The Aeneid of Virgil

by Virgil

And the bright goddess through the clouds of heaven
Came bringing gifts, seeing her son alone
By the cold river in the quiet valley,
And spoke to him:—“Behold, the gifts made ready
By Vulcan’s promised skill. Fear not, my son,
To face the wars with Turnus and the Latins!”
After the word, the embrace. She placed the armor,
All shining in his sight, against an oak-tree;
Rejoicing in the gift, the honor, he turned
His eyes to these, over and over again,
Could not be satisfied, took in his hands
The helmet with the terrible plumes and flame,
The fatal sword, the breastplate, made of bronze,
Fire-colored, huge, shining the way a cloud,
Dark-blue, turns crimson under the slanting sun,
The greaves of gold refined and smooth electrum,
The spear, the final masterpiece, the shield.

Hereon the great prophetic Lord of Fire
Had carved the story out, the stock to come,
The wars, each one in order, all the tale
Of Italy and Roman triumph. Here
In Mars’ green cave the she-wolf gives her udders
To the twin boys, turning half round to lick them,
And neither is afraid, and both are playing.
Another scene presents the Circus-games,
When Romans took their Sabine brides, and war
Broke out between old Tatius and the sons
Of Romulus, and was ended, monarchs pledging
Peace at the altars over sacrifice.
Mettus, the false, by the wild horses drawn
And quartered, sheds his life-blood over the brambles;
Porsena, the besieger, rings the city
For Tarquin’s sake, exile and tyrant; Romans
Rush on the steel for freedom; Clelia breaks
Her bonds to swim the river; and Horatius
Breaks down the bridge. The guardian Manlius
Holds the high capitol and that crude palace
Fresh with the straw of Romulus; the goose
Flutters in silver through the colonnades
Shrieking alarm; the Gauls are near in darkness,
Golden their hair, their clothing, and their necks
Gleam white in collars of gold, and each one carries
Two Alpine javelins; they have long shields.
Near them, the Fire-god sets the priests with caps
Of wool, the miracle of the shields from heaven,
The Salii dancing, the Luperci naked,
And the chaste matrons riding through the city
In cushioned chariots. Far off, he adds
The seats of Hell, the lofty gates of Pluto,
Penance for sin: Catiline, with the Furies
Making him cower; farther off, the good,
With Cato giving laws. And all this scene
Bound with the likeness of the swelling ocean,
Blue water and whitecap, where the dolphins playing
Leap with a curve of silver. In the center
Actium, the ships of bronze, Leucate burning
Hot with the glow of war, and waves on fire
With molten gold. Augustus Caesar stands
High on the lofty stern; his temples flame
With double fire, and over his head there dawns
His father’s star. Agrippa leads a column
With favoring wind and god, the naval garland
Wreathing his temples. Antony assembles
Egypt and all the East; Antony, victor
Over the lands of dawn and the Red Sea,
Marshals the foes of Rome, himself a Roman,
With—horror!—an Egyptian wife. The surge
Boils under keel, the oar-blades churn the waters,
The triple-pointed beaks drive through the billows,
You would think that mountains swam and battled mountains,
That islands were uprooted in their anger.
Fireballs and shafts of steel are slanting showers,
The fields of Neptune redden with the slaughter.
The queen drives on her warriors, unseeing
The double snakes of death; rattle and cymbals
Compete with bugle and trumpet. Monstrous gods,
Of every form and fashion, one, Anubis,
Shaped like a dog, wield their outrageous weapons
In wrath at Venus, Neptune, and Minerva.
Mars, all in steel, storms through the fray; the Furies
Swoop from the sky; Discord exults; Bellona,
With bloody scourge, comes lashing; and Apollo
From Actium bends his bow. Egypt and India,
Sabaeans and Arabians, flee in terror.
And the contagion takes the queen, who loosens
The sheets to slackness, courts the wind, in terror,
Pale at the menace of death. And the Nile comes
To meet her, a protecting god, his mantle
Spread wide, to bring a beaten woman home.
And Caesar enters Rome triumphant, bringing
Immortal offerings, three times a hundred
New altars through the city. Streets are loud
With gladness, games, rejoicing; all the temples
Are filled with matrons praying at the altars,
Are heaped with solemn sacrifice. And Caesar,
Seated before Apollo’s shining threshold,
Reviews the gifts, and hangs them on the portals.
In long array the conquered file, their garments,
Their speech, as various as their arms, the Nomads,
The naked Africans, Leleges, Carians,
Gelonians with quivers, the Morini,
Of mortals most remote, Euphrates moving
With humbler waves, the two-mouthed Rhine, Araxes,
Chafing beneath his bridge.

