by Virgil
silent with wonder at the ways of Heaven;
then swift he spoke: “Hail! O my destined shore,
protecting deities of Ilium, hail!
Here is our home, our country here! This day
I publish the mysterious prophecy
by Sire Anchises given: ‘My son,’ said he,
‘When hunger in strange lands shall bid devour
the tables of thy banquet gone, then hope
for home, though weary, and take thought to build
a dwelling and a battlement.’ Behold!
This was our fated hunger! This last proof
will end our evil days. Up, then! For now
by morning’s joyful beam we will explore
what men, what cities, in this region be,
and, leaving ship, our several errands ply.
Your gift to Jove outpour! Make thankful prayer
unto Anchises’ shade! To this our feast
bring back the flowing wine!” Thereat he bound
his forehead with green garland, calling loud
upon the Genius of that place, and Earth,
eldest of names divine; the Nymphs he called,
and river-gods unknown; his voice invoked
the night, the omen-stars through night that roll.
Jove, Ida’s child, and Phrygia’s fertile Queen:
he called his mother from Olympian skies,
and sire from Erebus. Lo, o’er his head
three times unclouded Jove omnipotent
in thunder spoke, and, with effulgent ray
from his ethereal tract outreaching far,
shook visibly the golden-gleaming air.
Swift, through the concourse of the Trojans, spread
news of the day at hand when they should build
their destined walls. So, with rejoicing heart
at such vast omen, they set forth a feast
with zealous emulation, ranging well
the wine-cups fair with many a garland crowned.
Soon as the morrow with the lamp of dawn
looked o’er the world, they took their separate ways,
exploring shore and towns; here spread the pools
and fountain of Numicius; here they see
the river Tiber, where bold Latins dwell.
Anchises’ son chose out from his brave band
a hundred envoys, bidding them depart
to the King’s sacred city, each enwreathed
with Pallas’ silver leaf; and gifts they bear
to plead for peace and friendship at his throne.
While on this errand their swift steps are sped,
Aeneas, by a shallow moat and small,
his future city shows, breaks ground, and girds
with mound and breastwork like a camp of war
the Trojans’ first abode. Soon, making way
to where the Latin citadel uprose,
the envoys scanned the battlements, and paused
beneath its wall. Outside the city gates
fair youths and striplings in life’s early bloom
course with swift steeds, or steer through dusty cloud
the whirling chariot, or stretch stout bows,
or hurl the seasoned javelin, or strive
in boxing-bout and foot-race: one of these
made haste on horseback to the aged King,
with tidings of a stranger company
in foreign garb approaching. The good King
bade call them to his house, and took his seat
in mid-court on his high, ancestral throne.
Large and majestical the castle rose:
a hundred columns lifted it in air
upon the city’s crown — the royal keep
of Picus of Laurentum; round it lay
deep, gloomy woods by olden worship blest.
Here kings took sceptre and the fasces proud
with omens fair; the selfsame sacred place
was senate-house and temple; here was found
a hall for hallowed feasting, where a ram
was offered up, and at long banquet-boards
the nation’s fathers sat in due array.
Here ranged ancestral statues roughly hewn
of ancient cedar-wood: King Italus;
Father Sabinus, planter of the vine,
a curving sickle in his sculptured hand;
gray-bearded Saturn; and the double brow
of Janus’ head; and other sires and kings
were wardens of the door, with many a chief
wounded in battle for his native land.
Trophies of arms in goodly order hung
along the columns: chariots of war
from foeman taken, axes of round blade,
plumed helmets, bolts and barriers of steel
from city-gates, shields, spears, and beaks of bronze
from captured galleys by the conqueror torn.
Here, wielding his Quirinal augur-staff,
girt in scant shift, and bearing on his left
the sacred oval shield, appeared enthroned
Picus, breaker of horses, whom his bride,
enamoured Circe, smote with golden wand,
and, raining o’er him potent poison-dew,
changed to a bird of pied and dappled wings.
In such a temple of his gods did Sire
Latinus, on hereditary throne,
welcome the Trojans to his halls, and thus
with brow serene gave greeting as they came:
“O sons of Dardanus, think not unknown
your lineage and city! Rumored far
your venturous voyage has been. What seek ye here?
What cause, what quest, has brought your barks and you
o’er the blue waters to Ausonia’s hills?
What way uncharted, or wild stress of storm,
or what that sailors suffer in mid-sea,
unto this river bank and haven bore?
Doubt not our welcome! We of Latin land
are Saturn’s sons, whose equitable minds,
not chained by statute or compulsion, keep
in freedom what the god’s good custom gave.
Now I bethink me our Ausonian seers
have dark, dim lore that ‘t was this land gave birth
to Dardanus, who after took his way
through Phrygian Ida’s towns and Samothrace.
