Meanwhile Aeneas and the fleet were holdingThe sure course over the sea, cutting the watersThat darkened under the wind. His gaze went backTo the walls of Carthage, glowing in the flameOf Dido’s funeral pyre. What cause had kindledSo high a blaze, they did not know, but anguishWhen love is wounded deep, and the way of a womanWith frenzy in her heart, they knew too well,And dwelt on with foreboding.They were out of sight of land, with only seaAround them on all sides, alone with ocean,Ocean and sky, when a cloud, black-blue, loomed overWith night and tempest in it; the water roughenedIn shadow, and the pilot PalinurusCried from the lofty stern. “What clouds are theseFilling the sky? What threat is father NeptunePreparing over our heads? Trim ship,” he ordered,“Bend to the oars, reef down the sail.” The courseWas changed, on a slant across the wind, and the pilotTurned to Aeneas: “With a sky like this,I’d have no hope of reaching Italy,Even if Jove himself should guarantee it.The winds have changed, they roar across our courseFrom the black evening, thickening into cloud.We have no strength for headway. Luck is against us,Let us change the course, and follow. I rememberFraternal shores near by, the land of Eryx,Sicilian harbors; we were here beforeIf I recall my stars.”Aeneas answered:“I saw it long ago, the will of the winds,The uselessness of struggle. Change the course,Steer to the land most welcome to me; thereMy friend Acestes dwells, and there my fatherAnchises lies at rest. What better landTo rest our weary ships?” They made for the harbor,With favoring wind, a swift run over the water,A happy turn to a familiar shore.High on a hill-top look-out, king Acestes,Son of a Trojan mother and Crinisus,A river-god, saw friendly vessels coming,With wonder and delight, came hurrying toward them,With a bear-skin over his shoulder, and javelinsBristling in his grasp, and he rememberedThe old relationship, and gave them welcomeWith all his rustic treasure, a glad returning,Friendly assurance for their weariness.A good night’s rest, and a bright morning followed,And from the shore Aeneas called his comrades,Stood on a little rise of ground, and told them:“Great sons of Dardanus, heaven-born, a yearDraws to an end, a year ago we buriedMy father in this land, and consecratedSorrowful altars to his shade. The dayComes round again, which I shall always cherish,Always lament, with reverence, in the mourning,For the gods’ will. If I were held, an exile,In the Gaetulian quicksands, or a captiveIn some Greek ship or city, I would honorThis day with solemn rites, and pile the altarsWith sacrificial offering. But now,—This must be heaven’s purpose—we have enteredA friendly harbor. Come, then, all of us,Let us be happy in our celebration,Let us pray for winds, and that the god hereafterReceive his rites in temples for his honorBuilt in the city we found. Two heads of oxenAcestes gives each vessel; bring the godsOf our own household, and the ones AcestesPays worship to. Nine days from now, if dawnComes bright and shining over the world of men,There will be games, a contest for the boats,A foot-race, javelin-throw or archery, a battleWith rawhide gloves; let all attend, competingFor victory’s palm and prize. And now, in silence,Garland the brow with leaves.”He bound his templesWith Venus’ myrtle, and the others followed,Acestes, Helymus, and young Iulus,And the other lads, and Aeneas, from the meeting,Moved to Anchises’ tomb, and many thousandsCame thronging there. He poured libation, duly,Bowls of pure wine, and milk, and victim-blood,And strewed bright flowers, praying: “Holy father,Hail, once again; hail once again, O ashes,Regained in vain; hail, holy shade and spirit!Hail, from a son, destined to seek aloneThe fated fields, Italian soil, aloneTo seek, whatever it is, Ausonian Tiber.”And as he finished speaking, a huge serpentSlid over the ground, seven shining loops, surroundingThe tomb, peacefully gliding around the altars,Dappled with blue and gold, such iridescenceAs rainbow gives to cloud, when the sun strikes it.Aeneas stood amazed; and the great serpentCrawled to the bowls and cups, tasted the offerings,And slid again, without a hint of menace,Under the altar-stone. Intent, AeneasResumed the rites; the serpent might have been,For all he knew, a guardian of the altar,Or some familiar spirit of Anchises.Two sheep he sacrificed, two swine, two heifers,Poured wine, invoked the spirit of his father,And the shade loosed from Acheron. His comradesAlso bring gifts, whatever they can, slay bullocks,Load altars high; others prepare the kettles,Sprawl on the greensward, keep the live coals glowingUnder the roasting-spits, and the meat