields; they hammer
    Breastplates of bronze, or greaves of pliant silver.
    They beat their ploughshares into swords; the furnace
    Gives a new temper to the blades of their fathers.
    Alarum sounds, password is whispered. Helmets
    Come down from the wall; the yoke weighs down the horses;
    A man puts on his armor, picks up his shield,
    Buckles his sword to his side.

                                    Open the mountain,
    Muses, release the song!--what kings were hurried
    Hot-haste to war, who filled their battle-lines,
    How Italy blossomed with men, and burned with weapons,
    For you remember, Muses, and you have power
    To make us all remember, deeds that rumor,
    Far-off and faint, brings to our recollection.

      First from the Tuscan shore came fierce Mezentius,
    Arming his columns, the man who scorned the gods.
    Beside him, handsomer than any other,
    Save only Turnus, stood his son, young Lausus,
    Tamer of horses, huntsman, from Agylla,
    Leading a thousand warriors, a vain mission;
    He was worthy, Lausus, of a happier fortune
    Than being his father’s subject; he was worthy
    Of a better father.

                          Near them, Aventinus
    Paraded over the field his horses, victors
    In many a fight, his chariots, crowned with palm-leaves.
    His shield portrayed a hundred snakes, and the Hydra,
    Serpent-surrounded, a token of his father,
    For this was Hercules’ son, whose manly beauty
    Was like his father’s. His mother was a priestess,
    Rhea, whom Hercules had known when, victor,
    He had slain Geryon, reached Laurentian country,
    And bathed Iberian cattle in the Tiber.
    His birthplace was the forest on the hillside
    That men call Aventine; his birth was secret.
    His men go into battle with pikes and javelins,
    Fight with the tapering sabre, and a curious
    Sabellan type of dart. And Aventinus
    Strode out on foot, the skin of a lion swinging
    Across his shoulders; the bristling mane was shaggy,
    And the head rose above it like a helmet,
    With the white teeth bared and snarling. So he entered
    The royal halls, and everything about him
    Gave sign of Hercules.

                            Next came two brothers,
    Twins from the town of Tibur, named Catillus
    And Coras; through the throng of spears they entered
    As Centaurs, born from clouds, come down the mountains,
    Crashing through wood and thicket in their onrush.

      There was Caeculus, the founder of Praeneste,
    A king who, legend says, was born to Vulcan
    In a country that raised cattle, found, untended,
    Beside a campfire. His men were country fellows
    From every here and there, from steep Praeneste,
    From Juno’s Gabian fields, from the cold river,
    The Anio, Anagnia, Amasenus,
    Hernician rocks, and dewy stream and meadow.
    Some of them had no arms, no shields, no chariots,
    Their weapons, for the most part, being slingshots
    And bullets of dull lead, but some of them carried
    A couple of darts apiece, and for their headgear
    Wore tawny wolfskins; they kept the left foot bare,
    They wore a rawhide shinguard on the other.

      And there was Messapus, a son of Neptune,
    A tamer of horses, a man whom none in battle
    Could hurt with fire or sword; his people came
    To war from years and years of peaceful living,
    Men from Fescennium, Soracte’s mountains,
    Flavinian fields, Ciminus’ lake and hillside,
    Capena’s groves. They sang as they were marching,
    Hailing their king in measured step and rhythm,
    Their music like the sound of swans, bound home,
    White through white cloud, as they return from feeding,
    And the long throats pour echoing music over
    Meadow and river. You would not think of warriors,
    Marshalled in bronze, in that array, but a cloud
    Of raucous birds, driven from sea to shore.

      Clausus, a host in himself, led a great host
    Of Sabine blood; the Claudian tribe at Rome
    Of Sabine origin owes to him its name.
    His followers came from many cities, Cures,
    Eretum, Amiternum, and Mutusca,
    Renowned for olives, Tetrica, Nomentum,
    Velinus’ countryside and Mount Severus,
    Casperia and Foruli; many rivers
    Had served their thirst, the Fabaris, the Tiber,
    Himella’s stream, chill Nursia, and Allia,
    A name of evil omen: they came like waves
    Rolling to Africa’s coast when fierce Orion
    Sinks in the wintry ocean, as thick as grain
    Turned brown in early summer on Hermus’ plain
    Or Lydia’s yellow acres. The earth trembles
    Under their feet; the shields clang on their shoulders.

      And there was Agamemnon’s son, Halaesus,
    A hater of the Trojan name; for Turnus
    He yoked his steeds, he brought a thousand peoples,
    Men who hoe Massic vineyards, men from hills,
    Men from the plains; men from Volturnus’ river,
    Men from the town of Cales; Oscan people,
    Saticulan hosts. Their weapon is the javelin,
    Wound with the whiplash; an old-fashioned shield
    Covers their left; for work, close-in, they carry
    Sharp-bladed scimitars.

                              And Oebalus
    Was with him, son of Telon and Sebethis,
    Born by that nymph when Telon, old, was ruling
    Over Capri, a realm his son extended
    Over Sarrastrian tribes, over the plainland,
    The Sarnus waters; Batulum, Celemna,
    Rufrae, were all his towns, and high Abella,
    Rich in its apple-trees. These warriors carried
    Some kind of German dart; they used for headgear
    Bark of the cork-tree: shields and swords were bronze.

      From Nersae Ufens came, a man distinguished
    In arms and reputation; his tribe were huntsmen,
    Farmers, after a fashion; they wore their armor
    Even when ploughing. Rugged soil they lived on;
    They loved to raid and live on what they raided.

      Archippus, the Marruvians’ king, had sent
    A warrior-priest, Umbro, renowned in courage.
    His helmet carried olive leaves; he knew
    The arts of charming serpents and of healing
    Their venomous wounds; he had no magic, later,
    Against the Trojan spear-point, and the herbs,
    Gathered on Marsian hills, availed him little
    In days of war; his native groves and waters
    Mourned his untimely death.

                                    And Virbius came,
    Aricia’s handsome son, raised in the groves,
    The marshy shores around Diana’s altar,
    Most rich, most gracious. Hippolytus, his father,
    Had once been slain, the story runs, a victim
    Of Phaedra’s hate and passion, and the vengeance
    His father took; he had been drawn and quartered
    By Theseus’ stallions, but Apollo’s magic,
    Diana’s love, had given him life again
    Under the stars and the fair light of heaven,
    And Jupiter, angry that any mortal
    Should rise from shadow to life, struck down his healer,
    Apollo’s son, with a fearful blast of thunder,
    Hippolytus being hidden by Diana
    In a secret place, where the nymph Egeria tended
    Her sacred grove; there he lived out, alone,
    In the Italian woods, the days of his life
    With no renown; he took another name,
    Virbius, meaning, _Twice a man_; no horses
    Ever came near that grove, that holy temple,
    Seeing that horses on an earlier shore
    Had overturned his chariot in panic
    And been his death, driven to panic terror
    By monsters from the ocean. But his son,
    Virbius the younger, had no fear of horses,
    Driving and riding to war.

                                  Among the foremost,
    Taller than any, by a head, was Turnus,
    Gripping the sword; his helmet, triple-crested,
    Had a Chimaera on it, breathing fire
    From gaping jaws; the bloodier the battle,
    The hotter the fight, the redder that reflection,
    And on his shield, in gold, the story of Io,
    The heifer, once a girl; you could see her guardian,
    Argus, the hundred-eyed, and her poor father,
    The river-god with streaming urn, Inachus.
    And a cloud of warriors on foot behind him,
    Columns with shields, the Argives and Auruncans,
    Rutulians, old Sicanians, Labicians
    With colored shields, Sacranians, men from Tiber,
    Ploughmen of Circe’s ridge, soldiers from Anxur,
    Sons of Feronia, that land of greenness
    Where Satura’s marsh lies dark, and the cold river
    Runs seaward through the valley.

                                        And last of all
    Camilla rode, leading her troops on horseback,
    Her columns bright with bronze, a soldieress,
    A woman whose hands were never trained to weaving,
    To the use of wool, to basketry, a girl
    As tough in war as any, in speed afoot
    Swifter than wind. She could go flying over
    The tips of the ears of the wheat, and never bruise them,
    So light her way, she could run on the lift of the wave,
    Dry-shod; and they came from the houses and fields to wonder,
    To gaze at her going, young men, and matrons thronging,
    Wide-eyed and with parted lips, at the glory of royal crimson
    Over her shoulders’ smoothness, the clasp of the gold
    In her hair, and the way she carried the Lycian quiver,
    The heft of the pastoral myrtle, the wand with the spearpoint.




BOOK VIII

AENEAS AT THE SITE OF ROME


      As Turnus raised war’s banner, and the trumpets
    Blared loud above Laurentum’s citadel,
    And fiery horses reared, and arms were clashing,
    Confusion reigned: all Latium joined alliance,
    The youth were mad for war. Messapus, Ufens,
    And that despiser of the gods, Mezentius,
    Brought forces in from everywhere; wide fields
    Were stripped of countrymen. They sent a message
    By Venulus, to Diomede in Arpi:
    _Come to our aid; the Trojans are in Latium;
    Aeneas with a fleet and vanquished gods
    Proclaims himself a king; it is fate, he says;
    And many tribes are joining him; his name
    Spreads far and wide in Latium._ Diomede
    (The message says) better than many others,
    Should know the outcome, if the grace of fortune
    Follows Aeneas in the scheme he nurtures.
    He knows the Trojans; he can judge them better
    Than Turnus or Latinus.
                              So, in Latium,
    Events were shaping, and Aeneas knew it,
    And saw it all, and turned and tossed in torment
    On a great sea of trouble. The swift mind
    Went searching, probing, veering with every shift,
    As when in a bronze bowl the light of water,
    Reflected by the sun or moonlight, wavers,
    Dances and flits about, from wall to ceiling.
    Night: over all the world the weary creatures,
    The beasts and birds, were deep in sleep; Aeneas,
    With warfare in his heart, stretched out for rest
    Where the cold sky was awning over the river,
    And sleep came late. Before him rose an image,
    An aged head amid the poplar leaves,
    A mantle of gray, and shady reeds around him,
    Tiber, the river-god, in consolation
    And comfort speaking:--“Son of the gods, redeemer
    Of Troy from overseas, her savior ever,
    O long-awaited on Laurentian fields,
    Here is your home, be sure of it; here dwell
    Your household gods, be sure. Do not turn back,
    Do not be frightened by the threats of war:
    The swollen rage of Heaven has subsided.
    Soon--do not take my words for idle phantoms,
    Illusions of a dream--under the holm-oaks
    Along the shore, you will find a huge sow lying,
    White, with a new-born litter at her udders,
    Thirty of them, all white, a certain token
    Of a new city, in thirty years. Your son
    Will found it; he will call it the White City,
    A glorious name, beyond all doubt whatever.
    Further, I have a word or two of guidance
    To speed you through the pressure of the moment
    Toward ultimate victory. Inland a little
    Arcadian people live, a race descended
    From Pallas’ line; their king is called Evander,
    Under whose banner they have built a city,
    High on the hills; its name is Pallanteum.
    They wage continual warfare with the Latins;
    Take them as allies, in covenant and treaty.
    And I myself will guide you there, upstream
    Along the banks, the oars against the current.
    Rise, goddess-born; when the stars set, make prayer
    To Juno first, with suppliant vows appeasing
    Her threats and anger. As for me, my tribute
    May wait your triumph. I am blue-green Tiber,
    The river most dear to Heaven, I am the river
    You see, brim-full to these rich banks, this ploughland:
    This is my home, the source of lofty cities.”

      So spoke the river-god, to his deep pool diving.
    Slumber and night were gone. Aeneas rose,
    Faced eastern sunlight, took up river water
    In the hollow of his hands, and made his prayer:--
    “Laurentian Nymphs, to whom the rivers owe
    Their essence, father Tiber, holy river,
    Receive Aeneas, be his shield in danger.
    Wherever your presence dwells, in pool or fountain,
    Whatever land its flowing bounty graces,
    O comforter in time of trouble, surely
    Our gifts will bring their meed of honor, always,
    To the horned ruler of the western waters.
    Only be with us, give us confirmation!”
    He had made his prayer; two ships were quickly chosen
    Out of the fleet, equipped, and the crews made ready.

      And then a marvel struck their eyes, a wonder!
    White in the wood, on the green ground, there lay
    A sow with her white litter, and Aeneas
    Brought them in sacrifice to Juno’s altar.
    All that long night, the Tiber calmed his flood;
    The silent wave, retreating, lay as still
    As pool or mere or watery plain; the oars
    Dipped without strain; the voyage went with laughter
    And cheerful shouting; over the waters rode
    The oily keels; and waves and woods in wonder
    Beheld the shields of men, the colored vessels,
    Divide the flood. Day turns to night. They traverse
    The winding bends, with green shade arching over,
    Parting the green woods in the quiet water,
    Till it is noon, and they see walls and houses,
    Evander’s town, which Roman power later
    Made equal to the city, a mighty empire,
    But it was little then. They turned to the shore,
    Drew near the city.

                          On that day, it happened,
    The king was paying customary homage,
    In a grove before the city, to the gods,
    To Hercules, most of all. And his son Pallas
    Was with him there, and the leaders of the people,
    The lowly senate, bringing gifts of incense
    Where the warm blood was smoking at the altars.
    They saw the tall ships come, they saw them gliding
    Upstream, through the dark wood, the feathered oar-blades
    Making no noise at all, and they were frightened,
    They rose; they would have left the feast, but Pallas,
    Unterrified, forbade them; he seized a weapon,
    Rushed out in challenge, calling from a hillock:--
    “What cause, young men, has brought you here, exploring
    Ways that you do not know? Where are you going?
    What is your race? Where do you come from? Are you
    Bringers of peace or war?” Aeneas answered
    From the high stern, raising the branch of olive:--
    “We are men from Troy; we are armed against the Latins,
    Whose arrogant war we flee. We seek Evander.
    Take him this message: tell him chosen leaders,
    Dardanus’ sons, have come, to seek for friendship,
    For allied arms.” And Pallas, in amazement
    At hearing that great name, cried, “Come and join us,
    Whoever you are, speak to my father, enter,
    O guest, into our household!” And his hand
    Reached out to greet and guide them. They left the river,
    Drew near the grove; with friendly words Aeneas
    Spoke to Evander:--“Best of the sons of Greeks,
    To whom, at fortune’s will, I bring petition,
    Bearing the branch of peace, I have not been frightened
    To come to you, a Danaan chief, related
    To Atreus’ twin sons. In my own right
    I am worth something; we are bound together
    By the god’s holy oracles, by the old
    Ancestral kinship, by your own renown
    Widespread through all the world. I am glad to follow
    The will of fate. Dardanus, our great father,
    Was father of Troy; his mother was Electra,
    Daughter of Atlas, who carries on his shoulders
    The weight of heaven. Mercury is your father,
    Born, on Cyllene’s chilly peak, to Maia,
    And Maia, if legend is credible, the daughter
    Of Atlas, who carries heaven on his shoulders.
    A common blood runs in our veins, and therefore
    I sent no embassies, I planned no careful
    Tentative overtures; myself, I came here
    My life at your disposal, in supplication
    Before your threshold. We are harried in war
    By the same race that harries you, the sons
    Of Daunus; nothing, so they think, will stop them,
    If we are beaten, from complete dominion
    Over the western land and both her oceans.
    Receive and give alliance: our hearts are brave,
    Our spirit tried and willing.”

                                He had finished.
    Evander had been watching him, expression,
    Gesture, and mood, and bearing. He made answer:--
    “How gladly, bravest man of all the Trojans,
    I recognize and welcome you! Your father,
    The great Anchises, speaks to me again,--
    These are the words, the voice, the very features
    That I recall so well. Once Priam came here,
    Faring to Salamis, his sister’s kingdom.
    I was a young man then; I stared in wonder
    At the chiefs of Troy, at Priam, but Anchises
    Towered above them all, and my heart was burning
    To clasp his hand, to speak with him: I met him,
    I led him, proudly, to Pheneus’ city,
    And when he left, he gave me a fine quiver
    With Lycian arrows, a cloak with gold embroidered,
    A pair of golden bridles; my son Pallas
    Rejoices in them now. The bond you ask for
    Is given, the treaty made. To-morrow morning
    My escort will attend your leave, my riches
    Be at your service. Meanwhile, since you come here
    As friends of ours, join us in celebrating
    These yearly rites of ours. It is not permitted
    Our people to postpone them. In your kindness,
    Become accustomed to your allies’ tables.”

      He gave the orders for the feast’s renewal.
    Once more the cups are set; the king, in person,
    Conducts his guests to places on the greensward,
    Reserving for Aeneas, in special honor,
    A maple throne, draped with the skin of a lion.
    Chosen attendants and the priest of the altar
    Bring the roast portions, pile the bread in baskets,
    Serve Bacchus’ wine. Aeneas and the Trojans
    Feast on the consecrated food.

                                    When hunger
    Was satisfied, and the wine went round, Evander
    Told them a story:--“No vain superstition,
    No ignorance of the gods, enjoins upon us
    These solemn rites, this feast, this deep devotion
    To a mighty power’s altar. O Trojan guest,
    We are grateful men, saved from a cruel danger,
    We pay these rites each year, each year renewing
    A worship justly due. Look up at the cliff
    Hung on the high rocks yonder, see the scattered
    Rubble of rock, the ruin of a dwelling,
    The jumble of toppled crags. There was a cave there
    Once on a time; no man had ever measured
    Its awful depth, no sunlight ever cheered it.
    The half-man, Cacus, terrible to look at,
    Lived in that cave, and the ground was always reeking
    With the smell of blood, and nailed to the doors, the faces
    Of men hung pale and wasted. Vulcan fathered
    This monster; you would know it if you saw him
    With the black fire pouring from mouth and nostrils,
    A bulk of moving evil. But time at last
    Brought us the help we prayed for; a great avenger,
    A god, came to our rescue, Hercules,
    Proud in the death and spoil of triple Geryon,
    Drove his huge bulls this way, the great herd filling
    Valley and river. And the crazy Cacus,
    Who never would lose a chance for crime or cunning,
    Made off with four of the bulls and four sleek heifers,
    Dragging them by their tails; the tracks would never
    Prove he had driven them to his rocky cavern.
    He hid them in the darkness; whoever looked
    Would think they had gone not to, but from, the cave.
    Meanwhile, as Hercules drove the well-fed herd
    Out of the stables to the road again,
    Some of them lowed in protest; hill and grove
    Gave back the sound, and from the cave one heifer
    Lowed in return. That was the doom of Cacus.
    Black bile burned hot in Hercules; he grabbed
    His weapons, his great knotted club, went rushing
    Up to the mountain-top. Never before
    Had men seen terror in the eyes of Cacus.
    Swifter than wind, he dove into his cavern,
    Shut himself in, shattered the links of iron
    That held aloft the giant boulder, dropped it
    To block the doorway, and Hercules came flinging
    His angry strength against it, to no purpose.
    This way he faced, and that, and gnashed his teeth
    In sheer frustration; he went around the mountain
    Three times, in burning rage; three times he battered
    The bulkhead of the door; three times he rested,
    Breathless and weary, on the floor of the valley.
    Above the cavern ridge, a pointed rock,
    All flint, cut sharp, with a sheer drop all around it,
    Rose steep, a nesting place for kites and buzzards.
    It leaned a little leftward toward the river.
    This Hercules grabbed and shook, straining against it;
    His right hand pushed and wrenched it loose; he shoved it,
    With a sudden heave, down hill, and the heaven thundered,
    The river ran backward and the banks jumped sideways,
    And Cacus’ den stood open, that great palace
    Under the rock, the chambered vault of shadows.
    An earthquake, so, might bring to light the kingdoms
    Of the world below the world, the pallid regions
    Loathed by the gods, the gulf of gloom, where phantoms
    Shiver and quake as light descends upon them.
    So there was Cacus, desperate in the light,
    Caught in the hollow rock, howling and roaring
    As Hercules rained weapons down upon him,
    Everything he could use, from boughs to millstones,
    But Cacus still had one way out of the danger:
    A cloud of smoke rolled out of his jaws; the cave
    Darkened to utter blackness, thick night rolling
    With fitful glints of fire. This was too much
    For Hercules in his fury; he jumped down through it,
    Through fire, where the smoke came rolling forth the thickest,
    Where the black billows seethed around the cavern.
    And Cacus, in the darkness, to no purpose
    Poured forth his fire and smoke. Hercules grabbed him,
    Twisted him into a knot, hung on and choked him
    Till the eyes bulged out and the throat was dry of blood.
    He tore the doors loose, and the house was open;
    People could see the lost and stolen plunder,
    And Hercules dragged the shapeless ugly carcass
    Out by the feet, a fascinating object
    For the gaze of men, the terrible eyes, the muzzle,
    The hairy chest, and the fire dead in the gullet.
    Ever since then we keep this day, rejoicing
    In honor of our deliverance; Potitius
    Was founder of the rite, Pinaria’s household
    Custodian of the service. In this grove
    We set our altar, calling it the greatest,
    And greatest it shall be, to me, forever.
    Join with us, then, in honor of all that glory,
    Bind wreaths around your temples, reach the wine-cup,
    Call with good-will upon our common god.”
    He veiled his hair with the two-colored poplar
    In Hercules’ honor, and held out the goblet;
    All made libation and prayer.

                                    And evening came,
    And the priests went forth, Potitius first; they wore
    The skins of beasts, and they were bearing torches.
    The feast renewed, they brought the welcome viands
    To a second table, loading, too, the altars.
    And the Dancing Priests around the sacred altars
    Lit fire and sang their songs. They too wore poplar,
    Both groups, one old, one young, and chanted verses
    In praise of Hercules, his deeds, his glories,
    How first he strangled in his grip twin serpents,
    The monsters Juno sent; how, great in war,
    Troy and Oechalia went down before him;
    How, under King Eurystheus, he bore
    A thousand heavy toils, at Juno’s order.
    “Hail, O unvanquished hero, whose hand brought low
    Pholus, Hylaeus, the cloud-born double shapes,
    Monsters of Crete and the Nemean lion.
    The Stygian lakes trembled at Hercules’ crossing,
    And Cerberus was frightened, in his cavern,
    Lying on bones half-eaten. O unafraid
    Of any monster, even Typhoeus, towering
    High in his arms, even the snake of Lerna
    With all its hissing heads,--hail, son of Jove,
    Hail, glorious addition to the heavens!
    Favor our rites and yours with gracious blessing!”
    So they sang praises, and they crowned the service
    With the tale of Cacus, that fire-breathing monster,
    And hill and woodland echoed to the singing.

      Then back to the city again; and old Evander
    Kept his son Pallas near him and Aeneas,
    Talking of various matters, so the journey
    Was lightened, and the landscape charmed Aeneas,
    Who wondered as he watched the scene, and questioned,
    And learned its early legend. King Evander
    Began the story:--“Native Nymphs and Fauns
    Dwelt in these woodlands once, and a race of men
    Sprung from the trunks of trees, or rugged oak,
    Men primitive and rude, with little culture:
    They had no knowledge of ploughing, none of harvest;
    The fruits of the wild trees, the spoils of hunting,
    Gave them their nourishment. Then Saturn came here,
    Fleeing Jove’s arms, an exile from his kingdom.
    He organized this race, unruly, scattered
    Through the high mountains, gave them law and order.
    He gave the place a name; Latium, he called it,
    Since once he lay there safely, hiding in shelter.
    Under his rule there came those golden ages
    That people tell of, all the nations dwelling
    In amity and peace. But little by little
    A worse age came, lack-luster in its color,
    And the madness of war, and the evil greed of having.
    Then came the Ausonian bands, Sicanian peoples,
    And the land of Saturn took on other names,
    And the kings came, and the fierce giant Thybris
    For whom we named our river; we forgot
    Its older title, Albula. Here I came
    An exile from my country, over the seas,
    Driven by fate and fortune, which no man
    Can cope with or escape. The nymph Carmentis,
    My mother, led me here with solemn warnings
    Under Apollo’s guidance.”

                                  So Evander
    Finished the tale, resumed the walk. They came,
    First, to an altar and a gate: Carmental
    The Romans call it, in honor of that nymph
    Who first foretold the greatness of the Romans,
    The glory of Pallanteum. Past the portal
    They came to a spreading grove, a sanctuary
    Restored by Romulus, and under the cold cliff
    The Lupercal, named, in Arcadian fashion,
    For the great god Pan. And then Evander showed him
    The wood of Argiletum, and told the legend
    Of the death of Argus, once a guest. From there
    They went to the Tarpeian house, and a place
    Golden as we now know it, once a thicket,
    Once brush and briar, and now our Capitol.
    Even then men trembled, fearful of a presence
    Haunting this wood, this rock. “A god lives here,”
    Evander said, “What god, we are not certain,
    But certainly a god. Sometimes my people
    Think they have seen, it may be, Jove himself
    Clashing the darkening shield, massing the storm-cloud.
    Here you can see two towns; the walls are shattered,
    But they remind us still of men of old,
    Two forts, one built by Janus, one by Saturn,
    Janiculum, Saturnia.”

                            So they came,
    Conversing with each other, to the dwelling
    Where poor Evander lived, and saw the cattle
    And heard them lowing, through the Roman forum,
    The fashionable section of our city,
    And as they came to the house itself, Evander
    Remembered something,--“Hercules,” he said,
    “Great victor that he was, bent head and shoulders
    To enter here, and this house entertained him.
    Dare, O my guest, to think of wealth as nothing,
    Make yourself worthy of the god, and come here
    Without contempt for poverty.” He led him,
    The great Aeneas, under the low rafters,
    Found him a couch, nothing but leaves, and the bedspread
    A Libyan bear-skin. And night came rushing down
    Dark-wingèd over the earth.

                                  And Venus’ heart
    Was anxious for her son, and with good reason,
    Knowing the threats and tumult of the Latins.
    She spoke to Vulcan, in that golden chamber
    Where they were wife and husband, and her words
    Were warm with love:--“When the Greek kings were tearing
    Troy’s towers as they deserved, and the walls were fated
    To fall to enemy fire, I sought no aid
    For those poor people, I did not ask for weapons
    Made by your art and power; no, dearest husband,
    I would not put you to that useless labor,
    Much as I owed to Priam’s sons, however
    I sorrowed for my suffering Aeneas.
    But now, at Jove’s command, he has made a landing
    On the Rutulian coast; I come, a suppliant
    To the great power I cherish, a mother asking
    Arms for her son. If Thetis and Aurora
    Could move you with their tears, behold what people
    Unite against me, what cities sharpen weapons
    Behind closed gates, intent on our destruction!”
    So Venus pleaded, and as she saw him doubtful,
    The goddess flung her snowy arms around him
    In fondlement, in soft embrace, and fire
    Ran through him; warmth, familiar to the marrow,
    Softened his sternness, as at times in thunder
    Light runs through cloud. She knew her charms, the goddess,
    Rejoicing in them, conscious of her beauty,
    Sure of the power of love, and heard his answer:--
    “No need for far-fetched pleading, dearest goddess;
    Have you no faith in me? You might have asked it
    In those old days; I would have armed the Trojans,
    And Jupiter and the fates might well have given
    Another ten years of life to Troy and Priam.
    Now, if your purpose is for war, I promise
    Whatever careful craft I have, whatever
    Command I have of iron or electrum,
    Whatever fire and air can do. Your pleading
    Is foolish; trust your power!” And he came to her
    With the embrace they longed for, and on her bosom
    Sank, later, into slumber.

                              And rose early
    When night was little more than half way over,
    The way a housewife must, who tends the spindle,
    Rising to stir and wake the drowsing embers,
    Working by night as well as day, and keeping
    The housemaids at the task, all day, till lamplight,
    A faithful wife, through toil, and a good mother,
    Even so, like her, with no more self-indulgence,
    The Lord of Fire rose early, from soft pillows
    To the labor of the forge.

