THE
AENEID
OF
VIRGIL
_POETRY BY ROLFE HUMPHRIES_
THE AENEID OF VIRGIL: A VERSE TRANSLATION
THE WIND OF TIME
FORBID THY RAVENS
THE SUMMER LANDSCAPE
OUT OF THE JEWEL
THE POET IN NEW YORK (TRANSLATION FROM LORCA)
AND SPAIN SINGS (WITH M. J. Benardete)
EUROPA, AND OTHER POEMS, AND SONNETS
POEMS, COLLECTED AND NEW
GREEN ARMOR ON GREEN GROUND
THE
AENEID
OF
VIRGIL
A VERSE
TRANSLATION
BY
ROLFE HUMPHRIES
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS, NEW YORK
This translation is dedicated to the memory
of my first and best Latin teacher, my father,
John Henry Humphries.
_laus illi debetur et a me gratia maior_
INTRODUCTION
Virgil’s Aeneid is, of course, a major poem; it is also a great and
beautiful one. The scope of an epic requires, in the writing, a designed
variety, a calculated unevenness, now and then some easy-going
carelessness. So the reader win find, here and there, transitional
passages, the stock epithet, the conventional phrase, a few lines of
vamping, and, in this or that line, what the Spanish call _ripios_. Over
and above these matters of small detail, in the large panorama the
reader will find valleys as well as peaks, dry ravines as well as upland
meadows: the landscape is not always the same height above sea level,
and its flora and fauna vary more than a little. The epic terrain of the
Odyssey differs greatly from that of the Iliad, and both Iliad and
Odyssey differ from the Aeneid, but there is nothing obtrusive in
Virgil’s relatively studied concern with composition. Less wild and
“natural,” the demesnes of the Aeneid have their full measure of more
than pleasant countryside, loftiness also, majesty, grandeur.
Virgil, we have been told, wanted to burn the Aeneid; he was not
satisfied with it. This attitude, it seems to me, reflects fatigue and
exhaustion of spirit rather than considered literary judgment. The last
revisions are always the most enervating, and Virgil, one can well
believe, having worked on the poem for over a decade, had reached the
point where he felt he would rather do anything, including die, than go
over the poem one more time. If we had never known the poem was believed
incomplete, we would, I think, find it difficult to decide which were
the unsatisfactory portions. Who wants an epic poem absolutely perfect,
anyway? and how could the Aeneid be improved, really?
A charge is brought against the Aeneid that it is propaganda. I do not
know when this criticism first came to be brought; I suspect it is only
our own time, with its persistent devotion to all the aspects of
advertising and sloganeering, that feels sufficiently guilty about these
activities to project the accusation across twenty centuries. Virgil,
with whatever cheerfulness his nature was capable of, would readily have
agreed that the Aeneid was propaganda; but then he did not know the
invidious connotations of the word,--he would have taken it to mean only
“things that ought to be propagated.” An institute of propaganda
analysis would be completely baffled by the Aeneid; the conclusion might
be that the poem was either the best or the worst propaganda that had
ever been written. What kind of propaganda is it to begin a nationalist
epic with the sorrowful sigh, “It was such a great burden,--a millstone
around the neck--to found the Roman race”? What kind of propaganda is it
to make the enemies, by and large, more interesting and sympathetic and
colorful fellows than our own side? Lausus and Mezentius, for example,
are a far more engaging father-and-son combination than Aeneas-Anchises,
Aeneas-Ascanius, or Evander-Pallas. Dido and Camilla command our
admiration much more than the blushing Lavinia or the fading Creusa. We
respond to Turnus, and are at best coldly respectful to Aeneas. What
goes on here, anyway? Shouldn’t some patriotic organization investigate
this subversive writer, secretly in the pay of a foreign power? On the
other hand, it is just possible that this is the very best form which
national propaganda can take, the implicit and pervasive doctrine that
great and good as our enemies may be, we can admire them, surpass them,
be just to them, and not be afraid of them, either.
A word or two about the character of Aeneas. It may be that the trouble
with him is really the trouble with us. We are not mature enough to
accept, as epic hero, a man who is imaginative, sensitive, compassionate
(everywhere except in parts of Books IV and X), and, in short,
civilized; in other words, a paradox. There seems to be almost no
aggression at all in the character of Aeneas: even in his dreams he
wants to get out of trouble and avoid fighting. We don’t like this; we
find most satisfactory those moments when he is telling Dido off, or
making bitter sarcastic speeches at Lucagus and Liger. We object,
further, that when he does fight, he knows very well that he is
protected by the gods and by magic armor. (Yet we do not mind the latter
in the case of, for instance, Superman; and would we rather have our
hero sponsored by devils?) In the matter of invulnerability we are, I
think, a little unjust: Virgil takes some pains to show that he can be
hurt: he rushes in, unarmed, to preserve the truce; he is grievously
wounded by the death of Pallas. In any event, we need not feel too
guilty if we are not crazy about Aeneas; there is little in the record
to show that the Romans left enthusiastic encomia, either.
As between Virgil and Homer, there can be no real comparison. Judged by
any standard, Homer is the greater writer; judged by our own, Virgil is
sometimes the better one. His immediate audience consisted of men much
more like ourselves than did Homer’s; and Virgil is considerate of their
special sensitivities in a way that Homer did not have to bother to be.
