As Turnus raised war’s banner, and the trumpetsBlared loud above Laurentum’s citadel,And fiery horses reared, and arms were clashing,Confusion reigned: all Latium joined alliance,The youth were mad for war. Messapus, Ufens,And that despiser of the gods, Mezentius,Brought forces in from everywhere; wide fieldsWere stripped of countrymen. They sent a messageBy Venulus, to Diomede in Arpi:Come to our aid; the Trojans are in Latium;Aeneas with a fleet and vanquished godsProclaims himself a king; it is fate, he says;And many tribes are joining him; his nameSpreads far and wide in Latium.Diomede(The message says) better than many others,Should know the outcome, if the grace of fortuneFollows Aeneas in the scheme he nurtures.He knows the Trojans; he can judge them betterThan Turnus or Latinus.So, in Latium,Events were shaping, and Aeneas knew it,And saw it all, and turned and tossed in tormentOn a great sea of trouble. The swift mindWent searching, probing, veering with every shift,As when in a bronze bowl the light of water,Reflected by the sun or moonlight, wavers,Dances and flits about, from wall to ceiling.Night: over all the world the weary creatures,The beasts and birds, were deep in sleep; Aeneas,With warfare in his heart, stretched out for restWhere the cold sky was awning over the river,And sleep came late. Before him rose an image,An aged head amid the poplar leaves,A mantle of gray, and shady reeds around him,Tiber, the river-god, in consolationAnd comfort speaking:—“Son of the gods, redeemerOf Troy from overseas, her savior ever,O long-awaited on Laurentian fields,Here is your home, be sure of it; here dwellYour household gods, be sure. Do not turn back,Do not be frightened by the threats of war:The swollen rage of Heaven has subsided.Soon—do not take my words for idle phantoms,Illusions of a dream—under the holm-oaksAlong the shore, you will find a huge sow lying,White, with a new-born litter at her udders,Thirty of them, all white, a certain tokenOf a new city, in thirty years. Your sonWill found it; he will call it the White City,A glorious name, beyond all doubt whatever.Further, I have a word or two of guidanceTo speed you through the pressure of the momentToward ultimate victory. Inland a littleArcadian people live, a race descendedFrom Pallas’ line; their king is called Evander,Under whose banner they have built a city,High on the hills; its name is Pallanteum.They wage continual warfare with the Latins;Take them as allies, in covenant and treaty.And I myself will guide you there, upstreamAlong the banks, the oars against the current.Rise, goddess-born; when the stars set, make prayerTo Juno first, with suppliant vows appeasingHer threats and anger. As for me, my tributeMay wait your triumph. I am blue-green Tiber,The river most dear to Heaven, I am the riverYou see, brim-full to these rich banks, this ploughland:This is my home, the source of lofty cities.”So spoke the river-god, to his deep pool diving.Slumber and night were gone. Aeneas rose,Faced eastern sunlight, took up river waterIn the hollow of his hands, and made his prayer:—“Laurentian Nymphs, to whom the rivers oweTheir essence, father Tiber, holy river,Receive Aeneas, be his shield in danger.Wherever your presence dwells, in pool or fountain,Whatever land its flowing bounty graces,O comforter in time of trouble, surelyOur gifts will bring their meed of honor, always,To the horned ruler of the western waters.Only be with us, give us confirmation!”He had made his prayer; two ships were quickly chosenOut of the fleet, equipped, and the crews made ready.And then a marvel struck their eyes, a wonder!White in the wood, on the green ground, there layA sow with her white litter, and AeneasBrought them in sacrifice to Juno’s altar.All that long night, the Tiber calmed his flood;The silent wave, retreating, lay as stillAs pool or mere or watery plain; the oarsDipped without strain; the voyage went with laughterAnd cheerful shouting; over the waters rodeThe oily keels; and waves and woods in wonderBeheld the shields of men, the colored vessels,Divide the flood. Day turns to night. They traverseThe winding bends, with green shade arching over,Parting the green woods in the quiet water,Till it is noon, and they see walls and houses,Evander’s town, which Roman power laterMade equal to the city, a mighty empire,But it was little then. They turned to the shore,Drew near the city.On that day, it happened,The king was paying customary homage,In a grove before the city, to the gods,To Hercules, most of all. And his son PallasWas with him there, and the leaders of the people,The lowly senate, bringing gifts of incenseWhere the warm blood was smoking at the altars.They saw the tall ships come, they saw them glidingUpstream, through the dark wood, the feathered oar-bladesMaking no noise at all, and they were frightened,They rose; they would have left the feast, but Pallas,Unterrified, forbade them; he seized a weapon,Rushed out in challenge, calling from a hillock:—“What cause, young men, has brought you here, exploringWays that you do not know? Where are you going?What is your race? Where do you come from? Are youBringers of peace or war?” Aeneas answeredFrom the high stern, raising the branch of olive:—“We are men from Troy; we are armed against the Latins,Whose arrogant war we flee. We seek Evander.Take him this message: tell him chosen leaders,Dardanus’ sons, have come, to seek for friendship,For allied arms.” And Pallas, in amazementAt hearing that great name, cried, “Come and join us,Whoever you are, speak to my father, enter,O guest, into our household!” And his handReached out to greet and guide them. They left the river,Drew near the grove; with friendly words AeneasSpoke to Evander:—“Best of the sons of Greeks,To whom, at fortune’s will, I bring petition,Bearing the branch of peace, I have not been frightenedTo come to you, a Danaan chief, relatedTo Atreus’ twin sons. In my own rightI am worth something; we are bound togetherBy the god’s holy oracles, by the oldAncestral kinship, by your own renownWidespread through all the world. I am glad to followThe will of fate. Dardanus, our great father,Was father of Troy; his mother was Electra,Daughter of Atlas, who carries on his shouldersThe weight of heaven. Mercury is your father,Born, on Cyllene’s chilly peak, to Maia,And Maia, if legend is credible, the daughterOf Atlas, who carries heaven on his shoulders.A common blood runs in our veins, and thereforeI sent no embassies, I planned no carefulTentative overtures; myself, I came hereMy life at your disposal, in supplicationBefore your threshold. We are harried in warBy the same race that harries you, the sonsOf Daunus; nothing, so they think, will stop them,If we are beaten, from complete dominionOver the western land and both her oceans.Receive and give alliance: our hearts are brave,Our spirit tried and willing.”He had finished.Evander had been watching him, expression,Gesture, and mood, and bearing. He made answer:—“How gladly, bravest man of all the Trojans,I recognize and welcome you! Your father,The great Anchises, speaks to me again,—These are the words, the voice, the very featuresThat I recall so well. Once Priam came here,Faring to Salamis, his sister’s kingdom.I was a young man then; I stared in wonderAt the chiefs of Troy, at Priam, but AnchisesTowered above them all, and my heart was burningTo clasp his hand, to speak with him: I met him,I led him, proudly, to Pheneus’ city,And when he left, he gave me a fine quiverWith Lycian arrows, a cloak with gold embroidered,A pair of golden bridles; my son PallasRejoices in them now. The bond you ask forIs given, the treaty made. To-morrow morningMy escort will attend your leave, my richesBe at your service. Meanwhile, since you come hereAs friends of ours, join us in celebratingThese yearly rites of ours. It is not permittedOur people to postpone them. In your kindness,Become accustomed to your allies’ tables.”He gave the orders for the feast’s renewal.Once more the cups are set; the king, in person,Conducts his guests to places on the greensward,Reserving for Aeneas, in special honor,A maple throne, draped with the skin of a lion.Chosen attendants and the priest of the altarBring the roast portions, pile the bread in baskets,Serve Bacchus’ wine. Aeneas and the TrojansFeast on the consecrated food.When hungerWas satisfied, and the wine went round, EvanderTold them a story:—“No vain superstition,No ignorance of the gods, enjoins upon usThese solemn rites, this feast, this deep devotionTo a mighty power’s altar. O Trojan guest,We are grateful men, saved from a cruel danger,We pay these rites each year, each year renewingA worship justly due. Look up at the cliffHung on the high rocks yonder, see the scatteredRubble of rock, the ruin of a dwelling,The jumble of toppled crags. There was a cave thereOnce on a time; no man had ever measuredIts awful depth, no sunlight ever cheered it.The half-man, Cacus, terrible to look at,Lived in that cave, and the ground was always reekingWith the smell of blood, and nailed to the doors, the facesOf men hung pale and wasted. Vulcan fatheredThis monster; you would know it if you saw himWith the black fire pouring from mouth and nostrils,A bulk of moving evil. But time at lastBrought us the help we prayed for; a great avenger,A god, came to our rescue, Hercules,Proud in the death and spoil of triple Geryon,Drove his huge bulls this way, the great herd fillingValley and river. And the crazy Cacus,Who never would lose a chance for crime or cunning,Made off with four of the bulls and four sleek heifers,Dragging them by their tails; the tracks would neverProve he had driven them to his rocky cavern.He hid them in the darkness; whoever lookedWould think they had gone not to, but from, the cave.Meanwhile, as Hercules drove the well-fed herdOut of the stables to the road again,Some of them lowed in protest; hill and groveGave back the sound, and from the cave one heiferLowed in return. That was the doom of Cacus.Black bile burned hot in Hercules; he grabbedHis weapons, his great knotted club, went rushingUp to the mountain-top. Never beforeHad men seen terror in the eyes of Cacus.Swifter than wind, he dove into his cavern,Shut himself in, shattered the links of ironThat held aloft the giant boulder, dropped itTo block the doorway, and Hercules came flingingHis angry strength against it, to no purpose.This way he faced, and that, and gnashed his teethIn sheer frustration; he went around the mountainThree times, in burning rage; three times he batteredThe bulkhead of the door; three times he rested,Breathless and weary, on the floor of the valley.Above the cavern ridge, a pointed rock,All flint, cut sharp, with a sheer drop all around it,Rose steep, a nesting place for kites and buzzards.It leaned a little leftward toward the river.This Hercules grabbed and shook, straining against it;His right hand pushed and wrenched it loose; he shoved it,With a sudden heave, down hill, and the heaven thundered,The river ran backward and the banks jumped sideways,And Cacus’ den stood open, that great palaceUnder the rock, the chambered vault of shadows.An earthquake, so, might bring to light the kingdomsOf the world below the world, the pallid regionsLoathed by the gods, the gulf of gloom, where phantomsShiver and quake as light descends upon them.So there was Cacus, desperate in the light,Caught in the hollow rock, howling and roaringAs Hercules rained weapons down upon him,Everything he could use, from boughs to millstones,But Cacus still had one way out of the danger:A cloud of smoke rolled out of his jaws; the caveDarkened to utter blackness, thick night rollingWith fitful glints of fire. This was too muchFor Hercules in his fury; he jumped down through it,Through fire, where the smoke came rolling forth the thickest,Where the black billows seethed around the cavern.And Cacus, in the darkness, to no purposePoured forth his fire and smoke. Hercules grabbed him,Twisted him into a knot, hung on and choked himTill the eyes bulged out and the throat was dry of blood.He tore the doors loose, and the house was open;People could see the lost and stolen plunder,And Hercules dragged the shapeless ugly carcassOut by the feet, a fascinating objectFor the gaze of men, the terrible eyes, the muzzle,The hairy chest, and the fire dead in the gullet.Ever since then we keep this day, rejoicingIn honor of our deliverance; PotitiusWas founder of the rite, Pinaria’s householdCustodian of the service. In this groveWe set our altar, calling it the greatest,And greatest it shall be, to me, forever.Join with us, then, in honor of all that glory,Bind wreaths around your temples, reach the wine-cup,Call with good-will upon our common god.”He veiled his hair with the two-colored poplarIn Hercules’ honor, and held out the goblet;All made libation and prayer.And evening came,And the priests went forth, Potitius first; they woreThe skins of beasts, and they were bearing torches.The feast renewed, they brought the welcome viandsTo a second table, loading, too, the altars.And the Dancing Priests around the sacred altarsLit fire and sang their songs. They too wore poplar,Both groups, one old, one young, and chanted versesIn praise of Hercules, his deeds, his glories,How first he strangled in his grip twin serpents,The monsters Juno sent; how, great in war,Troy and Oechalia went down before him;How, under King Eurystheus, he boreA thousand heavy toils, at Juno’s order.