turning.And the day came, the ninth they had awaitedWith eagerness, bright and clear, and the crowd gatheredUnder Acestes’ sanction; they were eagerTo see the Trojans, or to join the contests.There were the prizes, tripods, and green garlands,And palms for the winners, armor, crimson garments,Talents of silver and gold. And a trumpet heraldsThe start of the games.For the first contestFour ships are entered, heavy-oared, and chosen,The pick of the fleet. Mnestheus is one captain,His ship theDragon, and his crew is eager,—(Later the Memmian line will call him father).Gyas commands the bigChimaera, a vesselHuge as a town; it takes three tiers of oarsmenTo keep her moving. Then there is SergestusRiding theCentaur, and the sea-blueScyllaCloanthus leads. (The Sergian house at RomeDescends from one, Cluentians from the other.)Far out in the water, facing the foaming shores,There lies a rock, which the swollen waves beat overOn stormy days when gales blot out the stars,But quiet in calm weather, a level landingFor the sun-loving sea-gulls. Here AeneasSets a green bough of holm-oak, as a signalTo mark the turning-point; to this the sailorsMust row, then turn, and double back. The placesAre chosen by lot; the captains are set off,Shining in gold and purple; all the sailorsWear poplar-wreaths, and their naked shoulders glistenWith the smear of oil. They are at their places, strainingArms stretched to the oars, waiting the word, and their chestsHeave, and their hearts are pumping fast; ambitionAnd nervousness take hold of them. The signal!They shoot away; the noise goes up to the heavens,The arms pull back to the chests, the water is churnedTo a foam like snow; the start is very even,The sea gapes open under the rush of the beaksAnd the pull of the oars. The racers go no fasterWhen the chariots take the field, and the barrier springsCars into action, and the drivers lashWhipping and shaking the reins. Applause and shoutingVolley and ring, and shrill excitement risesFrom some with bets on the issue; all the woodlandResounds, the shores are loud, and the beaten hillsideSends back the uproar.Gyas beats the othersIn the rush of the starting sprint; Cloanthus follows,With a better crew, but a slower, heavier vessel;Behind them come theDragonand theCentaur,With no advantage either way; first one,And then the other, has it, moving evenWith long keels through salt water; and the leaderHas almost reached the rock, the turn; that’s Gyas,The captain, yelling loudly at his pilot:—“Menoetes, what the hell! Why are you steeringSo far off to the right? Bring her in closer,This way, let the oars just miss the rocks, hug shore,Cut her close here on the left; let the other fellowsStay out as far as they like.” Menoetes, though,Feared unseen rocks, and made for open water.“Why so far off the course? The rock, Menoetes,Keep close to the rock!” And while he shouted, GyasCould see Cloanthus coming up behind himInside him, on the left, and gaining, gaining.Between the roar of the rock and the ship of Gyas,Cloanthus grazed his way, and passed the leader,Made the turn safely, and reached open water.Then Gyas really was burnt up; he was cryingIn rage; to hell with pride, to hell with safety!He grabbed that cautious pilot of his, and heaved himOver the stern, he took the rudder over,Steering for shore, and yelling at the sailors,As old Menoetes slowly came to the surface,His heavy garments dripping, clawing and scramblingUp to the top of the rock, to perch there, drying,A good laugh for the Trojans, as they watched himTaking his header, coming up, and swimming,And spitting out salt water.The two last ones,Mnestheus and Sergestus, were encouraged;Gyas was easy now; Sergestus managedTo get ahead, a little; he neared the rock,Less than a length ahead; the rivalDragonWas lapped on him, and up and down, amidships,Went Mnestheus, cheering on his crew:—“Get going,Rise to the oars, my comrades, men of HectorWhom I picked out for mine in Troy’s last moment.Show the old spirit and the nerve that took usThrough the Gaetulian sands, Ionian waters,Off Cape Malea! We can’t hope to win it,—Let Neptune look to that!