The Aeneid

They first observe, and to the rest betray,

Our diff’rent speech; our borrow’d arms survey.

Oppress’d with odds, we fall; Coroebus first,

At Pallas’ altar, by Peneleus pierc’d.

Then Ripheus follow’d, in th’ unequal fight;

Just of his word, observant of the right:

Heav’n thought not so. Dymas their fate attends,

With Hypanis, mistaken by their friends.

Nor, Pantheus, thee, thy miter, nor the bands

Of awful Phoebus, sav’d from impious hands.

Ye Trojan flames, your testimony bear,

What I perform’d, and what I suffer’d there;

No sword avoiding in the fatal strife,

Expos’d to death, and prodigal of life;

Witness, ye heavens! I live not by my fault:

I strove to have deserv’d the death I sought.

But, when I could not fight, and would have died,

Borne off to distance by the growing tide,

Old Iphitus and I were hurried thence,

With Pelias wounded, and without defense.

New clamors from th’ invested palace ring:

We run to die, or disengage the king.

So hot th’ assault, so high the tumult rose,

While ours defend, and while the Greeks oppose

As all the Dardan and Argolic race

Had been contracted in that narrow space;

Or as all Ilium else were void of fear,

And tumult, war, and slaughter, only there.

Their targets in a tortoise cast, the foes,

Secure advancing, to the turrets rose:

Some mount the scaling ladders; some, more bold,

Swerve upwards, and by posts and pillars hold;

Their left hand gripes their bucklers in th’ ascent,

While with their right they seize the battlement.

From their demolish’d tow’rs the Trojans throw

Huge heaps of stones, that, falling, crush the foe;

And heavy beams and rafters from the sides

(Such arms their last necessity provides)

And gilded roofs, come tumbling from on high,

The marks of state and ancient royalty.

The guards below, fix’d in the pass, attend

The charge undaunted, and the gate defend.

Renew’d in courage with recover’d breath,

A second time we ran to tempt our death,

To clear the palace from the foe, succeed

The weary living, and revenge the dead.

“A postern door, yet unobserv’d and free,

Join’d by the length of a blind gallery,

To the king’s closet led: a way well known

To Hector’s wife, while Priam held the throne,

Thro’ which she brought Astyanax, unseen,

To cheer his grandsire and his grandsire’s queen.

Thro’ this we pass, and mount the tow’r, from whence

With unavailing arms the Trojans make defense.

From this the trembling king had oft descried

The Grecian camp, and saw their navy ride.

Beams from its lofty height with swords we hew,

Then, wrenching with our hands, th’ assault renew;

And, where the rafters on the columns meet,

We push them headlong with our arms and feet.

The lightning flies not swifter than the fall,

Nor thunder louder than the ruin’d wall:

Down goes the top at once; the Greeks beneath

Are piecemeal torn, or pounded into death.

Yet more succeed, and more to death are sent;

We cease not from above, nor they below relent.

Before the gate stood Pyrrhus, threat’ning loud,

With glitt’ring arms conspicuous in the crowd.

So shines, renew’d in youth, the crested snake,

Who slept the winter in a thorny brake,

And, casting off his slough when spring returns,

Now looks aloft, and with new glory burns;

Restor’d with poisonous herbs, his ardent sides

Reflect the sun; and rais’d on spires he rides;

High o’er the grass, hissing he rolls along,

And brandishes by fits his forky tongue.

Proud Periphas, and fierce Automedon,

His father’s charioteer, together run

To force the gate; the Scyrian infantry

Rush on in crowds, and the barr’d passage free.

Ent’ring the court, with shouts the skies they rend;

And flaming firebrands to the roofs ascend.

Himself, among the foremost, deals his blows,

And with his ax repeated strokes bestows

On the strong doors; then all their shoulders ply,

Till from the posts the brazen hinges fly.

He hews apace; the double bars at length

Yield to his ax and unresisted strength.

A mighty breach is made: the rooms conceal’d

Appear, and all the palace is reveal’d;

The halls of audience, and of public state,

And where the lonely queen in secret sate.

Arm’d soldiers now by trembling maids are seen,

With not a door, and scarce a space, between.