“Hail, O unvanquished hero, whose hand brought lowPholus, Hylaeus, the cloud-born double shapes,Monsters of Crete and the Nemean lion.The Stygian lakes trembled at Hercules’ crossing,And Cerberus was frightened, in his cavern,Lying on bones half-eaten. O unafraidOf any monster, even Typhoeus, toweringHigh in his arms, even the snake of LernaWith all its hissing heads,—hail, son of Jove,Hail, glorious addition to the heavens!Favor our rites and yours with gracious blessing!”So they sang praises, and they crowned the serviceWith the tale of Cacus, that fire-breathing monster,And hill and woodland echoed to the singing.Then back to the city again; and old EvanderKept his son Pallas near him and Aeneas,Talking of various matters, so the journeyWas lightened, and the landscape charmed Aeneas,Who wondered as he watched the scene, and questioned,And learned its early legend. King EvanderBegan the story:—“Native Nymphs and FaunsDwelt in these woodlands once, and a race of menSprung from the trunks of trees, or rugged oak,Men primitive and rude, with little culture:They had no knowledge of ploughing, none of harvest;The fruits of the wild trees, the spoils of hunting,Gave them their nourishment. Then Saturn came here,Fleeing Jove’s arms, an exile from his kingdom.He organized this race, unruly, scatteredThrough the high mountains, gave them law and order.He gave the place a name; Latium, he called it,Since once he lay there safely, hiding in shelter.Under his rule there came those golden agesThat people tell of, all the nations dwellingIn amity and peace. But little by littleA worse age came, lack-luster in its color,And the madness of war, and the evil greed of having.Then came the Ausonian bands, Sicanian peoples,And the land of Saturn took on other names,And the kings came, and the fierce giant ThybrisFor whom we named our river; we forgotIts older title, Albula. Here I cameAn exile from my country, over the seas,Driven by fate and fortune, which no manCan cope with or escape. The nymph Carmentis,My mother, led me here with solemn warningsUnder Apollo’s guidance.”So EvanderFinished the tale, resumed the walk. They came,First, to an altar and a gate: CarmentalThe Romans call it, in honor of that nymphWho first foretold the greatness of the Romans,The glory of Pallanteum. Past the portalThey came to a spreading grove, a sanctuaryRestored by Romulus, and under the cold cliffThe Lupercal, named, in Arcadian fashion,For the great god Pan. And then Evander showed himThe wood of Argiletum, and told the legendOf the death of Argus, once a guest. From thereThey went to the Tarpeian house, and a placeGolden as we now know it, once a thicket,Once brush and briar, and now our Capitol.Even then men trembled, fearful of a presenceHaunting this wood, this rock. “A god lives here,”Evander said, “What god, we are not certain,But certainly a god. Sometimes my peopleThink they have seen, it may be, Jove himselfClashing the darkening shield, massing the storm-cloud.Here you can see two towns; the walls are shattered,But they remind us still of men of old,Two forts, one built by Janus, one by Saturn,Janiculum, Saturnia.”So they came,Conversing with each other, to the dwellingWhere poor Evander lived, and saw the cattleAnd heard them lowing, through the Roman forum,The fashionable section of our city,And as they came to the house itself, EvanderRemembered something,—“Hercules,” he said,“Great victor that he was, bent head and shouldersTo enter here, and this house entertained him.Dare, O my guest, to think of wealth as nothing,Make yourself worthy of the god, and come hereWithout contempt for poverty.” He led him,The great Aeneas, under the low rafters,Found him a couch, nothing but leaves, and the bedspreadA Libyan bear-skin. And night came rushing downDark-wingèd over the earth.And Venus’ heartWas anxious for her son, and with good reason,Knowing the threats and tumult of the Latins.She spoke to Vulcan, in that golden chamberWhere they were wife and husband, and her wordsWere warm with love:—“When the Greek kings were tearingTroy’s towers as they deserved, and the walls were fatedTo fall to enemy fire, I sought no aidFor those poor people, I did not ask for weaponsMade by your art and power; no, dearest husband,I would not put you to that useless labor,Much as I owed to Priam’s sons, howeverI sorrowed for my suffering Aeneas.But now, at Jove’s command, he has made a landingOn the Rutulian coast; I come, a suppliantTo the great power I cherish, a mother askingArms for her son. If Thetis and AuroraCould move you with their tears, behold what peopleUnite against me, what cities sharpen weaponsBehind closed gates, intent on our destruction!”So Venus pleaded, and as she saw him doubtful,The goddess flung her snowy arms around himIn fondlement, in soft embrace, and fireRan through him; warmth, familiar to the marrow,Softened his sternness, as at times in thunderLight runs through cloud. She knew her charms, the goddess,Rejoicing in them, conscious of her beauty,Sure of the power of love, and heard his answer:—“No need for far-fetched pleading, dearest goddess;Have you no faith in me? You might have asked itIn those old days; I would have armed the Trojans,And Jupiter and the fates might well have givenAnother ten years of life to Troy and Priam.Now, if your purpose is for war, I promiseWhatever careful craft I have, whateverCommand I have of iron or electrum,Whatever fire and air can do. Your pleadingIs foolish; trust your power!” And he came to herWith the embrace they longed for, and on her bosomSank, later, into slumber.And rose earlyWhen night was little more than half way over,The way a housewife must, who tends the spindle,Rising to stir and wake the drowsing embers,Working by night as well as day, and keepingThe housemaids at the task, all day, till lamplight,A faithful wife, through toil, and a good mother,Even so, like her, with no more self-indulgence,The Lord of Fire rose early, from soft pillowsTo the labor of the forge.An island risesNear the Sicanian coast and Lipare,Aeolian land, steep over smoking rocks.Below them roars a cavern, hollow vaultsScooped out for forges, where the Cyclops poundOn the resounding anvils; lumps of steelHiss in the water, and the blasts of firePant in the furnaces; here Vulcan dwells,The place is called Vulcania, and hereThe Lord of Fire comes down. In the great caveThe smiths were working iron; a thunderboltSuch as Jove hurls from heaven, was almost finished,Shaped by the hands of Brontes, Steropes,And naked-limbed Pyracmon. They had addedThree rods of twisted rain and three of cloud,And three of orange fire and wingèd wind,And now they were working in the flash, the sound,The fear, the anger, the pursuing flame.Elsewhere a chariot for Mars was buildingTo harry men and cities; and for PallasAn awful shield, with serpent scales of gold,Snakes interwoven, and the Gorgon’s head,Awaiting polish. The neck was severed, the eyesAlready seemed to roll, when Vulcan cameCrying, “Away with this! Another taskDemands your toil, your thought. Arms for a warrior!Use all your strength, you need it now; exertThe flying hands, ply all your master skill,Break off delay!” And all, obedient, bentTo the great task; the bronze, the golden oreRun down like rivers, and the wounding steelMelts in the furnace as they shape the shield,Welding it, orb on orb, a sevenfold circleMade one, for all the weapons of the Latins.Some keep the bellows panting, others dipThe hissing bronze in water, and the anvilGroans under the hammer-stroke. In turn they raiseTheir arms in measured cadence, and the tongsTake hold of the hot metal, twist and turn it.So sped the work on Lemnos.And EvanderWas wakened by the kindly light of morningAnd bird-song under the eaves, and the old man rose,Donned simple tunic and sandals, and hung onHis simple sword, and over his shoulders twistedThe panther hide, out of the way of the hilt.Two hounds were all his bodyguard; he came,So, to Aeneas’ cabin; he rememberedHis words and promised service, found his guestAn early riser also; hand met hand,And soon companions joined them, young prince Pallas,Loyal Achates. They stroll a while, then settleThemselves for conversation, and EvanderIs first to speak:—“Great captain of the Trojans,I cannot, while you live, consider TroyA beaten town, I cannot see her peopleAs anything but victors. I am sorryOur power to help is meager. On one sideA river hems us in, and on the otherRutulian armies thunder at our walls.Still, I can find you, or I think so, allies,Great people, an encampment rich in kingdoms,An unexpected aid. The fates have brought youTo the right place. Not far away, Agylla,A city built of ancient stone, lies waiting,A town the Lydians founded; you know the race,Renowned in war. It was a prosperous cityFor many years, until Mezentius ruled it,A cruel, arrogant man, sadist and savage.God pay him back in kind! I cannot tell youAll his foul deeds: this will suffice;—he fastenedLive men to dead men, strapped their hands together,Tied face to face, and killed them, slowly, slowly,In the waste and stain and clasp of that long death.They suffered long, his subjects, but at lastThey rose in arms against him, his mad household,Hurled fire to his roof-top, slaughtered his companions.He fled that ruin to Rutulian fields,Where Turnus’ weapons shielded him. Now allEtruria, risen in arms, demands,With threat of war, the king for punishment,And you shall be the leader of those thousandsWho throng the shore with ships, whose cry isForward!But an old prophet holds them back, those warriors,The pride and glory of an ancient people,Whom a just grievance and a righteous angerInflames against Mezentius.It is not fated,He says,for any native-born ItalianTo tame a race so proud. Choose foreign leaders!And so the Etruscan battle-lines have settledUnwarlike on the plain, through heaven’s warning.Tarchon himself has sent me envoys, bearingThe crown and sceptre, urging me to his camp,Bidding me take the throne. But cold old age,And years too thin for battle, these begrudge meThe high command. I would send my son, but PallasComes from a Sabine mother; he is partlyA native-born Italian. You, Aeneas,Possess the proper strength, the proper lineage,The summons of the gods. Take up the burden!My Pallas will go with you, my hope and comfort.You are the one to teach him a soldier’s duty,How to endure; let him learn from you in action,Behold your deeds, and, in his youth, admire them.I will give two hundred horsemen, young Arcadians,The flower of our manhood; and two hundredWill go with you besides in the name of Pallas.”Aeneas and Achates, listening, broodedWith downcast gaze, in troubled speculationProlonging bitter thoughts, but Venus gave themA sign from the bright heaven: a flash of thunderCame from the cloudless sky, a blare of trumpets,And all things suddenly shaken. They looked up swiftly;Again, again, they heard the roar and rumble,They saw arms redden in the clear of heaven,Listened to thunder in cloud. And some were frightened;Not so the Trojan: he knew his mother’s promise.