Delphi Poetry Anthology: The World's Greatest Poems (Delphi Poets Series Book 50)

by Homer

  A god commands: he stood before my sight,

  And urg’d us once again to speedy flight.

  O sacred pow’r, what pow’r soe’er thou art,

  To thy blest orders I resign my heart.

  Lead thou the way; protect thy Trojan bands,

  And prosper the design thy will commands.”

  He said: and, drawing forth his flaming sword,

  His thund’ring arm divides the many-twisted cord.

  An emulating zeal inspires his train:

  They run; they snatch; they rush into the main.

  With headlong haste they leave the desert shores,

  And brush the liquid seas with lab’ring oars.

  Aurora now had left her saffron bed,

  And beams of early light the heav’ns o’erspread,

  When, from a tow’r, the queen, with wakeful eyes,

  Saw day point upward from the rosy skies.

  She look’d to seaward; but the sea was void,

  And scarce in ken the sailing ships descried.

  Stung with despite, and furious with despair,

  She struck her trembling breast, and tore her hair.

  “And shall th’ ungrateful traitor go,” she said,

  “My land forsaken, and my love betray’d?

  Shall we not arm? not rush from ev’ry street,

  To follow, sink, and burn his perjur’d fleet?

  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, rushing thro’ the flame,

  Preserv’d his gods, and to the Phrygian shore

  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 gods,

  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 shores, 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 hoary 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 passions 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 shiver’d at approaching death.

  Then swiftly to the fatal place she pass’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 shore!”

  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,

&nb
sp; Involv’d the blazing temples of their gods.

  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 goddess 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 gods I bear.”

  Thus while she spoke, she cut the fatal hair:

  The struggling soul was loos’d, and life dissolv’d in air.

  List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

  List of Poets in Alphabetical Order

  Aeneas in the Underworld: Book VI

  He said, and wept; then spread his sails before

  The winds, and reach’d at length the Cumaean shore:

  Their anchors dropp’d, his crew the vessels moor.

  They turn their heads to sea, their sterns to land,

  And greet with greedy joy th’ Italian strand.

  Some strike from clashing flints their fiery seed;

  Some gather sticks, the kindled flames to feed,

  Or search for hollow trees, and fell the woods,

  Or trace thro’ valleys the discover’d floods.

  Thus, while their sev’ral charges they fulfil,

  The pious prince ascends the sacred hill

  Where Phoebus is ador’d; and seeks the shade

  Which hides from sight his venerable maid.

  Deep in a cave the Sibyl makes abode;

  Thence full of fate returns, and of the god.

  Thro’ Trivia’s grove they walk; and now behold,

  And enter now, the temple roof’d with gold.

  When Daedalus, to fly the Cretan shore,

  His heavy limbs on jointed pinions bore,

  (The first who sail’d in air,) ‘t is sung by Fame,

  To the Cumaean coast at length he came,

  And here alighting, built this costly frame.

  Inscrib’d to Phoebus, here he hung on high

  The steerage of his wings, that cut the sky:

  Then o’er the lofty gate his art emboss’d

  Androgeos’ death, and off’rings to his ghost;

  Sev’n youths from Athens yearly sent, to meet

  The fate appointed by revengeful Crete.

  And next to those the dreadful urn was plac’d,

  In which the destin’d names by lots were cast:

  The mournful parents stand around in tears,

  And rising Crete against their shore appears.

  There too, in living sculpture, might be seen

  The mad affection of the Cretan queen;

  Then how she cheats her bellowing lover’s eye;

  The rushing leap, the doubtful progeny,

  The lower part a beast, a man above,

  The monument of their polluted love.

  Not far from thence he grav’d the wondrous maze,

  A thousand doors, a thousand winding ways:

  Here dwells the monster, hid from human view,

  Not to be found, but by the faithful clew;

  Till the kind artist, mov’d with pious grief,

  Lent to the loving maid this last relief,

  And all those erring paths describ’d so well

  That Theseus conquer’d and the monster fell.

  Here hapless Icarus had found his part,

  Had not the father’s grief restrain’d his art.

  He twice assay’d to cast his son in gold;

  Twice from his hands he dropp’d the forming mold.