Once out of Tuscan Corythus he fared;
but now in golden house among the stars
he has a throne, and by his altars blest
adds to the number of the gods we praise.”
He spoke; Ilioneus this answer made:
“O King, great heir of Faunus! No dark storm
impelled us o’er the flood thy realm to find.
Nor star deceived, nor strange, bewildering shore
threw out of our true course; but we are come
by our free choice and with deliberate aim
to this thy town, though exiled forth of realms
once mightiest of all the sun-god sees
when moving from his utmost eastern bound.
From Jove our line began; the sons of Troy
boast Jove to be their sire, and our true King
is of Olympian seed. To thine abode
Trojan Aeneas sent us. How there burst
o’er Ida’s vales from dread Mycenae’s kings
a tempest vast, and by what stroke of doom
all Asia’s world with Europe clashed in war,
that lone wight hears whom earth’s remotest isle
has banished to the Ocean’s rim, or he
whose dwelling is the ample zone that burns
betwixt the changeful sun-god’s milder realms,
far severed from the world. We are the men
from war’s destroying deluge safely borne
over the waters wide. We only ask
some low-roofed dwelling for our fathers’ gods,
s
ome friendly shore, and, what to all is free,
water and air. We bring no evil name
upon thy people; thy renown will be
but wider spread; nor of a deed so fair
can grateful memory die. Ye ne’er will rue
that to Ausonia’s breast ye gathered Troy.
I swear thee by the favored destinies
of great Aeneas, by his strength of arm
in friendship or in war, that many a tribe
(O, scorn us not, that, bearing olive green,
with suppliant words we come), that many a throne
has sued us to be friends. But Fate’s decree
to this thy realm did guide. Here Dardanus
was born; and with reiterate command
this way Apollo pointed to the stream
of Tiber and Numicius’ haunted spring.
Lo, these poor tributes from his greatness gone
Aeneas sends, these relics snatched away
from Ilium burning: with this golden bowl
Anchises poured libation when he prayed;
and these were Priam’s splendor, when he gave
laws to his gathered states; this sceptre his,
this diadem revered, and beauteous pall,
handwork of Asia’s queens.” So ceased to speak
Ilioneus. But King Latinus gazed
unanswering on the ground, all motionless
save for his musing eyes. The broidered pall
of purple, and the sceptre Priam bore,
moved little on his kingly heart, which now
pondered of giving to the bridal bed
his daughter dear. He argues in his mind
the oracle of Faunus: — might this be
that destined bridegroom from an alien land,
to share his throne, to get a progeny
of glorious valor, which by mighty deeds
should win the world for kingdom? So at last
with joyful brow he spoke: “Now let the gods
our purpose and their own fair promise bless!
Thou hast, O Trojan, thy desire. Thy gifts
I have not scorned; nor while Latinus reigns
shall ye lack riches in my plenteous land,
not less than Trojan store. But where is he,
Aeneas’ self? If he our royal love
so much desire, and have such urgent mind
to be our guest and friend, let him draw near,
nor turn him from well-wishing looks away!
My offering and pledge of peace shall be
to clasp your monarch’s hand. Bear back, I pray,
this answer to your King: my dwelling holds
a daughter, whom with husband of her blood
great signs in heaven and from my father’s tomb
forbid to wed. A son from alien shores
they prophesy for Latium’s heir, whose seed
shall lift our glory to the stars divine.
I am persuaded this is none but he,
that man of destiny; and if my heart
be no false prophet, I desire it so.”
Thus having said, the sire took chosen steeds
from his full herd, whereof, well-groomed and fair,
three hundred stood within his ample pale.
Of these to every Teucrian guest he gave
a courser swift and strong, in purple clad
and broidered housings gay; on every breast
hung chains of gold; in golden robes arrayed,
they champed the red gold curb their teeth between.
For offering to Aeneas, he bade send
a chariot, with chargers twain of seed
ethereal, their nostrils breathing fire:
the famous kind which guileful Circe bred,
cheating her sire, and mixed the sun-god’s team
with brood-mares earthly born. The sons of Troy,
such gifts and greetings from Latinus bearing,
rode back in pomp his words of peace to bring.
But lo! from Argos on her voyage of air
rides the dread spouse of Jove. She, sky-enthroned
above the far Sicilian promontory,
pachynus, sees Dardania’s rescued fleet,
and all Aeneas’ joy. The prospect shows
houses a-building, lands of safe abode,
and the abandoned ships. With bitter grief
she stands at gaze: then with storm-shaken brows,
thus from her heart lets loose the wrathful word:
“O hated race! O Phrygian destinies —
to mine forevermore (unhappy me!)
a scandal and offense! Did no one die
on Troy’s embattled plain? Could captured slaves
not be enslaved again? Was Ilium’s flame
no warrior’s funeral pyre? Did they walk safe
through serried swords and congregated fires?
