by Virgil
But presently ran headlong down into our sea-side place
With tears and prayers:
‘O Teucrian men, by all the stars,’ he cried,
‘By all the Gods, by light of heaven ye breathe, O bear me wide
Away from here! to whatso land henceforth ye lead my feet
It is enough. That I am one from out the Danaan fleet,
And that I warred on Ilian house erewhile, most true it is;
For which, if I must pay so much wherein I wrought amiss,
Then strew me on the flood and sink my body in the sea!
To die by hands of very men shall be a joy to me.’
He spake with arms about our knees, and wallowing still he clung
Unto our knees: but what he was and from what blood he sprung
We bade him say, and tell withal what fate upon him drave.
His right hand with no tarrying then Father Anchises gave
Unto the youth, and heartened him with utter pledge of peace.
So now he spake when fear of us amid his heart did cease:
‘Luckless Ulysses’ man am I, and Ithaca me bore,
Hight Achemenides, who left that Adamastus poor
My father (would I still were there!) by leaguered Troy to be.
Here while my mates aquake with dread the cruel threshold flee,
They leave me in the Cyclops’ den unmindful of their friend;
A house of blood and bloody meat, most huge from end to end,
Mirky within: high up aloft star-smiting to behold
Is he himself; — such bane, O God, keep thou from field and fold!
Scarce may a man look on his face; no word to him is good;
On wretches’ entrails doth he feed and black abundant blood.
Myself I saw him of our folk two hapless bodies take
In his huge hand, whom straight he fell athwart a stone to break
As there he lay upon his back; I saw the threshold swim
With spouted blood, I saw him grind each bloody dripping limb,
I saw the joints amidst his teeth all warm and quivering still.
— He payed therefore, for never might Ulysses bear such ill,
Nor was he worser than himself in such a pinch bestead:
For when with victual satiate, deep sunk in wine, his head
Fell on his breast, and there he lay enormous through the den,
Snorting out gore amidst his sleep, with gobbets of the men
And mingled blood and wine; then we sought the great Gods with prayer
And drew the lots, and one and all crowded about him there,
And bored out with a sharpened pike the eye that used to lurk
Enormous lonely ‘neath his brow overhanging grim and mirk,
As great a shield of Argolis, or Phoebus’ lamp on high;
And so our murdered fellows’ ghosts avenged we joyously.
— But ye, O miserable men, flee forth! make haste to pluck
The warping hawser from the shore!
For even such, and e’en so great as Polypheme in cave
Shuts in the wealth of woolly things and draws the udders’ wave,
An hundred others commonly dwell o’er these curving bights,
Unutterable Cyclop folk, or stray about the heights.
Thrice have the twin horns of the moon fulfilled the circle clear
While I have dragged out life in woods and houses of the deer,
And gardens of the beasts; and oft from rocky place on high
Trembling I note the Cyclops huge, hear foot and voice go by.
And evil meat of wood-berries, and cornel’s flinty fruit
The bush-boughs give; on grass at whiles I browse, and plucked-up root
So wandering all about, at last I see unto the shore
Your ships a-coming: thitherward my steps in haste I bore:
Whate’er might hap enough it was to flee this folk of ill;
Rather do ye in any wise the life within me spill.’
And scarcely had he said the word ere on the hill above
The very shepherd Polypheme his mountain mass did move,
A marvel dread, a shapeless trunk, an eyeless monstrous thing,
Who down unto the shore well known his sheep was shepherding;
A pine-tree in the hand of him leads on and stays his feet;
The woolly sheep his fellows are, his only pleasure sweet,
The only solace of his ill.
But when he touched the waters deep, and mid the waves was come,
He falls to wash the flowing blood from off his eye dug out;
Gnashing his teeth and groaning sore he walks the sea about,
But none the less no wave there was up to his flank might win.
Afeard from far we haste to flee, and, having taken in
Our suppliant, who had earned it well, cut cable silently,
And bending to the eager oars sweep out along the sea.
He heard it, and his feet he set to follow on the sound;
But when his right hand failed to reach, and therewithal he found
He might not speed as fast as fares the Ionian billow lithe,
Then clamour measureless he raised, and ocean quaked therewith
Through every wave, and inwardly the land was terrified
Of Italy, and Ætna boomed from many-hollowed side.
But all the race of Cyclops stirred from woods and lofty hills,
Down rushes to the haven-side and all the haven fills;
And Ætna’s gathered brethren there we see; in vain they stand
Glowering grim-eyed with heads high up in heaven, a dreadful band
Of councillors: they were as when on ridge aloft one sees
The oaks stand thick against the sky, and cone-hung cypresses,
Jove’s lofty woods, or thicket where Diana’s footsteps stray.
Then headlong fear fell on our folk in whatsoever way
To shake the reefs out spreading sail to any wind that blew;
But Helenus had bid us steer a midmost course and true
‘Twixt Scylla and Charybdis, lest to death we sail o’er-close:
So safest seemed for backward course to let the sails go loose.
