PART III

EPIC POETRY

Who

Show'd me that epic was of all the king,

Round, vast, and spanning all, like Saturn's ring?

1. CN. NAEVIUS--THE FIRST NATIONAL

ROMAN EPIC

We have already seen how the national pride of Rome was stirred by the

completed subjugation of Italy and the first successful step in foreign

conquest as the result of the First Punic War, and how this quickened

national pride gave a new impulse to literature. We have seen how from

this period under the powerful stimulus of Greek influence the drama

sprang into being in its literary form. And it was in this same soil of

awakened national consciousness, and in this same atmosphere of Greek

thought and expression that the Roman epic had its beginnings.

The rude translation of Homer's _Odyssey_ made by Livius Andronicus is

not to be considered in this connection, for this was produced with no

national feeling, but only that he might have a text-book from which to

instruct his Roman schoolboys in their native tongue. The honor of

producing the first heroic poem in Roman literature belongs to Cn.

Naevius, to whom Mommsen accords the high praise of "the first Roman who

deserves to be called a poet." He was a native of the district of

Campania, of plebeian family, of most sturdy and independent character.

The period of his life falls approximately between the years 269 and 199

B. C. We know that he was a soldier in his earlier life, serving in the

First Punic War in Sicily, that he was imprisoned for his bold attacks

from the stage upon the noble family of the Metelli, and afterward

banished to Africa, where he ended his days.

The tragedies and comedies of Naevius date from his life in Rome, but the

occupation, and we may well believe the solace, of his old age in exile

was the composition of his _Bellum Punicum_, a heroic poem upon the

First Punic War. This poem is a truly national epic written in the rough

old Saturnian verse which came down from hoary antiquity as a native

Roman metrical product. This verse has a jingle not unlike some of our

familiar nursery rhymes, of which

The king was in his counting-house counting out his money,

is a fair sample. Roman in form, the epic of Naevius was also intensely

national in spirit and content. It was written in seven books, of which

the first two form a kind of mythological background or prelude, and the

remaining five books tell the story of the first great duel between Rome

and Carthage.

In the scanty fragments of this poem, especially in the introductory

books, we are surprised to find ourselves upon familiar ground, until we

discover that we are dealing with one of the great sources of Vergil's

inspiration. For here in these broken scraps as in a shattered mirror we

catch glimpses of AEneas and Anchises departing from Troy with their

wives and treasure, and of the storm that drove the Trojans out of their

course and wrecked them upon the shores of Africa; we hear snatches of

Venus' appeal to Jupiter in their behalf, of Jove's reply promising to

the Trojans a mighty destiny, and of Dido's request to AEneas for his

tale of the Trojan War.

The whole seems to have been written in an exceedingly simple and direct

style, without much attempt at poetic embellishment. The poet prided

himself upon his unadulterated Latinity, and protested against the

strong Hellenizing tendency that was setting in. His epitaph (Roman

writers had a weakness for composing their own epitaphs) may seem a bit

over-laudatory of self from our modest modern standpoint, but it is

quite in keeping with the outspoken style of his time, and is very

interesting in the claim that he makes to be the mouthpiece and perhaps

the last disciple of the native Italian muses (Camenae). Here is his

epitaph:

If it were meet that th' immortals' tears should fall on mortal clay,

Then would our native Muses weep for this our Naevius;

For truly, since to Death's great garner he was gathered in,

Our Romans born have clean forgot to speak their mother tongue.

2. QUINTUS ENNIUS

The Hellenizing tendency of which Naevius complains was setting in

strongly already during his life at Rome. But it was especially the

influence of his literary successor, an influence still more strongly

tending toward Greek forms and motives, which the unfortunate Naevius

mourned from his place of exile and which gave added bitterness to the

lament which the sturdy old Roman has left us in his epitaph.

This literary successor was the poet Quintus Ennius, who may almost be

said to have met Naevius at the gates of Rome, since he arrived at Rome

at about the time when Naevius went into banishment. Ennius was not a

Roman citizen at this time, having been born and reared down in the

extreme heel of Italy, at Rudiae in Calabria, a section which had for

many generations been under Greek influence. He was of good local

family, familiar with the rough Oscan speech of his native village, with

the polished Greek of neighboring Tarentum, where he was probably at

school, and with the Roman tongue, which had become the official

language of his district after Rome had pushed her conquests to the

limits of Italy. He was wont to say of himself that he had three

hearts--Oscan, Latin, and Greek; and certainly by the circumstances of

his birth and education he was a good representative of the threefold

national influences which were rapidly converging.

Ennius was born in 239 B. C., shortly after the close of the First Punic

War; but he comes first into notice as a centurion in the Roman army in

Sardinia during the Second Punic War. Here Cato, while acting as quaestor

in the island, found him, and no doubt attracted by the sturdy scholarly

soldier, took him to Rome in 204 in his own train. The poet afterward

accompanied M. Fulvius Nobilior on that general's expedition to AEtolia,

a privilege which he richly repaid later by immortalizing in verse the

AEtolian campaign. He obtained Roman citizenship in 184 through the

instrumentality of the son of Fulvius. He was most fortunate, moreover,

in enjoying the friendship of the great Scipio, with whom he lived on

the most intimate terms. For himself, he lived always at Rome in humble

fashion on a slope of the Aventine Hill, and gained a modest living by

teaching Greek to the youths of Rome. There is a tradition not very

trustworthy that it was of him that Cato himself "learned Greek at

eighty."

That Ennius was fitted to be a confidential friend to great men of

affairs we may well believe if, as Aulus Gellius, who has preserved the

passage, would have us understand, the following picture was intended by

the poet as a self-portraiture. The passage is from the seventh book of

the "Annals," and has a setting of its own, but may well represent the

familiar intercourse of the poet with Marcus Fulvius or with Scipio. If

this is indeed a portrait, it is a passage of great value, for it

pictures the character in great detail.

So having spoken, he called for a man with whom often and gladly

Table he shared, and talk, and all his burden of duties,

When with debate all day on important affairs he was wearied,

Whether perchance in the Forum wide, or the reverend Senate;

One with whom he could frankly speak of his serious matters,--

Trifles also, and jests,--could pour out freely together

Pleasant or bitter words, and know they were uttered in safety.

Many the joys and the griefs he had shared, whether public or

secret!

This was a man in whom no impulse prompted to evil,

Whether of folly or malice; a scholarly man and a loyal,

Graceful, ready of speech, with his own contented and happy;

Tactful, speaking in season, yet courteous, never loquacious.

Vast was the buried and antique lore that was his, for the foretime

Made him master of earlier customs as well as of newer.

Versed in the laws was he of the ancients, men or immortals.

Wisely he knew both when he should talk and when to be silent.

So unto him Servilius spoke in the midst of the fighting....

Lawton.

Ennius died in 169 B. C., and tradition says that his bust was placed in

the tomb of the family of his great patron, whereby the poet-soldier and

the soldier-statesman were mutually honored. Upon that sarcophagus of

Scipio surmounted by the poet's bust might well have been inscribed the

saying of Sellar: "Ennius was in letters what Scipio was in action--the

most vital representative of his epoch."

Ennius wrote satires and tragedies as we have seen; but it is because of

his great epic poem the _Annales_, the work of his ripe age, that he

deserves the high title accorded to him by the Romans themselves--"the

father of Roman literature." This work is epoch-making because of its

form and because of its important contribution to the development of the

Latin language itself. The poet perceived that the native Saturnian

verse was rude and unfitted to serve as a vehicle for the highest form

of literary expression. His feeling toward this verse is shown in a

fragment upon the First Punic War in which he refers to the _Bellum

Punicum_ of Naevius:

Others have treated the subject in the verses which in days of old

the Fauns and bards used to sing, before any one had climbed to

the cliffs of the Muses, or gave any care to style.

Sellar.

From the Saturnian he turned to the hexameter, whose "ocean-roll of

rhythm" had resounded in the great epics of Homer. But it was one thing

to admire the Greek dactylic hexameter, with its smooth-flowing

cadences, and quite another to force the heavy, rough Latin speech into

this measure. But this task, difficult as it was, Ennius essayed, and by

the very attempt to force the Latin into the shapely Greek mold, he

modified and polished that language itself, and handed it down to his

literary successors as a far more fitting vehicle of noble expression

than he had found it. It is true that in comparison with the hexameters

of Vergil and Ovid the lines of Ennius are noticeably rough and heavy;

but still it must be remembered that it was the older poet's pioneer

labors that made the verse of Vergil and Ovid possible.

The "Annals" of Ennius is an attempt to gather up the traditions of

early Roman history and the facts of later times, and present them in a

continuous narrative. Ennius was the pioneer in this work, and shows, as

he says in the supposed self-portraiture quoted above, a very extensive

knowledge of Roman antiquities, as well as a vivid first-hand perception

of contemporary men and events. His active service as a soldier in the

Second Punic War especially fitted him to write the story of a warlike

nation. His descriptions of wars and stirring events are _con amore_. He

breathed the air of victory in the long series of Roman triumphs

following the Second Punic War, and infused into his great national poem

something of that exaltation of spirit which animated his times, and

which raised his work far above the plane which his modest title

suggests. The poem sank deep into the national heart, and became a very

bible of the race, from which his successors drew freely as from a

public fountain.