The house is fill’d with loud laments and cries,

And shrieks of women rend the vaulted skies;

The fearful matrons run from place to place,

And kiss the thresholds, and the posts embrace.

The fatal work inhuman Pyrrhus plies,

And all his father sparkles in his eyes;

Nor bars, nor fighting guards, his force sustain:

The bars are broken, and the guards are slain.

In rush the Greeks, and all the apartments fill;

Those few defendants whom they find, they kill.

Not with so fierce a rage the foaming flood

Roars, when he finds his rapid course withstood;

Bears down the dams with unresisted sway,

And sweeps the cattle and the cots away.

These eyes beheld him when he march’d between

The brother kings: I saw th’ unhappy queen,

The hundred wives, and where old Priam stood,

To stain his hallow’d altar with his brood.

The fifty nuptial beds (such hopes had he,

So large a promise, of a progeny),

The posts, of plated gold, and hung with spoils,

Fell the reward of the proud victor’s toils.

Where’er the raging fire had left a space,

The Grecians enter and possess the place.

“Perhaps you may of Priam’s fate enquire.

He, when he saw his regal town on fire,

His ruin’d palace, and his ent’ring foes,

On ev’ry side inevitable woes,

In arms, disus’d, invests his limbs, decay’d,

Like them, with age; a late and useless aid.

His feeble shoulders scarce the weight sustain;

Loaded, not arm’d, he creeps along with pain,

Despairing of success, ambitious to be slain!

Uncover’d but by heav’n, there stood in view

An altar; near the hearth a laurel grew,

Dodder’d with age, whose boughs encompass round

The household gods, and shade the holy ground.

Here Hecuba, with all her helpless train

Of dames, for shelter sought, but sought in vain.

Driv’n like a flock of doves along the sky,

Their images they hug, and to their altars fly.

The Queen, when she beheld her trembling lord,

And hanging by his side a heavy sword,

‘What rage,’ she cried, ‘has seiz’d my husband’s mind?

What arms are these, and to what use design’d?

These times want other aids! Were Hector here,

Ev’n Hector now in vain, like Priam, would appear.

With us, one common shelter thou shalt find,

Or in one common fate with us be join’d.’

She said, and with a last salute embrac’d

The poor old man, and by the laurel plac’d.

Behold! Polites, one of Priam’s sons,

Pursued by Pyrrhus, there for safety runs.

Thro’ swords and foes, amaz’d and hurt, he flies

Thro’ empty courts and open galleries.

Him Pyrrhus, urging with his lance, pursues,

And often reaches, and his thrusts renews.

The youth, transfix’d, with lamentable cries,

Expires before his wretched parent’s eyes:

Whom gasping at his feet when Priam saw,

The fear of death gave place to nature’s law;

And, shaking more with anger than with age,

‘The gods,’ said he, ‘requite thy brutal rage!

As sure they will, barbarian, sure they must,

If there be gods in heav’n, and gods be just—

Who tak’st in wrongs an insolent delight;

With a son’s death t’ infect a father’s sight.

Not he, whom thou and lying fame conspire

To call thee his—not he, thy vaunted sire,

Thus us’d my wretched age: the gods he fear’d,

The laws of nature and of nations heard.

He cheer’d my sorrows, and, for sums of gold,

The bloodless carcass of my Hector sold;

Pitied the woes a parent underwent,

And sent me back in safety from his tent.’

“This said, his feeble hand a javelin threw,

Which, flutt’ring, seem’d to loiter as it flew:

Just, and but barely, to the mark it held,

And faintly tinkled on the brazen shield.

“Then Pyrrhus thus: ‘Go thou from me to fate,

And to my father my foul deeds relate.

Now die!’ With that he dragg’d the trembling sire,

Slidd’ring thro’ clotter’d blood and holy mire,

(The mingled paste his murder’d son had made,)

Haul’d from beneath the violated shade,

And on the sacred pile the royal victim laid.

His right hand held his bloody falchion bare,

His left he twisted in his hoary hair;

Then, with a speeding thrust, his heart he found:

The lukewarm blood came rushing thro’ the wound,

And sanguine streams distain’d the sacred ground.

