Public-domain ebook
by Virgil
Language: en397 downloads on Project Gutenberg
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In: Plays/Films/Dramas·Mythology, Legends & Folklore·Classics of Literature
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #54717.
The opening · free to read
For ten years the Greeks had besieged Troy, and on the tenth they took and utterly destroyed that ancient city. The inhabitants who had escaped captivity and the sword, wandered in exile to many quarters of the earth. Now the chief band of exiles was led by Æneas, son of Venus and Anchises, and son-in-law of Priam, king of Troy.
After many adventures on land and sea, Æneas came, in the sixth year, to Sicily, where he was kindly entertained by Acestes, king of that land, and where his aged father died and was buried. Thence setting sail in the summer of the seventh year, he approached the shores of Africa. Here a violent storm arose which scattered and all but destroyed the Trojan ships. Æneas, with a number of his companions, was cast upon a desert coast, where they passed the night in gloomy forebodings. In the early morning, Æneas and Achates set forth to explore the land, and came to the newly founded city of Carthage.
Now Phœnician Dido, also, with a band of exiles, had fled from her native Tyre, to escape the persecutions of her brother, Pygmalion, who had already slain Sychæus, her husband. And to the land of Africa had she come, and built her a city, even the city of Carthage.
And so these two, Æneas, prince of Troy, and Dido, fugitive from Tyre, now meet in distant Africa and live the tragedy which fate has held in store.
ÆNEAS, prince of Troy, and leader of the Trojan exiles. ACHATES, confidential friend of Æneas. ILIONEUS, a Trojan noble. DIDO, the queen of Carthage. ANNA, sister of Dido. BARCE, nurse of Dido. IOPAS, a Carthaginian minstrel. IARBAS, a Moorish prince, suitor for the hand of Dido. JUNO, queen of Jupiter and protectress of the Carthaginians, hostile to Troy. VENUS, the goddess of love, mother of Æneas, and protectress of the Trojans. CUPID, son of Venus, god of love. MERCURY, the messenger of Jupiter. Maidens, Courtiers, Soldiers, Attendants, Servants, etc., in Dido’s train. Nobles, Sailors, etc., in the band of Æneas.
Arma virumque cano, Troiæ qui primus ab oris Italiam, fato profugus, Lavinaque venit Litora, multum ille et terris iactatus et alto Vi superum, sævæ memorem Iunonis ob iram, Multa quoque et bello passus, dum conderet urbem, Inferretque deos Latio: genus unde Latinum Albanique patres atque altæ mœnia Romæ. Musa, mihi causas memora, quo numine læso, Quidve dolens, regina deum tot volvere casus Insignem pietate virum, tot adire labores Impulerit. Tantæne animis cælestibus iræ?
Early morning; the open square before the temple of Juno on a height near Carthage. In the distance (see cut, 1, 2, 3) appear mountains, and at their foot lies the city, clustered about the harbor where ships are riding at anchor. The effect of elevation is increased by the unfinished columns and the tree-tops just showing above the low marble wall which encloses the square. This scene (4) is set nearer than 1, 2, 3, to increase the perspective.
At the first wing on the right (5), a colonnade, leading to a flight of steps, forms the entrance from the city below. On the same side, along the wall, is a broad marble seat (6), shaded by a wild crab tree, pink with bloom. The dark rug on the step before it is strewn with fallen petals. On the left is the front of the temple (7). Two large columns of white marble flank three broad steps leading to the platform. Above these columns, the architrave bears a frieze representing scenes from the Trojan war. Before the temple door is an altar on which fire is burning.
At the rise of the curtain, a chorus of Carthaginian maidens, clad in white, are seen kneeling before the altar on the temple steps; they sing a greeting to the dawn.
Wake, Aurora, Wake! Come, rosy-fingered goddess of the dawn, The saffron couch of old Tithonus scorning; Fling wide the golden portals of the morning, And bid the gloomy mists of night be gone.
Hail, Aurora, Hail! The dewy stars have sped their silent flight, The fuller glories of thy rays expecting; With rosy beauty from afar reflecting, Thy Orient steeds come panting into sight.
Rise, Apollo, Rise! Send forth thy healing rays to greet the world, Upon the lands thy blessed radiance streaming; Arise, and fling afar, in splendor gleaming, The banners of thy golden light unfurled.
Enter Æneas and Achates, on their way into the city, evidently attracted hither by the singing. Æneas is resplendent in full armor. Achates wears the Phrygian costume: long trousers of brown, a tunic of deep old blue, ornate with embroidered patterns in gold and purple thread; over this a traveling cloak of brown. He carries two spears. The maidens withdraw and as their voices grow fainter Æneas and Achates kneel before the altar. The light brightens. A bugle call in the distance rouses them from their devotion. They arise. Enter Venus, dressed as a huntress.
I crave your grace, good sirs. If my attendant maids Have chanced to wander hither, quiver-girt, and clad In tawny robes of fur, the trophies of the chase, Or with triumphant shouts close pressing in pursuit The foaming boar,—I fain would know their course.