“Ask not, O friend, the meaning of the portent,”He cried, “Olympus summons me; I know it.This was the sign my goddess-mother promisedWhen war was near; she would bring me arms from Vulcan,She said, to help us all. Alas! what slaughterWaits for the Latins now! How costly, Turnus,The price that must be paid me! Shields and helmetsAnd bodies of brave men, swept under Tiber.Now let them call for battle, and break treaties!”He rose and at his quickening the altarsBlazed into sudden fire; he paid his honorsTo Hercules, to all the gods of household,And all made sacrifice, sheep duly chosen.Aeneas sought, once more, his ships, his comrades,Chose, to attend him, those most brave in battle,Despatched the rest down stream again with tidingsTo take Ascanius of his father’s fortunes.Horses are brought for all the Trojan leaders,And for Aeneas the best, a charger, goldenWith lion-skin caparison, claws gilded.And rumor flies about the little citySpreading the news of horsemen on their missionTo Tarchon’s shores, and mothers, in a panic,Double their prayers, and fear comes nearer dangerWith Mars’ great image looming large. EvanderHolds Pallas by the hand, cannot release him,Speaks through his tears:—“If Jupiter would onlyBring me my lost years back, make me the manI used to be, I was once, at PraenesteWhere I struck down the foremost ranks, and burnedThe piled up shields! That day I was a hero,A conqueror, and Erulus went down,By this right hand, to hell. His mother gave himThree lives, and threefold armor; I had to kill himThree times, and did, and thrice I stripped his armor.If I were what I used to be, my son,They would never take you from me; and MezentiusWould never have heaped those insults on his neighbor,Never have made a widow of the city.But you, great gods on high, and you, great kingOf the high gods, take pity on a father,Hear the Arcadian king. I pray for lifeAs long as Pallas lives, I pray to see himIf you will spare him; if he comes back safelyI pray to meet him once again. No moreI ask; how hard my life may be, no matter.But if there is in fortune any menace,Something I cannot speak of, let me dieBefore I know the worst, while I can hopeHowever I doubt, while still I have my Pallas,My late and only pleasure, here beside me,And never news for the worse!” And so they parted,And servants helped the old man into the palace.They had gone from the gates, the horsemen, and Aeneas,Achates and the Trojans, and in the centrePallas, a blaze of light, like LuciferWhom Venus loves beyond all fiery stars,The glory risen from the ocean wave,Dissolver of the shadows. On the wallsThe mothers, trembling, watched them go, the squadronsBright in their bronze, and the cloud of dust behind them,So, out of sight, where the road turns off to forest,They go, the men in arms, and a shout arises,And the column forms, and the echo of the gallopComes clopping back through the ground where the dust is rising.The cold stream, Caere, has a grove beside it,Much reverenced of old, where the curve of the hillsAnd the dark firs make a shelter: the old people,So rumor says, held grove and feast-day sacredHere in Silvanus’ honor, god of the fields,God of the fold. Tarchon and his EtruscansWere camped not far from here, and from the hill-topWatchers could see their legions, tented safelyThrough the wide plain. In Caere’s grove AeneasRested his horses and his weary warriors.And the bright goddess through the clouds of heavenCame bringing gifts, seeing her son aloneBy the cold river in the quiet valley,And spoke to him:—“Behold, the gifts made readyBy Vulcan’s promised skill. Fear not, my son,To face the wars with Turnus and the Latins!”After the word, the embrace. She placed the armor,All shining in his sight, against an oak-tree;Rejoicing in the gift, the honor, he turnedHis eyes to these, over and over again,Could not be satisfied, took in his handsThe helmet with the terrible plumes and flame,The fatal sword, the breastplate, made of bronze,Fire-colored, huge, shining the way a cloud,Dark-blue, turns crimson under the slanting sun,The greaves of gold refined and smooth electrum,The spear, the final masterpiece, the shield.Hereon the great prophetic Lord of FireHad carved the story out, the stock to come,The wars, each one in order, all the taleOf Italy and Roman triumph. HereIn Mars’ green cave the she-wolf gives her uddersTo the twin boys, turning half round to lick them,And neither is afraid, and both are playing.Another scene presents the Circus-games,When Romans took their Sabine brides, and warBroke out between old Tatius and the sonsOf Romulus, and was ended, monarchs pledgingPeace at the altars over sacrifice.Mettus, the false, by the wild horses drawnAnd quartered, sheds his life-blood over the brambles;Porsena, the besieger, rings the cityFor Tarquin’s sake, exile and tyrant; RomansRush on the steel for freedom; Clelia breaksHer bonds to swim the river; and HoratiusBreaks down the bridge. The guardian ManliusHolds the high capitol and that crude palaceFresh with the straw of Romulus; the gooseFlutters in silver through the colonnadesShrieking alarm; the Gauls are near in darkness,Golden their hair, their clothing, and their necksGleam white in collars of gold, and each one carriesTwo Alpine javelins; they have long shields.Near them, the Fire-god sets the priests with capsOf wool, the miracle of the shields from heaven,The Salii dancing, the Luperci naked,And the chaste matrons riding through the cityIn cushioned chariots. Far off, he addsThe seats of Hell, the lofty gates of Pluto,Penance for sin: Catiline, with the FuriesMaking him cower; farther off, the good,With Cato giving laws. And all this sceneBound with the likeness of the swelling ocean,Blue water and whitecap, where the dolphins playingLeap with a curve of silver. In the centerActium, the ships of bronze, Leucate burningHot with the glow of war, and waves on fireWith molten gold. Augustus Caesar standsHigh on the lofty stern; his temples flameWith double fire, and over his head there dawnsHis father’s star. Agrippa leads a columnWith favoring wind and god, the naval garlandWreathing his temples. Antony assemblesEgypt and all the East; Antony, victorOver the lands of dawn and the Red Sea,Marshals the foes of Rome, himself a Roman,With—horror!—an Egyptian wife. The surgeBoils under keel, the oar-blades churn the waters,The triple-pointed beaks drive through the billows,You would think that mountains swam and battled mountains,That islands were uprooted in their anger.Fireballs and shafts of steel are slanting showers,The fields of Neptune redden with the slaughter.The queen drives on her warriors, unseeingThe double snakes of death; rattle and cymbalsCompete with bugle and trumpet. Monstrous gods,Of every form and fashion, one, Anubis,Shaped like a dog, wield their outrageous weaponsIn wrath at Venus, Neptune, and Minerva.Mars, all in steel, storms through the fray; the FuriesSwoop from the sky; Discord exults; Bellona,With bloody scourge, comes lashing; and ApolloFrom Actium bends his bow. Egypt and India,Sabaeans and Arabians, flee in terror.And the contagion takes the queen, who loosensThe sheets to slackness, courts the wind, in terror,Pale at the menace of death. And the Nile comesTo meet her, a protecting god, his mantleSpread wide, to bring a beaten woman home.And Caesar enters Rome triumphant, bringingImmortal offerings, three times a hundredNew altars through the city. Streets are loudWith gladness, games, rejoicing; all the templesAre filled with matrons praying at the altars,Are heaped with solemn sacrifice. And Caesar,Seated before Apollo’s shining threshold,Reviews the gifts, and hangs them on the portals.In long array the conquered file, their garments,Their speech, as various as their arms, the Nomads,The naked Africans, Leleges, Carians,Gelonians with quivers, the Morini,Of mortals most remote, Euphrates movingWith humbler waves, the two-mouthed Rhine, Araxes,Chafing beneath his bridge.All this AeneasSees on his mother’s gift, the shield of Vulcan,And, without understanding, is proud and happyAs he lifts to his shoulder all that fortune,The fame and glory of his children’s children.
As Turnus raised war’s banner, and the trumpetsBlared loud above Laurentum’s citadel,And fiery horses reared, and arms were clashing,Confusion reigned: all Latium joined alliance,The youth were mad for war. Messapus, Ufens,And that despiser of the gods, Mezentius,Brought forces in from everywhere; wide fieldsWere stripped of countrymen. They sent a messageBy Venulus, to Diomede in Arpi:Come to our aid; the Trojans are in Latium;Aeneas with a fleet and vanquished godsProclaims himself a king; it is fate, he says;And many tribes are joining him; his nameSpreads far and wide in Latium.Diomede(The message says) better than many others,Should know the outcome, if the grace of fortuneFollows Aeneas in the scheme he nurtures.He knows the Trojans; he can judge them betterThan Turnus or Latinus.So, in Latium,Events were shaping, and Aeneas knew it,And saw it all, and turned and tossed in tormentOn a great sea of trouble. The swift mindWent searching, probing, veering with every shift,As when in a bronze bowl the light of water,Reflected by the sun or moonlight, wavers,Dances and flits about, from wall to ceiling.Night: over all the world the weary creatures,The beasts and birds, were deep in sleep; Aeneas,With warfare in his heart, stretched out for restWhere the cold sky was awning over the river,And sleep came late. Before him rose an image,An aged head amid the poplar leaves,A mantle of gray, and shady reeds around him,Tiber, the river-god, in consolationAnd comfort speaking:—“Son of the gods, redeemerOf Troy from overseas, her savior ever,O long-awaited on Laurentian fields,Here is your home, be sure of it; here dwellYour household gods, be sure. Do not turn back,Do not be frightened by the threats of war:The swollen rage of Heaven has subsided.Soon—do not take my words for idle phantoms,Illusions of a dream—under the holm-oaksAlong the shore, you will find a huge sow lying,White, with a new-born litter at her udders,Thirty of them, all white, a certain tokenOf a new city, in thirty years. Your sonWill found it; he will call it the White City,A glorious name, beyond all doubt whatever.Further, I have a word or two of guidanceTo speed you through the pressure of the momentToward ultimate victory. Inland a littleArcadian people live, a race descendedFrom Pallas’ line; their king is called Evander,Under whose banner they have built a city,High on the hills; its name is Pallanteum.They wage continual warfare with the Latins;Take them as allies, in covenant and treaty.And I myself will guide you there, upstreamAlong the banks, the oars against the current.Rise, goddess-born; when the stars set, make prayerTo Juno first, with suppliant vows appeasingHer threats and anger. As for me, my tributeMay wait your triumph. I am blue-green Tiber,The river most dear to Heaven, I am the riverYou see, brim-full to these rich banks, this ploughland:This is my home, the source of lofty cities.”So spoke the river-god, to his deep pool diving.Slumber and night were gone. Aeneas rose,Faced eastern sunlight, took up river waterIn the hollow of his hands, and made his prayer:—“Laurentian Nymphs, to whom the rivers oweTheir essence, father Tiber, holy river,Receive Aeneas, be his shield in danger.Wherever your presence dwells, in pool or fountain,Whatever land its flowing bounty graces,O comforter in time of trouble, surelyOur gifts will bring their meed of honor, always,To the horned ruler of the western waters.Only be with us, give us confirmation!”He had made his prayer; two ships were quickly chosenOut of the fleet, equipped, and the crews made ready.And then a marvel struck their eyes, a wonder!White in the wood, on the green ground, there layA sow with her white litter, and AeneasBrought them in sacrifice to Juno’s altar.All that long night, the Tiber calmed his flood;The silent wave, retreating, lay as stillAs pool or mere or watery plain; the oarsDipped without strain; the voyage went with laughterAnd cheerful shouting; over the waters rodeThe oily keels; and waves and woods in wonderBeheld the shields of men, the colored vessels,Divide the flood. Day turns to night. They traverseThe winding bends, with green shade arching over,Parting