The Aeneid Part 13

Haste, haul my galleys out! pursue the foe!

Bring flaming brands! set sail, and swiftly row!

What have I said? where am I? Fury turns My brain; and my distemper'd bosom burns.

Then, when I gave my person and my throne, This hate, this rage, had been more timely shown.

See now the promis'd faith, the vaunted name, The pious man, who, rus.h.i.+ng thro' the flame, Preserv'd his G.o.ds, and to the Phrygian sh.o.r.e The burthen of his feeble father bore!

I should have torn him piecemeal; strow'd in floods His scatter'd limbs, or left expos'd in woods; Destroy'd his friends and son; and, from the fire, Have set the reeking boy before the sire.

Events are doubtful, which on battles wait: Yet where's the doubt, to souls secure of fate?

My Tyrians, at their injur'd queen's command, Had toss'd their fires amid the Trojan band; At once extinguish'd all the faithless name; And I myself, in vengeance of my shame, Had fall'n upon the pile, to mend the fun'ral flame.

Thou Sun, who view'st at once the world below; Thou Juno, guardian of the nuptial vow; Thou Hecate hearken from thy dark abodes!

Ye Furies, fiends, and violated G.o.ds, All pow'rs invok'd with Dido's dying breath, Attend her curses and avenge her death!

If so the Fates ordain, Jove commands, Th' ungrateful wretch should find the Latian lands, Yet let a race untam'd, and haughty foes, His peaceful entrance with dire arms oppose: Oppress'd with numbers in th' unequal field, His men discourag'd, and himself expell'd, Let him for succor sue from place to place, Torn from his subjects, and his son's embrace.

First, let him see his friends in battle slain, And their untimely fate lament in vain; And when, at length, the cruel war shall cease, On hard conditions may he buy his peace: Nor let him then enjoy supreme command; But fall, untimely, by some hostile hand, And lie unburied on the barren sand!

These are my pray'rs, and this my dying will; And you, my Tyrians, ev'ry curse fulfil.

Perpetual hate and mortal wars proclaim, Against the prince, the people, and the name.

These grateful off'rings on my grave bestow; Nor league, nor love, the hostile nations know!

Now, and from hence, in ev'ry future age, When rage excites your arms, and strength supplies the rage Rise some avenger of our Libyan blood, With fire and sword pursue the perjur'd brood; Our arms, our seas, our sh.o.r.es, oppos'd to theirs; And the same hate descend on all our heirs!"

This said, within her anxious mind she weighs The means of cutting short her odious days.

Then to Sichaeus' nurse she briefly said (For, when she left her country, hers was dead): "Go, Barce, call my sister. Let her care The solemn rites of sacrifice prepare; The sheep, and all th' atoning off'rings bring, Sprinkling her body from the crystal spring With living drops; then let her come, and thou With sacred fillets bind thy h.o.a.ry brow.

Thus will I pay my vows to Stygian Jove, And end the cares of my disastrous love; Then cast the Trojan image on the fire, And, as that burns, my pa.s.sions shall expire."

The nurse moves onward, with officious care, And all the speed her aged limbs can bear.

But furious Dido, with dark thoughts involv'd, Shook at the mighty mischief she resolv'd.

With livid spots distinguish'd was her face; Red were her rolling eyes, and discompos'd her pace; Ghastly she gaz'd, with pain she drew her breath, And nature s.h.i.+ver'd at approaching death.

Then swiftly to the fatal place she pa.s.s'd, And mounts the fun'ral pile with furious haste; Unsheathes the sword the Trojan left behind (Not for so dire an enterprise design'd).

But when she view'd the garments loosely spread, Which once he wore, and saw the conscious bed, She paus'd, and with a sigh the robes embrac'd; Then on the couch her trembling body cast, Repress'd the ready tears, and spoke her last: "Dear pledges of my love, while Heav'n so pleas'd, Receive a soul, of mortal anguish eas'd: My fatal course is finish'd; and I go, A glorious name, among the ghosts below.

A lofty city by my hands is rais'd, Pygmalion punish'd, and my lord appeas'd.

What could my fortune have afforded more, Had the false Trojan never touch'd my sh.o.r.e!"

Then kiss'd the couch; and, "Must I die," she said, "And unreveng'd? 'T is doubly to be dead!

Yet ev'n this death with pleasure I receive: On any terms, 't is better than to live.

These flames, from far, may the false Trojan view; These boding omens his base flight pursue!"

She said, and struck; deep enter'd in her side The piercing steel, with reeking purple dyed: Clogg'd in the wound the cruel weapon stands; The spouting blood came streaming on her hands.

