The Aeneid - Virgil (13 ebook reader .TXT) 📗

rest.
Now when the night her middle race had rode,
And his first slumber had refresh’d the god⁠—
The time when early housewives leave the bed;
When living embers on the hearth they spread,
Supply the lamp, and call the maids to rise;⁠—
With yawning mouths, and with half-open’d eyes,
They ply the distaff by the winking light,
And to their daily labour add the night:
Thus frugally they earn their children’s bread,
And uncorrupted keep the nuptial bed⁠—
Not less concern’d, nor at a later hour,
Rose from his downy couch the forging pow’r.

Sacred to Vulcan’s name, an isle there lay,
Betwixt Sicilia’s coasts and Lipare,
Rais’d high on smoking rocks; and, deep below,
In hollow caves the fires of Aetna glow.
The Cyclops here their heavy hammers deal;
Loud strokes, and hissings of tormented steel,
Are heard around; the boiling waters roar,
And smoky flames thro’ fuming tunnels soar.
Hither the Father of the Fire, by night,
Thro’ the brown air precipitates his flight.
On their eternal anvils here he found
The brethren beating, and the blows go round.
A load of pointless thunder now there lies
Before their hands, to ripen for the skies:
These darts, for angry Jove, they daily cast;
Consum’d on mortals with prodigious waste.
Three rays of writhen rain, of fire three more,
Of winged southern winds and cloudy store
As many parts, the dreadful mixture frame;
And fears are added, and avenging flame.
Inferior ministers, for Mars, repair
His broken axletrees and blunted war,
And send him forth again with furbish’d arms,
To wake the lazy war with trumpets’ loud alarms.
The rest refresh the scaly snakes that fold
The shield of Pallas, and renew their gold.
Full on the crest the Gorgon’s head they place,
With eyes that roll in death, and with distorted face.

“My sons,” said Vulcan, “set your tasks aside;
Your strength and master-skill must now be tried.
Arms for a hero forge; arms that require
Your force, your speed, and all your forming fire.”
He said. They set their former work aside,
And their new toils with eager haste divide.
A flood of molten silver, brass, and gold,
And deadly steel, in the large furnace roll’d;
Of this, their artful hands a shield prepare,
Alone sufficient to sustain the war.
Sev’n orbs within a spacious round they close:
One stirs the fire, and one the bellows blows.
The hissing steel is in the smithy drown’d;
The grot with beaten anvils groans around.
By turns their arms advance, in equal time;
By turns their hands descend, and hammers chime.
They turn the glowing mass with crooked tongs;
The fiery work proceeds, with rustic songs.

While, at the Lemnian god’s command, they urge
Their labours thus, and ply th’ Aeolian forge,
The cheerful morn salutes Evander’s eyes,
And songs of chirping birds invite to rise.
He leaves his lowly bed: his buskins meet
Above his ankles; sandals sheathe his feet:
He sets his trusty sword upon his side,
And o’er his shoulder throws a panther’s hide.
Two menial dogs before their master press’d.
Thus clad, and guarded thus, he seeks his kingly guest.
Mindful of promis’d aid, he mends his pace,
But meets Aeneas in the middle space.
Young Pallas did his father’s steps attend,
And true Achates waited on his friend.
They join their hands; a secret seat they choose;
Th’ Arcadian first their former talk renews:
“Undaunted prince, I never can believe
The Trojan empire lost, while you survive.
Command th’ assistance of a faithful friend;
But feeble are the succours I can send.
Our narrow kingdom here the Tiber bounds;
That other side the Latian state surrounds,
Insults our walls, and wastes our fruitful grounds.
But mighty nations I prepare, to join
Their arms with yours, and aid your just design.
You come, as by your better genius sent,
And fortune seems to favour your intent.
Not far from hence there stands a hilly town,
Of ancient building, and of high renown,
Torn from the Tuscans by the Lydian race,
Who gave the name of Caere to the place,
Once Agyllina call’d. It flourish’d long,
In pride of wealth and warlike people strong,
Till curs’d Mezentius, in a fatal hour,
Assum’d the crown, with arbitrary pow’r.
What words can paint those execrable times,
The subjects’ suff’rings, and the tyrant’s crimes!
That blood, those murders, O ye gods, replace
On his own head, and on his impious race!
The living and the dead at his command
Were coupled, face to face, and hand to hand,
Till, chok’d with stench, in loath’d embraces tied,
The ling’ring wretches pin’d away and died.
Thus plung’d in ills, and meditating more⁠—
The people’s patience, tir’d, no longer bore
The raging monster; but with arms beset
His house, and vengeance and destruction threat.
They fire his palace: while the flame ascends,
They force his guards, and execute his friends.
He cleaves the crowd, and, favour’d by the night,
To Turnus’ friendly court directs his flight.
By just revenge the Tuscans set on fire,
With arms, their king to punishment require:
Their num’rous troops, now muster’d on the strand,
My counsel shall submit to your command.
Their navy swarms upon the coasts; they cry
To hoist their anchors, but the gods deny.
An ancient augur, skill’d in future fate,
With these foreboding words restrains their hate:
‘Ye brave in arms, ye Lydian blood, the flow’r
Of Tuscan youth, and choice of all their pow’r,
Whom just revenge against Mezentius arms,
To seek your tyrant’s death by lawful arms;
Know this: no native of our land may lead
This pow’rful people; seek a foreign head.’
Aw’d with these words, in camps they still abide,
And wait with longing looks their promis’d guide.
Tarchon, the Tuscan chief, to me has sent
Their crown, and ev’ry regal ornament:
The people join their own with his desire;
And all my conduct, as their king, require.
But the chill blood that creeps within my veins,
And age, and listless limbs unfit for pains,
And a soul conscious of its own decay,
Have forc’d me to refuse imperial sway.
My Pallas were more fit to mount the throne,
And should, but he’s a Sabine mother’s son,
And half a native; but, in you, combine
A manly vigour, and a foreign line.
Where Fate and smiling Fortune shew the way,
Pursue the ready path to sov’reign sway.
The staff of my declining days, my son,
Shall make your good or ill success his own;
In fighting fields from you shall learn to dare,
And serve the hard apprenticeship of war;
Your matchless courage and your conduct view,
And early shall begin t’ admire and copy you.
Besides, two hundred horse he shall command;
Tho’ few, a warlike and well-chosen band.
These in my name are listed; and my son
As many more has added in his own.”

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