BOOK V

THE FUNERAL GAMES FOR ANCHISES

Meanwhile Aeneas and the fleet were holding

The sure course over the sea, cutting the waters

That darkened under the wind. His gaze went back

To the walls of Carthage, glowing in the flame

Of Dido’s funeral pyre. What cause had kindled

So high a blaze, they did not know, but anguish

When love is wounded deep, and the way of a woman

With frenzy in her heart, they knew too well,

And dwelt on with foreboding.

They were out of sight of land, with only sea

Around them on all sides, alone with ocean,

Ocean and sky, when a cloud, black-blue, loomed over

With night and tempest in it; the water roughened

In shadow, and the pilot Palinurus

Cried from the lofty stern. “What clouds are these

Filling the sky? What threat is father Neptune

Preparing over our heads? Trim ship,” he ordered,

“Bend to the oars, reef down the sail.” The course

Was changed, on a slant across the wind, and the pilot

Turned to Aeneas: “With a sky like this,

I’d have no hope of reaching Italy,

Even if Jove himself should guarantee it.

The winds have changed, they roar across our course

From the black evening, thickening into cloud.

We have no strength for headway. Luck is against us,

Let us change the course, and follow. I remember

Fraternal shores near by, the land of Eryx,

Sicilian harbors; we were here before

If I recall my stars.”

Aeneas answered:

“I saw it long ago, the will of the winds,

The uselessness of struggle. Change the course,

Steer to the land most welcome to me; there

My friend Acestes dwells, and there my father

Anchises lies at rest. What better land

To rest our weary ships?” They made for the harbor,

With favoring wind, a swift run over the water,

A happy turn to a familiar shore.

High on a hill-top look-out, king Acestes,

Son of a Trojan mother and Crinisus,

A river-god, saw friendly vessels coming,

With wonder and delight, came hurrying toward them,

With a bear-skin over his shoulder, and javelins

Bristling in his grasp, and he remembered

The old relationship, and gave them welcome

With all his rustic treasure, a glad returning,

Friendly assurance for their weariness.

A good night’s rest, and a bright morning followed,

And from the shore Aeneas called his comrades,

Stood on a little rise of ground, and told them:

“Great sons of Dardanus, heaven-born, a year

Draws to an end, a year ago we buried

My father in this land, and consecrated

Sorrowful altars to his shade. The day

Comes round again, which I shall always cherish,

Always lament, with reverence, in the mourning,

For the gods’ will. If I were held, an exile,

In the Gaetulian quicksands, or a captive

In some Greek ship or city, I would honor

This day with solemn rites, and pile the altars

With sacrificial offering. But now,--

This must be heaven’s purpose--we have entered

A friendly harbor. Come, then, all of us,

Let us be happy in our celebration,

Let us pray for winds, and that the god hereafter

Receive his rites in temples for his honor

Built in the city we found. Two heads of oxen

Acestes gives each vessel; bring the gods

Of our own household, and the ones Acestes

Pays worship to. Nine days from now, if dawn

Comes bright and shining over the world of men,

There will be games, a contest for the boats,

A foot-race, javelin-throw or archery, a battle

With rawhide gloves; let all attend, competing

For victory’s palm and prize. And now, in silence,

Garland the brow with leaves.”

He bound his temples

With Venus’ myrtle, and the others followed,

Acestes, Helymus, and young Iulus,

And the other lads, and Aeneas, from the meeting,

Moved to Anchises’ tomb, and many thousands

Came thronging there. He poured libation, duly,

Bowls of pure wine, and milk, and victim-blood,

And strewed bright flowers, praying: “Holy father,

Hail, once again; hail once again, O ashes,

Regained in vain; hail, holy shade and spirit!

Hail, from a son, destined to seek alone

The fated fields, Italian soil, alone

To seek, whatever it is, Ausonian Tiber.”

And as he finished speaking, a huge serpent

Slid over the ground, seven shining loops, surrounding

The tomb, peacefully gliding around the altars,

Dappled with blue and gold, such iridescence

As rainbow gives to cloud, when the sun strikes it.

Aeneas stood amazed; and the great serpent

Crawled to the bowls and cups, tasted the offerings,

And slid again, without a hint of menace,

Under the altar-stone. Intent, Aeneas

Resumed the rites; the serpent might have been,

For all he knew, a guardian of the altar,

Or some familiar spirit of Anchises.

Two sheep he sacrificed, two swine, two heifers,

Poured wine, invoked the spirit of his father,

And the shade loosed from Acheron. His comrades

Also bring gifts, whatever they can, slay bullocks,

Load altars high; others prepare the kettles,

Sprawl on the greensward, keep the live coals glowing

Under the roasting-spits, and the meat turning.

