The Aeneid of Virgil

by Virgil

So they came,
Conversing with each other, to the dwelling
Where poor Evander lived, and saw the cattle
And heard them lowing, through the Roman forum,
The fashionable section of our city,
And as they came to the house itself, Evander
Remembered something,—“Hercules,” he said,
“Great victor that he was, bent head and shoulders
To enter here, and this house entertained him.
Dare, O my guest, to think of wealth as nothing,
Make yourself worthy of the god, and come here
Without contempt for poverty.” He led him,
The great Aeneas, under the low rafters,
Found him a couch, nothing but leaves, and the bedspread
A Libyan bear-skin. And night came rushing down
Dark-wingèd over the earth.

And Venus’ heart
Was anxious for her son, and with good reason,
Knowing the threats and tumult of the Latins.
She spoke to Vulcan, in that golden chamber
Where they were wife and husband, and her words
Were warm with love:—“When the Greek kings were tearing
Troy’s towers as they deserved, and the walls were fated
To fall to enemy fire, I sought no aid
For those poor people, I did not ask for weapons
Made by your art and power; no, dearest husband,
I would not put you to that useless labor,
Much as I owed to Priam’s sons, however
I sorrowed for my suffering Aeneas.
But now, at Jove’s command, he has made a landing
On the Rutulian coast; I come, a suppliant
To the great power I cherish, a mother asking
Arms for her son. If Thetis and Aurora
Could move you with their tears, behold what people
Unite against me, what cities sharpen weapons
Behind closed gates, intent on our destruction!”
So Venus pleaded, and as she saw him doubtful,
The goddess flung her snowy arms around him
In fondlement, in soft embrace, and fire
Ran through him; warmth, familiar to the marrow,
Softened his sternness, as at times in thunder
Light runs through cloud. She knew her charms, the goddess,
Rejoicing in them, conscious of her beauty,
Sure of the power of love, and heard his answer:—
“No need for far-fetched pleading, dearest goddess;
Have you no faith in me? You might have asked it
In those old days; I would have armed the Trojans,
And Jupiter and the fates might well have given
Another ten years of life to Troy and Priam.
Now, if your purpose is for war, I promise
Whatever careful craft I have, whatever
Command I have of iron or electrum,
Whatever fire and air can do. Your pleading
Is foolish; trust your power!” And he came to her
With the embrace they longed for, and on her bosom
Sank, later, into slumber.

And rose early
When night was little more than half way over,
The way a housewife must, who tends the spindle,
Rising to stir and wake the drowsing embers,
Working by night as well as day, and keeping
The housemaids at the task, all day, till lamplight,
A faithful wife, through toil, and a good mother,
Even so, like her, with no more self-indulgence,
The Lord of Fire rose early, from soft pillows
To the labor of the forge.

An island rises
Near the Sicanian coast and Lipare,
Aeolian land, steep over smoking rocks.
Below them roars a cavern, hollow vaults
Scooped out for forges, where the Cyclops pound
On the resounding anvils; lumps of steel
Hiss in the water, and the blasts of fire
Pant in the furnaces; here Vulcan dwells,
The place is called Vulcania, and here
The Lord of Fire comes down. In the great cave
The smiths were working iron; a thunderbolt
Such as Jove hurls from heaven, was almost finished,
Shaped by the hands of Brontes, Steropes,
And naked-limbed Pyracmon. They had added
Three rods of twisted rain and three of cloud,
And three of orange fire and wingèd wind,
And now they were working in the flash, the sound,
The fear, the anger, the pursuing flame.
Elsewhere a chariot for Mars was building
To harry men and cities; and for Pallas
An awful shield, with serpent scales of gold,
Snakes interwoven, and the Gorgon’s head,
Awaiting polish. The neck was severed, the eyes
Already seemed to roll, when Vulcan came
Crying, “Away with this! Another task
Demands your toil, your thought. Arms for a warrior!
Use all your strength, you need it now; exert
The flying hands, ply all your master skill,
Break off delay!” And all, obedient, bent
To the great task; the bronze, the golden ore
Run down like rivers, and the wounding steel
Melts in the furnace as they shape the shield,
Welding it, orb on orb, a sevenfold circle
Made one, for all the weapons of the Latins.
Some keep the bellows panting, others dip
The hissing bronze in water, and the anvil
Groans under the hammer-stroke. In turn they raise
Their arms in measured cadence, and the tongs
Take hold of the hot metal, twist and turn it.
So sped the work on Lemnos.