This poem, the work of the poet's old age, contained eighteen books, of

which only about six hundred lines of fragments remain. The first book

covers the period from the death of Priam to the death of Romulus. This

period is, however, not as long as it is usually represented by

tradition, for Ennius passes over the three hundred years of the Alban

kings and represents AEneas as the father of Ilia, the mother of Romulus.

One of the longest fragments describes the dream of Ilia in which the

birth of Romulus and Remus is foreshadowed.

Then follow scattered fragments relating to the birth and exposure of

the twins, their nourishment by the wolf, their growth to manhood, a

long fragment on the taking of the auspices by which the sovereignty of

Romulus over his brother was decided, and at the end a spirited passage

from the lamentation of the Romans over the death of Romulus.

The second and third books give a history of the Roman kings after

Romulus, with glimpses of the victory of the Horatii, the dreadful death

of the treacherous Mettius Fufetius, the disgusting impiety of Tullia,

and the rape of Lucretia, which precipitated the banishment of the

Tarquins. The fourth and fifth books cover the period from the founding

of the republic to the beginning of the war with Pyrrhus, which is

described in the sixth book. This contains the fine passage in which

King Pyrrhus refuses to accept money for the ransom of captives. He

says to the Roman ambassadors:

Gold for myself I wish not; ye need not proffer a ransom.

Not as hucksters might let us wage our war, but as soldiers:

Not with gold but the sword. Our lives we will set on the issue.

Whether your rule or mine be Fortune's pleasure,--our mistress,--

Let us by valor decide. And to this word hearken ye also:

Every valorous man who is spared by the fortune of battle,

Fully determined am I of his freedom as well to accord him.

Count it a gift. At the wish of the gods in heaven I grant it.

Lawton.

The seventh book treats of the First Punic War, which he touches upon

but lightly, since this subject had been so fully covered by his

predecessor. Then follow, in the remaining books, the Macedonian,

AEtolian, and Istrian wars, the history being brought down to within a

few years of the writer's death. In the last book the old poet very

fittingly compares himself to a spirited horse who has won victories in

his day, but now enjoys his well-earned rest in the dignity and

inactivity of age.

As we survey these broken fragments, we gain some appreciation of the

cruelty of that fate which preserved to posterity the ten tedious books

of Lucan's _Pharsalia_, the seventeen books of Silius' _Punica_, and the

twelve books of the _Thebaid_ of Statius, but swept away this great work

of Rome's first genuine poet--a work rendered triply valuable because it

was the first Roman experiment in hexameters, because in it the Latin

language was just molding into literary form, retaining still much of

its early roughness and heaviness, and because of the priceless

contribution to Roman antiquities which it could have furnished us.

3. PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO

We turn from Ennius to Vergil as from prophecy to fulfilment. A hundred

years separated the death of the one from the birth of the other, and

nearly a century and a half stood between their maturer works, a period

covering almost the whole range of republican literature. During this

time many hands had been at work importing literary treasures from

Greece, gleaning from native Italian sources the riches of ancient

folk-lore, customs, traditions, and annals; many minds had pondered over

the problems of life and human destiny, evolving and compiling treasures

of philosophy. And the combined labors of all these had so enlarged,

polished, and enriched the Latin speech, their common instrument, that,

in the single generation embracing the Augustan age, that finished

product was reached which we call the golden age of the language and its

literature, and to the standard of which we refer all Latinity of

earlier or later date.

During this period of development the "inspired" Accius, the immediate

successor of Ennius, had given to the world those works which won for

him the name of the greatest Roman tragic poet; Lucilius, the father of

Roman satire, had left his strong imprint upon his country's life and

language; Varro's tremendous diligence had stored up, among much other

treasure, material upon agriculture and Roman history and antiquities;

Lucretius had written his great didactic poem upon the Epicurean

philosophy; Catullus, an older contemporary of Vergil, had finished his

brief literary as well as earthly career before Vergil had well begun to

write; and lastly, Cicero, Caesar, and Sallust had wrought in their

strong, polished prose for the further perfecting of the Latin speech.

With such a birthright was Vergil born; in such a school and from such

masters did he gain the equipment for his literary career, which was

destined to make him the most brilliant representative of the most

brilliant period in Roman literature.

His origin was certainly humble enough to hide him from fate. He was

born (B. C. 70) the son of a potter, or as some say a farmer, in an

obscure little village near Mantua, in northern Italy, and received his

early education in the not far away towns of Cremona and Mediolanum.

Thence he went to Rome for his higher education, where he acquired the

usual accomplishments of the Roman youth. His studies fitted him for the

profession of the advocate, but not so his nature. His one appearance at

the bar taught him his utter unfitness for that pursuit, for his natural

shyness on that occasion quite overcame him. As Ovid tells us of his own

experience, the Muses wooed him irresistibly away from the practical

pursuits of the "wordy forum," and claimed him for their own. Nature had

marked him for a poet. We are told that he was framed on large and

generous lines, tall, with the genuine Italian swarthiness of hue,

simple and gentle, almost rustic in appearance, with face so suggestive

of the purity of character within that the Neapolitans, among whom he

loved most to make his home, called him _Parthenias_, "the maiden-like

one." Even after he had attained fame, his natural shyness was so great

that the popular notice which he attracted upon the streets was a

torture to him, from which he always took refuge, as Donatus says, "into

the nearest house," as from a hostile mob.

The steps which led our poet from obscurity to fame we cannot trace in

detail. Local circumstances and his marked poetic ability brought him

early under the influence and patronage of Asinius Pollio, soldier,

statesman, and litterateur; he was admitted also to the select circle of

Maecenas, to which he himself was privileged later to introduce his

friend Horace; and Maecenas in turn introduced both these poets, so

unlike and yet so firmly knit together in the bonds of friendship, to

the Emperor Augustus.

Vergil's own works, aside from certain minor poems attributed to him,

were three in number: the _Eclogues_, _Georgics_, and the _AEneid_, all

composed in the dactylic hexameter. His book of _Eclogues_ was written

during the period from 43 to 39 B. C., and consists of ten bucolic or

pastoral poems after the style of the Sicilian Greek poet Theocritus.

These poems, while somewhat artificial in style, are full of genuine

feeling for nature, and contain many valuable references to the poet

himself and his contemporaries. The _Georgics_ are, as their name

implies, a series of treatises in four books upon farming. The first

book is devoted to the tilling of the soil, the second to the

cultivation of the vine and fruit trees, the third to the breeding of

cattle, and the fourth to the care of bees. The whole shows a minute and

first-hand knowledge of the subjects treated which only long and loving

personal observation could have given. The composition of this book

occupied the seven years from 37 to 30 B. C. The work was done chiefly

at Naples, where he seems to have passed the most of the remainder of

his life. His third and greatest work was his epic poem in twelve books

called the _AEneid_, because it relates the story of the Trojan prince

AEneas and his followers.

This poem, whose merits are so evident to us, and whose faults are so

slight in comparison, never in fact received the finishing touches from

the author. Having spent eleven years upon the work, Vergil made a

journey to Greece, intending to continue his travels to Asia also. But

in Athens he met his friend Augustus, who easily persuaded him to return

in his train to Italy. It was but coming home to die. Always of frail

health, the poet's final sickness seized him on the homeward voyage, and

increased so rapidly that he died shortly after landing at Brundisium,

B. C. 19. His remains were buried in his beloved Naples, where still is

proudly pointed out, upon the side of Posilippo hill, the so-called

"tomb of Vergil." A further evidence of the pride which the modern

Neapolitans feel in their great adopted fellow-townsman is to be seen in

the beautiful memorial shrine of white marble which to-day stands to the

poet's (and the city's) honor in the _Villa Nazionale_, the famous

seaside park of Naples.

Vergil, conscious of the incomplete condition of the _AEneid_, left

instructions to Varius and Tucca, his literary executors, to destroy all

his unpublished manuscript; but this great loss to the world was

prevented by the interference of the emperor, who directed Varius to

revise and publish the _AEneid_, which was accordingly done, probably in

the year 17 B. C.

What is the _AEneid_? The Roman no doubt saw in it a national epic,

celebrating the greatness and glory of the Roman race. His heart swelled

with renewed pride of citizenship as he read those glorious lines in

which world dominion was promised to his race:

Others, belike, with happier grace

From bronze or stone shall call the face,

Plead doubtful causes, map the skies,

And tell when planets set or rise:

But, Roman, thou, do thou control

The nations far and wide;

Be this thy genius, to impose

The rule of peace on vanquished foes,

Show pity to the humbled soul,

And crush the sons of pride.

Conington.

