Complete Works of Virgil

by Virgil

  And joins their band: in goodliness all those did he outstrip:

  E’en such as when Apollo leaves the wintry Lycian shore,

  And Xanthus’ stream, and Delos sees, his mother’s isle once more;

  And halloweth in the dance anew, while round the altars shout

  The Cretans and the Dryopes, and painted Scythian rout:

  He steps it o’er the Cynthus’ ridge, and leafy crown to hold

  His flowing tresses doth he weave, and intertwines the gold,

  And on his shoulders clang the shafts. Nor duller now passed on

  Æneas, from his noble face such wondrous glory shone.

  So come they to the mountain-side and pathless deer-fed ground,

  And lo, from hill-tops driven adown, how swift the wild goats bound

  Along the ridges: otherwhere across the open lea

  Run hart and hind, and gathering up their hornèd host to flee,

  Amid a whirling cloud of dust they leave the mountain-sides.

  But here the boy Ascanius the midmost valley rides,

  And glad, swift-horsed, now these he leaves, now those he flees before,

  And fain were he mid deedless herds to meet a foaming boar,

  Or see some yellow lion come the mountain-slopes adown.

  Meanwhile with mighty murmuring sound confused the heavens are grown,

  And thereupon the drift of rain and hail upon them broke;

  Therewith the scattered Trojan youth, the Tyrian fellow-folk,

  The son of Venus’ Dardan son, scared through the meadows fly

  To diverse shelter, while the streams rush from the mountains high.

  Then Dido and the Trojan lord meet in the self-same cave;

  Then Earth, first-born of everything, and wedding Juno gave

  The token; then the wildfires flashed, and air beheld them wed,

  And o’er their bridal wailed the nymphs in hill-tops overhead.

  That day began the tide of death; that day the evil came;

  No more she heedeth eyes of men; no more she heedeth fame;

  No more hath Dido any thought a stolen love to win,

  But calls it wedlock: yea, e’en so she weaveth up the sin.

  Straight through the mighty Libyan folks is Rumour on the wing —

  Rumour, of whom nought swifter is of any evil thing:

  She gathereth strength by going on, and bloometh shifting oft!

  A little thing, afraid at first, she springeth soon aloft;

  Her feet are on the worldly soil, her head the clouds o’erlay.

  Earth, spurred by anger ‘gainst the Gods, begot her as they say,

  Of Coeus and Enceladus the latest sister-birth.

  Swift are her wings to cleave the air, swift-foot she treads the earth:

  A monster dread and huge, on whom so many as there lie

  The feathers, under each there lurks, O strange! a watchful eye;

  And there wag tongues, and babble mouths, and hearkening ears upstand

  As many: all a-dusk by night she flies ‘twixt sky and land

  Loud clattering, never shutting eye in rest of slumber sweet.

  By day she keepeth watch high-set on houses of the street,

  Or on the towers aloft she sits for mighty cities’ fear!

  And lies and ill she loves no less than sooth which she must bear.

  She now, rejoicing, filled the folk with babble many-voiced,

  And matters true and false alike sang forth as she rejoiced:

  How here was come Æneas now, from Trojan blood sprung forth,

  Whom beauteous Dido deemed indeed a man to mate her worth:

  How winter-long betwixt them there the sweets of sloth they nursed,

  Unmindful of their kingdoms’ weal, by ill desire accursed.

  This in the mouth of every man the loathly Goddess lays,

  And thence to King Iarbas straight she wendeth on her ways,

  To set his mind on fire with words, and high his wrath to lead.

  He, sprung from Garamantian nymph and very Ammon’s seed,

  An hundred mighty fanes to Jove, an hundred altars fair,

  Had builded in his wide domain, and set the watch-fire there,

  The everlasting guard of God: there fat the soil was grown

  With blood of beasts; the threshold bloomed with garlands diverse blown.

