Complete Works of Virgil

by Virgil

  To the despairing prince his Daunian sword.

  The Queen of Love, who, with disdain and grief,

  Saw the bold nymph afford this prompt relief,

  T’ assert her offspring with a greater deed,

  From the tough root the ling’ring weapon freed.

  Once more erect, the rival chiefs advance:

  One trusts the sword, and one the pointed lance;

  And both resolv’d alike to try their fatal chance.

  Meantime imperial Jove to Juno spoke,

  Who from a shining cloud beheld the shock:

  “What new arrest, O Queen of Heav’n, is sent

  To stop the Fates now lab’ring in th’ event?

  What farther hopes are left thee to pursue?

  Divine Aeneas, (and thou know’st it too,)

  Foredoom’d, to these celestial seats are due.

  What more attempts for Turnus can be made,

  That thus thou ling’rest in this lonely shade?

  Is it becoming of the due respect

  And awful honor of a god elect,

  A wound unworthy of our state to feel,

  Patient of human hands and earthly steel?

  Or seems it just, the sister should restore

  A second sword, when one was lost before,

  And arm a conquer’d wretch against his conqueror?

  For what, without thy knowledge and avow,

  Nay more, thy dictate, durst Juturna do?

  At last, in deference to my love, forbear

  To lodge within thy soul this anxious care;

  Reclin’d upon my breast, thy grief unload:

  Who should relieve the goddess, but the god?

  Now all things to their utmost issue tend,

  Push’d by the Fates to their appointed

  While leave was giv’n thee, and a lawful hour

  For vengeance, wrath, and unresisted pow’r,

  Toss’d on the seas, thou couldst thy foes distress,

  And, driv’n ashore, with hostile arms oppress;

  Deform the royal house; and, from the side

  Of the just bridegroom, tear the plighted bride:

  Now cease at my command.” The Thund’rer said;

  And, with dejected eyes, this answer Juno made:

  “Because your dread decree too well I knew,

  From Turnus and from earth unwilling I withdrew.

  Else should you not behold me here, alone,

  Involv’d in empty clouds, my friends bemoan,

  But, girt with vengeful flames, in open sight

  Engag’d against my foes in mortal fight.

  ‘T is true, Juturna mingled in the strife

  By my command, to save her brother’s life-

  At least to try; but, by the Stygian lake,

  (The most religious oath the gods can take,)

  With this restriction, not to bend the bow,

  Or toss the spear, or trembling dart to throw.

  And now, resign’d to your superior might,

  And tir’d with fruitless toils, I loathe the fight.

  This let me beg (and this no fates withstand)

  Both for myself and for your father’s land,

  That, when the nuptial bed shall bind the peace,

  (Which I, since you ordain, consent to bless,)

  The laws of either nation be the same;

  But let the Latins still retain their name,

  Speak the same language which they spoke before,

  Wear the same habits which their grandsires wore.

  Call them not Trojans: perish the renown

  And name of Troy, with that detested town.

  Latium be Latium still; let Alba reign

  And Rome’s immortal majesty remain.”

  Then thus the founder of mankind replies

  (Unruffled was his front, serene his eyes)

  “Can Saturn’s issue, and heav’n’s other heir,

  Such endless anger in her bosom bear?

  Be mistress, and your full desires obtain;

  But quench the choler you foment in vain.

  From ancient blood th’ Ausonian people sprung,

  Shall keep their name, their habit, and their tongue.

  The Trojans to their customs shall be tied:

  I will, myself, their common rites provide;

  The natives shall command, the foreigners subside.

  All shall be Latium; Troy without a name;

  And her lost sons forget from whence they came.

  From blood so mix’d, a pious race shall flow,

  Equal to gods, excelling all below.

  No nation more respect to you shall pay,

  Or greater off’rings on your altars lay.”

  Juno consents, well pleas’d that her desires

  Had found success, and from the cloud retires.

  The peace thus made, the Thund’rer next prepares

  To force the wat’ry goddess from the wars.

  Deep in the dismal regions void of light,

  Three daughters at a birth were born to Night:

  These their brown mother, brooding on her care,

  Indued with windy wings to flit in air,

  With serpents girt alike, and crown’d with hissing hair.

  In heav’n the Dirae call’d, and still at hand,

  Before the throne of angry Jove they stand,

  His ministers of wrath, and ready still

  The minds of mortal men with fears to fill,

  Whene’er the moody sire, to wreak his hate

  On realms or towns deserving of their fate,

  Hurls down diseases, death and deadly care,

  And terrifies the guilty world with war.

  One sister plague if these from heav’n he sent,

  To fright Juturna with a dire portent.

  The pest comes whirling down: by far more slow

  Springs the swift arrow from the Parthian bow,

  Or Cydon yew, when, traversing the skies,

  And drench’d in pois’nous juice, the sure destruction flies.

  With such a sudden and unseen a flight

  Shot thro’ the clouds the daughter of the night.

  Soon as the field inclos’d she had in view,

  And from afar her destin’d quarry knew,

  Contracted, to the boding bird she turns,

  Which haunts the ruin’d piles and hallow’d urns,

  And beats about the tombs with nightly wings,

  Where songs obscene on sepulchers she sings.

