The Aeneid of Virgil

Arms and the man I sing, the first who came, Compelled by fate, an exile out of Troy, To Italy and the Lavinian coast, Much buffeted on land and on the deep By violence of the gods, through that long rage, That lasting hate, of Juno’s. And he suffered Much, also, in war, till he should build his town And bring his gods to Latium, whence, in time, The Latin race, the Alban fathers, rose And the great walls of everlasting Rome.

Help me, O Muse, recall the reasons: why, Why did the queen of heaven drive a man So known for goodness, for devotion, through So many toils and perils? Was there slight, Affront, or outrage? Is vindictiveness An attribute of the celestial mind?

There was an ancient city, Carthage, once Founded by Tyrians, facing Italy And Tiber’s mouth, far-off, a wealthy town, War-loving, and aggressive; and Juno held Even her precious Samos in less regard. Here were her arms, her chariot, and here, Should fate at all permit, the goddess burned To found the empire of the world forever. But, she had heard, a Trojan race would come, Some day, to overthrow the Tyrian towers, A race would come, imperious people, proud In war, with wide dominion, bringing doom For Libya. Fate willed it so. And Juno Feared, and remembered: there was the old war She fought at Troy for her dear Greeks; her mind Still fed on hurt and anger; deep in her heart Paris’ decision rankled, and the wrong Offered her slighted beauty; and the hatred Of the whole race; and Ganymede’s honors-- All that was fuel to fire; she tossed and harried All over the seas, wherever she could, those Trojans Who had survived the Greeks and fierce Achilles, And so they wandered over many an ocean, Through many a year, fate-hounded. Such a struggle It was to found the race of Rome!

They were happy Spreading the sail, rushing the foam with bronze, And Sicily hardly out of sight, when Juno, Still nourishing the everlasting wound, Raged to herself: “I am beaten, I suppose; It seems I cannot keep this Trojan king From Italy. The fates, no doubt, forbid me. Pallas, of course, could burn the Argive ships, Could drown the sailors, all for one man’s guilt, The crazy acts of Ajax. Her own hand Hurled from the cloud Jove’s thunderbolt, and shattered Their ships all over the sea; she raised up storm And tempest; she spiked Ajax on the rocks, Whirled him in wind, blasted his heart with fire. And I, who walk my way as queen of the gods, Sister of Jove, and wife of Jove, keep warring With one tribe through the long, long years. Who cares For Juno’s godhead? Who brings sacrifice Devoutly to her altars?”

Brooding, burning, She sought Aeolia, the storm-clouds’ dwelling, A land that sweeps and swarms with the winds’ fury, Whose monarch, Aeolus, in his deep cave rules Imperious, weighing down with bolt and prison Those boisterous struggling roarers, who go raging Around their bars, under the moan of the mountain. High over them their sceptered lord sits watching, Soothing, restraining, their passionate proud spirit, Lest, uncontrolled, they seize, in their wild keeping, The land, the sea, the arch of sky, in ruin Sweeping through space. This Jupiter feared; he hid them Deep in dark caverns, with a mass of mountain Piled over above them, and a king to give them Most certain regulation, with a knowledge When to hold in, when to let go. Him Juno Approached in supplication:--“Aeolus, Given by Jove the power to still the waters, Or raise them with a gale, a tribe I hate Is on its way to Italy, and they carry Troy with them, and their household gods, once beaten. Shake anger into those winds of yours, turn over Their ships, and drown them; drive them in all directions, Litter the sea with bodies! For such service The loveliest nymph I have, Deiopea, Shall be your bride forever, and you will father Fair children on her fairness.” Aeolus Made answer: “Yours, O Queen, the task of seeking Whatever it is you will; and mine the duty To follow with performance. All my empire, My sceptre, Jove’s indulgence, are beholden To Juno’s favor, by whose blessing I Attend the feasts of the gods and rule this storm-land.”

His spear-butt struck the hollow mountain-side, And the winds, wherever they could, came sweeping forth, Whirled over the land, swooped down upon the ocean. East, South, Southwest, they heave the billows, howl, Storm, roll the giant combers toward the shore. Men cry; the rigging creaks and strains; the clouds Darken, and men see nothing; a weight of darkness Broods over the deep; the heavy thunder rumbles From pole to pole; the lightning rips and dazzles; There is no way out but death. Aeneas shudders In the chill shock, and lifts both hands to heaven:-- “O happy men, thrice happy, four times happy, Who had the luck to die, with their fathers watching Below the walls of Troy! Ah, Diomedes, Bravest of Greeks, why could I not have fallen, Bleeding my life away on plains of Ilium In our encounter there, where mighty Hector Went down before Achilles’ spear, and huge Sarpedon lay in dust, and Simois river Rolled to the sea so many noble heroes, All drowned in all their armor?” And the gale Howls from the north, striking the sail, head on; The waves are lifted to the stars; the oars Are broken, and the prow slews round; the ship Lies broadside on; a wall of water, a mountain, Looms up, comes pouring down; some ride the crest, Some, in the trough, can see the boil of the sand. The South wind hurls three ships on the hidden rocks, That sea-reef which Italians call the Altars; The West takes three, sweeping them from the deep On shoal and quicksand; over the stern of one, Before Aeneas’ eyes, a great sea falls, Washing the helmsman overboard; the ship Whirls thrice in the suck of the water and goes down In the devouring gulf; and here and there A few survivors swim, the Lycian men Whose captain was Orontes; now their arms, Their Trojan treasures, float with the broken timbers On the swing and slide of the waves. The storm, triumphant, Rides down more boats, and more; there goes Achates; Abas, Aletes, Ilioneus, Receive the hostile water; the walls are broken; The enemy pours in.

