Complete Works of Virgil

by Virgil

  Nor see the dangers that around thee lie,

  Nor hear the Zephyrs whispering to the deep.

  Dark crimes the Queen is plotting, bent to die

  And tost with varying passions. Haste thee — fly,

  While flight is open. Morn shall see the bay

  Swarm with their ships, and all the shore and sky

  Red with fierce firebrands and the flames. Away! 649

  Changeful is woman’s mood, and varying with the day.”

  LXXIV . He spake and, mixing with the night, withdrew.

  Up starts Æneas from his sleep, so sore

  The vision scared him, and awakes his crew.

  “Quick, comrades, man the benches! ply the oar!

  Unfurl the canvas! Lo, a God once more

  Comes down to urge us, chiding our delay,

  And bids us cut our cables from the shore.

  Dread Power divine, we follow on thy way, 658

  Gladly, whoe’er thou art, thy summons we obey.

  LXXV . “Be near us now, and O, vouchsafe thine aid,

  And bid fair stars their kindly beams afford

  To light our pathway through the deep.” He prayed,

  And from the scabbard snatched his flaming sword,

  And, swift as lightning, cleft the twisted cord.

  Fired by their chief, like ardour fills the crew,

  They scour, they scud and, hurrying, crowd on board.

  Bare lies the beach; ships hide the sea from view, 667

  And strong arms lash the foam and sweep the sparkling blue.

  LXXVI . Now rose Aurora from the saffron bed

  Of old Tithonus, and with orient ray

  Sprinkled the earth. Forth looks the Queen in dread,

  And from her watch-tower marks the twilight grey

  Glow with the shimmering whiteness of the day,

  The harbour shipless and the shore all bare,

  The fleet with full-squared canvas under weigh.

  Then thrice and four times, frantic with despair, 676

  She beats her beauteous breast, and rends her golden hair.

  LXXVII . “Ah! Jove, shall he escape me? Shall he mock

  My queenship? He, an alien, flout my sway?

  Will no one arm and chase them, or undock

  The ships? Bring fire; get weapons, quick! Away!

  Swing out the oars! Ah me! what do I say?

  Where am I? O, what madness turns my brain?

  Poor Dido, hath thy folly found its prey?

  Thy sins, alas! they sting thee, but in vain. 685

  They should have done so then, when yielding him thy reign.

  LXXVIII . “Lo, there his honour and the faith he swore,

  Who takes Troy’s gods the partners of his flight,

  And erst from Troy his aged parent bore.

  O, had I torn him piecemeal, as I might,

  And strewn him on the waves, and slain outright

  His friends, and for the father’s banquet spread

  The murdered boy! But doubtful were the fight.

  Grant that it had been, whom should Dido dread, 694

  What fear had death for me, self-destined to be dead?

  LXXIX . “These hands the firebrands at his feet had cast,

  And filled with flames his hatches. Sire and son

  And all their race had perished with the past,

  And I, too, perished with them. O great Sun,

  Whose torch reveals whate’er on Earth is done,

  Juno, who know’st the passion that devours

  Poor Dido; Hecate, where crossways run

  Night-howled in cities; ye avenging Powers, 703

  Friends, Furies, Gods that guard Elissa’s dying hours!

  LXXX . “Mark this, compassionate these woes, and bow

  To supplication. If the Fates demand —

  Curst be his head! — that he escape me now,

  And touch his haven, and float up to land.

  If so Jove wills, and fixt his edicts stand,

  Then, scourged with warfare by a daring race,

  In vain for succour let him stretch his hand,

  And see his people perish with disgrace, 712

  An exile, torn from home and from his son’s embrace.

  LXXXI . “And when hard peace the traitor stoops to buy,

  No realm be his, nor happy days in store.

  Cut off in prime of manhood let him die,

  And rot unburied on the sandy shore.

  This dying curse, this utterance I pour,

  The latest, with my life-blood, — this my prayer.