But Vergil was not alone an intense patriot. He was also ardently

attached to the new imperial administration; and he seems to have set

himself the difficult task of knitting together again into harmony with

Augustus' rule the different classes of Roman citizens so long rent

asunder by factional strife and civil war. He attempts this by reminding

his fellow-citizens of their glorious past and tracing the hand of

destiny in unbroken manifestation from AEneas to Caesar and to Caesar's

heir. Thus Jupiter is seen promising to Venus for her Trojan descendants

"endless, boundless reign." This glorious reign is to culminate in the

great Caesar, who with his heir Augustus shall inaugurate the Golden Age

again.

The _AEneid_ itself may be said in a sense to focus upon Augustus, for

in the vision which is granted to AEneas in the underworld of the long

line of his mighty descendants, it is Augustus who is singled out for

most glowing tribute as the chief glory of the race that is to be:

This, this is he, so oft the theme

Of your prophetic fancy's dream,

Augustus Caesar, god by birth,

Restorer of the age of gold

In lands where Saturn ruled of old,

O'er Ind and Garamant extreme

Shall stretch his reign, that spans the earth.

Look to that land which lies afar,

Beyond the path of sun or star,

Where Atlas on his shoulder rears

The burden of the incumbent spheres.

Egypt e'en now and Caspia hear

The muttered voice of many a seer,

And Nile's seven mouths, disturbed with fear,

Their coming conqueror know.

Conington.

Such strains as these in the setting of such a poem, embodying all that

most delicately and most powerfully stimulated the Roman pride of birth

and country, would do much to confer upon the ruling emperor historic

and divine sanction.

Perhaps connected with the national character of the _AEneid_ is the

strong religious motive which animates the whole. Rome was not produced

by chance. The poet never lets us lose sight of the fact that all has

been predestined for ages past. AEneas from the first is in the hands of

heaven, fated indeed to wander, to endure disappointment, suffering,

loss that would have tried beyond endurance a man of weaker faith; but

fated as well to work out a glorious destiny. And AEneas, like the

typical Roman after him, believed in his destiny. He calmly consoles his

shipwrecked friends upon the wild shores of Africa in the face of

seemingly irreparable disaster:

Comrades! for comrades we are, no strangers to hardships already;

hearts that have felt deeper wounds! for these too heaven will

find a balm. Why, men, you have even looked on Scylla in her

madness, and heard those yells that thrill the rocks; you have

even made trial of the crags of the Cyclops. Come, call your

spirits back, and banish these doleful fears. Who knows but some

day this too will be remembered with pleasure? Through manifold

chances, through these many perils of fortune, we are making our

way to Latium, where the Fates hold out to us a quiet settlement;

there Troy's empire has leave to rise again from its ashes. Bear

up, and reserve yourselves for brighter days.

Conington.

The _AEneid_ breathes throughout a tone of reverence for the gods. This

is best seen if we contrast Vergil's and Ovid's attitude. The latter

poet affects a free and easy familiarity with the deities of tradition,

whose deeds, adventures, and escapades are told, often with slight

reverence, and much to the detriment of their divine dignity. But in

Vergil's poem the reader enters a stately temple filled

with an all-pervading reverence for the gods of heaven, who are to be

approached by men only in fitting wise, with veiled face and pure hands;

whose power is over all and wielded in righteousness. It should be added

that the whole sixth book is devoted to an account of the spirit world,

where human souls receive their rewards and punishments for the deeds of

their life on earth.

Vergil's poems have always been thought to have a decidedly Christian

tone, so much so, indeed, that he was revered by the early Christian

fathers, who regarded him in the light of a semi-inspired pagan. There

is a tradition of the medieval church preserved in a mass sung in honor

of St. Paul, in which that saint is said to have stood at the tomb of

Vergil and to have exclaimed: "O greatest of poets, what a man I should

have made of thee had I but met thee in thy day!"

Vergil's standing with the early church was no doubt much enhanced by

his remarkable fourth eclogue, in which he foretells the golden age to

be inaugurated by the birth of the infant son of Pollio. There is a

remarkable similarity between the poet's description of the happy time

of "peace on earth" which the Child shall bring and the language of the

Messianic prophecies of Isaiah.

But entirely aside from its national, religious, or other

characteristics, and so far as its place in the world's literature is

concerned, the _AEneid_ is first of all a story. It has not, indeed, the

simple grandeur of the _Iliad_, upon the model of which it was probably

composed. The passing of nearly a millennium of world-life after Homer's

time made that impossible; and it is obviously unfair to compare any

product of the refined and artificial society of the Augustan with the

product of the simple and fresh life of the Homeric age when the world

was young. But the _AEneid_ has a grandeur, a grace, a polished beauty

all its own; and, compared with the epic product of his own and later

ages, Vergil's poem stands colossal--the unapproachable epic of the

Roman tongue.

It is the heroic story of the last night of Troy, and the subsequent

wanderings of a band of Trojans under AEneas, prince of Troy; their long,

vain search for their fate-promised land; their shipwreck upon the

shores of Africa; their sojourn in Carthage and the love tragedy of Dido

and AEneas; their memorial games in Sicily; AEneas' visit to the

underworld, and the struggle of the Trojan exiles against native princes

for a foothold in their destined Italy--all a story of heroes and heroic

deeds, sketched on broad lines and with a free hand, but worked out with

exquisite grace and beauty of detail.

Vergil follows common usage in telling his story in an order not

chronological. The introduction reminds us that the struggle of the

Trojan exiles is not confined to earth, but has its counterpart in

heaven, where Juno cherishes many old grudges against the Trojans, while

Venus champions them for the sake of her son AEneas. A recognition of

this divine element is all essential to an understanding of the story,

for it is through the agency of these rival goddesses that much of the

action for better and for worse is wrought out.

The first view of our Trojan band shows them helpless in the grasp of a

raging storm, wave-tossed and all but wrecked, they know not where.

Through the uproar of the elements we hear the despairing cry of

stout-hearted AEneas himself:

O happy, thrice and yet again,

Who died at Troy like valiant men,

E'en in their parents' view!

O Diomed, first of Greeks in fray,

Why pressed I not the plain that day,

Yielding my life to you,

Where, stretched beneath a Phrygian sky,

Fierce Hector, tall Sarpedon lie:

Where Simois tumbles 'neath his wave

Shields, helms, and bodies of the brave?

Conington.

But even as he speaks, the mountain waves break and drive his frail

ships upon the quicksands near some wild and unknown shore.

In striking contrast to this wild scene is the calm haven to which a

portion of the shipwrecked band is guided by the kindly divinities of

the sea. The description of this spot, and the rest and refreshment of

the weary toilers forms one of the most charming bits of realism in the

poem.

After the necessary refreshment of food and sleep, AEneas, with his

faithful Achates as sole companion, sets out at early dawn to explore

this wild region upon the shores of which they have been cast. As they

wander through a deep forest they meet Venus in the disguise of a

huntress, and from her they inquire the name of this land.

AEneas now learns that he has been wrecked upon the coast of Africa, not

far from the new city which Dido, a Tyrian princess, is building. He

learns her tragic story: how her brother had killed her husband Sychaeus

out of greed for gain, and how she had fled, in consequence, with a band

of Tyrian followers. The goddess points out the way to this new city,

bids them be of good cheer and follow it, and vanishes from their sight,

revealing her true nature to her son as she departs.

They soon reach a height which overlooks the new city of Carthage, and

find themselves before a temple of Juno, upon whose architrave are

sculptured scenes from the Trojan War. It is early morning, and the city

is all a-buzz with toil of its inhabitants who urge on the many busy

works. AEneas, homesick for his lost city, and long baffled in his search

for his own promised home, cries out in longing as he looks upon this

scene:

Yea, all, like busy bees throughout the flowery mead,

Are all astir with eager toil. O blessed toil!

O happy ye, whose walls already rise! But I,--

When shall I see my city and my city's walls?

Miller.[F]

[F] These quotations are made from Miller and Nelson's _Dido, an Epic

Tragedy_, by permission of Silver, Burdett & Co.

Soon they discover the pictures on the architrave, and are much moved as

well as comforted to know that here, so far from home, their heroic

struggles are known and appreciated. And now the strains of music and

the stir of an approaching throng is heard, and, themselves unseen,

AEneas and Achates behold the beautiful and stately queen Dido entering

the temple with her train of maidens and courtiers. The queen takes her

seat and proceeds to hold an impromptu court, planning the work of the

day, and assigning tasks to her lieutenants.

Again the approach of a more noisy throng is heard, and into the stately

temple breaks a group of desperate men whom AEneas at once recognizes to

be a part of his own band who had been cast up upon another part of the

shore. They are followed by a mob of jeering Carthaginians. Old

Ilioneus, one of the Trojans, pleads their cause before the queen in a

speech of mingled supplication and reproach, while at the same time he

bewails the loss of his beloved prince AEneas.

The queen receives the wanderers with open-handed generosity, disclaims

all intentional harshness, bids the Trojans freely share her city and

her realm, and expresses the wish that their king himself, AEneas, were

before her. These, we may be sure, were glad words to AEneas and his

companions. They at once stand forth before the eyes of the astonished

throng, joyfully greet their comrades, and AEneas salutes the queen with

grateful and courtly speech:

Lo, him you ask for! I am he,

AEneas, saved from Libya's sea.