And Evander
Was wakened by the kindly light of morning
And bird-song under the eaves, and the old man rose,
Donned simple tunic and sandals, and hung on
His simple sword, and over his shoulders twisted
The panther hide, out of the way of the hilt.
Two hounds were all his bodyguard; he came,
So, to Aeneas’ cabin; he remembered
His words and promised service, found his guest
An early riser also; hand met hand,
And soon companions joined them, young prince Pallas,
Loyal Achates. They stroll a while, then settle
Themselves for conversation, and Evander
Is first to speak:—“Great captain of the Trojans,
I cannot, while you live, consider Troy
A beaten town, I cannot see her people
As anything but victors. I am sorry
Our power to help is meager. On one side
A river hems us in, and on the other
Rutulian armies thunder at our walls.
Still, I can find you, or I think so, allies,
Great people, an encampment rich in kingdoms,
An unexpected aid. The fates have brought you
To the right place. Not far away, Agylla,
A city built of ancient stone, lies waiting,
A town the Lydians founded; you know the race,
Renowned in war. It was a prosperous city
For many years, until Mezentius ruled it,
A cruel, arrogant man, sadist and savage.
God pay him back in kind! I cannot tell you
All his foul deeds: this will suffice;—he fastened
Live men to dead men, strapped their hands together,
Tied face to face, and killed them, slowly, slowly,
In the waste and stain and clasp of that long death.
They suffered long, his subjects, but at last
They rose in arms against him, his mad household,
Hurled fire to his roof-top, slaughtered his companions.
He fled that ruin to Rutulian fields,
Where Turnus’ weapons shielded him. Now all
Etruria, risen in arms, demands,
With threat of war, the king for punishment,
And you shall be the leader of those thousands
Who throng the shore with ships, whose cry is Forward!
But an old prophet holds them back, those warriors,
The pride and glory of an ancient people,
Whom a just grievance and a righteous anger
Inflames against Mezentius. It is not fated,
He says, for any native-born Italian
To tame a race so proud. Choose foreign leaders!
And so the Etruscan battle-lines have settled
Unwarlike on the plain, through heaven’s warning.
Tarchon himself has sent me envoys, bearing
The crown and sceptre, urging me to his camp,
Bidding me take the throne. But cold old age,
And years too thin for battle, these begrudge me
The high command. I would send my son, but Pallas
Comes from a Sabine mother; he is partly
A native-born Italian. You, Aeneas,
Possess the proper strength, the proper lineage,
The summons of the gods. Take up the burden!
My Pallas will go with you, my hope and comfort.
You are the one to teach him a soldier’s duty,
How to endure; let him learn from you in action,
Behold your deeds, and, in his youth, admire them.
I will give two hundred horsemen, young Arcadians,
The flower of our manhood; and two hundred
Will go with you besides in the name of Pallas.”

Aeneas and Achates, listening, brooded
With downcast gaze, in troubled speculation
Prolonging bitter thoughts, but Venus gave them
A sign from the bright heaven: a flash of thunder
Came from the cloudless sky, a blare of trumpets,
And all things suddenly shaken. They looked up swiftly;
Again, again, they heard the roar and rumble,
They saw arms redden in the clear of heaven,
Listened to thunder in cloud. And some were frightened;
Not so the Trojan: he knew his mother’s promise.
“Ask not, O friend, the meaning of the portent,”
He cried, “Olympus summons me; I know it.
This was the sign my goddess-mother promised
When war was near; she would bring me arms from Vulcan,
She said, to help us all. Alas! what slaughter
Waits for the Latins now! How costly, Turnus,
The price that must be paid me! Shields and helmets
And bodies of brave men, swept under Tiber.
Now let them call for battle, and break treaties!”

He rose and at his quickening the altars
Blazed into sudden fire; he paid his honors
To Hercules, to all the gods of household,
And all made sacrifice, sheep duly chosen.
Aeneas sought, once more, his ships, his comrades,
Chose, to attend him, those most brave in battle,
Despatched the rest down stream again with tidings
To take Ascanius of his father’s fortunes.
Horses are brought for all the Trojan leaders,
And for Aeneas the best, a charger, golden
With lion-skin caparison, claws gilded.

And rumor flies about the little city
Spreading the news of horsemen on their mission
To Tarchon’s shores, and mothers, in a panic,
Double their prayers, and fear comes nearer danger
With Mars’ great image looming large. Evander
Holds Pallas by the hand, cannot release him,
Speaks through his tears:—“If Jupiter would only
Bring me my lost years back, make me the man
I used to be, I was once, at Praeneste
Where I struck down the foremost ranks, and burned
The piled up shields! That day I was a hero,
A conqueror, and Erulus went down,
By this right hand, to hell. His mother gave him
Three lives, and threefold armor; I had to kill him
Three times, and did, and thrice I stripped his armor.
If I were what I used to be, my son,
They would never take you from me; and Mezentius
Would never have heaped those insults on his neighbor,
Never have made a widow of the city.
But you, great gods on high, and you, great king
Of the high gods, take pity on a father,
Hear the Arcadian king. I pray for life
As long as Pallas lives, I pray to see him
If you will spare him; if he comes back safely
I pray to meet him once again. No more
I ask; how hard my life may be, no matter.
But if there is in fortune any menace,
Something I cannot speak of, let me die
Before I know the worst, while I can hope
However I doubt, while still I have my Pallas,
My late and only pleasure, here beside me,
And never news for the worse!” And so they parted,
And servants helped the old man into the palace.

They had gone from the gates, the horsemen, and Aeneas,
Achates and the Trojans, and in the centre
Pallas, a blaze of light, like Lucifer
Whom Venus loves beyond all fiery stars,
The glory risen from the ocean wave,
Dissolver of the shadows. On the walls
The mothers, trembling, watched them go, the squadrons
Bright in their bronze, and the cloud of dust behind them,
So, out of sight, where the road turns off to forest,
They go, the men in arms, and a shout arises,
And the column forms, and the echo of the gallop
Comes clopping back through the ground where the dust is rising.

The cold stream, Caere, has a grove beside it,
Much reverenced of old, where the curve of the hills
And the dark firs make a shelter: the old people,
So rumor says, held grove and feast-day sacred
Here in Silvanus’ honor, god of the fields,
God of the fold. Tarchon and his Etruscans
Were camped not far from here, and from the hill-top
Watchers could see their legions, tented safely
Through the wide plain. In Caere’s grove Aeneas
Rested his horses and his weary warriors.