                              An island rises
    Near the Sicanian coast and Lipare,
    Aeolian land, steep over smoking rocks.
    Below them roars a cavern, hollow vaults
    Scooped out for forges, where the Cyclops pound
    On the resounding anvils; lumps of steel
    Hiss in the water, and the blasts of fire
    Pant in the furnaces; here Vulcan dwells,
    The place is called Vulcania, and here
    The Lord of Fire comes down. In the great cave
    The smiths were working iron; a thunderbolt
    Such as Jove hurls from heaven, was almost finished,
    Shaped by the hands of Brontes, Steropes,
    And naked-limbed Pyracmon. They had added
    Three rods of twisted rain and three of cloud,
    And three of orange fire and wingèd wind,
    And now they were working in the flash, the sound,
    The fear, the anger, the pursuing flame.
    Elsewhere a chariot for Mars was building
    To harry men and cities; and for Pallas
    An awful shield, with serpent scales of gold,
    Snakes interwoven, and the Gorgon’s head,
    Awaiting polish. The neck was severed, the eyes
    Already seemed to roll, when Vulcan came
    Crying, “Away with this! Another task
    Demands your toil, your thought. Arms for a warrior!
    Use all your strength, you need it now; exert
    The flying hands, ply all your master skill,
    Break off delay!” And all, obedient, bent
    To the great task; the bronze, the golden ore
    Run down like rivers, and the wounding steel
    Melts in the furnace as they shape the shield,
    Welding it, orb on orb, a sevenfold circle
    Made one, for all the weapons of the Latins.
    Some keep the bellows panting, others dip
    The hissing bronze in water, and the anvil
    Groans under the hammer-stroke. In turn they raise
    Their arms in measured cadence, and the tongs
    Take hold of the hot metal, twist and turn it.
    So sped the work on Lemnos.

                                  And Evander
    Was wakened by the kindly light of morning
    And bird-song under the eaves, and the old man rose,
    Donned simple tunic and sandals, and hung on
    His simple sword, and over his shoulders twisted
    The panther hide, out of the way of the hilt.
    Two hounds were all his bodyguard; he came,
    So, to Aeneas’ cabin; he remembered
    His words and promised service, found his guest
    An early riser also; hand met hand,
    And soon companions joined them, young prince Pallas,
    Loyal Achates. They stroll a while, then settle
    Themselves for conversation, and Evander
    Is first to speak:--“Great captain of the Trojans,
    I cannot, while you live, consider Troy
    A beaten town, I cannot see her people
    As anything but victors. I am sorry
    Our power to help is meager. On one side
    A river hems us in, and on the other
    Rutulian armies thunder at our walls.
    Still, I can find you, or I think so, allies,
    Great people, an encampment rich in kingdoms,
    An unexpected aid. The fates have brought you
    To the right place. Not far away, Agylla,
    A city built of ancient stone, lies waiting,
    A town the Lydians founded; you know the race,
    Renowned in war. It was a prosperous city
    For many years, until Mezentius ruled it,
    A cruel, arrogant man, sadist and savage.
    God pay him back in kind! I cannot tell you
    All his foul deeds: this will suffice;--he fastened
    Live men to dead men, strapped their hands together,
    Tied face to face, and killed them, slowly, slowly,
    In the waste and stain and clasp of that long death.
    They suffered long, his subjects, but at last
    They rose in arms against him, his mad household,
    Hurled fire to his roof-top, slaughtered his companions.
    He fled that ruin to Rutulian fields,
    Where Turnus’ weapons shielded him. Now all
    Etruria, risen in arms, demands,
    With threat of war, the king for punishment,
    And you shall be the leader of those thousands
    Who throng the shore with ships, whose cry is _Forward!_
    But an old prophet holds them back, those warriors,
    The pride and glory of an ancient people,
    Whom a just grievance and a righteous anger
    Inflames against Mezentius. _It is not fated_,
    He says, _for any native-born Italian
    To tame a race so proud. Choose foreign leaders!_
    And so the Etruscan battle-lines have settled
    Unwarlike on the plain, through heaven’s warning.
    Tarchon himself has sent me envoys, bearing
    The crown and sceptre, urging me to his camp,
    Bidding me take the throne. But cold old age,
    And years too thin for battle, these begrudge me
    The high command. I would send my son, but Pallas
    Comes from a Sabine mother; he is partly
    A native-born Italian. You, Aeneas,
    Possess the proper strength, the proper lineage,
    The summons of the gods. Take up the burden!
    My Pallas will go with you, my hope and comfort.
    You are the one to teach him a soldier’s duty,
    How to endure; let him learn from you in action,
    Behold your deeds, and, in his youth, admire them.
    I will give two hundred horsemen, young Arcadians,
    The flower of our manhood; and two hundred
    Will go with you besides in the name of Pallas.”

      Aeneas and Achates, listening, brooded
    With downcast gaze, in troubled speculation
    Prolonging bitter thoughts, but Venus gave them
    A sign from the bright heaven: a flash of thunder
    Came from the cloudless sky, a blare of trumpets,
    And all things suddenly shaken. They looked up swiftly;
    Again, again, they heard the roar and rumble,
    They saw arms redden in the clear of heaven,
    Listened to thunder in cloud. And some were frightened;
    Not so the Trojan: he knew his mother’s promise.
    “Ask not, O friend, the meaning of the portent,”
    He cried, “Olympus summons me; I know it.
    This was the sign my goddess-mother promised
    When war was near; she would bring me arms from Vulcan,
    She said, to help us all. Alas! what slaughter
    Waits for the Latins now! How costly, Turnus,
    The price that must be paid me! Shields and helmets
    And bodies of brave men, swept under Tiber.
    Now let them call for battle, and break treaties!”

      He rose and at his quickening the altars
    Blazed into sudden fire; he paid his honors
    To Hercules, to all the gods of household,
    And all made sacrifice, sheep duly chosen.
    Aeneas sought, once more, his ships, his comrades,
    Chose, to attend him, those most brave in battle,
    Despatched the rest down stream again with tidings
    To take Ascanius of his father’s fortunes.
    Horses are brought for all the Trojan leaders,
    And for Aeneas the best, a charger, golden
    With lion-skin caparison, claws gilded.

      And rumor flies about the little city
    Spreading the news of horsemen on their mission
    To Tarchon’s shores, and mothers, in a panic,
    Double their prayers, and fear comes nearer danger
    With Mars’ great image looming large. Evander
    Holds Pallas by the hand, cannot release him,
    Speaks through his tears:--“If Jupiter would only
    Bring me my lost years back, make me the man
    I used to be, I was once, at Praeneste
    Where I struck down the foremost ranks, and burned
    The piled up shields! That day I was a hero,
    A conqueror, and Erulus went down,
    By this right hand, to hell. His mother gave him
    Three lives, and threefold armor; I had to kill him
    Three times, and did, and thrice I stripped his armor.
    If I were what I used to be, my son,
    They would never take you from me; and Mezentius
    Would never have heaped those insults on his neighbor,
    Never have made a widow of the city.
    But you, great gods on high, and you, great king
    Of the high gods, take pity on a father,
    Hear the Arcadian king. I pray for life
    As long as Pallas lives, I pray to see him
    If you will spare him; if he comes back safely
    I pray to meet him once again. No more
    I ask; how hard my life may be, no matter.
    But if there is in fortune any menace,
    Something I cannot speak of, let me die
    Before I know the worst, while I can hope
    However I doubt, while still I have my Pallas,
    My late and only pleasure, here beside me,
    And never news for the worse!” And so they parted,
    And servants helped the old man into the palace.

      They had gone from the gates, the horsemen, and Aeneas,
    Achates and the Trojans, and in the centre
    Pallas, a blaze of light, like Lucifer
    Whom Venus loves beyond all fiery stars,
    The glory risen from the ocean wave,
    Dissolver of the shadows. On the walls
    The mothers, trembling, watched them go, the squadrons
    Bright in their bronze, and the cloud of dust behind them,
    So, out of sight, where the road turns off to forest,
    They go, the men in arms, and a shout arises,
    And the column forms, and the echo of the gallop
    Comes clopping back through the ground where the dust is rising.

      The cold stream, Caere, has a grove beside it,
    Much reverenced of old, where the curve of the hills
    And the dark firs make a shelter: the old people,
    So rumor says, held grove and feast-day sacred
    Here in Silvanus’ honor, god of the fields,
    God of the fold. Tarchon and his Etruscans
    Were camped not far from here, and from the hill-top
    Watchers could see their legions, tented safely
    Through the wide plain. In Caere’s grove Aeneas
    Rested his horses and his weary warriors.

      And the bright goddess through the clouds of heaven
    Came bringing gifts, seeing her son alone
    By the cold river in the quiet valley,
    And spoke to him:--“Behold, the gifts made ready
    By Vulcan’s promised skill. Fear not, my son,
    To face the wars with Turnus and the Latins!”
    After the word, the embrace. She placed the armor,
    All shining in his sight, against an oak-tree;
    Rejoicing in the gift, the honor, he turned
    His eyes to these, over and over again,
    Could not be satisfied, took in his hands
    The helmet with the terrible plumes and flame,
    The fatal sword, the breastplate, made of bronze,
    Fire-colored, huge, shining the way a cloud,
    Dark-blue, turns crimson under the slanting sun,
    The greaves of gold refined and smooth electrum,
    The spear, the final masterpiece, the shield.

      Hereon the great prophetic Lord of Fire
    Had carved the story out, the stock to come,
    The wars, each one in order, all the tale
    Of Italy and Roman triumph. Here
    In Mars’ green cave the she-wolf gives her udders
    To the twin boys, turning half round to lick them,
    And neither is afraid, and both are playing.
    Another scene presents the Circus-games,
    When Romans took their Sabine brides, and war
    Broke out between old Tatius and the sons
    Of Romulus, and was ended, monarchs pledging
    Peace at the altars over sacrifice.
    Mettus, the false, by the wild horses drawn
    And quartered, sheds his life-blood over the brambles;
    Porsena, the besieger, rings the city
    For Tarquin’s sake, exile and tyrant; Romans
    Rush on the steel for freedom; Clelia breaks
    Her bonds to swim the river; and Horatius
    Breaks down the bridge. The guardian Manlius
    Holds the high capitol and that crude palace
    Fresh with the straw of Romulus; the goose
    Flutters in silver through the colonnades
    Shrieking alarm; the Gauls are near in darkness,
    Golden their hair, their clothing, and their necks
    Gleam white in collars of gold, and each one carries
    Two Alpine javelins; they have long shields.
    Near them, the Fire-god sets the priests with caps
    Of wool, the miracle of the shields from heaven,
    The Salii dancing, the Luperci naked,
    And the chaste matrons riding through the city
    In cushioned chariots. Far off, he adds
    The seats of Hell, the lofty gates of Pluto,
    Penance for sin: Catiline, with the Furies
    Making him cower; farther off, the good,
    With Cato giving laws. And all this scene
    Bound with the likeness of the swelling ocean,
    Blue water and whitecap, where the dolphins playing
    Leap with a curve of silver. In the center
    Actium, the ships of bronze, Leucate burning
    Hot with the glow of war, and waves on fire
    With molten gold. Augustus Caesar stands
    High on the lofty stern; his temples flame
    With double fire, and over his head there dawns
    His father’s star. Agrippa leads a column
    With favoring wind and god, the naval garland
    Wreathing his temples. Antony assembles
    Egypt and all the East; Antony, victor
    Over the lands of dawn and the Red Sea,
    Marshals the foes of Rome, himself a Roman,
    With--horror!--an Egyptian wife. The surge
    Boils under keel, the oar-blades churn the waters,
    The triple-pointed beaks drive through the billows,
    You would think that mountains swam and battled mountains,
    That islands were uprooted in their anger.
    Fireballs and shafts of steel are slanting showers,
    The fields of Neptune redden with the slaughter.
    The queen drives on her warriors, unseeing
    The double snakes of death; rattle and cymbals
    Compete with bugle and trumpet. Monstrous gods,
    Of every form and fashion, one, Anubis,
    Shaped like a dog, wield their outrageous weapons
    In wrath at Venus, Neptune, and Minerva.
    Mars, all in steel, storms through the fray; the Furies
    Swoop from the sky; Discord exults; Bellona,
    With bloody scourge, comes lashing; and Apollo
    From Actium bends his bow. Egypt and India,
    Sabaeans and Arabians, flee in terror.
    And the contagion takes the queen, who loosens
    The sheets to slackness, courts the wind, in terror,
    Pale at the menace of death. And the Nile comes
    To meet her, a protecting god, his mantle
    Spread wide, to bring a beaten woman home.
    And Caesar enters Rome triumphant, bringing
    Immortal offerings, three times a hundred
    New altars through the city. Streets are loud
    With gladness, games, rejoicing; all the temples
    Are filled with matrons praying at the altars,
    Are heaped with solemn sacrifice. And Caesar,
    Seated before Apollo’s shining threshold,
    Reviews the gifts, and hangs them on the portals.
    In long array the conquered file, their garments,
    Their speech, as various as their arms, the Nomads,
    The naked Africans, Leleges, Carians,
    Gelonians with quivers, the Morini,
    Of mortals most remote, Euphrates moving
    With humbler waves, the two-mouthed Rhine, Araxes,
    Chafing beneath his bridge.

                                    All this Aeneas
    Sees on his mother’s gift, the shield of Vulcan,
    And, without understanding, is proud and happy
    As he lifts to his shoulder all that fortune,
    The fame and glory of his children’s children.




BOOK IX

IN THE ABSENCE OF AENEAS


      While all this happened far away, queen Juno
    Sent Iris down from heaven to bold Turnus.
    She found him resting in a sacred valley,
    Pilumnus’ grove, his ancestor; all radiant
    She spoke to him:--“No god would promise, Turnus,
    This answer to your prayers, but the turn of time
    Has put it in your hands. Aeneas has gone,
    Leaving the town, the fleet, and his companions,
    Seeking the realm of Palatine Evander,
    And more than that: he has won some cities over,
    He calls the Etruscan countrymen to arms.
    What are you waiting for? Now is the time
    For chariot and horse. Break off delay,
    Take the bewildered camp!” She spoke, and rose
    Skyward on even wings, and under the clouds
    Cut her great soaring arc. And Turnus knew her,
    And raised his hands to the sky, and followed her flight:--
    “O Iris, pride of heaven, who sent you to me
    Through clouds to earth? Whence comes this storm of brightness?
    I see the heavens part, and the stars wheeling
    Across the sky. I follow these great omens,
    Whoever calls to arms.” And, with the word,
    He went to the stream, took water up, prayed often,
    Making his vows to all the gods of heaven.

      And now, over all the plain, the army was coming,
    Rich in caparison, and rich in horses,
    In gold and broidered robes, Messapus leading,
    And Turnus in the center, and Tyrrhus’ sons
    As captains in the rear: they stream as Ganges
    Streams when his seven quiet tides flood over,
    Or Nile resents his deep confining channel.
    The Trojans see the sudden cloud, black dust
    Thickening over the plain, and darkness rising,
    And Caicus cries from the rampart:--“What is this,
    O fellow-citizens, this rolling darkness?
    Bring the swords quickly, bring weapons, climb the walls,
    Here comes the enemy, yea! Hurry, hurry!”
    Trojans, and noise, pour through the gates together.
    Men fill the walls. For so, on his departure,
    Aeneas had given orders: if something happened,
    They should not risk a battle in the open,
    They should only guard the camp, protect the ramparts.
    So, much as they would love to mix in battle,
    Anger and shame give way to prompt obedience.
    They bar the gates; protected by their towers
    They wait while the foe comes on. And Turnus, riding
    Impatient past his dawdling column, is there
    Before the city knows it. He has twenty
    Fast riders with him, his mount a piebald Thracian,
    His helmet gold with crimson crest. He cries,
    “Who will be first with me? Will anybody
    Be first with me against them? Let them have it!”
    And with the word, he lets the javelin fly,
    First sign of battle; and they cheer and follow
    And wonder a little at the Trojans, cowards
    Who dare not fight in the open, man to man,
    Who hug their walls for comfort. Round and round,
    Turnus, a wild man, rides, seeking an entrance,
    But there is no way in. He is like a wolf
    Lurking about a sheep-fold, snarling at midnight
    Beside the pens, enduring wind and rain,
    While the bleating lambs are safe beneath the ewes,
    And he, unable to get at them, rages
    Fierce and dry-throated in the drive of hunger;
    So Turnus looks at wall and camp, and passion
    Burns hot within him, burns to his very bones.
    How to get in? or how to yank the Trojans
    Out of their cloister, smear them over the plain?
    Ah, but the fleet is there, beside the camp,
    Sheltered by earthworks and the flowing river:
    There lies the chance! He calls for fire, he hurls it,
    The burning torch, and his hand, almost, is burning,
    And all of them pitch in--Turnus has shown them,
    And Turnus eggs them on--they are armed with firebrands,
    They rob the hearths; the tar flares lurid yellow
    Against the grey of the cloud, the soot and ashes.

      What god, O Muses, turned the fire? Who saved
    The Trojan ships? Remind me--the story is old,
    Men have believed it long, its glory endless.
    When first Aeneas built the fleet on Ida,
    Preparing for deep seas, the mother of gods,
    Queen Cybele, spoke to Jove:--“Grant me, my son,
    Lord of Olympus now, a mother’s prayer.
    I had a pine-wood on the mountain-top,
    And men, for many years, brought offerings there,
    I loved that forest, dark with fir and maple,
    But when the Trojan lacked a fleet, I gave him
    My timber gladly; now my heart is troubled.
    Relieve my fear, and let a mother’s pleading
    Keep them from wreck on any course, unshaken
    By any whirlwind. Grown upon our mountains,
    They should have privilege.” Her son, the swayer
    Of the stars of the world, replied, “What call, O mother,
    Is this you make on fate? What are you seeking?
    Should keels laid down by mortal hand have title
    To life immortal? Should Aeneas travel
    Through danger, unendangered? Such power is given
    No god in heaven. But I make this promise:
    After their course is run, after the harbors
    In Italy receive them, safe from ocean,
    And with Aeneas landed in Laurentum,
    I will take away their mortal shape, I will make them
    Goddesses of the sea, like Nereus’ daughter,
    Like Galatea, the nymphs who breast the foam.”
    So Jupiter promised, and, as gods do, took oath,
    By the rivers of his brother under the world,
    The banks that seethe with the black pitchy torrent,
    And made Olympus tremble with his nod.

      The promised day had come, the fates had finished
    The allotted span, when Turnus’ desecration
    Warned Cybele to keep the torch and firebrand
    Far from her holy vessels. A new light blazed
    In mortal sight, and from the east a cloud
    Ran across heaven, and choirs from Ida followed,
    And a dread voice came down the air:--“O Trojans,
    Be in no hurry to defend my vessels,
    You have no need of arms; Turnus, most surely,
    Will burn the seas before he burns these pine-trees.
    Go forth in freedom, goddesses of ocean,
    The Mother wills it so.” And each ship parted
    Cable from bank, and dove to the deep water
    As dolphins dive, and reappeared as maiden,--
    Oh marvel!--and all of them bore out to ocean.

      Rutulian hearts were stunned, their captains shaken,
    Their steeds confused and frightened; even Tiber
    Shrank back from the sea, and the murmuring stream protested.
    But Turnus kept his nerve, his words rang loud
    In challenge to their courage:--“These are portents
    To make the Trojans timid; Jove has taken
    Their comfort from them; the ships they always fled in
    Run from Rutulian fire and sword; the oceans
    Are pathless for the Trojans now, their hope
    Of flight all gone: half of their world is taken,
    And the earth is in our hands, Italians, thousands,
    Thousands of us in arms. I am not frightened,
    However they boast of oracles from heaven.
    Venus and fate have had their share: the Trojans
    Have done enough even to touch our richness,
    The Ausonian fields. I have my omens, also,
    To match with theirs, a sword to slay the guilty,
    Death for the rape of brides! Not Atreus’ sons,
    Not only Menelaus and Mycenae,
    Know what this hurt can be, this need for vengeance,
    This right to take up arms. Once to have perished,
    They tell us, is enough. Once to have sinned
    Ought to have been enough and more. Hereafter
    All women should be hateful to them, cowards
    Hiding behind the sheltering moat and rampart,
    The little barriers that give them courage!
    Have they not seen the walls that Neptune built them
    Sink in the fires? Which one of you is ready,
    Brave hearts, to slash their barriers with the sword,
    To join me in the onrush? I do not need
    The arms of Vulcan, nor a thousand vessels
    Against the Trojans. Let them have Etruria!
    One thing, at least, they need not fear,--the darkness,
    The sneaking theft of their Palladium image,
    Guards slain in the dark, hiders in horse’s belly;
    I fight in open daylight, I have fire
    To put around their walls, I will teach them something,--
    Their business now is not with those Greek heroes
    Whom Hector kept at bay for ten long years.
    Now day is almost over; you have done
    Good work; rest now; be happy, be preparing,
    Be hopeful for the battles of to-morrow.”

      Meanwhile, the guards were posted, under orders
    Of Messapus, their officer; and the walls
    Were ringed with fire. Fourteen Rutulian captains
    Led, each, a hundred men, bright in their gold,
    Plumed in their crimson, on patrol or resting,
    Or sprawling on the grass, gambling or drinking;
    The fires burn bright, the sentinels are watchful.

      Above them, from the wall, the Trojans, waiting,
    Maintain the heights with arms, and, anxious, test
    The strength of the gates, link bridge and battlement,
    Warriors in harness. Mnestheus and Serestus
    Urge on the work; they were to be the leaders,
    Aeneas said, in the event of trouble.
    Along the walls the host mounts guard; they share
    Relief and danger in turn, each at his post.

      Nisus, quick-handed with the javelin
    And the light arrows, very keen in arms,
    Stood guard beside the gate, Nisus, a son
    Of Hyrtacus, sent by the huntress Ida
    To join Aeneas; and near-by his friend
    Euryalus; no Trojan was more handsome
    Than he was, that first bloom of youth. They shared
    Assignments always, side by side in the charge,
    And side by side defenders. Here they were
    Together on sentry-duty at the gate.
    Nisus burst out:--“Euryalus, what is it?
    Do the gods put this ardor in our hearts
    Or does each man’s desire become his god?
    I want much more than this, I am not contented
    With all this peace and calm; my mind keeps calling
    To battle, or something big. Look! The Rutulians
    Are far too confident: their lights are scattered;
    They lie asleep or drunk; and all is silent.
    Listen! I have a plan. People and fathers
    Demand Aeneas, ask that men be sent him
    With information. If I can make them promise
    To let you go--(the glory of the action
    Is all I want myself)--I think that I
    Can find the way around that hill, can manage
    To reach the walls and fort of Pallanteum.”
    This shook Euryalus: a great love of praise
    Spoke in his answer to his eager comrade:--
    “What, Nisus? Are you planning to leave me out
    In this bold scheme, planning to go alone
    Into such dangers? No; no, no. I am
    Opheltes’ son, a warrior trained among
    Greek terror and Trojan suffering; and I follow,
    With you, great-souled Aeneas and his fortunes.
    I have a spirit, not too fond of living,
    Not too dissatisfied to buy with death
    The honor that you strive for.” Nisus answered:--
    “I had no fear on your account, be certain;
    That would be shameless of me: so may Jove,
    Or any god that looks on this with favor,
    Bring me back home triumphant. But disaster,
    As well you know, or god, or chance, might take me:
    If so, your youth being worthier, I’d have you
    Be my survivor, give to earth my body,
    Rescued or ransomed, or pay the final honor
    To, it might be, an empty tomb. I would not
    Cause sorrow to the only woman of many
    Who scorned Acestes’ city, and came on
    With you, her only son.” But then the other
    Replied:--“There is no use in all this talking.
    My mind is fixed, and we had better hurry.”
    He roused the guards; new men came on; together
    Euryalus and Nisus seek their leader.

      All other creatures over all the world
    Were easing their troubles in slumber, and hearts forgot
    Sorrow and pain; not so the Trojan leaders
    Meeting in council. Here were things of moment;
    What should they do? how would they reach Aeneas?
    They stood there, leaning on long spears, most gravely,
    Holding their shields. Euryalus and Nisus
    Crave instant audience; the matter is urgent,
    They say, and worth a little interruption.
    Iulus takes the lead, meets their impatience,
    Tells Nisus to speak out. “Give us a hearing,
    O men of Troy,” says Nisus, “do not hold
    Our years against us: we have something for you.
    All the Rutulians are drunk or sleeping,
    They are quiet now. There is a place, we know it,
    We have seen it with our eyes, a place that cunning
    Can take advantage of: you know the gate
    Nearest the sea, and how the road splits off there.
    The watchfires there die down, and the black smoke rises
    Dark to the sky out there. Give us a chance!
    Let us go to find Aeneas and Pallanteum.
    You will see us here again; it will not be long
    Till we come back, weighed down with spoil. We will kill them.
    We will not miss the way; we have seen the city
    Far in the distant valleys. We go hunting
    Along here often; we know all the river.
    We know it all by heart.” And old Aletes,
    A wise man in a council, gave the answer:--
    “Gods of our ancestors, under whose guidance
    Troy is and has been, always, our destruction
    Must be far off, seeing your care has brought us
    Young men of such high heart and lofty spirit.”
    In deep emotion, his hands reached out for theirs,
    His arms went round their shoulders. “What can I give you,
    Young men,” he cried, “worthy your praise and glory?
    The best rewards come from the gods, the finest
    From your own character, but good Aeneas
    Will not forget your service, and your peer
    In age, Ascanius, surely will remember.”
    And that young man broke in, “Most truly, Nisus,
    I trust my fortune to you. My only safety
    Lies in my sire’s return. By all our gods,
    I beg you both, I pray, bring back my father.
    Our trouble goes when he is here. I promise
    Two silver wine-cups, captured from Arisba,
    A pair of tripods, two great talents of gold,
    An ancient bowl, the present of queen Dido.
    And if we capture Italy, if we live
    To wield the sceptre and divide the spoil,
    You know the horse that Turnus rides, the armor
    He carries on his back, all gold--that armor,
    The shield, the crimson plumes, and the war-horse, Nisus,
    Are your reward; even now, I so declare them.
    My father will give twelve women, beautiful captives,
    And captive men, equipped with arms, and land
    Now held by king Latinus; and I cherish
    With all my heart, Euryalus, your courage.
    Your years are near my own, and all my life
    Your glory will be mine; in peace or war,
    In word and deed, I trust in you, completely.”
    Euryalus replied:--“No day will ever
    Prove me unworthy of brave deeds, if fortune
    Is kind, not cruel, to me. I ask one thing
    Better than any gift: I have a mother
    Of Priam’s ancient line, and she came with me,
    Poor soul, from Troy, and king Acestes’ city
    Was powerless to keep her. I leave her now
    With never a word about what I am doing,
    Whatever its danger is, with no farewell.
    I cannot bear a mother’s tears. I beg you,
    Comfort her helplessness, relieve her sorrow.
    Let me take with me that much hope; it will help me
    Face any risk more boldly.” They were weeping
    At this, the Trojans, all of them, Iulus
    More deeply touched than any. And he spoke:--
    “Be reassured, Euryalus; all we do
    Will prove as worthy as your glorious mission.
    Your mother shall be mine, in all but name;
    Great honor waits the mother of a son
    So great in honor. Whatever fortune follows,
    I vow and swear it, with an oath as solemn
    As any my father ever took, I promise,
    When you return to us, safe and successful,
    Your triumph and your glory and your prizes
    Shall be for her as well, for all your house.”
    He spoke with tears, and from his sword-belt took
    A present in farewell, the golden sword,
    The ivory scabbard, wonderfully fashioned
    By old Lycaon’s talent; Mnestheus gave
    A lion-skin to Nisus, and Aletes
    Exchanged his helmet with him. As they started,
    All the great company, young men and old ones,
    Went with them to the gate, and out beyond it
    The hopeful prayers attended them. Iulus,
    Mature beyond his years, gave many a message
    To carry to Aeneas, but the winds
    Bore these away and swept them off to cloudland.

      And now they have crossed the trench, and through night’s shadow
    Invade the hostile camp; they are bound to be
    The doom of many. They see the bodies sprawling
    In drunken sleep, the chariots half turned over,
    Men lying under the wheels and among the reins,
    And Nisus whispers:--“Euryalus, we must
    Be bold; the chance is given; here lies our way.
    Watch and keep back, lest some one steal upon us
    Along the trail behind. I lead, you follow
    Where I have cut the way; it will be a broad one.”
    His voice was silent; and he drew the sword
    At Rhamnes, cushioned on high covers, lying
    In a deep slumber, breathing deep, a king
    And Turnus’ favorite augur, but his doom
    No augury prevented. Nisus struck
    Three slaves, and then the armor-bearer of Remus,
    And Remus’ charioteer--their necks were severed
    With steel, and their lord Remus was beheaded.
    The trunk spurts blood, the earth and couch are darkened
    With blood, black-flowing. Lamyrus and Lamus
    Are slain, and young Serranus, handsome gambler
    Who had won high stakes that night, and slept contented
    Smiling at the gods’ favor, luckier surely
    If he had lost all night. A starving lion
    Loose in a sheepfold with the crazy hunger
    Urging him on, gnashing and dragging, raging
    With bloody mouth against the fearful feeble,
    So Nisus slaughters. And his savage comrade
    Keeps pace with him: Fadus is slain, Herbesus,
    Rhoetus, Abaris, all of them unconscious,
    Murdered in sleep. One of them, Rhoetus, wakened
    A little, saw, and tried to hide, and crouching
    Behind a wine-bowl, took the sword, and rose,
    Stumbled and sprawled and belched, the red life spurting
    Out of the mouth, red wine, red blood. All hotly
    Euryalus went on. Messapus’ quarters
    Are next in line; the fires burn low, the horses,
    Tether-contented, graze. Then, briefly, Nisus,
    Sensing his comrade’s recklessness in slaughter,
    Calls:--“Light is near, our enemy; give over,
    We have killed enough, we have cut the path we needed.
    No more of this!” They left behind them armor
    Of solid silver, bowls, rich-woven carpets,
    But must take something: Rhamnes’ golden sword-belt
    Euryalus held on to, all that armor
    That went with long tradition, from father to son,
    From son to enemy, once more a trophy
    For young Euryalus. He dons the armor,
    Picks up, puts on, besides, a shapely helmet,
    The spoil of Messapus, the long plume flowing.
    They leave the camp, are on their way to safety.