  Thus lessen’d in her form, with frightful cries

  The Fury round unhappy Turnus flies,

  Flaps on his shield, and flutters o’er his eyes.

  A lazy chillness crept along his blood;

  Chok’d was his voice; his hair with horror stood.

  Juturna from afar beheld her fly,

  And knew th’ ill omen, by her screaming cry

  And stridor of her wings. Amaz’d with fear,

  Her beauteous breast she beat, and rent her flowing hair.

  “Ah me!” she cries, “in this unequal strife

  What can thy sister more to save thy life?

  Weak as I am, can I, alas! contend

  In arms with that inexorable fiend?

  Now, now, I quit the field! forbear to fright

  My tender soul, ye baleful birds of night;

  The lashing of your wings I know too well,

  The sounding flight, and fun’ral screams of hell!

  These are the gifts you bring from haughty Jove,

  The worthy recompense of ravish’d love!

  Did he for this exempt my life from fate?

  O hard conditions of immortal state,

  Tho’ born to death, not privileg’d to die,

  But forc’d to bear impos’d eternity!

  Take back your envious bribes, and let me go

  Companion to my brother’s ghost below!

  The joys are vanish’d: nothing now remains,

&n
bsp; Of life immortal, but immortal pains.

  What earth will open her devouring womb,

  To rest a weary goddess in the tomb!”

  She drew a length of sighs; nor more she said,

  But in her azure mantle wrapp’d her head,

  Then plung’d into her stream, with deep despair,

  And her last sobs came bubbling up in air.

  Now stern Aeneas his weighty spear

  Against his foe, and thus upbraids his fear:

  “What farther subterfuge can Turnus find?

  What empty hopes are harbor’d in his mind?

  ‘T is not thy swiftness can secure thy flight;

  Not with their feet, but hands, the valiant fight.

  Vary thy shape in thousand forms, and dare

  What skill and courage can attempt in war;

  Wish for the wings of winds, to mount the sky;

  Or hid, within the hollow earth to lie!”

  The champion shook his head, and made this short reply:

  “No threats of thine my manly mind can move;

  ‘T is hostile heav’n I dread, and partial Jove.”

  He said no more, but, with a sigh, repress’d

  The mighty sorrow in his swelling breast.

  Then, as he roll’d his troubled eyes around,

  An antique stone he saw, the common bound

  Of neighb’ring fields, and barrier of the ground;

  So vast, that twelve strong men of modern days

  Th’ enormous weight from earth could hardly raise.

  He heav’d it at a lift, and, pois’d on high,

  Ran stagg’ring on against his enemy,

  But so disorder’d, that he scarcely knew

  His way, or what unwieldly weight he threw.

  His knocking knees are bent beneath the load,

  And shiv’ring cold congeals his vital blood.

  The stone drops from his arms, and, falling short

  For want of vigor, mocks his vain effort.

  And as, when heavy sleep has clos’d the sight,

  The sickly fancy labors in the night;

  We seem to run; and, destitute of force,

  Our sinking limbs forsake us in the course:

  In vain we heave for breath; in vain we cry;

  The nerves, unbrac’d, their usual strength deny;

  And on the tongue the falt’ring accents die:

  So Turnus far’d; whatever means he tried,

  All force of arms and points of art employ’d,

  The Fury flew athwart, and made th’ endeavor void.

  A thousand various thoughts his soul confound;

  He star’d about, nor aid nor issue found;

  His own men stop the pass, and his own walls surround.

  Once more he pauses, and looks out again,

  And seeks the goddess charioteer in vain.

  Trembling he views the thund’ring chief advance,

  And brandishing aloft the deadly lance:

  Amaz’d he cow’rs beneath his conqu’ring foe,

  Forgets to ward, and waits the coming blow.

  Astonish’d while he stands, and fix’d with fear,

  Aim’d at his shield he sees th’ impending spear.

  The hero measur’d first, with narrow view,

  The destin’d mark; and, rising as he threw,

  With its full swing the fatal weapon flew.

  Not with less rage the rattling thunder falls,

  Or stones from batt’ring-engines break the walls:

  Swift as a whirlwind, from an arm so strong,

  The lance drove on, and bore the death along.

  Naught could his sev’nfold shield the prince avail,

  Nor aught, beneath his arms, the coat of mail:

  It pierc’d thro’ all, and with a grisly wound

  Transfix’d his thigh, and doubled him to ground.

  With groans the Latins rend the vaulted sky:

  Woods, hills, and valleys, to the voice reply.

  Now low on earth the lofty chief is laid,

  With eyes cast upward, and with arms display’d,

  And, recreant, thus to the proud victor pray’d:

  “I know my death deserv’d, nor hope to live:

  Use what the gods and thy good fortune give.

  Yet think, O think, if mercy may be shown-

  Thou hadst a father once, and hast a son-

  Pity my sire, now sinking to the grave;

  And for Anchises’ sake old Daunus save!

  Or, if thy vow’d revenge pursue my death,

  Give to my friends my body void of breath!