—maybe—at least,Whatever we do, don’t come in last! We could notBear any such disgrace.” They did their utmost,Straining with all their might, the bronze deck shakingUnder the effort, and the quiet oceanStreamed under and past them. Arms and legs were weary,Wobbly, shaking; breath came hard, they gulpedAnd gasped for air, and sweat ran down in rivers,And they had some luck. Sergestus, out of his senses,Drove in, too close, and piled up on the rock,Which almost bounced as he hit there, and the oarsWere sheared away, and the bow hung up, and the sailors,Shouting like mad, pushed hard with pikes or boat-hooks,Or the wreck of the oars, to shove them off. And MnestheusEasier now, and with exalted spiritFrom this much victory, with a prayer to the windsAnd the oars’ swift drive, was running down-hill waters,Over the open ocean, as a doveSuddenly startled out of her nest in a cavernWhere the young brood waits, wings to the fields in fright,Flapping on anxious pinions, and recovers,And skims down peaceful air, with never a motionOf wing in the lifting air, so Mnestheus sped,So sped theDragon, racing home, and the sweepOf her own speed made a wind. She passed SergestusStruggling, rock-bound, in shallow water, howlingFor help, in vain, and learning how to manageA boat when the oars are broken. She overhauledGyas, in theChimaera, wallowing heavyWithout a pilot. Only Cloanthus was left;They were after him with all their might, the clamorRose twice as loud; they were cheering the pursuer,And the sky was a crash of shouting. On theScyllaThey would give their lives to hold their place, they have won it,The glory and honor are theirs already, almost;And Mnestheus’ men take courage from their nearness;They can because they think they can. They would have,Perhaps, or tied, at least had not CloanthusTaken to prayer:—“Gods of the seas, whose watersI skim, whose empire lifts me up, I gladlyPromise you sacrifice, a snow-white bullockAt altars on this shore, and wine for the ocean,And the entrails flung to the flood!” Under the wavesThe Nereids heard him, Phorcus, PanopeaThe maiden, and Portunus, the big-handed,Boosted him on his way. Swifter than arrow,Swifter than wind, the ship swept into the harbor.The herald’s cry proclaimed Cloanthus victor,When all were summoned, and Anchises’ sonPut the green bay leaf on his temples, silverAnd wine for the ships, a steer for each. The captainsHave special prizes; the winner has a mantle,Woven with gold, and a double seam of crimson,With a story in the texture, GanymedeHunting on Ida, breathless, tossing dartsAnd racing after the deer, and caught and carriedIn the talons of Jove’s eagle, soaring skyward,While the boy’s old guardians reach their hands up, vainly,And the hounds set up a cry. Mnestheus, second,Has a coat of mail, with triple links of gold,A trophy of Demoleos; AeneasHad beaten him at Troy, by Simois river,And taken the armor, glory and guard in battle.The servants, Sagaris and Phegeus, hardlyCan lift it up, but when Demoleos wore it,He could go, full-speed, after the flying Trojans.The third award is a pair of brazen caldrons,And bowls embossed in silver.They had their prizesAnd went their way, proud of their wealth, and shiningWith foreheads garlanded, when with much effort,Scraped off the rock, oars lost, and one bank crippled,Here came Sergestus, butt of jeering laughter,Like a snake with a broken back, which a wagon-wheelRuns over on the road, or a traveller smashesWith the weight of a stone, and, crushed, it writhes and struggles,Looping the coils, and half of it is angryWith fiery eyes and hissing mouth, and halfKeeps dragging back the rest and doubles overOn useless muscles, powerless; SergestusCame home like such a serpent, maimed and broken,But the sail went bravely up as they made the harbor,And Aeneas kept his promise to the captain,Glad for the ship’s return, and the safe sailors.A slave-girl, Pholoe from Crete, accomplishedAt weaving, was his prize, and her twin children,Boy-infants, at the breast.The boat-race over, Aeneas makes his wayTo a grassy plain, with wooded hills surroundingThe race-course in the valley. All the crowdCome trooping after, group themselves aroundThe central prominence. Rewards and prizesDraw the competitors, travellers and natives,Trojans, Sicilians; in the foremost ranksAre Nisus and Euryalus, the latterConspicuous in the flower of youth and beauty,Whom Nisus follows with entire devotion:Diores, of the royal house of Priam,Was ready; Salius, an Acarnanian;Patron, Tegean-born; and two Sicilians,Panopes, Helymus, trained to the forests,Companions of Acestes; and many othersWhose fame by now the darkness hides. AeneasSpeaks to their hope:—“No one goes unrewarded:To each I give two Cretan arrows, gleamingWith polished steel, and a double-bitted axeEmbossed with silver. Everybody winsThese prizes, but the first three runners alsoShall wear the wreath of olive, and the winnerRide home a horse equipped with splendid trappings;For second place, an Amazonian quiverWith Thracian arrows, a broad belt of goldWith jeweled buckle; and this Argive helmetFor the one who comes in third.”They take their places,And when the signal is given, away they go,Like rain from storm-cloud, bodies leaning forward,Eyes on the goal. And