Thus Priam fell, and shar’d one common fate

With Troy in ashes, and his ruin’d state:

He, who the scepter of all Asia sway’d,

Whom monarchs like domestic slaves obey’d.

On the bleak shore now lies th’ abandon’d king,

A headless carcass, and a nameless thing.

“Then, not before, I felt my cruddled blood

Congeal with fear, my hair with horror stood:

My father’s image fill’d my pious mind,

Lest equal years might equal fortune find.

Again I thought on my forsaken wife,

And trembled for my son’s abandon’d life.

I look’d about, but found myself alone,

Deserted at my need! My friends were gone.

Some spent with toil, some with despair oppress’d,

Leap’d headlong from the heights; the flames consum’d the rest.

Thus, wand’ring in my way, without a guide,

The graceless Helen in the porch I spied

Of Vesta’s temple; there she lurk’d alone;

Muffled she sate, and, what she could, unknown:

But, by the flames that cast their blaze around,

That common bane of Greece and Troy I found.

For Ilium burnt, she dreads the Trojan sword;

More dreads the vengeance of her injur’d lord;

Ev’n by those gods who refug’d her abhorr’d.

Trembling with rage, the strumpet I regard,

Resolv’d to give her guilt the due reward:

‘Shall she triumphant sail before the wind,

And leave in flames unhappy Troy behind?

Shall she her kingdom and her friends review,

In state attended with a captive crew,

While unreveng’d the good old Priam falls,

And Grecian fires consume the Trojan walls?

For this the Phrygian fields and Xanthian flood

Were swell’d with bodies, and were drunk with blood?

’Tis true, a soldier can small honor gain,

And boast no conquest, from a woman slain:

Yet shall the fact not pass without applause,

Of vengeance taken in so just a cause;

The punish’d crime shall set my soul at ease,

And murm’ring manes of my friends appease.’

Thus while I rave, a gleam of pleasing light

Spread o’er the place; and, shining heav’nly bright,

My mother stood reveal’d before my sight

Never so radiant did her eyes appear;

Not her own star confess’d a light so clear:

Great in her charms, as when on gods above

She looks, and breathes herself into their love.

She held my hand, the destin’d blow to break;

Then from her rosy lips began to speak:

‘My son, from whence this madness, this neglect

Of my commands, and those whom I protect?

Why this unmanly rage? Recall to mind

Whom you forsake, what pledges leave behind.

Look if your helpless father yet survive,

Or if Ascanius or Creusa live.

Around your house the greedy Grecians err;

And these had perish’d in the nightly war,

But for my presence and protecting care.

Not Helen’s face, nor Paris, was in fault;

But by the gods was this destruction brought.

Now cast your eyes around, while I dissolve

The mists and films that mortal eyes involve,

Purge from your sight the dross, and make you see

The shape of each avenging deity.

Enlighten’d thus, my just commands fulfil,

Nor fear obedience to your mother’s will.

Where yon disorder’d heap of ruin lies,

Stones rent from stones; where clouds of dust arise—

Amid that smother Neptune holds his place,

Below the wall’s foundation drives his mace,

And heaves the building from the solid base.

Look where, in arms, imperial Juno stands

Full in the Scaean gate, with loud commands,

Urging on shore the tardy Grecian bands.

See! Pallas, of her snaky buckler proud,

Bestrides the tow’r, refulgent thro’ the cloud:

See! Jove new courage to the foe supplies,

And arms against the town the partial deities.

Haste hence, my son; this fruitless labor end:

Haste, where your trembling spouse and sire attend:

Haste; and a mother’s care your passage shall befriend.’

She said, and swiftly vanish’d from my sight,

Obscure in clouds and gloomy shades of night.

I look’d, I listen’d; dreadful sounds I hear;

And the dire forms of hostile gods appear.

Troy sunk in flames I saw (nor could prevent),

And Ilium from its old foundations rent;

Rent like a mountain ash, which dar’d the winds,

And stood the sturdy strokes of lab’ring hinds.