O, only heart that deigns to mourn

For Ilium's cruel care!

That bids e'en us, poor relics, torn

From Danaan fury, all outworn

By earth and ocean, all forlorn,

Its home, it's city share!

We cannot thank you; no, nor they,

Our brethren of the Dardan race,

Who, driven from their ancestral place,

Throughout the wide world stray.

May heaven, if virtue claim its thought,

If justice yet avail for aught,

Heaven, and the sense of conscious right,

With worthier meed your acts requite!

What happy ages gave you birth?

What glorious sires begat such worth?

While rivers run into the deep,

While shadows o'er the hillside sweep,

While stars in heaven's fair pasture graze,

Shall live your honor, name, and praise,

Whate'er my destined home.

Conington.

The astonished Dido finds fitting words of welcome for her royal guest,

again assures the Trojans that her city is their own, and proclaims a

great feast on the ensuing night in honor of the distinguished

strangers.

This feast is a scene of royal and barbaric splendor. The Tyrian lords

and Trojan princes throng the banquet-hall with its rich tapestries and

flashing lights, vessels of massive silver and of gold, while the

bright-hued robes of Dido and her train add gladness and color to the

scene. Amidst the feasting there was a song by an old minstrel, which he

accompanied by the strains of his lyre. The song was upon the ever

fascinating theme of natural phenomena, the powers of the air, the

earth, the sea--all the dim mysteries of being. We are told that he sang

about these things. Let us phrase them for his lyric measures.

Of the orb of the wandering moon I sing,

As she wheels through the darkening skies;

Where the storm-brooding band of the Hyades swing,

And the circling Triones arise;

Of the sun's struggling ball

Which the shadows appall

Till the menacing darkness flies;

Of the all-potent forces that dwell in the air,

With its measureless reaches of blue;

The soft, floating clouds of gossamer there,

And the loud-wailing storm-rack too;

Of the rain and the winds

And the lightning that blinds

When its swift-darting bolt flashes through;

Of the marvels deep hid in the bowels of earth,

In the dark caves of Ocean confined,

Where the rivers in snow-trickling rills have their birth,

And the dense tangled mazes unwind;

In the deep underland,

In the dim wonderland,

Where broods the vast cosmical mind.

Of the manifold wonders of life I sing,

Its mysterious striving to scan,

In the rippling wave, on the fluttering wing,

In beast and all-dominant man.

'Tis the indwelling soul

Of the god of the whole,

Since the dawn of creation began.

Meanwhile the queen, deeply moved with pity first, and now with

admiration for her heroic guest, hangs breathless on his words, asks

eagerly of the famous war, and at last begs him to tell entire the story

of that last sad night of Troy. We listen too while he, whose tears

start as he speaks, relates that tragic story. He tells how, at the end

of the long struggle, when both warring nations were well-nigh exhausted

of their strength, the Greeks at last gained entrance to their Trojan

city by the trick of the wooden horse. This huge image, found without

their walls, filled all unknown to them with their bravest foes, they

draw through their gates, and place upon their very citadel, amid

dancing children and the joyous shouts of all the citizens; for they

have been assured by the lying Sinon that the Greeks have gone home, and

have left this horse as an offering to Minerva for their safe return.

In the deep night watches, when all are drowned in careless slumber and

their festal draughts of wine, AEneas dreams that Hector stands before

him, begrimed with gory dust and weeping bitterly.

"Ah! fly, goddess-born!" cries he, "and escape from these

flames--the walls are in the enemy's hands--Troy is tumbling from

its summit--the claims of country and king are satisfied--if

Pergamus could be defended by force of hand, it would have been

defended by mine, in my day. Your country's worship and her gods

are what she intrusts to you now--take them to share your

destiny--seek for them a mighty city, which you shall one day

build when you have wandered the ocean over."

Conington.

As AEneas springs up from his couch, warned by this vision, his ears are

greeted by the confused sound of distant clamor, hoarse cries, and the

accustomed noise of battle. The sky is red with flames. Rushing out, he

finds that the Greek forces from wooden horse and fleet have filled the

city, while the Trojans, taken unawares, are making brave but desultory

resistance. Collecting a band of men, he makes stubborn stand again and

again; but at last overpowered, his men flee in scattered twos and

threes.

AEneas finds himself near Priam's palace. This is beset by swarms of

Greeks, who scale the walls and batter at the doors, while desperate

defenders on the roof hurl down whatever comes to hand. AEneas gains the

roof by a private way, and looking down upon the inner court, he is

witness to the darkest tragedy of that night. Old Priam, with Hecuba his

wife and helpless daughters, sits cowering upon the steps of the central

shrine. A mighty crash and outcry from within tell that the Greeks have

gained an entrance at the door. Now out into the peristyle, along the

beautiful colonnades of the spacious court, comes Priam's youthful son

Polites, hard-pressed by the spear of Pyrrhus, leader of the Greeks. In

breathless fascination they watch the race for life until the boy falls

slain just at his parent's feet. The aged king, roused by this outrage,

stands forth; clad in his time-worn armor, and weak and trembling with

age, he chides the Greek:

"Aye," cries he, "for a crime, for an outrage like this, may the

gods, if there is any sense of right in heaven to take cognizance

of such deeds, give you the full thanks you merit, and pay you

your due reward; you, who have made me look with my own eyes on my

son's death, and stained a father's presence with the sight of

blood. But he whom your lying tongue calls your sire, Achilles,

dealt not thus with Priam his foe--he had a cheek that could

crimson at a suppliant's rights, a suppliant's honor. Hector's

lifeless body he gave back to the tomb, and sent me home to my

realms in peace." So said the poor old man, and hurled at him a

dart unwarlike, unwounding, which the ringing brass at once shook

off, and left hanging helplessly from the end of the shield's

boss. Pyrrhus retorts: "You shall take your complaint, then, and

carry your news to my father, Pelides. Tell him about my shocking

deeds, about his degenerate Neoptolemus, and do not forget. Now

die." With these words he dragged him to the very altar, palsied

and sliding in a pool of his son's blood, wreathed his left hand

in his hair, and with his right flashed forth and sheathed in his

side the sword to the hilt. Such was the end of Priam's fortunes,

such the fatal lot that fell upon him, with Troy blazing and

Pergamus in ruins before his eyes--upon him, once the haughty

ruler of those many nations and kingdoms, the sovereign lord of

Asia! There he lies on the shore, a gigantic trunk, a head severed

from the shoulders, a body without a name.

Conington.

The tide of carnage sucks out of the palace and ebbs away. As AEneas

descends from the palace roof, he sees Helen skulking in a neighboring

shrine. His heart is hot at sight of her who has been the firebrand of

the war, and he resolves to kill her. But Venus flashes before his

vision and warns him to hasten to the defense of his own home would he

not see his own father lying even as Priam. Conscience-smitten, he

hurries thither, divinely shielded from fire and sword. His plan is

fixed to take his household and seek a place of safety without the city.

The unexpected resistance of his aged father, who is resolved not to

survive his beloved Troy, is at last overcome; and soon, with his sire

upon his shoulders, his little son held by the hand, and his household

following, AEneas steals out the city gate on the side toward Mount Ida,

and makes his way to a preconcerted place of meeting. Here, to his

consternation, he discovers that his wife Creuesa is missing, and wildly

rushes back to the city in search of her. Regardless of danger to

himself, he is calling her name loudly through the desolate streets when

her shade appears to him and says:

"Whence this strange pleasure in indulging frantic grief, my

darling husband? It is not without heaven's will that these things

are happening. That you should carry your Creuesa with you on your

journey is forbidden by fate, forbidden by the mighty ruler of

heaven above. You have long years of exile, a vast expanse of

ocean to traverse--and then you will arrive at the land of

Hesperia, where Tiber, Lydia's river, rolls his gentle volumes

through rich and cultured plains. There you have a smiling future,

a kingdom and a royal bride waiting your coming. Dry your tears

for Creuesa, your heart's choice though she be. I am not to see the

face of Myrmidons or Dolopes in their haughty homes, or to enter

the service of some Grecian matron--I, a Dardan princess, daughter

by marriage of Venus the immortal. No, I am kept in this country

by heaven's mighty mother. And now farewell, and continue to love

your son and mine." Thus having spoken, spite of my tears, spite

of the thousand things I longed to say, she left me and vanished

into unsubstantial air. Thrice, as I stood, I essayed to fling my

arms round her neck--thrice the phantom escaped the hands that

caught at it in vain--impalpable as the wind, fleeting as the

wings of sleep.

So passed my night, and such was my return to my comrades. Arrived

there, I find with wonder their band swelled by a vast multitude

of new companions, matrons and warriors both, an army mustered for

exile, a crowd of the wretched. From every side they were met,

prepared in heart as in fortune to follow me over the sea to any

land where I might take them to settle. And now the morning star

was rising over Ida's loftiest ridge with the day in its

train--Danaan sentinels were blocking up the entry of the gates,

and no hope of succor appeared. I retired at last, took up my

father, and made for the mountains.