Her sad attendants saw the deadly stroke, And with loud cries the sounding palace shook.

Distracted, from the fatal sight they fled, And thro' the town the dismal rumor spread.

First from the frighted court the yell began; Redoubled, thence from house to house it ran: The groans of men, with shrieks, laments, and cries Of mixing women, mount the vaulted skies.

Not less the clamor, than if- ancient Tyre, Or the new Carthage, set by foes on fire- The rolling ruin, with their lov'd abodes, Involv'd the blazing temples of their G.o.ds.

Her sister hears; and, furious with despair, She beats her breast, and rends her yellow hair, And, calling on Eliza's name aloud, Runs breathless to the place, and breaks the crowd.

"Was all that pomp of woe for this prepar'd; These fires, this fun'ral pile, these altars rear'd?

Was all this train of plots contriv'd," said she, "All only to deceive unhappy me?

Which is the worst? Didst thou in death pretend To scorn thy sister, or delude thy friend?

Thy summon'd sister, and thy friend, had come; One sword had serv'd us both, one common tomb: Was I to raise the pile, the pow'rs invoke, Not to be present at the fatal stroke?

At once thou hast destroy'd thyself and me, Thy town, thy senate, and thy colony!

Bring water; bathe the wound; while I in death Lay close my lips to hers, and catch the flying breath."

This said, she mounts the pile with eager haste, And in her arms the gasping queen embrac'd; Her temples chaf'd; and her own garments tore, To stanch the streaming blood, and cleanse the gore.

Thrice Dido tried to raise her drooping head, And, fainting thrice, fell grov'ling on the bed; Thrice op'd her heavy eyes, and sought the light, But, having found it, sicken'd at the sight, And clos'd her lids at last in endless night.

Then Juno, grieving that she should sustain A death so ling'ring, and so full of pain, Sent Iris down, to free her from the strife Of lab'ring nature, and dissolve her life.

For since she died, not doom'd by Heav'n's decree, Or her own crime, but human casualty, And rage of love, that plung'd her in despair, The Sisters had not cut the topmost hair, Which Proserpine and they can only know; Nor made her sacred to the shades below.

Downward the various G.o.ddess took her flight, And drew a thousand colors from the light; Then stood above the dying lover's head, And said: "I thus devote thee to the dead.

This off'ring to th' infernal G.o.ds I bear."

Thus while she spoke, she cut the fatal hair: The struggling soul was loos'd, and life dissolv'd in air.

BOOK V

Meantime the Trojan cuts his wat'ry way, Fix'd on his voyage, thro' the curling sea; Then, casting back his eyes, with dire amaze, Sees on the Punic sh.o.r.e the mounting blaze.

The cause unknown; yet his presaging mind The fate of Dido from the fire divin'd; He knew the stormy souls of womankind, What secret springs their eager pa.s.sions move, How capable of death for injur'd love.

Dire auguries from hence the Trojans draw; Till neither fires nor s.h.i.+ning sh.o.r.es they saw.

Now seas and skies their prospect only bound; An empty s.p.a.ce above, a floating field around.

But soon the heav'ns with shadows were o'erspread; A swelling cloud hung hov'ring o'er their head: Livid it look'd, the threat'ning of a storm: Then night and horror ocean's face deform.

The pilot, Palinurus, cried aloud: "What gusts of weather from that gath'ring cloud My thoughts presage! Ere yet the tempest roars, Stand to your tackle, mates, and stretch your oars; Contract your swelling sails, and luff to wind."

The frighted crew perform the task a.s.sign'd.

Then, to his fearless chief: "Not Heav'n," said he, "Tho' Jove himself should promise Italy, Can stem the torrent of this raging sea.

Mark how the s.h.i.+fting winds from west arise, And what collected night involves the skies!

Nor can our shaken vessels live at sea, Much less against the tempest force their way.

'T is fate diverts our course, and fate we must obey.

Not far from hence, if I observ'd aright The southing of the stars, and polar light, Sicilia lies, whose hospitable sh.o.r.es In safety we may reach with struggling oars."

Aeneas then replied: "Too sure I find We strive in vain against the seas and wind: Now s.h.i.+ft your sails; what place can please me more Than what you promise, the Sicilian sh.o.r.e, Whose hallow'd earth Anchises' bones contains, And where a prince of Trojan lineage reigns?"

The course resolv'd, before the western wind They scud amain, and make the port a.s.sign'd.