for the lead it’s Nisus,Swifter than winds or lightning; running second,A good way back, comes Salius; and the third one,Third at some distance, is Euryalus,Helymus next; right on his heels Diores.There’s a little crowding there, the course too narrow,Diores, full of run, is in a pocket,He can’t get through. The race is almost over,Their breath comes hard, they are almost at the finish,—There’s a pool of blood on the ground, where the slain bullocksFell in the sacrifice, a slippery puddleRed on green ground, and Nisus does not see it,Nisus, still leading, thinking himself the winner,Is out of luck, his feet slide out from under,He wobbles, totters, recovers himself a little,Slips and goes forward, in a beautiful headerThrough blood and mud. But he keeps his wits about him,Does not forget his friend Euryalus; rising,And sort of accidentally on purpose,Gets in the way of Salius and spills him,A cartwheel, head over heels on the flying sand.Euryalus flashes past, an easy winnerThanks to his friend’s assistance, and they cheer him;Helymus second; in third place, Diores.Immediately there’s a loud howl of protest,Salius shrieking in the elders’ facesWith cries ofFoul!andOutrage!“I was robbed,Give me first prize!” But all the popular favorSides with Euryalus, who is young, and weeping,And better-looking; and Diores backs him,Loudly, of course, since who would get the helmetIf Salius was first? Aeneas ends it:—“The race will stand as run; you get your prizesAs first proposed; no one will change the order;But one thing I can do, and will do,—offerA consolation to our innocent friend.”With this, he gives a lion-skin to Salius,Heavy with shaggy hair, and the claws gilded.Nisus is heard from:—“If you’re giving prizesFor falling down, what’s good enough for Nisus?I would have won it surely, only FortuneGave me the same bad deal she handed Salius!”And with the words he made a sudden gestureShowing his muddy face. Aeneas, laughing,Ordered another prize, a shield for him,The work of Didymaon, stolen by Greeks,From Neptune’s temple sometime, but recovered,A worthy prize for a distinguished hero.Next is a boxing-bout. “Whoever has courageAnd fighting spirit in his heart, step forwardAnd put the gloves on!” There are double prizes,For the winner a bullock, decked with gold and ribbons,A sword and shining helmet for the loser.Without delay, Dares gets up; a murmurRuns through the crowd as this big man comes forward.They know that he was Paris’ sparring-partner,And they recall his famous match with ButesAt Hector’s tomb, where he knocked out that championAnd stretched him dying on the yellow sand.Now Dares holds his head up for the battle,Shakes his broad shoulders loose, warms up a little,A left, a right, a left, in shadow-boxing.Who will oppose him? No one puts the gloves on,No one, from all that throng, is in a hurryTo take on Dares. So, exultant, thinkingHimself a winner by default, he grabsThe bullock by one horn, says to Aeneas:—“If no man, goddess-born, is taking chances,How long must I keep standing here? How longHang around waiting? Give the order, let meLead home my prize!” The Trojans all applaud him.But king Acestes, sprawling on the greenswardBeside Entellus, nudges him a little:—“What was the use, Entellus, of being a hero,Of having been our bravest, under Eryx?Where is that old Sicilian reputation,And all those prizes hanging from the rafters?Does Dares get away with this, no contest,And all those prizes, and you sit here tamely?”Entellus answers, “Oh, I still love gloryAnd praise; there’s nothing the matter with my courage,But I’m too old, the blood is slow and colder,The strength not what it used to be. That braggerHas one thing, youth, and how he revels in it!If I had what he has, I’d not need prizes,Bullocks or helmets either, to get me fighting.”From somewhere he produced the gloves of EryxAnd tossed them into the ring, all stiff and heavy,Seven layers of hide, and insewn lead and iron.The people stand amazed, and Dares shudders,Wanting no part of gloves like these; AeneasInspects them, turning them slowly, over and over,And old Entellus adds a word of comment:—“Why, these are nothing! What if you had seenThe gloves of Hercules? He used to fight here.These are the gloves that Eryx wore against him.You still can see the blood and a splash of brainsThat stained them long ago. I used to wear themMyself when I was younger, and unchallengedBy Time, that envious rival. But if DaresDeclines these arms, all right, make matters equal,Don’t be afraid; I waive the gloves of Eryx,You put the Trojan gloves aside; AeneasWill see fair play, Acestes be my second.”He throws the double cloak from off his shoulders,Strips down to