Complete Works of Virgil

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Complete Works of Virgil Page 174

by Virgil


  sons of Laomedon, have ye made war?

  And will ye from their rightful kingdom drive

  the guiltless Harpies? Hear, O, hear my word

  (Long in your bosoms may it rankle sore!)

  which Jove omnipotent to Phoebus gave,

  Phoebus to me: a word of doom, which I,

  the Furies’ elder sister, here unfold:

  ‘To Italy ye fare. The willing winds

  your call have heard; and ye shall have your prayer

  in some Italian haven safely moored.

  But never shall ye rear the circling walls

  of your own city, till for this our blood

  by you unjustly spilt, your famished jaws

  bite at your tables, aye, — and half devour.’”

  She spoke: her pinions bore her to the grove,

  and she was seen no more. But all my band

  shuddered with shock of fear in each cold vein;

  their drooping spirits trusted swords no more,

  but turned to prayers and offerings, asking grace,

  scarce knowing if those creatures were divine,

  or but vast birds, ill-omened and unclean.

  Father Anchises to the gods in heaven

  uplifted suppliant hands, and on that shore

  due ritual made, crying aloud; “Ye gods

  avert this curse, this evil turn away!

  Smile, Heaven, upon your faithful votaries.”

  Then bade he launch away, the chain undo,

  set every cable free and spread all sail.

  O’er the white waves we flew, and took our way

  where’er the helmsman or the winds could guide.

  Now forest-clad Zacynthus met our gaze,

  engirdled by the waves; Dulichium,

  same, and Neritos, a rocky steep,

  uprose. We passed the cliffs of Ithaca

  that called Laertes king, and flung our curse

  on fierce Ulysses’ hearth and native land.

  nigh hoar Leucate’s clouded crest we drew,

  where Phoebus’ temple, feared by mariners,

  loomed o’er us; thitherward we steered and reached

  the little port and town. Our weary fleet

  dropped anchor, and lay beached along the strand.

  So, safe at land, our hopeless peril past,

  we offered thanks to Jove, and kindled high

  his altars with our feast and sacrifice;

  then, gathering on Actium’s holy shore,

  made fair solemnities of pomp and game.

  My youth, anointing their smooth, naked limbs,

  wrestled our wonted way. For glad were we,

  who past so many isles of Greece had sped

  and ‘scaped our circling foes. Now had the sun

  rolled through the year’s full circle, and the waves

  were rough with icy winter’s northern gales.

  I hung for trophy on that temple door

  a swelling shield of brass (which once was worn

  by mighty Abas) graven with this line:

  SPOIL OF AENEAS FROM TRIUMPHANT FOES.

  Then from that haven I command them forth;

  my good crews take the thwarts, smiting the sea

  with rival strokes, and skim the level main.

  Soon sank Phaeacia’s wind-swept citadels

  out of our view; we skirted the bold shores

  of proud Epirus, in Chaonian land,

  and made Buthrotum’s port and towering town.

  Here wondrous tidings met us, that the son

  of Priam, Helenus, held kingly sway

  o’er many Argive cities, having wed

  the Queen of Pyrrhus, great Achilles’ son,

  and gained his throne; and that Andromache

  once more was wife unto a kindred lord.

  Amazement held me; all my bosom burned

  to see the hero’s face and hear this tale

  of strange vicissitude. So up I climbed,

  leaving the haven, fleet, and friendly shore.

  That self-same hour outside the city walls,

  within a grove where flowed the mimic stream

  of a new Simois, Andromache,

  with offerings to the dead, and gifts of woe,

  poured forth libation, and invoked the shade

  of Hector, at a tomb which her fond grief

  had consecrated to perpetual tears,

  though void; a mound of fair green turf it stood,

  and near it rose twin altars to his name.