  The Latian chiefs have seen me beg my life;

  Thine is the conquest, thine the royal wife:

  Against a yielded man, ‘t is mean ignoble strife.”

  In deep suspense the Trojan seem’d to stand,

  And, just prepar’d to strike, repress’d his hand.

  He roll’d his eyes, and ev’ry moment felt

  His manly soul with more compassion melt;

  When, casting down a casual glance, he spied

  The golden belt that glitter’d on his side,

  The fatal spoils which haughty Turnus tore

  From dying Pallas, and in triumph wore.

  Then, rous’d anew to wrath, he loudly cries

  (Flames, while he spoke, came flashing from his eyes)

  “Traitor, dost thou, dost thou to grace pretend,

  Clad, as thou art, in trophies of my friend?

  To his sad soul a grateful off’ring go!

  ‘T is Pallas, Pallas gives this deadly blow.”

  He rais’d his arm aloft, and, at the word,

  Deep in his bosom drove the shining sword.

  The streaming blood distain’d his arms around,

  THE AENEID – Morris’ Translation

  The famous artist William Morris created a folio manuscript of Virgil’s Aeneid in 1875, employing an AABB rhyme scheme. Morris also translated large numbers of medieval and classical works, including Homer’s Odyssey in 1887.

  William Morris (1834-1896) was a textile designer, poet, novelist, translator, and socialist activist.

  MORRIS’ AENEID

  CONTENTS

  BOOK I.

  BOOK II.

  BOOK III.

  BOOK IV.

  BOOK V.

  BOOK VI.

  BOOK VII.

  BOOK VIII.

  BOOK IX.

  BOOK X.

  BOOK XI.

  BOOK XII.

  BOOK I.

  ARGUMENT.

  ÆNEAS AND HIS TROJANS BEING DRIVEN TO LIBYA BY A TEMPEST, HAVE GOOD WELCOME OF DIDO, QUEEN OF CARTHAGE.

  Lo I am he who led the song through slender reed to cry,

  And then, come forth from out the woods, the fields that are thereby

  In woven verse I bade obey the hungry tillers’ need:

  Now I, who sang their merry toil, sing Mars and dreadful deed.

  I sing of arms, I sing of him, who from the Trojan land

  Thrust forth by Fate, to Italy and that Lavinian strand

  First came: all tost about was he on earth and on the deep

  By heavenly might for Juno’s wrath, that had no mind to sleep:

  And plenteous war he underwent ere he his town might frame

  And set his Gods in Latian earth, whence is the Latin name,

  And father-folk of Alba-town, and walls of mighty Rome.

  Say, Muse, what wound of godhead was whereby all this must come,

  How grieving, she, the Queen of Gods, a man so pious drave

  To win such toil, to welter on through such a troublous wave:

  — Can anger in immortal minds abide so fierce and fell?

  There was a city of old time where Tyrian folk did dwell,

  Called Carthage, facing far away the shores of Italy

  And Tiber-mouth; fulfilled of wealth and fierce in arms was she,

  And men say Juno loved her well o’er every other
land,

  Yea e’en o’er Samos: there were stored the weapons of her hand,

  And there her chariot: even then she cherished the intent

  To make her Lady of all Lands, if Fate might so be bent;

  Yet had she heard how such a stem from Trojan blood should grow,

  As, blooming fair, the Tyrian towers should one day overthrow,

  That thence a folk, kings far and wide, most noble lords of fight,

  Should come for bane of Libyan land: such web the Parcæ dight.

  The Seed of Saturn, fearing this, and mindful how she erst

  For her beloved Argive walls by Troy the battle nursed —

  — Nay neither had the cause of wrath nor all those hurts of old

  Failed from her mind: her inmost heart still sorely did enfold

  That grief of body set at nought in Paris’ doomful deed,

  The hated race, and honour shed on heaven-rapt Ganymede —

  So set on fire, that Trojan band o’er all the ocean tossed,

  Those gleanings from Achilles’ rage, those few the Greeks had lost,

  She drave far off the Latin Land: for many a year they stray

  Such wise as Fate would drive them on by every watery way.

  — Lo, what there was to heave aloft in fashioning of Rome!

  Now out of sight of Sicily the Trojans scarce were come

  And merry spread their sails abroad and clave the sea with brass,

  When Juno’s heart, who nursed the wound that never thence would pass,

  Spake out:

  “And must I, vanquished, leave the deed I have begun,

  Nor save the Italian realm a king who comes of Teucer’s son?

  The Fates forbid it me forsooth? And Pallas, might not she

  Burn up the Argive fleet and sink the Argives in the sea

  For Oileus’ only fault and fury that he wrought?

  She hurled the eager fire of Jove from cloudy dwelling caught,

  And rent the ships and with the wind the heaped-up waters drew,

  And him a-dying, and all his breast by wildfire smitten through,

  The whirl of waters swept away on spiky crag to bide.

  While I, who go forth Queen of Gods, the very Highest’s bride

  And sister, must I wage a war for all these many years

  With one lone race? What! is there left a soul that Juno fears

  Henceforth? or will one suppliant hand gifts on mine altar lay?”

  So brooding in her fiery heart the Goddess went her way