the great limbs, great bones, great musclesA giant in the ring. Aeneas brings themMatched pairs of gloves.They take their stand, each risingOn the balls of his feet, their arms upraised, and rollingTheir heads back from the punch. They spar, they lead,They watch for openings. Dares, much the younger,Is much the better in footwork; old EntellusHas to rely on strength; his knees are shaky,His wind not what it was. They throw their punches,And many miss; and some, with a solid thump,Land on the ribs or chest; temples and earsFeel the wind of a miss, or the jaws rattleWhen a punch lands. Entellus stands flat-footed,Wasting no motion, just a slip of the body,The watchful eyes alert. And Dares, feinting,Like one who artfully attacks a city,Tries this approach, then that, dancing around himIn varied vain attack. Entellus, rising,Draws back his right (in fact, he telegraphs it),And Dares, seeing it coming, slips aside;Entellus lands on nothing but the windAnd, thrown off balance, heavily comes downFlat on his face, as falls on ErymanthusA thunder-smitten oak, and so on, and so on.Roaring, the Trojans and Sicilians bothRise to their feet; the noise goes up to heaven;Acestes rushes in, to raise his comradeIn pity and sorrow. But that old-time fighterIs not slowed down a bit, nor made more wary;His rage is terrible, and his shame awakensA consciousness of strength. He chases DaresAll over the ring, left, right, left, right, the punchesRattle like hailstones on a roof; he batters Dares,Spins him halfway around with one hand, clouts himStraight with the other again. At last AeneasSteps in and stops it, with a word of comfortFor the exhausted Dares:—“Luckless fellow,Yield to the god! What madness blinds your visionTo strength beyond your own?” They rescue Dares,And drag him to the ships, with his knees caving,Head rolling side to side, spitting out bloodAnd teeth; he hardly sees the sword and helmet.They leave the palm and bullock for Entellus,Who, in the pride of victory, cries aloud:“Look, goddess-born! Watch, Trojans, and discoverTwo things—how strong I was when I was younger,And what a death you’ve kept away from Dares!”And, with the word, he faced his prize, the bullock,Drew back his right hand, poised it, sent it smashingBetween the horns, shattering the skull, and splashingBrains on the bones, as the great beast came down, lifeless.“This life, a better one than Dares’, Eryx,I vow as sacrifice, and so, victorious,Retire, and lay aside the gloves forever.”Next comes an archery contest. Aeneas offersPrizes and summons; on Serestus’ vesselThe mast is raised, and from its top a cordWith a fluttering dove bound to it as the mark.Four enter; a bronze helmet takes the lots,Hippocoön’s leaps out first; then Mnestheus follows,Green with the olive garland, sign and tokenOf ship well driven; and third was Pandarus’ brother,Eurytion; Pandarus was the archerWho once broke truce with the Greeks, firing an arrowIn the days of peace; and last came king Acestes,Willing to try his hand with younger men.They bend the pliant bows, each archer straining,Draw shaft from quiver. First from the twanging stringHippocoön’s arrow flew, through sky, through wind,Reaching its mark in the wood of the mast, which trembledAnd the bird flapped wings in terror, and the crowdRang with applause. Mnestheus took his stand,Drawing the bow back, aiming a little higher,And missed the bird, but severed knot and tether,And the dove sped free to the south. Eurytion, waitingAnd ready, called in prayer upon his brother,Let the dart fly, brought down the bird, exulting,From under the dark of the cloud. She came down lifeless,Pierced by the arrow still. No prize was leftFor king Acestes, but he fired his arrow,High as he could, to prove his skill. And a wonderCame to their eyes; it proved an omen laterWhen seers explained its meaning. The shaft caught fireFlying amid the clouds, a course of flame,Vanishing into space, as comets streamSweeping across the heaven, their long train flyingBehind them through the sky. All hearts were shaken,Sicilian, Trojan, both, and all men prayedTo the powers on high. Aeneas hailed the omen,Embraced Acestes, loaded him with presents,Saying, “Receive them, father; for the kingOf heaven has willed it so, unusual honorsFor skill surpassing. This bowl, with graven figures,Anchises owned, given him by a Thracian,King Cisseus, memorial and token,Of everlasting friendship.” On his browsHe bound green laurel, hailing Acestes victorOver the rest, and no one grudged the honor,Not even Eurytion, who had shot the dove;Mnestheus, for the cutting of the tether,Took his reward, and the one who hit the mast,Hippocoön, was not forgotten either.But while the