  She saw me drawing near; our Trojan helms

  met her bewildered eyes, and, terror-struck

  at the portentous sight, she swooning fell

  and lay cold, rigid, lifeless, till at last,

  scarce finding voice, her lips addressed me thus :

  “Have I true vision? Bringest thou the word

  Of truth, O goddess-born? Art still in flesh?

  Or if sweet light be fled, my Hector, where?”

  With flood of tears she spoke, and all the grove

  reechoed to her cry. Scarce could I frame

  brief answer to her passion, but replied

  with broken voice and accents faltering:

  “I live, ‘t is true. I lengthen out my days

  through many a desperate strait. But O, believe

  that what thine eyes behold is vision true.

  Alas! what lot is thine, that wert unthroned

  from such a husband’s side? What after-fate

  could give thee honor due? Andromache,

  once Hector’s wife, is Pyrrhus still thy lord?”

  With drooping brows and lowly voice she cried :

  “O, happy only was that virgin blest,

  daughter of Priam, summoned forth to die

  in sight of Ilium, on a foeman’s tomb!

  No casting of the lot her doom decreed,

  nor came she to her conqueror’s couch a slave.

  Myself from burning Ilium carried far

  o’er seas and seas, endured the swollen pride

  of that young scion of Achilles’ race,

  and bore him as his slave a son. When he

  sued for Hermione, of Leda’s line,

  and nuptial-bond with Lacedaemon’s Iords,

  I, the slave-wife, to Helenus was given,

  and slave was wed with slave. But afterward

  Orestes, crazed by loss of her he loved,

  and ever fury-driven from crime to crime,

  crept upon Pyrrhus in a careless hour

  and murdered him upon his own hearth-stone.

  Part of the realm of Neoptolemus

  fell thus to Helenus, who called his lands

  Chaonian, and in Trojan Chaon’s name

  his kingdom is Chaonia. Yonder height

  is Pergamus, our Ilian citadel.

  What power divine did waft thee to our shore,

  not knowing whither? Tell me of the boy

  Ascanius! Still breathes he earthly air?

  In Troy she bore him — is he mourning still

  that mother ravished from his childhood’s eyes?

  what ancient valor stirs the manly soul

  of thine own son, of Hector’s sister’s child?”

  Thus poured she forth full many a doleful word

  with unavailing tears. But as she ceased,

  out of the city gates appeared the son

  of Priam, Helenus, with princely train.

  He welcomed us as kin, and glad at heart

  gave guidance to his house, though oft his words

  fell faltering and few, with many a tear.

  Soon to a humbler Troy I lift my eyes,

  and of a mightier Pergamus discern

  the towering semblance; there a scanty stream

  runs on in Xanthus’ name, and my glad arms

  the pillars of a Scaean gate embrace.

  My Teucrian mariners with welcome free

  enjoyed the friendly town; his ample hal
ls

  our royal host threw wide; full wine-cups flowed

  within the palace; golden feast was spread,

  and many a goblet quaffed. Day followed day,

  while favoring breezes beckoned us to sea,

  and swelled the waiting canvas as they blew.

  Then to the prophet-priest I made this prayer:

  “Offspring of Troy, interpreter of Heaven!

  Who knowest Phoebus’ power, and readest well

  the tripod, stars, and vocal laurel leaves

  to Phoebus dear, who know’st of every bird

  the ominous swift wing or boding song,

  o, speak! For all my course good omens showed,

  and every god admonished me to sail

  in quest of Italy’s far-distant shores;

  but lone Celaeno, heralding strange woe,

  foretold prodigious horror, vengeance dark,

  and vile, unnatural hunger. How elude

  such perils? Or by what hard duty done

  may such huge host of evils vanquished be?”