And the day came, the ninth they had awaited

With eagerness, bright and clear, and the crowd gathered

Under Acestes’ sanction; they were eager

To see the Trojans, or to join the contests.

There were the prizes, tripods, and green garlands,

And palms for the winners, armor, crimson garments,

Talents of silver and gold. And a trumpet heralds

The start of the games.

For the first contest

Four ships are entered, heavy-oared, and chosen,

The pick of the fleet. Mnestheus is one captain,

His ship the _Dragon_, and his crew is eager,--

(Later the Memmian line will call him father).

Gyas commands the big _Chimaera_, a vessel

Huge as a town; it takes three tiers of oarsmen

To keep her moving. Then there is Sergestus

Riding the _Centaur_, and the sea-blue _Scylla_

Cloanthus leads. (The Sergian house at Rome

Descends from one, Cluentians from the other.)

Far out in the water, facing the foaming shores,

There lies a rock, which the swollen waves beat over

On stormy days when gales blot out the stars,

But quiet in calm weather, a level landing

For the sun-loving sea-gulls. Here Aeneas

Sets a green bough of holm-oak, as a signal

To mark the turning-point; to this the sailors

Must row, then turn, and double back. The places

Are chosen by lot; the captains are set off,

Shining in gold and purple; all the sailors

Wear poplar-wreaths, and their naked shoulders glisten

With the smear of oil. They are at their places, straining

Arms stretched to the oars, waiting the word, and their chests

Heave, and their hearts are pumping fast; ambition

And nervousness take hold of them. The signal!

They shoot away; the noise goes up to the heavens,

The arms pull back to the chests, the water is churned

To a foam like snow; the start is very even,

The sea gapes open under the rush of the beaks

And the pull of the oars. The racers go no faster

When the chariots take the field, and the barrier springs

Cars into action, and the drivers lash

Whipping and shaking the reins. Applause and shouting

Volley and ring, and shrill excitement rises

From some with bets on the issue; all the woodland

Resounds, the shores are loud, and the beaten hillside

Sends back the uproar.

Gyas beats the others

In the rush of the starting sprint; Cloanthus follows,

With a better crew, but a slower, heavier vessel;

Behind them come the _Dragon_ and the _Centaur_,

With no advantage either way; first one,

And then the other, has it, moving even

With long keels through salt water; and the leader

Has almost reached the rock, the turn; that’s Gyas,

The captain, yelling loudly at his pilot:--

“Menoetes, what the hell! Why are you steering

So far off to the right? Bring her in closer,

This way, let the oars just miss the rocks, hug shore,

Cut her close here on the left; let the other fellows

Stay out as far as they like.” Menoetes, though,

Feared unseen rocks, and made for open water.

“Why so far off the course? The rock, Menoetes,

Keep close to the rock!” And while he shouted, Gyas

Could see Cloanthus coming up behind him

Inside him, on the left, and gaining, gaining.

Between the roar of the rock and the ship of Gyas,

Cloanthus grazed his way, and passed the leader,

Made the turn safely, and reached open water.

Then Gyas really was burnt up; he was crying

In rage; to hell with pride, to hell with safety!

He grabbed that cautious pilot of his, and heaved him

Over the stern, he took the rudder over,

Steering for shore, and yelling at the sailors,

As old Menoetes slowly came to the surface,

His heavy garments dripping, clawing and scrambling

Up to the top of the rock, to perch there, drying,

A good laugh for the Trojans, as they watched him

Taking his header, coming up, and swimming,

And spitting out salt water.

The two last ones,

Mnestheus and Sergestus, were encouraged;

Gyas was easy now; Sergestus managed

To get ahead, a little; he neared the rock,

Less than a length ahead; the rival _Dragon_

Was lapped on him, and up and down, amidships,

Went Mnestheus, cheering on his crew:--“Get going,

Rise to the oars, my comrades, men of Hector

Whom I picked out for mine in Troy’s last moment.