What he thought he might require of Homer, of course he went and took;
it seems to me that in the taking he always modifies, often, from our
point of view, improves. He will, for one thing, always design and order
more carefully: Book VI, for example, is much more artistically worked
out than the descent to the dead in the Odyssey. And the games in Book
V, though many details are lifted entire from the Iliad, have quite
their own quality, a light-heartedness in the horseplay, a humor and
gaiety entirely different from the uncouth bragging and brawling of the
Homeric competitors. I think it is only literary scholars who could
possibly look down their noses at this book. And in his scenes and
stories of battle Virgil, it seems to me, is far more respectful to the
modern reader’s sense of credulity than Homer is; no student of a work
rather current in 1917, _Small Problems of Infantry_, would have any
difficulty in understanding what went wrong with the mission of Nisus
and Euryalus in Book IX.
It is too bad that the Aeneid, as a whole, is not better known in
America. The general practice in our secondary schools has come to be
that of reading Books I, II, IV, and VI, and that’s all. This seems to
me a peculiar way to deal with a work of art, like looking at selected
portions of the Venus of Milo. I do not see how any intelligent American
boys or girls can go this slowly, unless they stop to scan every line,
note every example of synecdoche or synizesis, and parse all the
grammatical constructions, with special attention to the poetical dative
of agent and the Greek middle voice accusative of respect. And where the
impression grew that the last six books are inferior in interest to the
first I do not understand. Virgil, for one, did not think so. _Maius
opus moveo._
It is a peculiar, paradoxical kind of great poem, this Aeneid. For us, I
think, its greatness can be found in ways that may have had less appeal
to the Roman mind. Its references may mean less, its music more. Not
only the music of the lines, but the music of the whole: this is a
composition, and the pleasure comes in listening to it as one would to a
great symphony (and not too much attention, please, to the program
notes). This is a composition, the Aeneid, beautifully wrought,
beautifully balanced. Professor Conway has written an illuminating essay
dealing with the poem in terms of its architecture; in detail, his
analysis is excellent, but the central metaphor is a little unhappy if
it leads you to envisage the Aeneid as an impressive pile, frozen and
static. The poem _moves_, in more senses than one: the thing to do is to
feel it and listen to it. Hear how the themes vary and recur; how the
tone lightens and darkens, the volume swells or dies, the tempo rushes
or lingers. Take in the poem with the mind, to be sure; take it in with
the eye as well; but above all, hearken to it with the ear.
This translation is a quick and unscrupulous job. I am not being modest:
a modest man would never have started, and a scrupulous one never
finished. I have, nevertheless, been not entirely without principles. I
have been trying to translate the poem, rather than transliterate its
words. In doing so, I have transposed lines, cut some proper names and
allusions where I thought they would excessively slow down reader
interest, substituted the general for the specific or the specific for
the general, and in short taken all kinds of liberties, such as no pure
scholar could possibly approve. But I doubt if there is any such thing
as an absolutely pure scholar, anyhow. A loose iambic pentameter has
seemed to me the most convenient medium, though in some passages, where
the tempo runs faster, you might not recognize it; and I have, by no
means faithfully following Virgil, occasionally used his device of the
half-line. I have preferred solecisms to archaisms: thus I have never
used the second person singular pronoun. I know I have committed
anachronisms, but, then, I know Virgil did too, and I have, in my
opinion heroically, resisted one or two obvious temptations in this
regard. What I have tried to be faithful to is the meaning of the poem
as I understand it, to make it sound to you, wherever I can, the way it
feels to me. Working on it, I have been impressed, more than ever
through the thirty-odd years I have read it, by its richness and
variety: to mention only one point, the famous Virgilian melancholy, the
tone of _Sunt lacrimae rerum_, is, I begin to notice, a recurring, not
a sustained, theme. There is much more rugged and rough, harsh and
bitter, music in Virgil than you might suspect if you have only read
_about_ him. A recent essay by Mark Van Doren has given me considerable
heart in offering this new translation: there is a kind of scholastic
snobbishness, he points out, in the insistence that no man knows
anything who has not read the classics in the original. It is better, no
doubt, to read Virgil in his own Latin, but still--I hope some people
may have some pleasure of him, some idea of how good he was, through
this English arrangement.
ROLFE HUMPHRIES
New York City,
January, 1951
CONTENTS
BOOK I
The Landing near Carthage 3
BOOK II
The Fall of Troy 31
BOOK III
The Wanderings of Aeneas 61
BOOK IV
Aeneas and Dido 87
BOOK V
The Funeral Games for Anchises 113
BOOK VI
The Lower World 143
BOOK VII
Italy: the Outbreak of War 177
BOOK VIII
Aeneas at the Site of Rome 207
BOOK IX
In the Absence of Aeneas 233
BOOK X
Arms and the Man 263
BOOK XI
The Despair of the Latins 299
BOOK XII
The Final Combat 335
Appendix 371
THE
AENEID
OF
VIRGIL
BOOK I
THE LANDING NEAR CARTHAGE
Arms and the man I sing, the first who came,
Compelled by fate, an exile out of Troy,
To Italy and the Lavinian coast,
Much buffeted on land and on the deep
By violence of the gods, through that long rage,
That lasting hate, of Juno’s. And he suffered
Much, also, in war, till he should build his town
And bring his gods to Latium, whence, in time,
The Latin race, the Alban fathers, rose
And the great walls of everlasting Rome.
Help me, O Muse, recall the reasons: why,
Why did the queen of heaven drive a man
So known for goodness, for devotion, through
So many toils and perils? Was there slight,
Affront, or outrage? Is vindictiveness
An attribute of the celestial mind?
There was an ancient city, Carthage, once
Founded by Tyrians, facing Italy
And Tiber’s mouth, far-off, a wealthy town,
War-loving, and aggressive; and Juno held
Even her precious Samos in less regard.