shoot was on, Aeneas calledEpytides, Iulus’ guardian, to him,With words for a loyal ear:—“Go, tell Iulus,If the boys are ready, and the horses marshalled,To lead them, for Anchises’ sake, presentingHimself in arms.” And he bade the throng draw back,Leaving the long course clear and the field open.The boys rode in, shining on bridled poniesBefore their fathers’ eyes, in true formation,To a murmur of delight. The garlands weighedThe young hair down, they carried cornel spear-wandsWith iron at the tip; and some had quiversBright-polished, at their shoulders; torques of goldLooped high on the breast in pliant rings. Three leadersLed, each, three squadrons, and a dozen followedEach gay young captain. One of them was Priam,Son of Polites, and King Priam’s grandson,On a piebald Thracian, white of brow and fetlock.Young Atys led another line—(The Atii,In Latium, claim descent from him)—young Atys,Iulus’ special friend. And last, most handsome,Iulus rode a Carthaginian courser,Queen Dido’s gift. Sicilian horses carriedThe other riders, who rode up to the cheeringShy, as they heard the sound, and the fond welcomeOf crowds that saw the fathers in the children.They rode full circle once, and then a signal,A crack of the whip, was given, and they partedInto three groups, went galloping off, recalled,Wheeled, made mock charge, with lances at the ready,Made march and counter-march, troops intermingledWith troops, to right and left, in mimic battle,Mimic retreat, and mimic peace, a courseConfusing as the Labyrinth in CreteWhose path runs through blind walls, where craft has hiddenA thousand wandering ways, mistake and errorThreading insoluble mazes, so the children,The sons of Troy, wove in and out, in conflictIn flight and sport, as happy as dolphins leapingThrough the Carpathian waters. This was a customAscanius, when grown, himself establishedAt Alba Longa, his own town, and taught thereWhat he had learned in boyhood, and the AlbansIn turn informed their children, and the RomansKeep this ancestral rite; the boys are Troy,And the game Trojan, to this very day,From its first observance, in Anchises’ honor.Here fortune changed, not keeping faith; for Juno,While the ritual of sport went on, sent Iris,With a fair wind, to the Trojan fleet. She was angry,Still, and the ancient grudge unsatisfied,And Iris, over her thousand-colored rainbow,Ran her swift path, unseen, beheld the crowd,Surveyed the shore, harbor and fleet deserted,While far off on the lonely coast the womenMourned for Anchises lost, weeping and watchingThe unfathomable deep. “For weary people,Alas! how much remains, of shoal and ocean!”So ran the common sigh. They crave a city,They are tired of bearing the vast toil of sailing,And into their midst came Iris, versed in mischief,Laying aside her goddess-guise, becomingOld Beroe, Doryclus’ wife, who sometimeHad children, fame, and lineage. Now Iris,Resembling her, came down to the Trojan mothers.“Alas for us!” she cried, “on whom the GreeksNever laid hands, to drag us down to deathBefore our native walls! Unfortunate people,For what is fortune saving us, what doom,What dying? It is seven weary summersSince Troy’s destruction, and still we wander overAll lands, all seas, with rocks and stars foreverImplacable, as we go on pursuingA land that flees forever over the waters.Here lived our brother Eryx, here we findA welcomer, king Acestes; who forbids usTo found the walls, to build our city here?O fatherland, O household gods in vainSaved from the Greeks, will there never be any wallsFor Troy again? No Simois or Xanthus,The rivers Hector loved? Come with me, burnThese vessels of ill-omen. Let me tell you,I have been given warnings; in a dreamI saw Cassandra, she was giving me firebrands,Here seek your Troy, here is your home, she told me;It is time for us to act, be quick about it!Neptune himself, with fire on these four altars,Provides the method, and the resolution.”She was the first to seize a brand; she raised itAbove her head, and swung it, streaming and glowing,And flung it forth. The women, for a moment,Stood in bewilderment, and one, the oldest,Named Pyrgo, nurse to Priam’s many children,Cried out:—“This is no Beroe, I tell you,Mothers! Look at her flashing eyes, her spirit,Her stride, her features; every mark of the goddessAttends her presence. Beroe I myselfHave just now come from; she lies ill and grievingAll by herself, in sorrow for her absenceFrom reverence for Anchises.”As they gazedDoubtfully at the ships, with sullen eyes,Distracted, torn between a sickly yearningFor present land and rest, and the kingdoms callingThem fatefully over the sea, the goddess, cleavingThe air on her bright pinions, rose to heaven.They