Show the old spirit and the nerve that took us

Through the Gaetulian sands, Ionian waters,

Off Cape Malea! We can’t hope to win it,--

Let Neptune look to that!--maybe--at least,

Whatever we do, don’t come in last! We could not

Bear any such disgrace.” They did their utmost,

Straining with all their might, the bronze deck shaking

Under the effort, and the quiet ocean

Streamed under and past them. Arms and legs were weary,

Wobbly, shaking; breath came hard, they gulped

And gasped for air, and sweat ran down in rivers,

And they had some luck. Sergestus, out of his senses,

Drove in, too close, and piled up on the rock,

Which almost bounced as he hit there, and the oars

Were sheared away, and the bow hung up, and the sailors,

Shouting like mad, pushed hard with pikes or boat-hooks,

Or the wreck of the oars, to shove them off. And Mnestheus

Easier now, and with exalted spirit

From this much victory, with a prayer to the winds

And the oars’ swift drive, was running down-hill waters,

Over the open ocean, as a dove

Suddenly startled out of her nest in a cavern

Where the young brood waits, wings to the fields in fright,

Flapping on anxious pinions, and recovers,

And skims down peaceful air, with never a motion

Of wing in the lifting air, so Mnestheus sped,

So sped the _Dragon_, racing home, and the sweep

Of her own speed made a wind. She passed Sergestus

Struggling, rock-bound, in shallow water, howling

For help, in vain, and learning how to manage

A boat when the oars are broken. She overhauled

Gyas, in the _Chimaera_, wallowing heavy

Without a pilot. Only Cloanthus was left;

They were after him with all their might, the clamor

Rose twice as loud; they were cheering the pursuer,

And the sky was a crash of shouting. On the _Scylla_

They would give their lives to hold their place, they have won it,

The glory and honor are theirs already, almost;

And Mnestheus’ men take courage from their nearness;

They can because they think they can. They would have,

Perhaps, or tied, at least had not Cloanthus

Taken to prayer:--“Gods of the seas, whose waters

I skim, whose empire lifts me up, I gladly

Promise you sacrifice, a snow-white bullock

At altars on this shore, and wine for the ocean,

And the entrails flung to the flood!” Under the waves

The Nereids heard him, Phorcus, Panopea

The maiden, and Portunus, the big-handed,

Boosted him on his way. Swifter than arrow,

Swifter than wind, the ship swept into the harbor.

The herald’s cry proclaimed Cloanthus victor,

When all were summoned, and Anchises’ son

Put the green bay leaf on his temples, silver

And wine for the ships, a steer for each. The captains

Have special prizes; the winner has a mantle,

Woven with gold, and a double seam of crimson,

With a story in the texture, Ganymede

Hunting on Ida, breathless, tossing darts

And racing after the deer, and caught and carried

In the talons of Jove’s eagle, soaring skyward,

While the boy’s old guardians reach their hands up, vainly,

And the hounds set up a cry. Mnestheus, second,

Has a coat of mail, with triple links of gold,

A trophy of Demoleos; Aeneas

Had beaten him at Troy, by Simois river,

And taken the armor, glory and guard in battle.

The servants, Sagaris and Phegeus, hardly

Can lift it up, but when Demoleos wore it,

He could go, full-speed, after the flying Trojans.

The third award is a pair of brazen caldrons,

And bowls embossed in silver.

They had their prizes

And went their way, proud of their wealth, and shining

With foreheads garlanded, when with much effort,

Scraped off the rock, oars lost, and one bank crippled,

Here came Sergestus, butt of jeering laughter,

Like a snake with a broken back, which a wagon-wheel

Runs over on the road, or a traveller smashes

With the weight of a stone, and, crushed, it writhes and struggles,

Looping the coils, and half of it is angry

With fiery eyes and hissing mouth, and half

Keeps dragging back the rest and doubles over

On useless muscles, powerless; Sergestus

Came home like such a serpent, maimed and broken,

But the sail went bravely up as they made the harbor,

And Aeneas kept his promise to the captain,

Glad for the ship’s return, and the safe sailors.

A slave-girl, Pholoe from Crete, accomplished

At weaving, was his prize, and her twin children,

Boy-infants, at the breast.

The boat-race over, Aeneas makes his way

To a grassy plain, with wooded hills surrounding

The race-course in the valley. All the crowd

Come trooping after, group themselves around

The central prominence. Rewards and prizes

Draw the competitors, travellers and natives,

Trojans, Sicilians; in the foremost ranks

Are Nisus and Euryalus, the latter

Conspicuous in the flower of youth and beauty,

Whom Nisus follows with entire devotion:

Diores, of the royal house of Priam,

Was ready; Salius, an Acarnanian;

Patron, Tegean-born; and two Sicilians,

Panopes, Helymus, trained to the forests,

Companions of Acestes; and many others

Whose fame by now the darkness hides. Aeneas

Speaks to their hope:--“No one goes unrewarded:

To each I give two Cretan arrows, gleaming

With polished steel, and a double-bitted axe

Embossed with silver. Everybody wins

These prizes, but the first three runners also

Shall wear the wreath of olive, and the winner

Ride home a horse equipped with splendid trappings;

For second place, an Amazonian quiver

With Thracian arrows, a broad belt of gold

With jeweled buckle; and this Argive helmet

For the one who comes in third.”