the green woods in the quiet water,Till it is noon, and they see walls and houses,Evander’s town, which Roman power laterMade equal to the city, a mighty empire,But it was little then. They turned to the shore,Drew near the city.On that day, it happened,The king was paying customary homage,In a grove before the city, to the gods,To Hercules, most of all. And his son PallasWas with him there, and the leaders of the people,The lowly senate, bringing gifts of incenseWhere the warm blood was smoking at the altars.They saw the tall ships come, they saw them glidingUpstream, through the dark wood, the feathered oar-bladesMaking no noise at all, and they were frightened,They rose; they would have left the feast, but Pallas,Unterrified, forbade them; he seized a weapon,Rushed out in challenge, calling from a hillock:—“What cause, young men, has brought you here, exploringWays that you do not know? Where are you going?What is your race? Where do you come from? Are youBringers of peace or war?” Aeneas answeredFrom the high stern, raising the branch of olive:—“We are men from Troy; we are armed against the Latins,Whose arrogant war we flee. We seek Evander.Take him this message: tell him chosen leaders,Dardanus’ sons, have come, to seek for friendship,For allied arms.” And Pallas, in amazementAt hearing that great name, cried, “Come and join us,Whoever you are, speak to my father, enter,O guest, into our household!” And his handReached out to greet and guide them. They left the river,Drew near the grove; with friendly words AeneasSpoke to Evander:—“Best of the sons of Greeks,To whom, at fortune’s will, I bring petition,Bearing the branch of peace, I have not been frightenedTo come to you, a Danaan chief, relatedTo Atreus’ twin sons. In my own rightI am worth something; we are bound togetherBy the god’s holy oracles, by the oldAncestral kinship, by your own renownWidespread through all the world. I am glad to followThe will of fate. Dardanus, our great father,Was father of Troy; his mother was Electra,Daughter of Atlas, who carries on his shouldersThe weight of heaven. Mercury is your father,Born, on Cyllene’s chilly peak, to Maia,And Maia, if legend is credible, the daughterOf Atlas, who carries heaven on his shoulders.A common blood runs in our veins, and thereforeI sent no embassies, I planned no carefulTentative overtures; myself, I came hereMy life at your disposal, in supplicationBefore your threshold. We are harried in warBy the same race that harries you, the sonsOf Daunus; nothing, so they think, will stop them,If we are beaten, from complete dominionOver the western land and both her oceans.Receive and give alliance: our hearts are brave,Our spirit tried and willing.”He had finished.Evander had been watching him, expression,Gesture, and mood, and bearing. He made answer:—“How gladly, bravest man of all the Trojans,I recognize and welcome you! Your father,The great Anchises, speaks to me again,—These are the words, the voice, the very featuresThat I recall so well. Once Priam came here,Faring to Salamis, his sister’s kingdom.I was a young man then; I stared in wonderAt the chiefs of Troy, at Priam, but AnchisesTowered above them all, and my heart was burningTo clasp his hand, to speak with him: I met him,I led him, proudly, to Pheneus’ city,And when he left, he gave me a fine quiverWith Lycian arrows, a cloak with gold embroidered,A pair of golden bridles; my son PallasRejoices in them now. The bond you ask forIs given, the treaty made. To-morrow morningMy escort will attend your leave, my richesBe at your service. Meanwhile, since you come hereAs friends of ours, join us in celebratingThese yearly rites of ours. It is not permittedOur people to postpone them. In your kindness,Become accustomed to your allies’ tables.”He gave the orders for the feast’s renewal.Once more the cups are set; the king, in person,Conducts his guests to places on the greensward,Reserving for Aeneas, in special honor,A maple throne, draped with the skin of a lion.Chosen attendants and the priest of the altarBring the roast portions, pile the bread in baskets,Serve Bacchus’ wine. Aeneas and the TrojansFeast on the consecrated food.When hungerWas satisfied, and the wine went round, EvanderTold them a story:—“No vain superstition,No ignorance of the gods, enjoins upon usThese solemn rites, this feast, this deep devotionTo a mighty power’s altar. O Trojan guest,We are grateful men, saved from a cruel danger,We pay these rites each year, each year renewingA worship justly due. Look up at the cliffHung on the high rocks yonder, see the scatteredRubble of rock, the ruin of a dwelling,The jumble of toppled crags. There was a cave thereOnce on a time; no man had ever measuredIts awful depth, no sunlight ever cheered it.The half-man, Cacus, terrible to look at,Lived in that cave, and the ground was always reekingWith the smell of blood, and nailed to the doors, the facesOf men hung pale and wasted. Vulcan fatheredThis monster; you would know it if you saw himWith the black fire pouring from mouth and nostrils,A bulk of moving evil. But time at lastBrought us the help we prayed for; a great avenger,A god, came to our rescue, Hercules,Proud in the death and spoil of triple Geryon,Drove his huge bulls this way, the great herd fillingValley and river. And the crazy Cacus,Who never would lose a chance for crime or cunning,Made off with four of the bulls and four sleek heifers,Dragging them by their tails; the tracks would neverProve he had driven them to his rocky cavern.He hid them in the darkness; whoever lookedWould think they had gone not to, but from, the cave.Meanwhile, as Hercules drove the well-fed herdOut of the stables to the road again,Some of them lowed in protest; hill and groveGave back the sound, and from the cave one heiferLowed in return. That was the doom of Cacus.Black bile burned hot in Hercules; he grabbedHis weapons, his great knotted club, went rushingUp to the mountain-top. Never beforeHad men seen terror in the eyes of Cacus.Swifter than wind, he dove into his cavern,Shut himself in, shattered the links of ironThat held aloft the giant boulder, dropped itTo block the doorway, and Hercules came flingingHis angry strength against it, to no purpose.This way he faced, and that, and gnashed his teethIn sheer frustration; he went around the mountainThree times, in burning rage; three times he batteredThe bulkhead of the door; three times he rested,Breathless and weary, on the floor of the valley.Above the cavern ridge, a pointed rock,All flint, cut sharp, with a sheer drop all around it,Rose steep, a nesting place for kites and buzzards.It leaned a little leftward toward the river.This Hercules grabbed and shook, straining against it;His right hand pushed and wrenched it loose; he shoved it,With a sudden heave, down hill, and the heaven thundered,The river ran backward and the banks jumped sideways,And Cacus’ den stood open, that great palaceUnder the rock, the chambered vault of shadows.An earthquake, so, might bring to light the kingdomsOf the world below the world, the pallid regionsLoathed by the gods, the gulf of gloom, where phantomsShiver and quake as light descends upon them.So there was Cacus, desperate in the light,Caught in the hollow rock, howling and roaringAs Hercules rained weapons down upon him,Everything he could use, from boughs to millstones,But Cacus still had one way out of the danger:A cloud of smoke rolled out of his jaws; the caveDarkened to utter blackness, thick night rollingWith fitful glints of fire. This was too muchFor Hercules in his fury; he jumped down through it,Through fire, where the smoke came rolling forth the thickest,Where the black billows seethed around the cavern.And Cacus, in the darkness, to no purposePoured forth his fire and smoke. Hercules grabbed him,Twisted him into a knot, hung on and choked himTill the eyes bulged out and the throat was dry of blood.He tore the doors loose, and the house was open;People could see the lost and stolen plunder,And Hercules dragged the shapeless ugly carcassOut by the feet, a fascinating objectFor the gaze of men, the terrible eyes, the muzzle,The hairy chest, and the fire dead in the gullet.Ever since then we keep this day, rejoicingIn honor of our deliverance; PotitiusWas founder of the rite, Pinaria’s householdCustodian of the service. In this groveWe set our altar, calling it the greatest,And greatest it shall be, to me, forever.Join with us, then, in honor of all that glory,Bind wreaths around your temples, reach the wine-cup,Call with good-will upon our common god.”He veiled his hair with the two-colored poplarIn Hercules’ honor, and held out the goblet;All made libation and prayer.And evening came,And the priests went forth, Potitius first; they woreThe skins of beasts, and they were bearing torches.The feast renewed, they brought the welcome viandsTo a second table, loading, too, the altars.And the Dancing Priests around the sacred altarsLit fire and sang their songs. They too wore poplar,Both groups, one old, one young, and chanted versesIn praise of Hercules, his deeds, his glories,How first he strangled in his grip twin serpents,The monsters Juno sent; how, great in war,Troy and Oechalia went down before him;How, under King Eurystheus, he boreA thousand heavy toils, at Juno’s order.“Hail, O unvanquished hero, whose hand brought lowPholus, Hylaeus, the cloud-born double shapes,Monsters of Crete and the Nemean lion.The Stygian lakes trembled at Hercules’ crossing,And Cerberus was frightened, in his cavern,Lying on bones half-eaten. O unafraidOf any monster, even Typhoeus, toweringHigh in his arms, even the snake of LernaWith all its hissing heads,—hail, son of Jove,Hail, glorious addition to the heavens!Favor our rites and yours with gracious blessing!”So they sang praises, and they crowned the serviceWith the tale of Cacus, that fire-breathing monster,And hill and woodland echoed to the singing.Then back to the city again; and old EvanderKept his son Pallas near him and Aeneas,Talking of various matters, so the journeyWas lightened, and the landscape charmed Aeneas,Who wondered as he watched the scene, and questioned,And learned its early legend. King EvanderBegan the story:—“Native Nymphs and FaunsDwelt in these woodlands once, and a race of menSprung from the trunks of trees, or rugged oak,Men primitive and rude, with little culture:They had no knowledge of ploughing, none of harvest;The fruits of the wild trees, the spoils of hunting,Gave them their nourishment. Then Saturn came here,Fleeing Jove’s arms, an exile from his kingdom.He organized this race, unruly, scatteredThrough the high mountains, gave them law and order.He gave the place a name; Latium, he called it,Since once he lay there safely, hiding in shelter.Under his rule there came those golden agesThat people tell of, all the nations dwellingIn amity and peace. But little by littleA worse age came, lack-luster in its color,And the madness of war, and the evil greed of having.Then came the Ausonian bands, Sicanian peoples,And the land of Saturn took on other names,And the kings came, and the fierce giant ThybrisFor whom we named our river; we forgotIts older title, Albula. Here I cameAn exile from my country, over the seas,Driven by fate and fortune, which no manCan cope with or escape. The nymph Carmentis,My mother, led me here with solemn warningsUnder Apollo’s guidance.”So EvanderFinished the tale, resumed the walk. They came,First, to an altar and a gate: CarmentalThe Romans call it, in honor of that nymphWho first foretold the greatness of the Romans,The glory of Pallanteum. Past the portalThey came to a spreading grove, a sanctuaryRestored by Romulus, and under the cold cliffThe Lupercal, named, in Arcadian fashion,For the great god Pan. And then Evander showed himThe wood of Argiletum, and told the legendOf the death of Argus, once a guest. From thereThey went to the Tarpeian house, and a placeGolden as we now know it, once a thicket,Once brush and briar, and now our Capitol.Even then men trembled, fearful of a presenceHaunting this wood, this rock. “A god lives here,”Evander said, “What god, we are not certain,But certainly a god. Sometimes my peopleThink they have seen, it may be, Jove himselfClashing the darkening shield, massing the storm-cloud.Here you