      Meanwhile, sent forward from the Latin city,
    Horsemen were coming, while the legion rested
    Behind them on the plain, three hundred horsemen
    With word for Turnus, under their captain Volcens,
    All armed with shields and riding at the ready.
    They are near the camp, the wall, and in the distance
    See two men turning left along a pathway,
    And a helmet glittering among the shadows,
    Euryalus’ prize and foolishness. They notice
    At once, of course, and challenge. From the column
    Volcens cried out:--“Halt! Who goes there? Who are you?
    What are you doing in arms? Upon what mission?”
    No answer: flight to wood and trust in darkness.
    But the horsemen, fanning out, block every cross-road,
    Circle and screen each outlet. Wide with brambles
    And dark with holm-oak spreads the wood; the briars
    Fill it on every side, but the path glimmers
    In the rare intervals between the shadows.
    Euryalus is hindered by the branches,
    The darkness, and the spoil he carries; terror
    Makes him mistake the path. Nisus is clear,
    Reaching the site that later men called Alba,
    Where king Latinus had his lofty stables.
    He halts, looks back to find his friend: in vain.
    “Euryalus, Euryalus, where are you?
    Where have I lost you? How am I to follow
    Back through the tangled wood, the treacherous thickets?
    Euryalus, Euryalus!” He turns,
    Tries to retrace his step, is lost in the woods,
    And hears the horses, hears the shouts and signals
    As the pursuit comes closer, and he hears
    A cry, he sees Euryalus, dragged along
    Out of the treason of the night and darkness,
    Bewildered by the uproar, fighting vainly
    In the hands of Volcens’ squadron. There is nothing
    Nisus can do, or is there? With what arms,
    What force, redeem his friend? Or is it better
    To hurl himself to death, dash in, regardless,
    To glorious wounds? His spear is poised, his arm
    Drawn back; he looks to the moon on high, and prays:--
    “Dear goddess, daughter of Latona, aid me,
    Pride of the stars and glory of the groves,
    If ever my father Hyrtacus brought honors
    In my name to the altar, if ever I
    Have brought gifts home from my own hunting, aid me!
    Let me confound that troop, direct my weapon!”
    The straining body flung the spear; it whistled
    Across the shadow of night, and Sulmo took it
    In his turned back; the point snaps off; it lodges
    With part of the splintered wood deep in the lungs.
    Sulmo goes down, his mouth spurts blood, his body
    Sobs, straining, in the gasp and chill and shudder
    Of a cold death. They look in all directions,
    See nothing. And another spear is flying,
    Fiercer this time. This pierces Tagus’ temples,
    Clings, warm, in the split brain. And Volcens rages,
    And cannot find the spearman, and his anger
    Has no sure place to go, but for his vengeance
    Turns on Euryalus, sword drawn, and rushing
    He cries:--“You will pay for both of them, your blood
    Be the atonement.” Nisus, from the darkness,
    Shrieks in his terror:--“Here I am, I did it,
    The guilt is mine, let him alone, come get me,
    Rutulians! How could he have dared or done it?
    God knows, the only thing he did was love
    A luckless friend too well.” But the sword is driven
    Deep in the breast. Euryalus rolls over,
    Blood veins the handsome limbs, and on the shoulder
    The neck droops over, as a bright-colored flower
    Droops when the ploughshare bends it, or as poppies
    Sink under the weight of heavy summer rainfall.
    And Nisus rushes them; he is after Volcens,
    Volcens alone. They mass around him, cluster,
    Batter him back, but through them all he charges,
    Whirling the blade like fire, until he drives it
    Full in the face while the Rutulian, shrieking,
    Goes down, and Nisus, dying, sees him die,
    Falls over his lifeless friend, and there is quiet
    In the utter peace of death.

                                  Fortunate boys!
    If there is any power in my verses,
    You will not be forgotten in time and story
    While rock stands firm beneath the Capitol,
    While the imperial house maintains dominion.

      With victory and tears, with spoil and plunder,
    They brought Rutulian Volcens home to camp-ground,
    And a great wail arose, for Rhamnes slaughtered,
    For Numa, for Serranus, for so many
    Slain in one fight. They rush to see the bodies,
    To heroes dead or dying, to the ground
    Reeking with carnage, the red foaming rivers.
    They recognize the spoil, the shining helmet
    Brought back for Messapus, and all the trappings
    It cost them sweat to win.

                                And the Dawn-goddess
    Came from her husband’s saffron couch, bestowing
    Fresh light across the world. Turnus, in armor,
    Summoned his men to arms, and every leader
    Marshalled his ranks of bronze, and each man sharpens
    His anger with one rumor or another.
    And more than that, a pitiful sight, they fix
    On spears upraised, and follow with loud shouting,
    The heads of Nisus and Euryalus.
    On the left of the wall the Trojans form their line
    Whose right rests on the river. They hold the trenches,
    Stand on the high towers, sorrowing; they know,
    And all too well, those heads with spears for bodies,
    And the black blood running down.

                                      And meanwhile Rumor
    Goes flying through the panic of the city,
    Comes to Euryalus’ mother. That poor woman
    Is cold as death; the shuttle falls from her hands,
    The yarn is all unwound. She rushes, shrieking,
    Tearing her hair, out to the walls, in frenzy,
    Heedless of men, heedless of darts and danger
    To fill the air with terrible lamentation:--
    “Is this thing you I see, Euryalus?
    Could you, a poor old woman’s only comfort,
    Leave her to loneliness? O cruel, cruel!
    To go to danger, and never a farewell word
    Between the mother and son! And now you lie
    On a strange land for dogs and birds to pick at,
    No mother to bathe the wounds, or close the eyes,
    To veil the body with the robe I worked on
    For quite another purpose, night and day,
    Comforting, so, the cares of age. Where can I
    Go now, to find you? In what land are lying
    The limbs, dismembered, and the mangled body?
    Is this thing all you bring me from the wars,
    Is this what I have followed on land and sea?
    If you have anything of decent feeling,
    Rutulians, kill me; hurl your weapons on me,
    All of you, all of them: let steel destroy me.
    Or, father of the gods, have pity on me
    And strike with the bolt of lightning; hurl to Hell
    The life I hate; no other way is left me
    To break the cruel thread.” And at her wailing
    The Trojan spirit sank, and a groan of sorrow
    Passed through the ranks, their will to battle broken.
    She kindles mourning; the leaders give an order,
    Idaeus and Actor, taking her between them,
    Lead her away.

                      And the loud terrible trumpet
    Blared in bronze-throated challenge, and the shouting
    Rose to the sky. And on they came, the Volscians
    Under their tortoise-shield, in a wild hurry
    To fill the moat, tear down the wall: some sought
    A quick way in, or over, with scaling-ladders
    Where the ring of men is thin, and light breaks in
    Where no men stand. And in reply the Trojans
    Rain every kind of weapon down--long war
    Has taught them how the walls must be defended.
    They use crude poles to push men off the ladders,
    They roll tremendous boulders to crush the ranks
    Covered by shields, and glad of that protection,
    Too little now, too small for the great rock
    The Trojans heave and pry and dump down on them
    Where the clump of men is thickest. The back of the tortoise
    Is broken, like the bodies of men beneath it.
    No more blind war, like this, for the Rutulians!
    They change their tactics, sweep the wall with arrows,
    Mezentius, grim to look at, works with firebrands,
    While Neptune’s son, Messapus, tamer of horses,
    Keeps tearing at the walls, and screaming for ladders.

      Help me, Calliope, with the song: what killing
    Turnus dealt out that day, the roll of victims
    Whom every warrior sent to Hell: O, aid me
    To unfold it all, the war’s great panorama.

      There was a tower, high overhead, well chosen
    To suit the ground, equipped with lofty gangways;
    On this the Italians spent their every effort
    To tear it down, the Trojans to defend it
    With stones from above, and arrows through the loopholes.
    A firebrand, flung by Turnus, found a lodging
    Along one side, and the wind blew and fanned it,
    And lintel and planking burned, and the men huddled
    Within, and found no way to flee, and shifted
    Toward the undamaged portion, when all of a sudden,
    Lopsided under the weight, it toppled crashing
    And filled all heaven with thunder. Half dead already
    Men reached the ground, and the tower came down upon them,
    Pierced through and through by shafts of their own making,
    Their chests transfixed by jagged broken timbers.
    Two manage to escape, Lycus, Helenor,
    The latter a young warrior, the son
    Of a Maeonian king and a slave-girl mother,
    Who sent him off to Troy in arms (forbidden,
    Since arms were not for slaves), a naked sword,
    A shield with no device. He saw himself
    Now in the midst of Turnus’ thousands, marshalled
    Before him and behind him. There he stood
    Like a wild animal, ringed in by hunters,
    Raging against their weapons, and sure of death,
    Leaping upon them,--so Helenor, certain
    To die, rushed where the weapons were the thickest.
    Lycus was swifter afoot: through men, through weapons,
    He gained the wall, reached up to pull himself over,
    Reached up for hands to help him. But Turnus came
    Hot on his heels:--“You fool,” he cried in triumph,
    “Did you think you were out of reach?” And as he hung there,
    Turnus grabbed him, tore him loose, and the wall came with him.
    An eagle, so, sweeps up again to heaven
    With a white swan or rabbit in his talons;
    Or so a wolf snatches a lamb from the sheepfold
    To the bleating of the ewe. A shout arises;
    Men from all sides come on; they fill the trenches,
    Keep firebrands flying at the tower and rooftop.
    Ilioneus knocks over one, Lucetius,
    Who came to the gates with fire; he bowled him over
    With a rock as big as a mountain. Liger slew
    Emathion with a javelin; Asilas
    Shot Corynaeus down. Caeneus won
    Over Ortygius, lost to Turnus. Turnus
    Killed half a dozen, Clonius, Dioxippus,
    Itys, Promolus, Sagaris, and Idas.
    Capys cut down Privernus: a spear had grazed him,
    And the fool had flung his shield aside, to carry
    His hand to his side, and an arrow pinned it there,
    And went on through, a mortal wound in the bowels.
    A young man in the battle, the son of Arcens,
    Stood out conspicuous in arms, a tunic
    Embroidered bright, Iberian blue; his father
    Had sent him from his mother’s grove along
    Symaethus stream and Palicus’ rich altars.
    Mezentius saw him there, laid down his spear,
    Whirled the sling thrice around his head, let fly,
    And the slug of the sling-shot split the victim’s temples,
    Stretching his blue in the deep yellow sand.

      Then, so they say, was the first time Iulus
    Brought down a man in war; he had hunted only
    Wild beasts, before this time, with bow and arrows.
    There was a youngster, Remulus by name,
    Or, it might be, Numanus, lately married
    To Turnus’ younger sister, very proud
    And pleased with his new royalty. He strode
    Along the foremost battle-line, and taunted,
    Shouting indecencies, a swollen hero:--
    “What, once again, O Phrygians twice-besieged?
    Have you no shame, to hide behind the ramparts
    A second time, a second time with walls
    To ward off death? Look at the silly warriors
    Who claim our brides with steel! What god, what madness,
    Brought you to Italy? No sons of Atreus
    Are here, no lying glib Ulysses. We
    Are a tough race, we bring our new-born sons
    To the ice-cold river, dip them in to make them
    Tough as their fathers, make them wake up early
    To hunt till they wear the forests out; they ride,
    They shoot, and love it; they tame the earth, they battle
    Till cities fall: and all our life is iron,
    The spear, reversed, prods on the ox; old age
    Pulls on the helmet over the whitest hair;
    We live on what we plunder, we revel in booty.
    But you--O wonderful in purple and saffron!--
    Love doing nothing, you delight in dancing,
    And oh, those fancy clothes, sleeves on the tunics,
    And ribbons in the bonnets! Phrygian women,
    By God, not Phrygian men! Be gone forever
    Over the heights of Dindymus; pipe and timbrel
    Call you to female rites: leave arms to men,
    The sword to warriors!”

                            But Ascanius loosened
    An arrow from the quiver, held the shaft
    Nocked to the bow-string, and with arms outspread
    For shot, made prayer:--“Almighty Jupiter,
    Favor my bold beginning. I shall offer
    The temple every year a snow-white bullock
    With gilded horns, a young one, but already
    Tall as his dam, butting with horn, and pawing
    The sand with restless hoof.” The father heard him,
    There was thunder on the left, and in that instant
    The fatal bow-string twanged. The shaft came flying
    Through air, and the steel split the hollow temples
    Of that young bragger Remulus. “Go on,
    Mock valor with arrogant words! This is the answer
    The Phrygians twice-besieged, the Phrygian women,
    Send back to Remulus.” The Trojans cheered him
    With joyful shouts and spirits raised to heaven.

      And it so happened from the realm of sky
    Long-haired Apollo, throned with cloud, looked down
    And saw the Ausonian battle-lines and city,
    And had a word of blessing for Iulus:--
    “Good for your prowess, youngster! That’s the way
    To reach the stars, a son of gods, a father
    Of gods to be. In time the wars will end
    Under that royal line. Troy sets you free
    For greater destinies.” And he left the heaven,
    Came through the stir of air, and sought Iulus,
    Disguised as ancient Butes, armor-bearer,
    Once, to Anchises, a guardian at his threshold,
    Later Ascanius’ servant. With his voice,
    His grizzled hair, his color, his sounding arms,
    Apollo came and spoke to the hot young warrior:--
    “Let that be plenty, son of great Aeneas:
    Numanus slain and unavenged; your arrow
    Has done its work. Apollo grants this praise,
    Your first, and does not envy the little archer.
    But now, my son, refrain from war.” He vanished,
    Before the speech was ended, into thin air,
    And the Trojan captains knew the god, his weapons,
    The clang of the quiver of the god ascending,
    And at his will and order keep Ascanius
    Out of the fight for which he longs, themselves
    Go back to the work, charge at the jaws of danger.
    The loud cry runs from tower to tower, all down
    The avenue of the walls, and they bend the bows,
    And catapults hum as the great stone goes flying.
    The ground is sown with weapons; shield and helmet
    Ring with the clanging; the fight is a swell and a surge
    Like the rise of a wind from the west, with rainstorm pelting
    Hard on the ground, thicker than hail on ocean,
    When Jupiter lashes the gales and cloud-burst thunders from heaven.

      Two young men, tall as pine-trees, tall as hills
    That gave them birth, Alcanor’s sons, their mother
    The Oread Iaera, stood at the gate,
    Obeying orders, Pandarus and Bitias,
    And had their own idea, and flung it open,
    Relying on their arms, an invitation--
    Here’s open house for all, come in, come in!
    To right and left they stood before the towers,
    Armed with the steel, and with the high plumes tossing,
    Like twin oaks towering by pleasant rivers.
    The Rutulians saw the entrance open, rushed in,
    Were beaten back: Haemon, the son of Mars,
    Tmarus the headstrong, Quercens, Aquicolus
    Handsome in arms, fled with their columns routed,
    Or perished in the gateway. And anger mounted
    In all those battling spirits: the Trojans gathered,
    Daring in closer combat now, and risking
    Brief sallies past the walls.

                                  Turnus, far off,
    Raging and rioting, heard the glad tidings
    Of enemies gone wild with slaughter, gates
    Flung open wide. Whatever he was doing
    He broke off gladly, burned with monstrous anger,
    Rushed to the Trojan gate and those proud brothers.
    Antiphates came to meet him, bastard son
    Of tall Sarpedon and a Theban mother,
    And Turnus’ javelin laid him low: it flew,
    Italian cornel-wood, through the soft air,
    Lodged in the throat, pierced deep into the chest.
    The wound’s dark hollow filled with foaming red,
    The steel grew warm in the lung. And Turnus’ hand
    Brought down Meropes, Erymas, Aphidnus,
    Then Bitias blazing-eyed and hot in spirit.
    No javelin brought him down, no common javelin
    Would ever have killed that giant, but a pikestaff,
    Rifled and whirring loud, driven like lightning,
    Cut through the double leather, the double mail
    With scales of gold, and the huge limbs sprawl and tumble,
    Earth groans, and his great shield clangs down above him,
    The way a pillar of rock comes down, at Baiae,
    When men have pried it loose and shoved it over
    Into the ocean, and, crashing down in ruin,
    It lies in shallow water, confusion of sea,
    Eruption of black sand, and the shock of sound
    Makes the high mountains tremble, and the earth
    Shudder under the oceans.

                                  And Mars added
    New strength and spirit to the Latins, raked them
    With the sharp sting of the spur, and sent the Trojans
    Panic and runaway fear. The Latins, given
    The chance of fight, come on, as the war-god rides them.
    Pandarus, seeing his brother’s fallen body,
    Seeing the turn of fortune, puts his shoulder
    With all his strength to the gate, and slowly, slowly,
    Swings it on stubborn hinge, to leave his comrades,
    Many of them, shut out, beyond the rampart,
    Fighting in desperate battle; others he welcomes
    As they come pouring in, the fool, not seeing
    One of them was no Trojan! That was Turnus,
    Shut up in the town, as welcome as a tiger
    Penned in a flock of sheep. And Turnus’ eyes
    Shone with new light, his arms rang loud, his plume
    Nodded blood-red, and his great shield flashed lightning.
    Sudden confusion fastened on the Trojans;
    They knew him as he was, gigantic, hateful,
    But Pandarus flashed forward toward him, burning
    With vengeance for a brother’s death, and shouting:--
    “Why, this is not Amata’s bridal palace,
    Nor yet the center of your father’s city!
    This is a hostile camp you see here, Turnus,
    And not a chance to leave it.” Turnus only
    Smiled at him with untroubled heart:--“Start something,
    If there is any fighting spirit in you;
    Come closer; I have a message for king Priam:
    Tell him Achilles was here.” And Pandarus flung
    His spear, rough-knotted, the unpeeled bark still on it,
    And the winds bore it off, and Juno parried
    The threat of the coming wound, and it fastened, harmless,
    Stuck in the wooden gate.

                                “And here’s a weapon
    That will not miss, seeing my right hand swings it,”
    And with his answer Turnus rose full height
    To the sword upraised, and brought it down, and the steel
    Split the head clean apart between the temples,
    And Pandarus came crashing down, and the earth
    Shook underneath his weight, and he lay there, dying,
    Limbs buckled underneath him, and his armor
    Spattered with brains, and the head’s halves, divided,
    Dangling on either shoulder.

                                    And the Trojans
    Ran every way, in rout and sudden terror.
    That day might well have been their last, that battle
    The end of war, had Turnus ever bothered
    To break the bars of the gate, let in his comrades.
    But no: his fury and mad desire of slaughter
    Drove him one way, and one way only, forward.
    He caught Phaleris, and he hamstrung Gyges,
    And snatched their spears and flung them at the Trojans
    Who fled with nothing but their backs for target.
    Juno supplied him fire and strength. He added
    Halys to the dead roster of his comrades,
    Pierced Phegeus through his shield and mail. Four others,
    Alcander, Halius, Prytanis, Noemon,
    Ignorant of his presence, roused the fighters
    Along the walls, and fell before they knew it.
    Lynceus, calling his comrades, came to meet him,
    And Turnus, standing higher, slashed and swung,
    Close in, and the flashing blade swept head and helmet
    Together from the shoulders; then he slaughtered
    Amycus, hunter of beasts, a clever craftsman
    In arming darts with poison; and Aeolus’ son,
    Clytius; and Cretheus, the Muses’ comrade,
    Lover of music and song, whose theme was always
    Warfare and warhorse, arms of men, and battle.

      And the Trojan leaders heard about the slaughter,
    And met, Serestus, keen in arms, and Mnestheus,
    And saw their comrades wheeling and Turnus welcomed,
    And Mnestheus tried to halt them:--“Where do you aim
    That flight?” he cried, “What other ramparts have you?
    What walls beyond these walls? Shall one man, circled,
    Hemmed in on every side, deal out destruction
    Unscathed through all the city? Will you let him
    Send down to Hell so many brave young fighters?
    What kind of cowards are you? Have you no pity,
    No shame at all, for your unhappy country,
    Your ancient household gods, and great Aeneas?”

      That gave them courage; and the column thickened,
    And they were firm, and stood. And very slowly
    Turnus drew back, retreating toward the river,
    And they came on, more boldly now, with yelling
    And massing rank on rank, a crowd of hunters
    With deadly spears, after a deadly lion,
    And the beast they hunt is frightened, but still deadly,
    Still dangerous, still glaring, and neither anger
    Nor courage lets him turn his back, and forward
    He cannot go, however much he wants to,
    Through all that press of men and spears. So Turnus,
    Doubtful, kept stepping back, little by little,
    Burning, inside, with anger. Two more times
    He made a sudden charge, sent the foe flying
    Along the walls, but they came back, and Juno
    Dared not assist him further; Jove had sent
    Iris from heaven, with no uncertain message
    If Turnus does not leave the Trojan ramparts,
    He can no longer hold his own against them,
    The shield and sword-arm falter; darts like hail
    Rain down from everywhere. The helmet rings
    Around his temples, and the brass cracks open
    Under the storm of stones; the horsehair crest
    Is shot away; the boss of the shield is dented;
    Mnestheus, with lightning force, and other Trojans
    Multiply spears. The sweat all over his body
    Runs in a tarry stream; he cannot breathe.
    At last, with one great leap, in all his armor,
    He plunges into the stream, and Tiber takes him
    On the yellow flood, held up by the buoyant water,
    Washing away the stains of war, a hero,
    Returning happily to his warrior-comrades.




BOOK X

ARMS AND THE MAN


      Meanwhile all-powerful Olympus flings
    The palace open wide: the council meets,
    At Jove’s command, under the starry dwelling
    From which he sees all lands, the Trojan camp,
    The Latin people. Between the double doors
    They find their places. Jupiter speaks first:--
    “Great dwellers in Heaven, why the change of heart?
    Why do you fight with hostile spirit? I
    Had said, I thought, that Italy and the Trojans
    Were not to meet in war. Why, then, this brawling
    In face of my command? What fear has driven
    This side or that to arms and provocation?
    The proper time will come--be in no hurry--
    When Carthage, fierce and wild, will loose destruction
    On the heights of Rome, and spring the Alps wide open.
    Hate will be lawful then, and ravage, and battle.
    But now, subside; be friendly; accept my order.”

      So Jupiter spoke, briefly, but golden Venus
    Was far from brief in answer:--“O great father,
    Sovereign of men and destiny forever,
    What other power is there for us to pray to?
    Do you see, I ask you, these Rutulian warriors
    In all their insolence? Have you noticed Turnus
    Riding on horseback through their midst, all swollen,
    With Mars as second? The barricaded walls
    No longer shield the Trojans. The battle rages
    Within the gates, on the high towers; the trenches
    Swim deep in blood. Aeneas does not know it;
    He is far away. Must siege go on forever?
    Is this your will? Another enemy threatens
    The walls of Troy, new-born, another army
    Comes from Aetolian Arpi; Diomedes
    Once more attacks the Trojans. Wounds for me
    Are still to come, I well believe; your daughter
    Waits for a mortal outrage, not the first one.
    The Trojans came to Italy: was the coming
    With your consent, by your design? If not,
    Why, let them pay the penalty, do not help them!
    Or were they following order after order
    Given by gods above, by gods below?
    If so, who dares to overturn your justice,
    Who dares create new fates? Do I have to mention
    The fleet on fire in Sicily, the winds
    Let loose by Aeolus, their king, or Iris
    Sent through the clouds? And now she is even rousing--
    This chance she had not yet taken--the shades of Hell,
    And here is Allecto, suddenly given license
    In the upper world, and ravaging and raving
    Through the Italian cities. As for empire,
    I care no more about it. I was hopeful
    When fortune still existed. Let the winners
    Be those you want to win: have it your way.
    If that tough wife of yours will give the Trojans
    No land in all the world, no realm whatever,
    I beg you, father, by the smoking ruins
    Of shattered Troy, let me spare one, Iulus,
    Let him, at least, be saved from war. Aeneas,
    Of course, will still be tossed on unknown waters,
    Following any course that fortune offers.
    Let me protect his son. I have Amathus,
    High Paphus and Cythera, Idalia’s groves;
    There he may live, laying aside his weapons,
    A long inglorious lifetime. Order Carthage
    To crush Ausonia with her empire; nothing
    Shall interfere with Tyrian towns. Much good
    It did him to escape the plague of war,
    To have fled through Argive burning, to have exhausted
    All dangers of the land and the great ocean,
    Looking for Latium and a new-born Troy!
    Much good indeed! It would have been much better
    For the very soil of Troy and her last ashes
    To have been the new foundation for their dwelling.
    Give the poor wretches Simois and Xanthus,
    Father, once more; I pray you, let the Trojans
    Live, once again, the fall of Troy!” And Juno
    Burst out in anger:--“Why do you compel me
    To break my silence, to make my sorrow vulgar
    With words for the world’s ear? What god, what mortal
    Forced war upon Aeneas? Who advised him
    To advance, an enemy, against Latinus?
    _He came to Italy at the fates’ command_--
    So be it; but what about Cassandra’s ravings?
    Was I the one--I must have been--who told him
    To leave the camp, to trust his life to the winds?
    Was I the one who told him to make a boy
    The captain of the wall? Was it I who told him
    To seek Etruscan allies, to hunt down people
    Who meant no harm? What god, what power of mine
    Drove him to all his cheating? What has Juno
    Or Iris, sent through the clouds, to do with this?
    Disgraceful and disgusting, that Italians
    Threaten the walls of Troy, new-born; that Turnus
    Stay in his native land, Turnus, descended
    Himself from king and goddess. What about it?
    What about this, that Trojans harry Latins
    With smoking brand and violence, set their yoke
    On fields not theirs, and carry off the plunder?
    Who let them know whose daughters to wed, or ravish?
    Who told them to hold out the hand for peace
    And arm the ships for war? Oh, you are able,
    Of course you are, to give them mist for a man,
    To steal Aeneas from Greek hands; you are able
    To turn their fleet to sea-nymphs, but if I
    Help the Rutulians even a very little,
    Is that so monstrous? _Aeneas does not know it;
    He is far away._ Good. Let him still not know it;
    Let him still be far away. You have Amathus,
    High Paphus and Cythera; so why meddle
    With savage hearts and a city big with war?
    And now, it seems, I am trying to pull over
    The wobbling walls of Troy! Really! Who was it,
    I, or somebody else, who flung the Trojans,
    Poor things, in the path of the Greeks? What was the reason
    For Europe and Asia to rise in arms, break treaties
    Over a piece of stealing? Was it I
    Who shipped the adulterer Paris out to Sparta?
    Was it I who armed his lust? That was the time
    To have had some fear for those poor suffering Trojans.
    It is too late now. You rise to the occasion
    With unjust whining and shrill scolding nonsense.”

      So Juno argued: the company of heaven
    Sided with one or the other, and the sound
    Was like the sound of winds caught in the forest,
    And sailors, listening, know that storms are coming.
    And Jupiter all-powerful, the ruler
    Of all the world, began, and with his word
    The lofty palace of the gods grew quiet,
    The earth’s foundations trembled, and the winds
    Were still, and the loud ocean hushed the waters.
    “Take these my words to heart; be sure to heed them.
    It is forbidden Ausonians and Trojans
    To join in concord; the arguments among you,
    It seems, will never end. Therefore I tell you,
    Whether a man is Trojan or Rutulian,
    Whatever luck he has to-day, whatever
    He hopes to have to-morrow, it does not matter.
    I treat them both the same. It may be fate,
    It may be Trojan foolishness and error
    That keeps the camp besieged: I do not judge.
    I hold Rutulians under obligation
    As well as Trojans. In every man’s beginning
    His luck resides, for good or ill. I rule
    All men alike. The fates will find the way.”
    And all Olympus trembled as he nodded
    And swore by the waters of his Stygian brother,
    The pitchy banks and the black seething torrent.
    There was no more talking. From his golden throne
    Jove rose, with gods and goddesses attending
    In deferential escort.