  Then Helenus, with sacrifice of kine

  in order due, implored the grace of Heaven,

  unloosed the fillets from his sacred brow,

  and led me, Phoebus, to thy temple’s door,

  awed by th’ o’er-brooding godhead, whose true priest,

  with lips inspired, made this prophetic song:

  “O goddess-born, indubitably shines

  the blessing of great gods upon thy path

  across the sea; the heavenly King supreme

  thy destiny ordains; ‘t is he unfolds

  the grand vicissitude, which now pursues

  a course immutable. I will declare

  of thy large fate a certain bounded part;

  that fearless thou may’st view the friendly sea,

  and in Ausonia’s haven at the last

  find thee a fixed abode. Than this no more

  the Sister Fates to Helenus unveil,

  and Juno, Saturn’s daughter, grants no more.

  First, that Italia (which nigh at hand

  thou deemest, and wouldst fondly enter in

  by yonder neighboring bays) lies distant far

  o’er trackless course and long, with interval

  of far-extended lands. Thine oars must ply

  the waves of Sicily; thy fleet must cleave

  the large expanse of that Ausonian brine;

  the waters of Avernus thou shalt see,

  and that enchanted island where abides

  Aeaean Circe, ere on tranquil shore

  thou mayest plant thy nation. Lo! a sign

  I tell thee; hide this wonder in thy heart:

  Beside a certain stream’s sequestered wave,

  thy troubled eyes, in shadowy flex grove

  that fringes on the river, shall descry

  a milk-white, monstrous sow, with teeming brood

  of thirty young, new littered, white like her,

  all clustering at her teats, as prone she lies.

  There is thy city’s safe, predestined ground,

  and there thy labors’ end. Vex not thy heart

  about those ‘tables bitten’, for kind fate

  thy path will show, and Phoebus bless thy prayer.

  But from these lands and yon Italian shore,

  where from this sea of ours the tide sweeps in,

  escape and flee, for all its cities hold

  pernicious Greeks, thy foes: the Locri there

  have builded walls; the wide Sallentine fields

  are filled with soldiers of Idomeneus;

  there Meliboean Philoctetes’ town,

  petilia, towers above its little wall.

  Yea, even when thy fleet has crossed the main,

  and from new altars built along the shore

  thy vows to Heaven are paid, throw o’er thy head

  a purple mantle, veiling well thy brows,

  lest, while the sacrificial fire ascends

  in offering to the gods, thine eye behold

  some face of foe, and every omen fail.

  Let all thy people keep this custom due,

  and thou thyself be faithful; let thy seed

  forever thus th’ immaculate rite maintain.

  After departing hence, thou shalt be blown

  toward Sicily, and strait Pelorus’ bounds

  will open wide. Then take the leftward way:

  those leftward waters in long circuit sweep,

  far from that billowy coast, the opposing side.

  These regions, so they tell, in ages gone

  by huge and violent convulsion riven

  (Such mutability is wrought by time),

  sprang wide asunder; where the doubled strand

  sole and continuous lay, the sea’s vast power

  burst in between, and bade its waves divide

  Hesperia’s bosom from fair Sicily,

  while with a straitened firth it interflowed

  their fields and cities sundered shore from shore.

  The right side Scylla keeps; the left is given

  to pitiless Charybdis, who draws down

  to the wild whirling of her steep abyss

  the monster waves, and ever and anon

  flings them at heaven, to lash the tranquil stars.

  But Scylla, prisoned in her eyeless cave,

  thrusts forth her face, and pulls upon the rocks

  ship after ship; the parts that first be seen

  are human; a fair-breasted virgin she,

  down to the womb; but all that lurks below

  is a huge-membered fish, where strangely join

  the flukes of dolphins and the paunch of wolves.

  Better by far to round the distant goal

  of the Trinacrian headlands, veering wide

  from thy true course, than ever thou shouldst see

  that shapeless Scylla in her vaulted cave,

  where grim rocks echo her dark sea-dogs’ roar.

  Yea, more, if aught of prescience be bestowed

  on Helenus, if trusted prophet he,

  and Phoebus to his heart true voice have given,

  o goddess-born, one counsel chief of all

  I tell thee oft, and urge it o’er and o’er.