were shaken then, amazed, and frenzy-driven;They cried aloud; tore fire from the hearths and altars;Made tinder of the altar-decorations,The garlandry and wreaths. And the fire, let loose,Rioted over thwarts and oars and rigging.To theatre and tomb Eumelus broughtWord of the ships on fire; and the men could seeThe black ash billowing in the smoky cloud,And first Ascanius, as full of spiritAs when he led the games, rushed to the troubleAs fast as he could ride; no troubled mastersCould hold him back. “Poor things, what are you doing?What craziness is this? what are you up to?It is no Greek camp, no enemy you’re burningBut your own hopes! Look at me! Here I am,Your own Ascanius!” And before their feetHe flung the helmet he had worn when leadingThe little war-game. And Aeneas hurriedWith others to the troubled camp. The womenScattered and fled along the shore, in terrorAnd guilt, wherever they could, to hiding-placesIn woods or caves in the rock; they are ashamedOf daylight and their deed; Juno is shakenOut of their hearts, and they recognize their own.That does not stop the fire; it burns in furyUnder wet oak, tow smoulders, and the stubbornSteam eats the keels away, destruction seizingOn deck and hull, and water can not quench it,Nor any strength of men. Tearing his garmentLoose from his shoulders, Aeneas prays to heaven:—“Almighty Jove, if the Trojans are not hatefulTo the last man, if any record of goodnessAlleviates human trouble, let our fleetEscape this flame, O father; save from doomThis little Trojan remnant; or with lightning,If I deserve it, strike us down forever!”He had scarcely spoken, when a cloudburst fellFull force, with darkness and black tempest streaming,And thunder rumbling over plain and hillock,The whole sky pouring rain; the ships were drownedWith water from above, the half-burnt timbersWere soaked, and the hiss of steam died out; four vesselsWere gone, the others rescued from disaster.And now Aeneas, stunned by the bitter evil,Was troubled at heart, uncertain, anxious, grieving:What could be done? forget the call of the fatesAnd settle here in Sicily, or keep onTo the coast of Italy? An old man, Nautes,Whom Pallas had instructed in deep wisdom,Gave him the answer. “Goddess-born, whereverFate pulls or hauls us, there we have to follow;Whatever happens, fortune can be beatenBy nothing but endurance. We have hereA friend, Acestes, Trojan-born, divineIn parentage; make him an ally in counsel,Partner in enterprise; to him hand overThe ones whose ships are lost, and all the weary,The sick and tired, the old men, and the mothersWho have had too much of the sea, and the faint-hearted,Whose weariness may find a city for themHere in this land; Acesta, let them call it.”The old man’s words still troubled him; the mindWas torn this way and that. Night rode the heavensIn her dark chariot, and there came from the darknessThe image of Anchises, speaking to himIn words of comfort:—“Son, more dear to meThan life, when life was mine; son, sorely troubledBy Trojan fate, I come at Jove’s command,Who drove the fire away, and from the heavenHas taken pity. Obey the words of Nautes,He gives the best of counsel; the flower of the youth,The bravest hearts, lead on to Italy.There will be trouble there, a rugged peopleMust be subdued in Latium. Come to meet me,First, in the lower world; come through AvernusTo find me, son. Tartarus’ evil prisonOf gloomy shades I know not, for I dwellAmong the happy spirits in Elysium.Black sheep are good for sacrifice. The Sibyl,A holy guide, will lead the way, foretellingThe race to come, the given walls. Farewell,My son; the dewy night is almost over,I feel the breath of the morning’s cruel horses.”He spoke, and vanished, smoke into airy thinness,From the cries of his son, who woke, and roused the embersOf the drowsing altar-fires, with meal and censerPropitiating Vesta, making worshipTo Trojan household gods.And called AcestesAnd the Trojan counsellors, told them of JoveAnd his good father’s orders, the decisionHe has reached at last. They all agree, AcestesAccepts the trust. They make a roll for the city,The women-folk, the people willing to linger,The unadventurous; and they make readyThe thwarts again, replace the fire-scorched timbers,Fit out new oars and rigging. There are not many,But a living company, for war brave-hearted.Aeneas ploughs the limits for the city,Sets out new homes, Ilium, again, and Troy,A kingdom welcome to Acestes, senateAnd courts, and laws, established; and a shrineHigh on the crest of Eryx, is given Venus,Near the high stars, and a priest assigned as wardenTo the wide boundaries of Anchises’ grove.Nine days they hold farewells, one tribe togetherFor the last