                            In the meantime
    At every gate Rutulians drive, determined
    To bring down men with steel, ring walls with flame.
    The host of Troy is held inside, blockaded,
    With never a hope of flight. Wretched, they stand
    At the high towers, in vain; they are none too many
    To stretch the circle out. Imbrasus’ son,
    Asius, is there; Thymoetes; two young men,
    Assaracus’ sons; and Castor, and old Thymbris,
    In the front ranks; two brothers of Sarpedon,
    Clarus and Thaemon, with them; they came from Lycia.
    One man, with every ounce of strength, is heaving
    To lift a giant boulder, half a mountain:
    That would be Acmon, Clytius’ son: Lyrnesus,
    Their home, produced enormous men--a brother,
    Mnestheus, too, was something of a giant.
    So rocks are weapons of defense, and arrows,
    And darts, and balls of fire, and fighting men
    Are busy with them all, and the little Trojan,
    The pet of Venus, rightly so, was with them,
    Bare-headed, a handsome sight, a shining jewel
    Inlaid in yellow gold, or a medallion
    Of ivory in terebinth or boxwood;
    So shone Iulus, whose white neck and shoulders
    Seemed whiter where the blond hair fell, and the circlet
    Of gold made bright the golden hair. Ismarus
    Was there, an archer, whose shafts were dipped in poison,
    A warrior far from his Maeonian homeland
    Where Pactolus floods the fields with yellow gold.
    And Mnestheus was there; he had beaten Turnus
    The day before, and knew it, and was proud;
    And Capys fought beside him: his name was given
    To a city, later,--Capua, south of Rome.

      So these men had been fighting, clash and conflict
    In the rough shock of warfare, as Aeneas,
    At midnight, cleaved the seas. He had left Evander,
    He had found the Tuscan camp, he had told the king
    His name, his race, his need, what help he brought him,
    Told Tarchon of Mezentius, of the spirit
    Of violence in Turnus; had given warning
    That, always, men need help; had made appeal,
    Which Tarchon promptly answered: so the people
    Were free from fate’s injunction, free for war,
    Having a foreign leader. Aeneas’ ship
    Headed the column, her figure-head a mountain
    With lions at the base, familiar Ida,
    Dear to the Trojan exiles. And Aeneas
    Sailed on toward war and all those changing fortunes,
    And Pallas stayed beside him, asking questions:
    What stars were those? which was the one to guide them
    Through the dark night? what fortunes had he suffered
    On land and sea?

                      Fling wide the gates, O Muses,
    Inspire the song: what force rides with Aeneas
    From Tuscan shores, what warships sail the ocean?

      Massicus leads the way in the bronze _Tiger_,
    A thousand men on board; they have come from Clusium,
    From Cosae’s city, archers all, with quivers
    Light on their shoulders, and their bows are deadly.
    With them is glowering Abas; a gold Apollo
    Gleams on his bowsprit, and the vessel blazes
    With men in armor; the little island Ilva,
    Rich in her mines, had sent them, thrice a hundred,
    And Populonia furnished twice as many.
    Third comes Asilas, priest and augur, learnèd
    In all the signs, diviner of stars and lightning,
    Of birds and entrails; he brings a thousand spearmen
    From Pisa, on Etruscan soil. And Astur
    Follows, a handsome horseman, with three hundred
    Stalwarts from Caere, Minio, and Pyrgi,
    Proud, confident men, with arms of many colors.
    And Cinyras is there, the bravest leader
    Of all Ligurian captains, and Cupavo,
    With none too many followers; his crest
    Is white swan-plumage, a token of his father,
    Who, so they say, loved Phaethon, and grieved
    Over his fall from heaven, and made music
    To heal his sorrow, under the poplar trees
    Phaethon’s sisters haunted, and so, singing,
    Became a bird, all white and soft, and vanished
    From earth, and was a crying voice in heaven,
    Cygnus, the swan. And now his son Cupavo
    Comes to the wars, driving his ship, the _Centaur_,
    Which towers high as a cliff; the long keel furrows
    A wide wake over the sea.

                                And Ocnus summons
    Men from his native shores, Ocnus, the son
    Of a Tuscan river and a woman, Manto,
    Gifted in prophecy; her name was given
    To Mantua, rich in ancestors, one city,
    Three races, each one master of four peoples,
    And Mantua the queen of all, her power
    Secure in Tuscan strength. From here Mezentius
    Rouses five hundred men in arms against him,
    And Mincius, Benacus’ son, crowned with grey rushes
    Brings them down to the sea. On comes Aulestes,
    Whose _Triton_ wallows heavily in the waters,
    With a hundred oars lashing the waves to foam,
    And the blue waters tremble at the sea-god
    Riding the prow, conch at his lips, a figure
    Shaped like a shaggy man, as far as the belly,
    And then a fish or serpent, a great sea-monster,
    Under whose weight the water sucks and gurgles.
    So the bronze vessels come, thirty good ships
    For the help of Troy, and men, and chosen leaders
    Over the salt sea plains.

                              And day had gone,
    And the dear moon in her night-wandering chariot
    Was halfway up the sky; Aeneas, restless,
    Tended the sails and rudder, holding the course,
    And a band of his own company came to meet him,
    Those goddesses, whom Cybele had ordered
    To rule the seas that once they sailed. They knew him,
    Their king, far off, circled his ships in greeting,
    And Cymodocea, of them all most gifted
    In ways of speech, clung to the stern; one hand
    Lifted her out of the water, and the other
    Kept plying under the waves. She hailed Aeneas:--
    “Are you on watch, son of the gods? Be watchful,
    Crowd on full sail! We are the pines of Ida,
    Born from that sacred mountain. Nymphs of the sea,
    We used to be your fleet. But treacherous Turnus
    Drove us with fire and sword; against our will
    We broke our bonds to you, and now we seek you
    Over the deep. The mother of the gods
    Took pity on us, and made us goddesses,
    Immortal under the waters. We have bad news; your son
    Is under siege; walls hold him in, and trenches,
    And the air is filled with darts, and the wild Latins
    Bristle in war. The cavalry of Pallas
    And the brave Etruscan allies, minding orders,
    Hold their appointed station. Turnus knows it,
    Turnus is certain to send opposing squadrons
    To keep them from the camp. Hurry, then, hurry,
    Get the men armed by daylight; raise the shield
    Given by Vulcan, the invincible armor,
    Bright with its ring of gold. To-morrow morning
    Shall see, unless I speak in foolish error,
    Great heaps of slain Rutulians.” She finished speaking,
    And as she left the ship, her right hand gave it
    An expert shove, and it sped over the water
    Swifter than javelin or flying arrow,
    And the other vessels quickened pace. Aeneas
    Marvelled, amazed, and the portent cheered his spirit,
    And he looked up to the vault of heaven, praying:--
    “Dear mother of the gods, Idean queen,
    Lover of tower-crowned cities, and the lions
    That draw the chariot, be my leader now
    Before the fight begins, affirm the omen,
    Favor the Trojans, goddess, with your blessing.”
    And as he spoke, new day broke over the ocean
    In a great blaze of light, and the darkness vanished.

      It was time for the last warnings to his comrades:
    _Follow the signals, nerve the spirit for battle,
    Make every preparation!_ And he stood there,
    High on the stern, seeing, before his eyes,
    The Trojans and his camp, and he lifted high
    The blazing shield, and the Trojans raised a clamor
    To the high stars; new hope inflamed their anger,
    And the darts flew, as cranes come back to Strymon
    Noisy before the southern gales. But Turnus
    And the Rutulian leaders were dumbfounded,--
    What miracle was this?--looked back and saw
    The sterns lined up to the shore, the whole great ocean
    One mass of moving ships. The helmet burned,
    The crest streamed fire, the golden boss of the shield
    Poured golden radiance: even so, at night-time
    The comets burn blood-red, or Sirius’ fire,
    Portent of drought and pestilence to mortals,
    Saddens the sky with evil glare.

                                      But Turnus
    Never lost confidence or nerve; he would beat them
    There at the shore, he knew, and stop the landing.
    “Men, here is what you always prayed for; do it!
    Break through with sword-arm! Mars is in your hands.
    Remember, every man, his wife, his household,
    His fathers’ noble glories. On to meet them
    At the water’s edge: they tremble there, they stagger,
    And luck helps men who dare.” He chose his captains,
    Picked men for this attack, and left to others
    The duty of the siege.

                          Meanwhile Aeneas
    Landed his comrades, down from the tall ships,
    Over the gangways. Many leapt boldly down
    Catching the ebb of the sea, and others vaulted
    Over the oar-blades. Tarchon, watching the shore-line,
    Saw where the shallow water was hardly breathing,
    Where never a breaker roared, where the smooth ocean
    Came gliding slowly in, and he turned his prow,
    Calling on comrades:--“Now is the time, bend to it,
    Lean on the oars, pick up the ships and lift them!
    Let the beaks split this hostile land, and keels
    Plough a deep furrow: what does a shipwreck matter,
    So we take hold of land?” And as he urged them
    They rose to the oars, they drove the foaming ships
    To the dry Latin fields, and every vessel
    Came in, unhurt, except for one. For Tarchon
    Ran up on a ledge of rock and hung there, doubtful,
    Tilting now back, now forward, until he broke
    Above the weary wave, and the timbers weakened,
    Gave way, and the men were flung in the midst of ocean,
    Among the broken oars and the floating cross-beams,
    And the drag of the undertow.

                                      No lazy dawdling
    Held Turnus back; he hurled his lines against them,
    He stopped them at the shore. Aeneas charged,
    Aeneas was the first invader, Aeneas
    Struck down the Latin countrymen, killed Theron,
    The biggest of them all. That was an omen;
    Theron had taken extra pains to meet him,
    But the sword went through his mail and through his tunic
    And pierced his side and drank his blood. Next, Lichas
    Was slain, Apollo’s devotee, at birth
    Cut from the womb of his dead mother: the child
    Escaped the steel, but not the man. Two others,
    One of them tough, one huge, Cisseus, Gyas,
    Went down before Aeneas. They were fighting
    With clubs, as Hercules used to, and much good
    It did them, though their father was Melampus
    Who had been with Hercules through many labors.
    Then there was Pharus, who had his mouth wide open,
    For boast or taunt, and got a javelin in it,
    Flung by Aeneas’ hand. Cydon loved Clytius,
    And followed him everywhere, his golden darling,
    And would have had a lesson in forgetting
    All his beloved young men, falling a victim
    Under Aeneas’ hand, but his seven brothers,
    The sons of Phorcus, hurried to his rescue.
    Each one let fly a dart: helmet and shield
    Turned them aside, or they only grazed the body
    Through Venus’ help. “Achates,” cried Aeneas,
    “Bring up more weapons! Any I ever landed
    In bodies of the Greeks, on the plains of Ilium,
    Will never miss Rutulians here.” He snatched
    A great spear up, and flung it; it went flying
    Through Maeon’s shield of bronze; it rent the breastplate,
    It tore the breast, went through, and struck Alcanor
    Through the right arm around his falling brother,
    And pierced the arm, and kept its bloody journey
    While the dead arm dangled from shoulder-sinew.
    Numitor ripped the spear from his brother’s body,
    Aimed at Aeneas, missed, but grazed Achates.

      Clausus from Cures, proud of his young body,
    Let fly, far off, a javelin, which caught Dryops
    Under the chin and pierced the throat and robbed him
    Of voice--he tried to speak--and life together,
    And Dryops’ forehead hit the ground, and blood
    Poured thick from mouth and wound. Three Thracians fell,
    Sons of the race of Boreas, and three others,
    Ismarians, sons of Idas, killed by Clausus.
    Halaesus came to his side, and Neptune’s son,
    Messapus, joined them, that famous tamer of horses.
    Here, there, on every side, the struggle rages:
    The cry is _Drive them back!_ Here is the beach-head
    For gain or loss. As warring winds in heaven,
    Rage at each other through that wide dominion,
    Equal in will and violence, the battle
    Doubtful and long, and nothing yields, not wind,
    Not cloud, not sea, in that eternal deadlock,
    So Troy meets Latium in the shock of fighting,
    Foot tramples foot, man grapples man.

                                          And inland,
    On ground where a raging stream had sent stones rolling,
    And torn the bushes from the banks, the horsemen
    Had to be infantry, for the rough ground
    Forbade the use of chariots. Their nerve
    Was at low ebb; they fled. And Pallas saw them,
    And being their one hope, with scorn and prayer
    Rallied their courage:--“Where do you flee, Arcadians?
    By your own brave deeds I beg you, by your king,
    By the old wars won in Evander’s name,
    By my own hopes to match my father’s praise,
    Trust not to flight. The sword must cut the way,
    And where that mass of men comes thickest toward us,
    That way we go, with Pallas as your leader
    Our country calls; no gods pursue us: men,
    We are being chased by men, with no more hands,
    With no more lives than we have. Ocean blocks us
    With his great dam; earth offers us no haven:
    Are we bound for Troy or the sea?” And he dashed in
    Where the enemy was thickest. Lagus came
    To meet him; fate was far from kind to Lagus.
    He was trying to lift a stone when Pallas hit him
    And the javelin stuck in the spine between the ribs
    Till Pallas pulled it loose again. Then Hisbo
    Hoped to surprise him and failed; he came in rushing,
    Reckless and angry over the death of Lagus,
    And Pallas was ready for him, and drove the sword
    Deep in the swollen lung. He went for Sthenius,
    Then Anchemolus, of Rhoetus’ ancient line,
    The consort of his stepmother in incest,
    And then he saw twin brothers, sons of Daucus,
    Named Thymber and Larides, whom their kinsmen
    Could never tell apart, and their own parents
    Made fond mistakes about them. But Pallas made
    Them different, once for all; Evander’s sword
    Cut off the head of Thymber; Larides’ hand,
    Severed, looked blindly for its arm, the fingers
    Closed, quivering and dying, on the sword.

      So the Arcadians rallied; his example
    Armed them with shame and rage. Tyres and Teuthras,
    Arcadian brothers, started after Rhoeteus,
    Who fled, and that saved Ilus’ life, for Pallas
    Had flung a spear at Ilus, but Rhoeteus, driving
    Into its path, received it, rolled from the chariot,
    And his heels kicked the ground in death’s convulsion.
    And as in summer, when a shepherd kindles
    Fire here and there among the brush or forest,
    And waits for wind, and hears it rise, and swiftly
    The many fires are one great blaze, and Vulcan
    Takes charge of all the field, above the battle
    Watching victorious, so Pallas’ comrades
    Swept in from all directions, bright and burning,
    Toward him, their focus and centre. And Halaesus
    Came on to meet them, pulling himself together,
    Setting himself for battle. He killed Ladon,
    Pheres, Demodocus: Strymonius threatened
    His throat with the gleaming sword, and for his trouble
    Got his right hand cut off, and then Halaesus
    Bashed Thoas’ head in with a rock and scrambled
    His skull-bones, blood and brains. Halaesus’ father
    Knew his son’s destiny and tried to spare him,
    Hiding him in the woodlands, but grew old
    And could not watch forever, and when his eyes
    Were blind in death, the fates reached out, Halaesus
    Could not avoid his doom. Pallas attacked him,
    Praying before he flung the spear:--“O Tiber,
    Grant to the steel I poise and hurl good fortune,
    A pathway through the breast of tough Halaesus:
    Your oak will hold his arms and spoil as trophy.”
    And Tiber heard the prayer; Halaesus’ luck
    Ran out, he had left himself exposed, to cover
    Imaon with his shield, and the bare breast
    Took the Arcadian lance.

                                Lausus, unfrightened,
    Himself no little portion of war, fought on,
    Kept up the courage of his men, found Abas
    And cut him down; when Abas fell, a cluster
    Of stubborn fight was broken. The young men die,
    Arcadians, Etruscans, Trojan fighters
    Who had survived Greek wounds; they come to grips,
    Both armies, equal in leadership and valor;
    Lines become columns, columns lines: all thickens
    Into confusion, a press too close for fighting.
    On one side Pallas thrusts and strains, and Lausus
    Struggles to meet him, two young heroes, equal,
    Or nearly so, in years, in worth, in courage,
    In handsome manliness; and both denied
    Return to fatherland; and each forbidden
    To meet the other; and both assured of finding
    Their fate where a greater enemy is waiting.

      Meanwhile the sister of Turnus brought him warning,
    _Lausus needs aid!_ So, with his car, he drove
    Swift through the ranks. “Break off, and give me room,”
    He cried, “Room for my duel. I am bound
    To battle Pallas; Pallas is my prize,
    My prize alone. I only wish his father
    Were here to watch!” Obedient, his comrades
    Gave place, and as they yielded, Pallas stood
    Astonished at this arrogance, this giant:
    He took the whole scene in, undaunted, proud,
    Fierce, high in spirit, with a ready answer
    For Turnus’ taunting:--“Either I win my praise
    For kingly spoils or glorious death, and soon:
    My father can face either: spare the threats!”
    And he moved forward, and the blood ran chill
    In all Arcadian hearts. Down from his car
    Jumps Turnus; he comes nearer, like a lion
    Who sees far-off a bull, intent on battle,
    And stalks, and rushes; even so came Turnus,
    Came within spear-throw; Pallas, watching, knew it,
    Took a step forward, and, that chance might favor
    However uneven his strength, prayed to the heavens:--
    “If ever my father entertained a stranger
    Who proved a god, and gave him food and greeting,
    Aid me, O Hercules! Let Turnus see me
    Taking the bloody armor from his body,
    And his dying eyes behold me, Pallas, victor.”
    The young prayer touched the god: his grief was stifled
    Deep in his heart, and tears were vain; his father
    Spoke to him kindly:--“Every man, my son,
    Has his appointed time; life’s day is short
    For all men; they can never win it back,
    But to extend it further by noble deeds
    Is the task set for valor. Even my son,
    My own, and sons of other gods have fallen
    Under Troy’s lofty walls. Sarpedon, Turnus,
    Fate calls alike: the years for each are measured,
    The goal in sight.” Jupiter, having spoken,
    Shifted his eyes from the Rutulian landscape.

      And Pallas flung the spear, full force, and drew
    The flashing blade; the shaft sped on, it struck
    Where mail and shoulder met; piercing the shield
    It grazed the side of Turnus. And he poised
    His long oak shaft with the sharp iron, hurled it,
    And a taunt went with the toss:--“Which pierces deeper,
    Your spear or mine?” So, through the plates of iron,
    The plates of bronze, the overlapping leather,
    Through the shield’s center drives the quivering point,
    Through stubborn mail, through the great breast. In vain
    Pallas pulls out the dart, warm from the wound.
    His blood, his life, come with it, and he falls
    Doubled upon his wound; the armor clangs
    Over his body; he strikes the hostile earth,
    Dying, with bloody mouth. Above him Turnus,
    Rejoicing, cries:--“Arcadians, take notice,
    And let Evander know, I am sending back
    Pallas as he deserved. Whatever honor
    A tomb affords, whatever comfort lies
    In burial, that much I grant, and freely:
    A costly welcome, Evander’s to Aeneas!”
    His left foot on the body, he ripped loose
    The belt’s great weight, with the story of a murder
    Carved in its metal, the young men foully murdered
    On the bridal night, the chamber drenched in blood,
    As Clonus, son of Eurytus, engraved it.
    And Turnus gloried in the spoil, exulting--
    O ignorant mortal mind, which never knows
    Of fate or doom ahead, or how, in fortune,
    To keep in decent bounds! A time is coming
    When Turnus would pay dearly, could he purchase
    Pallas unharmed again, would view with loathing
    Those spoils, that day. But now, with tears and weeping,
    Comrades lift Pallas to the shield and take him,
    Great sorrow and great glory, to his father.
    One day of war, one day of death, but victims,
    And many, for Rutulians to remember.

      No rumor, but a runner from the battle
    Comes to Aeneas, of his men endangered,
    At the edge of death: they are giving way, the Trojans,
    There is not much time. Aeneas draws the sword;
    Aeneas, burning, cuts a pathway through
    The nearest lines; it is Turnus he is seeking,
    Turnus the arrogant, slaughter fresh upon him.
    Aeneas, all imagination, sees
    Pallas, Evander, and the friendly tables
    To which he came, a stranger; hears the pledge
    Given and taken. For another pledge
    He seizes four young men, the sons of Sulmo,
    And four whom Ufens fathered; he takes them, living,
    For later sacrifice, to dye with blood
    The funeral pyre of Pallas. From afar,
    He aimed his spear at Magus, but that warrior
    Ducked under it cleverly, and the shaft flew over,
    And Magus was a suppliant at his knees:--
    “I beg you, by the shades of great Anchises,
    By all the hope you have of young Iulus,
    Spare me, a father and a son, for son
    And father. I have property and treasure,
    A lofty house, talents of gold and silver
    Buried in safety, crude and minted metal.
    One life like mine is nothing to the Trojans:
    What difference will it make?” “Save for your sons,”
    Aeneas answered, “all that gold and silver.
    Turnus broke off all bargain-talk, the killer,
    When Pallas fell. The shades of great Anchises
    Know this, my growing son, Iulus, knows it.”
    His left hand grasped the helmet; Magus felt
    His head drawn back, he felt throat muscles tighten,
    And, as he pleaded still, he felt the sword
    Deep driven to the hilt.

                              A son of Haemon
    Was standing not far off, the holy fillets
    Around his temples, gleaming in the robes
    He wore as priest of Phoebus and Diana,
    Bright in his glittering arms. He fled Aeneas
    Across the field, in vain escape, and stumbled,
    And the Trojan hero, standing over his body,
    Struck down, and killed, and gave him a cloak of darkness,
    And Serestus took his armor, spoil for Mars.

      Caeculus, born of Vulcan’s race, and Umbro,
    From Marsian mountains, rallied the ranks. Aeneas
    Came storming toward them, hot from wounding Anxur,
    Who had been boasting loud, hoping that words
    Would make him more aggressive: there was no limit
    To promises he made himself, long years,
    A ripe old age--if so, he would be a cripple,
    A man with no left hand: Aeneas lopped it
    Off at the wrist, and the shield’s round circle with it.
    Tarquitus, son of Dryope and Faunus,
    Proud in his gleaming arms, stood up against him
    Briefly; the spear drove through the shield’s huge weight
    Nailing it to the breastplate; all in vain
    Tarquitus pleaded, stammering and choking.
    Aeneas gave his head a shove; the body,
    Still warm, turned halfway over under his foot.
    Dying, Tarquitus heard:--“Lie there, and scare me,
    Terrible warrior! No loving mother
    Will ever bury your bones, no father build
    A sepulchre above them. The birds of prey
    Will take you, or the waters of the flood,
    And greedy fishes nibble your wounds and mouth them.”
    Four more were slaughtered, Lucas and Antaeus,
    Conspicuous in Turnus’ ranks, and Numa,
    And sun-burnt Camers, son of noble Volcens,
    Richest in land of all Ausonians, ruler
    Over Amyclae, the city known for silence.
    Men say there was a giant once, Aegaeon,
    Who had a hundred arms, and fifty mouths
    From each of which came fire, and fifty swords
    And fifty shields, and rattled them together,
    Defying Heaven’s thunderbolts and lightning,--
    Such was Aeneas now, a victor raging
    All up and down the field, with one sword only
    But that one hot and red. He saw Niphaeus
    Driving his four swift horses, and went toward them
    With terrible strides and cursing, and they bolted,
    Shook off the driver, dragged the car, a ruin,
    Down to the shore of the sea. And then two brothers
    Bring their white chariot on, Lucagus, Liger,
    Of whom Lucagus whirls the sword in fighting,
    And Liger plies the reins; they burn with fury,
    More than Aeneas can stand: he rushes, monstrous,
    A giant with a spear. And Liger taunts him:--
    “Whoa! This is not Achilles’ car, these fields
    Not Troy, these horses Diomedes’.
    You will get it now, the end of life and battle,
    Here on this ground.” Poor crazy-talking Liger!
    Aeneas wastes no words; his lance comes flying,
    And while Lucagus, leaning over the chariot,
    Makes of his sword a whip, his left foot forward,
    Setting himself for action, the point comes through
    The low rim of his shield, drives on, and pierces
    The groin on the left side. Lucagus topples,
    Writhes on the ground, and dies; and then Aeneas
    Has words for him, and bitter ones:--“Lucagus,
    Your horses have not run away; they are brave,
    They are no traitors, shying at a shadow.
    You are the one, it seems, the cheap deserter,
    Who jump the wheels, leave the poor beasts forsaken.”
    He pulls the horses up; and down comes Liger,
    His luck all gone, his hands outstretched for mercy:--
    “O Trojan hero, son of mighty parents,
    For their remembrance, spare my life: Oh, hear me--”
    And there was more he would have said. Aeneas
    Broke in:--“Liger, that’s not the way you sounded
    A little while ago. What? Should a brother
    Leave brother in the battle? Never. Die!”
    And the sword went its deadly way, exposing
    The spirit’s hiding-place. Such was the carnage
    Dealt by Aeneas over the plain, a whirlwind,
    A flood of black destruction. And at the city
    Ascanius and the warriors broke the siege,
    Came from the threatened camp.

                                      And high in heaven
    Jupiter spoke to Juno:--“Sister of mine,
    And dearest wife, it is, as you were thinking--
    You are not wrong--Venus, who helps the Trojans,
    Instead of their own right hands, war-quick, or spirit
    Aggressive in attack, enduring in danger.”
    And Juno made meek answer:--“Why, dear husband,
    Trouble me further? I am sick at heart,
    I fear your sad commandments. If I only
    Had what I used to have, compelling love,
    You would not, all-powerful king, refuse my pleading:
    You would let me rescue Turnus from the battle,
    Restore him safely to his father Daunus.
    That would have been my prayer; but let him die,
    Let innocent blood be forfeit to the Trojans,
    No matter that his lineage is lofty,
    His origin from our stock; no matter, either,
    The generous offerings he has made your altars.”

      The king of high Olympus thus made answer:--
    “If it is only respite and reprieve
    You ask for this doomed youth, delay, postponement,
    If that is all, and you realize I know it,
    Take Turnus off by flight, snatch him from danger.
    That much you are permitted. But if, beneath the prayer,
    Some deeper hope lies hidden, if you are thinking
    The war might change entirely, then you nourish
    The silliest kind of dreaming.” Juno, weeping,
    Replied:--“But what if, in your heart, you granted
    The gift your speech refuses? What if Turnus
    Might still live on? No; heavy doom awaits him,
    Or else I am borne along in grievous error.
    I wish my fear were false and I deluded,
    And that the god, who has all power, would use it
    To change things for the better.” And, having spoken,
    She veiled herself with cloud, came down from heaven,
    Driving a storm before her, and sought Laurentum,
    The Trojan line, the Latin camp, and fashioned
    Out of a cloud, a hollow man, a figure
    Thin, weak, and curious to see, a phantom,
    A false Aeneas, dressed in Trojan armor,
    A mimic shield and crest, with unreal language,
    Voice without purpose, the image of a stride,
    Like the vain forms that flit when death is over,
    Like dreams that mock the drugged and drowsy senses.
    With arrogant joy this ghost went out parading
    Before the warriors’ ranks, brandishing weapons,
    Taunting and daring Turnus, who came on,
    Hurled from afar the whirring spear; the phantom
    Turned and made off, and Turnus, in confusion,
    Nourished an empty hope: Aeneas, he thought,
    Had turned away, was gone. “What now, Aeneas?
    Where do you flee? Do not desert the bride,
    The marriage chamber!” And he drew the sword
    Glittering as he challenged, and did not notice
    The winds sweep off his happiness. Near by,
    Moored to a shelf of rock, a ship was standing,
    Ladders let down, and gangplank set; a king
    Had sailed therein from Clusium. The ghost,
    The false Aeneas, hurrying, found shelter
    Deep in the hold, and Turnus followed after,
    Hot-foot through all delays, leaped onto the deck,
    And had no sooner reached the bow than Juno
    Broke off the mooring-lines, and the ship went scudding
    Over the yielding sea. The real Aeneas
    Kept calling Turnus to the fight, kept killing
    Any who crossed his path. But the frail image
    No longer sought a hiding-place, but swept
    High to the darker clouds, with Turnus riding
    The gale far out to seaward. Ignorant still,
    Ungrateful for reprieve, he looked to shore,
    Raising his hands to heaven, and praying:--“Father,
    What have I done, to be so tricked, so sullied?
    What am I being punished for? Where am I?
    Who am I, for that matter? Fugitive
    And coward, will I ever see again
    The camp, the walls? And all that band of heroes
    Who followed me and trusted me, I leave them
    In death unspeakable, I see them wheeling,
    I hear their dying groans. What am I doing?
    What gulf, what chasm, is deep enough to hide me?
    Pity me, winds; dash this accursèd vessel
    On rocks, on reefs, on any savage quicksands.
    I, Turnus, plead with all my heart, ah, strand me
    Beyond all reach, where rumor or Rutulian
    May neither one pursue me.” His doubting spirit,
    Mad with so much disgrace, was undecided
    Whether to let the sword drive through the body,
    Or dive and swim for it, toward camp and Trojans.
    Three times he tried each way, three times his hand,
    His will, were stayed by Juno in her mercy
    And the tall ship, on wind and tide, was carried
    On to Ardea, Daunus’ lofty city.

