Aeneid

by morning's joyful beam we will explore

what men, what cities, in this region be,

and, leaving ship, our several errands ply.

Your gift to Jove outpour! Make thankful prayer

unto Anchises' shade! To this our feast

bring back the flowing wine!” Thereat he bound

his forehead with green garland, calling loud

upon the Genius of that place, and Earth,

eldest of names divine; the Nymphs he called,

and river-gods unknown; his voice invoked

the night, the omen-stars through night that roll.

Jove, Ida's child, and Phrygia's fertile Queen:

he called his mother from Olympian skies,

and sire from Erebus. Lo, o'er his head

three times unclouded Jove omnipotent

in thunder spoke, and, with effulgent ray

from his ethereal tract outreaching far,

shook visibly the golden-gleaming air.

Swift, through the concourse of the Trojans, spread

news of the day at hand when they should build

their destined walls. So, with rejoicing heart

at such vast omen, they set forth a feast

with zealous emulation, ranging well

the wine-cups fair with many a garland crowned.

Soon as the morrow with the lamp of dawn

looked o'er the world, they took their separate ways,

exploring shore and towns; here spread the pools

and fountain of Numicius; here they see

the river Tiber, where bold Latins dwell.

Anchises' son chose out from his brave band

a hundred envoys, bidding them depart

to the King's sacred city, each enwreathed

with Pallas' silver leaf; and gifts they bear

to plead for peace and friendship at his throne.

While on this errand their swift steps are sped,

Aeneas, by a shallow moat and small,

his future city shows, breaks ground, and girds

with mound and breastwork like a camp of war

the Trojans' first abode. Soon, making way

to where the Latin citadel uprose,

the envoys scanned the battlements, and paused

beneath its wall. Outside the city gates

fair youths and striplings in life's early bloom

course with swift steeds, or steer through dusty cloud

the whirling chariot, or stretch stout bows,

or hurl the seasoned javelin, or strive

in boxing-bout and foot-race: one of these

made haste on horseback to the aged King,

with tidings of a stranger company

in foreign garb approaching. The good King

bade call them to his house, and took his seat

in mid-court on his high, ancestral throne.

Large and majestical the castle rose:

a hundred columns lifted it in air

upon the city's crown—the royal keep

of Picus of Laurentum; round it lay

deep, gloomy woods by olden worship blest.

Here kings took sceptre and the fasces proud

with omens fair; the selfsame sacred place

was senate-house and temple; here was found

a hall for hallowed feasting, where a ram

was offered up, and at long banquet-boards

the nation's fathers sat in due array.

Here ranged ancestral statues roughly hewn

of ancient cedar-wood: King Italus;

Father Sabinus, planter of the vine,

a curving sickle in his sculptured hand;

gray-bearded Saturn; and the double brow

of Janus' head; and other sires and kings

were wardens of the door, with many a chief

wounded in battle for his native land.

Trophies of arms in goodly order hung

along the columns: chariots of war

from foeman taken, axes of round blade,

plumed helmets, bolts and barriers of steel

from city-gates, shields, spears, and beaks of bronze

from captured galleys by the conqueror torn.

Here, wielding his Quirinal augur-staff,

girt in scant shift, and bearing on his left

the sacred oval shield, appeared enthroned

Picus, breaker of horses, whom his bride,

enamoured Circe, smote with golden wand,

and, raining o'er him potent poison-dew,

changed to a bird of pied and dappled wings.

In such a temple of his gods did Sire

Latinus, on hereditary throne,

welcome the Trojans to his halls, and thus

with brow serene gave greeting as they came:

“O sons of Dardanus, think not unknown

your lineage and city! Rumored far

your venturous voyage has been. What seek ye here?

What cause, what quest, has brought your barks and you

o'er the blue waters to Ausonia's hills?

What way uncharted, or wild stress of storm,

or what that sailors suffer in mid-sea,

unto this river bank and haven bore?

Doubt not our welcome! We of Latin land

are Saturn's sons, whose equitable minds,

not chained by statute or compulsion, keep

in freedom what the god's good custom gave.