Aeneid

then thus the silence broke: “O Queen, not one

of my unnumbered debts so strongly urged

would I gainsay. Elissa's memory

will be my treasure Iong as memory holds,

or breath of life is mine. Hear my brief plea!

'T was not my hope to hide this flight I take,

as thou hast dreamed. Nay, I did never light

a bridegroom's torch, nor gave I thee the vow

of marriage. Had my destiny decreed,

that I should shape life to my heart's desire,

and at my own will put away the weight

of foil and pain, my place would now be found

in Troy, among the cherished sepulchres

of my own kin, and Priam's mansion proud

were standing still; or these my loyal hands

had rebuilt Ilium for her vanquished sons.

But now to Italy Apollo's power

commands me forth; his Lycian oracles

are loud for Italy. My heart is there,

and there my fatherland. If now the towers

of Carthage and thy Libyan colony

delight thy Tyrian eyes; wilt thou refuse

to Trojan exiles their Ausonian shore?

I too by Fate was driven, not less than thou,

to wander far a foreign throne to find.

Oft when in dewy dark night hides the world,

and flaming stars arise, Anchises' shade

looks on me in my dreams with angered brow.

I think of my Ascanius, and the wrong

to that dear heart, from whom I steal away

Hesperia, his destined home and throne.

But now the winged messenger of Heaven,

sent down by Jove (I swear by thee and me!),

has brought on winged winds his sire's command.

My own eyes with unclouded vision saw

the god within these walls; I have received

with my own ears his word. No more inflame

with lamentation fond thy heart and mine.

'T is not my own free act seeks Italy.”

She with averted eyes and glance that rolled

speechless this way and that, had listened long

to his reply, till thus her rage broke forth:

“No goddess gave thee birth. No Dardanus

begot thy sires. But on its breast of stone

Caucasus bore thee, and the tigresses

of fell Hyrcania to thy baby lip

their udders gave. Why should I longer show

a lying smile? What worse can I endure?

Did my tears draw one sigh? Did he once drop

his stony stare? or did he yield a tear

to my lament, or pity this fond heart?

Why set my wrongs in order? Juno, now,

and Jove, the son of Saturn, heed no more

where justice lies. No trusting heart is safe

in all this world. That waif and castaway

I found in beggary and gave him share—

fool that I was!—in my own royal glory.

His Iost fleet and his sorry crews I steered

from death away. O, how my fevered soul

unceasing raves! Forsooth Apollo speaks!

His Lycian oracles! and sent by Jove

the messenger of Heaven on fleeting air

the ruthless bidding brings! Proud business

for gods, I trow, that such a task disturbs

their still abodes! I hold thee back no more,

nor to thy cunning speeches give the lie.

Begone! Sail on to Italy, thy throne,

through wind and wave! I pray that, if there be

any just gods of power, thou mayest drink down

death on the mid-sea rocks, and often call

with dying gasps on Dido's name—while I

pursue with vengeful fire. When cold death rends

the body from the breath, my ghost shall sit

forever in thy path. Full penalties

thy stubborn heart shall pay. They'll bring me never

in yon deep gulf of death of all thy woe.”

Abrupt her utterance ceased; and sick at heart

she fled the light of day, as if to shrink

from human eyes, and left Aeneas there

irresolute with horror, while his soul

framed many a vain reply. Her swooning shape

her maidens to a marble chamber bore

and on her couch the helpless limbs reposed.

Aeneas, faithful to a task divine,

though yearning sore to remedy and soothe

such misery, and with the timely word

her grief assuage, and though his burdened heart

was weak because of love, while many a groan

rose from his bosom, yet no whit did fail

to do the will of Heaven, but of his fleet

resumed command. The Trojans on the shore

ply well their task and push into the sea

the lofty ships. Now floats the shining keel,

and oars they bring all leafy from the grove,

with oak half-hewn, so hurried was the flight.

Behold them how they haste—from every gate

forth-streaming!—just as when a heap of corn

is thronged with ants, who, knowing winter nigh,

refill their granaries; the long black line

runs o'er the levels, and conveys the spoil