They take their places,

And when the signal is given, away they go,

Like rain from storm-cloud, bodies leaning forward,

Eyes on the goal. And for the lead it’s Nisus,

Swifter than winds or lightning; running second,

A good way back, comes Salius; and the third one,

Third at some distance, is Euryalus,

Helymus next; right on his heels Diores.

There’s a little crowding there, the course too narrow,

Diores, full of run, is in a pocket,

He can’t get through. The race is almost over,

Their breath comes hard, they are almost at the finish,--

There’s a pool of blood on the ground, where the slain bullocks

Fell in the sacrifice, a slippery puddle

Red on green ground, and Nisus does not see it,

Nisus, still leading, thinking himself the winner,

Is out of luck, his feet slide out from under,

He wobbles, totters, recovers himself a little,

Slips and goes forward, in a beautiful header

Through blood and mud. But he keeps his wits about him,

Does not forget his friend Euryalus; rising,

And sort of accidentally on purpose,

Gets in the way of Salius and spills him,

A cartwheel, head over heels on the flying sand.

Euryalus flashes past, an easy winner

Thanks to his friend’s assistance, and they cheer him;

Helymus second; in third place, Diores.

Immediately there’s a loud howl of protest,

Salius shrieking in the elders’ faces

With cries of _Foul!_ and _Outrage!_ “I was robbed,

Give me first prize!” But all the popular favor

Sides with Euryalus, who is young, and weeping,

And better-looking; and Diores backs him,

Loudly, of course, since who would get the helmet

If Salius was first? Aeneas ends it:--

“The race will stand as run; you get your prizes

As first proposed; no one will change the order;

But one thing I can do, and will do,--offer

A consolation to our innocent friend.”

With this, he gives a lion-skin to Salius,

Heavy with shaggy hair, and the claws gilded.

Nisus is heard from:--“If you’re giving prizes

For falling down, what’s good enough for Nisus?

I would have won it surely, only Fortune

Gave me the same bad deal she handed Salius!”

And with the words he made a sudden gesture

Showing his muddy face. Aeneas, laughing,

Ordered another prize, a shield for him,

The work of Didymaon, stolen by Greeks,

From Neptune’s temple sometime, but recovered,

A worthy prize for a distinguished hero.

Next is a boxing-bout. “Whoever has courage

And fighting spirit in his heart, step forward

And put the gloves on!” There are double prizes,

For the winner a bullock, decked with gold and ribbons,

A sword and shining helmet for the loser.

Without delay, Dares gets up; a murmur

Runs through the crowd as this big man comes forward.

They know that he was Paris’ sparring-partner,

And they recall his famous match with Butes

At Hector’s tomb, where he knocked out that champion

And stretched him dying on the yellow sand.

Now Dares holds his head up for the battle,

Shakes his broad shoulders loose, warms up a little,

A left, a right, a left, in shadow-boxing.

Who will oppose him? No one puts the gloves on,

No one, from all that throng, is in a hurry

To take on Dares. So, exultant, thinking

Himself a winner by default, he grabs

The bullock by one horn, says to Aeneas:--

“If no man, goddess-born, is taking chances,

How long must I keep standing here? How long

Hang around waiting? Give the order, let me

Lead home my prize!” The Trojans all applaud him.

But king Acestes, sprawling on the greensward

Beside Entellus, nudges him a little:--

“What was the use, Entellus, of being a hero,

Of having been our bravest, under Eryx?

Where is that old Sicilian reputation,

And all those prizes hanging from the rafters?

Does Dares get away with this, no contest,

And all those prizes, and you sit here tamely?”

Entellus answers, “Oh, I still love glory

And praise; there’s nothing the matter with my courage,

But I’m too old, the blood is slow and colder,

The strength not what it used to be. That bragger

Has one thing, youth, and how he revels in it!

If I had what he has, I’d not need prizes,

Bullocks or helmets either, to get me fighting.”

From somewhere he produced the gloves of Eryx

And tossed them into the ring, all stiff and heavy,

Seven layers of hide, and insewn lead and iron.

The people stand amazed, and Dares shudders,

Wanting no part of gloves like these; Aeneas

Inspects them, turning them slowly, over and over,

And old Entellus adds a word of comment:--

“Why, these are nothing! What if you had seen

The gloves of Hercules? He used to fight here.

These are the gloves that Eryx wore against him.

You still can see the blood and a splash of brains

That stained them long ago. I used to wear them

Myself when I was younger, and unchallenged

By Time, that envious rival. But if Dares

Declines these arms, all right, make matters equal,

Don’t be afraid; I waive the gloves of Eryx,

You put the Trojan gloves aside; Aeneas

Will see fair play, Acestes be my second.”

He throws the double cloak from off his shoulders,

Strips down to the great limbs, great bones, great muscles

A giant in the ring. Aeneas brings them

Matched pairs of gloves.

