The Aeneid - Virgil (13 ebook reader .TXT) š
- Author: Virgil
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To crush the people that conspirād 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 heavān, 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 softenād into peace:
Then banishād Faith shall once again return,
And Vestal fires in hallowād 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
Imprisonād Fury, bound in brazen chains;
High on a trophy raisād, of useless arms,
He sits, and threats the world with vain alarms.ā
He said, and sent Cyllenius with command
To free the ports, and ope the Punic land
To Trojan guests; lest, ignorant of fate,
The queen might force them from her town and state.
Down from the steep of heavān Cyllenius flies,
And cleaves with all his wings the yielding skies.
Soon on the Libyan shore descends the god,
Performs his message, and displays his rod:
The surly murmurs of the people cease;
And, as the fates requirād, they give the peace:
The queen herself suspends the rigid laws,
The Trojans pities, and protects their cause.
Meantime, in shades of night Aeneas lies:
Care seizād his soul, and sleep forsook his eyes.
But, when the sun restorād the cheerful day,
He rose, the coast and country to survey,
Anxious and eager to discover more.
It lookād a wild uncultivated shore;
But, whether humankind, or beasts alone
Possessād the new-found region, was unknown.
Beneath a ledge of rocks his fleet he hides:
Tall trees surround the mountainās shady sides;
The bending brow above a safe retreat provides.
Armād with two pointed darts, he leaves his friends,
And true Achates on his steps attends.
Lo! in the deep recesses of the wood,
Before his eyes his goddess mother stood:
A huntress in her habit and her mien;
Her dress a maid, her air confessād a queen.
Bare were her knees, and knots her garments bind;
Loose was her hair, and wantonād in the wind;
Her hand sustainād a bow; her quiver hung behind.
She seemād a virgin of the Spartan blood:
With such array Harpalyce bestrode
Her Thracian courser and outstrippād the rapid flood.
āHo, strangers! have you lately seen,ā she said,
āOne of my sisters, like myself arrayād,
Who crossād the lawn, or in the forest strayād?
A painted quiver at her back she bore;
Varied with spots, a lynxās hide she wore;
And at full cry pursued the tusky boar.ā
Thus Venus: thus her son replied again:
āNone of your sisters have we heard or seen,
O virgin! or what other name you bear
Above that styleā āO more than mortal fair!
Your voice and mien celestial birth betray!
If, as you seem, the sister of the day,
Or one at least of chaste Dianaās train,
Let not an humble suppliant sue in vain;
But tell a stranger, long in tempests tossād,
What earth we tread, and who commands the coast?
Then on your name shall wretched mortals call,
And offerād victims at your altars fall.ā
āI dare not,ā she replied, āassume the name
Of goddess, or celestial honours claim:
For Tyrian virgins bows and quivers bear,
And purple buskins oāer their ankles wear.
Know, gentle youth, in Libyan lands you areā ā
A people rude in peace, and rough in war.
The rising city, which from far you see,
Is Carthage, and a Tyrian colony.
Phoenician Dido rules the growing state,
Who fled from Tyre, to shun her brotherās hate.
Great were her wrongs, her story full of fate;
Which I will sum in short. Sichaeus, known
For wealth, and brother to the Punic throne,
Possessād fair Didoās bed; and either heart
At once was wounded with an equal dart.
Her father gave her, yet a spotless maid;
Pygmalion then the Tyrian scepter swayād:
One who condemnād divine and human laws.
Then strife ensued, and cursed gold the cause.
The monarch, blinded with desire of wealth,
With steel invades his brotherās life by stealth;
Before the sacred altar made him bleed,
And long from her concealād the cruel deed.
Some tale, some new pretence, he daily coinād,
To soothe his sister, and delude her mind.
At length, in dead of night, the ghost appears
Of her unhappy lord: the spectre stares,
And, with erected eyes, his bloody bosom bares.
The cruel altars and his fate he tells,
And the dire secret of his house reveals,
Then warns the widow, with her household gods,
To seek a refuge in remote abodes.
Last, to support her in so long a way,
He shows her where his hidden treasure lay.
Admonishād thus, and seizād with mortal fright,
The queen provides companions of her flight:
They meet, and all combine to leave the state,
Who hate the tyrant, or who fear his hate.
They seize a fleet, which ready riggād they find;
Nor is Pygmalionās treasure left behind.
The vessels, heavy laden, put to sea
With prospārous winds; a woman leads the way.
I know not, if by stress of weather drivān,
Or was their fatal course disposād by Heavān;
At last they landed, where from far your eyes
May view the turrets of new Carthage rise;
There bought a space of ground, which Byrsa callād,
From the bullās hide, they first inclosād, and wallād.
But whence are you? what country claims your birth?
What seek you, strangers, on our Libyan earth?ā
To whom, with sorrow streaming from his eyes,
And deeply sighing, thus her son replies:
āCould you with patience hear, or I relate,
O nymph, the tedious annals of our fate!
Throā such a train of woes if I should run,
The day would sooner than the tale be done!
From ancient Troy, by force expellād, we cameā ā
If you by chance have heard the Trojan name.
On various seas by various tempests tossād,
At length we landed on your Libyan coast.
The good Aeneas am I callādā āa name,
While Fortune favourād, 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 Heavān is my descent.
With twice ten sail I crossād the Phrygian sea;
Fate and my mother goddess led my way.
Scarce sevān, the thin remainders of my fleet,
From storms preservād, within your harbour meet.
Myself distressād, an exile, and unknown,
Debarrād from Europe, and from Asia thrown,
In Libyan deserts wander thus alone.ā
His tender parent could no longer bear;
But, interposing, sought to soothe his
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