Meantime Acestes, from a lofty stand, Beheld the fleet descending on the land; And, not unmindful of his ancient race, Down from the cliff he ran with eager pace, And held the hero in a strict embrace.

Of a rough Libyan bear the spoils he wore, And either hand a pointed jav'lin bore.

His mother was a dame of Dardan blood; His sire Crinisus, a Sicilian flood.

He welcomes his returning friends ash.o.r.e With plenteous country cates and homely store.

Now, when the following morn had chas'd away The flying stars, and light restor'd the day, Aeneas call'd the Trojan troops around, And thus bespoke them from a rising ground: "Offspring of heav'n, divine Dardanian race!

The sun, revolving thro' th' ethereal s.p.a.ce, The s.h.i.+ning circle of the year has fill'd, Since first this isle my father's ashes held: And now the rising day renews the year; A day for ever sad, for ever dear.

This would I celebrate with annual games, With gifts on altars pil'd, and holy flames, Tho' banish'd to Gaetulia's barren sands, Caught on the Grecian seas, or hostile lands: But since this happy storm our fleet has driv'n (Not, as I deem, without the will of Heav'n) Upon these friendly sh.o.r.es and flow'ry plains, Which hide Anchises and his blest remains, Let us with joy perform his honors due, And pray for prosp'rous winds, our voyage to renew; Pray, that in towns and temples of our own, The name of great Anchises may be known, And yearly games may spread the G.o.ds' renown.

Our sports Acestes, of the Trojan race, With royal gifts ordain'd, is pleas'd to grace: Two steers on ev'ry s.h.i.+p the king bestows; His G.o.ds and ours shall share your equal vows.

Besides, if, nine days hence, the rosy morn Shall with unclouded light the skies adorn, That day with solemn sports I mean to grace: Light galleys on the seas shall run a wat'ry race; Some shall in swiftness for the goal contend, And others try the tw.a.n.ging bow to bend; The strong, with iron gauntlets arm'd, shall stand Oppos'd in combat on the yellow sand.

Let all be present at the games prepar'd, And joyful victors wait the just reward.

But now a.s.sist the rites, with garlands crown'd."

He said, and first his brows with myrtle bound.

Then Helymus, by his example led, And old Acestes, each adorn'd his head; Thus young Ascanius, with a sprightly grace, His temples tied, and all the Trojan race.

Aeneas then advanc'd amidst the train, By thousands follow'd thro' the flow'ry plain, To great Anchises' tomb; which when he found, He pour'd to Bacchus, on the hallow'd ground, Two bowls of sparkling wine, of milk two more, And two (from offer'd bulls) of purple gore, With roses then the sepulcher he strow'd And thus his father's ghost bespoke aloud: "Hail, O ye holy manes! hail again, Paternal ashes, now review'd in vain!

The G.o.ds permitted not, that you, with me, Should reach the promis'd sh.o.r.es of Italy, Or Tiber's flood, what flood soe'er it be."

Scarce had he finish'd, when, with speckled pride, A serpent from the tomb began to glide; His hugy bulk on sev'n high volumes roll'd; Blue was his breadth of back, but streak'd with scaly gold: Thus riding on his curls, he seem'd to pa.s.s A rolling fire along, and singe the gra.s.s.

More various colors thro' his body run, Than Iris when her bow imbibes the sun.

Betwixt the rising altars, and around, The sacred monster shot along the ground; With harmless play amidst the bowls he pa.s.s'd, And with his lolling tongue a.s.say'd the taste: Thus fed with holy food, the wondrous guest Within the hollow tomb retir'd to rest.

The pious prince, surpris'd at what he view'd, The fun'ral honors with more zeal renew'd, Doubtful if this place's genius were, Or guardian of his father's sepulcher.

Five sheep, according to the rites, he slew; As many swine, and steers of sable hue; New gen'rous wine he from the goblets pour'd.

And call'd his father's ghost, from h.e.l.l restor'd.

The glad attendants in long order come, Off'ring their gifts at great Anchises' tomb: Some add more oxen: some divide the spoil; Some place the chargers on the gra.s.sy soil; Some blow the fires, and offered entrails broil.

Now came the day desir'd. The skies were bright With rosy l.u.s.ter of the rising light: The bord'ring people, rous'd by sounding fame Of Trojan feasts and great Acestes' name, The crowded sh.o.r.e with acclamations fill, Part to behold, and part to prove their skill.

And first the gifts in public view they place, Green laurel wreaths, and palm, the victors' grace: Within the circle, arms and tripods lie, Ingots of gold and silver, heap'd on high, And vests embroider'd, of the Tyrian dye.