  Them and their children’s children evermore

  Ye Tyrians, with immortal hate outwear. 721

  This gift— ‘twill please me best — for Dido’s shade prepare.

  LXXXII . “This heritage be yours; no truce nor trust

  ‘Twixt theirs and ours, no union or accord

  Arise, unknown Avenger from our dust;

  With fire and steel upon the Dardan horde

  Mete out the measure of their crimes’ reward.

  To-day, to-morrow, for eternity

  Fight, oft as ye are able — sword with sword,

  Shore with opposing shore, and sea with sea; 730

  Fight, Tyrians, all that are, and all that e’er shall be.”

  LXXXIII . So spake the queen, and pondered in her breast

  How of her loathèd life to clip the thread,

  Then briefly thus Sychæus’ nurse addressed

  (Her own at Tyre lay buried)— “Haste,” she said,

  “Dear Barce; call my sister; let her head

  With living water from the lustral bough

  Be sprinkled. Hither be the victims led,

  And due atoning offerings, and thou 739

  Bring forth the sacred wreath, and bind it on thy brow.

  LXXXIV . “The sacrifice, prepared for Stygian Jove,

  I purpose now to consummate, and pay

  The last sad rites, and ease me of my love,

  And burn the couch whereon the Dardan lay.”

  She spake; the old dame tottering hastes away.

  Maddening stood Dido at the doom so dread,

  With bloodshot eyes and trembling with dismay,

  Her quivering cheeks flecked with the burning red, 748

  Pale with approaching death, but yearning to be dead.

  LXXXV . So bursting through the inner doors she flew

  And, with wild frenzy, climbed the lofty pyre,

  Then seized the scabbard he had left, and drew

  The sword, ne’er given for an end so dire.

  But when, with eyes still wistful with desire,

  She viewed the bed that she had known too well,

  The Ilian raiment and the chief’s attire,

  She paused, then musing, while the teardrops fell, 757

  Sank on the fatal couch, and cried a last farewell:

  LXXXVI . “Dear relics! loved while Fate and Jove were kind,

  Receive this soul, and free me from my woe.

  My life is lived; behold, the course assigned

  By Fortune now is finished, and I go,

  A shade majestic, to the world below,

  A glorious city I have built, have seen

  My walls, avenged my husband of his foe.

  Thrice happy, ah! too happy had I been 766

  Had Dardan ships, alas! not come to bring me teen!”

  LXXXVII . She paused, and pressed her lips upon the bed.

  “To die — and unavenged? Yea, let me die!

  Thus — thus it joys to journey to the dead.

  Let yon false Dardan with remorseful eye

  Drink in this bale-fire from the deep, and sigh

  To bear the omens of my death.” — No more

  She said, but swooned. The servants see her lie,

  Sunk on the sword; they see the life-blood pour, 775

  Reddening her tender hands, the weapon drenched with gore.

  LXX
XVIII . Then through the lofty palace rose a scream,

  And madly Rumour riots, as she flies

  Through the shocked town. The very houses seem

  To groan, and shrieks, and sobbing and the cries

  Of wailing women pierce the vaulted skies.

  ’Twas e’en as though all Carthage or old Tyre

  Were falling, stormed by ruthless enemies,

  While over roof and battlement and spire 784

  And temples of the Gods rolled on the infuriate fire.

  LXXXIX . Her sister heard, and through the concourse came,

  And tore her cheeks and beat her bosom fair,

  And called upon the dying Queen by name.

  “Sister! was this thy secret? thine this snare?

  For me this fraud? For this did I prepare

  That pyre, those flames and altars? This the end?

  Ah me, forlorn! what worse remains to bear?

  Would’st thou in death desert me, and pretend 793

  To scorn a sister’s care, and shun me as a friend?

  XC . “Thou should’st have called me to thy doom! One stroke,

  A moment’s pang, and we had ceased to sigh.

  Reared I this pyre, did I the gods invoke

  To leave thee thus companionless, to die?