      Meanwhile, at Jove’s command, Mezentius, burning,
    Entered the fight, swept through the cheering Trojans.
    The Etruscan ranks rush on; against Mezentius
    All turn their hate, their weapons. But he stands
    Firm as a cliff, a jutting promontory
    In the great deep, exposed to the winds’ anger,
    Taking all violence of sky and ocean,
    Itself unmoved, immovable. Mezentius
    Slew Hebrus, son of Dolichaon, and with him
    Latagus and the running Palmus; Palmus
    He hamstrung from behind, and left him writhing,
    And gave his arms to Lausus, mail for his shoulders,
    Plumes for the helmet. A rock brought down Latagus,
    Smashing his mouth, full in the face. Evanthes
    Fell victim, and Paris’ comrade fell, that Mimas
    Whose mother gave him birth on the same evening
    When Hecuba was delivered of her firebrand.
    As a wild boar, sheltered for many years
    In woods of pine or tracts of marshland, nourished
    On reeds thick-grown, is driven from the mountains
    By the sharp-toothed hunting-dogs, and comes to the nets,
    And makes a stand, and snorts in savage anger,
    And bristles up his shoulders, and no one dares
    Come any nearer, but they all assail him
    At a safe distance, pelting him and shouting,
    And he is fierce and bold and very stubborn,
    Gnashing his teeth, and shaking off the weapons,
    Even so, like that wild boar, Mezentius held them
    At bay, all those who hated him; they dared not
    Close with the sword; they kept their distance, shouting,
    Assailing him, but out of reach, with missiles.

      There was a youth named Acron, who had come
    From a Greek town, leaving his bride a virgin
    At home in Corythus. Mezentius saw him
    Bright in the ranks, flashing, maroon and crimson,
    The colors of his bride. Mezentius saw him
    The way a hungry lion sees a deer
    And the jaws open and the mane is lifted
    And after one great leap the claws are fastened
    Deep in the flank, and the mouth is red with slaughter.
    So charged Mezentius into the midst, and Acron
    Went down, heels drumming on the ground, and blood
    Staining the broken spear. Orodes fled,
    Or tried to, but no spear for him; Mezentius
    Closed in, and struck with the sword, leaned on his spear,
    With one foot on the body, and cried aloud:--
    “Here lies Orodes, men, a mighty captain,
    No little bit of the war!” His comrades joined him,
    Shouting applause; with his last breath Orodes
    Managed an answer:--“Not for long, O foeman,
    Shall I be unavenged: exult a little.
    Your doom keeps watch; you will hold these fields, as I do,
    Before too long.” Mezentius, smiling at him,
    Said only, “Die; and let the sire of the gods,
    The king of men, look after me.” The steel
    Came from the body; iron sleep and heavy
    Repose weighed down his eyes; they closed forever
    In night’s eternal dark.

                              Caedicus slaughters
    Alcathous, Sacrator kills Hydaspes,
    Rapo cuts two men down, Parthenius, Orses,
    A tough, strong fighter; Messapus slays Clonius,
    Lying, defenceless, on the ground, a rider
    Thrown when the bridle of the horse was broken,
    And Messapus slays another, Erichaetes,
    Who tried to fight on foot; and Lycian Agis
    Attempts to fight on foot, and meets Valerus,
    And finds him a stout foeman, like his fathers,
    And falls; and Thronius falls; his victor, Salius,
    Is victim of Nealces, a good fighter
    With javelin and far-deceiving arrow.
    The scales were balanced: Trojans and Rutulians,
    Arcadians, Etruscans, died and slaughtered.
    Mars was a heavy-handed god, impartial
    In dealing death and wounds. Victors and vanquished
    Stood firm, in death or triumph, and the gods
    Pitied both sides and all that useless anger,
    That suffering which mortals take in battle.
    Venus is watching, and Saturnian Juno,
    And pale Tisiphone through the hosts goes raging.

      And now Mezentius, shaking his great spear,
    Sweeps like a whirlwind over the plain, a giant
    Huge as Orion, wading through the waters,
    Towering with his shoulders over the waves,
    Lugging an ancient ash-tree from the mountains,
    And his head hidden in the clouds of heaven,
    So looms Mezentius, monstrous in his armor,
    And, from the other side, Aeneas sees him,
    And moves to meet him, and Mezentius stands there,
    Unfrightened, heavy-set, waiting his foe.
    He eyes the distance that the spear may need,
    Indulges in mock prayer:--“Let my right hand,
    That is to say, my god, and the dart I balance
    Favor me now! And as a trophy, Lausus,
    I vow yourself, my son, to carry, living,
    The spoil stripped from this robber.” The spear flew on,
    Glanced from the shield, wounded the knight Antores
    Between the side and thigh; Evander’s ally,
    Hercules’ comrade, a man from Argos, he falls,
    Killed by a wound meant for another; dying,
    He thinks of his dear Argos. And Aeneas
    Lets drive his spear: it penetrates the shield,
    The triple bronze, the layers of leather, biting
    Deep in the groin, not going through. And happy
    At sight of Tuscan blood, Aeneas draws
    Sword from his side, comes hotly on; Mezentius
    Staggers, and Lausus grieves; he loves his father,
    The tears stream down his face.
    Mezentius, dragging back, useless, disabled,
    Slowly gives ground, the hostile spear still trailing,
    Still fastened to the shield. Lausus runs forward,
    Lifts his right arm and strikes. Aeneas parries,
    Lausus is halted. But his comrades follow--
    The father, with the son’s protecting shield,
    Has, still, a chance of safety. Missiles shower
    From all sides at Aeneas: though he rages,
    He huddles under shelter, like a farmer
    When hailstones rattle down, or any traveller
    Seeking what he can find, a river bank,
    An overhanging rock, or any cover
    Until the downpour stops, and the sun returns
    Men to their daily labor: so Aeneas,
    With javelins thickening, every way, against him,
    Endures the storm of war, and threatens Lausus:--
    “What rush to death is this? What silly daring
    Beyond the limit of strength? O foolish youngster,
    You love your father, I know, but fool yourself
    With too much loving.” Lausus, in his madness,
    Has never a thought of stopping, and Aeneas
    Feels anger rise against him, and the Fates
    Tie off the ends of Lausus’ thread: the Trojan
    Drives with the sword; it is buried in the body
    Deep to the hilt. The little shield, frail armor
    Against so great a menace, could not hold it.
    The pliant tunic, woven by his mother
    With golden thread, is no more help; the blood
    Stains it another color, and through air
    The life went sorrowing to the shades. And now
    Aeneas changes. Looking on that face
    So pale in death, he groans in pity; he reaches
    As if to touch him with his hand, in comfort,
    Knowing, himself, how one can love a father.
    “Poor boy, what tribute can Aeneas offer,
    What praise for so much glory? Keep the armor
    You loved so much: if there is any comfort
    In burial at home, know I release you
    To your ancestral shades and ashes. Further,
    You have one solace, this, that you have fallen
    By great Aeneas’ hand.” He lifted Lausus
    From the bloody ground and raised the head, that dust
    And earth and blood should not defile its glory,
    And called the Etruscans closer, scornful of them,
    Over their hesitation.

      Meanwhile, Mezentius, by the wave of the river,
    Propped his slumped frame against a tree-trunk, staunching
    The wound with water. The bronze helmet hung,
    Inverted, from the bough; the heavy arms
    Lay quiet on the meadow. Chosen men
    Were standing by. Sick, and with labored breath,
    He let his chin fall forward, rubbed his neck,
    While over his chest the flowing beard was streaming.
    Over and over again, he asks and sends
    For Lausus: bring him back, he tells the men,
    Those are the orders from his unhappy father.
    But they were bringing him back, a big man slain
    By a big wound. Mezentius knew the sound
    Of sorrow from afar, before he heard it,
    Fouled his gray hair with dust, flung up his arms,
    Clung to the body. “O my son, my son,
    Was I so fond of living that I sent
    You to the sword for me, saved by your wounds,
    Alive when you are dead? The wound indeed
    Is driven deep, the bitterness of death
    Comes home. I was the one, my son, my son,
    Who stained your name with crime, with hatred, driven
    From throne and sceptre. I have owed too long
    The debt of punishment, and here I am,
    Living, and never leaving men and light,
    But I shall leave.” He heaved his sickened weight,
    Pulling himself together, groin and all,
    Slowly. The wound was deep, but he could stand.
    He ordered them to bring his horse, that solace,
    That pride of his, on which he used to ride
    Victorious out of all the wars. He spoke,
    And the beast sorrowed with his master’s sorrow:--
    “Rhoebus, if anything is ever long
    For mortal beings, you and I have lived
    For a long time. Today you carry back
    Those bloody spoils, Aeneas’ arms, avenging
    The pangs of Lausus with me, or we both,
    If no force clears the way, go down together,
    O bravest heart, too noble to endure
    The stranger’s order and the Trojan rider.”
    He swung astride, shifted his weight a little,
    The way he always did, held in both hands
    A load of darts. The helmet glittered bronze,
    The horsehair plume was bristling as he rode,
    Madness and grief and shame all urging on
    That singleness of purpose. He came on fast,
    Calling, _Aeneas! Aeneas!_ over and over,
    And his voice was loud and firm. Aeneas heard,
    Rejoiced, and recognized, and made his prayer:--
    “Let this be true, O father of the gods,
    O high Apollo!"--then, to his foe, “Come on!”
    And moved to meet him with the deadly spear.
    Mezentius answered:--“Do you frighten me
    With all that fierceness, now that my son is taken?
    How meaningless! That was the only way
    You could destroy me. Now I fear no death,
    I spare no god. Be quiet; for I come
    To die, but first of all I bring you this,
    A present from me,"--and he flung the dart,
    And flung another, and another, wheeling
    In a great arc. The boss of gold held strong.
    Three times in circles to the left he rode
    Around the steady Trojan; thrice the hand
    Let fly the dart, and thrice the shield of bronze
    Was a great forest with its load of spears.
    All this was wearisome,--too many darts,
    Too much defensiveness. Aeneas broke
    Out of the watchful attitude, and flung
    The spear between the charger’s hollow temples.
    The great beast reared with fore-hooves flailing air,
    Throwing the rider, and came tumbling down
    Head-foremost on him, shoulder out of joint.
    Trojan and Latin uproar swelled to heaven.
    Aeneas, sword-blade ready, rushes in:--
    “Where is the fierce Mezentius now, and where
    All that wild rage of spirit?” But the king,
    Raising his eyes, drank in the sky a little,
    Knew a brief moment of recovery,
    Enough to say:--“O bitter enemy,
    Why all the tauntings and the threats of death?
    There is no wrong in slaughter: neither I
    Nor Lausus ever made such battle-pledges.
    One thing I ask, if beaten enemies
    Have any claim on mercy. Let my body
    Be granted burial. I know the hate
    Of my own people rages round me. Keep
    Their fury from me. Let me share the grave
    Of my dear son.” He said no more, but welcomed,
    Fully aware, the sword-thrust in the throat,
    And poured his life in crimson over the armor.




BOOK XI

THE DESPAIR OF THE LATINS


      Meanwhile Aurora, rising, left the ocean.
    Aeneas’ heart was troubled--so much dying,
    So great a need for funeral rites,--but first
    Vows must be paid for victory. At dawn
    He sets an oak-trunk on a mound, the branches
    Stripped off on every side, and hangs upon it
    Mezentius’ gleaming arms, the war-god’s trophy.
    He adds the crest, blood-stained, the broken darts,
    The riddled breast-plate; binds, to the left, the shield,
    Hangs from the neck the ivory sword. His comrades
    Hail him, and gather close around, and listen:--
    “The greatest task is done: as for the future,
    Fear not, my heroes! Here are spoils and first-fruits
    Of one proud king; Mezentius is in our hands.
    We march, now, on Latinus and his cities.
    Prepare your arms, your nerve; let your hopes run
    Onward before the war. When the gods grant us
    To raise our standards and to lead our army
    Out of this camp, let no delay impede us
    Through ignorance, no fear retard our courage.
    Meanwhile, let us commit to earth the unburied bodies
    Of our dear comrades, for no other honor
    Waits them below the world. Go, offer homage,
    The final rites to those whose blood has won us
    This fatherland; let Pallas be sent home
    To the mourning city of Evander: Pallas
    Had courage, and the day was black that took him
    To the bitterness of death.”

                                He spoke with tears
    And went back to the threshold, where old Acoetes,
    An armor-bearer, once, to king Evander,
    And then, less happily, guardian over Pallas,
    Kept watch beside the body. A Trojan throng
    Stood all around, an honor-guard, and the women
    Loosened their hair in ceremonial mourning,
    And when Aeneas came, the lofty portal
    Sounded with groaning and with lamentation,
    And wailing reached the stars. He looked at Pallas,
    The pillowed head, the face as white as snow,
    The jagged wound in the smooth breast, and spoke,
    And could not check his weeping:--“Ah, poor youngster!
    Fortune, a little while, was happy for us
    And then turned evil and grudging, and refused me
    The joy of seeing you ride back in triumph
    To your father’s house with news of our new kingdom.
    I have not kept my promise to Evander,
    Whose arms went round me when I left, who sent me
    To win great empire, and who gave me warning
    That these were men of spirit, tough in battle.
    And now, perhaps even at this very moment,
    The dupe of empty hope, he is making prayers,
    Heaping the altars high with gifts, while we
    In sorrow attend his lifeless son, with honor
    As empty as the father’s hope, for Pallas
    Owes nothing more to any god in heaven.
    Unhappy Evander, our long-awaited triumph,
    Our glorious return, comes to this only,
    The bitter funeral of a son; and so
    Aeneas keeps his promise!

                                  And yet, O king,
    You will not see him slain by shameful wounds,
    You will not long for a dire death to cancel
    The memory of a son, safe, but a coward.
    We have lost a great protection, all of us,
    Ausonia, Iulus.”

                        He gave orders
    To raise the pitiful body for its journey,
    And chose a thousand men to honor Pallas
    With this last escort, to share Evander’s tears,
    Poor comfort for so great a grief, but due him.
    Men weave the bier with osier and soft willow
    And shadow it over with leaves of oak, and Pallas
    Rests on his country litter, like a flower
    Some girl has picked and lost, a violet
    Or drooping hyacinth, and all its luster
    Still there, though earth is kind to it no longer.
    And then Aeneas brought two robes, whose crimson
    Was stiff with gold, robes that the queen of Carthage
    Had woven for him, happy in her labor,
    Running the gold through crimson. Over Pallas
    The robes are cast, the sad and final honor,
    The hair is veiled for the fire, and many trophies
    Are added, prizes from the Latin battles,
    Horses, and weapons, captured from the Latins,
    And human victims, offerings to the shades,
    Their blood to sprinkle funeral fire, are led
    Hands bound behind them, and the names of foemen
    Are cut in the trunks of trees that bear their armor.
    Unhappy old Acoetes trudges with them,
    Beating his breast, clawing his face, or flinging
    His wretched body down in the dust. And chariots
    Follow, Rutulian blood on wheel and axle,
    And Pallas’ war-horse Aethon, riderless,
    Without caparison, weeps for his master,
    The great tears rolling down. Other men carry
    The spear and helmet only, for the rest
    Turnus had taken as spoil. And then there follows
    A long array of mourners, Trojans, Tuscans,
    Arcadians, with arms reversed: so they pass
    In long procession, comrade after comrade,
    Far on and almost out of sight. Aeneas
    Halts, and sighs deeply:--“The same grim fates of war
    Call us from here to other tears. Forever
    Hail, O great Pallas, and farewell forever!”
    He said no more, but turned to the high walls,
    Strode back to the camp.

                                And envoys came
    From the Latin city, veiled with boughs of olive,
    Asking for truce: let him return the bodies
    Strewn by the sword across the battlefield,
    Let them be given burial. No war
    Is fought with vanquished men, deprived of light:
    Let him be merciful--had he not called them
    Hosts at one time, and fathers? And good Aeneas
    Granted, of right, the truce they sought, and added
    Brief words:--“What evil destiny, O Latins,
    Involved you in such tragic war, to flee us,
    Your friends that might have been? You ask for peace,
    Peace for the dead, slain by the lot of battle.
    Peace? I would gladly grant it to the living.
    I would not be here unless fate had given
    This place, this dwelling, and I wage no war
    Against your people, but your king deserted
    Our friendliness; he had more confidence
    In Turnus’ weapons. Turnus, in simple justice,
    Should be the one to face this death. If, truly,
    He seeks to end the war, to drive the Trojans
    By strength of hand from Italy, he should have
    Taken my personal challenge: one of us
    Would live, to whom his own right hand or heaven
    Had granted life. Go now, depart in peace,
    Kindle the death-fires for your luckless comrades.”
    He spoke, and they were silent: they had nothing
    That could be said; they could not face him, either,
    And kept their eyes and faces toward each other.

      And then old Drances, always bitter and hateful,
    Resentful of young Turnus, spoke in answer:--
    “O great in glory, even greater in arms,
    Heroic Trojan, how can I ever praise you
    As highly as I should? Am I to wonder
    First at your justice or your warlike prowess?
    We shall be glad, indeed, to take these words
    Back to our native city and, fortune willing,
    Join you with king Latinus. As for Turnus,
    Let him seek his own alliances! Our pleasure
    Will be in building walls for you, as fate
    Ordains, that we should carry on our shoulders
    The masonry of Troy.” And they all cheered him.
    They pledged twelve days for peace, and in the forests
    Trojans and Latins walked as friends together,
    Over the ridges, peace among them. Ash-trees
    Rang as the two-edged axe bit deep; the pines,
    Star-towering, came down; the oak, the cedar,
    Split by the wedges, filled the groaning wagons.

      And Rumor, messenger of all that mourning,
    Came flying to Evander’s home and city,
    Rumor, so short a time before the herald
    Of victories in Latium for young Pallas.
    Out to the gates came the Arcadians; torches,
    Carried aloft, after the ancient custom,
    Marked off the fields from highway; the long road
    Shone with the light of fire, and the Trojans, coming,
    Met their lament, and when the mothers saw them,
    The city itself was one great fire of mourning.
    No force could hold Evander back: he came,
    Rushing, into the sad procession’s center,
    And where the barrow halted, clung to Pallas,
    Weeping and groaning, and his voice could hardly
    Manage its way through choking sobs:--“Ah, Pallas,
    You have not kept your promise to your father!
    You said you would be careful in the battles!
    I knew, I knew too well, how much new glory,
    How much the sweet fresh pride in the first battle,
    Could overpower discretion. Here are the first-fruits
    Of your young manhood; here are the cruel lessons
    Of war brought home; and all my prayers unheeded
    By any god! But my dear wife is happy,
    Spared, by her death, this anguish. I live on,
    I have overcome my fate by living so,
    A father who survives his son. I should have
    Followed the Trojan arms, let the Rutulians
    O’erwhelm me with their darts; I should have died,
    And this procession brought me home, not Pallas.
    It is not your fault, O Trojans; I do not blame you,
    The treaties joined, the hands we clasped, in friendship.
    No: this was coming to me, this was due
    The lot of my old age. An early death
    Took off my son; I shall rejoice, hereafter,
    Knowing he led the Trojans into Latium,
    Slew Volscians by the thousands. He was worthy,
    Pallas, my son, of such a death. Aeneas,
    The mighty Trojans, the Etruscan captains,
    The Etruscan ranks, all think so. They bring trophies,
    Great trophies, those my son brought low; and Turnus
    Would be another trophy, were his years,
    His strength, the same as his young enemy’s.
    But why am I, unhappy man, delaying
    The Trojan hosts from battle? Go: remember
    To tell Aeneas this: I keep on living,
    However hateful life may be, with Pallas
    Taken away from me, I keep on living
    Because of his right hand: it owes me something,
    The death of Turnus, for the son and father.
    And this Aeneas knows, the one thing wanting
    To make his praise and fortune sure. I ask
    No joy in life--that is impossible--
    But only this one thing, to take my son,
    In the shades below, one message: Turnus has fallen.”

      Meanwhile the dawn had brought to weary mortals
    Her kindly light, and work again, and labors.
    Along the winding shore Aeneas, Tarchon,
    Set up the pyres, and all, as had their fathers,
    Brought bodies of their kinsmen, lit the fires
    That burned, but darkly, and the light of heaven
    Was hidden by the blackness of that shadow.
    Three times, in glittering armor, they went riding
    Around the funeral blaze, three times they circled
    The mournful fire and cried with wailing voices.
    Tears fell on earth and armor; heaven heard
    The groans of men, the blare of trumpet. Spoils
    Went to the fire, the handsome swords, the helmets,
    Bridles and shining wheels, and well-known gifts
    For men who died, their shields, their luckless weapons.
    Bullocks were slain, and bristly swine, and sheep
    From all the fields, homage to fire and death,
    And all along the shore, they watched their comrades
    Burn on the pyres, and guarded the dead embers,
    And could not leave till day had gone, and night
    Dewy with gleaming stars rolled over heaven.

      And elsewhere in the countryside the Latins
    Built, as the Trojans had, pyres without number.
    Many were slain, and many men were buried
    Where they had fallen, and many men sent home
    To their own cities, and many no one knew,
    No one could mark with honor or distinction,
    And these were given one common pyre; the fields
    Rivalled each other as the fires kept burning.
    Three days had gone; and over bones and ashes
    They heaped the earth, still warm. Inside the walls,
    Within the city of that rich king Latinus,
    Grief swelled from murmur to wailing, to loud uproar,
    The greatest share of sorrow. Brides and mothers,
    Sisters and fatherless boys, crying and cursing,
    Denounced the evil war and Turnus’ marriage.
    They call on him, on Turnus alone, to settle
    The issue with the sword; he is the one,
    Their accusation cries, who wants the kingdom,
    All Italy for himself, and the highest honors.
    And Drances, savage, tips the balance further:
    Turnus, alone, (he says) is called on, Turnus
    Alone is called to battle. But against them
    Many a man has good to say of Turnus,
    And the shadow of the queen’s great name protects him,
    And he has been a mighty man in battle.

      And during all this swirling burning tumult,
    Envoys, who came from Diomede’s great city,
    Brought gloomy news: nothing had been accomplished
    With all that toil and trouble; nothing gained
    By gifts or gold or pleading, and the Latins
    Were left two choices, to seek for other allies
    Or ask Aeneas for peace. Under the burden
    Of that great grief even Latinus falters.
    Aeneas is called by fate, the will of heaven
    Is clear, the gods are angry; the fresh graves,
    Before their eyes, bear more than ample witness.
    Therefore, he calls a council; all his leaders
    Stream through the crowded highways to the palace,
    And in their midst, the oldest man among them,
    The first in power, Latinus, far from happy,
    Speaks from his throne,--the messengers from Arpi
    Should tell what news they bring, in proper order,
    Sparing no single item. All were silent,
    Obedient to his word, and Venulus
    Gave the report:--“O citizens, we have seen
    The Argive camp, and Diomede. We made
    The journey safely through all kinds of perils.
    We have touched the hand by which Troy fell. That hero
    Has his own city now, named from his father,
    In Garganus’ conquered fields. We entered there,
    Had leave to speak, offered our gifts, and told him
    Our name and country, why we came to Arpi,
    Who made war on us. He listened to our story
    And answered us, quite calmly. These are his words:--

      ‘O happy people of the realm of Saturn,
      Ancient Ausonians, what chance, what fortune
      Disturbs your rest, leads you to unknown warfare?
      All of us, every one, who desecrated
      The fields of Troy with steel--I do not mention
      All that we suffered under those high walls,
      Or heroes drowned in Simois--every one,
      All over the world, has paid and kept on paying
      All kinds of punishment, all kinds of torture,
      A band that even Priam would have to pity.
      Minerva knows it, with her baleful star,
      Euboea’s headland knows it, and Caphereus,
      That cape of vengeance. From that warfare driven
      Ulysses faced the Cyclops; Menelaus
      Was exiled far to the west. Idomeneus
      Lost Crete: what need is there to mention Pyrrhus,
      To name the Locrians on Libya’s coastline?
      Even the Greeks’ great captain, Agamemnon,
      Met shame beyond his threshold; Clytemnestra
      Struck with her evil hand,--the king of men,
      The conqueror of Asia, fell, a cuckold
      Murdered in his own palace, at Mycenae.
      To me the gods were kinder; they would not let me
      See home again, the wife I loved, the altars
      Of lovely Calydon; here I am, still haunted
      By portents horrible to see--my comrades
      Lost, seeking heaven on their wings, or aimless
      Along the rivers, crying in shrill voices
      Around the rocks, creatures of lamentation
      That once were men! The gods know how to punish.
      This, so it seems, was what I had to hope for
      Ever since that first moment of my madness
      When I took steel in hand and wounded Venus.
      No, no; do not invite me to such battles.
      The walls of Troy have fallen; I have no quarrel
      With any Trojans any more. Those evils
      I have forgotten, or, if I remember,
      I find no pleasure in them. Take Aeneas
      The gifts you bring me from your native country.
      I have stood up against his terrible weapons,
      I have fought him hand to hand. Believe an expert,
      Take it from one who knows, how huge he rises
      Above that shield of his, with what a whirlwind
      He rifles out that spear. If Troy had only
      Two other men as good, Greece would be mourning
      With doom the other way, and the towns of Argos
      Admit the conqueror. For ten long years
      They kept us waiting at that stubborn city,
      And the Greek victory was at a standstill
      Through Hector and Aeneas; both were famous
      In spirit, both in feats of arms, Aeneas
      The more devoted man. I tell you, join them
      In treaty, on what terms you can. I warn you,
      Beware, beware, of facing them in battle.’

    So you have heard, great king, Diomede’s answer
    And what he thinks of this great war.”

                                            The sound
    Rose, as he ended, like the sound of water
    When rocks delay a flood, and the banks re-echo
    The stir and protest of the angry river,
    Confusion, argument, in swirl and eddy,--
    So the Ausonians brawled among each other,
    Muttered, and then subsided; and king Latinus
    Spoke from his lofty throne:--“I wish, O Latins,
    Decision had been taken in such matters
    A long while since; that would have been much better.
    This is no time for councils to be summoned.
    The enemy is at the gate. We are waging
    A most unhappy war against a people
    Descended from the gods; we cannot beat them.
    No battles wear them down; if they are conquered,
    They cannot let the sword fall from the hand.
    Whatever hope you had in Diomede,
    Forget it. All your hope is what you are,
    But you can see how little that amounts to.
    You have it all before your eyes; you have it
    In your own hands, and most of it is ruin.
    I lay no blame on any man; what valor
    Could do, it has done: the body of our kingdom
    Has fought with all its strength. We are bled to the white.
    Hear, then, what I propose; I am not yet certain
    Entirely--here it is, in brief. We have
    An ancient tract of land, far to the west,
    Touching the Tuscan river, where our natives,
    Rutulians, Auruncans, sow and harrow
    The stubborn hills, rough land and cattle country.
    Let all this region and its high pine-forest
    Be ceded to the Trojans out of friendship;
    Let us make fair terms and have them share our kingdom.
    Here they may build and settle if they want to.
    But if their minds are bent on other borders,
    On any other nation, if they are able
    To leave our soil, let us build a navy for them,
    Twenty good ships of oak, more if they need them.
    We have the timber at the water’s edge;
    All they need tell us is what kind, how many,
    For us to give them workmen, bronze, and dockyards.
    A hundred spokesmen from the noblest Latins
    Should go with boughs of olive, bearing presents,
    Talents of gold and ivory, the robe,
    The throne, of state, symbols of our dominion.
    Consult together; help our weary fortunes.”

