The Aeneid. Публий Марон Вергилий

The quarry share, their plenteous dinner haste.

       Some strip the skin; some portion out the spoil;

       The limbs, yet trembling, in the caldrons boil;

       Some on the fire the reeking entrails broil.

       Stretch’d on the grassy turf, at ease they dine,

       Restore their strength with meat, and cheer their souls with wine.

       Their hunger thus appeas’d, their care attends

       The doubtful fortune of their absent friends:

       Alternate hopes and fears their minds possess,

       Whether to deem ’em dead, or in distress.

       Above the rest, Aeneas mourns the fate

       Of brave Orontes, and th’ uncertain state

       Of Gyas, Lycus, and of Amycus.

       The day, but not their sorrows, ended thus.

      When, from aloft, almighty Jove surveys

       Earth, air, and shores, and navigable seas,

       At length on Libyan realms he fix’d his eyes:

       Whom, pond’ring thus on human miseries,

       When Venus saw, she with a lowly look,

       Not free from tears, her heav’nly sire bespoke:

      “O King of Gods and Men! whose awful hand

       Disperses thunder on the seas and land,

       Disposing all with absolute command;

       How could my pious son thy pow’r incense?

       Or what, alas! is vanish’d Troy’s offence?

       Our hope of Italy not only lost,

       On various seas by various tempests toss’d,

       But shut from ev’ry shore, and barr’d from ev’ry coast.

       You promis’d once, a progeny divine

       Of Romans, rising from the Trojan line,

       In after times should hold the world in awe,

       And to the land and ocean give the law.

       How is your doom revers’d, which eas’d my care

       When Troy was ruin’d in that cruel war?

       Then fates to fates I could oppose; but now,

       When Fortune still pursues her former blow,

       What can I hope? What worse can still succeed?

       What end of labours has your will decreed?

       Antenor, from the midst of Grecian hosts,

       Could pass secure, and pierce th’ Illyrian coasts,

       Where, rolling down the steep, Timavus raves

       And thro’ nine channels disembogues his waves.

       At length he founded Padua’s happy seat,

       And gave his Trojans a secure retreat;

       There fix’d their arms, and there renew’d their name,

       And there in quiet rules, and crown’d with fame.

       But we, descended from your sacred line,

       Entitled to your heav’n and rites divine,

       Are banish’d earth; and, for the wrath of one,

       Remov’d from Latium and the promis’d throne.

       Are these our scepters? these our due rewards?

       And is it thus that Jove his plighted faith regards?”

      To whom the Father of th’ immortal race,

       Smiling with that serene indulgent face,

       With which he drives the clouds and clears the skies,

       First gave a holy kiss; then thus replies:

      “Daughter, dismiss thy fears; to thy desire

       The fates of thine are fix’d, and stand entire.

       Thou shalt behold thy wish’d Lavinian walls;

       And, ripe for heav’n, when fate Aeneas calls,

       Then shalt thou bear him up, sublime, to me:

       No councils have revers’d my firm decree.

       And, lest new fears disturb thy happy state,

       Know, I have search’d the mystic rolls of Fate:

       Thy son (nor is th’ appointed season far)

       In Italy shall wage successful war,

       Shall tame fierce nations in the bloody field,

       And sov’reign laws impose, and cities build,

       Till, after ev’ry foe subdued, the sun

       Thrice thro’ the signs his annual race shall run:

       This is his time prefix’d. Ascanius then,

       Now call’d Iulus, shall begin his reign.

       He thirty rolling years the crown shall wear,

       Then from Lavinium shall the seat transfer,

       And, with hard labour, Alba Longa build.

       The throne with his succession shall be fill’d

       Three hundred circuits more: then shall be seen

       Ilia the fair, a priestess and a queen,

       Who, full of Mars, in time, with kindly throes,

       Shall at a birth two goodly boys disclose.

       The royal babes a tawny wolf shall drain:

       Then Romulus his grandsire’s throne shall gain,

       Of martial tow’rs the founder shall become,

       The people Romans call, the city Rome.

       To them no bounds of empire I assign,

       Nor term of years to their immortal line.

       Ev’n haughty Juno, who, with endless broils,

       Earth, seas, and heav’n, and Jove himself turmoils;

       At length aton’d, her friendly pow’r shall join,

       To cherish and advance the Trojan line.

       The subject world shall Rome’s dominion own,

       And, prostrate, shall adore the nation of the gown.

       An age is ripening in revolving fate

       When Troy shall overturn the Grecian state,

       And sweet revenge her conqu’ring sons shall call,

       To crush the people that conspir’d her fall.

       Then Caesar from the Julian stock shall rise,

       Whose empire ocean, and whose fame the skies

       Alone shall bound; whom, fraught with eastern spoils,

       Our heav’n, the just reward of human toils,

       Securely shall repay with rites divine;

       And incense shall ascend before his sacred shrine.

       Then dire debate and impious war shall cease,

       And the stern age be soften’d into peace:

       Then banish’d Faith shall once again return,

       And Vestal fires in hallow’d temples burn;

       And Remus with Quirinus shall sustain

       The righteous laws, and fraud and force restrain.

       Janus himself before his fane shall wait,

       And keep the dreadful issues of his gate,

       With bolts and iron bars: within remains

       Imprison’d Fury, bound in brazen