At last, methought, my godhead might repose,
and my full-fed revenge in slumber lie.
But nay! Though flung forth from their native land,
I o’er the waves, with enmity unstayed,
dared give them chase, and on that exiled few
hurled the whole sea. I smote the sons of Troy
with ocean’s power and heaven’s. But what availed
Syrtes, or Scylla, or Charybdis’ waves?
The Trojans are in Tiber; and abide
within their prayed-for land delectable,
safe from the seas and me! Mars once had power
the monstrous Lapithae to slay; and Jove
to Dian’s honor and revenge gave o’er
the land of Calydon. What crime so foul
was wrought by Lapithae or Calydon?
But I, Jove’s wife and Queen, who in my woes
have ventured each bold stroke my power could find,
and every shift essayed, — behold me now
outdone by this Aeneas! If so weak
my own prerogative of godhead be,
let me seek strength in war, come whence it will!
If Heaven I may not move, on Hell I call.
To bar him from his Latin throne exceeds
my fated power. So be it! Fate has given
Lavinia for his bride. But long delays
I still can plot, and to the high event
deferment and obstruction. I can smite
the subjects of both kings. Let sire and son
buy with their people’s blood this marriage-bond!
Let Teucrian and Rutulian slaughter be
thy virgin dower, and Bellona’s blaze
light thee the bridal bed! Not only teemed
the womb of Hecuba with burning brand,
and brought forth nuptial fires; but Venus, too,
such offspring bore, a second Paris, who
to their new Troy shall fatal wedlock bring.”
So saying, with aspect terrible she sped
earthward her way; and called from gloom of hell
Alecto, woeful power, from cloudy throne
among the Furies, where her heart is fed
with horrid wars, wrath, vengeance, treason foul,
and fatal feuds. Her father Pluto loathes
the creature he engendered, and with hate
her hell-born sister-fiends the monster view.
A host of shapes she wears, and many a front
of frowning black brows viper-garlanded.
Juno to her this goading speech addressed:
“O daughter of dark Night, arouse for me
thy wonted powers and our task begin!
Lest now my glory fail, my royal name
be vanquished, while Aeneas and his crew
cheat with a wedlock bond the Latin King
and seize Italia’s fields. Thou canst thrust on
two Ioving brothers to draw sword and slay,
and ruin homes with hatred, calling in
the scourge of Furies and avenging fires.
&n
bsp; A thousand names thou bearest, and thy ways
of ruin multiply a thousand-fold.
Arouse thy fertile breast! Go, rend in twain
this plighted peace! Breed calumnies and sow
causes of battle, till yon warrior hosts
cry out for swords and leap to gird them on.”
Straightway Alecto, through whose body flows
the Gorgon poison, took her viewless way
to Latium and the lofty walls and towers
of the Laurentian King. Crouching she sate
in silence on the threshold of the bower
where Queen Amata in her fevered soul
pondered, with all a woman’s wrath and fear,
upon the Trojans and the marriage-suit
of Turnus. From her Stygian hair the fiend
a single serpent flung, which stole its way
to the Queen’s very heart, that, frenzy-driven,
she might on her whole house confusion pour.
Betwixt her smooth breast and her robe it wound
unfelt, unseen, and in her wrathful mind
instilled its viper soul. Like golden chain
around her neck it twined, or stretched along
the fillets on her brow, or with her hair
enwrithing coiled; then on from limb to limb
slipped tortuous. Yet though the venom strong
thrilled with its first infection every vein,
and touched her bones with fire, she knew it not,
nor yielded all her soul, but made her plea
in gentle accents such as mothers use;
and many a tear she shed, about her child,
her darling, destined for a Phrygian’s bride:
“O father! can we give Lavinia’s hand
to Trojan fugitives? why wilt thou show
no mercy on thy daughter, nor thyself;
nor unto me, whom at the first fair wind
that wretch will leave deserted, bearing far
upon his pirate ship my stolen child?
Was it not thus that Phrygian shepherd came
to Lacedaemon, ravishing away
Helen, the child of Leda, whom he bore
to those false Trojan lands? Hast thou forgot
thy plighted word? Where now thy boasted love
of kith and kin, and many a troth-plight given
unto our kinsman Turnus? If we need
an alien son, and Father Faunus’ words
irrevocably o’er thy spirit brood,
I tell thee every land not linked with ours
under one sceptre, but distinct and free,
is alien; and ‘t is thus the gods intend.
Indeed, if Turnus’ ancient race be told,
it sprang of Inachus, Acrisius,
and out of mid-Mycenae.” But she sees
her lord Latinus resolute, her words
an effort vain; and through her body spreads
the Fury’s deeply venomed viper-sting.