Here were her arms, her chariot, and here,
Should fate at all permit, the goddess burned
To found the empire of the world forever.
But, she had heard, a Trojan race would come,
Some day, to overthrow the Tyrian towers,
A race would come, imperious people, proud
In war, with wide dominion, bringing doom
For Libya. Fate willed it so. And Juno
Feared, and remembered: there was the old war
She fought at Troy for her dear Greeks; her mind
Still fed on hurt and anger; deep in her heart
Paris’ decision rankled, and the wrong
Offered her slighted beauty; and the hatred
Of the whole race; and Ganymede’s honors--
All that was fuel to fire; she tossed and harried
All over the seas, wherever she could, those Trojans
Who had survived the Greeks and fierce Achilles,
And so they wandered over many an ocean,
Through many a year, fate-hounded. Such a struggle
It was to found the race of Rome!
They were happy
Spreading the sail, rushing the foam with bronze,
And Sicily hardly out of sight, when Juno,
Still nourishing the everlasting wound,
Raged to herself: “I am beaten, I suppose;
It seems I cannot keep this Trojan king
From Italy. The fates, no doubt, forbid me.
Pallas, of course, could burn the Argive ships,
Could drown the sailors, all for one man’s guilt,
The crazy acts of Ajax. Her own hand
Hurled from the cloud Jove’s thunderbolt, and shattered
Their ships all over the sea; she raised up storm
And tempest; she spiked Ajax on the rocks,
Whirled him in wind, blasted his heart with fire.
And I, who walk my way as queen of the gods,
Sister of Jove, and wife of Jove, keep warring
With one tribe through the long, long years. Who cares
For Juno’s godhead? Who brings sacrifice
Devoutly to her altars?”
Brooding, burning,
She sought Aeolia, the storm-clouds’ dwelling,
A land that sweeps and swarms with the winds’ fury,
Whose monarch, Aeolus, in his deep cave rules
Imperious, weighing down with bolt and prison
Those boisterous struggling roarers, who go raging
Around their bars, under the moan of the mountain.
High over them their sceptered lord sits watching,
Soothing, restraining, their passionate proud spirit,
Lest, uncontrolled, they seize, in their wild keeping,
The land, the sea, the arch of sky, in ruin
Sweeping through space. This Jupiter feared; he hid them
Deep in dark caverns, with a mass of mountain
Piled over above them, and a king to give them
Most certain regulation, with a knowledge
When to hold in, when to let go. Him Juno
Approached in supplication:--“Aeolus,
Given by Jove the power to still the waters,
Or raise them with a gale, a tribe I hate
Is on its way to Italy, and they carry
Troy with them, and their household gods, once beaten.
Shake anger into those winds of yours, turn over
Their ships, and drown them; drive them in all directions,
Litter the sea with bodies! For such service
The loveliest nymph I have, Deiopea,
Shall be your bride forever, and you will father
Fair children on her fairness.” Aeolus
Made answer: “Yours, O Queen, the task of seeking
Whatever it is you will; and mine the duty
To follow with performance. All my empire,
My sceptre, Jove’s indulgence, are beholden
To Juno’s favor, by whose blessing I
Attend the feasts of the gods and rule this storm-land.”
His spear-butt struck the hollow mountain-side,
And the winds, wherever they could, came sweeping forth,
Whirled over the land, swooped down upon the ocean.
East, South, Southwest, they heave the billows, howl,
Storm, roll the giant combers toward the shore.
Men cry; the rigging creaks and strains; the clouds
Darken, and men see nothing; a weight of darkness
Broods over the deep; the heavy thunder rumbles
From pole to pole; the lightning rips and dazzles;
There is no way out but death. Aeneas shudders
In the chill shock, and lifts both hands to heaven:--
“O happy men, thrice happy, four times happy,
Who had the luck to die, with their fathers watching
Below the walls of Troy! Ah, Diomedes,
Bravest of Greeks, why could I not have fallen,
Bleeding my life away on plains of Ilium
In our encounter there, where mighty Hector
Went down before Achilles’ spear, and huge
Sarpedon lay in dust, and Simois river
Rolled to the sea so many noble heroes,
All drowned in all their armor?” And the gale
Howls from the north, striking the sail, head on;
The waves are lifted to the stars; the oars
Are broken, and the prow slews round; the ship
Lies broadside on; a wall of water, a mountain,
Looms up, comes pouring down; some ride the crest,
Some, in the trough, can see the boil of the sand.
The South wind hurls three ships on the hidden rocks,
That sea-reef which Italians call the Altars;
The West takes three, sweeping them from the deep
On shoal and quicksand; over the stern of one,
Before Aeneas’ eyes, a great sea falls,
Washing the helmsman overboard; the ship
Whirls thrice in the suck of the water and goes down
In the devouring gulf; and here and there
A few survivors swim, the Lycian men
Whose captain was Orontes; now their arms,
Their Trojan treasures, float with the broken timbers
On the swing and slide of the waves. The storm, triumphant,
Rides down more boats, and more; there goes Achates;
Abas, Aletes, Ilioneus,
Receive the hostile water; the walls are broken;
The enemy pours in.
But meanwhile Neptune
Saw ocean in a welter of confusion,
The roar of storm, and deep and surface mingled.
Troublesome business, this; he rose, majestic,
From under the waves, and saw the Trojan vessels
Scattered all over the sea by the might of the waves
And the wreck of sky; he recognized the anger
And cunning of his sister, and he summoned
The winds by name:--“What arrogance is this,
What pride of birth, you winds, to meddle here
Without my sanction, raising all this trouble?