Conington.

Thus simply ends the thrilling story of the Trojan War, told by one who

was himself an active participant in those mighty deeds. It passes from

turbulent action to pathetic rest like the tired sobbing of a child

which has cried itself to sleep.

The banquet-hall of Dido has remained throughout this recital in

breathless silence, and now a long sigh of relief from the strained

tension of passionate sympathy breathes along the couches.

After an impressive pause, during which no word is spoken, AEneas resumes

his story and tells of the seven years of wandering over the sea in

search of the land that fate has promised him. With his little fleet of

vessels, built at the foot of Ida, he touches first at a point in

Thrace, intending to found a city there; but he is warned away by a

horrible portent. He touches next at Delos, and implores the sacred

oracle for a word of guidance to his destined home. To this prayer the

oracle makes answer by a voice wafted from the inner shrine, while the

whole place rocks and trembles:

Sons of Dardanus, strong to endure, the land which first gave you

birth from your ancestral tree, the same land shall welcome you

back, restored to its fruitful bosom; seek for your old mother

till you find her. There it is that the house of AEneas shall set

up a throne over all nations, they, and their children's children,

and those that shall yet come after.

Conington.

So it is "Ho, for the mother-land!" But where is that? Whence sprang the

Trojans? Here old Anchises, father of AEneas, rich in the lore of old

tradition, says:

Listen, lords of Troy, and learn where your hopes are. Crete lies

in the midst of the deep, the island of mighty Jove. There is

Mount Ida, and there the cradle of our race. It has a hundred

peopled cities, a realm of richest plenty. Thence it was that our

first father, Teucer, if I rightly recall what I have heard, came

in the beginning to the Rhoetean coast, and fixed on the site of

empire. Ilion and the towers of Pergamus had not yet been reared;

the people dwelt low in the valley. Hence came our mighty mother,

the dweller on Mount Cybele, and the symbols of the Corybants, and

the forest of Ida: hence the inviolate mystery of her worship, and

the lions harnessed to the car of their queen. Come, then, and let

us follow where the ordinance of heaven points the way; let us

propitiate the winds, and make for the realm of Gnossus--the

voyage is no long one--let but Jupiter go with us, and the third

day will land our fleet on the Cretan shore.

Conington.

They quickly reach the Cretan shore, joyfully lay out their new city,

and begin again the sweet, simple life in home and field which had been

theirs before Paris brought the curse on Troy. But alas for their bright

hopes! A blighting pestilence falls on man and beast, on tree and shrub;

the very ground is accursed. It is the harsh warning of fate that they

must not settle here. But where? To AEneas, as he tosses in sleepless

anxiety through the night, there appear in the white moonlight the

images of his country's gods, who give him the needed counsel:

We, the followers of you and your fortune since the Dardan land

sank in flame--we, the comrades of the fleet which you have been

guiding over the swollen main--we it is that will raise to the

stars the posterity that shall come after you, and crown your city

with imperial sway. Be it yours to build mighty walls for mighty

dwellers, and not abandon the task of flight for its tedious

length. Change your settlement; it is not this coast that the

Delian god moved you to accept--not in Crete that Apollo bade you

sit down. No, there is a place--the Greeks call it Hesperia--a

land old in story, strong in arms and in the fruitfulness of its

soil--the Oenotrians were its settlers. Now report says that later

generations have called the nation Italian, from the name of their

leader. That is our true home: thence sprung Dardanus and father

Iasius, the first founder of our line. Quick! rise, and tell the

glad tale, which brooks no question, to your aged sire; tell him

that he is to look for Corythus and the country of Ausonia.

Jupiter bars you from the fields of Dicte.

Conington.

Again on board, they sail for many stormy days until they reach the

islands of the Strophades. Here dwell the Harpies, loathsome human

birds, whose touch is defilement and whose speech is bitter with

railing. Yet even here AEneas finds a prophecy of his destiny. Offended

by the onslaught of the Trojans, Celaeno, one of the Harpy band, thus

reviles and prophesies:

What, is it war for the oxen you have slain and the bullocks you

have felled, true sons of Laomedon? Is it war that _you_ are going

to make on _us_, to expel us, blameless Harpies, from our

ancestral realm? Take, then, into your minds these my words, and

print them there. The prophecy which the Almighty Sire imparted to

Phoebus, Phoebus Apollo to me, I, the chief of the Furies, make

known to you. For Italy, I know, you are crowding all sail: well,

the winds shall be at your call as you go to Italy, and you shall

be free to enter its harbors; but you shall not build walls around

your fated city, before fell hunger and your murderous wrong

against us drive you to gnaw and eat up your very tables.

Conington.

Hastily AEneas leaves this place with an earnest prayer that this dire

threat may be averted. Past green Zacynthos, Dulichium, and craggy

Neritos they go, past Ithaca, cursing it for crafty Ulysses' sake, and

reach the rocky shores of Actium; then on past the Phaeacian land to

Buthrotum in Epirus, on the western shore of Greece. He is astounded and

delighted to find that the strange fortunes of war have set Helenus, son

of Priam, here as king, with Andromache, wife of the lamented Hector, as

his queen. We may be sure that the meeting was sweet and bitter too for

all the exiles.

They pass many days in hospitable intercourse, recalling the vanished

life of their old Phrygian home, and recounting the checkered

experiences of their recent years. And now, one bright morning, the

breezes call loudly to the sails, and AEneas would pursue his way. He

knows by now that Italy is the object of his quest, but how he may reach

the destined spot in that vast stretch of coast, and what wanderings

still await him, he does not know. But Helenus, his host, is famed as a

diviner of hidden things, and to him AEneas appeals.

Helenus first warns his friend that he must shun that part of Italy

which seems so near at hand, for on this eastern shore the Greeks have

many cities; but he must sail far around, until he reach the farthest

shore. Above all, let him not try to speed his course through the

straits of Sicily, for here the dread monsters Scylla and Charybdis keep

the way. They shall at last come to "Cumae on the western shore, and the

haunted lake, and the woods that rustle over Avernus," and there shall

they learn further of their fates from the inspired prophetess of

Apollo's shrine. Their final resting-place, where heaven shall permit

them to found their city and end their wanderings, by this strange token

they shall know--a huge white sow with thirty young, lying at ease

beneath a spreading oak. "Such," says Helenus, "are the counsels which

it is given you to receive from my lips. Go on your way, and by your

actions lift to heaven the greatness of Troy."

With exchange of gifts, tokens of mutual love, sad at parting, but with

high thoughts of glorious destiny, the royal pair speed their guests on

their way. One reach to the northward, a night on the sandy shore, an

early embarkation in the misty dusk of the morning, and AEneas turns his

prows once more to the unknown west.

And now the stars were fled, and Aurora was just reddening in the

sky, when in the distance we see the dim hills and low plains of

Italy. "Italy!" Achates was the first to cry. Italy, our crews

welcome with a shout of rapture. Then, my father Anchises

wreathed a mighty bowl with a garland, and filled it with wine,

and called on the gods, standing upon the tall stern: "Ye powers

that rule sea and land and weather, waft us a fair wind and a

smooth passage, and breathe auspiciously!"

Conington.

They make a hasty landing on this nearest shore, pay solemn tribute to

Juno as Helenus had bidden them, and speeding across the great curving

bay of Tarentum, hug fast the shores of southern Italy. Barely escaping

the dangerous straits of Sicily, they pass the night upon the shore near

AEtna, whose awful rumblings, whirlwinds of glowing ashes, and belched up

avalanches of molten stone, appall their hearts. This night of dread

ends in a morning of horror, for there, upon the mountainside, they see

the Cyclopean monsters whom Ulysses and his band had so narrowly

escaped. Hastily they push away from this dread coast, and sail clear

around to western Sicily, where AEneas' aged father dies, and is buried

in the friendly realm of King Acestes.

From here one more short course would have brought them to their

journey's end; but Juno's implacable hate had stirred the winds against

them, and by that dark storm they had been driven far away and wrecked

on the coast of Africa.

Thus father AEneas, alone, amid the hush of all around, was

recounting heaven's destined dealings, and telling of his voyages;

and now at length he was silent, made an end, and took his rest.

Conington.

Ages after this, Othello the Moor won the love of Desdemona by tales of

valor and of suffering:

My story being done,

She gave me for my pains a world of sighs;

She wished she had not heard it, yet she wished

That heaven had made her such a man. She thanked me,

And bade me if I had a friend that loved her,

I should but teach him how to tell my story,

And that would woo her.

By these same means, unwittingly has AEneas stirred the love in Dido's

heart. She goes to her bed, but not to sleep. All night she tosses

restlessly, picturing the hero's face and recalling his words; and in

the morning, sick of soul, she pours her tears and cares into her sister

Anna's bosom.

O sister, what dread visions of the night invade

My troubled soul! What of this stranger lodged within

Our halls, how noble in his mien, how brave in heart,

Of what puissant arms! From heav'n in truth his race

Must be derived, for fear betokens low-born souls.