They take their stand, each rising

On the balls of his feet, their arms upraised, and rolling

Their heads back from the punch. They spar, they lead,

They watch for openings. Dares, much the younger,

Is much the better in footwork; old Entellus

Has to rely on strength; his knees are shaky,

His wind not what it was. They throw their punches,

And many miss; and some, with a solid thump,

Land on the ribs or chest; temples and ears

Feel the wind of a miss, or the jaws rattle

When a punch lands. Entellus stands flat-footed,

Wasting no motion, just a slip of the body,

The watchful eyes alert. And Dares, feinting,

Like one who artfully attacks a city,

Tries this approach, then that, dancing around him

In varied vain attack. Entellus, rising,

Draws back his right (in fact, he telegraphs it),

And Dares, seeing it coming, slips aside;

Entellus lands on nothing but the wind

And, thrown off balance, heavily comes down

Flat on his face, as falls on Erymanthus

A thunder-smitten oak, and so on, and so on.

Roaring, the Trojans and Sicilians both

Rise to their feet; the noise goes up to heaven;

Acestes rushes in, to raise his comrade

In pity and sorrow. But that old-time fighter

Is not slowed down a bit, nor made more wary;

His rage is terrible, and his shame awakens

A consciousness of strength. He chases Dares

All over the ring, left, right, left, right, the punches

Rattle like hailstones on a roof; he batters Dares,

Spins him halfway around with one hand, clouts him

Straight with the other again. At last Aeneas

Steps in and stops it, with a word of comfort

For the exhausted Dares:--“Luckless fellow,

Yield to the god! What madness blinds your vision

To strength beyond your own?” They rescue Dares,

And drag him to the ships, with his knees caving,

Head rolling side to side, spitting out blood

And teeth; he hardly sees the sword and helmet.

They leave the palm and bullock for Entellus,

Who, in the pride of victory, cries aloud:

“Look, goddess-born! Watch, Trojans, and discover

Two things--how strong I was when I was younger,

And what a death you’ve kept away from Dares!”

And, with the word, he faced his prize, the bullock,

Drew back his right hand, poised it, sent it smashing

Between the horns, shattering the skull, and splashing

Brains on the bones, as the great beast came down, lifeless.

“This life, a better one than Dares’, Eryx,

I vow as sacrifice, and so, victorious,

Retire, and lay aside the gloves forever.”

Next comes an archery contest. Aeneas offers

Prizes and summons; on Serestus’ vessel

The mast is raised, and from its top a cord

With a fluttering dove bound to it as the mark.

Four enter; a bronze helmet takes the lots,

Hippocoön’s leaps out first; then Mnestheus follows,

Green with the olive garland, sign and token

Of ship well driven; and third was Pandarus’ brother,

Eurytion; Pandarus was the archer

Who once broke truce with the Greeks, firing an arrow

In the days of peace; and last came king Acestes,

Willing to try his hand with younger men.

They bend the pliant bows, each archer straining,

Draw shaft from quiver. First from the twanging string

Hippocoön’s arrow flew, through sky, through wind,

Reaching its mark in the wood of the mast, which trembled

And the bird flapped wings in terror, and the crowd

Rang with applause. Mnestheus took his stand,

Drawing the bow back, aiming a little higher,

And missed the bird, but severed knot and tether,

And the dove sped free to the south. Eurytion, waiting

And ready, called in prayer upon his brother,

Let the dart fly, brought down the bird, exulting,

From under the dark of the cloud. She came down lifeless,

Pierced by the arrow still. No prize was left

For king Acestes, but he fired his arrow,

High as he could, to prove his skill. And a wonder

Came to their eyes; it proved an omen later

When seers explained its meaning. The shaft caught fire

Flying amid the clouds, a course of flame,

Vanishing into space, as comets stream

Sweeping across the heaven, their long train flying

Behind them through the sky. All hearts were shaken,

Sicilian, Trojan, both, and all men prayed

To the powers on high. Aeneas hailed the omen,

Embraced Acestes, loaded him with presents,

Saying, “Receive them, father; for the king

Of heaven has willed it so, unusual honors

For skill surpassing. This bowl, with graven figures,

Anchises owned, given him by a Thracian,

King Cisseus, memorial and token,

Of everlasting friendship.” On his brows

He bound green laurel, hailing Acestes victor

Over the rest, and no one grudged the honor,

Not even Eurytion, who had shot the dove;

Mnestheus, for the cutting of the tether,

Took his reward, and the one who hit the mast,

Hippocoön, was not forgotten either.