  He, saith the tale, all mad at heart, and fired with bitter fame,

  Amidmost of the might of God before the altars came,

  And prayed a many things to Jove with suppliant hands outspread:

  “O Jupiter, almighty lord, to whom from painted bed

  The banqueting Maurusian folk Lenæan joy pours forth,

  Dost thou behold? O Father, is our dread of nothing worth

  When thou art thundering? Yea, forsooth, a blind fire of the clouds,

  An idle hubbub of the sky, our souls with terror loads!

  A woman wandering on our shore, who set her up e’en now

  A little money-cheapened town, to whom a field to plough

  And lordship of the place we gave, hath thrust away my word

  Of wedlock, and hath taken in Æneas for her lord:

  And now this Paris, hedged around with all his gelding rout,

  Mæonian mitre tied to chin, and wet hair done about,

  Sits on the prey while to thine house a many gifts we bear,

  Still cherishing an idle tale who our begetters were.”

  The Almighty heard him as he prayed holding the altar-horns,

  And to the war-walls of the Queen his eyes therewith he turns,

  And sees the lovers heeding nought the glory of their lives;

  Then Mercury he calls to him, and such a bidding gives:

  “Go forth, O Son, the Zephyrs call, and glide upon the wing

  Unto the duke of Dardan men in Carthage tarrying,

  Who hath no eyes to see the walls that fate to him hath given:

  Speak to him, Son, and bear my words down the swift air of heaven:

  His fairest mother promised us no such a man at need,

  Nor claimed him twice from Greekish sword to live for such a deed.

  But Italy, the fierce in war, the big with empire’s brood,

  Was he to rule; to get for us from glorious Teucer’s blood

  That folk of folks, and all the world beneath his laws to lay.

  But if such glory of great deeds nought stirreth him today,

  Nor for his own fame hath he heart the toil to overcome,

  Yet shall the father grudge the son the towered heights of Rome?

  What doth he? tarrying for what hope among the enemy?

  And hath no eyes Ausonian sons, Lavinian land to see?

  Let him to ship! this is the doom; this word I bid thee bear.”

  He spake: his mighty father’s will straight did the God prepare

  To compass, and his golden shoes first bindeth on his feet,

  E’en those which o’er the ocean plain aloft on feathers fleet,

  Or over earth swift bear him on before the following gale:

  And then his rod he takes, wherewith he calleth spirits pale

  From Orcus, or those others sends sad Tartarus beneath,

  And giveth sleep and takes away, and openeth eyes to death;

  The rod that sways the ocean-winds and rules the cloudy rack.

  Now winging way he comes in sight of peak and steepy back

  Of flinty Atlas, on whose head all heaven is set adown —

  Of Atlas with the piny head, and never-failing crown

  Of mirky cloud, beat on with rain and all the winds that blow:

  A snow-cloak o’er his shoulders falls, and headlong streams overflow

  His ancient chin; his bristling beard with plenteous ice is done.

  There hovering on his poisèd wings stayed that Cyllenian one,

  And all his gathered body thence sent headlong toward the waves;

  Then like a bird the shores abo
ut, about the fishy caves,

  Skims low adown upon the wing the sea-plain’s face anigh,

  Not otherwise ‘twixt heaven and earth Cyllene’s God did fly;

  And now, his mother’s father great a long way left behind,

  Unto the sandy Libya’s shore he clave the driving wind.

  But when the cot-built place of earth he felt beneath his feet,

  He saw Æneas founding towers and raising houses meet:

  Starred was the sword about him girt with yellow jasper stone,

  The cloak that from his shoulders streamed with Tyrian purple shone:

  Fair things that wealthy Dido’s hand had given him for a gift,

  Who with the gleam of thready gold the purple web did shift.

  Then brake the God on him: “Forsooth, tall Carthage wilt thou found,

  O lover, and a city fair raise up from out the ground?

  Woe’s me! thy lordship and thy deeds hast thou forgotten quite?

  The very ruler of the Gods down from Olympus bright

  Hath sent me, he whose majesty the earth and heavens obey;

  This was the word he bade me bear adown the windy way.