Alas, how tempest-tossed of fate was he! How to

The dregs the bitter cup of war's reverses hath

He drained! If in my soul the purpose were not fixed

That not to any suitor would I yield myself

In wedlock, since the time when he who won my love

Was reft away, perchance I might have yielded now.

For sister, I confess it, since my husband's fate,

Since that sad day when by his blood my father's house

Was sprinkled, this of all men has my feelings moved.

Again I feel the force of passion's sway. But no!

May I be gulfed within earth's yawning depths; may Jove

Almighty hurl me with his thunders to the shades,

The pallid shades of Erebus and night profound,

Before, O constancy, I violate thy laws!

He took my heart who first engaged my maiden love.

Still may he keep his own, and in the silent tomb

Preserve my love inviolate.

Miller.

Anna advises her sister to yield to this new love, and argues that

policy as well as inclination is on her side. Such a union as this would

strengthen her against her brother, and exalt the sway of Carthage to

unhoped for glory.

And to what glory shalt thou see thy city rise,

What strong, far-reaching sway upreared on such a tie!

Assisted by the Trojan arms, our youthful state

Up to the very pinnacle of fame shall soar.

Miller.

Thus advised, Dido gives herself up to passion's sway. Her city is

forgotten, her queenly ambition gone. In hospitality, in feasting, and

the dalliance of love the days go by. And seemingly AEneas, too, has

forgotten his glorious destiny, his promised land of Italy, and is sunk

in a languorous dream of present bliss.

But the fates of future Rome must not be thwarted. He is rudely awakened

from his dream by Mercury, who at the command of Jove suddenly appears

before him as he is engaged in urging on the walls and towers of

Carthage.

And can it be that thou art building here the walls

Of Tyrian Carthage, and uprearing her fair towers,

Thou dotard, of thy realm and thy great destiny

Forgetful! Jove himself, the ruler of the gods,

Who holds the heavens and earth and moves them at his will,

To thee from bright Olympus straight hath sent me here.

He bade me bear on speeding pinions these commands:

What dost thou here? or with what hopes dost thou delay

Upon the Libyan shores? If thou, indeed, art moved

By no regard of thine own glorious destiny,

Respect at least the budding hopes of him, thy son,

Who after thee shall hold the scepter; for to him

Are due the realms of Italy, the land of Rome.

Miller.

AEneas is overwhelmed with astonishment and remorse. At once all his old

ambitions regain their sway, and his mind is bent upon instant

departure. He cries aloud:

O Jove, and I had near forgot my destiny,

To oblivion lulled amid the sweets of this fair land!

But now my heart's sole longing is for Italy,

Which waits me by the promise of the fates. But how

From this benumbing passion shall I free myself?

How face the queen and put away her clinging love?

[_To his attendants._] "Go ye, and swiftly call the Trojans to the

shore;

Bid them equip the vessels quickly for the sea,

And frame for this our sudden voyage some fitting cause."

Miller.

But Dido has seen the hurrying Trojan mariners, and with her natural

perceptions sharpened by suspicious fear, at once divines the meaning of

this sudden stir. Maddened with the pangs of blighted love, she seeks

AEneas and pours out her hot indignation mingled with pitiful pleadings.

And didst thou hope that thou couldst hide thy fell design,

O faithless, and in silence steal away from this

My land? Does not our love, and pledge of faith once given,

Nor thought of Dido, doomed to die a cruel death,

Detain thee? Can it be that under wintry skies

Thou wouldest launch thy fleet and urge thy onward way

'Mid stormy blasts across the sea, O cruel one?

But what if not a stranger's land and unknown homes

Thou soughtest; what if Troy, thy city, still remained:

Still wouldst thou fare to Troy along the wave-tossed sea?

Is't I thou fleest? By these tears and thy right hand--

Since in my depth of crushing woe I've nothing left--

And by our marriage bond and sacred union joined,

If ever aught of mercy I have earned of thee,

If I have ever giv'n thee one sweet drop of joy,

Have pity on my falling house, and change, I pray,

Thy cruel purpose if there still is room for prayer.

For thee the Libyan races hate me, and my lords

Of Tyre; for thee my latest scruple was o'ercome;

My fame, by which I was ascending to the stars,

My kingdom, fates,--all these have I giv'n up for thee.

And thou, for whom dost thou abandon me, O guest?--

Since from the name of husband this sole name remains.

What wait I more? Is't till Pygmalion shall come,

And lay my walls in ruins, or the desert prince,

Iarbus, lead me captive home? O cruel fate!

If only ere thou fledst some pledge had been conceived

Of thee, if round my halls some son of thine might sport,

To bear thy name and bring thine image back to me,

Then truly should I seem not utterly bereft.

Miller.

AEneas is seemingly unmoved by this appeal. With the warnings of Jupiter

still sounding in his ears, he dares not let his love answer a word to

Dido's pleadings. And so he coldly answers her that he is but following

the bidding of his fate, which is leading him to Italy, even as hers had

led her to this land of Africa.

Dido has stood during this reply with averted face and scornful look,

and now turns upon him in a passion of grief and rage. No pleadings now,

but scornful denunciation and curses.

Thou art no son of Venus, nor was Dardanus

The ancient founder of thy race, thou faithless one;

But Caucasus with rough and flinty crags begot,

And fierce Hyrcanian tigers suckled thee. For why

Should I restrain my speech, or greater evil wait?

Did he one sympathetic sigh of sorrow heave?

Did he one tear let fall, o'ermastered by my grief?

Now neither Juno, mighty queen, nor father Jove

Impartial sees; for faith is everywhere betrayed.

That shipwrecked beggar in my folly did I take

And cause to sit upon my throne; I saved his fleet,

His friends I rescued--Oh, the furies drive me mad!

Now 'tis Apollo's dictate, now the Lycian lots,

And now "the very messenger of heaven sent down

By Jove himself" to bring this mandate through the air!

A fitting task is that for heaven's immortal lords!

Such cares as these disturb their everlasting calm!

I seek not to detain nor answer thee; sail on

To Italy, seek fated realms beyond the seas.

For me, if pious prayers can aught avail, I pray

That thou amid the wrecking reefs mayst drain the cup

Of retribution to the dregs and vainly call

Upon the name of Dido. Distant though I be,

With fury's torch will I pursue thee, and when death

Shall free my spirit, will I haunt thee everywhere.

O thou shalt meet thy punishment, perfidious one;

My soul shall know, for such glad news would penetrate

The lowest depths of hell.

Miller.

She works herself up to a frenzy, and as she finishes she turns to leave

him with queenly scorn, staggers, and falls. The servants carry her from

the scene, leaving AEneas in agony of soul, struggling between love and

duty. Meanwhile the Trojan preparations go on with feverish haste. The

ships are launched, hurried final preparations made, and all is now

ready for departure. Dido sends her sister to AEneas with one last

appeal, but all in vain. No tears or prayers can move him now.

The queen resolves on death. She has a huge pyre built within her palace

court under the pretense of magic rites which shall free her from her

unhappy love. The Trojans spend the night sleeping on their oars; the

queen, in sleepless torment. As the dawn begins to brighten, the sailors

are heard singing in the distance as they joyfully hoist their sails.

Dido rushes to her window and beholds the fleet just putting out from

shore. She cries aloud in impotent frenzy.

Ye gods! and shall he go and mock our royal power?

Why not to arms, and send our forces in pursuit,

And bid them hurry down the vessels from the shore?

Ho there, my men, quick, fetch the torches, seize your arms,

And man the oars!--What am I saying? where am I?

What madness turns my brain? O most unhappy queen,

Is it thus thy evil deeds are coming back to thee?

Such fate was just when thou didst yield thy scepter up.--

Lo, _there's_ the fealty of him who, rumor says,

His country's gods with him in all his wandering bears,

And on his shoulders bore his sire from burning Troy!

Why could I not have torn his body limb from limb,

And strewed his members on the deep? and slain his friends,

His son Aschanius, and served his mangled limbs

To grace his father's feast?--Such conflict might have had

A doubtful issue.--Grant it might, but whom had I,

Foredoomed to death, to fear? I might have fired his camp,

His ships, and wrapped in common ruin father, son,

And all the race, and given myself to crown the doom

Of all.--O Sun, who with thy shining rays dost see

All mortal deeds; O Juno, who dost know and thus

Canst judge the grievous cares of wedlock; thou whom wild

And shrieking women worship through the dusky streets,

O Hecate; and ye avenging Furies--ye,

The gods of failing Dido, come and bend your power

To these my woes and hear my prayer. If yonder wretch

Must enter port and reach his land decreed by fate,

If thus the laws of Jove ordain, this order holds;

But, torn in war, a hardy people's foeman, far

From friends and young Iulus' arms, may he be forced

To seek a Grecian stranger's aid, and may he see

The death of many whom he loves. And when at last

A meager peace on doubtful terms he has secured,

May he no pleasure find in kingdom or in life;

But may he fall untimely, and unburied lie

Upon some solitary strand. This, this I pray,

And with my latest breath this final wish proclaim.