All this Aeneas
Sees on his mother’s gift, the shield of Vulcan,
And, without understanding, is proud and happy
As he lifts to his shoulder all that fortune,
The fame and glory of his children’s children.

BOOK IX
IN THE
ABSENCE OF AENEAS

While all this happened far away, queen Juno
Sent Iris down from heaven to bold Turnus.
She found him resting in a sacred valley,
Pilumnus’ grove, his ancestor; all radiant
She spoke to him:—“No god would promise, Turnus,
This answer to your prayers, but the turn of time
Has put it in your hands. Aeneas has gone,
Leaving the town, the fleet, and his companions,
Seeking the realm of Palatine Evander,
And more than that: he has won some cities over,
He calls the Etruscan countrymen to arms.
What are you waiting for? Now is the time
For chariot and horse. Break off delay,
Take the bewildered camp!” She spoke, and rose
Skyward on even wings, and under the clouds
Cut her great soaring arc. And Turnus knew her,
And raised his hands to the sky, and followed her flight:—
“O Iris, pride of heaven, who sent you to me
Through clouds to earth? Whence comes this storm of brightness?
I see the heavens part, and the stars wheeling
Across the sky. I follow these great omens,
Whoever calls to arms.” And, with the word,
He went to the stream, took water up, prayed often,
Making his vows to all the gods of heaven.

And now, over all the plain, the army was coming,
Rich in caparison, and rich in horses,
In gold and broidered robes, Messapus leading,
And Turnus in the center, and Tyrrhus’ sons
As captains in the rear: they stream as Ganges
Streams when his seven quiet tides flood over,
Or Nile resents his deep confining channel.
The Trojans see the sudden cloud, black dust
Thickening over the plain, and darkness rising,
And Caicus cries from the rampart:—“What is this,
O fellow-citizens, this rolling darkness?
Bring the swords quickly, bring weapons, climb the walls,
Here comes the enemy, yea! Hurry, hurry!”
Trojans, and noise, pour through the gates together.
Men fill the walls. For so, on his departure,
Aeneas had given orders: if something happened,
They should not risk a battle in the open,
They should only guard the camp, protect the ramparts.
So, much as they would love to mix in battle,
Anger and shame give way to prompt obedience.
They bar the gates; protected by their towers
They wait while the foe comes on. And Turnus, riding
Impatient past his dawdling column, is there
Before the city knows it. He has twenty
Fast riders with him, his mount a piebald Thracian,
His helmet gold with crimson crest. He cries,
“Who will be first with me? Will anybody
Be first with me against them? Let them have it!”
And with the word, he lets the javelin fly,
First sign of battle; and they cheer and follow
And wonder a little at the Trojans, cowards
Who dare not fight in the open, man to man,
Who hug their walls for comfort. Round and round,
Turnus, a wild man, rides, seeking an entrance,
But there is no way in. He is like a wolf
Lurking about a sheep-fold, snarling at midnight
Beside the pens, enduring wind and rain,
While the bleating lambs are safe beneath the ewes,
And he, unable to get at them, rages
Fierce and dry-throated in the drive of hunger;
So Turnus looks at wall and camp, and passion
Burns hot within him, burns to his very bones.
How to get in? or how to yank the Trojans
Out of their cloister, smear them over the plain?
Ah, but the fleet is there, beside the camp,
Sheltered by earthworks and the flowing river:
There lies the chance! He calls for fire, he hurls it,
The burning torch, and his hand, almost, is burning,
And all of them pitch in—Turnus has shown them,
And Turnus eggs them on—they are armed with firebrands,
They rob the hearths; the tar flares lurid yellow
Against the grey of the cloud, the soot and ashes.