  What dost thou? hoping for what hope in Libya dost thou wear

  Thy days? if glorious fated things thine own soul may not stir,

  And heart thou lackest for thy fame the coming toil to wed,

  Think on Ascanius’ dawn of days and hope inherited,

  To whom is due the Italian realm and all the world of Rome!”

  But when from out Cyllenius’ mouth such word as this had come,

  Amidst his speech he left the sight of men that die from day,

  And mid thin air from eyes of folk he faded far away.

  But sore the sight Æneas feared, and wit from out him drave;

  His hair stood up, amidst his jaws the voice within him clave.

  Bewildered by that warning word, and by that God’s command,

  He yearneth to depart and flee, and leave the lovely land.

  Ah, what to do? and with what word may he be bold to win

  Peace of the Queen all mad with love? what wise shall he begin?

  Hither and thither now he sends his mind all eager-swift,

  And bears it diversely away and runs o’er every shift:

  At last, as many things he weighed, this seemed the better rede.

  Mnestheus, Sergestus, straight he calls, Sergestus stout at need,

  And bids them dight ship silently and bring their folk to shore,

  And dight their gear, and cause thereof with lying cover o’er;

  While he himself, since of all this kind Dido knoweth nought,

  Nor of the ending of such love may ever have a thought,

  Will seek to draw anigh the Queen, seek time wherein the word

  May softliest be said to her, the matter lightliest stirred.

  So all they glad his bidding do, and get them to the work.

  But who may hoodwink loving eyes? She felt the treason lurk

  About her life, and from the first saw all that was to be;

  Fearing indeed where no fear was. That Rumour wickedly

  Told her wild soul of ship-host armed and ready to set out;

  The heart died in her; all aflame she raves the town about,

  E’en as a Thyad, who, soul-smit by holy turmoil, hears

  The voice of Bacchus on the day that crowns the triple years,

  And mirk Cithæron through the night hath called her clamorous.

  Unto Æneas at the last herself she speaketh thus:

  “O thou forsworn! and hast thou hoped with lies to cover o’er

  Such wickedness, and silently to get thee from my shore?

  Our love, it hath not held thee back? nor right hand given in faith

  Awhile agone? nor Dido doomed to die a bitter death?

  Yea, e’en beneath the winter heavens thy fleet thou gatherest

  In haste to fare across the main amid the north’s unrest

  O cruel! What if land unknown and stranger field and fold

  Thou sought’st not; if the ancient Troy stood as in days of old;

  Wouldst thou not still be seeking Troy across the wavy brine?

  — Yea, me thou fleest. O by these tears, by that right hand of thine,

  Since I myself have left myself unhappy nought but this,

  And by our bridal of that day and early wedding bliss,

  If ever I were worthy thanks, if sweet in aught I were,

  Pity a falling house! If yet be left a space for prayer,

  O then I pray thee put away this mind of evil things!

  Because of thee the Libyan folks, and those Numidian kings,

  Hate me, and Tyrians are my foes: yea, and because of thee

  My shame is gone, and that which was my heavenward road to be.

  My early glory. — Guest, to whom leav’st thou thy dying friend?

  Since of my husband nought but this is left me in the end.

  Why bide I till Pygmalion comes to lay my walls alow,

  Till taken by Getulian kings, Iarbas’ slave I go?

  Ah! if at least ere thou wert gone some child of thee I had!

  If yet Æneas in mine house might play a little lad,

  E’en but to bring aback the face of that beloved one,

  Then were I never vanquished quite, nor utterly undone.”

  She spake: he, warned by Jove’s command, his eyes still steadfast held,

  And, striving, thrust his sorrow back, howso his heart-strings swelled:

  At last he answered shortly thus:

  “O Queen, though words may fail

  To tell thy lovingkindness, ne’er my heart belies the tale:

  Still shall it be a joy to think of sweet Elissa’s days

  While of myself I yet may think, while breath my body sways.

  Few words about the deed in hand: ne’er in my mind it came

  As flees a thief to flee from thee; never the bridal flame

  Did I hold forth, or plight my troth such matters to fulfil.