I’ll--No, the waves come first: but listen to me,
You are going to pay for this! Get out of here!
Go tell your king the lordship of the ocean,
The trident, are not his, but mine. His realm
Reaches no further than the rocks and caverns
You brawlers dwell in; let him rule that palace,
Big as he pleases, shut you in, and stay there!”
This said, he calmed the swollen sea and cloud,
Brought back the sun; Cymothoe and Triton,
Heaving together, pulled the ships from the reef,
As Neptune used his trident for a lever,
Opened the quicksand, made the water smooth,
And the flying chariot skimmed the level surface.
Sometimes, in a great nation, there are riots
With the rabble out of hand, and firebrands fly
And cobblestones; whatever they lay their hands on
Is a weapon for their fury, but should they see
One man of noble presence, they fall silent,
Obedient dogs, with ears pricked up, and waiting,
Waiting his word, and he knows how to bring them
Back to good sense again. So ocean, roaring,
Subsided into stillness, as the sea-god
Looked forth upon the waters, and clear weather
Shone over him as he drove his flying horses.
Aeneas’ weary children make for harbor,
Whichever lies most near, and the prows are turned
To Libya’s coast-line. In a bay’s deep curve
They find a haven, where the water lies
With never a ripple. A little island keeps
The sea-swell off, and the waves break on its sides
And slide back harmless. The great cliffs come down
Steep to deep water, and the background shimmers,
Darkens and shines, the tremulous aspen moving
And the dark fir pointing still. And there is a cave
Under the overhanging rocks, alive
With water running fresh, a home of the Nymphs,
With benches for them, cut from the living stone.
No anchor is needed here for weary ships,
No mooring-cable. Aeneas brings them in,
Seven weary vessels, and the men are glad
To be ashore again, to feel dry sand
Under the salt-stained limbs. Achates strikes
The spark from the flint, catches the fire on leaves,
Adds chips and kindling, blows and fans the flame,
And they bring out the soaked and salty corn,
The hand-mills, stone and mortar, and make ready,
As best they can, for bread.
Meanwhile Aeneas
Climbs to a look-out, for a view of the ocean,
Hoping for some good luck; the Phrygian galleys
Might meet his gaze, or Capys’ boats, or a pennon
On a far-off mast-head flying. There is nothing,
Nothing to see out yonder, but near the water
Three stags are grazing, with a herd behind them,
A long line browsing through the peaceful valley.
He reaches for the bow and the swift arrows
Borne by Achates, and he shoots the leaders,
High-antlered, routs the common herd, and ceases
Only when seven are slain, a number equal
To the ships’ tally, and then he seeks the harbor,
Divides the spoil, broaches the wine Acestes
Had stowed for them at Drepanum on their leaving,
A kingly present, and he calms their trouble,
Saying: “O comrades, we have been through evil
Together before this; we have been through worse,
Scylla, Charybdis, and the Cyclops’ dwelling,
The sounding rocks. This, too, the god will end.
Call the nerve back; dismiss the fear, the sadness.
Some day, perhaps, remembering even this
Will be a pleasure. We are going on
Through whatsoever chance and change, until
We come to Latium, where the fates point out
A quiet dwelling-place, and Troy recovered.
Endure, and keep yourself for better days.”
He kept to himself the sorrow in the heart,
Wearing, for them, a mask of hopefulness.
They were ready for the feasting. Part lay bare
The flesh from the torn hides, part cut the meat
Impaling it, still quivering, on spits,
Setting the kettles, keeping the water boiling,
And strong with food again, sprawling stretched out
On comfortable grass, they take their fill
Of bread and wine and venison, till hunger
Is gone, and the board cleared. And then they talk
For a long time, of where their comrades are,
Are, or may be, hopeful and doubtful both.
Could they believe them living? or would a cry
Fall on deaf ears forever? All those captains,
Brave Gyas, brave Cloanthus, Amycus,
Lycus, Orontes,--in his secret heart
Aeneas mourns them.
Meanwhile, from the heaven
Jupiter watched the lands below, and the seas
With the white points of sails, and far-off people,
Turning his gaze toward Libya. And Venus
Came to him then, a little sadly, tears
Brimming in those bright eyes of hers. “Great father,”
She said, “Great ruler of the world
Of men and gods, great wielder of the lightning,
What has my poor Aeneas done? what outrage
Could Trojans perpetrate, so that the world
Rejects them everywhere, and many a death
Inflicted on them over Italy?
There was a promise once, that as the years
Rolled onward, they would father Rome and rulers
Of Roman stock, to hold dominion over
All sea and land. That was a promise, father;
What changed it? Once that promise was my comfort;
Troy fell; I weighed one fate against another
And found some consolation. But disaster
Keeps on; the same ill-fortune follows after.
What end of it all, great king? One man, Antenor,
Escaped the Greeks, came through Illyrian waters
Safe to Liburnian regions, where Timavus
Roars underground, comes up nine times, and reaches
The floodland near the seas. One man, Antenor,
Founded a city, Padua, a dwelling
For Trojan men, a resting-place from labor,
And shares their quietude. But we, your children,
To whom heaven’s height is granted, we are betrayed,
We have lost our ships, we are kept from Italy,
Kept far away. One enemy--I tell you
This is a shameful thing! Do we deserve it?
Is this our rise to power?”
He smiled, in answer,
The kind of smile that clears the air, and kissed her.
“Fear not, my daughter; fate remains unmoved
For the Roman generations. You will witness
Lavinium’s rise, her walls fulfill the promise;
You will bring to heaven lofty-souled Aeneas.