But while the shoot was on, Aeneas called

Epytides, Iulus’ guardian, to him,

With words for a loyal ear:--“Go, tell Iulus,

If the boys are ready, and the horses marshalled,

To lead them, for Anchises’ sake, presenting

Himself in arms.” And he bade the throng draw back,

Leaving the long course clear and the field open.

The boys rode in, shining on bridled ponies

Before their fathers’ eyes, in true formation,

To a murmur of delight. The garlands weighed

The young hair down, they carried cornel spear-wands

With iron at the tip; and some had quivers

Bright-polished, at their shoulders; torques of gold

Looped high on the breast in pliant rings. Three leaders

Led, each, three squadrons, and a dozen followed

Each gay young captain. One of them was Priam,

Son of Polites, and King Priam’s grandson,

On a piebald Thracian, white of brow and fetlock.

Young Atys led another line--(The Atii,

In Latium, claim descent from him)--young Atys,

Iulus’ special friend. And last, most handsome,

Iulus rode a Carthaginian courser,

Queen Dido’s gift. Sicilian horses carried

The other riders, who rode up to the cheering

Shy, as they heard the sound, and the fond welcome

Of crowds that saw the fathers in the children.

They rode full circle once, and then a signal,

A crack of the whip, was given, and they parted

Into three groups, went galloping off, recalled,

Wheeled, made mock charge, with lances at the ready,

Made march and counter-march, troops intermingled

With troops, to right and left, in mimic battle,

Mimic retreat, and mimic peace, a course

Confusing as the Labyrinth in Crete

Whose path runs through blind walls, where craft has hidden

A thousand wandering ways, mistake and error

Threading insoluble mazes, so the children,

The sons of Troy, wove in and out, in conflict

In flight and sport, as happy as dolphins leaping

Through the Carpathian waters. This was a custom

Ascanius, when grown, himself established

At Alba Longa, his own town, and taught there

What he had learned in boyhood, and the Albans

In turn informed their children, and the Romans

Keep this ancestral rite; the boys are Troy,

And the game Trojan, to this very day,

From its first observance, in Anchises’ honor.

Here fortune changed, not keeping faith; for Juno,

While the ritual of sport went on, sent Iris,

With a fair wind, to the Trojan fleet. She was angry,

Still, and the ancient grudge unsatisfied,

And Iris, over her thousand-colored rainbow,

Ran her swift path, unseen, beheld the crowd,

Surveyed the shore, harbor and fleet deserted,

While far off on the lonely coast the women

Mourned for Anchises lost, weeping and watching

The unfathomable deep. “For weary people,

Alas! how much remains, of shoal and ocean!”

So ran the common sigh. They crave a city,

They are tired of bearing the vast toil of sailing,

And into their midst came Iris, versed in mischief,

Laying aside her goddess-guise, becoming

Old Beroe, Doryclus’ wife, who sometime

Had children, fame, and lineage. Now Iris,

Resembling her, came down to the Trojan mothers.

“Alas for us!” she cried, “on whom the Greeks

Never laid hands, to drag us down to death

Before our native walls! Unfortunate people,

For what is fortune saving us, what doom,

What dying? It is seven weary summers

Since Troy’s destruction, and still we wander over

All lands, all seas, with rocks and stars forever

Implacable, as we go on pursuing

A land that flees forever over the waters.

Here lived our brother Eryx, here we find

A welcomer, king Acestes; who forbids us

To found the walls, to build our city here?

O fatherland, O household gods in vain

Saved from the Greeks, will there never be any walls

For Troy again? No Simois or Xanthus,

The rivers Hector loved? Come with me, burn

These vessels of ill-omen. Let me tell you,

I have been given warnings; in a dream

I saw Cassandra, she was giving me firebrands,

_Here seek your Troy, here is your home_, she told me;

It is time for us to act, be quick about it!

Neptune himself, with fire on these four altars,

Provides the method, and the resolution.”

She was the first to seize a brand; she raised it

Above her head, and swung it, streaming and glowing,

And flung it forth. The women, for a moment,

Stood in bewilderment, and one, the oldest,

Named Pyrgo, nurse to Priam’s many children,

Cried out:--“This is no Beroe, I tell you,

Mothers! Look at her flashing eyes, her spirit,

Her stride, her features; every mark of the goddess

Attends her presence. Beroe I myself

Have just now come from; she lies ill and grieving

All by herself, in sorrow for her absence

From reverence for Anchises.”

As they gazed

Doubtfully at the ships, with sullen eyes,

Distracted, torn between a sickly yearning

For present land and rest, and the kingdoms calling

Them fatefully over the sea, the goddess, cleaving

The air on her bright pinions, rose to heaven.

They were shaken then, amazed, and frenzy-driven;

They cried aloud; tore fire from the hearths and altars;

Made tinder of the altar-decorations,

The garlandry and wreaths. And the fire, let loose,

Rioted over thwarts and oars and rigging.