Then, O my Tyrians, with a bitter hate pursue

The whole accursed race, and send this to my shade

As welcome tribute. Let there be no amity

Between our peoples. Rise thou from my bones,

O some avenger, who with deadly sword and brand

Shall scathe the Trojan exiles, now, in time to come,

Whenever chance and strength shall favor. Be our shores

To shores opposed, our waves to waves, and arms to arms,

Eternal, deadly foes through all posterity.

Miller.

With this prophetic curse, to be fulfilled centuries hence, on the

bloody fields of the Trebia, Trasumenus, and of Cannae, she snatches up

AEneas' sword, rushes out of the room, and mounts the pyre which she has

prepared. Here have been placed all the objects which her Trojan lover

has left behind. Passionately kissing these and pressing them to her

breast, she utters her last words.

Sweet pledges of my lord, while fate and god allowed,

Accept this soul of mine, and free me from my cares.

For I have lived and run the course that Fortune set;

And now my stately soul to Hades shall descend.

A noble city have I built; my husband's death

Have I avenged, and on my brother's head my wrath

Inflicted. Happy, ah too happy, had the keels

Of Troy ne'er touched my shores!--And shall I perish thus?--

But let me perish. Thus, oh thus, 'tis sweet to seek

The land of shadows.--May the heartless Trojan see,

As on he fares across the deep, my blazing pyre,

And bear with him the gloomy omens of my death.

Miller.

So saying, she falls upon the sword and perishes. The report of the

queen's tragic death

runs wild through the convulsed city. With wailing and groaning,

and screams of women, the palace rings; the sky resounds with

mighty cries and beating of breasts--even as if the foe were to

burst the gates and topple down Carthage or ancient Tyre, and the

infuriate flame were leaping from roof to roof among the dwellings

of men and gods.

Conington.

With the southern sky murky with the smoke and lurid with the glare of

Dido's funeral pyre, AEneas sails away with sad forebodings, and comes

again to Sicily. By chance this return to Sicily has fallen upon the

anniversary of Anchises' death. AEneas therefore determines to hold a

solemn festival in honor of his father, which he celebrates with the

accustomed funeral games.

While these games are in progress, by the machinations of Juno, the

Trojan women, weary of their long wanderings, attempt to burn the fleet.

But the vessels are saved, with the loss of four, by the miraculous

intervention of Jupiter. AEneas thereupon is advised by Nautes, a Trojan

prince, to build a town here in Sicily, and to leave behind all those

who have grown weak or out of sympathy with his great enterprise.

This advice is ratified by the shade of Anchises, who gives AEneas

further direction for his way.

My son, more dear, while life remained,

E'en than that life to me,

My son, long exercised and trained

In Ilium's destiny,

My errand is from Jove the sire,

Who saved your vessels from the fire,

And sent at last from heaven above

The wished-for token of his love.

Hear and obey the counsel sage

Bestowed by Nautes' reverend age:

Picked youths, the bravest of the brave,

Be these your comrades o'er the wave,

For haughty are the tribes and rude

That Latium has to be subdued.

But ere you yet confront the foe,

First seek the halls of Dis below,

Pass deep Avernus' vale, and meet

Your father in his own retreat.

Not Tartarus' prison-house of crime

Detains me, nor the mournful shades:

My home is in the Elysian clime,

With righteous souls, 'mid happy glades.

The virgin Sibyl with the gore

Of sable sheep shall ope the door;

Then shall you learn your future line,

And what the walls the Fates assign.

And now farewell: dew-sprinkled Night

Has scaled Olympus' topmost height:

I catch their panting breath from far,

The steeds of morning's cruel star.

Conington.

Moved by this vision, AEneas builds a town for the dispirited members of

his band; and consigning these to King Acestes, sets his face once more

toward Italy. This time, by Venus' aid, he reaches the Italian port of

Cumae, with no misadventure except the loss of his faithful pilot,

Palinurus.

Once more on land, the Trojans joyfully scour the woods, seek out fresh

springs of water, and collect fuel for their fires. AEneas, however,

turns his steps to the temple of Apollo upon a neighboring height, and

prays the guidance of the god upon his further way. But most of all it

is upon the hero's heart to visit his father in the underworld according

to the mandate of his father's shade in Sicily. At the advice of the

Sibyl who presides over the temple of Apollo, AEneas performs the

necessary rites preliminary to this journey, and entering the dread cave

near Lake Avernus, they take their gloomy way below.

Obscure they went thro' dreary shades, that led

Along the waste dominions of the dead.

Thus wander travelers in wood by night,

By the moon's doubtful and malignant light,

When Jove in dusky clouds involves the skies,

And the faint crescent shoots by fits before their eyes.

Dryden.

They reach at last the gates of Hades, where hover the dreadful shapes

of Cares, Disease and Death, Want, Famine, Toil and Strife. Through

these they fare, and stand upon the sedgy bank of the river of death.

They see approaching them across the stream the old boatman Charon, who

in his frail skiff ferries souls across the water.

A sordid god: down from his hoary chin

A length of beard descends, uncomb'd, unclean:

His eyes, like hollow furnaces on fire;

A girdle foul with grease binds his obscene attire.

He spreads his canvas; with his pole he steers;

The freights of flitting ghosts in his thin bottom bears.

He looked in years; yet in his years were seen

A youthful vigor, and autumnal green.

Dryden.

The unsubstantial shades throng down to Charon's boat, where some are

accepted for passage, and some rejected. AEneas in wonder turns to his

guide for an explanation of this. She replies:

Son of Anchises! offspring of the gods!

(The Sibyl said) you see the Stygian floods,

The sacred streams, which heav'n's imperial state

Attests in oaths, and fears to violate.

The ghosts rejected are th' unhappy crew

Depriv'd of sepulchres and fun'ral due:

The boatman, Charon: those, the buried host,

He ferries over to the farther coast;

Nor dares his transport vessel cross the waves

With such whose bones are not compos'd in graves.

A hundred years they wander on the shore;

At length, their penance done, are wafted o'er.

Dryden.

AEneas and his guide now present themselves for passage, but the old

boatman refuses his boat to mortal bodies, until he is appeased by the

Sibyl. Grim Cerberus, the three-headed dog who guards the farther bank

of the stream and blocks their onward way, is next appeased. And on they

go, past where the cries of wailing infants fill their ears; where Minos

sits in judgment on the shades and assigns to each his place of

punishment; past the abode of suicides, who rushed so rashly out of

life, but now sigh vainly for the life which they threw away; past the

Mourning Fields, dark groves where wander those who died of love. Here

AEneas meets the shade of Dido, and learns what he had only feared

before. With tears of love and pity he approaches and addresses her; but

she, in indignant silence, turns away.

They reach the fields where souls of slain warriors dwell, still

handling their shadowy arms and ghostly chariots. With empty, voiceless

shouts the Trojan dead greet their hero, in wonder that he comes still

living among them, while the Grecian shades flee gibbering away.

Still on the Sibyl leads her charge, and pausing before the horrid gates

of Tartarus, the abode of lost souls, they listen to the dreadful sounds

within, "the groans of ghosts, the pains of sounding lashes and of

dragging chains." Standing before the gates, AEneas is told of the

suffering which these must undergo whose souls, by reason of impious

lives on earth, are past all reach of cure. What are the crimes that

brought them here? What does Vergil regard as unpardonable sins?

They, who brothers' better claim disown,

Expel their parents, and usurp the throne;

Defraud their clients, and, to lucre sold,

Sit brooding on unprofitable gold;

Who dare not give, and e'en refuse to lend,

To their poor kindred, or a wanting friend--

Vast is the throng of these; nor less the train

Of lustful youths, for foul adult'ry slain--

Hosts of deserters, who their honor sold,

And basely broke their faith for bribes of gold;

All these within the dungeon's depth remain,

Despairing pardon, and expecting pain.

To tyrants, others have their countries sold,

Imposing foreign lords, for foreign gold;

Some have old laws repeal'd, new statutes made,

Not as the people pleas'd, but as they paid.

With incest some their daughters' bed profan'd.

All dar'd th' worst of ills, and what they dar'd, attain'd.

Dryden.

As they turn away from this dread place, a tortured voice sounds after

them:

Learn righteousness, and dread th' avenging deities.

Far off from here they reach the abode of the blessed--the Elysian

Fields,

Where long extended plains of pleasure lay.

The verdant fields with those of heav'n may vie,

With ether vested, and a purple sky--

The blissful seats of happy souls below:

Stars of their own, and their own suns, they know.

There airy limbs in sports they exercise,

And on the green contend the wrestlers' prize.

Some, in heroic verse, divinely sing;

Others in artful measures lead the ring.

Here patriots live, who, for their country's good,

In fighting fields were prodigal of blood;

Priests of unblemish'd lives here make abode,

And poets worthy their inspiring god;

And searching wits of more mechanic parts,

Who grac'd their age with new-invented arts;

Those who to worth their bounty did extend,

And those who knew that bounty to commend.

The heads of these, with holy fillets bound,

And all their temples were with garlands crown'd.

