The Aeneid of Virgil

by Virgil

So through the whole wide realm they went together,
Anchises and his son; from fields of air
Learning and teaching of the fame and glory,
The wars to come, the toils to face, or flee from,
Latinus’ city and the Latin peoples,
The love of what would be.

There are two portals,
Twin gates of Sleep, one made of horn, where easy
Release is given true shades, the other gleaming
White ivory, whereby the false dreams issue
To the upper air. Aeneas and the Sibyl
Part from Anchises at the second portal.
He goes to the ships, again, rejoins his comrades,
Sails to Caieta’s harbor, and the vessels
Rest on their mooring-lines.

BOOK VII
ITALY: THE
OUTBREAK OF WAR

Here on our shores a woman died, Caieta,
Nurse of Aeneas, and her name still guards
Her resting-place with honor, if such glory
Is comforting to dust.

Her funeral mound
Was raised, and solemn rites performed; Aeneas,
When the deep water quieted, set sail.
The wind held fair to the night, and the white moon
Revealed the way over the tremulous water.
They skimmed the shores of Circe’s island; there
The sun’s rich daughter made the secret groves
Ring with continual singing, and the halls
Were bright with cedar burning through the night,
And the strident shuttle ran across the weaving.
Off shore, they heard the angry growl of lions
Trying to shake their shackles off, and roaring
In the late darkness, bristling boars, and bears
Coughing in cages, and the great wolves howling.
All these were men, whom cruel Circe’s magic
Changed into animals. But Neptune kept
The Trojans safely seaward, filled the sails,
Carried them safely past these anxious harbors.

And now the sea is crimson under the dawn,
Aurora glowing in her ruddy car,
And the winds go down, and the air is very still,
The slow oars struggle in the marble sea,
As from the ship Aeneas sees a grove
And through its midst a pleasant river running,
The Tiber, yellow sand and whirling eddy,
Down to the sea. Around, above and over,
Fly the bright-colored birds, the water-haunters,
Charming the air with song. The order given,
The Trojans turn their course to land; they enter
The channel and the shade.

Help me, Erato,
To tell the story: who were kings in Latium,
What was the state of things, when that strange army
First made for shore? Dear goddess, help the poet!
There is much to tell of, the initial trouble,
The grim development of war, the battles,
The princes in their bravery driven to death,
Etruscan cohorts, all the land in the west
Marshalled in armor. This is a greater mission,
A greater work, that moves me.

King Latinus
Was an old man, long ruler over a country
Blessed with the calm of peace. He was, they tell us,
The son of Faunus; Marica was his mother,
A nymph, Laurentian-born. And Faunus’ father
Was Picus, son of Saturn, the line’s founder.
Latinus had no sons; they had been taken,
By fate, in their young manhood; an only daughter
Survived to keep the house alive, a girl
Ripe for a husband. She had many suitors
From Latium, from Ausonia. Most handsome,
Most blessed in ancestry, was the prince Turnus,
Whom the queen mother favored, but the portents
Of the high gods opposed. There was a laurel
In the palace courtyard, tended through the years
With sacred reverence, which king Latinus,
When first he built the city, had discovered,
And hallowed to Apollo, and the people
Were called Laurentians, from its name. A marvel,
So runs the story, occurred here once, a swarm
Of bees, that came, loud-humming through clear air
To settle in the branches, a dense jumble
All through the leafy boughs. “We see a stranger,”
The prophet cried, “and a strange column coming
On the same course to the same destination,
We see him lord it over the height of the city.”
Another time Lavinia was standing
Beside her father at the altar, bringing
The holy torch to light the fire, when—horror!—
Her hair broke out in flame, sparks leaped and crackled
From diadem and coronal; her progress
Was a shower of fire, as she moved through the palace
Robed with gray smoke and yellow light, a vision
Fearful and wonderful. She would be glorious,
They said, in fame and fortune, but the people
Were doomed, on her account, to war.

Latinus
Was troubled by such prophecies, and turned
To Faunus, his prophetic father, seeking
His oracles for help, in Albunean
Woodland and forest, where the holy fountain
Makes music, breathing vapor from the darkness.
Italian men, Oenotrian tribes, in trouble
Come here for answers; here the priesthood, bringing
The offerings for sacrifice, by night-time
Slumbers on fleece of victims, seeing visions,
Hearing strange voices, meeting gods in converse,
Deep down in Acheron. Hither Latinus
Came, pilgrim and petitioner; the fleeces
Were spread for him, a hundred woolly victims,
And as he lay, half waking and half sleeping,
From the deep grove he heard a voice:—“My son,
Seek not a Latin husband for the princess;
Distrust this bridal; stranger sons are coming
To wed our children, to exalt our title
High as the stars, and from that marriage offspring
Will see, as surely as sun looks down on ocean,
The whole world at their feet.” These answers Faunus
Gave to his son, warnings in night and silence;
Latinus may have said no word, but Rumor
Had spread the news, all up and down the cities
Throughout Ausonia, by the time the Trojans
Tied up their vessels at the grassy landing.

Aeneas and the captains and Iulus
Sprawled in the shade; a feast was spread; they placed
The wheels of hardtack on the ground, and on them
Morsels of food, and sliced or quartered apples,
And after these were eaten, hunger drove them
To break the disks beneath with teeth and fingers.
“Ho!” cries Iulus, “We are eating our tables!”
A boy’s joke, nothing more. But the spoken word
Meant something more, and deeper, to Aeneas,
An end of hardship. He caught up the saying,
Felt the god’s presence. “Hail!” he cried, remembering,
“Hail, O my destined land! All hail, ye faithful
Gods of our homeland! Here our country lies.
Now I remember what Anchises told me:
My son, when hunger overtakes you, driven
To unknown shores, and the food seems so little
You find it best to gnaw the tables also,
There hope for home, there build, however weary,
The city walls, the moat, the ditch, the rampart.
This must have been that hunger, and the ending
Of our misfortunes. Come then, let us gladly
Explore what lands these are, what people hold them.
Now pour your cups to Jove, in the light of morning,
Pray to Anchises; let the wine again
Go round in happiness.” He wreathed his temples
With forest greenery, and made his prayers,
To the genius of the place, to the nymphs, to Earth,
Oldest of goddesses, to the unknown rivers,
To Night, and all her rising stars, to Jove,
To Cybele, to his parents, in heaven or Hades.
And the almighty father thrice made thunder
From the clear sky, and a bright cloud blazed above them
With rays of burning light, and a sudden rumor
Runs through the Trojan ranks that the day has come
To build the city due them. Cheered by the omen,
They hurry on the feast, set out the wine-bowls,
Crown them with garlands.