About the roots the cruel ax resounds;

The stumps are pierc’d with oft-repeated wounds:

The war is felt on high; the nodding crown

Now threats a fall, and throws the leafy honors down.

To their united force it yields, tho’ late,

And mourns with mortal groans th’ approaching fate:

The roots no more their upper load sustain;

But down she falls, and spreads a ruin thro’ the plain.

“Descending thence, I scape thro’ foes and fire:

Before the goddess, foes and flames retire.

Arriv’d at home, he, for whose only sake,

Or most for his, such toils I undertake,

The good Anchises, whom, by timely flight,

I purpos’d to secure on Ida’s height,

Refus’d the journey, resolute to die

And add his fun’rals to the fate of Troy,

Rather than exile and old age sustain.

‘Go you, whose blood runs warm in ev’ry vein.

Had Heav’n decreed that I should life enjoy,

Heav’n had decreed to save unhappy Troy.

’Tis, sure, enough, if not too much, for one,

Twice to have seen our Ilium overthrown.

Make haste to save the poor remaining crew,

And give this useless corpse a long adieu.

These weak old hands suffice to stop my breath;

At least the pitying foes will aid my death,

To take my spoils, and leave my body bare:

As for my sepulcher, let Heav’n take care.

’Tis long since I, for my celestial wife

Loath’d by the gods, have dragg’d a ling’ring life;

Since ev’ry hour and moment I expire,

Blasted from heav’n by Jove’s avenging fire.’

This oft repeated, he stood fix’d to die:

Myself, my wife, my son, my family,

Intreat, pray, beg, and raise a doleful cry—

‘What, will he still persist, on death resolve,

And in his ruin all his house involve!’

He still persists his reasons to maintain;

Our pray’rs, our tears, our loud laments, are vain.

“Urg’d by despair, again I go to try

The fate of arms, resolv’d in fight to die:

‘What hope remains, but what my death must give?

Can I, without so dear a father, live?

You term it prudence, what I baseness call:

Could such a word from such a parent fall?

If Fortune please, and so the gods ordain,

That nothing should of ruin’d Troy remain,

And you conspire with Fortune to be slain,

The way to death is wide, th’ approaches near:

For soon relentless Pyrrhus will appear,

Reeking with Priam’s blood—the wretch who slew

The son (inhuman) in the father’s view,

And then the sire himself to the dire altar drew.

O goddess mother, give me back to Fate;

Your gift was undesir’d, and came too late!

Did you, for this, unhappy me convey

Thro’ foes and fires, to see my house a prey?

Shall I my father, wife, and son behold,

Welt’ring in blood, each other’s arms infold?

Haste! gird my sword, tho’ spent and overcome:

’Tis the last summons to receive our doom.

I hear thee, Fate; and I obey thy call!

Not unreveng’d the foe shall see my fall.

Restore me to the yet unfinish’d fight:

My death is wanting to conclude the night.’

Arm’d once again, my glitt’ring sword I wield,

While th’ other hand sustains my weighty shield,

And forth I rush to seek th’ abandon’d field.

I went; but sad Creusa stopp’d my way,

And cross the threshold in my passage lay,

Embrac’d my knees, and, when I would have gone,

Shew’d me my feeble sire and tender son:

‘If death be your design, at least,’ said she,

‘Take us along to share your destiny.

If any farther hopes in arms remain,

This place, these pledges of your love, maintain.

To whom do you expose your father’s life,

Your son’s, and mine, your now forgotten wife!’

While thus she fills the house with clam’rous cries,

Our hearing is diverted by our eyes:

For, while I held my son, in the short space

Betwixt our kisses and our last embrace;

Strange to relate, from young Iulus’ head

A lambent flame arose, which gently spread

Around his brows, and on his temples fed.

Amaz’d, with running water we prepare

To quench the sacred fire, and slake his hair;

But old Anchises, vers’d in omens, rear’d

His hands to heav’n, and this request preferr’d:

‘If any vows, almighty Jove, can bend

Thy will; if piety can pray’rs commend,

Confirm the glad presage which thou art pleas’d to send.’

Scarce had he said, when, on our left, we hear

A peal of rattling thunder roll in air:

There shot a streaming lamp along the sky,

Which on the winged lightning seem’d to fly;

From o’er the roof the blaze began to move,

And, trailing, vanish’d in th’ Idaean grove.

It swept a path in heav’n, and shone a guide,

Then in a steaming stench of sulphur died.

“The good old man with suppliant hands implor’d

The gods’ protection, and their star ador’d.

‘Now, now,’ said he, ‘my son, no more delay!

I yield, I follow where Heav’n shews the way.

Keep, O my country gods, our dwelling place,

And guard this relic of the Trojan race,

This tender child! These omens are your own,

And you can yet restore the ruin’d town.

At least accomplish what your signs foreshow:

I stand resign’d, and am prepar’d to go.’

“He said. The crackling flames appear on high.

And driving sparkles dance along the sky.

With Vulcan’s rage the rising winds conspire,

And near our palace roll the flood of fire.

‘Haste, my dear father, (’tis no time to wait,)

And load my shoulders with a willing freight.

Whate’er befalls, your life shall be my care;

One death, or one deliv’rance, we will share.

My hand shall lead our little son; and you,

My faithful consort, shall our steps pursue.

Next, you, my servants, heed my strict commands:

Without the walls a ruin’d temple stands,

To Ceres hallow’d once; a cypress nigh

Shoots up her venerable head on high,

By long religion kept; there bend your feet,

And in divided parties let us meet.

Our country gods, the relics, and the bands,

Hold you, my father, in your guiltless hands:

In me ’tis impious holy things to bear,

Red as I am with slaughter, new from war,

Till in some living stream I cleanse the guilt

Of dire debate, and blood in battle spilt.’

Thus, ord’ring all that prudence could provide,

I clothe my shoulders with a lion’s hide

And yellow spoils; then, on my bending back,

The welcome load of my dear father take;

While on my better hand Ascanius hung,

And with unequal paces tripp’d along.

Creusa kept behind; by choice we stray

Thro’ ev’ry dark and ev’ry devious way.

I, who so bold and dauntless, just before,

The Grecian darts and shock of lances bore,

At ev’ry shadow now am seiz’d with fear,

Not for myself, but for the charge I bear;

Till, near the ruin’d gate arriv’d at last,

Secure, and deeming all the danger past,

A frightful noise of trampling feet we hear.

My father, looking thro’ the shades, with fear,

Cried out: ‘Haste, haste, my son, the foes are nigh;

Their swords and shining armor I descry.’

Some hostile god, for some unknown offense,

Had sure bereft my mind of better sense;

For, while thro’ winding ways I took my flight,

And sought the shelter of the gloomy night,

Alas! I lost Creusa: hard to tell

If by her fatal destiny she fell,

Or weary sate, or wander’d with affright;

But she was lost for ever to my sight.

I knew not, or reflected, till I meet

My friends, at Ceres’ now deserted seat.

We met: not one was wanting; only she

Deceiv’d her friends, her son, and wretched me.

“What mad expressions did my tongue refuse!

Whom did I not, of gods or men, accuse!

This was the fatal blow, that pain’d me more

Than all I felt from ruin’d Troy before.

Stung with my loss, and raving with despair,

Abandoning my now forgotten care,

Of counsel, comfort, and of hope bereft,

My sire, my son, my country gods I left.

In shining armor once again I sheathe

My limbs, not feeling wounds, nor fearing death.

Then headlong to the burning walls I run,

And seek the danger I was forc’d to shun.

I tread my former tracks; thro’ night explore

Each passage, ev’ry street I cross’d before.

All things were full of horror and affright,

And dreadful ev’n the silence of the night.

Then to my father’s house I make repair,

With some small glimpse of hope to find her there.

Instead of her, the cruel Greeks I met;

The house was fill’d with foes, with flames beset.

Driv’n on the wings of winds, whole sheets of fire,

Thro’ air transported, to the roofs aspire.

From thence to Priam’s palace I resort,

And search the citadel and desart court.

Then, unobserv’d, I pass by Juno’s church:

A guard of Grecians had possess’d the porch;