by Virgil
the prophetess of fate, who first foretold
what honors on Aeneas’ sons should fall
and lordly Pallanteum, where they dwell.
Next the vast grove was seen, where Romulus
ordained inviolable sanctuary;
then the Lupercal under its cold crag,
Wolf-hill, where old Arcadians revered
their wolf-god, the Lycaean Pan. Here too
the grove of Argiletum, sacred name,
where good Evander told the crime and death
of Argus, his false guest. From this they climbed
the steep Tarpeian hill, the Capitol,
all gold to-day, but then a tangled wild
of thorny woodland. Even then the place
woke in the rustics a religious awe,
and bade them fear and tremble at the view
of that dread rock and grove. “This leafy wood,
which crowns the hill-top, is the favored seat
of some great god,” said he, “but of his name
we know not surely. The Arcadians say
jove’s dread right hand here visibly appears
to shake his aegis in the darkening storm,
the clouds compelling. Yonder rise in view
two strongholds with dismantled walls, which now
are but a memory of great heroes gone:
one father Janus built, and Saturn one;
their names, Saturnia and Janiculum.”
‘Mid such good parley to the house they came
of King Evander, unadorned and plain,
whence herds of browsing cattle could be seen
ranging the Forum, and loud-bellowing
in proud Carinae. As they entered there,
“Behold,” said he, “the threshold that received
Alcides in his triumph! This abode
he made his own. Dare, O illustrious guest,
to scorn the pomp of power. Shape thy soul
to be a god’s fit follower. Enter here,
and free from pride our frugal welcome share.”
So saying, ‘neath his roof-tree scant and low
he led the great Aeneas, offering him
a couch of leaves with Libyan bear-skin spread.
Now night drew near, enfolding the wide world
in shadowy wings. But Venus, sore disturbed,
vexed not unwisely her maternal breast,
fearing Laurentum’s menace and wild stir
of obstinate revolt, and made her plea
to Vulcan in their nuptial bower of gold,
outbreathing in the music of her words
celestial love: “When warring Argive kings
brought ruin on Troy’s sacred citadel
and ramparts soon to sink in hostile flames,
I asked not thee to help that hopeless woe,
nor craved thy craft and power. For, dearest lord,
I would not tax in vain shine arduous toil,
though much to Priam’s children I was bound,
and oft to see Aeneas burdened sore
I could but weep. But now by will of Jove
he has found foothold in Rutulian lands.
Therefore I come at last with lowly suit
before a godhead I adore, and pray
for gift of arms, — a mother for her son.
Thou wert not unrelenting to the tears
of Nereus’ daughter or Tithonus’ bride.
Behold what tribes conspire, what cities strong
behind barred gates now make the falchion keen
to ruin and blot out both me and mine!”
So spake the goddess, as her arms of snow
around her hesitating spouse she threw
in tender, close embrace. He suddenly
knew the familiar fire, and o’er his frame
its wonted ardor unresisted ran,
swift as the glittering shaft of thunder cleaves
the darkened air and on from cloud to cloud
the rift of lightning runs. She, joyful wife;
felt what her beauty and her guile could do;
as, thralled by love unquenchable, her spouse
thus answered fair: “Why wilt thou labor so
with far-fetched pleas? my goddess, hast thou lost
thy faith in me? Had such a prayer been shine,
I could have armed the Teucrians. Neither Jove
nor Destiny had grudged ten added years
of life to Troy and Priam. If to-day
thou hast a war in hand, and if thy heart
determine so, I willingly engage
to lend thee all my cunning; whatsoever
molten alloy or welded iron can,
whate’er my roaring forge and flames achieve,
I offer thee. No more in anxious prayer
distrust thy beauty’s power.” So saying, he gave
embrace of mutual desire, and found
deep, peaceful sleep, on her fond heart reclined.
Night’s course half run, soon as the first repose
had banished sleep, — what time some careful wife
whose distaff and Minerva’s humble toil
must earn her bread, rekindling her warm hearth,
adds a night-burden to her laboring day,
and by the torch-light cheers her maidens on
to their long tasks; that so her husband’s bed
she may in honor keep, and train to power
her dear men-children — at such prime of morn,
with not less eager mind the Lord of Fire
fled his soft couch and to his forges tried.
An island near Aeolian Lipara
not far from a Sicilian headland lies,
where smoking rocks precipitously tower
above a vast vault, which the Cyclops’ skill
outhollowed large as Aetna’s thunderous caves.
There ring the smitten anvils, and the roof
re-echoes, roaring loud. Chalybian ores
hiss in the gloom, and from the furnace mouths
puff the hot-panting fires. ‘T is Vulcan’s seat,
and all that island is Vulcania.