To theatre and tomb Eumelus brought

Word of the ships on fire; and the men could see

The black ash billowing in the smoky cloud,

And first Ascanius, as full of spirit

As when he led the games, rushed to the trouble

As fast as he could ride; no troubled masters

Could hold him back. “Poor things, what are you doing?

What craziness is this? what are you up to?

It is no Greek camp, no enemy you’re burning

But your own hopes! Look at me! Here I am,

Your own Ascanius!” And before their feet

He flung the helmet he had worn when leading

The little war-game. And Aeneas hurried

With others to the troubled camp. The women

Scattered and fled along the shore, in terror

And guilt, wherever they could, to hiding-places

In woods or caves in the rock; they are ashamed

Of daylight and their deed; Juno is shaken

Out of their hearts, and they recognize their own.

That does not stop the fire; it burns in fury

Under wet oak, tow smoulders, and the stubborn

Steam eats the keels away, destruction seizing

On deck and hull, and water can not quench it,

Nor any strength of men. Tearing his garment

Loose from his shoulders, Aeneas prays to heaven:--

“Almighty Jove, if the Trojans are not hateful

To the last man, if any record of goodness

Alleviates human trouble, let our fleet

Escape this flame, O father; save from doom

This little Trojan remnant; or with lightning,

If I deserve it, strike us down forever!”

He had scarcely spoken, when a cloudburst fell

Full force, with darkness and black tempest streaming,

And thunder rumbling over plain and hillock,

The whole sky pouring rain; the ships were drowned

With water from above, the half-burnt timbers

Were soaked, and the hiss of steam died out; four vessels

Were gone, the others rescued from disaster.

And now Aeneas, stunned by the bitter evil,

Was troubled at heart, uncertain, anxious, grieving:

What could be done? forget the call of the fates

And settle here in Sicily, or keep on

To the coast of Italy? An old man, Nautes,

Whom Pallas had instructed in deep wisdom,

Gave him the answer. “Goddess-born, wherever

Fate pulls or hauls us, there we have to follow;

Whatever happens, fortune can be beaten

By nothing but endurance. We have here

A friend, Acestes, Trojan-born, divine

In parentage; make him an ally in counsel,

Partner in enterprise; to him hand over

The ones whose ships are lost, and all the weary,

The sick and tired, the old men, and the mothers

Who have had too much of the sea, and the faint-hearted,

Whose weariness may find a city for them

Here in this land; Acesta, let them call it.”

The old man’s words still troubled him; the mind

Was torn this way and that. Night rode the heavens

In her dark chariot, and there came from the darkness

The image of Anchises, speaking to him

In words of comfort:--“Son, more dear to me

Than life, when life was mine; son, sorely troubled

By Trojan fate, I come at Jove’s command,

Who drove the fire away, and from the heaven

Has taken pity. Obey the words of Nautes,

He gives the best of counsel; the flower of the youth,

The bravest hearts, lead on to Italy.

There will be trouble there, a rugged people

Must be subdued in Latium. Come to meet me,

First, in the lower world; come through Avernus

To find me, son. Tartarus’ evil prison

Of gloomy shades I know not, for I dwell

Among the happy spirits in Elysium.

Black sheep are good for sacrifice. The Sibyl,

A holy guide, will lead the way, foretelling

The race to come, the given walls. Farewell,

My son; the dewy night is almost over,

I feel the breath of the morning’s cruel horses.”

He spoke, and vanished, smoke into airy thinness,

From the cries of his son, who woke, and roused the embers

Of the drowsing altar-fires, with meal and censer

Propitiating Vesta, making worship

To Trojan household gods.

And called Acestes

And the Trojan counsellors, told them of Jove

And his good father’s orders, the decision

He has reached at last. They all agree, Acestes

Accepts the trust. They make a roll for the city,

The women-folk, the people willing to linger,

The unadventurous; and they make ready

The thwarts again, replace the fire-scorched timbers,

Fit out new oars and rigging. There are not many,

But a living company, for war brave-hearted.

Aeneas ploughs the limits for the city,

Sets out new homes, Ilium, again, and Troy,

A kingdom welcome to Acestes, senate

And courts, and laws, established; and a shrine

High on the crest of Eryx, is given Venus,

Near the high stars, and a priest assigned as warden

To the wide boundaries of Anchises’ grove.

