Complete Works of Virgil

by Virgil

  The cry pursues the mountain goats: they bound

  From rock to rock, and keep the craggy ground;

  Quite otherwise the stags, a trembling train,

  In herds unsingled, scour the dusty plain,

  And a long chase in open view maintain.

  The glad Ascanius, as his courser guides,

  Spurs thro’ the vale, and these and those outrides.

  His horse’s flanks and sides are forc’d to feel

  The clanking lash, and goring of the steel.

  Impatiently he views the feeble prey,

  Wishing some nobler beast to cross his way,

  And rather would the tusky boar attend,

  Or see the tawny lion downward bend.

  Meantime, the gath’ring clouds obscure the skies:

  From pole to pole the forky lightning flies;

  The rattling thunders roll; and Juno pours

  A wintry deluge down, and sounding show’rs.

  The company, dispers’d, to converts ride,

  And seek the homely cots, or mountain’s hollow side.

  The rapid rains, descending from the hills,

  To rolling torrents raise the creeping rills.

  The queen and prince, as love or fortune guides,

  One common cavern in her bosom hides.

  Then first the trembling earth the signal gave,

  And flashing fires enlighten all the cave;

  Hell from below, and Juno from above,

  And howling nymphs, were conscious of their love.

  From this ill-omen’d hour in time arose

  Debate and death, and all succeeding woes.

  The queen, whom sense of honor could not move,

  No longer made a secret of her love,

  But call’d it marriage, by that specious name

  To veil the crime and sanctify the shame.

  The loud report thro’ Libyan cities goes.

  Fame, the great ill, from small beginnings grows:

  Swift from the first; and ev’ry moment brings

  New vigor to her flights, new pinions to her wings.

  Soon grows the pigmy to gigantic size;

  Her feet on earth, her forehead in the skies.

  Inrag’d against the gods, revengeful Earth

  Produc’d her last of the Titanian birth.

  Swift is her walk, more swift her winged haste:

  A monstrous phantom, horrible and vast.

  As many plumes as raise her lofty flight,

  So many piercing eyes inlarge her sight;

  Millions of opening mouths to Fame belong,

  And ev’ry mouth is furnish’d with a tongue,

  And round with list’ning ears the flying plague is hung.

  She fills the peaceful universe with cries;

  No slumbers ever close her wakeful eyes;

  By day, from lofty tow’rs her head she shews,

  And spreads thro’ trembling crowds disastrous news;

  With court informers haunts, and royal spies;

  Things done relates, not done she feigns, and mingles truth with lies.

  Talk is her business, and her chief delight

  To tell of prodigies and cause affright.

  She fills the people’s ears with Dido’s name,

  Who, lost to honor and the sense of shame,

  Admits into her throne and nuptial bed

  A wand’ring guest, who from his country fled:

  Whole days with him she passes in delights,

  And wastes in luxury long winter nights,

  Forgetful of her fame and royal trust,

  Dissolv’d in ease, abandon’d to her lust.

  The goddess widely spreads the loud report,

  And flies at length to King Hyarba’s court.

  When first possess’d with this unwelcome news

  Whom did he not of men and gods accuse?

  This prince, from ravish’d Garamantis born,

  A hundred temples did with spoils adorn,

  In Ammon’s honor, his celestial sire;

  A hundred altars fed with wakeful fire;

  And, thro’ his vast dominions, priests ordain’d,

  Whose watchful care these holy rites maintain’d.

  The gates and columns were with garlands crown’d,

  And blood of victim beasts enrich’d the ground.

  He, when he heard a fugitive could move

  The Tyrian princess, who disdain’d his love,

  His breast with fury burn’d, his eyes with fire,

  Mad with despair, impatient with desire;

  Then on the sacred altars pouring wine,

  He thus with pray’rs implor’d his sire divine:

  “Great Jove! propitious to the Moorish race,

  Who feast on painted beds, with off’rings grace

  Thy temples, and adore thy pow’r divine

  With blood of victims, and with sparkling wine,

  Seest thou not this? or do we fear in vain

  Thy boasted thunder, and thy thoughtless reign?

  Do thy broad hands the forky lightnings lance?

  Thine are the bolts, or the blind work of chance?

  A wand’ring woman builds, within our state,

  A little town, bought at an easy rate;

  She pays me homage, and my grants allow

  A narrow space of Libyan lands to plow;

  Yet, scorning me, by passion blindly led,

  Admits a banish’d Trojan to her bed!

  And now this other Paris, with his train

  Of conquer’d cowards, must in Afric reign!

  (Whom, what they are, their looks and garb confess,

  Their locks with oil perfum’d, their Lydian dress.)

  He takes the spoil, enjoys the princely dame;

  And I, rejected I, adore an empty name.”

  His vows, in haughty terms, he thus preferr’d,

  And held his altar’s horns. The mighty Thund’rer heard;

  Then cast his eyes on Carthage, where he found

  The lustful pair in lawless pleasure drown’d,

  Lost in their loves, insensible of shame,

  And both forgetful of their better fame.