can see two towns; the walls are shattered,But they remind us still of men of old,Two forts, one built by Janus, one by Saturn,Janiculum, Saturnia.”So they came,Conversing with each other, to the dwellingWhere poor Evander lived, and saw the cattleAnd heard them lowing, through the Roman forum,The fashionable section of our city,And as they came to the house itself, EvanderRemembered something,—“Hercules,” he said,“Great victor that he was, bent head and shouldersTo enter here, and this house entertained him.Dare, O my guest, to think of wealth as nothing,Make yourself worthy of the god, and come hereWithout contempt for poverty.” He led him,The great Aeneas, under the low rafters,Found him a couch, nothing but leaves, and the bedspreadA Libyan bear-skin. And night came rushing downDark-wingèd over the earth.And Venus’ heartWas anxious for her son, and with good reason,Knowing the threats and tumult of the Latins.She spoke to Vulcan, in that golden chamberWhere they were wife and husband, and her wordsWere warm with love:—“When the Greek kings were tearingTroy’s towers as they deserved, and the walls were fatedTo fall to enemy fire, I sought no aidFor those poor people, I did not ask for weaponsMade by your art and power; no, dearest husband,I would not put you to that useless labor,Much as I owed to Priam’s sons, howeverI sorrowed for my suffering Aeneas.But now, at Jove’s command, he has made a landingOn the Rutulian coast; I come, a suppliantTo the great power I cherish, a mother askingArms for her son. If Thetis and AuroraCould move you with their tears, behold what peopleUnite against me, what cities sharpen weaponsBehind closed gates, intent on our destruction!”So Venus pleaded, and as she saw him doubtful,The goddess flung her snowy arms around himIn fondlement, in soft embrace, and fireRan through him; warmth, familiar to the marrow,Softened his sternness, as at times in thunderLight runs through cloud. She knew her charms, the goddess,Rejoicing in them, conscious of her beauty,Sure of the power of love, and heard his answer:—“No need for far-fetched pleading, dearest goddess;Have you no faith in me? You might have asked itIn those old days; I would have armed the Trojans,And Jupiter and the fates might well have givenAnother ten years of life to Troy and Priam.Now, if your purpose is for war, I promiseWhatever careful craft I have, whateverCommand I have of iron or electrum,Whatever fire and air can do. Your pleadingIs foolish; trust your power!” And he came to herWith the embrace they longed for, and on her bosomSank, later, into slumber.And rose earlyWhen night was little more than half way over,The way a housewife must, who tends the spindle,Rising to stir and wake the drowsing embers,Working by night as well as day, and keepingThe housemaids at the task, all day, till lamplight,A faithful wife, through toil, and a good mother,Even so, like her, with no more self-indulgence,The Lord of Fire rose early, from soft pillowsTo the labor of the forge.An island risesNear the Sicanian coast and Lipare,Aeolian land, steep over smoking rocks.Below them roars a cavern, hollow vaultsScooped out for forges, where the Cyclops poundOn the resounding anvils; lumps of steelHiss in the water, and the blasts of firePant in the furnaces; here Vulcan dwells,The place is called Vulcania, and hereThe Lord of Fire comes down. In the great caveThe smiths were working iron; a thunderboltSuch as Jove hurls from heaven, was almost finished,Shaped by the hands of Brontes, Steropes,And naked-limbed Pyracmon. They had addedThree rods of twisted rain and three of cloud,And three of orange fire and wingèd wind,And now they were working in the flash, the sound,The fear, the anger, the pursuing flame.Elsewhere a chariot for Mars was buildingTo harry men and cities; and for PallasAn awful shield, with serpent scales of gold,Snakes interwoven, and the Gorgon’s head,Awaiting polish. The neck was severed, the eyesAlready seemed to roll, when Vulcan cameCrying, “Away with this! Another taskDemands your toil, your thought. Arms for a warrior!Use all your strength, you need it now; exertThe flying hands, ply all your master skill,Break off delay!” And all, obedient, bentTo the great task; the bronze, the golden oreRun down like rivers, and the wounding steelMelts in the furnace as they shape the shield,Welding it, orb on orb, a sevenfold circleMade one, for all the weapons of the Latins.Some keep the bellows panting, others dipThe hissing bronze in water, and the anvilGroans under the hammer-stroke. In turn they raiseTheir arms in measured cadence, and the tongsTake hold of the hot metal, twist and turn it.So sped the work on Lemnos.And EvanderWas wakened by the kindly light of morningAnd bird-song under the eaves, and the old man rose,Donned simple tunic and sandals, and hung onHis simple sword, and over his shoulders twistedThe panther hide, out of the way of the hilt.Two hounds were all his bodyguard; he came,So, to Aeneas’ cabin; he rememberedHis words and promised service, found his guestAn early riser also; hand met hand,And soon companions joined them, young prince Pallas,Loyal Achates. They stroll a while, then settleThemselves for conversation, and EvanderIs first to speak:—“Great captain of the Trojans,I cannot, while you live, consider TroyA beaten town, I cannot see her peopleAs anything but victors. I am sorryOur power to help is meager. On one sideA river hems us in, and on the otherRutulian armies thunder at our walls.Still, I can find you, or I think so, allies,Great people, an encampment rich in kingdoms,An unexpected aid. The fates have brought youTo the right place. Not far away, Agylla,A city built of ancient stone, lies waiting,A town the Lydians founded; you know the race,Renowned in war. It was a prosperous cityFor many years, until Mezentius ruled it,A cruel, arrogant man, sadist and savage.God pay him back in kind! I cannot tell youAll his foul deeds: this will suffice;—he fastenedLive men to dead men, strapped their hands together,Tied face to face, and killed them, slowly, slowly,In the waste and stain and clasp of that long death.They suffered long, his subjects, but at lastThey rose in arms against him, his mad household,Hurled fire to his roof-top, slaughtered his companions.He fled that ruin to Rutulian fields,Where Turnus’ weapons shielded him. Now allEtruria, risen in arms, demands,With threat of war, the king for punishment,And you shall be the leader of those thousandsWho throng the shore with ships, whose cry isForward!But an old prophet holds them back, those warriors,The pride and glory of an ancient people,Whom a just grievance and a righteous angerInflames against Mezentius.It is not fated,He says,for any native-born ItalianTo tame a race so proud. Choose foreign leaders!And so the Etruscan battle-lines have settledUnwarlike on the plain, through heaven’s warning.Tarchon himself has sent me envoys, bearingThe crown and sceptre, urging me to his camp,Bidding me take the throne. But cold old age,And years too thin for battle, these begrudge meThe high command. I would send my son, but PallasComes from a Sabine mother; he is partlyA native-born Italian. You, Aeneas,Possess the proper strength, the proper lineage,The summons of the gods. Take up the burden!My Pallas will go with you, my hope and comfort.You are the one to teach him a soldier’s duty,How to endure; let him learn from you in action,Behold your deeds, and, in his youth, admire them.I will give two hundred horsemen, young Arcadians,The flower of our manhood; and two hundredWill go with you besides in the name of Pallas.”Aeneas and Achates, listening, broodedWith downcast gaze, in troubled speculationProlonging bitter thoughts, but Venus gave themA sign from the bright heaven: a flash of thunderCame from the cloudless sky, a blare of trumpets,And all things suddenly shaken. They looked up swiftly;Again, again, they heard the roar and rumble,They saw arms redden in the clear of heaven,Listened to thunder in cloud. And some were frightened;Not so the Trojan: he knew his mother’s promise.“Ask not, O friend, the meaning of the portent,”He cried, “Olympus summons me; I know it.This was the sign my goddess-mother promisedWhen war was near; she would bring me arms from Vulcan,She said, to help us all. Alas! what slaughterWaits for the Latins now! How costly, Turnus,The price that must be paid me! Shields and helmetsAnd bodies of brave men, swept under Tiber.Now let them call for battle, and break treaties!”He rose and at his quickening the altarsBlazed into sudden fire; he paid his honorsTo Hercules, to all the gods of household,And all made sacrifice, sheep duly chosen.Aeneas sought, once more, his ships, his comrades,Chose, to attend him, those most brave in battle,Despatched the rest down stream again with tidingsTo take Ascanius of his father’s fortunes.Horses are brought for all the Trojan leaders,And for Aeneas the best, a charger, goldenWith lion-skin caparison, claws gilded.And rumor flies about the little citySpreading the news of horsemen on their missionTo Tarchon’s shores, and mothers, in a panic,Double their prayers, and fear comes nearer dangerWith Mars’ great image looming large. EvanderHolds Pallas by the hand, cannot release him,Speaks through his tears:—“If Jupiter would onlyBring me my lost years back, make me the manI used to be, I was once, at PraenesteWhere I struck down the foremost ranks, and burnedThe piled up shields! That day I was a hero,A conqueror, and Erulus went down,By this right hand, to hell. His mother gave himThree lives, and threefold armor; I had to kill himThree times, and did, and thrice I stripped his armor.If I were what I used to be, my son,They would never take you from me; and MezentiusWould never have heaped those insults on his neighbor,Never have made a widow of the city.But you, great gods on high, and you, great kingOf the high gods, take pity on a father,Hear the Arcadian king. I pray for lifeAs long as Pallas lives, I pray to see himIf you will spare him; if he comes back safelyI pray to meet him once again. No moreI ask; how hard my life may be, no matter.But if there is in fortune any menace,Something I cannot speak of, let me dieBefore I know the worst, while I can hopeHowever I doubt, while still I have my Pallas,My late and only pleasure, here beside me,And never news for the worse!” And so they parted,And servants helped the old man into the palace.They had gone from the gates, the horsemen, and Aeneas,Achates and the Trojans, and in the centrePallas, a blaze of light, like LuciferWhom Venus loves beyond all fiery stars,The glory risen from the ocean wave,Dissolver of the shadows. On the wallsThe mothers, trembling, watched them go, the squadronsBright in their bronze, and the cloud of dust behind them,So, out of sight, where the road turns off to forest,They go, the men in arms, and a shout arises,And the column forms, and the echo of the gallopComes clopping back through the ground where the dust is rising.The cold stream, Caere, has a grove beside it,Much reverenced of old, where the curve of the hillsAnd the dark firs make a shelter: the old people,So rumor says, held grove and feast-day sacredHere in Silvanus’ honor, god of the fields,God of the fold. Tarchon and his EtruscansWere camped not far from here, and from the hill-topWatchers could see their legions, tented safelyThrough the wide plain. In Caere’s grove AeneasRested his horses and his weary warriors.And the bright goddess through the clouds of heavenCame bringing gifts, seeing her son aloneBy the cold river in the quiet valley,And spoke to him:—“Behold, the gifts made readyBy Vulcan’s promised skill. Fear not, my son,To face the wars with Turnus and the Latins!”After the word, the embrace. She placed the armor,All shining in his sight, against an oak-tree;Rejoicing in the gift, the honor, he turnedHis eyes to these, over and over again,Could not be satisfied, took in his handsThe helmet with the terrible plumes and flame,The fatal sword, the breastplate, made of bronze,Fire-colored, huge, shining the way a cloud,Dark-blue, turns crimson under the slanting sun,The greaves of gold refined and smooth electrum,The spear, the final masterpiece, the shield.Hereon the great prophetic Lord of FireHad carved the story out, the