But meanwhile Neptune Saw ocean in a welter of confusion, The roar of storm, and deep and surface mingled. Troublesome business, this; he rose, majestic, From under the waves, and saw the Trojan vessels Scattered all over the sea by the might of the waves And the wreck of sky; he recognized the anger And cunning of his sister, and he summoned The winds by name:--“What arrogance is this, What pride of birth, you winds, to meddle here Without my sanction, raising all this trouble? I’ll--No, the waves come first: but listen to me, You are going to pay for this! Get out of here! Go tell your king the lordship of the ocean, The trident, are not his, but mine. His realm Reaches no further than the rocks and caverns You brawlers dwell in; let him rule that palace, Big as he pleases, shut you in, and stay there!”

This said, he calmed the swollen sea and cloud, Brought back the sun; Cymothoe and Triton, Heaving together, pulled the ships from the reef, As Neptune used his trident for a lever, Opened the quicksand, made the water smooth, And the flying chariot skimmed the level surface. Sometimes, in a great nation, there are riots With the rabble out of hand, and firebrands fly And cobblestones; whatever they lay their hands on Is a weapon for their fury, but should they see One man of noble presence, they fall silent, Obedient dogs, with ears pricked up, and waiting, Waiting his word, and he knows how to bring them Back to good sense again. So ocean, roaring, Subsided into stillness, as the sea-god Looked forth upon the waters, and clear weather Shone over him as he drove his flying horses.

Aeneas’ weary children make for harbor, Whichever lies most near, and the prows are turned To Libya’s coast-line. In a bay’s deep curve They find a haven, where the water lies With never a ripple. A little island keeps The sea-swell off, and the waves break on its sides And slide back harmless. The great cliffs come down Steep to deep water, and the background shimmers, Darkens and shines, the tremulous aspen moving And the dark fir pointing still. And there is a cave Under the overhanging rocks, alive With water running fresh, a home of the Nymphs, With benches for them, cut from the living stone. No anchor is needed here for weary ships, No mooring-cable. Aeneas brings them in, Seven weary vessels, and the men are glad To be ashore again, to feel dry sand Under the salt-stained limbs. Achates strikes The spark from the flint, catches the fire on leaves, Adds chips and kindling, blows and fans the flame, And they bring out the soaked and salty corn, The hand-mills, stone and mortar, and make ready, As best they can, for bread.

Meanwhile Aeneas Climbs to a look-out, for a view of the ocean, Hoping for some good luck; the Phrygian galleys Might meet his gaze, or Capys’ boats, or a pennon On a far-off mast-head flying. There is nothing, Nothing to see out yonder, but near the water Three stags are grazing, with a herd behind them, A long line browsing through the peaceful valley. He reaches for the bow and the swift arrows Borne by Achates, and he shoots the leaders, High-antlered, routs the common herd, and ceases Only when seven are slain, a number equal To the ships’ tally, and then he seeks the harbor, Divides the spoil, broaches the wine Acestes Had stowed for them at Drepanum on their leaving, A kingly present, and he calms their trouble, Saying: “O comrades, we have been through evil Together before this; we have been through worse, Scylla, Charybdis, and the Cyclops’ dwelling, The sounding rocks. This, too, the god will end. Call the nerve back; dismiss the fear, the sadness. Some day, perhaps, remembering even this Will be a pleasure. We are going on Through whatsoever chance and change, until We come to Latium, where the fates point out A quiet dwelling-place, and Troy recovered. Endure, and keep yourself for better days.” He kept to himself the sorrow in the heart, Wearing, for them, a mask of hopefulness. They were ready for the feasting. Part lay bare The flesh from the torn hides, part cut the meat Impaling it, still quivering, on spits, Setting the kettles, keeping the water boiling, And strong with food again, sprawling stretched out On comfortable grass, they take their fill Of bread and wine and venison, till hunger Is gone, and the board cleared. And then they talk For a long time, of where their comrades are, Are, or may be, hopeful and doubtful both. Could they believe them living? or would a cry Fall on deaf ears forever? All those captains, Brave Gyas, brave Cloanthus, Amycus, Lycus, Orontes,--in his secret heart Aeneas mourns them.

Meanwhile, from the heaven Jupiter watched the lands below, and the seas With the white points of sails, and far-off people, Turning his gaze toward Libya. And Venus Came to him then, a little sadly, tears Brimming in those bright eyes of hers. “Great father,” She said, “Great ruler of the world Of men and gods, great wielder of the lightning, What has my poor Aeneas done? what outrage Could Trojans perpetrate, so that the world Rejects them everywhere, and many a death Inflicted on them over Italy? There was a promise once, that as the years Rolled onward, they would father Rome and rulers Of Roman stock, to hold dominion over All sea and land. That was a promise, father; What changed it? Once that promise was my comfort; Troy fell; I weighed one fate against another And found some consolation. But disaster Keeps on; the same ill-fortune follows after. What end of it all, great king? One man, Antenor, Escaped the Greeks, came through Illyrian waters Safe to Liburnian regions, where Timavus Roars underground, comes up nine times, and reaches The floodland near the seas. One man, Antenor, Founded a city, Padua, a dwelling For Trojan men, a resting-place from labor, And shares their quietude. But we, your children, To whom heaven’s height is granted, we are betrayed, We have lost our ships, we are kept from Italy, Kept far away. One enemy--I tell you This is a shameful thing! Do we deserve it? Is this our rise to power?”