Aeneid

enwrithing coiled; then on from limb to limb

slipped tortuous. Yet though the venom strong

thrilled with its first infection every vein,

and touched her bones with fire, she knew it not,

nor yielded all her soul, but made her plea

in gentle accents such as mothers use;

and many a tear she shed, about her child,

her darling, destined for a Phrygian's bride:

“O father! can we give Lavinia's hand

to Trojan fugitives? why wilt thou show

no mercy on thy daughter, nor thyself;

nor unto me, whom at the first fair wind

that wretch will leave deserted, bearing far

upon his pirate ship my stolen child?

Was it not thus that Phrygian shepherd came

to Lacedaemon, ravishing away

Helen, the child of Leda, whom he bore

to those false Trojan lands? Hast thou forgot

thy plighted word? Where now thy boasted love

of kith and kin, and many a troth-plight given

unto our kinsman Turnus? If we need

an alien son, and Father Faunus' words

irrevocably o'er thy spirit brood,

I tell thee every land not linked with ours

under one sceptre, but distinct and free,

is alien; and 't is thus the gods intend.

Indeed, if Turnus' ancient race be told,

it sprang of Inachus, Acrisius,

and out of mid-Mycenae.” But she sees

her lord Latinus resolute, her words

an effort vain; and through her body spreads

the Fury's deeply venomed viper-sting.

Then, woe-begone, by dark dreams goaded on,

she wanders aimless, fevered and unstrung

along the public ways; as oft one sees

beneath the twisted whips a leaping top

sped in long spirals through a palace-close

by lads at play: obedient to the thong,

it weaves wide circles in the gaping view

of its small masters, who admiring see

the whirling boxwood made a living thing

under their lash. So fast and far she roved

from town to town among the clansmen wild.

Then to the wood she ran, feigning to feel

the madness Bacchus loves; for she essays

a fiercer crime, by fiercer frenzy moved.

Now in the leafy dark of mountain vales

she hides her daughter, ravished thus away

from Trojan bridegroom and the wedding-feast.

“Hail, Bacchus! Thou alone,” she shrieked and raved,

“art worthy such a maid. For thee she bears

the thyrsus with soft ivy-clusters crowned,

and trips ecstatic in thy beauteous choir.

For thee alone my daughter shall unbind

the glory of her virgin hair.” Swift runs

the rumor of her deed; and, frenzy-driven,

the wives of Latium to the forests fly,

enkindled with one rage. They leave behind

their desolated hearths, and let rude winds

o'er neck and tresses blow; their voices fill

the welkin with convulsive shriek and wail;

and, with fresh fawn-skins on their bodies bound,

they brandish vine-clad spears. The Queen herself

lifts high a blazing pine tree, while she sings

a wedding-song for Turnus and her child.

With bloodshot glance and anger wild, she cries:

“Ho! all ye Latin wives, if e'er ye knew

kindness for poor Amata, if ye care

for a wronged mother's woes, O, follow me!

Cast off the matron fillet from your brows,

and revel to our mad, voluptuous song.”

Thus, through the woodland haunt of creatures wild,

Alecto urges on the raging Queen

with Bacchus' cruel goad. But when she deemed

the edge of wrath well whetted, and the house

of wise Latinus of all reason reft,

then soared the black-winged goddess to the walls

of the bold Rutule, to the city built

(So runs the tale) by beauteous Danae

and her Acrisian people, shipwrecked there

by south wind strong. Its name was Ardea

in language of our sires, and that proud name

of Ardea still it wears, though proud no more.

Here Turnus in the gloom of midnight lay

half-sleeping in his regal hall. For him

Alecto her grim fury-guise put by,

and wore an old crone's face, her baleful brow

delved deep with wrinkled age, her hoary hair

in sacred fillet bound, and garlanded

with leaf of olive: Calybe she seemed,

an aged servitress ot Juno's shrine,

and in this seeming thus the prince addressed:—

“O Turnus, wilt thou tamely see thy toil

lavished in vain? and thy true throne consigned

to Trojan wanderers? The King repels

thy noble wooing and thy war-won dower.

He summons him a son of alien stem

to take his kingdom. Rouse thee now, and front,

scorned and without reward, these perilous days.

Tread down that Tuscan host! Protect the peace