The Aeneid. Публий Марон Вергилий

At length we landed on your Libyan coast.

       The good Aeneas am I call’d, a name,

       While Fortune favour’d, not unknown to fame.

       My household gods, companions of my woes,

       With pious care I rescued from our foes.

       To fruitful Italy my course was bent;

       And from the King of Heav’n is my descent.

       With twice ten sail I cross’d the Phrygian sea;

       Fate and my mother goddess led my way.

       Scarce sev’n, the thin remainders of my fleet,

       From storms preserv’d, within your harbour meet.

       Myself distress’d, an exile, and unknown,

       Debarr’d from Europe, and from Asia thrown,

       In Libyan deserts wander thus alone.”

      His tender parent could no longer bear;

       But, interposing, sought to soothe his care.

       “Whoe’er you are, not unbelov’d by Heav’n,

       Since on our friendly shore your ships are driv’n:

       Have courage: to the gods permit the rest,

       And to the queen expose your just request.

       Now take this earnest of success, for more:

       Your scatter’d fleet is join’d upon the shore;

       The winds are chang’d, your friends from danger free;

       Or I renounce my skill in augury.

       Twelve swans behold in beauteous order move,

       And stoop with closing pinions from above;

       Whom late the bird of Jove had driv’n along,

       And thro’ the clouds pursued the scatt’ring throng:

       Now, all united in a goodly team,

       They skim the ground, and seek the quiet stream.

       As they, with joy returning, clap their wings,

       And ride the circuit of the skies in rings;

       Not otherwise your ships, and ev’ry friend,

       Already hold the port, or with swift sails descend.

       No more advice is needful; but pursue

       The path before you, and the town in view.”

      Thus having said, she turn’d, and made appear

       Her neck refulgent, and dishevel’d hair,

       Which, flowing from her shoulders, reach’d the ground.

       And widely spread ambrosial scents around:

       In length of train descends her sweeping gown;

       And, by her graceful walk, the Queen of Love is known.

       The prince pursued the parting deity

       With words like these: “Ah! whither do you fly?

       Unkind and cruel! to deceive your son

       In borrow’d shapes, and his embrace to shun;

       Never to bless my sight, but thus unknown;

       And still to speak in accents not your own.”

       Against the goddess these complaints he made,

       But took the path, and her commands obey’d.

       They march, obscure; for Venus kindly shrouds

       With mists their persons, and involves in clouds,

       That, thus unseen, their passage none might stay,

       Or force to tell the causes of their way.

       This part perform’d, the goddess flies sublime

       To visit Paphos and her native clime;

       Where garlands, ever green and ever fair,

       With vows are offer’d, and with solemn pray’r:

       A hundred altars in her temple smoke;

       A thousand bleeding hearts her pow’r invoke.

      They climb the next ascent, and, looking down,

       Now at a nearer distance view the town.

       The prince with wonder sees the stately tow’rs,

       Which late were huts and shepherds’ homely bow’rs,

       The gates and streets; and hears, from ev’ry part,

       The noise and busy concourse of the mart.

       The toiling Tyrians on each other call

       To ply their labour: some extend the wall;

       Some build the citadel; the brawny throng

       Or dig, or push unwieldly stones along.

       Some for their dwellings choose a spot of ground,

       Which, first design’d, with ditches they surround.

       Some laws ordain; and some attend the choice

       Of holy senates, and elect by voice.

       Here some design a mole, while others there

       Lay deep foundations for a theatre;

       From marble quarries mighty columns hew,

       For ornaments of scenes, and future view.

       Such is their toil, and such their busy pains,

       As exercise the bees in flow’ry plains,

       When winter past, and summer scarce begun,

       Invites them forth to labour in the sun;

       Some lead their youth abroad, while some condense

       Their liquid store, and some in cells dispense;

       Some at the gate stand ready to receive

       The golden burthen, and their friends relieve;

       All with united force, combine to drive

       The lazy drones from the laborious hive:

       With envy stung, they view each other’s deeds;

       The fragrant work with diligence proceeds.

       “Thrice happy you, whose walls already rise!”

       Aeneas said, and view’d, with lifted eyes,

       Their lofty tow’rs; then, ent’ring at the gate,

       Conceal’d in clouds (prodigious to relate)

       He mix’d, unmark’d, among the busy throng,

       Borne by the tide, and pass’d unseen along.

      Full in the centre of the town there stood,

       Thick set with trees, a venerable wood.

       The Tyrians, landing near this holy ground,

       And digging here, a prosp’rous omen found:

       From under earth a courser’s head they drew,

       Their growth and future fortune to foreshew.

       This fated sign their foundress Juno gave,

       Of a soil fruitful, and a people brave.

       Sidonian Dido here with solemn state

       Did Juno’s temple build, and consecrate,

       Enrich’d with gifts, and with a golden shrine;

       But more the goddess made the place divine.

       On brazen steps the marble threshold rose,

       And brazen plates the cedar beams inclose:

       The rafters are with brazen cov’rings crown’d;

       The lofty doors on brazen hinges sound.

       What first Aeneas