What god, O Muses, turned the fire? Who saved
The Trojan ships? Remind me—the story is old,
Men have believed it long, its glory endless.
When first Aeneas built the fleet on Ida,
Preparing for deep seas, the mother of gods,
Queen Cybele, spoke to Jove:—“Grant me, my son,
Lord of Olympus now, a mother’s prayer.
I had a pine-wood on the mountain-top,
And men, for many years, brought offerings there,
I loved that forest, dark with fir and maple,
But when the Trojan lacked a fleet, I gave him
My timber gladly; now my heart is troubled.
Relieve my fear, and let a mother’s pleading
Keep them from wreck on any course, unshaken
By any whirlwind. Grown upon our mountains,
They should have privilege.” Her son, the swayer
Of the stars of the world, replied, “What call, O mother,
Is this you make on fate? What are you seeking?
Should keels laid down by mortal hand have title
To life immortal? Should Aeneas travel
Through danger, unendangered? Such power is given
No god in heaven. But I make this promise:
After their course is run, after the harbors
In Italy receive them, safe from ocean,
And with Aeneas landed in Laurentum,
I will take away their mortal shape, I will make them
Goddesses of the sea, like Nereus’ daughter,
Like Galatea, the nymphs who breast the foam.”
So Jupiter promised, and, as gods do, took oath,
By the rivers of his brother under the world,
The banks that seethe with the black pitchy torrent,
And made Olympus tremble with his nod.

The promised day had come, the fates had finished
The allotted span, when Turnus’ desecration
Warned Cybele to keep the torch and firebrand
Far from her holy vessels. A new light blazed
In mortal sight, and from the east a cloud
Ran across heaven, and choirs from Ida followed,
And a dread voice came down the air:—“O Trojans,
Be in no hurry to defend my vessels,
You have no need of arms; Turnus, most surely,
Will burn the seas before he burns these pine-trees.
Go forth in freedom, goddesses of ocean,
The Mother wills it so.” And each ship parted
Cable from bank, and dove to the deep water
As dolphins dive, and reappeared as maiden,—
Oh marvel!—and all of them bore out to ocean.

Rutulian hearts were stunned, their captains shaken,
Their steeds confused and frightened; even Tiber
Shrank back from the sea, and the murmuring stream protested.
But Turnus kept his nerve, his words rang loud
In challenge to their courage:—“These are portents
To make the Trojans timid; Jove has taken
Their comfort from them; the ships they always fled in
Run from Rutulian fire and sword; the oceans
Are pathless for the Trojans now, their hope
Of flight all gone: half of their world is taken,
And the earth is in our hands, Italians, thousands,
Thousands of us in arms. I am not frightened,
However they boast of oracles from heaven.
Venus and fate have had their share: the Trojans
Have done enough even to touch our richness,
The Ausonian fields. I have my omens, also,
To match with theirs, a sword to slay the guilty,
Death for the rape of brides! Not Atreus’ sons,
Not only Menelaus and Mycenae,
Know what this hurt can be, this need for vengeance,
This right to take up arms. Once to have perished,
They tell us, is enough. Once to have sinned
Ought to have been enough and more. Hereafter
All women should be hateful to them, cowards
Hiding behind the sheltering moat and rampart,
The little barriers that give them courage!
Have they not seen the walls that Neptune built them
Sink in the fires? Which one of you is ready,
Brave hearts, to slash their barriers with the sword,
To join me in the onrush? I do not need
The arms of Vulcan, nor a thousand vessels
Against the Trojans. Let them have Etruria!
One thing, at least, they need not fear,—the darkness,
The sneaking theft of their Palladium image,
Guards slain in the dark, hiders in horse’s belly;
I fight in open daylight, I have fire
To put around their walls, I will teach them something,—
Their business now is not with those Greek heroes
Whom Hector kept at bay for ten long years.
Now day is almost over; you have done
Good work; rest now; be happy, be preparing,
Be hopeful for the battles of to-morrow.”

Meanwhile, the guards were posted, under orders
Of Messapus, their officer; and the walls
Were ringed with fire. Fourteen Rutulian captains
Led, each, a hundred men, bright in their gold,
Plumed in their crimson, on patrol or resting,
Or sprawling on the grass, gambling or drinking;
The fires burn bright, the sentinels are watchful.