  He calls Cyllenius, and the god attends,

  By whom his menacing command he sends:

  “Go, mount the western winds, and cleave the sky;

  Then, with a swift descent, to Carthage fly:

  There find the Trojan chief, who wastes his days

  In slothful not and inglorious ease,

  Nor minds the future city, giv’n by fate.

  To him this message from my mouth relate:

  ‘Not so fair Venus hop’d, when twice she won

  Thy life with pray’rs, nor promis’d such a son.

  Hers was a hero, destin’d to command

  A martial race, and rule the Latian land,

  Who should his ancient line from Teucer draw,

  And on the conquer’d world impose the law.’

  If glory cannot move a mind so mean,

  Nor future praise from fading pleasure wean,

  Yet why should he defraud his son of fame,

  And grudge the Romans their immortal name!

  What are his vain designs! what hopes he more

  From his long ling’ring on a hostile shore,

  Regardless to redeem his honor lost,

  And for his race to gain th’ Ausonian coast!

  Bid him with speed the Tyrian court forsake;

  With this command the slumb’ring warrior wake.”

  Hermes obeys; with golden pinions binds

  His flying feet, and mounts the western winds:

  And, whether o’er the seas or earth he flies,

  With rapid force they bear him down the skies.

  But first he grasps within his awful hand

  The mark of sov’reign pow’r, his magic wand;

  With this he draws the ghosts from hollow graves;

  With this he drives them down the Stygi
an waves;

  With this he seals in sleep the wakeful sight,

  And eyes, tho’ clos’d in death, restores to light.

  Thus arm’d, the god begins his airy race,

  And drives the racking clouds along the liquid space;

  Now sees the tops of Atlas, as he flies,

  Whose brawny back supports the starry skies;

  Atlas, whose head, with piny forests crown’d,

  Is beaten by the winds, with foggy vapors bound.

  Snows hide his shoulders; from beneath his chin

  The founts of rolling streams their race begin;

  A beard of ice on his large breast depends.

  Here, pois’d upon his wings, the god descends:

  Then, rested thus, he from the tow’ring height

  Plung’d downward, with precipitated flight,

  Lights on the seas, and skims along the flood.

  As waterfowl, who seek their fishy food,

  Less, and yet less, to distant prospect show;

  By turns they dance aloft, and dive below:

  Like these, the steerage of his wings he plies,

  And near the surface of the water flies,

  Till, having pass’d the seas, and cross’d the sands,

  He clos’d his wings, and stoop’d on Libyan lands:

  Where shepherds once were hous’d in homely sheds,

  Now tow’rs within the clouds advance their heads.

  Arriving there, he found the Trojan prince

  New ramparts raising for the town’s defense.

  A purple scarf, with gold embroider’d o’er,

  (Queen Dido’s gift,) about his waist he wore;

  A sword, with glitt’ring gems diversified,

  For ornament, not use, hung idly by his side.

  Then thus, with winged words, the god began,

  Resuming his own shape: “Degenerate man,

  Thou woman’s property, what mak’st thou here,

  These foreign walls and Tyrian tow’rs to rear,

  Forgetful of thy own? All-pow’rful Jove,

  Who sways the world below and heav’n above,

  Has sent me down with this severe command:

  What means thy ling’ring in the Libyan land?

  If glory cannot move a mind so mean,

  Nor future praise from flitting pleasure wean,

  Regard the fortunes of thy rising heir:

  The promis’d crown let young Ascanius wear,

  To whom th’ Ausonian scepter, and the state

  Of Rome’s imperial name is ow’d by fate.”

  So spoke the god; and, speaking, took his flight,

  Involv’d in clouds, and vanish’d out of sight.

  The pious prince was seiz’d with sudden fear;

  Mute was his tongue, and upright stood his hair.

  Revolving in his mind the stern command,

  He longs to fly, and loathes the charming land.

  What should he say? or how should he begin?

  What course, alas! remains to steer between

  Th’ offended lover and the pow’rful queen?

  This way and that he turns his anxious mind,

  And all expedients tries, and none can find.

  Fix’d on the deed, but doubtful of the means,

  After long thought, to this advice he leans:

  Three chiefs he calls, commands them to repair

  The fleet, and ship their men with silent care;

  Some plausible pretense he bids them find,

  To color what in secret he design’d.

  Himself, meantime, the softest hours would choose,

  Before the love-sick lady heard the news;

  And move her tender mind, by slow degrees,

  To suffer what the sov’reign pow’r decrees:

  Jove will inspire him, when, and what to say.

  They hear with pleasure, and with haste obey.

  But soon the queen perceives the thin disguise:

  (What arts can blind a jealous woman’s eyes!)

  She was the first to find the secret fraud,

  Before the fatal news was blaz’d abroad.

  Love the first motions of the lover hears,

  Quick to presage, and ev’n in safety fears.

  Nor impious Fame was wanting to report

  The ships repair’d, the Trojans’ thick resort,

  And purpose to forsake the Tyrian court.

  Frantic with fear, impatient of the wound,

  And impotent of mind, she roves the city round.