Thither descended now the god of fire
from height of heaven. At their task were found
the Cyclops in vast cavern forging steel,
naked Pyracmon and gigantic-limbed
Brontes and Steropes; beneath their blows
a lightning-shaft, half-shaped, half-burnished lay,
such as the Thunderer is wont to fling
in numbers from the sky, but formless still.
Three strands of whirling storm they wove with three
of bursting cloud, and three did interfuse
of ruddy-gleaming fires and winged winds;
then fearful lightnings on the skilful forge
they welded with loud horror, and with flames
that bear swift wrath from Jove. Elsewhere a crew
toiled at the chariot and winged wheel
wherewith the war-god wakens from repose
heroes and peopled cities. Others wrought
the awful Aegis, herald of dismay,
by angry Pallas worn; they burnished bright
the golden serpent-scales and wreathing snakes,
till from the corselet of the goddess glared
the Gorgon’s severed head and rolling eyes.
“Cyclops of Aetna,” Vulcan cried, “have done!
Leave ev’ry task unfinished, and receive
my new command! Good armor must be forged
for warrior brave. For this I need to use
your utmost sinew and your swiftest hand,
with all your master skill. No lingering now!”
Swift the command, and swiftly they divide
to each his portion, and united urge
the common task. Forth fow the molten streams
of brass and gold, and, melted in fierce fiame,
the deeply-wounding ste
el like liquid flows.
A mighty shield took shape, its single orb
sufficient to withstand the gathered shock
of all the Latin arms; for seven times
they welded ring with ring. Some deftly ply
the windy bellows, which receive and give
the roaring blasts; some plunge in cooling pond
the hissing metal, while the smithy floor
groans with the anvil’s weight, as side by side
they lift their giant arms in numbered blows
and roll with gripe of tongs the ponderous bars.
While thus the Lemnian god his labor sped
in far Aeolian isle, the cheerful morn
with voice of swallows round his lowly eaves
summoned Evander. From his couch arose
the royal sire, and o’er his aged frame
a tunic threw, tying beneath his feet
the Tuscan sandals: an Arcadian sword,
girt at his left, was over one shoulder slung,
his cloak of panther trailing from behind.
A pair of watch-dogs from the lofty door
ran close, their lord attending, as he sought
his guest Aeneas; for his princely soul
remembered faithfully his former word,
and promised gift. Aeneas with like mind
was stirring early. King Evander’s son
Pallas was at his side; Achates too
accompanied his friend. All these conjoin
in hand-clasp and good-morrow, taking seats
in midcourt of the house, and give the hour
to converse unrestrained. First spoke the King:
“Great leader of the Teucrians, while thy life
in safety stands, I call not Trojan power
vanquished or fallen. But to help thy war
my small means match not thy redoubled name.
Yon Tuscan river is my bound. That way
Rutulia thrusts us hard and chafes our wall
with loud, besieging arms. But I propose
to league with thee a numerous array
of kings and mighty tribes, which fortune strange
now brings to thy defence. Thou comest here
because the Fates intend. Not far from ours
a city on an ancient rock is seen,
Agylla, which a warlike Lydian clan
built on the Tuscan hills. It prospered well
for many a year, then under the proud yoke
of King Mezentius it came and bore
his cruel sway. Why tell the loathsome deeds
and crimes unspeakable the despot wrought?
May Heaven requite them on his impious head
and on his children! For he used to chain
dead men to living, hand on hand was laid
and face on face, — torment incredible!
Till, locked in blood-stained, horrible embrace,
a lingering death they found. But at the last
his people rose in furious despair,
and while he blasphemously raged, assailed
his life and throne, cut down his guards
and fired his regal dwellings; he, the while,
escaped immediate death and fied away
to the Rutulian land, to find defence
in Turnus hospitality. To-day
Etruria, to righteous anger stirred,
demands with urgent arms her guilty King.
To their large host, Aeneas, I will give
an added strength, thyself. For yonder shores
re-echo with the tumult and the cry
of ships in close array; their eager lords
are clamoring for battle. But the song
of the gray omen-giver thus declares
their destiny: ‘O goodly princes born
of old Maeonian lineage! Ye that are
the bloom and glory of an ancient race,
whom just occasions now and noble rage
enflame against Mezentius your foe,
it is decreed that yonder nation proud
shall never submit to chiefs Italian-born.
Seek ye a king from far!’ So in the field
inert and fearful lies Etruria’s force,
disarmed by oracles. Their Tarchon sent
envoys who bore a sceptre and a crown
even to me, and prayed I should assume
the sacred emblems of Etruria’s king,
and lead their host to war. But unto me
cold, sluggish age, now barren and outworn,
denies new kingdoms, and my slow-paced powers
run to brave deeds no more. Nor could I urge
my son, who by his Sabine mother’s line
is half Italian-born. Thyself art he,
whose birth illustrious and manly prime
fate favors and celestial powers approve.
