The Aeneid. Публий Марон Вергилий

rising labours aid;

       A bull on Jove’s imperial altar laid.

       Not far, a rising hillock stood in view;

       Sharp myrtles on the sides, and cornels grew.

       There, while I went to crop the sylvan scenes,

       And shade our altar with their leafy greens,

       I pull’d a plant; with horror I relate

       A prodigy so strange and full of fate.

       The rooted fibers rose, and from the wound

       Black bloody drops distill’d upon the ground.

       Mute and amaz’d, my hair with terror stood;

       Fear shrunk my sinews, and congeal’d my blood.

       Mann’d once again, another plant I try:

       That other gush’d with the same sanguine dye.

       Then, fearing guilt for some offence unknown,

       With pray’rs and vows the Dryads I atone,

       With all the sisters of the woods, and most

       The God of Arms, who rules the Thracian coast,

       That they, or he, these omens would avert,

       Release our fears, and better signs impart.

       Clear’d, as I thought, and fully fix’d at length

       To learn the cause, I tugged with all my strength:

       I bent my knees against the ground; once more

       The violated myrtle ran with gore.

       Scarce dare I tell the sequel: from the womb

       Of wounded earth, and caverns of the tomb,

       A groan, as of a troubled ghost, renew’d

       My fright, and then these dreadful words ensued:

       ‘Why dost thou thus my buried body rend?

       O spare the corpse of thy unhappy friend!

       Spare to pollute thy pious hands with blood:

       The tears distil not from the wounded wood;

       But ev’ry drop this living tree contains

       Is kindred blood, and ran in Trojan veins.

       O fly from this unhospitable shore,

       Warn’d by my fate; for I am Polydore!

       Here loads of lances, in my blood embrued,

       Again shoot upward, by my blood renew’d.’

      “My falt’ring tongue and shiv’ring limbs declare

       My horror, and in bristles rose my hair.

       When Troy with Grecian arms was closely pent,

       Old Priam, fearful of the war’s event,

       This hapless Polydore to Thracia sent:

       Loaded with gold, he sent his darling, far

       From noise and tumults, and destructive war,

       Committed to the faithless tyrant’s care;

       Who, when he saw the pow’r of Troy decline,

       Forsook the weaker, with the strong to join;

       Broke ev’ry bond of nature and of truth,

       And murder’d, for his wealth, the royal youth.

       O sacred hunger of pernicious gold!

       What bands of faith can impious lucre hold?

       Now, when my soul had shaken off her fears,

       I call my father and the Trojan peers;

       Relate the prodigies of Heav’n, require

       What he commands, and their advice desire.

       All vote to leave that execrable shore,

       Polluted with the blood of Polydore;

       But, ere we sail, his fun’ral rites prepare,

       Then, to his ghost, a tomb and altars rear.

       In mournful pomp the matrons walk the round,

       With baleful cypress and blue fillets crown’d,

       With eyes dejected, and with hair unbound.

       Then bowls of tepid milk and blood we pour,

       And thrice invoke the soul of Polydore.

      “Now, when the raging storms no longer reign,

       But southern gales invite us to the main,

       We launch our vessels, with a prosp’rous wind,

       And leave the cities and the shores behind.

      “An island in th’ Aegaean main appears;

       Neptune and wat’ry Doris claim it theirs.

       It floated once, till Phoebus fix’d the sides

       To rooted earth, and now it braves the tides.

       Here, borne by friendly winds, we come ashore,

       With needful ease our weary limbs restore,

       And the Sun’s temple and his town adore.

      “Anius, the priest and king, with laurel crown’d,

       His hoary locks with purple fillets bound,

       Who saw my sire the Delian shore ascend,

       Came forth with eager haste to meet his friend;

       Invites him to his palace; and, in sign

       Of ancient love, their plighted hands they join.

       Then to the temple of the god I went,

       And thus, before the shrine, my vows present:

       ‘Give, O Thymbraeus, give a resting place

       To the sad relics of the Trojan race;

       A seat secure, a region of their own,

       A lasting empire, and a happier town.

       Where shall we fix? where shall our labours end?

       Whom shall we follow, and what fate attend?

       Let not my pray’rs a doubtful answer find;

       But in clear auguries unveil thy mind.’

       Scarce had I said: he shook the holy ground,

       The laurels, and the lofty hills around;

       And from the tripos rush’d a bellowing sound.

       Prostrate we fell; confess’d the present god,

       Who gave this answer from his dark abode:

       ‘Undaunted youths, go, seek that mother earth

       From which your ancestors derive their birth.

       The soil that sent you forth, her ancient race

       In her old bosom shall again embrace.

       Through the wide world th’ Aeneian house shall reign,

       And children’s children shall the crown sustain.’

       Thus Phoebus did our future fates disclose:

       A mighty tumult, mix’d with joy, arose.

      “All are concern’d to know what place the god

       Assign’d, and where determin’d our abode.

       My father, long revolving in his mind

       The race and lineage of the Trojan kind,

       Thus answer’d their demands: ‘Ye princes, hear

       Your pleasing fortune, and dispel your fear.

       The fruitful isle of Crete, well known to fame,

       Sacred of old to Jove’s imperial name,

       In the mid ocean lies,