Dryden.

Seeking Anchises among these happy shades, the two are directed to a

remote valley, where, beside the waters of Oblivion, old Anchises is

passing in review the long train of his posterity, marshaled in the

order of their birth into the world. When Anchises sees his son

approaching, he cries out joyfully to him:

And are you come at last? Has love fulfilled a father's hopes and

surmounted the perils of the way? Is it mine to look on your face,

my son, and listen and reply as we talked of old? Yes; I was even

thinking so in my own mind. I was reckoning that it would be,

counting over the days. Nor has my longing played me false. Oh,

the lands and the mighty seas from which you have come to my

presence! the dangers, my son, that have tossed and smitten you!

Oh, how I have feared lest you should come to harm in that realm

of Libya!

Conington.

Then follows a revelation of the mysteries of transmigration of souls,

the nature of soul essence, its purgation after years of contact with

its old body, and its ages of preparation for another mortal habitation.

Anchises now calls his son's attention to his own posterity, standing in

majestic review before him--noble shades, some of whom are destined to

go to the upper world at once, and some to wait long centuries in the

land of preexistent souls. The mighty host of Roman worthies are

marshaled here, who, as yet unknown, are to make the name of Rome known

and feared or honored to the farthest bounds of earth. Here stalk the

shadowy forms of kings, consuls, generals, and statesmen, who on earth

shall be Romulus, Numa, and Tarquin; Brutus, Decius, Camillus, Cato, and

the Gracchi; the Scipios, the Fabii; Caesar and Pompey, and he whose brow

shall be first to wear the imperial crown as ruler of the

world--Augustus Caesar.

And now AEneas, fortified for any hardships upon earth by these glorious

visions of his posterity, turns his face back to the upper world.

There are two gates of Sleep: the one, as story tells, of horn,

supplying a ready exit for true spirits; the other gleaming with

the polish of dazzling ivory, but through it the powers below send

false dreams to the world above. Thither Anchises, talking thus,

conducts his son and the Sibyl, and dismisses them by the gate of

ivory. AEneas traces his way to the fleet, and returns to his

comrades; then sails along the shore for Caieta's haven. The

anchor is cast from the prow; the keels are ranged on the beach.

Conington.

The Trojans sail up the coast, touch once more upon the land, skirt wide

past Circe's realm of dreadful magic, and then they come to where a

wide-mouthed river pours out into the sea.

The sea was just reddening in the dawn, and Aurora was shining

down from heaven's height in saffron robe and rosy car, when all

at once the winds were laid, and every breath sank in sudden

sleep, and the oars pull slowly against the smooth unmoving wave.

In the same moment AEneas, looking out from the sea, beholds a

mighty forest. Among the trees Tiber, that beauteous river, with

his gulfy rapids and the burden of his yellow sand, breaks into

the main. Around and above, birds of all plumes, the constant

tenants of bank and stream, were filling the air with their notes

and flying among the woods. He bids his comrades turn aside and

set their prows landward, and enters with joy the river's shadowed

bed.

Conington.

Up this great stream they sail, and reach at last the spot which Fate

has held in store for them. When that Italy which has so long eluded the

grasp of the hero is actually reached, and he stands upon the fated

ground to which prophecy and the visions of his eager fancy have long

been pointing him, the poem is complete; and all that follows is another

poem, actuated by another spirit. To this point Fate has led him,

through the smoke of his burning city, through storms and shipwreck, and

the unceasing opposition of adverse powers, and here she has finally

rewarded his piety and unswerving faith in his destiny. The first six

books of the _AEneid_ present the hero as the all-enduring one, the last

as the warrior king. The first six books are the story of hope and

anticipation; the last, of attainment and realization.

The incidents of the last six books which constitute the second part of

the _AEneid_ may be briefly told. King Latinus, who ruled over Latium,

received the Trojan prince with kindness and promised him Lavinia for

his wife, the king's only daughter and heiress of his crown. But Juno's

spite still pursued the Trojans, and through her machinations the Latins

and their allies were aroused against these foreigners. Especially was

Italian Turnus roused, a mighty prince of the Rutuli, for he had long

been suitor for Lavinia, and had won the favor of the Queen Amata to his

cause.

And now all Italy is ablaze with sudden war. Against his allied foes

AEneas secures the aid of the Greek Evander with his Arcadians, and of

the Etruscan tribes. The plains of Troy are transferred to Italy. Again

are heard the clashing of arms, the trumpet's blare, the snorting of

horses, the heavy tread of marching feet, hoarse challenges to conflict,

the hollow groans of the wounded and dying; the air is lit with the

gleam of torches; the ground is red with streams of blood. Juno and

Venus are active throughout, as of old in the Homeric story, each in the

interest of her own favorite.

But Juno's implacable hate is no match for destiny. AEneas must triumph,

for the fates have spoken it. The interest of the whole conflict centers

in the rival heroes; and when these two, after endless slaughter, on

both sides, of lesser men, meet at last in single conflict, there is no

doubt, even in the Italian's own heart, that he is foredoomed. And when

he falls, wounded by AEneas' spear and slain by his sword, the poem

ends abruptly, for the story can contain no more.

With these words, fierce as flame, he plunged the steel into the

breast that lay before him. That other's frame grows chill and

motionless, and the soul, resenting its lot, flies groaningly to

the shades.

Conington.

SUMMARY AND QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW

_Roman Epic Poetry_, as illustrated by Naevius (269-199 B. C.), "the

first Roman who deserves to be called a poet," _Bellum Punicum_; Ennius

(239-169 B. C.), "the father of Roman literature," the _Annals_; Vergil

(70-19 B. C.), greatest of Roman poets, the _AEneid_.

1. What is known of the life of Naevius? 2. What is the nature of his

_Bellum Punicum_? 3. What did Vergil owe to this poem? 4. Quote the

epitaph of Naevius. 5. What is the significance of it? 6. What were the

chief events in the life of Ennius? 7. What interesting bit of

self-portraiture appears in his _Annals_? 8. Why does he deserve the

title of "the father of Roman literature"? 9. What is the nature of the

_Annals_? 10. Why is the loss of the great body of this work so much to

be regretted? 11. What progress did Latin literature make between the

time of Ennius and that of Vergil? 12. How was Vergil fitted for his

career both by nature and training? 13. Into what select circle was he

privileged to enter? 14. What was the nature of the _Eclogues_? 15. What

of the _Georgics_? 16. Why did the _AEneid_ never receive its finishing

touches? 17. How was the poem saved from destruction? 18. What was

Vergil's probable purpose in writing the _AEneid_? 19. Quote the lines

which promise world dominion to the Romans. 20. What religious motive

seems to guide AEneas? 21. How does Vergil's treatment of the gods

compare with that of Ovid? 22. What in brief is the story of the

_AEneid_? 23. What characteristic passages in the poem deal with the

mystery of nature? 24. From what different sources does AEneas

throughout the poem receive guidance as to his future home? 25. On what

occasions do the gods interfere to influence the progress of events? 26.

What characteristic customs of the times are portrayed in the poem? 27.

What picture of life after death does the poem present? 28. What crimes

does Vergil represent as unpardonable sins? 29. How does Vergil glorify

AEneas in his descendants? 30. How many books of the poem are devoted to

the wanderings of AEneas? 31. What in brief is the story of the remaining

books?

BIBLIOGRAPHY

SELLAR, _The Roman Poets of the Republic_: Naevius and his Historical

Epic, pp. 57-61; Ennius and the _Annales_, pp. 62-79, 88-119.

SELLAR, _The Roman Poetry of the Augustan Age_: _Vergil_.

TYRRELL, _Latin Poetry_: Lost Augustan Poets, pp. 20-26; Vergil, pp. 26,

126-161; Post-Augustan Epics, p. 27; Lucan, pp. 262-269.

NETTLESHIP, _Essays in Latin Literature_: Suggestions Introductory to a

Study of the _AEneid_, pp. 97-142.

CONINGTON, _Miscellaneous Writings_: Early Roman Epic Poetry, pp.

324-347; Later Roman Epic, pp. 348-384.

SHAIRP, _Aspects of Poetry_: Vergil as a Religious Poet, pp. 136-163.

SHAIRP, _Poetic Interpretation of Nature_: Nature in Lucretius and

Vergil, pp. 153-169.

BOISSIER, _The Country of Horace and Vergil_: The Legend of AEneas, pp.

119-346.

SIMCOX, _History of Latin Literature_: Ennius, the _Annals_, Vol. I, pp.

22-30; Vergil, Vol. I, pp. 253-282; Lucan and his successors, Vol. II,

pp. 35-74.

MOMMSEN, _History of Rome_: Early Roman Epic, Naevius and Ennius, Vol.

II, pp. 519-540.

MILLER AND NELSON, _Dido, an Epic Tragedy_: A dramatization of the story

of AEneas and Dido.

Transcriber Notes:

"+ +" indicates Greek transliteration.

Pg 051, "his" changed to "has" (all that has passed)

Pg 053, "Phromio" changed to "Phormio" (the shrewdness of Phormio)