There has been no change in me whatever. Listen!
To ease this care, I will prophesy a little,
I will open the book of fate. Your son Aeneas
Will wage a mighty war in Italy,
Beat down proud nations, give his people laws,
Found them a city, a matter of three years
From victory to settlement. His son,
The boy Ascanius, named Ilus once,
When Troy was standing, and now called Iulus,
Shall reign for thirty years, and great in power
Forsake Lavinium, transfer the kingdom
To Alba Longa, new-built capital.
Here, for three hundred years, the line of Hector
Shall govern, till a royal priestess bears
Twin sons to Mars, and Romulus, rejoicing
In the brown wolf-skin of his foster-mother,
Takes up the tribe, and builds the martial walls
And calls the people, after himself, the Romans.
To these I set no bounds in space or time;
They shall rule forever. Even bitter Juno
Whose fear now harries earth and sea and heaven
Will change to better counsels, and will cherish
The race that wears the toga, Roman masters
Of all the world. It is decreed. The time
Will come, as holy years wheel on, when Troy
Will subjugate Mycenae, vanquish Phthia,
Be lord of Argos. And from this great line
Will come a Trojan, Caesar, to establish
The limit of his empire at the ocean,
His glory at the stars, a man called Julius
Whose name recalls Iulus. Welcome waits
For him in heaven; all the spoils of Asia
Will weigh him down, and prayer be made before him.
Then wars will cease, and a rough age grow gentler,
White Faith and Vesta, Romulus and Remus,
Give law to nations. War’s grim gates will close,
Tight-shut with bars of iron, and inside them
The wickedness of war sit bound and silent,
The red mouth straining and the hands held tight
In fastenings of bronze, a hundred hundred.”
With that, he sent down Mercury from heaven
That Carthage might be kindly, and her land
And new-built towers receive them with a welcome,
And their queen, Dido, knowing the will of fate,
Swing wide her doors. On the oarage of his wings
He flies through the wide sweep of air to Libya,
Where, at the will of the god, the folk make ready
In kindliness of heart, and their queen’s purpose
Is gracious and gentle.
All night long Aeneas
Had pondered many a care, and with bright morning
Resolved to reconnoiter; the winds have brought him
To a new country: who lives in it, men
Or only beasts? The fields appear untended.
The fleet lies under a hollow cliff, surrounded
By spikes of shade, and groves arch overhead,
Ample concealment. Aeneas and Achates
Went forth together, armed, down the trail in the forest,
And there his mother met him, a girl, it seemed,
From Thrace or Sparta, trim as any huntress
Who rides her horses hard, or outspeeds rivers
In her swift going. A bow hung over her shoulder,
Her hair blew free, her knees were bare, her garments
Tucked at the waist and knotted. As she saw them,
“Ho there, young men,” she cried, “have you seen my sister
Around here anywhere? She wears a quiver,
And a spotted lynx-hide; maybe you have heard her
Hunting the boar and shouting?”
But her son
Responded: “No; we have heard no sounds of hunting.
We have seen no one here. But tell me, maiden,
What name to call you by? In voice and feature
You are, I think, no mortal; a goddess, surely,--
Nymph, or Apollo’s sister? Whoever you are,
Be kind to us, lighten our trouble, tell us
Under what sky, along what coast of the world,
We wander, knowing neither land nor people,
Driven by gales and billows. Many a victim
We shall make ready for your altar.” Venus
Answered: “I have no title to such honor.
The Tyrian girls all wear these crimson leggings
Lake mine, and carry quivers. Tyrian folk
Live here; their city is Carthage; over the border
Lies Libya, warlike people. Our queen, Dido,
Came here from Tyre; she was fleeing from her brother,--
A long and complicated story; outrage,--
No matter; here it is, in brief. Her husband
Was Sychaeus, wealthiest of all Phoenicians,
At least in land, and Dido loved him dearly
Since first her father gave her to him, virgin,
And then unlucky bride. She had a brother,
Pygmalion, king of Tyre, a monster, evil
In wickedness, and madness came between
Those men, the two of them. Pygmalion murdered
Sychaeus at the altar; he was crazy
And blind for gold and crafty; what did he care
About his sister’s love? And he kept it quiet
For a long time, kept telling Dido something
To fool her with false comfort, but Sychaeus
Came to her in a dream, a ghost, unburied,
With the wounds in his breast, the story of the altar,
The pale lips blurting out the secret horror,
The crime in the dark of the household. _Flee_, he told her,
_Forsake this land_; and he told her where the treasure
Lay hidden in earth, uncounted gold and silver.
Dido was moved to flight, secured companions,
All those possessed by fear, all those whom hatred
Had made relentless; ships were standing ready,
As it so happened; they put the gold aboard,
And over the sea the greedy tyrant’s treasure
Went sailing, with a woman for a captain.
They came here; you will see the walls arising
And the great citadel of the town called Carthage.
Here they bought ground; they used to call it Byrsa,
That being a word for bull’s hide; they bought only
What a bull’s hide could cover. And now tell me
Who you might be yourselves? what land do you come from,
Bound for what coast?”
