Aeneid

Palaemon and the nimble Tritons all,

the troop of Phorcus; and to leftward ranged

Thalia, Thetis, and fair Alelite,

with virgin Panopea, and the nymphs

Nesaea, Spio and Cymodoce.

Now in Aeneas' ever-burdened breast

the voice of hope revived. He bade make haste

to raise the masts, spread canvas on the spars;

all hands hauled at the sheets, and left or right

shook out the loosened sails, or twirled in place

the horn-tipped yards. Before a favoring wind

the fleet sped on. The line in close array

was led by Palinurus, in whose course

all ships were bid to follow. Soon the car

of dewy Night drew near the turning-point

of her celestial round. The oarsmen all

yielded their limbs to rest, and prone had fallen

on the hard thwarts, in deep, unpillowed slumber.

Then from the high stars on light-moving wings,

the God of Sleep found passage through the dark

and clove the gloom,—to bring upon thy head,

O Palinurus, an ill-boding sleep,

though blameless thou. Upon thy ship the god

in guise of Phorbas stood, thus whispering:

“Look, Palinurus, how the flowing tides

lift on thy fleet unsteered, and changeless winds

behind thee breathe! 'T is now a happy hour

take thy rest. Lay down the weary head.

Steal tired eyes from toiling. I will do

thine office for thee, just a little space.”

But Palinurus, lifting scarce his eyes,

thus answered him: “Have I not known the face

of yonder placid seas and tranquil waves?

Put faith in such a monster? Could I trust —

I, oft by ocean's treacherous calm betrayed —

my lord Aeneas to false winds and skies?”

So saying, he grasped his rudder tight, and clung

more firmly, fixing on the stars his eyes.

Then waved the god above his brows a branch

wet with the dews of Lethe and imbued

with power of Stygian dark, until his eyes

wavered and slowly sank. The slumberous snare

had scarce unbound his limbs, when, leaning o'er,

the god upon the waters flung him forth,

hands clutching still the helm and ship-rail torn,

and calling on his comrades, but in vain.

Then soared th' immortal into viewless air;

and in swift course across the level sea

the fleet sped safe, protected from all fear

by Neptune's vow. Yet were they drawing nigh

the sirens' island-steep, where oft are seen

white, bleaching bones, and to the distant ear

the rocks roar harshly in perpetual foam.

Then of his drifting fleet and pilot gone

Aeneas was aware, and, taking helm,

steered through the midnight waves, with many a sigh;

and, by his comrade's pitiable death

sore-smitten, cried, “O, thou didst trust too far

fair skies and seas, and liest without a grave,

my Palinurus, in a land unknown!”

After such words and tears, he flung free rein

To the swift fleet, which sped along the wave

To old Euboean Cumae's sacred shore.

They veer all prows to sea; the anchor fluke

Makes each ship sure, and shading the long strand

The rounded sterns jut o'er. Impetuously

The eager warriors leap forth to land

Upon Hesperian soil. One strikes the flint

To find the seed-spark hidden in its veins;

One breaks the thick-branched trees, and steals away

The shelter where the woodland creatures bide;

One leads his mates where living waters flow.

Aeneas, servant of the gods, ascends

The templed hill where lofty Phoebus reigns,

And that far-off, inviolable shrine

Of dread Sibylla, in stupendous cave,

O'er whose deep soul the god of Delos breathes

Prophetic gifts, unfolding things to come.

Here are pale Trivia's golden house and grove.

Here Daedalus, the ancient story tells,

Escaping Minos' power, and having made

Hazard of heaven on far-mounting wings,

Floated to northward, a cold, trackless way,

And lightly poised, at last, o'er Cumae's towers.

Here first to earth come down, he gave to thee

His gear of wings, Apollo! and ordained

Vast temples to thy name and altars fair.

On huge bronze doors Androgeos' death was done;

And Cecrops' children paid their debt of woe,

Where, seven and seven,—0 pitiable sight!—

The youths and maidens wait the annual doom,

Drawn out by lot from yonder marble urn.

Beyond, above a sea, lay carven Crete:—

The bull was there; the passion, the strange guile;

And Queen Pasiphae's brute-human son,

The Minotaur—of monstrous loves the sign.

Here was the toilsome, labyrinthine maze,

Where, pitying love-lorn Ariadne's tears,

The crafty Daedalus himself betrayed

The secret of his work; and gave the clue