Therefore go forth, O bravest chief and King
of Troy and Italy! To thee I give
the hope and consolation of our throne,
pallas, my son, and bid him find in thee
a master and example, while he learns
the soldier’s arduous toil. With thy brave deeds
let him familiar grow, and reverence thee
with youthful love and honor. In his train
two hundred horsemen of Arcadia,
our choicest men-at-arms, shall ride; and he
in his own name an equal band shall bring
to follow only thee.” Such the discourse.
With meditative brows and downcast eyes
Aeneas and Achates, sad at heart,
mused on unnumbered perils yet to come.
But out of cloudless sky Cythera’s Queen
gave sudden signal: from th’ ethereal dome
a thunder-peal and flash of quivering fire
tumultuous broke, as if the world would fall,
and bellowing Tuscan trumpets shook the air.
All eyes look up. Again and yet again
crashed the terrible din, and where the sky
looked clearest hung a visionary cloud,
whence through the brightness blazed resounding arms.
All hearts stood still. But Troy’s heroic son
knew that his mother in the skies redeemed
her pledge in sound of thunder: so he cried,
“Seek not, my friend, seek not thyself to read
the meaning of the omen. ‘T is to me
Olympus calls. My goddess-mother gave
long since her promise of a heavenly sign
if war should burst; and that her power would bring
a panoply from Vulcan through the air,
to help us at our need. Alas, what deaths
over Laurentum’s ill-starred host impend!
O Turnus, what a reckoning thou shalt pay
to me in arms! O Tiber, in thy wave
what helms and shields and mighty soldiers slain
shall in confusion roll! Yea, let them lead
their lines to battle, and our league abjure!”
He said: and from the lofty throne uprose.
Straightway he roused anew the slumbering fire
sacred to Hercules, and glad at heart
adored, as yesterday, the household gods
revered by good Evander, at whose side
the Trojan company made sacrifice
of chosen lambs, with fitting rites and true.
Then to his ships he tried him, and rejoined
his trusty followers, of whom he took
the best for valor known, to lend him aid
in deeds of war. Others he bade return
down stream in easy course, and tidings bear
to young Ascanius of the new event,
and of his father. Horses then were brought
for all the Teucrians to Etruria bound;
and for Aeneas one of rarest breed,
o’er whom a tawny robe descended low,
of lion-sk
in, with claws of gleaming gold.
Noised swiftly through the little town it flies
that to the precinct of the Tuscan King
armed horsemen speed. Pale mothers in great fear
unceasing pray; for panic closely runs
in danger’s steps; the war-god drawing nigh
looms larger; and good sire Evander now
clings to the hand of his departing son
and, weeping without stay, makes sad farewell:
“O, that great Jove would give me once again
my vanished years! O, if such man I were,
as when beneath Praeneste’s wall I slew
the front ranks of her sons, and burned for spoil
their gathered shields on my triumph day;
or when this right hand hurled king Erulus
to shades below, though — terrible to tell —
Feronia bore him with three lives, that thrice
he might arise from deadly strife o’erthrown,
and thrice be slain — yet all these lives took I,
and of his arms despoiled him o’er and o’er:
not now, sweet son (if such lost might were mine),
should I from thy beloved embrace be torn;
nor could Mezentius with insulting sword
do murder in my sight and make my land
depopulate and forlorn. O gods in Heaven,
and chiefly thou whom all the gods obey,
have pity, Jove, upon Arcadia’s King,
and hear a father’s prayer: if your intent
be for my Pallas a defence secure,
if it be writ that long as I shall live,
my eyes may see him, and my arms enfold,
I pray for life, and all its ills I bear.
But if some curse, too dark to tell, impend
from thee, O Fortune blind! I pray thee break
my thread of miserable life to-day;
to-day, while fear still doubts and hope still smiles
on the unknown to-morrow, as I hold
thee to my bosom, dearest child, who art
my last and only joy; to-day, before
th’ intolerable tidings smite my ears.”
Such grief the royal father’s heart outpoured
at this last parting; the strong arms of slaves
lifted him, fallen in swoon, and bore him home.
Now forth beneath the wide-swung city-gates
the mounted squadron poured; Aeneas rode,
companioned of Achates, in the van;
then other lords of Troy. There Pallas shone
conspicuous in the midmost line, with cloak
and blazoned arms, as when the Morning-star
(To Venus dearest of all orbs that burn),
out of his lucent bath in ocean wave
lifts to the skies his countenance divine,
and melts the shadows of the night away.
Upon the ramparts trembling matrons stand
and follow with dimmed eyes the dusty cloud