Fair maid, No huntress of thy train have we beheld, nor heard The clamor of their chase.—But oh, no mortal maid Art thou! Th’ immortal beauty of thy face and voice Proclaim thee goddess. Art thou Phœbus’ sister then? Or some fair nymph? Whoe’er thou art, we crave thy grace: Be merciful and tell beneath what sky at length, Upon what shores we ‘re tossed. For ignorant of men And land we wander, driven on by wind and wave In vast conspiracy. Full many a victim slain Upon thine altars shall repay thine aid.
For me, I claim no homage due the gods. Behold a maid Of ancient Tyre, with quiver girt and feet high shod With purple buskin—such our country’s garb. Thou seest Before thee Punic realms; the city and its men Are both alike Phœnician; but around them lie The borders of the Libyans, hardy race, unmatched In war. The city owns the sway of Dido, late Escaped from Tyre and from her brother’s threat’nings. Long The story of her wrongs, and devious its way; But here I ‘ll trace the outline of her history. Her husband was Sychæus, of his countrymen The richest far in wide possessions; well beloved By his ill-fated bride was he, whose virgin hand In wedlock’s primal rite her sire had given him. But Tyre’s domain Pygmalion her brother held, Surpassing all in crime. Between these Tyrian lords A deadly feud arose. With impious hand and blind With love of gold, Pygmalion, at the altar-side, With stealthy, unsuspected stroke Sychæus slew; And little recked he of his sister’s doting love.
He long concealed the deed with wanton, feigned excuse, And mocked his sister, sick at heart, with empty hopes. In vain: for in the visions of the night the shade, The pallid shade of her unburied husband came; The cruel altar and his piercèd breast he showed, And all the hidden guilt of that proud house revealed. He bade her speed her flight and leave her fatherland, And showed, to aid her cause, deep buried in the earth, An ancient treasure, store of silver and of gold Uncounted. Thus forewarned the queen prepared her flight And bade her comrades join her enterprise. They came, Whom hatred or consuming terror of the prince Inspired. A fleet of ships at anchor chanced to lie In waiting. These they seized and quickly filled with gold; Pygmalion’s treasure, heaped with greedy care, was reft Away upon the sea, a woman leading all. They reached at last the place where now the mighty walls And newly rising citadel of Carthage stand. But who and whence are ye? and whither do ye fare?
O goddess, if beginning at the first the tale Of direful woes on land and deep I should relate, The day, before my story’s end, would sink to rest. From Troy (perchance the name of Troy has reached your ears) Borne over many seas, the fitful tempest’s will Has brought us to these shores. Æneas am I called, The Pious, for that in my ships I ever bear My country’s gods, snatched from our burning Troy. My fame O’erleaps the stars. My quest is Italy, a land And race that mighty Jove hath promised me. For this, With score of vessels staunch I braved the Phrygian sea, By Venus’ star directed and by fate impelled. But oh, alas for Venus’ star, alas for fate! Scarce seven shattered barks survive the waves, and I— And I, a beggared stranger, wander helpless here, A fugitive from all the world.
Whoe’er thou art, Full sure am I the gods must love thee well, since thou Through dangers manifold hast reached this Tyrian realm. But haste thee and with heart of cheer seek out the queen. For lo, thy friends are rescued and thy fleet restored, Unless in vain my parents taught me augury. For see, those joyous swans are fluttering to the earth, Which, swooping from the sky, but now the bird of Jove Was harrying. As they, with fluttering wings and cries Of joy regain the earth, so, by this token know, Thy ships and comrades even now are safe in port, Or with full sails the harbor’s mouth are entering. Then fare thee on, and follow where the path of fate May lead.
As Venus vanishes from the temple steps she is illumined in rosy light.
Achates, seeking to divert Æneas, leads him to the parapet and points out to him the life awakening in the city below (422-429).
Behold this city with its gates and mighty walls, And well-paved streets, where even now the Tyrians With eager zeal press on their various toil. See there, Some build the citadel and heave up massive stones With straining hands; while some a humbler task essay, And trace the furrow round their future homes. Behold, Within the harbor others toil, and here thou seest The deep foundations of the theater, where soon Shall rise huge columns, stately set, to deck the scene.
Yea all, like busy bees throughout the flowery mead, Are all astir with eager toil. O blessed toil! O happy ye, whose walls already rise! But I,— When shall I see my city and my city’s walls?
He remains in deep dejection.
Achates, observing the pediment of the temple itself (456-458):
But here, O friend, behold, in carvèd imagery, Our Trojan battles one by one, that mighty strife Whose fame has filled the world. Here see Achilles fierce, The sons of Atreus,—and, alas, our fallen king!
What place, Achates, what far corner of the world Is not o’erburdened with our woes? O fallen King, E’en here our glorious struggle wins its meed of praise, And those our mortal hopes defeated and o’erthrown, Are mourned by human tears. Therefore our present cares Let us dismiss. This fame shall bring us safety too.
Achates, continuing to examine the pediment (467, 468):
See how the Greeks are fleeing, pressed by Trojan youth! While here, alas, our warriors flee Achilles’ might.
And here behold the ill-starred Rhesus’ white-winged tents, Where fierce Tydides slays his sleeping foe; and drives Those snowy steeds to join the Grecian camp, before They graze in Trojan meadows or the Xanthus drink. Alas poor Troilus, I see thee too, ill-matched With great Achilles. Prone thou liest within thy car, While in the dust thy comely locks and valiant spear Are basely trailed.
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