Aeneid

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

the Furies' elder sister, here unfold:

‘To Italy ye fare. The willing winds

your call have heard; and ye shall have your prayer

in some Italian haven safely moored.

But never shall ye rear the circling walls

of your own city, till for this our blood

by you unjustly spilt, your famished jaws

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

She spoke: her pinions bore her to the grove,

and she was seen no more. But all my band

shuddered with shock of fear in each cold vein;

their drooping spirits trusted swords no more,

but turned to prayers and offerings, asking grace,

scarce knowing if those creatures were divine,

or but vast birds, ill-omened and unclean.

Father Anchises to the gods in heaven

uplifted suppliant hands, and on that shore

due ritual made, crying aloud; “Ye gods

avert this curse, this evil turn away!

Smile, Heaven, upon your faithful votaries.”

Then bade he launch away, the chain undo,

set every cable free and spread all sail.

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

where'er the helmsman or the winds could guide.

Now forest-clad Zacynthus met our gaze,

engirdled by the waves; Dulichium,

same, and Neritos, a rocky steep,

uprose. We passed the cliffs of Ithaca

that called Laertes king, and flung our curse

on fierce Ulysses' hearth and native land.

nigh hoar Leucate's clouded crest we drew,

where Phoebus' temple, feared by mariners,

loomed o'er us; thitherward we steered and reached

the little port and town. Our weary fleet

dropped anchor, and lay beached along the strand.

So, safe at land, our hopeless peril past,

we offered thanks to Jove, and kindled high

his altars with our feast and sacrifice;

then, gathering on Actium's holy shore,

made fair solemnities of pomp and game.

My youth, anointing their smooth, naked limbs,

wrestled our wonted way. For glad were we,

who past so many isles of Greece had sped

and 'scaped our circling foes. Now had the sun

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

were rough with icy winter's northern gales.

I hung for trophy on that temple door

a swelling shield of brass (which once was worn

by mighty Abas) graven with this line:

SPOIL OF AENEAS FROM TRIUMPHANT FOES.

Then from that haven I command them forth;

my good crews take the thwarts, smiting the sea

with rival strokes, and skim the level main.

Soon sank Phaeacia's wind-swept citadels

out of our view; we skirted the bold shores

of proud Epirus, in Chaonian land,

and made Buthrotum's port and towering town.

Here wondrous tidings met us, that the son

of Priam, Helenus, held kingly sway

o'er many Argive cities, having wed

the Queen of Pyrrhus, great Achilles' son,

and gained his throne; and that Andromache

once more was wife unto a kindred lord.

Amazement held me; all my bosom burned

to see the hero's face and hear this tale

of strange vicissitude. So up I climbed,

leaving the haven, fleet, and friendly shore.

That self-same hour outside the city walls,

within a grove where flowed the mimic stream

of a new Simois, Andromache,

with offerings to the dead, and gifts of woe,

poured forth libation, and invoked the shade

of Hector, at a tomb which her fond grief

had consecrated to perpetual tears,

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

and near it rose twin altars to his name.

She saw me drawing near; our Trojan helms

met her bewildered eyes, and, terror-struck

at the portentous sight, she swooning fell

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

scarce finding voice, her lips addressed me thus :

“Have I true vision? Bringest thou the word

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

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

With flood of tears she spoke, and all the grove

reechoed to her cry. Scarce could I frame

brief answer to her passion, but replied

with broken voice and accents faltering:

“I live, 't is true. I lengthen out my days

through many a desperate strait. But O, believe

that what thine eyes behold is vision true.

Alas! what lot is thine, that wert unthroned

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

could give thee honor due? Andromache,

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

With drooping brows and lowly voice she cried :

“O, happy only was that virgin blest,

daughter of Priam, summoned forth to die

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