  To Juno’s godhead lift thy Ioudest prayer;

  to Juno chant a fervent votive song,

  and with obedient offering persuade

  that potent Queen. So shalt thou, triumphing,

  to Italy be sped, and leave behind

  Trinacria.When wafted to that shore,

  repair to Cumae’s hill, and to the Lake

  Avernus with its whispering grove divine.

  There shalt thou see a frenzied prophetess,

  who from beneath the hollow scarped crag

  sings oracles, or characters on leaves

  mysterious names. Whate’er the virgin writes,

  on leaves inscribing the portentous song,

  she sets in order, and conceals them well

  in her deep cave, where they abide unchanged

  in due array. Yet not a care has she,

  if with some swinging hinge a breeze sweeps in,

  to catch them as they whirl: if open door

  disperse them flutterlig through the hollow rock,

  she will not link their shifted sense anew,

  nor re-invent her fragmentary song.

  Oft her unanswered votaries depart,

  scorning the Sibyl’s shrine. But deem not thou

  thy tarrying too Iong, whate’er thy stay.

  Though thy companions chide, though winds of power

  invite thy ship to sea, and well would speed

  the swelling sail, yet to that Sibyl go.

  Pray that her own lips may sing forth for thee

  the oracles, uplifting her dread voice

  in willing prophecy. Her rede shall tell

  of Italy, its wars and tribes to be,

  and of what way each burden
and each woe

  may be escaped, or borne. Her favoring aid

  will grant swift, happy voyages to thy prayer.

  Such counsels Heaven to my lips allows.

  arise, begone! and by thy glorious deeds

  set Troy among the stars!”

  So spake the prophet with benignant voice.

  Then gifts he bade be brought of heavy gold

  and graven ivory, which to our ships

  he bade us bear; each bark was Ioaded full

  with messy silver and Dodona’s pride

  of brazen cauldrons; a cuirass he gave

  of linked gold enwrought and triple chain;

  a noble helmet, too, with flaming crest

  and lofty cone, th’ accoutrement erewhile

  of Neoptolemus. My father too

  had fit gifts from the King; whose bounty then

  gave steeds and riders; and new gear was sent

  to every sea-worn ship, while he supplied

  seafarers, kit to all my loyal crews.

  Anchises bade us speedily set sail,

  nor lose a wind so fair; and answering him,

  Apollo’s priest made reverent adieu:

  “Anchises, honored by the love sublime

  of Venus, self and twice in safety borne

  from falling Troy, chief care of kindly Heaven,

  th’ Ausonian shore is thine. Sail thitherward!

  For thou art pre-ordained to travel far

  o’er yonder seas; far in the distance lies

  that region of Ausonia, Phoebus’ voice

  to thee made promise of. Onward, I say,

  o blest in the exceeding loyal love

  of thy dear son! Why keep thee longer now?

  Why should my words yon gathering winds detain?”

  Likewise Andromache in mournful guise

  took last farewell, bringing embroidered robes

  of golden woof; a princely Phrygian cloak

  she gave Ascanius, vying with the King

  in gifts of honor; and threw o’er the boy

  the labors of her loom, with words like these:

  “Accept these gifts, sweet youth, memorials

  of me and my poor handicraft, to prove

  th’ undying friendship of Andromache,

  once Hector’s wife. Take these last offerings

  of those who are thy kin — O thou that art

  of my Astyanax in all this world

  the only image! His thy lovely eyes!

  Thy hands, thy lips, are even what he bore,

  and like thy own his youthful bloom would be.”

  Thus I made answer, turning to depart

  with rising tears: “Live on, and be ye blessed,

  whose greatness is accomplished! As for me,

  from change to change Fate summons, and I go;

  but ye have won repose. No leagues of sea

  await your cleaving keel. Not yours the quest

  of fading Italy’s delusive shore.

 

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