Nine days they hold farewells, one tribe together

For the last time, with honor at the altars,

And seas are calm, and winds go down, and the whisper

Of a little breeze calls to the sail; the shore

Hears a great wail arise; they cling to each other

All through the night and day. Even the mothers,

The weary men, to whom the face of the sea

Once seemed so cruel, and its very name

A menacing monster, want to go now, willing

For all the toil of exile. These Aeneas

Comforts with friendly words, and bids Acestes

Be their good brother. Then he slays to Eryx

Three bullocks, and a lamb to the gods of storm-cloud.

It is time to loose the cables. At the bow

He stands, his temples garlanded with olive,

Makes to the sea libation of wine and entrails,

And the wind comes up astern, and they sweep the waters

In happy rivalry.

But meanwhile Venus,

Driven by worry, went to Neptune, pouring

Complaints from a full heart:--“Neptune, the anger

Of Juno, her insatiable vengeance,

Which neither time nor any goodness softens,

Drives me to humble prayer. She never weakens

For Jove’s command, nor the orders of the fates;

It is not enough for her that the Trojan city

Is quite consumed by hatred, and the remnants

Of that poor town harried all over the world

With every kind of punishment; she still follows

Even their bones and ashes. She may know

The reasons for that wrath of hers. Remember

How great a weight of water she stirred up lately

In the Libyan seas, confusing sky and ocean,

With Aeolus conspiring, and in your kingdom!

And now her crime has driven the Trojan mothers

To burn their ships, to give their comrades over

To a coast unknown. Let what is left come safely

Over the sea, to reach Laurentian Tiber,

If what I ask is just, if those are walls

Due them by fate’s decree.”

And Neptune answered:--

“None has a better right to trust my kingdom

Than the goddess born of the sea-foam. And I have earned

This confidence. I have often checked the anger

Of sea and sky. And the rivers of Troy are witness

I have helped on land as well, and saved Aeneas.

When thousands died at Troy, with fierce Achilles

In hot pursuit, and the rivers groaned, and Xanthus

Could hardly find the sea, I formed a cloud

Around Aeneas, when he met Achilles

With the gods adverse, and no great strength to help him

I rescued him, in spite of my own anger

At the perjury of Troy, in spite of my passion

To raze the walls I had built. Now too my purpose

Remains; have done with fear; he will reach in safety

The haven of Avernus; the prayer is granted.

Let one be lost in the flood, one life alone

Be given for the many.”

This comfort given,

To bring the goddess joy, he yoked his horses,

Gold bridle, foaming bit, and sent them flying

With the lightest touch of the reins, skimming the surface

In the bright blue car; and the waves went down, the axle

Subdued the swell of the wave, and storm-clouds melted

To nothing in the sky, and his attendants

Followed along, great whales, and ancient Glaucus,

Palaemon, Ino’s son, and the rushing Tritons,

The army of Phorcus, Melite and Thetis

Watching the left, and the maiden Panopea,

Cymodoce and Thalia and Spio,

So that Aeneas, in his turn, was happy,

Less anxious at heart. The masts are raised, and sail

Stretched from the halyards; right and left they bend

The canvas to fair winds: at the head of the fleet

Rides Palinurus, and the others follow,

As ordered, close behind him; dewy night

Has reached mid-heaven, while the sailors, sleeping,

Relax on the hard benches under the oars,

All calm, all quiet. And the god of Sleep

Parting the shadowy air, comes gently down,

Looking for Palinurus, bringing him,

A guiltless man, ill-omened dreams. He settles

On the high stern, a god disguised as a man,

Speaking in Phorbas’ guise, “O Palinurus,

The fleet rides smoothly in the even weather,

The hour is given for rest. Lay down the head,

Rest the tired eyes from toil. I will take over

A little while.” But Palinurus, barely

Lifting his eyes, made answer: “Trust the waves,

However quiet? trust a peaceful ocean?

Put faith in such a monster? Never! I

Have been too often fooled by the clear stars

To trust Aeneas to their faithless keeping.”

And so he clung to the tiller, never loosed

His hand from the wood, his eyes from the fair heaven.

But lo, the god over his temples shook

A bough that dripped with dew from Lethe, steeped

With Stygian magic, so the swimming eyes,

Against his effort close, blink open, close

Again, and slumber takes the drowsy limbs.

Bending above him, leaning over, the god

Shoves him, still clinging to the tiller, calling

His comrades vainly, into the clear waves.

And the god is gone like a bird to the clear air,

And the fleet is going safely over its journey

As Neptune promised. But the rocks were near,

The Siren-cliffs, most perilous of old,

White with the bones of many mariners,

Loud with their hoarse eternal warning sound.

Aeneas starts from sleep, aware, somehow,

Of a lost pilot, and a vessel drifting,

Himself takes over guidance, with a sigh

And heartache for a friend’s mishap, “Alas,

Too trustful in the calm of sea and sky,

O Palinurus, on an unknown shore,

You will be lying, naked.”