  All this with wond’ring eyes Aeneas view’d;

  Each varying object his delight renew’d:

  Eager to read the rest- Achates came,

  And by his side the mad divining dame,

  The priestess of the god, Deiphobe her name.

  “Time suffers not,” she said, “to feed your eyes

  With empty pleasures; haste the sacrifice.

  Sev’n bullocks, yet unyok’d, for Phoebus choose,

  And for Diana sev’n unspotted ewes.”

  This said, the servants urge the sacred rites,

  While to the temple she the prince invites.

  A spacious cave, within its farmost part,

  Was hew’d and fashion’d by laborious art

  Thro’ the hill’s hollow sides: before the place,

  A hundred doors a hundred entries grace;

  As many voices issue, and the sound

  Of Sybil’s words as many times rebound.

  Now to the mouth they come. Aloud she cries:

  “This is the time; enquire your destinies.

  He comes; behold the god!” Thus while she said,

  (And shiv’ring at the sacred entry stay’d,)

  Her color chang’d; her face was not the same,

  And hollow groans from her deep spirit came.

  Her hair stood up; convulsive rage possess’d

  Her trembling limbs, and heav’d her lab’ring breast.

  Greater than humankind she seem’d to look,

  And with an accent more than mortal spoke.

  Her staring eyes with sparkling fury roll;

  When all the god came rushing on her soul.

  Swiftly she turn’d, and, foaming as she spoke:

  “Why this delay?” she cried- “the pow’rs invoke!

  Thy pray’rs alone can open this abode;

  Else vain are my demands, and dumb the god.”

  She said no more. The trembling Trojans hear,

  O’erspread with a damp sweat and holy fear.

  The prince himself, with awful dread possess’d,

  His vows to great Apollo thus address’d:

  “Indulgent god, propitious pow’r to Troy,

  Swift to relieve, unwilling to destroy,

  Directed by whose hand the Dardan dart

  Pierc’d the proud Grecian’s only mort
al part:

  Thus far, by fate’s decrees and thy commands,

  Thro’ ambient seas and thro’ devouring sands,

  Our exil’d crew has sought th’ Ausonian ground;

  And now, at length, the flying coast is found.

  Thus far the fate of Troy, from place to place,

  With fury has pursued her wand’ring race.

  Here cease, ye pow’rs, and let your vengeance end:

  Troy is no more, and can no more offend.

  And thou, O sacred maid, inspir’d to see

  Th’ event of things in dark futurity;

  Give me what Heav’n has promis’d to my fate,

  To conquer and command the Latian state;

  To fix my wand’ring gods, and find a place

  For the long exiles of the Trojan race.

  Then shall my grateful hands a temple rear

  To the twin gods, with vows and solemn pray’r;

  And annual rites, and festivals, and games,

  Shall be perform’d to their auspicious names.

  Nor shalt thou want thy honors in my land;

  For there thy faithful oracles shall stand,

  Preserv’d in shrines; and ev’ry sacred lay,

  Which, by thy mouth, Apollo shall convey:

  All shall be treasur’d by a chosen train

  Of holy priests, and ever shall remain.

  But O! commit not thy prophetic mind

  To flitting leaves, the sport of ev’ry wind,

  Lest they disperse in air our empty fate;

  Write not, but, what the pow’rs ordain, relate.”

  Struggling in vain, impatient of her load,

  And lab’ring underneath the pond’rous god,

  The more she strove to shake him from her breast,

  With more and far superior force he press’d;

  Commands his entrance, and, without control,

  Usurps her organs and inspires her soul.

  Now, with a furious blast, the hundred doors

  Ope of themselves; a rushing whirlwind roars

  Within the cave, and Sibyl’s voice restores:

  “Escap’d the dangers of the wat’ry reign,

  Yet more and greater ills by land remain.

  The coast, so long desir’d (nor doubt th’ event),

  Thy troops shall reach, but, having reach’d, repent.

  Wars, horrid wars, I view- a field of blood,

  And Tiber rolling with a purple flood.

  Simois nor Xanthus shall be wanting there:

  A new Achilles shall in arms appear,

  And he, too, goddess-born. Fierce Juno’s hate,

  Added to hostile force, shall urge thy fate.

  To what strange nations shalt not thou resort,