stock to come,The wars, each one in order, all the taleOf Italy and Roman triumph. HereIn Mars’ green cave the she-wolf gives her uddersTo the twin boys, turning half round to lick them,And neither is afraid, and both are playing.Another scene presents the Circus-games,When Romans took their Sabine brides, and warBroke out between old Tatius and the sonsOf Romulus, and was ended, monarchs pledgingPeace at the altars over sacrifice.Mettus, the false, by the wild horses drawnAnd quartered, sheds his life-blood over the brambles;Porsena, the besieger, rings the cityFor Tarquin’s sake, exile and tyrant; RomansRush on the steel for freedom; Clelia breaksHer bonds to swim the river; and HoratiusBreaks down the bridge. The guardian ManliusHolds the high capitol and that crude palaceFresh with the straw of Romulus; the gooseFlutters in silver through the colonnadesShrieking alarm; the Gauls are near in darkness,Golden their hair, their clothing, and their necksGleam white in collars of gold, and each one carriesTwo Alpine javelins; they have long shields.Near them, the Fire-god sets the priests with capsOf wool, the miracle of the shields from heaven,The Salii dancing, the Luperci naked,And the chaste matrons riding through the cityIn cushioned chariots. Far off, he addsThe seats of Hell, the lofty gates of Pluto,Penance for sin: Catiline, with the FuriesMaking him cower; farther off, the good,With Cato giving laws. And all this sceneBound with the likeness of the swelling ocean,Blue water and whitecap, where the dolphins playingLeap with a curve of silver. In the centerActium, the ships of bronze, Leucate burningHot with the glow of war, and waves on fireWith molten gold. Augustus Caesar standsHigh on the lofty stern; his temples flameWith double fire, and over his head there dawnsHis father’s star. Agrippa leads a columnWith favoring wind and god, the naval garlandWreathing his temples. Antony assemblesEgypt and all the East; Antony, victorOver the lands of dawn and the Red Sea,Marshals the foes of Rome, himself a Roman,With—horror!—an Egyptian wife. The surgeBoils under keel, the oar-blades churn the waters,The triple-pointed beaks drive through the billows,You would think that mountains swam and battled mountains,That islands were uprooted in their anger.Fireballs and shafts of steel are slanting showers,The fields of Neptune redden with the slaughter.The queen drives on her warriors, unseeingThe double snakes of death; rattle and cymbalsCompete with bugle and trumpet. Monstrous gods,Of every form and fashion, one, Anubis,Shaped like a dog, wield their outrageous weaponsIn wrath at Venus, Neptune, and Minerva.Mars, all in steel, storms through the fray; the FuriesSwoop from the sky; Discord exults; Bellona,With bloody scourge, comes lashing; and ApolloFrom Actium bends his bow. Egypt and India,Sabaeans and Arabians, flee in terror.And the contagion takes the queen, who loosensThe sheets to slackness, courts the wind, in terror,Pale at the menace of death. And the Nile comesTo meet her, a protecting god, his mantleSpread wide, to bring a beaten woman home.And Caesar enters Rome triumphant, bringingImmortal offerings, three times a hundredNew altars through the city. Streets are loudWith gladness, games, rejoicing; all the templesAre filled with matrons praying at the altars,Are heaped with solemn sacrifice. And Caesar,Seated before Apollo’s shining threshold,Reviews the gifts, and hangs them on the portals.In long array the conquered file, their garments,Their speech, as various as their arms, the Nomads,The naked Africans, Leleges, Carians,Gelonians with quivers, the Morini,Of mortals most remote, Euphrates movingWith humbler waves, the two-mouthed Rhine, Araxes,Chafing beneath his bridge.All this AeneasSees on his mother’s gift, the shield of Vulcan,And, without understanding, is proud and happyAs he lifts to his shoulder all that fortune,The fame and glory of his children’s children.
As Turnus raised war’s banner, and the trumpetsBlared loud above Laurentum’s citadel,And fiery horses reared, and arms were clashing,Confusion reigned: all Latium joined alliance,The youth were mad for war. Messapus, Ufens,And that despiser of the gods, Mezentius,Brought forces in from everywhere; wide fieldsWere stripped of countrymen. They sent a messageBy Venulus, to Diomede in Arpi:Come to our aid; the Trojans are in Latium;Aeneas with a fleet and vanquished godsProclaims himself a king; it is fate, he says;And many tribes are joining him; his nameSpreads far and wide in Latium.Diomede(The message says) better than many others,Should know the outcome, if the grace of fortuneFollows Aeneas in the scheme he nurtures.He knows the Trojans; he can judge them betterThan Turnus or Latinus.So, in Latium,Events were shaping, and Aeneas knew it,And saw it all, and turned and tossed in tormentOn a great sea of trouble. The swift mindWent searching, probing, veering with every shift,As when in a bronze bowl the light of water,Reflected by the sun or moonlight, wavers,Dances and flits about, from wall to ceiling.Night: over all the world the weary creatures,The beasts and birds, were deep in sleep; Aeneas,With warfare in his heart, stretched out for restWhere the cold sky was awning over the river,And sleep came late. Before him rose an image,An aged head amid the poplar leaves,A mantle of gray, and shady reeds around him,Tiber, the river-god, in consolationAnd comfort speaking:—“Son of the gods, redeemerOf Troy from overseas, her savior ever,O long-awaited on Laurentian fields,Here is your home, be sure of it; here dwellYour household gods, be sure. Do not turn back,Do not be frightened by the threats of war:The swollen rage of Heaven has subsided.Soon—do not take my words for idle phantoms,Illusions of a dream—under the holm-oaksAlong the shore, you will find a huge sow lying,White, with a new-born litter at her udders,Thirty of them, all white, a certain tokenOf a new city, in thirty years. Your sonWill found it; he will call it the White City,A glorious name, beyond all doubt whatever.Further, I have a word or two of guidanceTo speed you through the pressure of the momentToward ultimate victory. Inland a littleArcadian people live, a race descendedFrom Pallas’ line; their king is called Evander,Under whose banner they have built a city,High on the hills; its name is Pallanteum.They wage continual warfare with the Latins;Take them as allies, in covenant and treaty.And I myself will guide you there, upstreamAlong the banks, the oars against the current.Rise, goddess-born; when the stars set, make prayerTo Juno first, with suppliant vows appeasingHer threats and anger. As for me, my tributeMay wait your triumph. I am blue-green Tiber,The river most dear to Heaven, I am the riverYou see, brim-full to these rich banks, this ploughland:This is my home, the source of lofty cities.”
So spoke the river-god, to his deep pool diving.Slumber and night were gone. Aeneas rose,Faced eastern sunlight, took up river waterIn the hollow of his hands, and made his prayer:—“Laurentian Nymphs, to whom the rivers oweTheir essence, father Tiber, holy river,Receive Aeneas, be his shield in danger.Wherever your presence dwells, in pool or fountain,Whatever land its flowing bounty graces,O comforter in time of trouble, surelyOur gifts will bring their meed of honor, always,To the horned ruler of the western waters.Only be with us, give us confirmation!”He had made his prayer; two ships were quickly chosenOut of the fleet, equipped, and the crews made ready.
And then a marvel struck their eyes, a wonder!White in the wood, on the green ground, there layA sow with her white litter, and AeneasBrought them in sacrifice to Juno’s altar.All that long night, the Tiber calmed his flood;The silent wave, retreating, lay as stillAs pool or mere or watery plain; the oarsDipped without strain; the voyage went with laughterAnd cheerful shouting; over the waters rodeThe oily keels; and waves and woods in wonderBeheld the shields of men, the colored vessels,Divide the flood. Day turns to night. They traverseThe winding bends, with green shade arching over,Parting the green woods in the quiet water,Till it is noon, and they see walls and houses,Evander’s town, which Roman power laterMade equal to the city, a mighty empire,But it was little then. They turned to the shore,Drew near the city.
On that day, it happened,The king was paying customary homage,In a grove before the city, to the gods,To Hercules, most of all. And his son PallasWas with him there, and the leaders of the people,The lowly senate, bringing gifts of incenseWhere the warm blood was smoking at the altars.They saw the tall ships come, they saw them glidingUpstream, through the dark wood, the feathered oar-bladesMaking no noise at all, and they were frightened,They rose; they would have left the feast, but Pallas,Unterrified, forbade them; he seized a weapon,Rushed out in challenge, calling from a hillock:—“What cause, young men, has brought you here, exploringWays that you do not know? Where are you going?What is your race? Where do you come from? Are youBringers of peace or war?” Aeneas answeredFrom the high stern, raising the branch of olive:—“We are men from Troy; we are armed against the Latins,Whose arrogant war we flee. We seek Evander.Take him this message: tell him chosen leaders,Dardanus’ sons, have come, to seek for friendship,For allied arms.” And Pallas, in amazementAt hearing that great name, cried, “Come and join us,Whoever you are, speak to my father, enter,O guest, into our household!” And his handReached out to greet and guide them. They left the river,Drew near the grove; with friendly words AeneasSpoke to Evander:—“Best of the sons of Greeks,To whom, at fortune’s will, I bring petition,Bearing the branch of peace, I have not been frightenedTo come to you, a Danaan chief, relatedTo Atreus’ twin sons. In my own rightI am worth something; we are bound togetherBy the god’s holy oracles, by the oldAncestral kinship, by your own renownWidespread through all the world. I am glad to followThe will of fate. Dardanus, our great father,Was father of Troy; his mother was Electra,Daughter of Atlas, who carries on his shouldersThe weight of heaven. Mercury is your father,Born, on Cyllene’s chilly peak, to Maia,And Maia, if legend is credible, the daughterOf Atlas, who carries heaven on his shoulders.A common blood runs in our veins, and thereforeI sent no embassies, I planned no carefulTentative overtures; myself, I came hereMy life at your disposal, in supplicationBefore your threshold. We are harried in warBy the same race that harries you, the sonsOf Daunus; nothing, so they think, will stop them,If we are beaten, from complete dominionOver the western land and both her oceans.Receive and give alliance: our hearts are brave,Our spirit tried and willing.”
He had finished.Evander had been watching him, expression,Gesture, and mood, and bearing. He made answer:—“How gladly, bravest man of all the Trojans,I recognize and welcome you! Your father,The great Anchises, speaks to me again,—These are the words, the voice, the very featuresThat I recall so well. Once Priam came here,Faring to Salamis, his sister’s kingdom.I was a young man then; I stared in wonderAt the chiefs of Troy, at Priam, but AnchisesTowered above them all, and my heart was burningTo clasp his hand, to speak with him: I met him,I led him, proudly, to Pheneus’ city,And when he left, he gave me a fine quiverWith Lycian arrows, a cloak with gold embroidered,A pair of golden bridles; my son PallasRejoices in them now. The bond you ask forIs given, the treaty made. To-morrow morningMy escort will attend your leave, my richesBe at your service. Meanwhile, since you come hereAs friends of ours, join us in celebratingThese yearly rites of ours. It is not permittedOur people to postpone them. In your kindness,Become accustomed to your allies’ tables.”
He gave the orders for the feast’s renewal.Once more the cups are set; the king, in person,Conducts his guests to places on the greensward,Reserving for Aeneas, in special honor,A maple throne, draped with the skin of a lion.Chosen attendants and the priest of the altarBring the roast portions, pile the bread in baskets,Serve Bacchus’ wine. Aeneas and the TrojansFeast on the consecrated food.