      Then Drances, hostile still, whom Turnus’ glory
    Goaded with envy’s bitter sting, arose,
    A man of wealth, better than good with his tongue;
    If not so fierce in war, no fool in council,
    A trouble-maker, though; his mother was noble,
    His father no-one much. He spoke in anger:--
    “Good king, you ask our guidance in a matter
    Obscure to none, needing no word of ours.
    All know, admit they know, what fortune orders,
    Yet mutter rather than speak. Let him abate
    That bluster of his, through whose disastrous ways
    Evil has come upon us, and bad omens.
    I will speak out, however much he threaten.
    Let us have freedom to speak frankly. Mourning
    Has settled on the town, the light of the leaders
    Dies out in darkness, while that confident hero,
    Confident, but in flight, attacks the Trojans
    And frightens heaven with arms. To all these gifts
    Promised and sent the Trojans, add, O king,
    One more: let no one’s violence dissuade you
    From giving your daughter in a worthy marriage,
    An everlasting covenant between us.
    But if such terror holds our hearts, then let us
    Beseech this prince, sue for his royal favor,
    Let him give up his claim, for king and country.
    Why, Turnus, fountain-head of all our troubles
    Consign us, wretches that we are, to danger
    Open and often? In war there is no safety.
    Turnus, we ask for peace, and, to confirm it,
    The only proper pledge. You know I hate you,
    Make no mistake in that regard. But still,
    I, first of all, implore you, pity your people!
    Put off that pride: give in, give up, and leave us!
    We have seen enough of death and desolation.
    If glory moves you, you with the heart of oak,
    Or if the royal dowry is your passion,
    Be bold, have confidence,--and face Aeneas!
    So Turnus have his royal bride, no matter
    If we, cheap souls, a herd unwept, unburied,
    Lie strewn across the field. O son of Mars,
    If son you really are, the challenger
    Is calling: dare you look him in the face?”

      And Turnus’ violence blazed out in fury,
    A groan or a growl and savage words erupting:--
    “A flow of talk is what you have, O Drances,
    Always, when wars need men; and you come running
    The first one there, whenever the senate gathers.
    But this is not the time for words, that fly
    From your big mouth in safety, in a meeting,
    While the walls keep off the foe, and the dry trenches
    Have not yet swum in blood. As usual,
    Orator, thunder on! Convict me, Drances,
    Of cowardice, you having slain so many
    Tremendous heaps of Trojans, all the fields
    Stacked with your trophies! Try your courage, Drances:
    The enemy are not far to seek, our walls
    Are circled with them. Coming? Why the coyness?
    Will your idea of Mars be found forever
    In windy tongue and flying feet? I, beaten?
    Who says so? What foul liar calls me beaten,
    Seeing the Tiber red with blood, Evander
    Laid low with all his house, and the Arcadians
    Stripped of their arms? Ask Pandarus and Bitias,
    The thousands I have sent to hell, cut off
    Inside their walls, hedged by a ring of foemen.
    _In war there is no safety._ Sing that song,
    Madman, to your own cause and prince Aeneas!
    Keep on, don’t stop, confound confusion further
    With panic fear, and praise those noble heroes
    Of that twice-beaten race, despite the arms
    Of King Latinus. Now the Myrmidons,
    Or so we hear, are trembling, and their river
    Runs backward in sheer fright, and Diomedes
    Turns pale, and I suppose Achilles also!
    Now he pretends my threats, my anger, scare him--
    A nice artistic piece of work!--he sharpens
    Slander with apprehension. Listen to him!
    Listen to me: I tell you, you will never
    Lose such a life as yours by this right hand,
    Quit worrying, keep that great and fighting spirit
    Forever in that breast! And now, my father,
    I turn to you and more important counsels.
    If you have hope no longer in our arms,
    If we are so forsaken, if we are lost,
    Utterly, over one repulse, if fortune
    Cannot retrace her steps, let us pray for peace,
    Let us hold out helpless hands in supplication.
    But still, if only some of our valor, something--
    Happy the men who died before they saw it!
    But if we still have any power, warriors
    Standing unhurt, any Italian city,
    Any ally at all, if any Trojans
    Have ever died (their glory has been costly
    As well as ours, and the storm has no more spared them),
    Why do we fail like cowards on the edge
    Of victory? Why do we shudder and tremble
    Before the trumpet sounds? Many an evil
    Has turned to good in time; and many a mortal
    Fate has despised and raised. Diomede, Arpi,
    Refuse us help; so be it. There are others,
    There is Messapus for one, Tolumnius
    Whose luck is good, and all those other leaders
    Sent by so many nations, and great glory
    Will follow Latium’s pride. We have Camilla
    Of Volscian stock, leading her troop of horsemen,
    Her warriors bright in bronze. If I am summoned
    Alone to meet Aeneas, if I alone
    Am obstinate about the common welfare,
    If such is your decision, my hands have never
    Found victory so shrinking or elusive
    That I should fear the risk. Bring on your Trojan!
    Let him surpass Achilles, and wear armor
    Made by the hands of Vulcan! Second to no one
    Of all my ancestors in pride and courage,
    I, Turnus, vow this life to you, Latinus,
    My king, my father. _The challenger is calling_--
    Well, let him call, I hope he does. No Drances,
    If heaven’s wrath is here, will ever appease it,
    No Drances take away my honor and glory.”

      So, in the midst of doubt, they brawled and quarreled,
    And all the time Aeneas’ line came forward.
    A messenger rushed through the royal palace,
    Through scenes of noise and uproar, through the city
    Filling the town with panic: _They are coming_,
    He cries, _they are ready for battle, all the Trojans,
    All the Etruscans, rank on rank, from Tiber,
    All over the plain!_ And the people’s minds are troubled,
    Their hearts are shaken, their passion and their anger
    Pricked by no gentle spur. However frightened,
    They call for arms, they make impatient gestures,
    The young men shout, and the old ones moan and mutter;
    The noise, from every side, goes up to heaven
    Loud and discordant, the way jays rasp and chatter
    Or swans along Padusa’s fishy river
    Utter their raucous clamor over the pools.
    And Turnus, seizing on the moment, cries:--
    “A fine time, citizens, to call a council,
    To sit there praising peace. The enemy
    Is up in arms against us!” That was all,
    And he went rushing from the lofty palace.
    “Volusus, arm the squadrons of the Volscians,
    Lead the Rutulians forth! Messapus, Coras,
    Deploy the horsemen over the plains! You others,
    Some of you, guard the city gates and towers!
    The rest, be ready to charge where I direct you!”

      So Turnus gave excited orders: quickly,
    The rush to the walls was on, all over the city.
    Latinus left the council, sorely troubled
    In that sad hour, put off the plan he hoped for,
    Blaming himself in that he had not welcomed,
    More eagerly, his Trojan son Aeneas
    For the welfare of the city. And his men
    Were digging trenches, trundling stones, or setting
    Stakes in the ground, and pitfalls; and the trumpet
    Sounded for bloody war; and boys and mothers
    Filled in the gaps along the walls. Amata,
    The queen, with a great throng of matrons, rode
    To Pallas’ temple on the heights; beside her
    The girl Lavinia, cause of all that evil,
    Went with head bowed and downcast eyes. The women
    Climbed on, and made the temple steam with incense,
    And from the threshold chanted sorrowful prayers:--
    “O mighty power in war, Tritonian virgin,
    Break off his spear, lay low the Trojan robber,
    Stretch him in death before our lofty portals!”

      And Turnus, all impatience, hot for action,
    Buckles his armor, the ruddy breastplate gleaming
    Bright with bronze scales, the greaves on fire with gold,
    The sword snapped to the baldric. Still bareheaded,
    A golden blaze, he runs down from the fortress,
    Exulting in his spirit: he has the foe
    By the throat already, in imagination.
    You see that fire when a stallion breaks his tether,
    Runs from the stable, free at last, a monarch
    Of all the plain, and makes for the green pastures
    Where mares are grazing, or splashes into the river
    Out of sheer joy, and tosses his mane, and nickers,
    And the light plays across his neck and shoulders.

      To meet him came Camilla and her Volscians,
    And she reined in at the gate, dismounting quickly,
    And all her band, at her example, followed,
    Listening as she spoke:--“Turnus, if courage
    Has any right to confidence, I promise,
    I dare, to meet the horsemen of Aeneas,
    I dare, alone, to face the Etruscan riders.
    Let me try, first, the dangers of the battle;
    You stay on guard as captain of the walls.”
    And Turnus, gazing at the warrior-maiden,
    Replied:--“O glory of Italy, no words
    Of mine can give you worthy thanks; your spirit
    Surpasses all the rest of them. Share with me
    The work we have to do. Faithless Aeneas,
    So rumor says, and scouts confirm, is sending
    His cavalry, light-armed, to scour the plains,
    And he himself, crossing the mountain-ridges,
    Comes down upon the city. I am planning
    An ambush for him, where the forest narrows
    To shadowy trails; I block both sides of the pass
    With soldiery in arms. Do you, Camilla,
    Take on the Etruscan horsemen, act as leader;
    Messapus, a sharp fighter, will be with you,
    And Latin squadrons and the troop from Tibur.”
    Messapus and the other captains listened
    To orders much like these, and they were heartened,
    And Turnus left them, moving toward Aeneas.

      There is a valley, winding, curving, fit
    For stratagems of warfare, a narrow gorge
    Black with dense woods on either side; a trail
    Winds through it, narrow and difficult: above it
    There lies an unknown plain, a safe position
    Whether you charge from right or left, or stand there
    Heaving great boulders down the mountain-shoulders,
    And Turnus knows this region well, finds cover,
    Picks the terrain to suit him, waits and watches
    In the dark menace of the woods.

                                        And meantime,
    High in the halls of heaven, Latona’s daughter
    Was talking to a nymph of hers, a maiden
    Of her devoted company, named Opis.
    Diana’s words were sorrowful:--“Camilla
    Is going forth to cruel war, O maiden,
    Our soldier, all in vain, and dearer to me
    Than all the other girls; she has loved me long;
    It is no impulsive whim that moves her spirit.
    Perhaps you know the story--how her father,
    Metabus, ruler of an ancient city,
    Became a tyrant, and his people drove him
    In hatred from Privernum, and he fled
    Through war and battles, taking as companion
    To share his exile the little infant daughter,
    Camilla, she was called, after her mother
    Whose name was not so different, Casmilla.
    So he was going on, toward ridge and woodland,
    Long roads to loneliness, holding his daughter
    Before him on his breast, and weapons flying
    From every side against them, and the Volscians
    Spreading the net of soldiers wide to catch them.
    But Metabus went on, and came to a river
    Out of its banks, the swollen Amasenus
    Foaming in flood from cloudburst. Could he swim it?
    He thought so, but he checked himself; he feared
    For the dear load he carried. He did some thinking,
    And suddenly, or not quite all of a sudden,
    He saw the only way. There was the spear
    His stout hand bore: it was strong and heavy, knotted
    Of seasoned oak, and he bound his daughter to it,
    Gently, with bark of cork-wood all around her,
    And carefully, to keep the missile’s balance,
    And let his right hand weigh its heft a little,
    And then made prayer:--‘O gracious woodland-dweller,
    Diana, virgin daughter of Latona,
    I consecrate my daughter to your service.
    These are your darts she holds, the very first ones
    She ever carried; she comes to you, a suppliant
    Who flees her foe through pathways of the air.
    Accept her, O dear goddess, I implore you,
    Make her your own. Her father, I commit her,
    Now, to the dubious winds.’ The arm drew back,
    The whirring spear shot forward, and the waters
    Roared loud below, and over the rush of the river
    Camilla, on the whistling spear, went flying,
    And Metabus, as the great host came closer,
    Dove into the flood, and safe across, a victor
    And happy, pulled the spear and girl together
    Out of the grassy turf, his votive offering
    Made to Latona’s daughter. No city ever
    Received him to its walls or homes; he would not,
    In his wild mood, give in to any city.
    He lived with shepherds on the lonely mountains,
    And there, where wild beasts lurked, in thorn and thicket
    He raised his child; his hands would squeeze the udders
    Of wild mares for their milk. When she could stand
    And toddle a little, he armed her with a javelin,
    A tiny pointed lance, and over her shoulder
    Hung quiver and bow. There were no golden brooches
    To bind her hair, no trailing gowns: her dress
    Was black and orange tiger-skin. Her hand
    Grew used to tossing childish darts, or whirling
    The limber sling around her head; she learned
    To hit her targets, crane or snowy swan.
    And as she grew, many a Tuscan mother
    Wanted her for this son, or that, but vainly:
    Diana was her goddess, and she cherished,
    Intact, an everlasting love--her weapons,
    Her maidenhood, were all she knew and cared for.
    I wish she had never been so possessed, so ardent
    For soldiery like this, attacking Trojans
    Instead of meeker game; she would have been
    The one most dear of all my dear companions.
    But now a bitter doom weighs down upon her.
    Therefore, O nymph, glide down from heaven to Latium,
    Where, under evil omens, men join battle.
    Take these, my bow, my arrows; from my quiver
    Draw the avenging shaft. His life is forfeit,
    Trojan, Italian, whoever he is, whose wound
    Profanes the sacred body of Camilla.
    And when she has fallen, I will bring her home
    By hollow cloud, both warrior and armor
    Unspoiled, untaken, to her native country,
    Home to her tomb, poor girl.” And swift through air
    Opis, on whirring wing, came down from heaven
    In the dark whirlwind’s center.

                                    And the Trojans
    Were drawing near the walls, with Tuscan leaders
    And all that host of cavalry, whose numbers
    Filled squadron after squadron, and the horses
    Snorted and reared and fought the bit and bridle,
    Light-stepping sideways; far and wide the field
    Bristled with iron harvest, and the plain
    Burned with the arms raised high. And here against them
    Come Messapus and Coras and his brother,
    The Latins, moving fast, Camilla’s squadron,
    The hands drawn back already, and lances flying:
    All fire and noise and heat and men and horses.
    They ride, keep riding, and the distance closes
    To spear-cast, and they halt, and a wild clamor
    Breaks out, the charge is on, they spur the horses
    Which need no spur, and from all sides they shower
    The darts as thick as driving snow, the shadow
    Darkens the sky. Tyrrhenus, wild Aconteus,
    Single each other out and come together
    Head on, and the spears are broken, and men are thrown,
    And the horses, smashing their great chests together,
    Come down with a crash; Aconteus is hurled
    Like a thunderbolt or something from an engine
    Incredibly far off, and dies in the air.
    And the lines waver, and the routed Latins
    Let fall their shields behind them, head for the city,
    With Trojans in pursuit: Asilas leads them.
    They near the walls, and the Latins turn, and, shouting,
    Wheel to the charge, and the Trojans break and scatter
    With reins let loose. You are looking at the ocean
    The way it comes, one wave, and then another,
    Surging, receding, flooding, rushing shoreward
    Over the cliffs in spray and foam or smoothing
    The farthest sand with the shallow curve, withdrawing
    Faster and faster, and undertow, slowly, slowly
    Dragging the shingle back, and the surface gliding
    Sleek from the visible beaches. Twice the Tuscans
    Drove the Rutulians routed to the city;
    Twice, driven back themselves, they slung behind them
    The shields, reversed, quick-glancing over their shoulders.
    But when, for the third time, they came together,
    They stayed together, locked, all down the line,
    And each man picked his man, and each man stayed there,
    And the rough fight rose and thickened. Dying men
    Groaned, and the blood was deep, and men and armor
    And wounded horses and wounded men and bodies
    Of men and horses were in it all together.
    Orsilochus found Remulus a warrior
    Too tough to take head on, and flung his spear
    At the head of the horse, instead, and left the iron
    Under the ear, and the great beast, wounded, rearing,
    Flailed the air with his forelegs, came down crashing,
    And the stunned rider, thrown, rolled over and over.
    Catillus killed Iollas, and another,
    Herminius, giant in body, giant in arms,
    Giant in spirit, a man who fought bare-headed,
    Bare-shouldered, a fair-haired man, so huge in stature
    He feared no wound. But through his shoulders driven
    The quivering spear made way and bent him double,
    Writhing in pain. Dark blood flows everywhere,
    The sword deals death; men look to wounds for glory.

      In the thick of the fight Camilla rages, wearing
    Her quiver like an Amazon, one breast
    Exposed: she showers javelins, she plies
    The battle-axe; she never tires; her shoulder
    Clangs with the golden bow, Diana’s weapon.
    If ever, turning back, she yields, the arrows
    Are loosed from over her shoulder; even in flight
    She makes attack. Around her, chosen comrades,
    Larina, Tulla, and Tarpeia brandish
    Axes of bronze. She chose them as her handmaids,
    Good both in peace and war, Italian daughters,
    Italy’s pride, like Thracian Amazons
    Warring in colorful armor in the country
    Where Thermodon river runs, and women warriors
    Hail fighting queens with battle-cries or clash
    The crescent shields together.

                                First and last,
    Camilla struck men down: who knows how many
    She brought to earth in death? Clytius’ son,
    Euneus, faced her first, and her long spear
    Pierced his unguarded breast. Rivers of blood
    Poured from his mouth; he chewed red dust, and dying
    Writhed on his wound. She stabbed the horse of Liris,
    And the rider fell, and reached for the reins: Pagasus
    Stretched out a hand to help him, to break his fall,
    And Camilla slew the pair of them together:
    Amastrus next, Hippotas’ son: far off,
    Her spear caught up with four, Tereus, Chromis,
    Harpalycus, Demophoön. For each dart
    Sent flying from her hand, a Trojan fell.
    Far off she saw the huntsman Ornytus,
    Riding a native pony, in strange armor.
    He wore a steer’s hide over his wide shoulders,
    A wolf’s head for a helmet, with the jaws,
    Wide-open, grinning above his head; he carried
    A rustic kind of pike, and he was taller,
    By a full head, than all the others, easy
    Target for any dart. She cried above him:--
    “What did you think, O Tuscan?--You were chasing
    Beasts in the woods? The day has come when boasting
    Like yours is answered by a woman’s weapons,
    But after all, you take to the shades of your fathers
    No little cause for pride--Camilla killed you!”
    And then she slew Orsilochus and Butes,
    Two of the mightiest Trojans, stabbing Butes
    With spear-point in the back, between the helmet
    And breastplate, where the flesh shone white, and shield
    Hung down from the left arm. Orsilochus
    She fled from first, and, driven in a circle,
    Became, in turn, pursuer; and, rising higher,
    Brought down the battle-axe, again, again,
    Through armor and through bone: his pleas for mercy
    Availed him nothing; the wound he suffered spattered
    His face with his warm brains. Next in her way
    And stunned to halt by abject terror came
    A son of Aunus, an expert at lying
    Like all Ligurians. He could not escape her,
    And knew he could not, but he might outwit her,
    Or so he hoped. “What’s so courageous, woman
    Always on horseback? Forget the hope of fleeing,
    Dismount; meet me on equal terms; try fighting
    On foot for once. You will learn, I tell you, something,
    The disillusion of that windy glory.”
    She took the challenge, burned with angry temper,
    Turned her horse over to another, savage
    In equal arms, confronting him undaunted,
    With naked sword. He leaped into the saddle,
    Much pleased with his sly stratagem, drove the rowels
    Deep in the flanks, took off. “O vain Ligurian,
    Swollen with pride of heart, that slippery cunning
    Will never get you home to father Aunus!”
    So cried Camilla, and flashed like fire across
    The horse’s path, grabbed at the bridle, hauled him
    To earth and shed his blood. A hawk in heaven
    Is not more quick to seize a dove when, driving
    From the dark rock toward lofty cloud, he fastens
    The talons deep, and rips, and the feathers flutter,
    All blood-stained, down the sky.

                                      On high Olympus
    Jupiter watched the scene of battle, rousing
    Tarchon the Etruscan with the spur of anger,
    And through the slaughter and the yielding columns
    That warrior rode, calling each man by name,
    Driving his ranks to battle with fierce outcry,
    Rallying beaten men to fight:--“What terror,
    O Tuscans, causes you such utter panic?
    Will nothing ever hurt you? Does a woman
    Chase you all over the field in this confusion?
    Why do we carry swords? What silly weapons
    Are these in our right hands? You are swift enough
    For wrestling in the night time, or for dances
    When the curved flute of Bacchus does the piping!
    You have, it seems, one pleasure and one passion,
    Waiting for feasts and goblets on full tables
    When priests announce the sacrifice propitious
    And the fat victim calls to the deep woodlands.”
    So Tarchon had his say, and spurred his charger,
    Himself not loath to die, fell like a whirlwind
    On Venulus, and swept him from the saddle,
    And lifted him with his right hand, and held him
    Before him as he rode, and all the Latins
    Cheered with a noisy din that reached the heaven.
    The arms and man in front of him, over the plain
    Rode Tarchon, swift as fire; broke off the point
    Of Venulus’ spear, and sought a place unguarded
    Where he might thrust a deadly wound; the other
    Struggled against him, kept the hand from the throat,
    Matched violence with violence. An eagle,
    Soaring to heaven, carries off a serpent
    In just that manner, in the grip of talons,
    And the wounded reptile writhes the looping coils
    And rears the scales erect and keeps on hissing,
    While the curved beak strikes at the struggling victim,
    So, from the battle-line of the Etruscans,
    Tarchon swept off his struggling prey in triumph,
    An inspiration to his rallied people.

      Then Arruns, as the fates would have it, started
    Stalking the fleet Camilla with the javelin,
    Ahead of her in cunning. He took no chances,
    Seeking the easiest way. When that wild maiden
    Dashed fiercely into the battle, there he followed
    Stealthily in her footsteps, or turned the reins
    When she came back victorious. This way, that way,
    Wary in each approach, he circled after,
    The sure spear quivering as he poised and held it.
    It happened Chloreus, Cybele’s priest, was shining
    Far off in Phrygian armor, spurring a horse
    Covered with leather, scales of brass and gold
    And the rider was a fire of foreign color,
    Launching his Cretan darts: the bow was golden,
    The helmet golden, and the cloak of saffron,
    So stiff it had a metal sound, was fastened
    With knots of yellow gold; some foreign needle
    Had worked embroidery into hose and tunic.
    Camilla picked him out from all the battle,
    Either to take that spoil home to the temple,
    Or flaunt the gold herself; she was a huntress
    In blind pursuit, dazzled by spoil, a woman
    Reckless for finery. In hiding, Arruns
    Caught up his spear and prayed:--“Most high Apollo,
    Soracte’s warden, whose adorers feed
    The pine-wood fire, and trustful tread the embers,
    Let me wipe out this shame. I seek no plunder,
    No spoil, no trophy, of Camilla beaten;
    I may perhaps find other ways to glory.
    All I ask here is that this scourge may vanish
    Under a wound I give; for this I am willing
    To make return, however inglorious, home.”
    Half of his prayer was heard: Apollo granted
    The downfall of Camilla; the returning
    Safe home was not to be,--the south winds carried
    That much to empty air. So the spear, whirring,
    Spun from his hand; the sound turned all the Volscians
    With anxious eyes and minds to watch their ruler.
    She heard no stir in the air, no sound, no weapon
    Along the sky, till the spear went to its lodging
    In the bare breast and drank the maiden blood.
    Her frightened comrades hurry, catch her falling,
    And Arruns, frightened more than any other,
    Half joy, half fear, makes off: no further daring
    Is his, to trust the lance or face encounter.
    As a wolf that kills a bullock or a shepherd
    Before the darts can reach him, down the mountains
    Goes plunging through the brush, the sign of guilt
    His tail clapped under the belly, bent on flight,
    So Arruns sneaks to cover through the armies.
    Dying, she pulls at the dart, but the point is fast,
    Deep in the wound between the ribs; her eyes
    Roll, cold in death; her color pales; her breath
    Comes hard. She calls to Acca, her companion,
    Most loved, most loyal:--“I have managed, Acca,
    This far, but now--the bitter wound--I am done for,
    There are shadows all around. Hurry to Turnus.
    Take him this last direction, to relieve me
    Here in the fight, defend the town, keep off--
    Farewell!” The reins went slack, the earth received her
    Yielding her body to its cold, resigning
    The sagging head to death; and she let fall,
    For the last time, her weapons, and the spirit
    Went with a moan indignant to the shadows.
    And then indeed the golden stars were smitten
    By a wild outcry; with Camilla fallen,
    The fight takes on new fierceness: all the Trojans
    Rush in, Etruscan leaders, all the squadrons
    That came, once, from Evander.

                                      High in the mountains
    Opis, Diana’s sentinel, unfrightened,
    Had watched the battle, and seen, through all that fury,
    Camilla slain in pitiful death. She sighed
    And spoke with deep emotion:--“Cruel, cruel,
    The punishment you pay, poor warrior-maiden,
    For that attempt to battle down the Trojans!
    It comes to nothing, all the lonely service
    In woodland thicket, the worship of Diana,
    The wearing of our arrows on the shoulder.
    And even so, in the last hour of dying,
    Your queen has not forsaken you, nor left you
    Unhonored altogether; through the nations
    This will be known, your death, and with it, surely,
    The satisfaction of vengeance. He whose wound
    Profaned your body will die as he deserves to.”
    Under the lofty mountain stood the tomb
    Of an old king, Dercennus of Laurentum,
    A mound of earth under a holm-oak’s shadow.
    Here first the lovely goddess, sweeping down
    From heaven, paused, and from that height watched Arruns,
    And saw him puffed with pride, exulting vainly,
    And called:--“Why go so far away? Come nearer!
    Come to the death you merit; for Camilla
    Receive the due reward. Shall you die also
    Under Diana’s weapons?” She drew an arrow
    Swift from the quiver of gold, drew back the bow
    Till the curved ends were meeting, and her hands
    Were even, left at arrow-tip and right
    Brushing her breast as she let loose the bow-string.
    And as he heard the twang and the air whirring,
    He felt the steel strike home. Gasping and moaning,
    He lay there in the unknown dust; his comrades
    Forgot, and left him where he lay, and Opis
    Soared upward to Olympus.

                                    Camilla’s squadron
    Was first to flee, their leader lost; Atinas,
    Keen though he was, sped off; in reel and rout
    Rutulians followed; captains and troops uncaptained,
    Shattered and broken, turned and wheeled their horses
    On a gallop toward the walls. No one can halt
    The Trojans now, nor stand against the havoc;
    They carry unstrung bows on nerveless shoulders,
    And the horses drum in the rush in the dust of the plain.
    A cloud of dust, black murk, rolls toward the walls,
    And from the watch-towers mothers wail to heaven,
    Beating their breasts, screaming in lamentation.
    The first ones stumble through the gates; upon them
    The enemy presses hard, and friend and foe
    Are all confused together. Men are dying,
    Gasping away their lives on their own threshold,
    In sight of home and shelter, unprotected
    Within their native walls. Some close the gates,
    Dare not admit their wretched comrades, pleading,
    Nor take them to the town. And slaughter follows,
    Most pitiful: the sword that guards the portals
    Kills citizens who try to rush in blindly.
    Their parents, weeping, see them shut from the city,
    And some, who are driven back, go rolling headlong
    Into the trenches, and others, dashing wildly
    With loosened rein, crash into gates and portals
    Locked tight against them. Along the walls the mothers
    Try to be fighters (love of country taught them)
    And, as they saw Camilla do, fling weapons
    With trembling hands, or grasp at stakes or oak-poles
    To do the work that steel should do, poor creatures,
    Eager to die, before the walls, in the vanguard.

      Meanwhile, to Turnus in his forest ambush
    The terrible news is borne: Acca reports it,
    The Volscian ranks destroyed, Camilla fallen,
    The enemy, deadly, massing thick, and sweeping
    All things before them in triumphant warfare,
    Fear at the very walls. And Turnus, raging--
    (As Jupiter’s relentless will commanded)
    Forsook the ambush in the hills, abandoned
    The rugged woodland, and scarcely had he done so,
    Passing from sight to valley, when Aeneas
    Entered the pass in safety, crossed the mountain,
    Came out of the dark woods. And both were striving
    To reach the city, swiftly, in full column
    And almost side by side: in a single moment
    Aeneas saw the plain and the dust rising
    And Turnus saw Aeneas, fierce for battle,
    And heard the stamp and snorting of the horses.
    There was almost time for fighting, but the Sun-god,
    Colored in crimson, brought his weary horses
    To bathe in the Western ocean; day was over,
    Night coming on. They camped before the city.




