Aeneid

dissolves in sweat; no room to breathe has he;

his limbs are spent and weary; his whole frame

shakes with his gasping breath: then bounding fort

with all his harness on, headlong he plunged

into the flowing stream; its yellow tide

embraced him as he fell, and gentle waves

restored him smiling to his friends in arms,

with all the gore and carnage washed away.

Meanwhile Olympus, seat of sovereign sway,

threw wide its portals, and in conclave fair

the Sire of gods and King of all mankind

summoned th' immortals to his starry court,

whence, high-enthroned, the spreading earth he views—

and Teucria's camp and Latium's fierce array.

Beneath the double-gated dome the gods

were sitting; Jove himself the silence broke:

“O people of Olympus, wherefore change

your purpose and decree, with partial minds

in mighty strife contending? I refused

such clash of war 'twixt Italy and Troy.

Whence this forbidden feud? What fears

seduced to battles and injurious arms

either this folk or that? Th' appointed hour

for war shall be hereafter—speed it not!—

When cruel Carthage to the towers of Rome

shall bring vast ruin, streaming fiercely down

the opened Alp. Then hate with hate shall vie,

and havoc have no bound. Till then, give o'er,

and smile upon the concord I decree!”

Thus briefly, Jove. But golden Venus made

less brief reply. “O Father, who dost hold

o'er Man and all things an immortal sway!

Of what high throne may gods the aid implore

save thine? Behold of yonder Rutuli

th' insulting scorn! Among them Turnus moves

in chariot proud, and boasts triumphant war

in mighty words. Nor do their walls defend

my Teucrians now. But in their very gates,

and on their mounded ramparts, in close fight

they breast their foes and fill the moats with blood.

Aeneas knows not, and is far away.

Will ne'er the siege have done? A second time

above Troy's rising walls the foe impends;

another host is gathered, and once more

from his Aetolian Arpi wrathful speeds

a Diomed. I doubt not that for me

wounds are preparing. Yea, thy daughter dear

awaits a mortal sword! If by thy will

unblest and unapproved the Trojans came

to Italy, for such rebellious crime

give them their due, nor lend them succor, thou,

with thy strong hand! But if they have obeyed

unnumbered oracles from gods above

and sacred shades below, who now has power

to thwart thy bidding, or to weave anew

the web of Fate? Why speak of ships consumed

along my hallowed Erycinian shore?

Or of the Lord of Storms, whose furious blasts

were summoned from Aeolia? Why tell

of Iris sped from heaven? Now she moves

the region of the shades (one kingdom yet

from her attempt secure) and thence lets loose

Alecto on the world above, who strides

in frenzied wrath along th' Italian hills.

No more my heart now cherishes its hope

of domination, though in happier days

such was thy promise. Let the victory fall

to victors of thy choice! If nowhere lies

the land thy cruel Queen would deign accord

unto the Teucrian people,—O my sire,

I pray thee by yon smouldering wreck of Troy

to let Ascanius from the clash of arms

escape unscathed. Let my own offspring live!

Yea, let Aeneas, tossed on seas unknown,

find some chance way; let my right hand avail

to shelter him and from this fatal war

in safety bring. For Amathus is mine,

mine are Cythera and the Paphian hills

and temples in Idalium. Let him drop

the sword, and there live out inglorious days.

By thy decree let Carthage overwhelm

Ausonia's power; nor let defence be found

to stay the Tyrian arms! What profits it

that he escaped the wasting plague of war

and fled Argolic fires? or that he knew

so many perils of wide wilderness

and waters rude? The Teucrians seek in vain

new-born Troy in Latium. Better far

crouched on their country's ashes to abide,

and keep that spot of earth where once was Troy!

Give back, O Father, I implore thee, give

Xanthus and Simois back! Let Teucer's sons

unfold once more the tale of Ilium's woe!”

Then sovereign Juno, flushed with solemn scorn,

made answer. “Dost thou bid me here profane

the silence of my heart, and gossip forth

of secret griefs? What will of god or man

impelled Aeneas on his path of war,

or made him foeman of the Latin King?

Fate brought him to Italia? Be it so!