And he began his answer
With a long sigh: “O goddess, if I told you
All from the first beginning, if you had leisure
To listen to the record of our trouble,
It would take me all day long. From ancient Troy,
In case that name means anything, we come
Driven over many seas, and now a storm
Has whipped us on this coast. I am Aeneas,
A good, devoted man; I carry with me
My household gods, saved from the Greeks; I am known
In heaven; it is Italy I seek,
A homeland for me there, and a race descended
From lofty Jove. With a score of ships we started
Over the Phrygian ocean, following fate
And the way my mother pointed. Only seven
Are left us now, battered survivors, after
The rage of wind and wave. And here I wander
The wastes of Libya, unknown and needy,
Driven from Europe and Asia.” And his mother
Broke in on his complaining:--“Whoever you are,
Some god must care for you, I think, to bring you
Here to the city of Carthage. Follow on,
Go to the royal palace. For, I tell you,
Your comrades have returned, your fleet is safe,
Brought to good haven by the turn of the winds,
Unless the augury my parents taught me
Was foolish nonsense. In the heaven yonder
You see twelve swans, rejoicing in long column,
Scattered, a little while ago, and driven
By the swooping eagle, over all the sky,
But now, it seems, they light on land, or watch
Those who came down before them; as they circle
In company, and make a cheerful sound
With whir of wing or song, so, let me tell you,
Your ships and men already enter harbor
Or near it under full sail. Keep on, go forward
Where the path leads.”
And as she turned, her shoulders
Shone with a radiant light; her hair shed fragrance,
Her robes slipped to her feet, and the true goddess
Walked in divinity. He knew his mother,
And his voice pursued her flight: “Cruel again!
Why mock your son so often with false phantoms?
Why may not hand be joined to hand, and words
Exchanged in truthfulness?” So, still reproachful,
He went on toward the city, with Achates,
But Venus cast dark air around their going,
A veil of mist, so that no man might see them
Or lay a hand on them, or halt them, asking
The reasons of their coming. She soared upward
To Paphos, happily home to temple and altars
Steaming with incense, redolent with garlands.
And they went on, where the little pathway led them
To rising ground; below them lay the city,
Majestic buildings now, where once were hovels,
A wonder to Aeneas, gates and bustle
And well-paved streets, the busy Tyrians toiling
With stones for walls and citadel, or marking
Foundations for their homes, drainage and furrow,
All under ordered process. They dredge harbors,
Set cornerstones, quarry the rock, where someday
Their theater will tower. They are like bees
In early summer over the country flowers
When the sun is warm, and the young of the hive emerge,
And they pack the molten honey, bulge the cells
With the sweet nectar, add new loads, and harry
The drones away from the hive, and the work glows,
And the air is sweet with bergamot and clover.
“Happy the men whose walls already rise!”
Exclaims Aeneas, gazing on the city,
And enters there, still veiled in cloud--a marvel!--
And walks among the people, and no one sees him.
There was a grove in the middle of the city,
Most happy in its shade; this was the place
Where first the Tyrians, tossed by storm and whirlwind,
Dug up the symbol royal Juno showed them,
The skull of a war-horse, a sign the race to come
Would be supreme in war and wealth, for ages,
And Dido here was building a great temple
In Juno’s honor, rich in gifts, and blessed
With the presence of the goddess. Lintel and rafter
Were bronze above bronze stairways, and bronze portals
Swung on bronze hinges. Here Aeneas first
Dared hope for safety, find some reassurance
In hope of better days: a strange sight met him,
To take his fear away. Waiting the queen,
He stood there watching, under the great temple,
Letting his eyes survey the city’s fortune,
The artist’s workmanship, the craftsman’s labor,
And there, with more than wonder, he sees the battles
Fought around Troy, and the wars whose fame had travelled
The whole world over; there is Agamemnon,
Priam, and Menelaus, and Achilles,
A menace to them all. He is moved to tears.
“What place in all the world,” he asks Achates,
“Is empty of our sorrow? There is Priam!
Look! even here there are rewards for praise,
There are tears for things, and what men suffer touches
The human heart. Dismiss your fear; this story
Will bring some safety to you.” Sighing often,
He could not turn his gaze away; it was only
A picture on a wall, but the sight afforded
Food for the spirit’s need. He saw the Greeks,
Hard-pressed, in flight, and Trojans coming after,
Or, on another panel, the scene reversed,
Achilles in pursuit, his own men fleeing;
He saw, and tears came into his eyes again,
The tents of Rhesus, snowy-white, betrayed
In their first sleep by bloody Diomedes
With many a death, and the fiery horses driven
Into the camp, before they ever tasted
The grass of Troy, or drank from Xanthus’ river.
Another scene showed Troilus, poor youngster,
Running away, his arms flung down; Achilles
Was much too good for him; he had fallen backward
Out of his car, but held the reins, and the horses
Dragged him along the ground, his hair and shoulders
Bounding in dust, and the spear making a scribble.
And there were Trojan women, all in mourning,
With streaming hair, on their way to Pallas’ temple,
Bearing, as gift, a robe, but the stern goddess
Kept her gaze on the ground. Three times Achilles
Had dragged the body of Hector around the walls,
And was selling it for money. What a groan
Came from Aeneas’ heart, seeing that spoil,
That chariot, and helpless Priam reaching
His hands, unarmed, across the broken body!
And he saw himself there, too, fighting in battle
Against Greek leaders, he saw the Eastern columns,
And swarthy Memnon’s arms. Penthesilea,
The Amazon, blazes in fury, leading
Her crescent-shielded thousands, a golden buckle
Below her naked breast, a soldieress
Fighting with men.
And as he watched these marvels
In one long fascinated stare of wonder,
Dido, the queen, drew near; she came to the temple
With a great train, all majesty, all beauty,
As on Eurotas’ riverside, or where
Mount Cynthus towers high, Diana leads
Her bands of dancers, and the Oreads follow
In thousands, right and left, the taller goddess,
The quiver-bearing maiden, and Latona
Is filled with secret happiness, so Dido
Moved in her company, a queen, rejoicing,
Ordering on her kingdom’s rising glory.
