Aeneid

But when at a third sheaf of myrtle spears

I fell upon my knees, and tugged amain

against the adverse ground (I dread to tell!),

a moaning and a wail from that deep grave

burst forth and murmured in my listening ear:

“Why wound me, great Aeneas, in my woe?

O, spare the dead, nor let thy holy hands

do sacrilege and sin! I, Trojan-born,

was kin of thine. This blood is not of trees.

Haste from this murderous shore, this land of greed.

O, I am Polydorus! Haste away!

Here was I pierced; a crop of iron spears

has grown up o'er my breast, and multiplied

to all these deadly javelins, keen and strong.”

Then stood I, burdened with dark doubt and fear

I quailed, my hair rose and my utterance choked.

For once this Polydorus, with much gold,

ill-fated Priam sent by stealth away

for nurture with the Thracian king, what time

Dardania's war Iooked hopeless, and her towers

were ringed about by unrelenting siege.

That king, when Ilium's cause was ebbing low,

and fortune frowned, gave o'er his plighted faith

to Agamemnon's might and victory;

he scorned all honor and did murder foul

on Polydorus, seizing lawlessly

on all the gold. O, whither at thy will,

curst greed of gold, may mortal hearts be driven?

Soon as my shuddering ceased, I told this tale

of prodigies before the people's chiefs,

who sat in conclave with my kingly sire,

and bade them speak their reverend counsel forth.

All found one voice; to leave that land of sin,

where foul abomination had profaned

a stranger's right; and once more to resign

our fleet unto the tempest and the wave.

But fit and solemn funeral rites were paid

to Polydorus. A high mound we reared

of heaped-up earth, and to his honored shade

built a perpetual altar, sadly dressed

in cypress dark and purple pall of woe.

Our Ilian women wailed with loosened hair;

new milk was sprinkled from a foaming cup,

and from the shallow bowl fresh blood out-poured

upon the sacred ground. So in its tomb

we laid his ghost to rest, and loudly sang,

with prayer for peace, the long, the last farewell.

After these things, when first the friendly sea

looked safe and fair, and o'er its tranquil plain

light-whispering breezes bade us launch away,

my men drew down our galleys to the brine,

thronging the shore. Soon out of port we ran,

and watched the hills and cities fading far.

There is a sacred island in mid-seas,

to fruitful Doris and to Neptune dear,

which grateful Phoebus, wielder of the bow,

the while it drifted loose from land to land,

chained firmly where the crags of Gyaros

and Myconos uptower, and bade it rest

immovable, in scorn of wind and wave.

Thither I sped; by this my weary ships

found undisturbed retreat and haven fair.

To land we came and saw with reverent eyes

Apollo's citadel. King Anius,

his people's king, and priest at Phoebus' fane,

came forth to meet us, wearing on his brow

the fillets and a holy laurel crown.

Unto Anchises he gave greeting kind,

claimed old acquaintance, grasped us by the hand,

and bade us both his roof and welcome share.

Then, kneeling at the shrine of time-worn stone:

“Thou who at Thymbra on the Trojan shore

hast often blessed my prayer, O, give to me

a hearth and home, and to this war-worn band

defensive towers and offspring multiplied

in an abiding city; give to Troy

a second citadel, that shall survive

Achilles' wrath and all our Argive foe.

Whom shall we follow? Whither lies our way?

Where wilt thou grant us an abiding-place?

Send forth, O King, thy voice oracular,

and on our spirits move.” Scarce had I spoke

when sudden trembling through the laurels ran

and smote the holy portals; far and wide

the mighty ridges of the mountain shook,

and from the opening shrine the tripod moaned.

Prostrate to earth we fall, as on our ears

this utterance breaks: “O breed of iron men,

ye sons of Dardanus! the self-same land

where bloomed at first your far-descended stem

shall to its bounteous bosom draw ye home.

Seek out your ancient Mother! There at last

Aeneas' race shall reign on every shore,

and his sons' sons, and all their house to be.”

So Phoebus spoke; and mighty joy uprose

from all my thronging people, who would know

where Phoebus' city lay, and whitherward

the god ordained the wandering tribe's return.

Then spake my father, pondering olden days

and sacred memories of heroes gone: