The Æneid of Virgil translated into English prose

by Virgil

BOOK V

Æneas, meantime, was well on his road, holding with set

purpose on the watery way, and cutting through billows

gloomed by the North wind, with eyes ever and anon

turned back to the city, which poor Elissa’s funeral flame

now began to illumine. What cause has lit up a blaze so 5

mighty they cannot tell; but as they think of the cruel

pangs which follow outrage done on great love, and remember

what a frantic woman can do, the Teucrian hearts

are swept through a train of dismal presage.

Soon as the ships gained the mid-ocean, and no land met 10

the view any more—waters everywhere and everywhere

skies—a dark rain-cloud arose and stood over the hero’s

head, charged with night and winter tempest, and darkness

ruffled the billow’s crest. Palinurus himself, the pilot,

was heard from the lofty stern:—“Ah! why has such an 15

army of storms encompassed the heaven? What hast

thou for us now, old Father Neptune?” No sooner said

than he bids them gather up the tackle and ply the lusty

oar, and shifts the sheet to the wind, and speaks thus:—“Noble

Æneas, though Jove himself were to pledge me 20

his faith, I could not hope to reach Italy with a sky like

this. The winds shift and storm crosswise, ever rising

from the blackening West, and the mist is being massed

into clouds. We cannot make head against them, or

struggle as we should. Well, since Fortune exerts her 25

tyranny, let us follow, and turn our faces as she pulls the

rein. I take it, too, we are not far from the friendly

brother-coast of your Eryx, and the havens of Sicania,

if my memory serves me as I retrace the stars I watched

long ago.” To him good Æneas:—“I have seen myself 30

this long time that such is the winds’ will, and all your

counter-efforts vain. Turn sail and ship. Could any

land indeed be welcomer, any that I would sooner choose

to harbour my weary ships, than the land which keeps for

me above ground the Darden Acestes, and laps in its breast 5

the bones of my sire Anchises?” This said, they make

for the haven; favouring zephyrs swell their sail, the fleet

rides swiftly over the flood, and at last they touch with

joy the strand they know so well.

From a hill’s tall top Acestes had marked with wonder 10

afar off the new arrival, and the friendly vessels; up he

runs, all in the savage trim of hunting-spear and Libyan

bearskin—Acestes, son of a Trojan mother by the river

Crimisus. The ancestral blood quickens in his veins as

he gives them joy of their safe arrival, welcomes them 15

with the plenty of rustic royalty, and soothes their weariness

with every kind appliance.

On the morrow, when the first dawn of the bright dayspring

had put the stars to flight, Æneas calls his comrades

to a gathering from all the shore, and standing on a heaped 20

mound bespeaks them thus:—“Mighty sons of Dardanus,

race of Heaven’s high parentage, the months are

all past and the year has fulfilled its cycle, since we gave

to the earth the earthly relics, the ashes of my deified sire,

and consecrated the altars of mourning. And now, if I 25

err not, the very day is here—that day which for me shall

ever be a day of weeping, ever a day of honour, since you,

ye gods, have willed it so. Though this day were to find

me among the Gætulian Syrtes a homeless wanderer—were

it to surprise me in the Argive main or in the streets 30

of Mycenæ—still would I pay my yearly vows and the

pomp of solemn observance, and would pile the altars with

their proper gifts. And now, behold, by an unsought

chance we are standing—not in truth I deem without the

providence, the beckoning hand of Heaven—at the very 35

grave, the buried ashes of my sire, driven as we are into

this friendly haven. Come, then, solemnize we all the

glad celebration; pray we for winds, and may He be

pleased that I should offer these rites yearly in a city of

my own building, in a temple dedicated to himself. Two

heads of oxen Acestes, like a true son of Troy, gives you

for each ship; call to the feasts the gods of the hearth,

both those of our fathers and those worshipped by Acestes 5

our host. Furthermore, if the ninth day hence the dawn-goddess

restore to mortals the genial light, and make the

world visible with sunshine, I will set up, first of all, for

all Teucrian comers, a match among our swift fleet; then

let him that is light of foot, and him that, glorying in his 10

strength, bears himself more proudly with the dart and the

flying arrow, or has confidence to join battle in gauntlets

of raw hide, let one and all be here, and look for the prizes

that victory earns. Give me your auspicious voices, and

bind your brows with green.” 15

This spoken, he shrouds his own brows with his mother’s

myrtle. So does Helymus, so does veteran Acestes, so

young Ascanius—so the whole multitude of warriors.

He was already on his way from the council to the tomb

with many thousands round him, the centre of a great 20

company. Here in due libation he pours on the ground

two bowls of the wine-god’s pure juice, two of new milk,

two of sacrificial blood; he flings bright flowers, and makes

this utterance:—“Hail to thee, blessed sire, once more!

hail to you, ashes of one rescued in vain, spirit and shade 25

of my father! It was not in Fate that thou shouldst

journey with me to the Italian frontier and the fields of

Destiny, or see the Ausonian Tiber, whatever that name

may import.” He had said this, when from the depth

of the grave a smooth shining serpent trailed along seven 30

spires, seven volumes of giant length, coiling peacefully

round the tomb and gliding between the altars: dark

green flecks were on its back; its scales were all ablaze

with spots of golden lustre, even as the bow in the clouds

showers a thousand various colours in the face of the sun. 35

Æneas stood wonder-struck: the creature, winding its

long column among the dishes and the polished goblets,

tasted of the viands, and then, innocent of harm, reëntered

the tomb at its base, leaving the altars where its mouth

had been. Quickened by this, the hero resumes the work

of homage to his sire, not knowing whether to think this

the genius of the spot or his father’s menial spirit: duly

he slays two young sheep, two swine, two black-skinned 5

bullocks; again and again he pours goblets of wine, again

and again he calls on the soul of great Anchises and the

shade loosed from Acheron’s[185] prison. His comrades, too,

each according to his means, give glad offerings—they

pile the altars, they slay the bullocks; others in their function 10

set on the cauldrons, and, stretched along the grass,

hold the spits over the embers and roast the flesh.

And now the expected day was come; the steeds of

Phaethon[186] were ushering in the goddess of the ninth

dawn through a heaven of clear light; the rumoured spectacle 15

and the great name of Acestes had brought the

neighbouring people from their homes; the holiday crowd

was flooding the shore, to gaze on the family of Æneas,

and some, too, ready to dispute the prizes. First, in sight

of all, the gifts are bestowed in the midst of the ring—hallowed 20

tripods and verdant chaplets, and palms, the

conquerors’ special guerdon—armour and raiment of

purple dye—a talent’s[187] weight of silver and gold; and

from a mound in the centre the shrill trumpet proclaims

the sports begun. The first contest, waged with labouring 25

oars, is entered by four ships, the flower of the entire

fleet. There is Mnestheus, with his fiery crew, speeding

along the swift Shark—Mnestheus, hereafter a prince of

Italy, who gives his name to the Memmian line; there is

Gyas with his monster Chimæra, that monster mass[D] 30

which three tiers of stout Dardans are pulling on, the oars

rising in a triple bank; Sergestus, from whom the Sergian

house gains the name it keeps, sails in the mighty Centaur;

and in the sea-green Scylla Cloanthus, your great forefather,

Cluentius of Rome. 35

At a distance in the sea is a rock, over against the spray-washed

shore—sometimes covered by the swelling waves

that beat on it, when the wintry north winds hide the stars

from view—in a calm it rests in peace, and rises over the

unruffled waters, a broad table-land, a welcome basking-ground 5

for the sea-bird. Here Æneas set up a green stem

of leafy oak with his own royal hand—a sign for the sailors,

that they might know whence to begin their return, and

where to double round their long voyage. Then they choose

their places by lot: there are the captains on the sterns, 10

a glorious sight, gleaming far with gold and purple; the

crews are crowned with thick poplar leaves, and their bare

shoulders shine with the oil that has rubbed them. They

seat them on the benches, every arm is strained on the

oar—straining they expect the signal, and their beating 15

hearts are drained at each stroke by panting fear and high-strung

ambition. Then, when the shrill trumpet has uttered

its voice, all in a moment dart forward from their

bounds, the seaman’s shout pierces the sky; the upturned

seas foam as the arm is drawn back to the chest. With 20

measured strokes they plough their furrows; the water

is one yawning chasm, rent asunder by the oar and the

pointed beak. Not such the headlong speed when in two-horse

race the chariots dash into the plain and pour along

from their floodgates, or when the drivers shake the streaming 25

reins over their flying steeds, and hang floating over

the lash. Then plaudits, and shouts of manly voices,

and the clamorous fervour of the backers, make the whole

woodland ring; the pent-up shores keep the sound rolling;

the hills send back the blows of the noise. See! flying 30

ahead of the rest, gliding over the first water in the midst

of crowd and hubbub, is Gyas; next him comes Cloanthus,

with better oars, but the slow pinewood’s weight keeps

him back. After them at equal distance the Shark and

the Centaur strive to win precedence. And now the Shark 35

has it. Now she is beaten and passed by the Centaur.

Now the two ride abreast stem to stem, cutting with their

long keels the salt waves. And now they were nearing the

rock, and the goal was just in their grasp, when Gyas, the

leader, the victor of the halfway-passage, calls aloud to his

ship’s pilot Menœtes:—“Whither away so far to my right?

Steer us hither; hug the shore; let the oar-blade graze

the cliffs on the left; leave the deep to others.” Thus he; 5

but Menœtes, afraid of hidden rocks, keeps turning the

prow well towards the sea. “Whither away from the right

course? Make for the rocks, Menœtes!” shouted Gyas

again; and see! looking back, he perceives Cloanthus

gaining on him close behind. Between Gyas’ ship and 10

the sounding rocks he threads his way to the left, steering

inward, and in an instant passes the winner, leaves the

goal behind, and gains the smooth open sea. Grief turned

the youth’s very marrow to flame, nor were his cheeks

free from tears; he seizes the slow Menœtes, forgetting 15

at once his own decency and his crew’s safety, and flings

him headlong from the lofty stern into the sea. Himself

becomes their guide at the helm, himself their pilot, cheering

on the rowers, and turning the rudder to the shore.

But Menœtes, when at last disgorged from the bottom of 20

the sea, heavy with age, and with his dripping clothes all

hanging about him, climbs the cliff-top, and seats himself

on a dry rock. The Teucrians laughed as he was falling,

laughed as he was swimming, and now they laugh as he

discharges from his chest the draught of brine. Then 25

sprung up an ecstatic hope in the two last, Sergestus and

Mnestheus, of passing the lagging Gyas. Sergestus gets

the choice of water and comes nearer the rock—not first,

however, he by a whole vessel’s length—half his ship is

ahead, half is overlapped by the beak of his rival, the 30

Shark. Mnestheus walks through the ship among the

crew and cheers them on. “Now, now, rise to your oars,

old Hector’s men, whom I chose to follow me at Troy’s last

gasp; now put out the strength, the spirit I saw you exert

in the Gætulian Syrtes, the Ionian Sea, the entangling 35

waves of Malea. It is not the first place I look for. I

am not the man; this is no struggle for victory—yet

might it be!—but conquest is for them, Neptune, to

whom thou givest it. Let our shame be to come in last;

be this your victory, friends, to keep off disgrace.” Straining

every nerve, they threw themselves forward; their

mighty strokes make the brazen keel quiver, the ground

flies from under them; thick panting shakes their limbs, 5

their parched throats; sweat flows down in streams.

A mere chance gave them the wished preëminence; for

while Sergestus, blind with passion, keeps driving his prow

towards the rock nearer and nearer, and pressing through

the narrow passage, his ill star entangled him with a projecting 10

crag. The cliffs were jarred, the oars cracked as

they met the sharp flint, and the prow hung where it had

lodged. Up spring the sailors with loud shout, while the

ship stands still. They bring out their iron-shod poles

and pointed boat-hooks, and pick up the broken oars in 15

the water. But Mnestheus, rejoicing, and keener for success,

with quick plashing oars, and the winds at his call,

makes for the seas that shelve to the coast and speeds along

the clear expanse. Like as a dove suddenly startled in a

cave, where in the hollow of the rock are her home and her 20

loved nestlings, issues out to fly over the plain, clapping

loud her pinions in terror in the cell—then, gliding smooth

through the tranquil air, she winnows her liquid way without

a motion of her rapid wings—so with Mnestheus,

so the Shark, flying of herself, cuts through the last water 25

of the course, so the mere impulse bears her speeding on.

First he takes leave of Sergestus, struggling with the tall

rock and the shallow water, and in vain calling for help, and

learning to run along with broken oars. Then he comes

up with Gyas and the great monster Chimæra itself; she 30

yields, because deprived of her pilot. And now there

remains Cloanthus alone, just at the very end of the race;

him he makes for, and presses on him with all the force of

effort. Then, indeed, the shouting redoubles—all lend

their good-will to spur on the second man, and the sky 35

echoes with the din. These think it shame to lose the

glory that they have won, the prize that is already their

own, and would fain barter life for renown; these are feeding

on success, they feel strong because they feel that they

are thought[188] strong. And perhaps their beaks would have

been even and the prize divided, had not Cloanthus,

stretching out both hands over the deep, breathed a

prayer and called the gods to hear his vow:—“Powers 5

whose is the rule of ocean, whose waters I ride, for you with

glad heart will I lead to your altars on this shore a snow-white

bull, as a debtor should; I will throw the entrails

afar into the salt waves, and pour out a clear stream of

wine.” He said, and deep down among the billows there 10

heard him all the Nereids and Phorcus’ train, and maiden

Panopea, and father Portunus[189] himself, with his own great

hand, pushed the ship as she moved; fleeter than south-wind

or winged arrow she flies to the land and is lodged

already deep in the haven. 15

Then Anchises’ son, duly summoning the whole company,

proclaims by a loud-voiced herald Cloanthus conqueror,

and drapes his brow with green bay; he gives each

crew a gift at its choice, three bullocks, and wine, and the

present of a great talent of silver. To the captains themselves 20

he further gives especial honours, to the conqueror

a gold-broidered scarf, round which runs a length of Melibœan

purple with a double Mæander; enwoven therein is the

royal boy[190] on leafy Ida, plying the swift stag with the javelin

and the chase, keen of eye, his chest seeming to heave; 25

then, swooping down from Ida, the bearer of Jove’s armour

has snatched him up aloft in his crooked talons, while his

aged guardians are stretching in vain their hands to heaven,

and the barking of the hounds streams furious to the sky.

But for him whose prowess gained him the second place 30

there is a cuirass of linked chain mail, three-threaded with

gold, which the hero himself had stripped with a conqueror’s

hand from Demoleos on swift Simois’ bank under

the shadow of Troy; this he gives the warrior for his own, 35

a glory and a defence in the battle. Scarce could the two

servants, Phegeus and Sagaris, support its many folds,

pushing shoulder to shoulder; yet Demoleos, in his day,

with it on his breast, used to drive the Trojans in flight

before him. The third present he makes a pair of brazen

cauldrons, and two cups of wrought silver, rough with

fretwork.

And now all had received their presents, and each, glorying

in his treasure, was walking along with purple festooning 5

round his brows, when Sergestus, at last with great pain

dislodged from the cruel rock, his oars lost and one whole

side crippled, was seen propelling among jeers his inglorious

vessel. Like as a serpent surprised on the highway,

whom a brazen wheel has driven across, or a traveller, 10

heavy of hand, has left half dead and mangled by a stone,

writhes its long body in ineffectual flight, its upper part

all fury, its eyes blazing, its hissing throat reared aloft, the

lower part, disabled by the wound, clogs it as it wreathes

its spires and doubles upon its own joints. Such was the 15

oarage with which the ship pushed herself slowly along:

she makes sail, however, and enters the haven with canvas

flying. To Sergestus Æneas gives the present he had

promised, delighted to see the ship rescued and the crew

brought back. His prize is a slave, not unversed in Pallas’ 20

labours, Pholoë, Cretan born, with twin sons at her

breast.

This match dismissed, good Æneas takes his way to a

grassy plain, surrounded on all sides with woods and sloping

hills: in the middle of the valley was a circle, as of a 25

theatre; thither it was that the hero repaired with many

thousands, the centre of a vast assembly, and sat on a

raised throne. Then he invites, with hope of reward, the

bold spirits who may wish to contend in the swift foot-race,

and sets up the prizes. Candidates flock from all 30

sides, Teucrian and Sicanian mixed. Nisus and Euryalus

the foremost. Euryalus conspicuous for beauty and blooming

youth, Nisus for the pure love he bore the boy; following

them came Diores, a royal scion of Priam’s illustrious

stock; then Salius and Patron together, one from 35

Acarnania, the other from Tegea, an Arcadian by blood;

next two Trinacrian youths, Helymus and Panopes, trained

foresters, comrades of their elder friend, Acestes, and many

others, whom dim tradition leaves in darkness. As they

crowd round him, Æneas bespeaks them thus:—“Hear

what I have to say, and give the heed of a glad heart. No

one of this company shall go away unguerdoned by me.

I will give a pair of Gnossian darts, shining with polished 5

steel, and an axe chased with silver for the hand to wield.

This honour all shall obtain alike. The three first shall

receive prizes, and shall wear also wreaths of yellow-green

olive. Let the first, as conqueror, have a horse, full

decorated with trappings; the second an Amazonian 10

quiver, full of Thracian shafts, with a belt of broad gold

to encompass it, and a buckle of a polished jewel to fasten

it; let the third go away content with this Argive helmet.”

This said, they take their places, and suddenly, on hearing

the signal, dash into the course, and leave the barrier 15

behind, pouring on like a burst of rain, their eyes fixed on

the goal. First of all, away goes Nisus, his limbs flying

far before all the rest, swifter than wind and winged

thunderbolt; next to him, but next at a long distance

follows Salius; then, at a shorter space, Euryalus third. 20

After Euryalus comes Helymus; close on him, see! flies

Diores, heel touching heel and shoulder shoulder: were the

course but longer, he would be shooting on and darting

beyond him, and turning a doubtful race to a victory.

Now they were just at the end of the course, all panting 25

as they reached the goal, when Nisus, the ill-starred, slides

in a puddle of blood, which lay there just as it had been

spilt after a sacrifice of bullocks, soaking the ground and

the growing grass. Poor youth! just in the moment of

triumph, he could not keep his sliddery footing on the soil 30

he trod, but fell flat in the very middle of unclean ordure

and sacrificial gore. But he forgot not Euryalus—forgot

not his love—no! he threw himself in Salius’ way, rising

in that slippery place—and Salius lay there too, flung

on the puddled floor. Forth darts Euryalus, and gains 35

the first place, a winner, thanks to his friend, cheered in

his flight by plaudit and shouting. Next comes in Helymus

and Diores, thus made the third prize. But now

Salius is heard, deafening with his clamour the whole

company in the ring and the seniors in the first rank, and

insisting that the prize, which he had lost by a trick, be

restored him. Euryalus is supported by the popular voice,

by the tears he sheds so gracefully, and the greater loveliness 5

of worth when seen in a beauteous form. Diores

backs his claim with loud appealing shouts; he had just

won the prize, and his attainment of the third place was all

for nothing if the first reward were to be given to Salius.

To whom father Æneas:—“Your rewards, boys, remain 10

fixed as they ever were; no one disturbs the palm once

arranged: suffer me to show pity to a friend’s undeserved

misfortune.” So saying, he gives Salius the enormous

hide of a Gætulian lion, loaded with shaggy hair and talons

of gold. On which Nisus:—“If the vanquished are 15

rewarded so largely—if you can feel for tumblers—what

prize will be great enough for Nisus’ claims? My

prowess had earned me the first chaplet, had not unkind

Fortune played me foul, as she played Salius;” and with

these words he displayed his features and his limbs, all 20

dishonoured by slime and ordure. The gracious prince

smiled at him, and bade them bring out a shield of Didymaon’s

workmanship, once wrested by the Danaans from

Neptune’s hallowed gate, and with this signal present he

endows the illustrious youth. 25

Next, when the race was finished, and the prizes duly

given:—“Now, whoever has courage, and a vigorous

collected mind in his breast, let him come forward, bind on

the gloves, and lift his arms.” Thus speaks Æneas, and

sets forth two prizes for the contest: for the conqueror, 30

a bullock with gilded horns and fillet festoons; a sword

and a splendid helmet, as a consolation to the vanquished.

In a moment, with all the thews of a giant, rises Dares,

uprearing himself amid a loud hum of applause—the

sole champion who used to enter the lists with Paris: 35

once, at the tomb where mighty Hector lies buried, he

encountered the great conqueror Butes, who carried his

enormous bulk to the field with all the pride of Amycus’[191]

Bebrycian blood—struck him down, and stretched him

in death on the yellow sand. Such are Dares’ powers,

as he lifts high his crest for the battle, displays his broad

shoulders, throws out his arms alternately, and strikes the

air with his blows. How to find his match is the cry; 5

no one of all that company dares to confront such a champion,

and draw on the gauntlets. So, with confident

action, thinking that all were retiring from the prize, he

stands before Æneas, and without further prelude grasps

with his left hand the bull by the horn, and bespeaks him 10

thus:—“Goddess-born, if no one dares to take the risk

of the fight, how long are we to stand still? How long is

it seemly to keep me waiting? Give the word for me to

carry off the prize.” A simultaneous shout broke from

the sons of Dardanus, all voting that their champion should 15

have the promised gift made good.

On this Acestes, with grave severity of speech, rebukes

Entellus, just as he chanced to be seated next him on the

verdant grassy couch. “Entellus, once known as the

bravest of heroes, and all for nought, will you brook so 20

calmly that a prize so great be carried off without a blow?

Where are we now to look for that mighty deity your

master, Eryx, vaunted so often and so idly? Where is

that glory which spread all Trinacria through, and those

spoils that hang from your roof?” He replied: “It is 25

not the love of praise, not ambition, that has died out,

extinguished by fear. No, indeed; but my blood is dulled

and chilled by the frost of age, and the strength in my

limbs withered and ice-bound. Had I now what I once

had, what is now the glory and the boast of that loud braggart 30

there; had I but the treasure of youth, I should not

have needed the reward and the goodly bullock to bring

me into the field; nor are gifts what I care for.” So saying,

he flung into the midst a pair of gauntlets of enormous

weight, with which the fiery Eryx[192] was wont to 35

deal his blows in combat, stringing his arms with the tough

hide. Every heart was amazed, so vast were the seven

huge bull-hides, hardened with patches of lead and iron.

More than all the rest Dares is astonished, and recoils

many paces; and the hero himself, Anchises’ son, stands

turning in his hands the massive weight and the enormous

wrappers of twisted thong. Then the old man fetched

from his heart words like these:—“What if any one here 5

had seen those mightier weapons, Hercules’ own gauntlets,

and the fatal combat on this very strand? These are the

arms that Eryx, your brother, once wielded; you see on

them still the stains of blood and sprinkled brains. With

these he stood up against the great Alcides. These I 10

was trained to use while fresher blood inspired me with

strength, and the snows of age, my jealous rival, were not

yet sprinkled on my brows. But if Dares the Trojan

refuses our Sicilian weapons, and that is good Æneas’ fixed

wish, approved by Acestes, my backer in the fight, make 15

we the contest even. I spare you the bull-hides of Eryx—never

fear—and do you put off your Trojan gauntlets.”

So saying, he flung off from his shoulders his double garment,

and displays the giant joints of his limbs, the giant

bone-work of his arms, and stands, a mighty frame, in 20

the midst of the sand.

Then Anchises’ son brought out with his royal hand two

pairs of equal gauntlets, and bound round the fists of the

twain weapons of even force. At once each rose on tiptoe,

and raised his arms undaunted to the air of heaven. They 25

draw back their towering heads out of the reach of blows,

and make their fists meet in the melée, and provoke the

battle. The one is better in quick movement of the foot,

and youth lends him confidence; the other’s strength is in

brawny limbs and giant bulk, but his knees are heavy and 30

unstable, and a troubled panting shakes that vast frame.

Many the blows that the champions hail on each other in

vain; many are showered on the hollow side, and draw

loud echoes from the chest. The fist keeps playing round

ear and temple; the teeth chatter under the cruel blow. 35

Heavily stands Entellus, unmoved, in the same strained

posture; his bending body and watchful eye alone withdraw

him from the volley. His rival, like a general who

throws up mounds round a high-walled town, or sits down

with his army before a mountain fort, tries now this approach,

now that, reconnoitres the whole stronghold, and

plies him with manifold assaults, baffled in each. Rising

to the stroke, Entellus put forth his right hand, and raised 5

it aloft; the other’s quick eye foresaw the downcoming

blow, and his lithe frame darts beyond its range. Entellus

has flung his whole force on air; at once, untouched by his

foe, the heavy giant, with heavy giant weight, falls to

earth, even as one day falls hollow-hearted with hollow 10

crash on Erymanthus or lofty Ida, uptorn by the roots, a

mighty pine. Eagerly start up at once the Teucrian and

Trinacrian chivalry; up soars a shout to heaven; and first

runs up Acestes, and soothingly raises from the ground

his friend, aged as he. But not slackened by his overthrow, 15

nor daunted, the hero comes back fiercer to the

field, with anger goading force; that mass of strength is

enkindled at last by shame and conscious prowess. All on

fire, he drives Dares headlong over the whole plain, now

with his right hand showering blows, now with his giant 20

left. No stint, no stay; thick as the hail with which the

storm-clouds rattle on the roof, so thick the blows with

which the hero, crowding on with both hands, is battering

and whirling Dares. Then father Æneas thought fit to

stem the tide of fury, nor suffered Entellus’ wounded spirit 25

to glut its rage further, but put an end to the fray, and

rescued the gasping Dares with soothing words, and bespeaks

him thus:—“My poor friend! what monstrous

madness has seized you? See you not that strength has

passed over—that the gods have changed their sides? 30

Give way to Heaven.” He said, and his word closed the

fight. But Dares is in the hands of his faithful comrades,

dragging after him his feeble knees, dropping his head on

this side and on that, discharging from his mouth clotted

gore, teeth and blood together. Thus they lead him to 35

the ships; summoned, they receive for him the helmet and

the sword; the palm and the bull they leave to Entellus.

Hereon the conqueror, towering in pride of soul, and

exulting in his prize, the bull: “Goddess-born,” cries he,

“and you, Teucrians, take measure at once of the strength

which dwelt in my frame, while that frame was young,

and the death from whose door you have called back,

and are still keeping, your Dares.” So saying, he took his 5

stand full before the face of the bullock, which was there

as the prize of the fray, and with arm drawn back, swung

the iron gauntlet right between the horns, rising to his

full height, crashed it down on the bone, and shattered the

brain. Prostrated, breathless, and quivering, on earth lies 10

the bull. He from his bosom’s depth speaks thus over

the dead:—“This life, Eryx, I render to thee—a better

substitute for Dares’ death; here, as a conqueror may,

I resign the gauntlets and the game.”

Next Æneas invites those who may care to vie in shooting 15

the fleet arrow, and sets forth the prizes. With his

own giant hand he rears upright the mast from Serestus’

ship, and from its lofty summit ties a fluttering dove with

a cord passed round the mast—a mark for aiming the

steel. The archers are met; the lot has been thrown 20

and received by the brazen helmet. See! first, among the

shouts of his friends, comes out before all the place of

Hyrtacus’ son, Hippocoon, who is followed by Mnestheus,

late conqueror in the ship-race—Mnestheus, crowned

with the green olive-wreath. Third comes Eurytion, thy 25

brother, thrice glorious Pandarus, who in elder days,

bidden to destroy the truce, wast the first to wing thy

weapon into the Achæan ranks. Last is Acestes, sank at

the bottom of the helm, the old man’s spirit nerving his

arm to essay the task of the young. And now, with stern 30

strength, they bend and arch their bows, each hero his

own, and draw forth the shaft from the quiver. First

through heaven from the twanging string the arrow of

Hyrtacus’ youthful son pierces sharp and shrill the flying

air: it hits—it is lodged full in the mast-tree. After 35

him stood keen Mnestheus, his bowstring drawn to his

breast, his bow pointing upwards, eye and shaft levelled

at once. But the bird itself, hapless man! his arrow had

not power to touch that: it cut the knot and the hempen

fastening by which she hung, tied by the foot, from the

mast’s top. Away she flew, all among the south-winds

and their murky clouds. Then, quick as thought, his

bow long since ready, and his shaft poised on the string, 5

Eurytion breathed a vow to his brother, fixing his eye on

her in the moment of her triumph high up in the open sky,

and as she claps her wings, pierces the dark cloudy covert,

and strikes the dove. Down she drops unnerved, leaving

her life among the stars of ether, and as she tumbles to 10

earth, brings back the arrow in her breast. Acestes remained

alone, a champion with no prize to gain; yet he

shot his weapon into the air aloft, displaying at once his

veteran skill and the force of his twanging bow. And now

their eyes are met by a sudden portent, drawing a mighty 15

augury in its train. In after days the vast issue told the

tale, and terror-striking seers shrieked their omens too late.

For as it flew in the clouds of heaven, the reed took fire,

and marked its way with a trail of flame, and wasted and

vanished wholly into unsubstantial air; even as stars unfastened 20

from the firmament oft sweep across and drag

their blazing hair as they fly. Fixed aghast to the spot,

in prayer to Heaven, hung the stout sons of Trinacria and

Troy; nor does Æneas’ sovran judgment reject the omen.

He clasps the glad Acestes to his heart, loads him with 25

costly gifts, and bespeaks him thus:—“Take them, my

father; for Olympus’ mighty monarch has said by the

voice of these omens that yours is to be a prize drawn without

a lot. From Anchises the aged himself comes the

present I now bestow—a bowl embossed with figures, 30

which in old days Cisseus[o] gave to my sire Anchises in

royal bounty, a standing remembrance of himself and a

testimony of his love.” So saying, he crowns his brow

with verdant bays, and proclaims, first of all, the conquering

name of Acestes. Nor did good Eurytion grudge the 35

preëminence, though he and none but he brought down

the bird from the sky. Next steps into the prize he who cut

the cord; last, he whose quivering arrow nailed the mast

But father Æneas, ere the match was over, calls to his

side the guardian and companion of Iulus’ tender years,

Epytides, and thus speaks into his ear in secret:—“Go

now and tell Ascanius, if his company of boys is ready,

and the movements of his young cavalry duly marshalled, 5

to bring them into the field in his grandsire’s honour, and

show himself in arms.” He, by his own voice, bids the

whole surging crowd retire from the length of the circus,

and leave the field clear. The boys come prancing in on

well-reined steeds, in even lines of light brightening their 10

parents’ eyes; and as they pass, an admiring shout, breaks

from the gathered chivalry of Sicily and Troy. All alike

have their flowing hair duly cinctured with stripped leaves;

each bears two cornel javelins tipped with steel; some have

polished quivers at their backs; round the top of the chest 15

goes a pliant chain of twisted gold circling the neck.

Three are the companies of horse, three the leaders that

scour the plain; twelve boys follow each, a glittering show,

in equal divisions and commanded alike. The first of the

youthful bands is led as to victory by a young Priam, 20

who revives his grandsire’s name, thy princely offspring,

Polites, destined to people Italy; him a Thracian steed

carries, dappled with spots of white, with white on the

extremes of his prancing feet, and white on his towering

brow. Next is Atys, whence comes the house of Roman 25

Atii—Atys the young, the boyish friend of the boy Iulus.

Last of all, and excelling all in beauty, Iulus rides in on a

Sidonian steed, bestowed on him by Dido the fair, in remembrance

of herself, and in testimony of her love.

The remaining youth are borne on Trinacrian horses from 30

old Acestes’ stalls. The Dardans welcome them with

reassuring plaudits, and gaze on them with rapture, and

trace in their young faces the features of their old sires.

Soon as the riders have made their joyous survey of the

whole gazing crowd and of their friends’ loving eyes, 35

Epytides gives the expected signal with far-reaching shout

and loud cracking whip. In regular order they gallop asunder,

the three companies breaking and parting right and left;

and again, at the word of command, they wheel round, and

charge each other with levelled lances. Then they essay

other advances and other retreats in quarters still opposite,

each entangling each in circles within circles, and in their

real armour raise an image of battle. Now they expose 5

their backs in flight, now they turn their spear-points in

charge, now as in truce they ride along side by side. Even

as men tell of that old labyrinth[193] in lofty Crete, its way

cunningly woven with blind high walls, and the ambiguous

mystery of its thousand paths, winding till the pursuer’s 10

every trace was baffled by a maze without solution and

without return, not unlike are the courses in which these

sons of the Teucrians interlace their movements—a

gamesome tangle of flying and fighting, as it were dolphins

that swimming the watery seas dart through the Carpathian 15

and the Libyan, and sport along the billows. Such

was the form of exercise, and such the game that Ascanius,

when he built the cincturing walls of Alba the Long, was the

first to revive, and taught the early Latians to celebrate it

as he had done in his boyhood, he and the youth of Troy 20

with him; the men of Alba taught their sons; from them

mighty Rome received the tradition and maintained the

observance of her sires; and the boys still bear the name

of Troy, and their band is styled the band of Troy. Thus

far went the solemn[194] games in honour of the deified sire. 25

Now it was that Fortune exchanged her old faith for

new. While they are rendering to the tomb the due solemnities

of the varied games, Juno, Saturn’s daughter, has

sped down Iris from heaven to the feet of Ilion, with breath

of winds to waft her on her way—Juno, deep-brooding 30

over many thoughts, her ancient wrath yet unsated.

Speeding along her many-coloured bow, seen of none, runs

swiftly down the celestial maid. She beholds that mighty

concourse; she looks round on the coast, and sees harbour

abandoned and fleet forsaken. Far away, in the privacy 35

of a solitary beach, the Trojan dames were weeping for

lost Anchises, and, as they wept, were gazing, one and all,

wistfully on the great deep. Alas, that wearied souls

should still have those many waters to pass, and that vast

breadth of sea! Such the one cry of every heart. Oh

for a city! the toils of the main are a weariness to bear!

So, then, in the midst of them, she suddenly alights—no

novice in the ways of doing hurt—and lays by her heavenly 5

form and heavenly raiment. She takes the shape of

Beroe, the aged wife of Doryclus of Tinaros, a dame who

once had had race and name and children, and in this guise

stands in the midst of the Dardan matrons. “Wretched

women,” cries she, “not to have been dragged to the death 10

of battle by the force of Achaia under our country’s walls!

Hapless nation! What worse than death has Fortune in

store for you? Here is the seventh summer rolling on

since Troy’s overthrow, and all the while we are being

driven, land and ocean over, among all the rocks of an 15

unfriendly sea, under all the stars of heaven, as through

the great deep we follow after retreating Italy, and are

tossed from wave to wave. Here is the brother-land of

Eryx; here is Acestes, our ancient friend. Who shall gainsay

digging a foundation, and giving a people the city 20

they crave? O my country! O gods of our homes,

snatched in vain from the foe! Shall there never be walls

named with the name of Troy? Shall I never on earth

see the streams that Hector loved—his Xanthus and his

Simois? Come, join me in burning up these accursed 25

ships. For in my sleep methought the likeness of Cassandra

the seer put blazing torches into my hands. ‘Here,’

she said, ‘and here only, look for Troy: here, and here

only, is your home.’ The hour for action is come. Heaven’s

wonders brook not man’s delay. See here! four 30

altars to Neptune. The god himself gives us the fire and

the will.”

So saying, she is the first to snatch the baleful brand—swinging

back her hand on high; with strong effort she

whirls and flings it. The dames of Ilion gaze with straining 35

mind and wildered brain. Then one of the crowd, the

eldest of all, Pyrgo, the royal nurse of Priam’s many sons:

“No Beroe have you here, matrons—this is not Doryclus’

wife, of Rhoeteum—mark those signs of heavenly

beauty, those glowing eyes—what a presence is there—what

features—what a tone in her voice—what majesty

in her gait! Beroe I myself parted from but now, and

left her sick and sullen to think that she alone should fail 5

at this observance, nor pay Anchises the honour that is

his due.” Such were her words, while the matrons, doubtful

at first, were looking on the ships with evil eyes, distracted

between their fatal yearning for a country now

theirs, and the voice of destiny from realms beyond the 10

sea—when the goddess, spreading her two wings, soared

up into the sky and severed the clouds as she flew with the

giant span of her bow. Then indeed, maddened by the

portent, goaded by frenzy, they shriek one and all, and

snatch fire from house and hearth—some strip the altars, 15

and fling on the vessels leaf and bough and brand. The

fire-god revels in full career along bench and oar, and

painted pine-wood stern. The news of the fleet on fire

is carried by Eumelus to Anchises’ tomb, and the seats in

the circus. They look back, and with their own eyes see 20

sparks and smoke in a black flickering cloud. First of all

Ascanius, riding in triumph at the head of his cavalry,

spurred his horse just as he was to the wildering camp,

while his breathless guardians strive in vain to stay him.

“What strange madness this? whither now, whither 25

would ye go,” cries he, “my poor countrywomen? It is

not the Argive foe and his hated camp—it is your own

hopes that you are burning. See, I am your own Ascanius”—at

his feet he flung his empty helmet which he was

wearing in sport as he helped to raise the image of war. 30

Quick follows Æneas, quick the Teucrian host at his heels.

But the matrons are flying in panic along the coast, now

here, now there, stealing to the thickest woods and the

deepest caves. They loathe the deed and the daylight.

Sobered, they know their friends again, and Juno is exorcised 35

from their souls. But not for all this will blaze and

burning resign their unslaked powers: deep among the

moistened timber smoulders the quick tow, discharging

a slow lazy smoke: the crawling heat preys on the keels,

and the plague sinks down into the vessel’s every limb,

and strength of giant warriors and streaming water-floods

are all of no avail. Then good Æneas began to tear his

raiment from his back and call the gods for aid, and raise 5

his hands in prayer: “Jove Almighty, if thy hate would

not yet sweep off the whole Trojan race to a man, if thy

ancient goodness has yet any regard for human suffering,

grant the fleet to escape from flame now, Father, even now,

and rescue from death the shattered commonweal of Troy. 10

Or else do thou with thy wrathful bolt send down this

poor remnant to the grave, if that is my fit reward, and

here with thy own right hand overwhelm us all.” Scarce

had the words been breathed, when a black tempest is

set loose, raging with fierce bursts of rain: the thunderpeals 15

thrill through highland and lowland—down from

the whole sky pours a torrent of blinding water, thickened

to blackness by the southern winds—the ships are filled,

the smouldering timbers soaked—till every spark is

quenched at last, and all the vessels, with the loss of four, 20

rescued from the deadly plague.

But father Æneas, staggering under this cruel blow,

began to shift from side to side a vast burden of care, as

he pondered whether to settle in the plains of Sicily, shutting

his ears to Fate’s voice, or still make for the shores of 25

Italy. Then Nautes the aged—whom Tritonian Pallas

singled from his kind, to teach her lore and dower him

with the fame of abundant wisdom—hers the oracular

utterances which told what Heaven’s awful wrath portended,

or what the stern sequence of destiny required—he 30

it was that addressed Æneas thus in words of comfort:

“Goddess-born, be it ours to follow as Fate pulls us to or

fro; come what may, there is no conquering fortune but

by endurance. Here you have Acestes, the blood of Dardanus

and of gods mingling in his veins—make him the 35

partner of your thoughts, and invite the aid he will gladly

give. Consign to him the crews whom your missing ships

have left homeless, and those who are tired of high emprize

and of following your fortunes—the old, old men,

and the matrons, weary of ocean, and whatever you have

that is weak and timorsome—set these apart, and suffer

them to have in this land a city of rest. The town’s name,

with leave given, they shall call Acesta.” 5

The fire thus kindled by the words of his aged friend,

now indeed the thoughts of his mind distract him utterly.

And now black Night, car-borne, was mounting the sky,

when the semblance of his sire Anchises, gliding from

heaven, seemed to break on his musings in words like 10

these: “My son, dearer to me of old than life, while life

was yet mine—my son, trained in the school of Troy’s

destiny, I come hither at the command of Jove—of him

who chased the fire from your ships, and looked down on

your need in pity from on high. Obey the counsel which 15

Nautes the aged now so wisely gives you. The flower of

your youth, the stoutest hearts you have, let these and

these only follow you to Italy—hard and of iron grain is

the race you have to war down in Latium. Still, ere you

go there, come to the infernal halls of Dis,[195] and travel 20

through Avernus’ deep shades till you meet your father.

No, my son, godless Tartarus[196] and its spectres of sorrow

have no hold on me—the company of the good is my

loved resort and Elysium[197] my dwelling. The virgin Sibyl

shall point you the way, and the streaming blood of black 25

cattle unlock the gate. There you shall hear of your whole

posterity, and the city that Fate has in store. And now

farewell, dark Night has reached the midst of her swift

career, and the relentless Daystar has touched me with the

breath of his panting steeds.” He said, and vanished, like 30

smoke, into unsubstantial air. “Whither away now?”

cries Æneas; “whither in such haste? from whom are

you flying? what power withholds you from my embrace?”

With these words he wakes to life the embers

and their slumbering flame, and in suppliance worships the 35

god of Pergamus and hoary Vesta’s shrine with duteous

meal and a full-charged censer.

At once he calls his friends to his side, and Acestes, first

of all, shows to them the command of Jove, and his loved

father’s precept, and what is now the settled judgment of

his mind. Brief is the parley, nor does Acestes gainsay

his bidding. They remove the matrons to the new city’s

roll, and disembark a willing crew of hearts that need not 5

the stir of great renown. For themselves they repair the

benches and restore the vessels’ half-burnt timber, shape

the oars and fit the ropes, a little band, but a living wellspring

of martial worth. Æneas, meanwhile, is marking

out the city with the plough, and assigning the dwellings 10

by lot, creating an Ilium here, and there a Troy. Acestes,

true Trojan, wields with joy his new sceptre, and proclaims

a court, and gives laws to his assembled senate.[E]

And now the whole nation had enjoyed a nine days’

banquet, and the altars had received due observance; 15

the sleeping winds have lulled the waves, and the repeated

whispers of the south invite to the deep once more. Uprises

along the winding shore a mighty sound of weeping;

prolonged embraces make day and night move slow.

Even the matrons, even the weaklings, who so lately 20

shuddered at the look of the sea, and could not bear its

name, would now fain go and endure all the weariness of

the journey. Them the good Æneas cheers with words

of kindness, and tearfully commends them to Acestes, his

kinsman and theirs. Then he bids slay three calves to 25

Eryx, and a ewe-lamb to the weather gods, and in due

course has the cable cut, while he, his head wreathed with

stript olive leaves, stands aloft in the prow with a charger

in hand, and far into the briny waves flings the entrails,

and pours the sparkling wine. A wind gets up from the 30

stern, and escorts them on their way. Each vying with

each, the crews strike the water, and sweep the marble

surface.

Meanwhile Venus, harassed with care, bespeaks Neptune,

and utters from her heart plaints like these: “The

fell wrath of Juno’s bottomless heart constrains me, Neptune,

to stoop to all the abasement of prayer—wrath that no

length of time softens, no piety of man, unconquered and unsilenced

by Jove’s behest, by destiny itself. It is not enough 5

that her monstrous malice has torn the heart from the breast

of Phrygia,[o] and dragged a city through an infinity of vengeance—the

remnants of Troy, the very ashes and bones

of the slain—these she pursues; rage so fiendish let her

trace to its source. Thou thyself canst bear me witness 10

but now in the Libyan waters, what mountains she raised

all in a moment—all ocean she confounded with heaven,

blindly relying on Æolus’ storms to convulse a realm where

thou art master. See now—goading the matrons of

Troy to crime, she has basely burnt their ships, and driven 15

them in the ruins of their fleet to leave their mates to a

home on an unknown shore. These poor relics, then, let

them, I beg, spread the sail in safety along thy waters; let

them touch the mouth of Laurentian Tiber, if my prayer

is lawful, if that city is granted them of Fate.” 20

Then thus spake Saturn’s son, lord of the ocean deep:

“All right hast thou, queen of Cythera, to place thy trust

in these realms of mine, whence thou drawest thy birth.

And I have earned it too—often have I checked the madness,

the mighty raving of sky and sea; nor less on earth 25

(bear witness Xanthus and Simois!) has thy Æneas known

my care. When Achilles was chasing Troy’s gasping

bands, forcing them against their own ramparts, and offering

whole hecatombs to Death, till the choked rivers

groaned again, and Xanthus could not thread his way, 30

or roll himself into the sea—in that day, as Æneas confronted

Peleus’ mighty son with weaker arm and weaker aid

from heaven, I snatched him away in a circling cloud even

while my whole heart was bent on overthrowing from their

base the buildings of my own hand, the walls of perjured 35

Troy. As my mind was then, it abides now. Banish thy

fears; safely, according to thy prayer, he shall reach

Avernus haven. One there shall be, and one only, whom

thou shalt ask in vain from the engulfing surge—one life,

and one only, shall be given for thousands.”

With these words, having soothed to joy the goddess’

heart, the august Father yokes his steeds with a yoke of

gold, and puts to their fierce mouth the foaming bit, and 5

gives full course to his flowing reins. The azure car glides

lightly over the water’s surface—the waves sink down,

the swelling sea stills its waters under the wheels of thunder—the

storm-clouds fly away over the wide waste of

heaven. Then come the hundred shapes of attendant 10

powers: enormous whales and Glaucus’[198] aged train, and

Ino’s young Palæmon,[199] and rapid Tritons, and the whole

host that Phorcus leads; on the left are Thetis, and Melite,

and maiden Panopea, Nesæa, and Spio, and Thalia, and

Cymodoce. 15

And now father Æneas feels a soft thrill of succeeding

joy shoot through his anxious bosom; at once he bids

every mast be reared, every sail stretched on its yard-arm.

One and all strain the rope and loosen the sheet, now right,

now left—one and all turn to and fro the sailyard’s lofty 20

horns; the fleet is wafted by the gales it loves. First,

before all, Palinurus led the crowding ranks; after him the

rest, as bidden, shaped their course. And now dewy

Night had well-nigh reached the cope of heaven’s arch—in

calm repose the sailors were relaxing their limbs, 25

stretched each by his oar along the hard benches—when

Sleep’s power, dropping lightly down from the stars of

heaven, parted the dusky air, and swam through the night,

in quest of you, poor Palinurus, with a fatal freight of

dreams for your guiltless head. The god has sat down 30

high on the stern, in the likeness of Phorbas, and these are

the words he utters: “Son of Iasus, Palinurus, the sea

itself is steering the fleet; the winds breathe evenly and

fully; it is slumber’s own hour; come, relax that strained

head, and let those weary eyes play truant from their toil. 35

I myself will undertake your functions awhile in your

stead.” Hardly raising his eyes, Palinurus answered him

thus:—“I blind myself to smiling seas and sleeping

waves: is that your will? I place my faith on this fickle

monster? What? trust Æneas to lying gales and fair

skies, whose fraud I have rued so often?” So he said,

and went on cleaving and clinging, never dropping his

hand from the rudder, nor his eye from the stars. When 5

lo! the god waves over his two temples a bough dripping

with Lethe’s[200] dews, and drugged by the charms of Styx,

and in his own despite closes his swimming eyes. Scarce

had sudden slumber begun to unstring his limbs, when

the power, leaning over him, hurled him headlong into the 10

streaming waves, tearing away part of the vessel’s stern

and the rudder as he fell, with many a cry for help that

never came, while Sleep himself soared high on his wings

into the yielding air. Safely, nevertheless, rides the fleet

over the water, travelling undaunted in the strength of 15

Neptune’s royal promise. And now it was nearing the

cliffs of the Sirens’[201] isle, cliffs unfriendly in days of old, and

white with many a seaman’s bones, and the rocks were

sounding hollow from afar with the untiring surge, when

the great Father perceived the unsteady reel of the masterless 20

ship, and guided it himself through the night of waters,

groaning oft, and staggering under the loss of his friend:

“Victim of faith in the calm of sky and sea, you will lie,

Palinurus, a naked[202] corpse on a strand unknown.”