  Lo, all are dead together, thou and I,

  Town, princes, people, perished in a day.

  Bring water; let me close the lightless eye,

  And bathe those wounds, and kiss those lips of clay, 802

  And catch one fluttering breath, if yet, perchance, I may!”

  XCI . So saying, she climbs the steps, and, groaning sore,

  Clasps to her breast her sister ere she dies,

  And stanches with her robe the streaming gore.

  In vain poor Dido lifts her wearied eyes,

  The closing eyelids sicken at the skies.

  Deep gurgles in her breast the deadly wound;

  Thrice on her elbow she essays to rise,

  Thrice back she sinks. With wandering eyes all round 811

  She seeks the light of heaven, and moans when it is found.

  XCII . Then Juno, pitying her agony

  Of lingering death, sent Iris down with speed.

  Her struggling soul from clinging limbs to free.

  For since by Fate, or for her own misdeed

  She perished not, but, ere the day decreed,

  Fell in the frenzy of her love’s despair,

  Not yet Proserpina had claimed her meed,

  And shorn the ringlet of her golden hair, 820

  And bade the sacred shade to Stygian realms repair.

  XCIII . So down to earth came Iris from on high

  On saffron wings all glittering with the dew.

  A thousand tints against the sunlit sky

  She flashed from out her rainbow as she flew,

  Then, hovering overhead, these words outthrew,

  “Behold, to Dis this offering I bear,

  And loose thee from thy body.” — Forth she drew

  The fatal shears, and clipped the golden hair; 829

  The vital heats disperse, and life dissolves in air.

  BOOK FIVE

  ARGUMENT

  Æneas, unaware of Dido’s fate, sails away to Acestes in Sicily, and prepares funeral games against the anniversary of Anchises’ death (1-90). Offerings are paid to the spirit of Anchises. Sicilians and Trojans assemble for the first contest, a boat race (91-140), which is described at length. Cloanthus, ancestor of the Cluentii, wins with the “Scylla” (141-342). The foot-race is next narrated. Euryalus, by his friend’s cunning, gains the first prize, and the scene shifts (343-441) to the ring, in which Dares is defeated by the veteran Entellus, who fells the ox, his prize, as an offering to his master Eryx (442-594). After some wonderful shooting in the archery which follows, Æneas awards the first prize to Acestes, as the favourite of the gods (595-667). Before this contest is over Æneas summons Ascanius and his boy-companions to perform the elaborate manoeuvres afterwards celebrated in Rome as the “Trojan Ride” (668-729). Juno schemes to destroy the Trojan fleet, while the games are being held. She inspires with discontent the Trojan matrons, who are not present at the festival. They set fire to the ships (730-810). Ascanius hurries to the scene. Jupiter sends rain and saves all the ships but four (811-855). Nautes advises Æneas to leave behind the weak and aged with Acestes. The wraith of Anchises enforces the advice, and bids Æneas visit him in the nether-world (856-909). Preparations for departure. Acestes accepts his new subjects, and the Trojans depart. Venus prevails on Neptune to grant them safe convoy in return for the life of the helmsman Palinurus, who is drowned (910-1062).

  I . Now well at sea, Æneas, fixt in mind,

  Held on his course, and cleft the watery ways

  Through billows blackened by the northern wind,

  And backward on the city bent his gaze,

  Bright with the flames of Dido. Whence the blaze

  Arose, they knew not; but the pangs they knew

  When love is passionate, and man betrays,

  And what a frantic woman scorned can do, 1

  And many a sad surmise their boding thoughts pursue.

  II . The fleet was on mid-ocean; land no more

  Was visible, nor aught but sea and sky;

  When lo! above them a black cloud, that bore

  Tempest and Night, frowned iron-dark on high,

  And the wave, shuddering as the wind swept by,

  Curled and was darkened. From the stern loud cries

  The pilot Palinurus: “Whence and why

  This cloudy rack that gathers o’er the skies? 10

  What, father Neptune, now, what mischief dost devise?”