BOOK XII

THE FINAL COMBAT


      As Turnus saw the Latins failing, broken,
    With Mars against them, and all eyes upon him
    Awaiting the fulfillment of his promise,
    He burned with wrath, implacable, and lifted
    His spirit high, as in the fields of Carthage
    A lion, sorely wounded by the hunters,
    Fights harder for the hurt, the happier for it.
    And the mane rises on the neck and shoulders,
    And the jaws break off the weapon, and the bloody mouth
    Roars out defiance, even so in Turnus
    The violent spirit raged. He spoke to the king
    In angry words:--“Turnus won’t keep them waiting;
    No reason for these cowards to renounce
    Their bargain. Start the holy ritual, father,
    Arrange the terms. I go to meet the Trojan;
    Let the Latins sit and watch it if they want to,
    And this right arm will send him down to Hell,
    The renegade from Asia. I alone
    Answer the argument that calls us cowards,
    I, with one single sword. Or we are beaten
    And he takes Lavinia home.”

                                  Latinus answered
    With quiet in his heart:--“O youth, distinguished
    Above them all in spirit, the more your courage
    Rises to fierceness, the more I find it needful
    To take slow counsel, to balance every hazard.
    You have the kingdom of your father Daunus,
    And many a captured town; and I, Latinus,
    Lack neither gold nor spirit. In our country
    There are other girls, unwed, and not ignoble.
    Let me say this--I know it is not easy--
    As frankly as I can, and listen to me:
    It was not right for me to give my daughter
    To any of her former native suitors,
    And gods and men so prophesied. I loved you,
    Turnus, and I gave in: we are related
    By blood, I know, and when Amata sorrowed,
    I broke off every bond, cancelled the promise,
    Took up unholy arms. From that day, Turnus,
    You see what wars pursue me, and what dangers,
    What sufferings you, above all men, submit to.
    We have been beaten twice in a great battle
    And now we hold, just barely, in our city
    The hopes of Italy. The streams of Tiber
    Are warm with blood of ours, and the broad fields
    White with our bones. In what direction
    Do I keep turning, back and forth? What madness
    Changes my purpose? If, with Turnus dead,
    I stand prepared to join them to me as allies,
    Why not, while he still lives, break off the conflict?
    What will they say, all your Rutulian kinsmen,
    All Italy, if I (may fortune keep
    The word I say from coming true!) betray you
    To death, the suitor of my only daughter?
    Consider war’s uncertainties, and pity
    Your aged father, far from us and grieving
    In Ardea, his homeland.” The king’s appeal
    Moved Turnus not at all; his temper worsened,
    Was aggravated by the attempt at healing.
    He managed, with an effort, to say something:--
    “Most kindly father, the care you have for me
    Lay down, for my sake; let me have permission
    To trade death for renown. I too, dear father,
    Toss no mean dart, swing no mean sword, and blood
    Follows the wounds I give. His goddess-mother
    Will not be there, this time, to hide him, running
    To the folds of her gown and cloud and empty shadows.”

      But Queen Amata, sick and almost dying
    From fear of the new battle-chance, was weeping;
    He was the son she wanted; she would not let him
    Risk that heroic life, and, clinging to him,
    She made her plea:--“Turnus, our only hope,
    Our only comfort in our sad old age,
    The pride and honor of Latinus’ kingdom
    Rest in your keeping, and our sinking house
    Depends on you to shore it up from ruin.
    If tears of mine can move you, if my daughter
    Merits the least devotion, I implore you,
    I beg one favor: do not fight the Trojan!
    Whatever danger waits you in that duel
    Awaits me also, Turnus; I shall leave
    The hateful light when you do, I shall never
    Be such a captive as to see Aeneas
    Come to my home as son-in-law.” Lavinia
    Listened and wept and blushed, her maiden features
    Suffused with color, as the stain of crimson
    Adds hue to Indian ivory, or lilies
    Lose something of their whiteness, mixed with roses.
    And Turnus, troubled enough, was troubled further
    Watching the girl, and burned the more for battle,
    And spoke, however briefly, to Amata:--
    “Do not, O mother, follow me with tears
    Or any such omen as I go to battle.
    Turnus can not delay his death.” He turned
    To Idmon, then, and told him:--“Be my herald:
    Deliver to that Phrygian usurper
    These words from me--I know that he will hate them--
    When dawn to-morrow, riding in the heaven
    In crimson chariot, glows and reddens, let him
    Hold back his Trojans, let their weapons and ours
    Have rest, let us end the war, two of us only;
    There let Lavinia be sought, her husband
    The victor on that field!”

                              And he went home
    To his own quarters, hurrying, demanding
    His horses, given Pilumnus by Orithyia,
    Whiter than snow, swifter than wind. And he was happy
    Looking at them, all spirit, as they nickered
    Seeing their master. The drivers stood about them,
    Grooming the manes, patting the chests. And Turnus
    Fits to his shoulders the stiff coat of armor,
    The gold, the bronze, and tests the readiness
    Of sword and shield and the horns of the ruddy crest
    Vulcan had made the sword for Daunus, metal
    Glowing white-hot and plunged in Stygian water.
    The spear stood leaning on a mighty pillar
    In the great hall, a trophy won from Actor;
    He seized it poised it, shook it, cried aloud:--
    “Be with me now, good spear that never failed me!
    The time has come. Let me lay low that body,
    Let my tough hands rip off his coat of armor,
    Let me shove that eunuch’s crimped and perfumed tresses
    Deep in the dust!” So he was driven by fury,
    Sparks leaping from his countenance, and fire
    Flashing at every glance; he is like a bull
    Bellowing before battle, charging tree-trunks
    To get the anger into his horns, head lowered
    As if to gore the winds, and pawing sand.
    And in the other camp Aeneas, likewise,
    Fierce in the arms his mother brought from Vulcan,
    Sharpens his fighting spirit and rejoices
    That the war’s end is near through this agreement.
    He comforts comrades, reassures Iulus,
    Sad in his fear, tells them the fates, and orders
    Definite answer brought to King Latinus
    With proper terms of armistice.

                                    And dawn
    Had scarcely touched the mountain-tops with light
    And the Sun-god’s horses risen from the ocean,
    When Trojans and Rutulians left the city
    And came to the great plain, the field of combat,
    Under the walls, and in the midst erected
    The hearths and altars for their common gods.
    Others, their temples bound with holy vervain,
    Veiled with the sacred robes, brought fire and water.
    Through the full gates the Ausonian host came streaming,
    And from the other side, Trojans, Etruscans,
    Harnessed in steel, as if a battle called them,
    With leaders flashing there, amid their thousands,
    Brilliant in gold and purple, brave Asilas,
    Mnestheus, Assaracus’ high-souled descendant,
    Messapus, tamer of horses, son of Neptune.
    Each, at a signal, found his post; the spears
    Were fixed in the earth, and the shields rested on them.
    Then came the mothers in their eagerness,
    And the unarmed throng, and the weak old men, all crowding
    Towers and house-tops, or standing by the portals.

      But Juno, from the summit now called Alban,
    Nameless in those days, lacking fame and glory,
    Looked over the plain, the lines of Latin and Trojan,
    The city of Latinus, and she turned,
    A goddess to a goddess, to Juturna,
    Sister of Turnus, guardian of still pools
    And sounding rivers; Jupiter had given
    This honor to her, for the honor taken,
    The lost virginity. Juno addressed her:--
    “O glory of the rivers, dear Juturna,
    You know you are the only one I have favored
    Of all the Latin girls who have made their way
    To great-souled Jove’s ungrateful couch; I gave you,
    Gladly, a place in Heaven; learn, Juturna,
    A sorrow of yours; do not reproach me for it.
    Where fortune seemed to grant it, and the Fates
    Let things go well for Latium, I protected
    Your brother and your city. Now I see him
    Faced with unequal destiny. The day
    Of doom and enemy violence draws near.
    I cannot watch this battle and this treaty;
    You, it may be, have in you greater daring,
    Resourceful for your brother’s sake. Go on;
    That much is only decent. Happier fortunes
    Will follow the unfortunate, if only--”

      As she broke off, Juturna wept; her hand
    Struck thrice, four times, her lovely breast. And Juno
    Cried:--“This is not the time for tears, Juturna!
    Hurry; and if there is some way to save him,
    Snatch him from death; or stir up war, break off
    The covenant: be daring--you are granted
    Authority from Juno!” And she left her
    Doubtful and suffering, with wounded spirit.

      Meanwhile, the kings were riding forth, Latinus
    Imposing in his four-horse car, his forehead
    Gleaming with twelve gold rays of light, the symbol
    Of his ancestral Sun, and Turnus coming
    Behind a snow-white team, and Turnus’ hand
    Brandishing spears with two broad heads of steel.
    And on this side, burning with starry shield
    And arms from Heaven, came Aeneas, father
    Of Rome to be, and from the camp Iulus,
    The second hope of Roman greatness, followed.
    In robes immaculate, the priest was waiting
    Beside the blazing altars, swine and oxen
    And sheep, unshorn, ready for sacrifice,
    And the leaders faced the rising sun, and sprinkled
    The salted meal, and marked the victims’ foreheads
    With knives that took the holy lock, and poured
    Libations on the altars, and Aeneas,
    Drawing his sword, made prayer:--“Sun, be my witness,
    And Earth be witness to me in my praying,
    This Earth, for whom I have been able to bear
    Such toil and suffering, Almighty Father,
    Queen Juno, now, I pray, a kinder goddess,
    Be witness, and Mars, renownèd god of battles,
    Rivers and Fountains, too, I call, and Powers
    Of lofty Heaven and deep blue ocean, witness:
    If victory comes to Turnus, the Trojans, beaten,
    Go to Evander’s city, and Iulus
    Will quit these lands forever, and hereafter
    No son or follower of Aeneas ever
    Will rise again in warfare, or with sword
    Attack these kingdoms. But if Victory grants us,
    As I expect, and may the gods confirm it,
    To win the battle, I will not have Italians
    Be subject to the Trojans; I crave no kingdom,
    Not for myself: let both, unbeaten nations,
    On equal terms enter eternal concord.
    I will establish gods and ceremonial;
    My sire, Latinus, keep his arms, his sceptre.
    The Trojans will build walls for me; Lavinia
    Shall give the city her name.”

                                  And so Aeneas
    Made solemn pledge, and after him Latinus,
    Lifting his eyes to heaven, and outstretching
    His right hand to the stars, confirmed the treaty:--
    “By these same Powers I swear, Aeneas, by Earth,
    Sea, Stars, Latona’s offspring, two-faced Janus,
    The power of the world below, and Pluto’s altars;
    May the Almighty Father, who sanctions treaties
    With lightning, hear my words: I touch the altars,
    I call these fires and presences to witness:
    No day shall break this peace, this pact, Italians,
    However things befall; no force shall turn me
    From this intention, not if the force of deluge
    Confounded land and water, Heaven and Hell.
    Even as this sceptre” (and he gestured with it)
    “Shall never bloom with leaf in branch or shadow,
    Once it has left its forest-trunk, its mother,
    And lost to steel its foliage, a tree
    No more, when once the artist’s hand has edged it
    With proper bronze, for Latin sires to carry.”
    So they affirmed the covenant, in sight
    Of leaders and people, and duly, over the flame,
    Made sacrifice of victims, and tore out
    The entrails while the beasts yet lived, and loaded
    The altars high with offerings.

                                    But more and more
    Rutulian hearts were wavering; the fight
    Began to seem unequal, and they stirred,
    Shifted and doubted. And Turnus moved them strangely,
    Coming on silent footstep to the altar,
    Looking down humbly, with a meek devotion,
    Cheeks drawn and pale. Juturna heard the whispers,
    The muttered talk, and sensed the stir in the crowd,
    And suddenly plunged into their midst, disguised
    As Camers, noble in birth and brave in arms, and son
    Of a brave father. She knew what she was doing,
    Putting the fuel of rumor on the fire,
    And crying:--“Are you not ashamed, Rutulians,
    That one should be exposed for all this army?
    In strength, in numbers, are we not their equal?
    Here they all are, the Trojans, the Arcadians,
    The Etruscans, all the lot of them: and we
    Are almost twice as many; man to man,
    Two against one! But no: we are willing to let him
    Rise to the skies on deathless praise; the gods
    Receive him, by his own decision bound,
    An offering at their altars, and we sit here
    Sluggish as stone on ground, our country lost,
    Ready to bow to any arrogant master.”
    They are moved; at least the young are, and a murmur
    Runs through the ranks: the Latins and Laurentians
    Are ripe for change. Rest from the war, and safety
    Count less than arms. They want the treaty broken,
    They pity Turnus. It’s not fair, this bargain.
    And now Juturna adds a greater warning,
    A sign from heaven, and nothing could have stirred them
    With more immediate impetus to folly.
    For, flying through the sky, an eagle, orange
    In the red light, was bearing down, pursuing
    The birds along the shore, and they were noisy
    In desperate flight, and the eagle struck, and the talons
    Seized the conspicuous swan. And as the Italians
    Looked up in fascination, all the birds,
    Most wonderful to tell, wheeled, and their outcry
    Clanged, and their wings were a dark cloud in heaven,
    A cloud that drove their enemy before them,
    Till, beaten down by force, by weight, the eagle
    Faltered, let go the prey, which fell to the river
    As the great bird flew far to the distant clouds.
    This omen the Rutulians cheered with shouting,
    With hands that cry for action. And their augur,
    Tolumnius, roused them further:--“I have prayed
    Often for this, and here it is! I own it,
    I recognize the gods. With me as leader,
    With me, I say, take arms, unhappy people,
    Whom, like frail birds, the insolent marauder
    Frightens in war, despoils your shores. He also
    Will take to flight, far to the distant oceans.
    Combine, come massing on, defend in battle
    The king snatched from you!”

                                    He went rushing forward,
    Let fly his spear: the whistling shaft of cornel
    Sang its determined way through air, and with it
    A mighty shout arose, formations broken,
    Hearts hot for battle, as the spear went flying.
    Nine handsome brothers, their mother a Tuscan woman,
    Good wife to the Arcadian Gylippus,
    Stood in its path, and one of them, distinguished
    In looks and gleaming armor, fell; the spear-point
    Struck where the belt was buckled over the belly
    And went on through the ribs. The brothers, angry,
    Grieving, drew swords, or picked up spears in frenzy,
    Went blindly rushing in, and the Latin columns
    Came charging at them; from their side the Trojans,
    Men from Agylla, brightly-armed Arcadians,
    Poured in a rushing flood. One passion held them,--
    _Decide it with the sword!_ They strip the altars,
    The sky is dark, it seems, with a storm of weapons,
    The iron rain is a deluge. Bowls and hearth-fires
    Are carried off; Latinus flees: the gods
    Are beaten, the treaty ruined by corruption.
    Other men rein their chariots, leap on horses,
    Come with drawn swords.

                                Messapus, most eager
    To break the truce, rides down a king, Aulestes,
    Wearing the emblem of a Tuscan monarch.
    Staggering backward from that charge, and reeling,
    He falls upon the altars, there behind him,
    Comes down on head and shoulders. And like fire
    Messapus flashes toward him, spear in hand,
    And, from the horse, strikes heavily down; the spear
    Is like a plunging beam. For all his pleading
    Aulestes hears no more than this:--“He has it!
    Here is a better victim for the altars!”
    His limbs are warm as the Italians rob them.
    Ebysus aims a blow at Corynaeus
    Who snatches up a firebrand from the altar
    And thrusts it in his face, and his beard blazes
    With a smell of fire. And Corynaeus follows,
    Clutches the hair with the left hand, and grounds him
    With knee-thrust; the relentless steel goes home.
    And Podalirius, sword in hand, looms over
    The shepherd Alsus, rushing through the weapons
    In the front line, but Alsus, arm drawn back,
    Swings the axe forward, cleaving chin and forehead,
    Drenching the armor with blood. An iron slumber
    Seals Podalirius’ eyes; they close forever
    In everlasting night.

                          But good Aeneas,
    Head bare, holds out his hand, unarmed, calls loudly
    In hope to check his men:--“Where are you rushing?
    What sudden brawl is rising? Control your anger!
    The treaty is made, and all the terms agreed on,
    The fight my right alone. Let me take over;
    Lay down your fear: this hand will prove the treaty,
    Making it sure. These rites owe Turnus to me.”
    And even as he cried, an arrow flew
    Winging against him; no one knew the hand
    That turned it loose with whirlwind force; if man
    Or god, nobody knew; and no man boasted
    Of having been the one to wound Aeneas.

      And Turnus saw him leave the field, and captains
    And ranks confused, and burned with sudden spirit.
    He is hopeful now; he calls for arms, for horses,
    Leaps proudly into his chariot, plies the reins,
    Drives fiercely, gives to death many brave heroes,
    Rolls many, half alive, under the wheels,
    Crushes the columns under his car, and showers
    Spear after spear at men who try to flee him.
    Even as Mars, along the icy Hebrus,
    In blood-red fury thunders with his shield
    And rousing war gives rein to his wild horses
    Faster than winds over the open plain
    As Thrace groans under their gallop, and around him
    Black Terror’s forms are driven, and Rage, and Ambush,
    Attendants on the god,--with equal frenzy
    So Turnus rages through the midst of battle,
    Lashing the steeds that steam with sweat, and killing
    And riding down the slain; the swift hooves spatter
    A bloody dew and the sand they pound is bloody.
    He has given Sthenelus to death, and Pholus,
    And Thamyrus, by spear or sword, close in,
    Far off, no matter; Glaucus also, Lades,
    Imbrasus’ sons, from Lycia, where their father
    Reared them and gave them either kind of armor,
    For fighting hand to hand, on foot, or mounted
    On chargers swift as wind.

                                Elsewhere Eumedes
    Comes riding to the battle, son of Dolon,
    Named after Dolon’s father, and in daring
    True son of Dolon, who claimed Achilles’ chariot
    For spying on the Grecian camp, and went there
    And Diomedes paid him for his daring
    With somewhat different tokens, so that Dolon
    No longer craved the horses of Achilles.
    And Turnus saw that son of his, Eumedes,
    Far on the open plain, and overtook him
    With the light javelin, through long emptiness,
    And stopped his horses, and leaped down, and landed
    On a man fallen, half-alive, and stood there,
    Foot on Eumedes’ neck, twisted the sword
    From Eumedes’ right hand, and changed its silver
    To red, deep in Eumedes’ throat, and told him:--
    “Lie down there, Trojan; measure off the acres
    You sought in war! Any who dare attack me
    Are paid rewards like these; they build their walls
    On such foundations!” He flung the spear and brought him
    Companions in his death, Asbytes, Chloreus,
    Thersilochus and Sybaris and Dares
    And finally Thymoetes, slain on horseback.
    As the north wind roars over the deep Aegean
    Piling the combers shoreward, and in heaven
    Clouds flee the blast of the gale, so, before Turnus,
    The columns yield, the lines give way, and his onrush
    Bears him along, and the wind of his going tosses
    The nodding plume. And Phegeus tried to stop him,
    Flinging himself before the car, and grabbing,
    With his right hand, the bridle, twisting, wrenching
    The foaming jaws, and while he rode the yoke
    The spear-point found his side uncovered, piercing
    The mail with grazing wound, but Phegeus managed
    To keep the shield before him and for safety
    Tried to keep coming forward--the drawn sword
    Would be the best protection, but the axle
    Caught him, the wheels went over him, and Turnus
    Swept by and the scythe of Turnus’ sword cut through him
    Between the shield and helmet, and the body
    Lay headless on the sand.

                                While Turnus, winning,
    Slaughtered across the field of war, Achates,
    With Mnestheus at his side, and young Iulus,
    Brought back Aeneas to camp, bleeding and limping,
    Using the spear as crutch, struggling, in anger,
    To pull the barb from the wound; the shaft had broken.
    The thing to do, he tells them over and over,
    The quickest way would be to cut around it,
    Let the sword do the probing, find the spear-point
    No matter how deep it tries to hide, expose it,
    Get it out of there, and send him back to battle.
    And Iapyx came to help, the son of Iasus,
    Dearest beyond all others to Apollo
    Who once had offered him his arts, his powers,
    His augury, his lyre, the lore of arrows,
    But Iapyx made another choice; his father,
    It seemed, was dying, and he chose to save him
    Through what Apollo had the power to offer,
    Knowledge of simples and the arts of healing,
    And so he chose the silent craft, inglorious.
    So there was Iapyx, trying to be helpful,
    Aeneas, leaning on his spear, and cursing,
    Indifferent to Iulus’ tears, and others
    Standing around, and anxious. The old doctor
    Tucked up his robe, compounded potent herbs,
    Applied them, fussed around, all to no purpose;
    Tried to extract the dart by hand, and then by forceps,--
    No luck at all: Apollo does not guide him,
    And more and more across the plains the horror
    Thickens, and evil nears. They see the sky
    Standing on dust; horsemen come on, and arrows
    Are falling thick, and a mournful din arises
    As fighting men go down, with Mars relentless.

      Then Venus, shaken with a mother’s anguish
    Over a suffering son, from Cretan Ida
    Plucked dittany, a plant with downy leaves
    And crimson blossom: the wild goats know and use it
    As cure for arrow-wounds. This herb the goddess
    Brought down, her presence veiled in cloud, and steeped it
    With secret healing in the river-water
    Poured in the shining caldrons, and she added
    Ambrosia’s healing juice, and panacea,
    And agèd Iapyx washed the wound, unknowing
    The virtues of that balm, and all the pain
    Suddenly, and by magic, left the body;
    The blood was staunched, deep in the wound; the arrow
    Dropped from the flesh, at the least touch; the hero
    Felt all his strength return. “Quick! Bring his weapons!”
    Iapyx cries out, the first to fire their spirit
    Against the foe, “Why are you standing there,
    What are you waiting for? These things have happened
    By more than mortal aid or master talent,
    It is not my hand, Aeneas, that has saved you,
    Some greater god is working here, to send you
    To greater deeds.” Aeneas, eager for battle,
    Had the gold shin-guards on while he was talking,
    Makes the spear flash, impatient, gets the armor
    Buckled about the body, and the sword
    Ready at the left side, and through the helmet
    Stoops down to kiss Iulus:--“Learn, my son,
    What I can show you, valor and real labor:
    Learn about luck from others. Now my hand
    Will be your shield in war, your guide to glory,
    To great rewards. When you are grown, remember;
    You will have models for your inspiration,
    Your father Aeneas and your uncle Hector.”

      So from the gates he rushed, a mighty warrior
    Wielding a mighty spear, and all the column
    Came pouring forth; Mnestheus, Antheus, others,
    Leave the forsaken camp. The dust is blinding
    Over the plain, the tramp of armies marching
    Makes the earth tremble, and from the opposite hillside
    Turnus and the Ausonians saw them coming
    And a cold chill ran through their bones; Juturna,
    Quicker than all the Latins, heard the sound,
    Knew it, and fled in terror. And Aeneas
    Rushed his dark column over open country
    As a cloud-burst sweeps to land across the ocean
    And farmers know it, far away, and shudder
    Fearful and sure of ruin to woods and cornfield,
    And the winds fly on before the storm and herald
    The roaring sound to the shore; so, like a cloud-burst,
    Aeneas brings his armies on; they gather,
    Each company, at his side. Thymbraeus’ sword
    Strikes down Osiris; Mnestheus slays Arcetius;
    Achates Epulo, and Gyas Ufens.
    Tolumnius, that augur whose spear had broken
    The armistice, lies low. A shout arises:
    The Rutulians turn back in rout; the dust-clouds
    Follow them over the field in flight. Aeneas
    Disdains to kill retreating men, refuses
    Attack on such as face him; it is Turnus
    He watches for, hunts through the gloom of battle,
    It is Turnus, Turnus only, whom he summons.

      And this Juturna knows, and in her panic
    She flings Metiscus, charioteer of Turnus,
    Out of the car, far from the reins and axle,
    And takes his place, plying the supple reins,
    Calls with Metiscus’ voice, assumes his armor.
    As a dark swallow through a rich man’s mansion
    Flies winging through great halls, hunting for crumbs
    For the young birds at home, and now chirps under
    The empty courts, now over the quiet pool,
    Even so, Juturna, by the horses carried,
    Darts here and there, quarters the field, and proudly
    Makes a great show of Turnus, her cheering brother,
    Yet never lets him close in fight or grapple,
    Forever wheeling and turning. But Aeneas
    Is dogged in pursuit and loud in challenge.
    Whenever he sees that car, and runs to meet it,
    Juturna shifts the course. What can he do?
    Nothing, it seems, but boil in rage; one anger
    Makes conflict in his heart against another.
    Messapus comes against him; his left hand
    Holds two tough lances, tipped with steel: advancing,
    He levels one, well-aimed; Aeneas crouches
    On one knee under the shield, but the spear, flying,
    Picks off the crested plume from the top of the helmet.
    Aeneas’ anger swells; this treachery rankles.
    Messapus’ chariot and steeds, withdrawing,
    Are far away. He has made appeal to Jove
    And the broken treaty’s altars all too often,
    And now he fights in earnest; Mars beside him,
    He rouses terrible carnage, giving anger
    Free rein: he makes no choice of opposition.

      What singer or what god could tell the story
    Of all these deaths? Both Turnus and Aeneas,
    In turn, drive victims over all the plain.
    Jupiter willed it so, that mighty nations,
    Destined, in time, for everlasting friendship,
    Should meet in that great struggle. A Rutulian,
    Sucro, held off Aeneas for a little,
    And died more quickly, with the sword-point driven
    Through ribs’ protecting framework. Turnus met
    Amycus, and unsaddled him; his brother,
    Diores, fought on foot, and Turnus killed them,
    The one by spear, the one by sword; his chariot
    Bore off their severed heads, blood dripping from them.
    Aeneas, in one charge, brought down three warriors,
    Talos and Tanais and brave Cethegus,
    And then one more, the sorrowful Onites,
    Whose mother was Peridia; and Turnus
    Killed brethren, Lycian born, and young Menoetes
    Who hated war, in vain, and once loved fishing
    In Lerna’s rivers; his Arcadian dwelling
    Had been a cottage, and his father planted
    Land that he did not own. Like fire through forest
    When underbrush is dry, and laurel crackles,
    Or like two mountain-torrents roaring seaward,
    Each leaving devastation, so Aeneas
    And Turnus swept the battle, anger surging,
    Surging in those great hearts, swollen to bursting,
    Not knowing how to yield, all strength devoted
    To death and wounds.

                            There was a man, Murranus,
    Whose pride of ancestry was loud and boastful,
    Last of a line of Latin kings. Aeneas
    Brought him to earth and laid him low; a stone,
    A mighty whirling rock served as the weapon,
    And under reins and under yoke the wheels
    Rolled him along, and over him the horses
    Trampled in earth the lord they had forgotten.
    Hyllus rushed Turnus, and a javelin met him
    Through the gold temple-band, and pierced the helmet
    And lodged there, in the brain. A brave man, Cretheus,
    Had no defense against the might of Turnus,
    And no god saved Cupencus from Aeneas,
    No shield of bronze delayed the speeding weapon.
    Aeolus fell, stretched on the plains, a hero
    Too powerful for all the Greek battalions,
    Whom even Achilles, overthrower of Troy,
    Could not bring down. He reached his goal of death
    Here in Laurentum, a man whose home, Lyrnesus,
    Lay at the foot of Ida, but his tomb
    Was on Italian soil. So all the lines
    Turned to the battle, Mnestheus, Serestus,
    Messapus, tamer of horses, brave Asilas,
    Etruscan columns and Evander’s squadrons,
    Latins and Trojans, all of them contending
    With all their might, no rest, no pause, no slacking.

      And now his goddess-mother sent Aeneas
    A change of purpose, to direct his column
    More quickly toward the town, confuse the Latins
    With sudden onslaught. He was tracking Turnus
    Here, there, all up and down the columns, watching,
    Shifting his gaze, and so he saw that city
    Immune from that fierce warfare, calm and peaceful.
    The vision of a greater fight comes to him:
    He calls Sergestus, Mnestheus, brave Serestus,
    And takes position on a mound; the Trojans
    Come massing toward him, shield and spear held ready.
    And as he stands above them, he gives the orders:--
    “Let there be no delay: great Jove is with us.
    Let no man go more slackly, though this venture
    Is new and unexpected. That city yonder,
    The cause of war, the kingdom of Latinus,
    Unless they own our mastery, acknowledge
    Defeat, declare obedience, I will topple,
    Level its smoking roof-tops to the ground.
    Or should I wait until it suits prince Turnus
    To face the duel with me, and, once beaten,
    Consent to fight again? This is the head,
    O citizens, this the evil crown of warfare.
    Hurry, bring firebrands, win from fire the treaty!”
    His words inflame their zeal, and, all together
    They form a wedge; a great mass moves to the wall,
    Ladders and sudden fire appear from nowhere;
    The guards at the gate are butchered; steel is flying,
    The sky is dark with arrows. Toward the city
    Aeneas lifts his hand, rebukes Latinus,
    Calling the gods to witness that his will
    Was not for battle, it was forced upon him
    By the Italians, double treaty-breakers,
    His foes for now the second time. The townsmen
    Quarrel among themselves: “Open the town!”,
    Cry some, “Admit the Trojans!” and would drag
    The king himself to the ramparts. Others hurry
    With arms, man the defenses. When a shepherd
    Trails bees to their hive in the cleft of a rock and fills it
    With smarting smoke, there is fright and noise and fury
    Within the waxen camp, and anger sharpened
    With buzzing noises, and a black smell rises
    With a blind sound, inside the rock, and rolling
    Smoke lifts to empty air.