  If fate would let me lead a life according to my will,

  Might I such wise as pleaseth me my troubles lay to rest,

  By Troy-town surely would I bide among the ashes blest

  Of my beloved, and Priam’s house once more aloft should stand;

  New Pergamus for vanquished men should rise beneath my hand.

  But now Grynean Phoebus bids toward Italy the great

  To reach my hand; to Italy biddeth the Lycian fate:

  There is my love, there is my land. If Carthage braveries

  And lovely look of Libyan walls hold fast thy Tyrian eyes,

  Why wilt thou grudge the Teucrian men Ausonian dwelling-place?

  If we too seek the outland realm, for us too be there grace!

  Father Anchises, whensoever night covereth up the earth

  With dewy dark, and whensoe’er the bright stars come to birth,

  His troubled image midst of sleep brings warning word and fear.

  Ascanius weigheth on my heart with wrong of head so dear,

  Whom I beguile of fateful fields and realm of Italy.

  Yea, even now God’s messenger sent from the Jove on high,

  (Bear witness either head of us!) bore doom of God adown

  The eager wind: I saw the God enter the fair-walled town

  In simple light: I drank his voice, yea with these ears of mine.

  Cease then to burn up with thy wail my burdened heart and thine!

  Perforce I follow Italy.”

  But now this long while, as he spake, athwart and wild she gazed,

  And here and there her eyeballs rolled, and strayed with silent look

  His body o’er; and at the last with heart of fire outbroke:

  “Traitor! no Goddess brought thee forth, nor Dardanus was first

  Of thine ill race; but Caucasus on spiky crags accurst

  Begot thee; and Hyrcanian dugs of tigers suckled thee.

/>   Why hide it now? why hold me back lest greater evil be?

  For did he sigh the while I wept? his eyes — what were they moved?

  Hath he been vanquished unto tears, or pitied her that loved?

  — Ah, is aught better now than aught, when Juno utter great,

  Yea and the Father on all this with evil eyen wait?

  All faith is gone! I took him in a stranded outcast, bare:

  Yea in my very throne and land, ah fool! I gave him share.

  His missing fleet I brought aback; from death I brought his friends.

  — Woe! how the furies burn me up! — Now seer Apollo sends,

  Now bidding send the Lycian lots; now sendeth Jove on high

  His messenger to bear a curse adown the windy sky!

  Such is the toil of Gods aloft; such are the cares that rack

  Their souls serene. — I hold thee not, nor cast thy words aback.

  Go down the wind to Italy! seek lordship o’er the sea!

  Only I hope amid the rocks, if any God there be,

  Thou shalt drink in thy punishment and call on Dido’s name

  Full oft: and I, though gone away, will follow with black flame;

  And when cold death from out my limbs my soul hath won away,

  I will be with thee everywhere; O wretch, and thou shalt pay.

  Ah, I shall hear; the tale of all shall reach me midst the dead.”

  Therewith she brake her speech athwart, and sick at heart she fled

  The outer air, and turned away, and gat her from his eyes;

  Leaving him dallying with his fear, and turning many wise

  The words to say. Her serving-maids the fainting body weak,

  Bear back unto the marble room and on the pillows streak.

  But god-fearing Æneas now, however fain he were

  To soothe her grief and with soft speech assuage her weary care,

  Much groaning, and the heart of him shaken with loving pain.

  Yet went about the God’s command and reached his ships again.

  Then fall the Teucrians on indeed, and over all the shore

  Roll the tall ships; the pitchy keel swims in the sea once more:

  They bear the oars still leaf-bearing: they bring the might of wood,

  Unwrought, so fain of flight they are,

  Lo now their flitting! how they run from all the town in haste!

  E’en as the ants, the winter-wise, are gathered whiles to waste

  A heap of corn, and toil that same beneath their roof to lay,

  Forth goes the black troop mid the mead, and carries forth the prey

  Over the grass in narrow line: some strive with shoulder-might

  And push along a grain o’ergreat, some drive the line aright,