  III . So having said, he bade the seamen take

  The tackling in, and ply the lusty oar,

  Then sloped the mainsheet to the wind, and spake:

  “Noble Æneas, e’en if high Jove swore

  To bring us safely to Italia’s shore,

  With skies like these, ‘twere hopeless. Westward loom

  The dark clouds mustering, and the changed winds roar

  Athwart us, and the air is thick with gloom. 19

  Vainly we strive to move, and struggle with our doom.

  IV . “Come, then, since Fortune hath the mastering hand,

  Yield we and turn. Not far, methinks, there lies

  A friendly shore, thy brother Eryx’ land,

  And ports Sicanian, if aright these eyes

  Recall my former reading of the skies.”

  Then good Æneas: “Long ago, ’tis plain,

  The winds so willed it. I have seen,” he cries,

  “And marked thee toiling in their teeth in vain. 28

  Shift sail and turn the helm. What sweeter shore to gain,

  V . “What port more welcome to a wearied fleet

  And wave-worn mariners, what land more blest

  Than that where still Acestes lives, to greet

  His Dardan friends, and in the boon earth’s breast

  My father’s bones, Anchises’, are at rest?”

  He spake; at once the Trojans strive to gain

  The port. Fair breezes, blowing from the West,

  Swell out the sails. They bound along the main, 37

  And soon with gladdening hearts the well-known shore attain.

  VI . Far off Acestes, wondering, from a height

  The coming of their friendly ships descries,

  And hastes to meet them. Roughly is he dight

  In Libyan bearskin, as in huntsman’s guise;

  A pointed javelin in each hand he plies.

  Him once a Trojan to Crimisus bore,

  The stream-god. Mindful of ancestral ties

  He hails his weary kinsmen, come once more, 46

  And dainty fruits sets forth, and cheers them from his store.

  VII . Next dawn had chased the stars, when on the shore

  Æneas thus the gathered crews addressed: />
  “Twelve months have passed, brave Dardans, since we bore

  The bones of great Anchises to his rest,

  And laid his ashes in the ground, and blessed

  The mourning altars by the rolling sea.

  And now once more, if rightly I have guessed,

  The day is come, which Heaven hath willed to be 55

  Sacred for evermore, but ever sad to me.

  VIII . This day, though exiled on Gætulian sands,

  Or caught by tempests on th’ Ægean brine,

  Or at Mycenæ in the foemen’s hands,

  With annual honours will I hold divine,

  And head with fitting offerings the shrine.

  By chance unsought, now hither are we led,

  Yet not, I ween, without the God’s design,

  Where lie the ashes of my father dead, 64

  And greet a friendly port, by favouring breezes sped.

  IX . “Come then, with festival his name revere,

  Pray we for winds to waft us, and entreat

  His shade to take these offerings year by year,

  When gathered to our new-built Troy, we meet

  In hallowed fanes, his worship to repeat.

  See, for each ship two head of hornèd kine

  Acestes sends, his Trojan friends to greet

  Bid then the home-gods of the Trojan line, 73

  With those our host adores, to grace the feast divine.

  X . “Nay, if the ninth fair morning show fine day,

  And bring the sunshine, be a match decreed

  For Teucrian ships, their swiftness to essay.

  Next, in the footrace whosoe’er hath speed,

  Or, glorying in his manhood, claims the meed

  With dart, or flying arrow and the bow,

  Or bout with untanned gauntlet, mark and heed,

  And wait the victor’s guerdon. Come ye now; 82

  Hush’d be each idle tongue, and garlanded each brow.”

  XI . He spake, and round his temples binds with joy

  His mother’s myrtle. Helymus is crowned,

  The veteran Acestes, and the boy

  Ascanius, and the Trojan warriors round.

  So from the council to the funeral mound

  He moves, the centre of a circling crowd.