At Juno’s portal, under the arch of the temple,
She took her throne, a giver of law and justice,
A fair partitioner of toil and duty,
And suddenly Aeneas, from the crowd,
Saw Trojan men approaching, brave Cloanthus,
Sergestus, Antheus, and all those others
Whom the black storm had driven here and yonder.
This he cannot believe, nor can Achates,
Torn between fear and joy. They burn with ardor
To seek their comrades’ handclasp, but confusion
Still holds them in the cloud: what can have happened?
They watch from the cover of mist: men still were coming
From all the ships, chosen, it seemed, as pleaders
For graciousness before the temple, calling
Aloud: what fortune had been theirs, he wonders,
Where had they left the ships; why were they coming?
They were given audience; Ilioneus,
Senior to all, began: “O Queen, whom Jove
Has given the founding of a great new city,
Has given to bridle haughty tribes with justice,
We, pitiful Trojans, over every ocean
Driven by storm, make our appeal: keep from us
The terrible doom of fire; protect our vessels;
Have mercy on a decent race; consider
Our lot with closer interest. We have not come
To ravish Libyan homes, or carry plunder
Down to the shore. We lack the arrogance
Of conquerors; there is no aggression in us.
There is a place which Greeks have given a name,
The Land in the West; it is powerful in arms,
Rich in its soil; Oenotrians used to live there,
And now, the story goes, a younger people
Inhabit it, calling themselves Italians
After their leader’s name. We were going there
When, big with storm and cloud, Orion rising
Drove us on hidden quicksands, and wild winds
Scattered us over the waves, by pathless rocks
And the swell of the surge. A few of us have drifted
Here to your shores. What kind of men are these,
What barbarous land permits such attitudes?
We have been denied the welcome of the beach,
Forbidden to set foot on land; they rouse
All kinds of war against us. You despise,
It may be, human brotherhood, and arms
Wielded by men. But there are gods, remember,
Who care for right and wrong. Our king Aeneas
May be alive; no man was ever more just,
More decent ever, or greater in war and arms.
If fate preserves him still, if he still breathes
The welcome air, above the world of shadows,
Fear not; to have treated us with kindly service
Need bring you no repentance. We have cities
In Sicily as well, and King Acestes
Is one of us, from Trojan blood. We ask you
To let us beach our battered fleet, make ready
Beams from the forest timber, mend our oarage,
Seek Italy and Latium, glad at knowing
Our king and comrades rescued. But if safety
Is hopeless for him now, and Libyan water
Has been his grave, and if his son Iulus
Is desperate, or lost, grant us permission
At least to make for Sicily, whence we came here,
Where king Acestes has a dwelling for us.”
The Trojans, as he ended, all were shouting,
And Dido, looking down, made a brief answer:
“I am sorry, Trojans; put aside your care,
Have no more fear. The newness of the kingdom
And our strict need compel to me such measures--
Sentries on every border, far and wide.
But who so ignorant as not to know
The nation of Aeneas, manly both
In deeds and people, and the city of Troy?
We are not as dull as that, we folk from Carthage;
The sun shines on us here. Whether you seek
The land in the west, the sometime fields of Saturn,
Or the Sicilian realms and king Acestes,
I will help you to the limit; should you wish
To settle here and share this kingdom with me,
The city I found is yours; draw up your ships;
Trojan and Tyrian I treat alike.
Would, also, that your king were here, Aeneas,
Driven by that same wind. I will send good men
Along the coast to seek him, under orders
To scour all Libya; he may be wandering
Somewhere, in woods or town, surviving shipwreck.”
Aeneas and Achates both were eager
To break the cloud; the queen inspired their spirit
With her address. Achates asked Aeneas:--
“What do we do now, goddess-born? You see
They all are safe, our vessels and our comrades,
Only one missing, and we saw him drowning,
Ourselves, beneath the waves; all other things
Confirm what Venus told us.” And as he finished,
The cloud around them broke, dissolved in air,
Illumining Aeneas, like a god,
Light radiant around his face and shoulders,
And Venus gave him all the bloom of youth.
Its glow, its liveliness, as the artist adds
Luster to ivory, or sets in gold
Silver or marble. No one saw him coming
Until he spoke:--“You seek me; here I am,
Trojan Aeneas, saved from the Libyan waves.
Worn out by all the perils of land and sea,
In need of everything, blown over the great world,
A remnant left by the Greeks, Dido, we lack
The means to thank our only pitier
For offer of a city and a home.
If there is justice anywhere, if goodness
Means anything to any power, if gods
At all regard good people, may they give
The great rewards you merit. Happy the age,
Happy the parents who have brought you forth!
While rivers run to sea, while shadows move
Over the mountains, while the stars burn on,
Always, your praise, your honor, and your name,
Whatever land I go to, will endure.”
His hand went out to greet his men, Serestus,
Gyas, Cloanthus, Ilioneus,
The others in their turn. And Dido marvelled
At his appearance, first, and all that trouble
He had borne up under; there was a moment’s silence
Before she spoke: “What chance, what violence,
O goddess-born, has driven you through danger,
From grief to grief? Are you indeed that son
Whom Venus bore Anchises? I remember
When Teucer came to Sidon, as an exile
Seeking new kingdoms, and my father helped him,
My father, Belus, conqueror of Cyprus.
From that time on I have known about your city,
Your name, and the Greek kings, and the fall of Troy.