But lo, from out Pelorus’ strait comes down the northern flaw,
And past Pantagia’s haven-mouth of living stone we draw,
And through the gulf of Megara by Thapsus lying low.
Such names did Achemenides, Ulysses’ fellow, show,
As now he coasted back again the shore erst wandered by.
In jaws of the Sicanian bay there doth an island lie
Against Plemyrium’s wavy face; folk called it in old days
Ortygia: there, as tells the tale, Alpheus burrowed ways
From his own Elis ‘neath the sea, and now by mouth of thine,
O Arethusa, blendeth him with that Sicilian brine.
We pray the isle’s great deities, e’en as we bidden were:
And thence we pass the earth o’erfat about Helorus’ mere;
Then by Pachynus’ lofty crags and thrust-forth rocks we skim,
And Camarina showeth next a long way off and dim;
Her whom the Fates would ne’er be moved: then comes the plain in sight
Of Gela, yea, and Gela huge from her own river hight:
Then Acragas the very steep shows great walls far away,
Begetter of the herds of horse high-couraged on a day.
Then thee, Selinus of the palms, I leave with happy wind,
And coast the Lilybean shoals and tangled skerries blind.
But next the firth of Drepanum, the strand without a joy,
Will have me. There I tossed so sore, the tempests’ very toy,
O woe is me! my father lose, lightener of every care,
Of every ill: me all alone, me weary, father dear,
There wouldst thou leave; thou borne away from perils all for nought!
Ah, neither Helenus the seer, de
spite the fears he taught,
Nor grim Celæno in her wrath, this grief of soul forebode.
This was the latest of my toils, the goal of all my road,
For me departed thence some God to this your land did bear.”
So did the Father Æneas, with all at stretch to hear,
Tell o’er the fateful ways of God, and of his wanderings teach:
But here he hushed him at the last and made an end of speech.
BOOK IV.
ARGUMENT.
HEREIN IS TOLD OF THE GREAT LOVE OF DIDO, QUEEN OF CARTHAGE, AND THE WOEFUL ENDING OF HER.
Meanwhile the Queen, long smitten sore with sting of all desire,
With very heart’s blood feeds the wound and wastes with hidden fire.
And still there runneth in her mind the hero’s valiancy,
And glorious stock; his words, his face, fast in her heart they lie:
Nor may she give her body peace amid that restless pain.
But when the next day Phoebus’ lamp lit up the lands again,
And now Aurora from the heavens had rent the mist apart,
Sick-souled her sister she bespeaks, the sharer of her heart:
“Sister, O me, this sleepless pain that fears me with unrest!
O me, within our house and home this new-come wondrous guest!
Ah, what a countenance and mien! in arms and heart how strong!
Surely to trow him of the Gods it doth no wisdom wrong;
For fear it is shows base-born souls. Woe’s me! how tossed about
By fortune was he! how he showed war’s utter wearing out!
And, but my heart for ever now were set immovably
Never to let me long again the wedding bond to tie,
Since love betrayed me first of all with him my darling dead,
And were I not all weary-sick of torch and bridal bed,
This sin alone of all belike my falling heart might trap;
For, Anna, I confess it thee, since poor Sychæus’ hap,
My husband dead, my hearth acold through murderous brother’s deed,
This one alone hath touched the quick; this one my heart may lead
Unto its fall: I feel the signs of fire of long agone.
And yet I pray the deeps of earth beneath my feet may yawn,
I pray the Father send me down bolt-smitten to the shades,
The pallid shades of Erebus, the night that never fades,
Before, O Shame, I shame thy face, or loose what thou hast tied!
He took away the love from me, who bound me to his side
That first of times. Ah, in the tomb let love be with him still!”
The tears arisen as she spake did all her bosom fill.
But Anna saith: “Dearer to me than very light of day,
Must thou alone and sorrowing wear all thy youth away,
Nor see sweet sons, nor know the joys that gentle Venus brings?
Deem’st thou dead ash or buried ghosts have heed of such-like things?
So be it that thy sickened soul no man to yield hath brought
In Libya as in Tyre; let be Iarbas set at nought,
And other lords, whom Africa, the rich in battle’s bliss,
Hath nursed: but now, with love beloved, — must thou be foe to this?
Yea, hast thou not within thy mind amidst whose bounds we are?
Here the Gætulian cities fierce, a folk unmatched in war,
And hard Numidia’s bitless folk, and Syrtes’ guestless sand
Lie round thee: there Barcæans wild, the rovers of the land,
Desert for thirst: what need to tell of wars new-born in Tyre,
And of thy murderous brother’s threats?
Meseems by very will of Gods, by Juno’s loving mind,
The Ilian keels run down their course before the following wind.
Ah, what a city shalt thou see! how shall the lordship wax
With such a spouse! with Teucrian arms our brothers at our backs
Unto what glory of great deeds the Punic realm may reach!
But thou, go seek the grace of Gods, with sacrifice beseech;
Then take thy fill of guest-serving; weave web of all delays:
The wintry raging of the sea, Orion’s watery ways,
The way-worn ships, the heavens unmeet for playing seaman’s part.”