  Less wild the Bacchanalian dames appear,

  When, from afar, their nightly god they hear,

  And howl about the hills, and shake the wreathy spear.

  At length she finds the dear perfidious man;

  Prevents his form’d excuse, and thus began:

  “Base and ungrateful! could you hope to fly,

  And undiscover’d scape a lover’s eye?

  Nor could my kindness your compassion move.

  Nor plighted vows, nor dearer bands of love?

  Or is the death of a despairing queen

  Not worth preventing, tho’ too well foreseen?

  Ev’n when the wintry winds command your stay,

  You dare the tempests, and defy the sea.

  False as you are, suppose you were not bound

  To lands unknown, and foreign coasts to sound;

  Were Troy restor’d, and Priam’s happy reign,

  Now durst you tempt, for Troy, the raging main?

  See whom you fly! am I the foe you shun?

  Now, by those holy vows, so late begun,

  By this right hand, (since I have nothing more

  To challenge, but the faith you gave before;)

  I beg you by these tears too truly shed,

  By the new pleasures of our nuptial bed;

  If ever Dido, when you most were kind,

  Were pleasing in your eyes, or touch’d your mind;

  By these my pray’rs, if pray’rs may yet have place,

  Pity the fortunes of a falling race.

  For you I have provok’d a tyrant’s hate,

  Incens’d the Libyan and the Tyrian state;

  For you alone I suffer in my fame,

  Bereft of honor, and expos’d to shame.

  Whom have I now to trust, ungrateful guest?

  (That only name remains of all the rest!)

  What have I left? or whither can I fly?

  Must I attend Pygmalion’s cruelty,

  Or till Hyarba shall in triumph lead

  A queen that proudly scorn’d his proffer’d bed?

  Had you deferr’d, at least, your hasty flight,

  And left behind some pledge of our delight,

  Some babe to bless the mother’s mournful sight,

  Some young Aeneas, to supply your place,

  Whose features might express his father’s face;

  I should not then complain to live bereft

  Of all my husband, or be wholly left.”

  Here paus’d the queen. Unmov’d he holds his eyes,

  By Jove’s command; nor suffer’d love to rise,

  Tho’ heaving in his heart; and thus at length replies:

  “Fair queen, you never can enough repeat

  Your boundless favors, or I own my debt;

  Nor can my mind forget Eliza’s name,

  While vital breath inspires this mortal frame.

  This only let me speak in my defense:

  I never hop’d a secret flight from hence,

  Much less pretended to the lawful claim

  Of sacred nuptials, or a husband’s name.

  For, if indulgent Heav’n would leave me free,

  And not submit my life to fate’s decree,

  My choice would lead me to the Trojan shore,

  Those relics to review, their dust adore,

  And Priam’s ruin’d palace to restore.

  But now the Delphian oracle commands,

  And fate invites me
to the Latian lands.

  That is the promis’d place to which I steer,

  And all my vows are terminated there.

  If you, a Tyrian, and a stranger born,

  With walls and tow’rs a Libyan town adorn,

  Why may not we- like you, a foreign race-

  Like you, seek shelter in a foreign place?

  As often as the night obscures the skies

  With humid shades, or twinkling stars arise,

  Anchises’ angry ghost in dreams appears,

  Chides my delay, and fills my soul with fears;

  And young Ascanius justly may complain

  Of his defrauded and destin’d reign.

  Ev’n now the herald of the gods appear’d:

  Waking I saw him, and his message heard.

  From Jove he came commission’d, heav’nly bright

  With radiant beams, and manifest to sight

  (The sender and the sent I both attest)

  These walls he enter’d, and those words express’d.

  Fair queen, oppose not what the gods command;

  Forc’d by my fate, I leave your happy land.”

  Thus while he spoke, already she began,

  With sparkling eyes, to view the guilty man;

  From head to foot survey’d his person o’er,

  Nor longer these outrageous threats forebore:

  “False as thou art, and, more than false, forsworn!

  Not sprung from noble blood, nor goddess-born,

  But hewn from harden’d entrails of a rock!

  And rough Hyrcanian tigers gave thee suck!

  Why should I fawn? what have I worse to fear?

  Did he once look, or lent a list’ning ear,

  Sigh’d when I sobb’d, or shed one kindly tear?-

  All symptoms of a base ungrateful mind,

  So foul, that, which is worse, ’tis hard to find.

  Of man’s injustice why should I complain?

  The gods, and Jove himself, behold in vain

  Triumphant treason; yet no thunder flies,

  Nor Juno views my wrongs with equal eyes;

  Faithless is earth, and faithless are the skies!

  Justice is fled, and Truth is now no more!

  I sav’d the shipwrack’d exile on my shore;

  With needful food his hungry Trojans fed;

  I took the traitor to my throne and bed:

  Fool that I was- ‘t is little to repeat

  The rest- I stor’d and rigg’d his ruin’d fleet.

  I rave, I rave! A god’s command he pleads,

  And makes Heav’n accessary to his deeds.

  Now Lycian lots, and now the Delian god,

  Now Hermes is employ’d from Jove’s abode,