                              Now a new sorrow
    Came to the weary Latins, shook the city
    To its foundations, utterly. The queen
    Had seen the Trojans coming and the walls
    Under attack and fire along the gables
    And no Rutulian column, nowhere Turnus
    Coming to help. He had been killed, her hero,
    She knew at last. Her mind was gone; she cried
    Over and over:--“I am the guilty one,
    I am the cause, the source of all these evils!”
    And other wilder words. And then she tore
    Her crimson robes, and slung a noose and fastened
    The knot of an ugly death to the high rafter.
    The women learned it first, and then Lavinia:
    The wide hall rings with grief and lamentation;
    Nails scratch at lovely faces, beautiful hair
    Is torn from the head. And Rumor spreads the story
    All up and down the town, and poor Latinus,
    Rending his garments, comes and stares,--wife gone,
    And city falling, an old man’s hoary hair
    Greyer with bloody dust.

                              And meanwhile Turnus
    Out on the plain pursues the stragglers, slower
    And slower now, and less and less exultant
    In his triumphant car. From the city comes
    A wind that bears a cry confused with terror,
    Half heard, but known,--confusion, darkness, sorrow,
    An uproar in the town. He checks the horses,
    Pauses and listens. And his sister prompts him:--
    “This way, this way! The Trojans run, we follow
    Where victory shows the path. Let others guard
    The houses with their valor. The Italians
    Fall in the fight before Aeneas. Let us
    Send death to the Trojans, in our turn. You will not
    Come off the worse, in numbers or in honor.”
    Turnus replies:--“O sister, I have known,
    A long while since, that you were no Metiscus,
    Since first you broke the treaty and joined the battle.
    No use pretending you are not a goddess.
    But who, from high Olympus, sent you down
    To bear such labors? Was it to see your brother
    In pitiful cruel death? What am I doing,
    What chance will fortune grant me? I have seen
    A man I loved more than the rest, Murranus,
    A big man, slain by a big wound, go down.
    Ufens is fallen, lucky or unlucky,
    In that he never saw our shame; the Trojans
    Have won his body and arms. Our homes are burning,
    The one thing lacking up to now,--and shall I
    Endure this, not refute the words of Drances
    With this right hand? Shall I turn my back upon them?
    Is it so grim to die? Be kind, O shadows,
    Since the high gods have turned their favor from me.
    A decent spirit, undisgraced, no coward,
    I shall descend to you, never unworthy
    Of all my ancient line.”

                            He had hardly spoken
    When a warrior, on foaming steed, came riding
    Through all the enemy. His name was Saces,
    And his face was badly wounded by an arrow.
    He called the name of Turnus, and implored him:--
    “We have no other hope; pity your people!
    Aeneas is a lightning-bolt; he threatens
    Italy’s topmost towers; he will bring them down
    In ruins; even now the brands are flying
    Along the roof-tops. They look to you, the Latins,
    They look for you; and king Latinus mumbles
    In doubt--who are his sons, who are his allies?
    The queen, who trusted you the most, has perished
    By her own hand, has fled the light in terror.
    Alone before the gates the brave Atinas
    And Messapus hold the line. Around them, squadrons
    Crowd close on either side, and the steel harvest
    Bristles with pointed swords. And here is Turnus
    Wheeling his car across a plain deserted.”

      Bewildered by disaster’s shifting image,
    Turnus is silent, staring; shame and sadness
    Boil up in that great heart, and grief and love
    Driven by frenzy. He shakes off the shadows;
    The light comes back to his mind. His eyes turn, blazing,
    From the wheels of the car to the walls of that great city
    Where the flame billowed upward, the roaring blast
    Catching a tower, one he himself had fashioned
    With jointed beams and rollers and high gangways.
    “Fate is the winner now; keep out of my way,
    My sister: now I follow god and fortune.
    I am ready for Aeneas, ready to bear
    Whatever is bitter in death. No longer, sister,
    Shall I be shamed, and you behold me. Let me,
    Before the final madness, be a madman!”
    He bounded from the chariot, came rushing
    Through spears, through enemies; his grieving sister
    He left behind, forgotten. As a boulder
    Torn from a mountain-top rolls headlong downward,
    Impelled by wind, or washed by storm, or loosened
    By time’s erosion, and comes down the hillside
    A mass possessed of evil, leaping and bounding,
    And rolling with it men and trees and cattle,
    So, through the broken columns, Turnus rushes
    On to the city, where the blood goes deepest
    Into the muddy ground, and the air whistles
    With flying spears. He makes a sudden gesture,
    Crying aloud:--“No more, no more, Rutulians!
    Hold back your weapons, Latins! Whatever fortune
    There may be here is mine. I am the one,
    Not you, to make the treaty good, to settle
    The issue with the sword. That will be better.”
    They all made way and gave him room.

                                              Aeneas,
    Hearing the name of Turnus, leaves the city,
    Forsakes the lofty walls; he has no patience
    With any more delay, breaks off all projects,
    Exults, a terrible thunderer in armor,
    As huge as Athos, or as huge as Eryx,
    Or even father Apennine, that mountain
    Roaring above the oaks, and lifting high
    His crown of shimmering trees and snowy crest.
    Now all men turned their eyes, Rutulians, Trojans,
    Italians, those who held the lofty ramparts,
    Those battering at the wall below; their shoulders
    Were eased of armor now. And king Latinus
    Could hardly, in amazement, trust his senses
    Seeing these two big men, born worlds apart
    Meeting to make decision with the sword.
    The plain was cleared, and they came rushing forward,
    Hurling, far off, their spears; the fight is on,
    The bronze shields clang and ring. Earth gives a groan.
    The swords strike hard and often; luck and courage
    Are blent in one. And as on mighty Sila
    Or on Taburnus’ mountain, when two bullocks
    Charge into fight head-on, and trembling herdsmen
    Fall back in fear, and the herd is dumb with terror,
    And heifers, hardly lowing, stare and wonder
    Which one will rule the woodland, which one the herd
    Will follow meekly after, and all the time
    They gore each other with savage horns, and shoulders
    And necks and ribs run streams of blood, and bellowing
    Fills all the woodland,--even so, Aeneas
    And Daunus’ son clash shield on shield; the clamor
    Fills heaven. And Jupiter holds the scales in balance
    With each man’s destiny as weight and counter,
    And one the heavier under the doom of death.

      Confident, Turnus, rising to the sword
    Full height, is a flash of light; he strikes. The Trojans,
    The Latins, cry aloud and come up standing.
    But the sword is treacherous; it is broken off
    With the blow half spent: the fire of Turnus finds
    No help except in flight. Swift as the wind
    He goes, and stares at a broken blade, a hand
    Unarmed. The story is that in that hurry,
    That rush of his, to arms, when the steeds were harnessed,
    He took Metiscus’ sword, not the one Daunus
    Had left him. For a while it served its purpose
    While the Trojans ran away, but when it met
    The armor Vulcan forged, the mortal blade
    Split off, like brittle ice, with glittering splinters
    Like ice on the yellow sand. So Turnus flies
    Madly across the plain in devious circles:
    The Trojans ring him round, and a swamp on one side,
    High walls on the other.

                              Aeneas, the pursuer,
    Is none too swift: the arrow has left him hurt;
    His knees give way, but he keeps on, keeps coming
    After the panting enemy, as a hound,
    Running a stag to bay, at the edge of the water
    Or hedged by crimson plumes, darts in, and barks,
    And snaps his jaws, closes and grips, is shaken
    Off from the flanks again, and once more closes,
    And a great noise goes up the air; the waters
    Resound, and the whole sky thunders with the clamor.
    Turnus has time, even in flight, for calling
    Loud to Rutulians, each by name, demanding,
    In terrible rage, the sword, the sword, the good one,
    The one he knows. Let anybody bring it,
    Aeneas threatens, and death and doom await him,
    And the town will be a ruin. Wounded, still
    He presses on. They go in five great circles,
    Around and back: no game, with silly prizes,
    Are they playing now; the life and blood of Turnus
    Go to the winner.

                        A wild olive-tree
    Stood here, with bitter leaves, sacred to Faunus,
    Revered by rescued sailors, who used to offer
    Ex-votos to the native gods, their garments
    In token of gratitude. For this the Trojans
    Cared nothing, lopped the branches off to clear
    The run of the field. Aeneas’ spear had fastened
    Deep in the trunk where the force of the cast had brought it,
    Stuck in the grip of the root. Aeneas, stooping,
    Yanks at the shaft; he cannot equal Turnus
    In speed of foot but the javelin is wingèd.
    And Turnus, in a terrible moment of panic,
    Cries:--“Faunus, pity me, and Earth, most kindly,
    If ever I was reverent, as Aeneas
    And those he leads have not been, hold the steel,
    Do not let go!” He prayed, and he was answered.
    Aeneas tugged and wrestled, pulled and hauled,
    But the wood held on. And, while he strained, Juturna
    Rushed forward, once again Metiscus’ double,
    With the good sword for her brother. Then Venus, angry
    Over such wanton interference, enters
    And the root yields. The warriors, towering high,
    Each one renewed in spirit, one with sword,
    One with the spear, both breathing hard, are ready
    For what Mars has to send.

                                And Juno, gazing
    From a golden cloud to earth, watching the duel,
    Heard the all-powerful king of high Olympus:--
    “What will the end be now, O wife? What else
    Remains? You know, and you admit you know it,
    Aeneas is heaven-destined, the native hero
    Become a god, raised by the fates, exalted.
    What are you planning? with what hope lingering on
    In the cold clouds? Was it proper that a mortal
    Should wound a god? that the sword, once lost, be given
    Turnus again?--Juturna, of course, is nothing
    Without your help--was it proper that the beaten
    Increase in violence? Stop it now, I tell you;
    Listen to my entreaties: I would not have you
    Devoured by grief in silence; I would not have you
    Bring me, again, anxiety and sorrow,
    However sweet the voice. The end has come.
    To harry the Trojans over land and ocean,
    To light up war unspeakable, to defile
    A home with grief, to mingle bridal and sorrow,--
    All this you were permitted. Go no farther!
    That is an absolute order.” And Juno, downcast
    In gaze, replied:--“Great Jove, I knew your pleasure:
    And therefore, much against my will, left Turnus,
    Left earth. Were it not so, you would not see me
    Lonely upon my airy throne in heaven,
    Enduring things both worthy and unworthy,
    But I would be down there, by flame surrounded,
    Fighting in the front ranks, and hauling Trojans
    To battle with their enemies. Juturna,
    I urged, I own, to help her wretched brother,
    And I approved, I own, her greater daring
    For his life’s sake, but I did not approve,
    And this I swear by Styx, that river whose name
    Binds all the gods to truth, her taking weapons,
    Aiming the bow. I give up now, I leave
    These battles, though I hate to. I ask one favor
    For Latium, for the greatness of your people,
    And this no law of fate forbids: when, later,
    And be it so, they join in peace, and settle
    Their laws, their treaties, in a blessèd marriage,
    Do not command the Latins, native-born,
    To change their language, to be known as Trojans,
    To alter speech or garb; let them be Latium,
    Let Alban kings endure through all the ages,
    Let Roman stock, strong in Italian valor,
    Prevail: since Troy has fallen, let her name
    Perish and be forgotten.” Smiling on her,
    The great creator answered:--“You are truly
    True sister of Jove and child of Saturn, nursing
    Such tides of anger in the heart! Forget it!
    Abate the rise of passion. The wish is granted.
    I yield, and more than that,--I share your purpose.
    Ausonians shall keep their old tradition,
    Their fathers’ speech and ways; their name shall be
    Even as now it is. Their sacred laws,
    Their ritual, I shall add, and make all Latins
    Men of a common tongue. A race shall rise
    All-powerful, of mingled blood; you will see them
    By virtue of devotion rise to glories
    Not men nor gods have known, and no race ever
    Will pay you equal honor.” And the goddess
    Gave her assent, was happy, changed her purpose,
    Left heaven and quit the cloud.

                                    This done, the father
    Formed yet another purpose, that Juturna
    Should leave her fighting brother. There are, men say,
    Twin fiends, or triple, sisters named the Furies,
    Daughters of Night, with snaky coils, and pinions
    Like those of wind. They are attendant spirits
    Before the throne of Jove and whet the fears
    Of sickly mortals, when the king of heaven
    Contrives disease or dreadful death, or frightens
    The guilty towns in war. Now he dispatches
    One of the three to earth, to meet Juturna,
    An omen visible; and so from heaven
    She flew with whirlwind swiftness, like an arrow
    Through cloud from bowstring, armed with gall or poison,
    Loosed from a Parthian quiver, cleaving shadows
    Swifter than man may know, a shaft no power
    Has power of healing over:--so Night’s daughter
    Came down to earth, and when she saw the Trojans
    And Turnus’ columns, she dwindled, all of a sudden,
    To the shape of that small bird, which, in the night-time,
    Shrills its late song, ill-omened, on the roof-tops
    Or over tombs, insistent through the darkness.
    And so the fiend, the little screech-owl, flying
    At Turnus, over and over, shrilled in warning,
    Beating the wings against the shield, and Turnus
    Felt a strange torpor seize his limbs, and terror
    Made his hair rise, and his voice could find no utterance.

      But when, far off, Juturna knew the Fury
    By whir of those dread wings, she tore her tresses,
    Clawed at her face, and beat her breast, all anguish
    Over her brother:--“What can a sister do
    To help you now, poor Turnus? What remains
    For me to bear? I have borne so much already.
    What skill of mine can make the daylight longer
    In your dark hour? Can I face such a portent?
    Now, now, I leave the battle-line forever.
    Foul birds, I fear enough; haunt me no further,
    I know that beat of the wings, that deadly whirring;
    I recognize, too well, Jove’s arrogant orders,
    His payment for my maidenhood. He gave me
    Eternal life, but why? Why has he taken
    The right of death away from me? I might have
    Ended my anguish, surely, with my brother’s,
    Gone, at his side, among the fearful shadows,
    But, no,--I am immortal. What is left me
    Of any possible joy, without my brother?
    What earth can open deep enough to take me,
    A goddess, to the lowest shades?” The mantle,
    Grey-colored, veiled her head, and the goddess, sighing,
    Sank deep from sight to the greyness of the river.

      And on Aeneas presses: the flashing spear,
    Brandished, is big as a tree; his anger cries:--
    “Why put it off forever, Turnus, hang-dog?
    We must fight with arms, not running. Take what shape
    You will, gather your strength or craft; fly up
    To the high stars, or bury yourself in earth!”
    And Turnus shook his head and answered:--“Jove,
    Being my enemy, scares me, and the gods,
    Not your hot words, fierce fellow.” And his vision,
    Glancing about, beheld a mighty boulder,
    A boundary-mark, in days of old, so huge
    A dozen men in our degenerate era
    Could hardly pry it loose from earth, but Turnus
    Lifts it full height, hurls it full speed and, acting.
    Seems not to recognize himself, in running,
    Or moving, or lifting his hands, or letting the stone
    Fly into space; he shakes at the knees, his blood
    Runs chill in the veins, and the stone, through wide air going,
    Falls short, falls spent. As in our dreams at night-time,
    When sleep weighs down our eyes, we seem to be running,
    Or trying to run, and cannot, and we falter,
    Sick in our failure, and the tongue is thick
    And the words we try to utter come to nothing,
    No voice, no speech,--so Turnus finds the way
    Blocked off, wherever he turns, however bravely.
    All sorts of things go through his mind: he stares
    At the Rutulians, at the town; he trembles,
    Quails at the threat of the lance; he cannot see
    Any way out, any way forward. Nothing.
    The chariot is gone, and the charioteer,
    Juturna or Metiscus, nowhere near him.
    The spear, flung by Aeneas, comes with a whir
    Louder than stone from any engine, louder
    Than thunderbolt; like a black wind it flies,
    Bringing destruction with it, through the shield-rim,
    Its sevenfold strength, through armor, through the thigh.
    Turnus is down, on hands and knees, huge Turnus
    Struck to the earth. Groaning, the stunned Rutulians
    Rise to their feet, and the whole hill resounds,
    The wooded heights give echo. A suppliant, beaten,
    Humbled at last, his hands reach out, his voice
    Is low in pleading:--“I have deserved it, surely,
    And I do not beg off. Use the advantage.
    But if a parent’s grief has any power
    To touch the spirit, I pray you, pity Daunus,
    (I would Anchises), send him back my body.
    You have won; I am beaten, and these hands go out
    In supplication: everyone has seen it.
    No more. I have lost Lavinia. Let hatred
    Proceed no further.”
    Fierce in his arms, with darting glance, Aeneas
    Paused for a moment, and he might have weakened,
    For the words had moved him, when, high on the shoulder,
    He saw the belt of Pallas, slain by Turnus,
    Saw Pallas on the ground, and Turnus wearing
    That belt with the bright studs, of evil omen
    Not only to Pallas now, a sad reminder,
    A deadly provocation. Terrible
    In wrath, Aeneas cries:--“Clad in this treasure,
    This trophy of a comrade, can you cherish
    Hope that my hands would let you go? Now Pallas,
    Pallas exacts his vengeance, and the blow
    Is Pallas, making sacrifice!” He struck
    Before he finished speaking: the blade went deep
    And Turnus’ limbs were cold in death; the spirit
    Went with a moan indignant to the shadows.




APPENDIX

[Illustration: text decoration]




VIRGIL’S LIFE AND TIMES


Publius Vergilius Maro, whom we call Virgil, was born up north in Italy,
somewhere in the vicinity of Mantua, in the year 70 B.C. Julius Caesar,
that year, was a man of thirty. The poet’s father was a landholder,
sufficiently affluent to afford his son a pretty extensive course of
education. Virgil grew up to be tall, dark, perhaps a little rawboned
and loose-jointed, never very robust, quiet, no doubt, but with more fun
in him, and malice, too, if the ascription of the minor poems is
correct, than we sometimes think. As a youth, he studied first at
Cremona, then at Milan, and in this he was fortunate, for the scholars
of the north seemed to have laid more emphasis on the humanistic side of
education, on arts, letters, and philosophy, than did the
materialist-minded rhetoricians of Rome. To Rome, in his late teens,
Virgil did go for pre-legal study, for him a not very congenial
experience; it is on record, according to Donatus, that he pleaded
exactly one case, and that unsuccessfully. He was twenty-one when Julius
Caesar crossed the Rubicon, and the Civil War flared up between Caesar
and Pompey, and it seems probable that he was pressed into service with
Caesar’s forces, not too much against his political sympathies, however
distasteful to his temperament. His service was not long: the state of
his health may have brought him early leave or discharge; in his younger
twenties he turned to the study of philosophy at Naples.

He found good teachers there, Siro, Philodemus, highly trained men of
the Epicurean school, versed not only in Greek thought but familiar,
also, with the wisdom of the East. He found good fellow-students, too, a
remarkable list of influential Romans, men who were to be his lifelong
friends, as Naples was to be made his permanent home, in spite of
traveling, later, and the honor of an official residence at Rome. Naples
was a pleasant place to be during those years, above the battles that
broke and raged not only up and down the peninsula, but to east and
west, in Spain, in Gaul, in Thessaly, in Africa. The republican
institutions which had sufficed an agrarian economy were breaking down
under the pressures of the new rising mercantile and almost industrial
society; there had even been something like a primitive proletarian
revolution under Spartacus; no Epicurean scorn for political ambitions
could keep men’s consciences from being deeply troubled. Virgil,
conservative at heart, yet with a great admiration for Julius Caesar the
man, seems not to have been too bitter about the imminence of a
dictatorship; he would have preferred it not to be so called, and he
hoped, with all his soul and spirit, that it would be wisely and
mercifully administered, and he said so. He was twenty-six when Caesar
was assassinated on the Ides of March in 44 B.C., and the shock of that
event was enough to drive from his mind the ideas he had formed, in a
groping and immature wishfulness, of writing a national epic.

Virgil was not much over thirty when his first substantial work was
given publication. This consisted of the Eclogues, or Bucolics, ten
longish poems, ostensibly pastoral, modelled, to a certain extent, on
the Greek poet Theocritus. These poems were by no means purely escapist
literature; they were full of allusions to recent political events,
sympathy for the victims of civil war, appeals to the victors for
compassion, gratitude that the patrimonial estates had suffered less
severely than some others under the policy of rewarding the veterans
with places on the land. The young Octavian, victor, with Mark Antony,
over the Caesaricides Brutus and Cassius at Philippi, was impressionable
enough to be guided in decent ways, following his great-uncle’s
tradition of clemency; and Octavian, on his part, was sufficiently
tactful, as well as shrewd, to want to have the poets on his side. The
great success of the Eclogues rendered it highly desirable that Virgil,
along with other poets, be given something like official status; the
wealthy counsellor Maecenas, patron of the arts and member of the inner
circle, put a villa in his own gardens at the poet’s disposal. Here
Virgil found new friends, notably the poet Horace, five years his
junior--it lay much to the credit of Octavian’s decency that place could
be made for a young satirist who had fought against him at Philippi
(probably not very hard, if we can believe Horace’s own account) and
whose published work had been caustic about the government. So Virgil
had security, recognition, freedom to travel with the distinguished on
official journeys, or to come and go as he pleased, with the privilege
of staying, whenever he was so minded, in his quieter gardens near
Naples.

It was nearly a decade before the publication of his next major work,
the Georgics, a long poem, in four books, on the subject of husbandry.
Those returned veterans, settled by tens of thousands on the land, knew,
it seemed, little of farming, and, for that matter, probably cared less.
It was Virgil’s responsibility, under Octavian’s sanction, to instruct
them, to see to it that they should both know and care, have practical
information as to what must be done with crops and cattle and bees, and
at the same time develop faith and pride in what they were doing, return
to the simple virtues of the fathers, the good old republican ways. For
all its official status, however, the poem was just a little too honest
to be what we should consider ideal propaganda. There is no sentimental
rapture in the Georgics, no idolization, idealization, or idyllization
of what life on a farm is like; the sober-minded citizen, in fact, might
easily be dissuaded from agriculture entirely by the accurate
description of the various kinds of hell farming would put him through.

By the time Virgil was putting the finishing touches to this book, the
unsettled condition of the Roman state had begun to change for the
better. A decade’s opposition to Octavian, led by the sons of Pompey and
his old partner Antony, had come to an end with the defeat of Antony and
Cleopatra at the battle of Actium in 31 B.C. The East and West could
join again; there could now be one world, under the tempered principate
of the man who had matured from the young Octavian into Caesar Augustus.
And Virgil could turn to the project he had never forgotten, fulfill the
longings that, as allusions in both Eclogues and Georgics had shown,
still occupied at least his unconscious mind, the composition of an epic
poem that should justify this great nation, remind her citizens of all
she had cost, inspire them to be worthy of their tradition. To this
work, the Aeneid, Virgil devoted the rest of his life. He did not ever
consider it finished; he had still three years’ work ahead of him, he
estimated, when he went to Greece, at the age of fifty, to study more
carefully the scenes of the book in which he described the wanderings
of Aeneas. There he fell ill, was brought back to Brundisium, on the
heel of Italy, where he died in 19 B.C. In his dissatisfaction with the
unfinished state of his work, he left instructions that the manuscript
of the Aeneid should be burned; Augustus, however, in the words of Tenny
Frank, “interposed the supreme authority of the state to annul that
clause of the will.” No dictator, ever, has exercised a happier veto.

                                                                  R. H.




CAST OF CHARACTERS


In the fighting between the Greeks and Trojans around Troy, Virgil calls
both sides by tribal names as well as national names, and sometimes uses
patronymics: thus the Greeks are also called Achaeans, Argives, Danaans,
Dolopes, Ithacans, Myrmidons, and so on; and the Trojans are called
Dardanians, Ilians, Teucrians, Phrygians. I have used these terms much
less than Virgil did, and tried, for the sake of avoiding confusion and
clutter, to stick to the terms Greek and Trojan, wherever possible.

Likewise, in the wars between the Trojans and Latins in Italy, we find
the enemies of Aeneas described as Italians, Latins, Rutulians, and
Etruscans. But there were also some Etruscans on his side; these were
led by Tarchon, the anti-Aeneas faction by Mezentius. His other
principal allies were the Arcadians, whose king was Evander.

The principal Greek warriors were Agamemnon, Menelaus, Ulysses,
Diomedes, and Ajax; the most conspicuous on the Trojan side Aeneas,
Hector, and possibly Paris.

Of the gods and goddesses, Juno, in the Aeneid, is actively opposed to
Aeneas, and Venus equally active on his behalf. Apollo gives the Trojans
considerable help with counsel, especially in the course of their
wanderings; Vulcan makes armor for Aeneas when he arrives in Italy, and
Neptune helps put down a storm that all but wrecked the Trojan fleet.
Jupiter maintains neutrality, in so far as the pressure applied by Venus
and Juno will permit.

       *       *       *       *       *

A list of the important characters in the narrative follows:--

     Aenéas, son of Anchises and Venus, leader of the Trojans, hero of
     the poem.

     Amáta, wife of king Latinus, mother of Lavinia; favors Turnus,
     opposes Aeneas as suitor for her daughter.

     Anchíses, son of Capys, father of Aeneas.

     Andrómache, widow of Hector, subsequently wife of Helenus, settler,
     after the fall of Troy, at Buthrotum in Epirus.

     Anna, sister of Dido, queen of Carthage.

     Ascánius, or Iúlus, son of Aeneas and Creusa.

     Camílla, daughter of Metabus and Casmilla, a Latin warrior-maid,
     ally of Turnus in the fight against Aeneas in Italy.

     Creúsa, daughter of Priam, wife of Aeneas, mother of Ascanius, lost
     in the confusion following the last night of Troy.

     Deíphobe, a Sibyl, priestess of Apollo and guide to Aeneas during
     his visit to the Lower World.

     Dído, queen of Carthage.

     Diomede, or Diomédes, an important Greek warrior, founder, after
     the fall of Troy, of Arpi in Italy; declines to help the Latins in
     their warfare against Aeneas.

     Dránçes, an eloquent Latin orator, opposed to Turnus.

     Euryalus, son of Opheltes, a young Trojan athlete and warrior, boon
     companion of Nisus.

     Evánder, king of Pallanteum, father of Pallas, ally of Aeneas in
     the fighting in Italy.

     Helenus, son of Priam, husband of Andromache, ruler of Buthrotum in
     Epirus, priest and prophet of Apollo.

     Ilionéus, a Trojan, responsible spokesman for his people on
     missions to Dido and Latinus.

     Iúlus, also known as Ascanius, son of Aeneas and Creusa.

     Jutúrna, a nymph, sister of Turnus.

     Latínus, king of Latium, husband of Amata, father of Lavinia,
     favors Aeneas as his daughter’s suitor.

     Laúsus, a young Etruscan warrior, son of the exiled king Mezentius.

     Lavínia, daughter of king Latinus and Amata, sought in marriage by
     both Turnus and Aeneas.

     Mezéntius, an Etruscan king, exiled by his people for barbarity,
     despiser of the gods, ally of Turnus against the Trojans.

     Neoptólemus, or Pyrrhus, a son of Achilles, killer of King Priam,
     war-lord of Hector’s widow Andromache.

     Nísus, a young Trojan athlete and warrior, son of Hyrtacus, boon
     companion of the younger Euryalus.

     Palinúrus, pilot of the fleet of Aeneas.

     Pállas, son of king Evander, ally of Aeneas in the Latin wars,
     slain by Turnus.

     Sinon, a Greek, principal agent in the scheme to bring the wooden
     horse inside the walls of Troy.

     Tárchon, an Etruscan prince, ally of Aeneas against Turnus and
     Mezentius.

     Túrnus, son of Daunus and the nymph Venilia, prince of the
     Rutulians, principal enemy of Aeneas in Italy.

     Vénulus, an Italian leader, sent by the Latins on a fruitless
     mission for the help of Diomede.