So saying, she blew the flame of love within her kindled heart,
And gave her doubtful soul a hope and loosed the girth of shame.
Then straight they fare unto the shrines, by every altar’s flame
Praying for peace; and hosts they slay, chosen as custom would,
To Phoebus, Ceres wise of law, Father Lyæus good,
But chiefest unto Juno’s might, that wedlock hath in care.
There bowl in hand stands Dido forth, most excellently fair,
And pours between the sleek cow’s horns; or to and fro doth pace
Before the altars fat with prayer, ‘neath very godhead’s face,
And halloweth in the day with gifts, and, gazing eagerly
Amid the host’s yet beating heart, for answering rede must try.
— Woe’s me! the idle mind of priests! what prayer, what shrine avails
The wild with love! — and all the while the smooth flame never fails
To eat her heart: the silent wound lives on within her breast:
Unhappy Dido burneth up, and, wild with all unrest,
For ever strays the city through: as arrow-smitten doe,
Unwary, whom some herd from far hath drawn upon with bow
Amid the Cretan woods, and left the swift steel in the sore,
Unknowing: far in flight she strays the woods and thickets o’er,
‘Neath Dictæ’s heights; but in her flank still bears the deadly reed.
Now midmost of the city-walls Æneas doth she lead,
And shows him the Sidonian wealth, the city’s guarded ways;
And now she falls to speech, and now amidst a word she stays.
Then at the dying of the day the feast she dights again,
And, witless, once again will hear the tale of Ilium’s pain;
And once more hangeth on the lips that tell the tale aloud.
But after they were gone their ways, and the dusk moon did shroud
Her light in turn, and setting stars bade all to sleep away,
Lone in the empty house she mourns, broods over where he lay,
Hears him and sees him, she apart from him that is apart
Or, by his father’s image smit, Ascanius to her heart
She taketh, if her utter love she may thereby beguile.
No longer rise the walls begun, nor play the youth this while
In arms, or fashion havens forth, or ramparts of the war:
Broken is all that handicraft and mastery; idle are
The mighty threatenings of the walls and engines wrought heaven high.
Now when the holy wife of Jove beheld her utterly
Held by that plague, whose madness now not e’en her fame might stay,
Then unto Venus, Saturn’s seed began such words to say:
“Most glorious praise ye carry off, meseems, most wealthy spoil,
Thou and thy Boy; wondrous the might, and long to tell the toil,
Whereas two Gods by dint of craft one woman have o’erthrown.
But well I wot, that through your fear of walls I call mine own,
In welcome of proud Carthage doors your hearts may never trow.
But what shall be the end hereof? where wends our contest now?
What if a peace that shall endure, and wedlock surely bound,
We fashion? That which all thine heart was set on thou hast found.
For Dido burns: bone of her bone thy madness is today:
So let us rule these folks as one beneath an equal sway:
Let the doom be that she shall take a Phrygian man for lord,
And to thine hand for dowry due her Tyrian folk award.�
�
But Venus felt that Juno’s guile within the word did live,
Who lordship due to Italy to Libya fain would give,
So thus she answered her again: “Who were so overbold
To gainsay this? or who would wish war against thee to hold,
If only this may come to pass, and fate the deed may seal?
But doubtful drifts my mind of fate, if one same town and weal
Jove giveth to the Tyrian folk and those from Troy outcast,
If he will have those folks to blend and bind the treaty fast
Thou art his wife: by prayer mayst thou prove all his purpose weighed.
Set forth, I follow.”
Juno then took up the word and said:
“Yea, that shall be my very work: how that which presseth now
May be encompassed, hearken ye, in few words will I show:
Æneas and the hapless queen are minded forth to fare
For hunting to the thicket-side, when Titan first shall bear
Tomorrow’s light aloft, and all the glittering world unveil:
On them a darkening cloud of rain, blended with drift of hail,
Will I pour down, while for the hunt the feathered snare-lines shake,
And toils about the thicket go: all heaven will I awake
With thunder, and their scattered folk the mid-mirk shall enwrap:
Then Dido and the Trojan lord on one same cave shall hap;
I will be there, and if to me thy heart be stable grown,
In wedlock will I join the two and deem her all his own:
And there shall be their bridal God.”
Then Venus nought gainsaid,
But, nodding yea, she smiled upon the snare before her laid.
Meanwhile Aurora risen up had left the ocean stream,
And gateward throng the chosen youth in first of morning’s beam,
And wide-meshed nets, and cordage-toils and broad-steeled spears abound,
Massylian riders go their ways with many a scenting hound.
The lords of Carthage by the door bide till the tarrying queen
Shall leave her chamber: there, with gold and purple well beseen,
The mettled courser stands, and champs the bit that bids him bide.
At last she cometh forth to them with many a man beside:
A cloak of Sidon wrapped her round with pictured border wrought,
Her quiver was of fashioned gold, and gold her tresses caught;
The gathering of her purple gown a golden buckle had.
Then come the Phrygian fellows forth; comes forth Iulus glad;
Yea and Æneas’ very self is of their fellowship,