When hungerWas satisfied, and the wine went round, EvanderTold them a story:—“No vain superstition,No ignorance of the gods, enjoins upon usThese solemn rites, this feast, this deep devotionTo a mighty power’s altar. O Trojan guest,We are grateful men, saved from a cruel danger,We pay these rites each year, each year renewingA worship justly due. Look up at the cliffHung on the high rocks yonder, see the scatteredRubble of rock, the ruin of a dwelling,The jumble of toppled crags. There was a cave thereOnce on a time; no man had ever measuredIts awful depth, no sunlight ever cheered it.The half-man, Cacus, terrible to look at,Lived in that cave, and the ground was always reekingWith the smell of blood, and nailed to the doors, the facesOf men hung pale and wasted. Vulcan fatheredThis monster; you would know it if you saw himWith the black fire pouring from mouth and nostrils,A bulk of moving evil. But time at lastBrought us the help we prayed for; a great avenger,A god, came to our rescue, Hercules,Proud in the death and spoil of triple Geryon,Drove his huge bulls this way, the great herd fillingValley and river. And the crazy Cacus,Who never would lose a chance for crime or cunning,Made off with four of the bulls and four sleek heifers,Dragging them by their tails; the tracks would neverProve he had driven them to his rocky cavern.He hid them in the darkness; whoever lookedWould think they had gone not to, but from, the cave.Meanwhile, as Hercules drove the well-fed herdOut of the stables to the road again,Some of them lowed in protest; hill and groveGave back the sound, and from the cave one heiferLowed in return. That was the doom of Cacus.Black bile burned hot in Hercules; he grabbedHis weapons, his great knotted club, went rushingUp to the mountain-top. Never beforeHad men seen terror in the eyes of Cacus.Swifter than wind, he dove into his cavern,Shut himself in, shattered the links of ironThat held aloft the giant boulder, dropped itTo block the doorway, and Hercules came flingingHis angry strength against it, to no purpose.This way he faced, and that, and gnashed his teethIn sheer frustration; he went around the mountainThree times, in burning rage; three times he batteredThe bulkhead of the door; three times he rested,Breathless and weary, on the floor of the valley.Above the cavern ridge, a pointed rock,All flint, cut sharp, with a sheer drop all around it,Rose steep, a nesting place for kites and buzzards.It leaned a little leftward toward the river.This Hercules grabbed and shook, straining against it;His right hand pushed and wrenched it loose; he shoved it,With a sudden heave, down hill, and the heaven thundered,The river ran backward and the banks jumped sideways,And Cacus’ den stood open, that great palaceUnder the rock, the chambered vault of shadows.An earthquake, so, might bring to light the kingdomsOf the world below the world, the pallid regionsLoathed by the gods, the gulf of gloom, where phantomsShiver and quake as light descends upon them.So there was Cacus, desperate in the light,Caught in the hollow rock, howling and roaringAs Hercules rained weapons down upon him,Everything he could use, from boughs to millstones,But Cacus still had one way out of the danger:A cloud of smoke rolled out of his jaws; the caveDarkened to utter blackness, thick night rollingWith fitful glints of fire. This was too muchFor Hercules in his fury; he jumped down through it,Through fire, where the smoke came rolling forth the thickest,Where the black billows seethed around the cavern.And Cacus, in the darkness, to no purposePoured forth his fire and smoke. Hercules grabbed him,Twisted him into a knot, hung on and choked himTill the eyes bulged out and the throat was dry of blood.He tore the doors loose, and the house was open;People could see the lost and stolen plunder,And Hercules dragged the shapeless ugly carcassOut by the feet, a fascinating objectFor the gaze of men, the terrible eyes, the muzzle,The hairy chest, and the fire dead in the gullet.Ever since then we keep this day, rejoicingIn honor of our deliverance; PotitiusWas founder of the rite, Pinaria’s householdCustodian of the service. In this groveWe set our altar, calling it the greatest,And greatest it shall be, to me, forever.Join with us, then, in honor of all that glory,Bind wreaths around your temples, reach the wine-cup,Call with good-will upon our common god.”He veiled his hair with the two-colored poplarIn Hercules’ honor, and held out the goblet;All made libation and prayer.
And evening came,And the priests went forth, Potitius first; they woreThe skins of beasts, and they were bearing torches.The feast renewed, they brought the welcome viandsTo a second table, loading, too, the altars.And the Dancing Priests around the sacred altarsLit fire and sang their songs. They too wore poplar,Both groups, one old, one young, and chanted versesIn praise of Hercules, his deeds, his glories,How first he strangled in his grip twin serpents,The monsters Juno sent; how, great in war,Troy and Oechalia went down before him;How, under King Eurystheus, he boreA thousand heavy toils, at Juno’s order.“Hail, O unvanquished hero, whose hand brought lowPholus, Hylaeus, the cloud-born double shapes,Monsters of Crete and the Nemean lion.The Stygian lakes trembled at Hercules’ crossing,And Cerberus was frightened, in his cavern,Lying on bones half-eaten. O unafraidOf any monster, even Typhoeus, toweringHigh in his arms, even the snake of LernaWith all its hissing heads,—hail, son of Jove,Hail, glorious addition to the heavens!Favor our rites and yours with gracious blessing!”So they sang praises, and they crowned the serviceWith the tale of Cacus, that fire-breathing monster,And hill and woodland echoed to the singing.
Then back to the city again; and old EvanderKept his son Pallas near him and Aeneas,Talking of various matters, so the journeyWas lightened, and the landscape charmed Aeneas,Who wondered as he watched the scene, and questioned,And learned its early legend. King EvanderBegan the story:—“Native Nymphs and FaunsDwelt in these woodlands once, and a race of menSprung from the trunks of trees, or rugged oak,Men primitive and rude, with little culture:They had no knowledge of ploughing, none of harvest;The fruits of the wild trees, the spoils of hunting,Gave them their nourishment. Then Saturn came here,Fleeing Jove’s arms, an exile from his kingdom.He organized this race, unruly, scatteredThrough the high mountains, gave them law and order.He gave the place a name; Latium, he called it,Since once he lay there safely, hiding in shelter.Under his rule there came those golden agesThat people tell of, all the nations dwellingIn amity and peace. But little by littleA worse age came, lack-luster in its color,And the madness of war, and the evil greed of having.Then came the Ausonian bands, Sicanian peoples,And the land of Saturn took on other names,And the kings came, and the fierce giant ThybrisFor whom we named our river; we forgotIts older title, Albula. Here I cameAn exile from my country, over the seas,Driven by fate and fortune, which no manCan cope with or escape. The nymph Carmentis,My mother, led me here with solemn warningsUnder Apollo’s guidance.”
So EvanderFinished the tale, resumed the walk. They came,First, to an altar and a gate: CarmentalThe Romans call it, in honor of that nymphWho first foretold the greatness of the Romans,The glory of Pallanteum. Past the portalThey came to a spreading grove, a sanctuaryRestored by Romulus, and under the cold cliffThe Lupercal, named, in Arcadian fashion,For the great god Pan. And then Evander showed himThe wood of Argiletum, and told the legendOf the death of Argus, once a guest. From thereThey went to the Tarpeian house, and a placeGolden as we now know it, once a thicket,Once brush and briar, and now our Capitol.Even then men trembled, fearful of a presenceHaunting this wood, this rock. “A god lives here,”Evander said, “What god, we are not certain,But certainly a god. Sometimes my peopleThink they have seen, it may be, Jove himselfClashing the darkening shield, massing the storm-cloud.Here you can see two towns; the walls are shattered,But they remind us still of men of old,Two forts, one built by Janus, one by Saturn,Janiculum, Saturnia.”
So they came,Conversing with each other, to the dwellingWhere poor Evander lived, and saw the cattleAnd heard them lowing, through the Roman forum,The fashionable section of our city,And as they came to the house itself, EvanderRemembered something,—“Hercules,” he said,“Great victor that he was, bent head and shouldersTo enter here, and this house entertained him.Dare, O my guest, to think of wealth as nothing,Make yourself worthy of the god, and come hereWithout contempt for poverty.” He led him,The great Aeneas, under the low rafters,Found him a couch, nothing but leaves, and the bedspreadA Libyan bear-skin. And night came rushing downDark-wingèd over the earth.
And Venus’ heartWas anxious for her son, and with good reason,Knowing the threats and tumult of the Latins.She spoke to Vulcan, in that golden chamberWhere they were wife and husband, and her wordsWere warm with love:—“When the Greek kings were tearingTroy’s towers as they deserved, and the walls were fatedTo fall to enemy fire, I sought no aidFor those poor people, I did not ask for weaponsMade by your art and power; no, dearest husband,I would not put you to that useless labor,Much as I owed to Priam’s sons, howeverI sorrowed for my suffering Aeneas.But now, at Jove’s command, he has made a landingOn the Rutulian coast; I come, a suppliantTo the great power I cherish, a mother askingArms for her son. If Thetis and AuroraCould move you with their tears, behold what peopleUnite against me, what cities sharpen weaponsBehind closed gates, intent on our destruction!”So Venus pleaded, and as she saw him doubtful,The goddess flung her snowy arms around himIn fondlement, in soft embrace, and fireRan through him; warmth, familiar to the marrow,Softened his sternness, as at times in thunderLight runs through cloud. She knew her charms, the goddess,Rejoicing in them, conscious of her beauty,Sure of the power of love, and heard his answer:—“No need for far-fetched pleading, dearest goddess;Have you no faith in me? You might have asked itIn those old days; I would have armed the Trojans,And Jupiter and the fates might well have givenAnother ten years of life to Troy and Priam.Now, if your purpose is for war, I promiseWhatever careful craft I have, whateverCommand I have of iron or electrum,Whatever fire and air can do. Your pleadingIs foolish; trust your power!” And he came to herWith the embrace they longed for, and on her bosomSank, later, into slumber.
And rose earlyWhen night was little more than half way over,The way a housewife must, who tends the spindle,Rising to stir and wake the drowsing embers,Working by night as well as day, and keepingThe housemaids at the task, all day, till lamplight,A faithful wife, through toil, and a good mother,Even so, like her, with no more self-indulgence,The Lord of Fire rose early, from soft pillowsTo the labor of the forge.
An island risesNear the Sicanian coast and Lipare,Aeolian land, steep over smoking rocks.Below them roars a cavern, hollow vaultsScooped out for forges, where the Cyclops poundOn the resounding anvils; lumps of steelHiss in the water, and the blasts of firePant in the furnaces; here Vulcan dwells,The place is called Vulcania, and hereThe Lord of Fire comes down. In the great caveThe smiths were working iron; a thunderboltSuch as Jove hurls from heaven, was almost finished,Shaped by the hands of Brontes, Steropes,And naked-limbed Pyracmon. They had addedThree rods of twisted rain and three of cloud,And three of orange fire and wingèd wind,And now they were working in the flash, the sound,The fear, the anger, the pursuing flame.Elsewhere a chariot for Mars was buildingTo harry men and cities; and for PallasAn awful shield, with serpent scales of gold,Snakes interwoven, and the Gorgon’s head,Awaiting polish. The neck was severed, the eyesAlready seemed to roll, when Vulcan cameCrying, “Away with this! Another taskDemands your toil, your thought. Arms for a warrior!Use all your strength, you need it now; exertThe flying hands, ply all your master skill,Break off delay!” And all, obedient, bentTo the great task; the bronze, the golden oreRun down like rivers, and the wounding steelMelts in the furnace as they shape the shield,Welding it, orb on orb, a sevenfold circleMade one, for all the weapons of the Latins.Some keep the bellows panting, others dipThe hissing bronze in water, and the anvilGroans under the hammer-stroke. In turn they raiseTheir arms in measured cadence, and the tongsTake hold of the hot metal, twist and turn it.So sped the work on Lemnos.