Even their enemies would praise the Trojans,
Or claim descent from Teucer’s line. I bid you
Enter my house. I, too, am fortune-driven
Through many sufferings; this land at last
Has brought me rest. Not ignorant of evil,
I know one thing, at least,--to help the wretched.”
And so she led Aeneas to the palace,
Proclaiming sacrifice at all the temples
In honor of his welcome, and sent presents
To his comrades at the shore, a score of bullocks,
A hundred swine, a hundred ewes and lambs
In honor of the joyous day. The palace,
Within, is made most bright with pomp and splendor,
The halls prepared for feasting. Crimson covers
Are laid, with fine embroidery, and silver
Is heavy on the tables; gold, engraven,
Recalls ancestral prowess, a tale of heroes
From the race’s first beginnings.
And Aeneas,
Being a thoughtful father, speeds Achates
Back to the ships, with tidings for Iulus,
He is to join them; all the father’s fondness
Is centred on the son. Orders are given
To bring gifts with him, saved from the Trojan ruins,
A mantle stiff with figures worked in gold;
A veil with gold acanthus running through it,
Once worn by Helen, when she sailed from Sparta
Toward that forbidden marriage, a wondrous gift
Made by her mother Leda; and the sceptre
That Ilione, Priam’s eldest daughter,
Had carried once; a necklace hung with pearls;
A crown of gold and jewels. Toward the ships
Achates sped the message.
Meanwhile Venus
Plotted new stratagems, that Cupid, changed
In form and feature, should appear instead
Of young Ascanius, and by his gifts
Inspire the queen to passion, with his fire
Burning her very bones. She feared the house
Held dubious intentions; men of Tyre
Were always two-faced people, and Juno’s anger
Vexed her by night. She spoke to her wingèd son:--
“O my one strength and source of power, my son,
Disdainful of Jove’s thunderbolt, to you
I come in prayer for help. You know that Juno
Is hateful toward Aeneas, keeps him tossing
All over the seas in bitterness; you have often
Grieved with me for your brother. And now Dido
Holds him with flattering words; I do not trust
Juno’s ideas of welcome; she will never
Pause at a point like this. Therefore I purpose
To take the queen by cunning, put around her
A wall of flame, so that no power can change her,
So that a blazing passion for Aeneas
Will bind her to us. Listen! I will tell you
How you can manage this. The royal boy,
My greatest care, has heard his father’s summons
To come to the city, bringing presents, rescued
From the flames of Troy and the sea; and he is ready.
But I will make him drowsy, carry him off
In slumber over Cythera, or hide him
Deep on Idalium in a secret bower
Before he learns the scheme or interrupts it.
You, for one night, no more, assume his features,
The boy’s familiar guise, yourself a boy,
So that when Dido takes you to her bosom
During the royal feast, with the wine flowing,
And happiness abounding, you, receiving
The sweetness of her kiss, will overcome her
With secret fire and poison.”
For his mother
Cupid put off his wings, and went rejoicing
With young Iulus’ stride; the real Iulus
Venus had lulled in soft repose, and borne him
Warm in her bosom to Idalian groves,
Where the soft marjoram cradled him with blossom
Exhaling shadowy sweetness over his slumber.
And, with Achates leading, Cupid came
Obedient to his mother, bringing gifts.
The queen receives them, on a golden couch
Below the royal tapestries, where spreads
Of crimson wait Aeneas and his Trojans.
Servants bring water for their hands, and bread
In baskets, and fine napkins. At the fire
Are fifty serving-maids, to set the feast,
A hundred more, girls, and a hundred boys
To load the tables, and bring the goblets round,
As through the happy halls the Tyrians throng,
Admire the Trojan gifts, admire Iulus,
The young god with the glowing countenance,
The charming words, the robe, the saffron veil
Edged with acanthus. More than all the rest,
Disaster-bound, the unhappy queen takes fire,
And cannot have enough of looking, moved
Alike by boy and gifts. She watches him
Cling to his father’s neck, or come to her
For fondling, and her eyes, her heart, receive him,
Alas, poor queen, not knowing what a god
Is plotting for her sorrow. He remembers
What Venus told him; she forgets a little
About Sychaeus; the heart unused to love
Stirs with a living passion.
When the first quiet settled over the tables,
And the boards were cleared, they set the great bowls down,
Crowning the wine with garlands. A great hum
Runs through the halls, the voices reach the rafters,
The burning lamps below the fretted gold,
The torches flaring, put the night to rout.
The queen commands the loving-cup of Belus,
Heavy with gems and gold, and fills it full,
And silence fills the halls before her prayer:--
“Jupiter, giver of laws for host and guest,
Grant this to be a happy day for all,
Both Tyrians and travellers from Troy,
And something for our children to remember!
May Bacchus, giver of joy, attend, and Juno
Be kind, and all my Tyrians be friendly!”
She poured libation on the table, touched
The gold rim with her lips, passed on the bowl
To Bitias, who dove deep, and other lords
Took up the challenge. And a minstrel played
A golden lyre, Iopas, taught by Atlas:
Of the sun’s labors and the wandering moon
He sang, whence came the race of beasts and man,
Whence rain and fire, the stars and constellations,
Why suns in winter hasten to the sea,
Or what delay draws out the dawdling nights.
The Tyrians roar, applauding, and the Trojans
Rejoice no less, and the poor queen prolongs
The night with conversation, drinking deep
Of her long love, and asking many questions
Of Priam, Hector; of the arms of Memnon;
How big Achilles was; and Diomedes,
What were his horses like? “Tell us, my guest,”
She pleads, “from the beginning, all the story,
The treachery of the Greeks, the wanderings,
The perils of the seven tiresome years.”