And EvanderWas wakened by the kindly light of morningAnd bird-song under the eaves, and the old man rose,Donned simple tunic and sandals, and hung onHis simple sword, and over his shoulders twistedThe panther hide, out of the way of the hilt.Two hounds were all his bodyguard; he came,So, to Aeneas’ cabin; he rememberedHis words and promised service, found his guestAn early riser also; hand met hand,And soon companions joined them, young prince Pallas,Loyal Achates. They stroll a while, then settleThemselves for conversation, and EvanderIs first to speak:—“Great captain of the Trojans,I cannot, while you live, consider TroyA beaten town, I cannot see her peopleAs anything but victors. I am sorryOur power to help is meager. On one sideA river hems us in, and on the otherRutulian armies thunder at our walls.Still, I can find you, or I think so, allies,Great people, an encampment rich in kingdoms,An unexpected aid. The fates have brought youTo the right place. Not far away, Agylla,A city built of ancient stone, lies waiting,A town the Lydians founded; you know the race,Renowned in war. It was a prosperous cityFor many years, until Mezentius ruled it,A cruel, arrogant man, sadist and savage.God pay him back in kind! I cannot tell youAll his foul deeds: this will suffice;—he fastenedLive men to dead men, strapped their hands together,Tied face to face, and killed them, slowly, slowly,In the waste and stain and clasp of that long death.They suffered long, his subjects, but at lastThey rose in arms against him, his mad household,Hurled fire to his roof-top, slaughtered his companions.He fled that ruin to Rutulian fields,Where Turnus’ weapons shielded him. Now allEtruria, risen in arms, demands,With threat of war, the king for punishment,And you shall be the leader of those thousandsWho throng the shore with ships, whose cry isForward!But an old prophet holds them back, those warriors,The pride and glory of an ancient people,Whom a just grievance and a righteous angerInflames against Mezentius.It is not fated,He says,for any native-born ItalianTo tame a race so proud. Choose foreign leaders!And so the Etruscan battle-lines have settledUnwarlike on the plain, through heaven’s warning.Tarchon himself has sent me envoys, bearingThe crown and sceptre, urging me to his camp,Bidding me take the throne. But cold old age,And years too thin for battle, these begrudge meThe high command. I would send my son, but PallasComes from a Sabine mother; he is partlyA native-born Italian. You, Aeneas,Possess the proper strength, the proper lineage,The summons of the gods. Take up the burden!My Pallas will go with you, my hope and comfort.You are the one to teach him a soldier’s duty,How to endure; let him learn from you in action,Behold your deeds, and, in his youth, admire them.I will give two hundred horsemen, young Arcadians,The flower of our manhood; and two hundredWill go with you besides in the name of Pallas.”
Aeneas and Achates, listening, broodedWith downcast gaze, in troubled speculationProlonging bitter thoughts, but Venus gave themA sign from the bright heaven: a flash of thunderCame from the cloudless sky, a blare of trumpets,And all things suddenly shaken. They looked up swiftly;Again, again, they heard the roar and rumble,They saw arms redden in the clear of heaven,Listened to thunder in cloud. And some were frightened;Not so the Trojan: he knew his mother’s promise.“Ask not, O friend, the meaning of the portent,”He cried, “Olympus summons me; I know it.This was the sign my goddess-mother promisedWhen war was near; she would bring me arms from Vulcan,She said, to help us all. Alas! what slaughterWaits for the Latins now! How costly, Turnus,The price that must be paid me! Shields and helmetsAnd bodies of brave men, swept under Tiber.Now let them call for battle, and break treaties!”
He rose and at his quickening the altarsBlazed into sudden fire; he paid his honorsTo Hercules, to all the gods of household,And all made sacrifice, sheep duly chosen.Aeneas sought, once more, his ships, his comrades,Chose, to attend him, those most brave in battle,Despatched the rest down stream again with tidingsTo take Ascanius of his father’s fortunes.Horses are brought for all the Trojan leaders,And for Aeneas the best, a charger, goldenWith lion-skin caparison, claws gilded.
And rumor flies about the little citySpreading the news of horsemen on their missionTo Tarchon’s shores, and mothers, in a panic,Double their prayers, and fear comes nearer dangerWith Mars’ great image looming large. EvanderHolds Pallas by the hand, cannot release him,Speaks through his tears:—“If Jupiter would onlyBring me my lost years back, make me the manI used to be, I was once, at PraenesteWhere I struck down the foremost ranks, and burnedThe piled up shields! That day I was a hero,A conqueror, and Erulus went down,By this right hand, to hell. His mother gave himThree lives, and threefold armor; I had to kill himThree times, and did, and thrice I stripped his armor.If I were what I used to be, my son,They would never take you from me; and MezentiusWould never have heaped those insults on his neighbor,Never have made a widow of the city.But you, great gods on high, and you, great kingOf the high gods, take pity on a father,Hear the Arcadian king. I pray for lifeAs long as Pallas lives, I pray to see himIf you will spare him; if he comes back safelyI pray to meet him once again. No moreI ask; how hard my life may be, no matter.But if there is in fortune any menace,Something I cannot speak of, let me dieBefore I know the worst, while I can hopeHowever I doubt, while still I have my Pallas,My late and only pleasure, here beside me,And never news for the worse!” And so they parted,And servants helped the old man into the palace.
They had gone from the gates, the horsemen, and Aeneas,Achates and the Trojans, and in the centrePallas, a blaze of light, like LuciferWhom Venus loves beyond all fiery stars,The glory risen from the ocean wave,Dissolver of the shadows. On the wallsThe mothers, trembling, watched them go, the squadronsBright in their bronze, and the cloud of dust behind them,So, out of sight, where the road turns off to forest,They go, the men in arms, and a shout arises,And the column forms, and the echo of the gallopComes clopping back through the ground where the dust is rising.
The cold stream, Caere, has a grove beside it,Much reverenced of old, where the curve of the hillsAnd the dark firs make a shelter: the old people,So rumor says, held grove and feast-day sacredHere in Silvanus’ honor, god of the fields,God of the fold. Tarchon and his EtruscansWere camped not far from here, and from the hill-topWatchers could see their legions, tented safelyThrough the wide plain. In Caere’s grove AeneasRested his horses and his weary warriors.
And the bright goddess through the clouds of heavenCame bringing gifts, seeing her son aloneBy the cold river in the quiet valley,And spoke to him:—“Behold, the gifts made readyBy Vulcan’s promised skill. Fear not, my son,To face the wars with Turnus and the Latins!”After the word, the embrace. She placed the armor,All shining in his sight, against an oak-tree;Rejoicing in the gift, the honor, he turnedHis eyes to these, over and over again,Could not be satisfied, took in his handsThe helmet with the terrible plumes and flame,The fatal sword, the breastplate, made of bronze,Fire-colored, huge, shining the way a cloud,Dark-blue, turns crimson under the slanting sun,The greaves of gold refined and smooth electrum,The spear, the final masterpiece, the shield.
Hereon the great prophetic Lord of FireHad carved the story out, the stock to come,The wars, each one in order, all the taleOf Italy and Roman triumph. HereIn Mars’ green cave the she-wolf gives her uddersTo the twin boys, turning half round to lick them,And neither is afraid, and both are playing.Another scene presents the Circus-games,When Romans took their Sabine brides, and warBroke out between old Tatius and the sonsOf Romulus, and was ended, monarchs pledgingPeace at the altars over sacrifice.Mettus, the false, by the wild horses drawnAnd quartered, sheds his life-blood over the brambles;Porsena, the besieger, rings the cityFor Tarquin’s sake, exile and tyrant; RomansRush on the steel for freedom; Clelia breaksHer bonds to swim the river; and HoratiusBreaks down the bridge. The guardian ManliusHolds the high capitol and that crude palaceFresh with the straw of Romulus; the gooseFlutters in silver through the colonnadesShrieking alarm; the Gauls are near in darkness,Golden their hair, their clothing, and their necksGleam white in collars of gold, and each one carriesTwo Alpine javelins; they have long shields.Near them, the Fire-god sets the priests with capsOf wool, the miracle of the shields from heaven,The Salii dancing, the Luperci naked,And the chaste matrons riding through the cityIn cushioned chariots. Far off, he addsThe seats of Hell, the lofty gates of Pluto,Penance for sin: Catiline, with the FuriesMaking him cower; farther off, the good,With Cato giving laws. And all this sceneBound with the likeness of the swelling ocean,Blue water and whitecap, where the dolphins playingLeap with a curve of silver. In the centerActium, the ships of bronze, Leucate burningHot with the glow of war, and waves on fireWith molten gold. Augustus Caesar standsHigh on the lofty stern; his temples flameWith double fire, and over his head there dawnsHis father’s star. Agrippa leads a columnWith favoring wind and god, the naval garlandWreathing his temples. Antony assemblesEgypt and all the East; Antony, victorOver the lands of dawn and the Red Sea,Marshals the foes of Rome, himself a Roman,With—horror!—an Egyptian wife. The surgeBoils under keel, the oar-blades churn the waters,The triple-pointed beaks drive through the billows,You would think that mountains swam and battled mountains,That islands were uprooted in their anger.Fireballs and shafts of steel are slanting showers,The fields of Neptune redden with the slaughter.The queen drives on her warriors, unseeingThe double snakes of death; rattle and cymbalsCompete with bugle and trumpet. Monstrous gods,Of every form and fashion, one, Anubis,Shaped like a dog, wield their outrageous weaponsIn wrath at Venus, Neptune, and Minerva.Mars, all in steel, storms through the fray; the FuriesSwoop from the sky; Discord exults; Bellona,With bloody scourge, comes lashing; and ApolloFrom Actium bends his bow. Egypt and India,Sabaeans and Arabians, flee in terror.And the contagion takes the queen, who loosensThe sheets to slackness, courts the wind, in terror,Pale at the menace of death. And the Nile comesTo meet her, a protecting god, his mantleSpread wide, to bring a beaten woman home.And Caesar enters Rome triumphant, bringingImmortal offerings, three times a hundredNew altars through the city. Streets are loudWith gladness, games, rejoicing; all the templesAre filled with matrons praying at the altars,Are heaped with solemn sacrifice. And Caesar,Seated before Apollo’s shining threshold,Reviews the gifts, and hangs them on the portals.In long array the conquered file, their garments,Their speech, as various as their arms, the Nomads,The naked Africans, Leleges, Carians,Gelonians with quivers, the Morini,Of mortals most remote, Euphrates movingWith humbler waves, the two-mouthed Rhine, Araxes,Chafing beneath his bridge.
All this AeneasSees on his mother’s gift, the shield of Vulcan,And, without understanding, is proud and happyAs he lifts to his shoulder all that fortune,The fame and glory of his children’s children.