time, with honor at the altars,And seas are calm, and winds go down, and the whisperOf a little breeze calls to the sail; the shoreHears a great wail arise; they cling to each otherAll through the night and day. Even the mothers,The weary men, to whom the face of the seaOnce seemed so cruel, and its very nameA menacing monster, want to go now, willingFor all the toil of exile. These AeneasComforts with friendly words, and bids AcestesBe their good brother. Then he slays to EryxThree bullocks, and a lamb to the gods of storm-cloud.It is time to loose the cables. At the bowHe stands, his temples garlanded with olive,Makes to the sea libation of wine and entrails,And the wind comes up astern, and they sweep the watersIn happy rivalry.But meanwhile Venus,Driven by worry, went to Neptune, pouringComplaints from a full heart:—“Neptune, the angerOf Juno, her insatiable vengeance,Which neither time nor any goodness softens,Drives me to humble prayer. She never weakensFor Jove’s command, nor the orders of the fates;It is not enough for her that the Trojan cityIs quite consumed by hatred, and the remnantsOf that poor town harried all over the worldWith every kind of punishment; she still followsEven their bones and ashes. She may knowThe reasons for that wrath of hers. RememberHow great a weight of water she stirred up latelyIn the Libyan seas, confusing sky and ocean,With Aeolus conspiring, and in your kingdom!And now her crime has driven the Trojan mothersTo burn their ships, to give their comrades overTo a coast unknown. Let what is left come safelyOver the sea, to reach Laurentian Tiber,If what I ask is just, if those are wallsDue them by fate’s decree.”And Neptune answered:—“None has a better right to trust my kingdomThan the goddess born of the sea-foam. And I have earnedThis confidence. I have often checked the angerOf sea and sky. And the rivers of Troy are witnessI have helped on land as well, and saved Aeneas.When thousands died at Troy, with fierce AchillesIn hot pursuit, and the rivers groaned, and XanthusCould hardly find the sea, I formed a cloudAround Aeneas, when he met AchillesWith the gods adverse, and no great strength to help himI rescued him, in spite of my own angerAt the perjury of Troy, in spite of my passionTo raze the walls I had built. Now too my purposeRemains; have done with fear; he will reach in safetyThe haven of Avernus; the prayer is granted.Let one be lost in the flood, one life aloneBe given for the many.”This comfort given,To bring the goddess joy, he yoked his horses,Gold bridle, foaming bit, and sent them flyingWith the lightest touch of the reins, skimming the surfaceIn the bright blue car; and the waves went down, the axleSubdued the swell of the wave, and storm-clouds meltedTo nothing in the sky, and his attendantsFollowed along, great whales, and ancient Glaucus,Palaemon, Ino’s son, and the rushing Tritons,The army of Phorcus, Melite and ThetisWatching the left, and the maiden Panopea,Cymodoce and Thalia and Spio,So that Aeneas, in his turn, was happy,Less anxious at heart. The masts are raised, and sailStretched from the halyards; right and left they bendThe canvas to fair winds: at the head of the fleetRides Palinurus, and the others follow,As ordered, close behind him; dewy nightHas reached mid-heaven, while the sailors, sleeping,Relax on the hard benches under the oars,All calm, all quiet. And the god of SleepParting the shadowy air, comes gently down,Looking for Palinurus, bringing him,A guiltless man, ill-omened dreams. He settlesOn the high stern, a god disguised as a man,Speaking in Phorbas’ guise, “O Palinurus,The fleet rides smoothly in the even weather,The hour is given for rest. Lay down the head,Rest the tired eyes from toil. I will take overA little while.” But Palinurus, barelyLifting his eyes, made answer: “Trust the waves,However quiet? trust a peaceful ocean?Put faith in such a monster? Never! IHave been too often fooled by the clear starsTo trust Aeneas to their faithless keeping.”And so he clung to the tiller, never loosedHis hand from the wood, his eyes from the fair heaven.But lo, the god over his temples shookA bough that dripped with dew from Lethe, steepedWith Stygian magic, so the swimming eyes,Against his effort close, blink open, closeAgain, and slumber takes the drowsy limbs.Bending above him, leaning over, the godShoves him, still clinging to the tiller, callingHis comrades vainly, into the clear waves.And the god is gone like a bird to the clear air,And the fleet is going safely over its journeyAs Neptune promised. But the rocks were near,The Siren-cliffs, most perilous of old,White with the bones of many mariners,Loud with their hoarse eternal warning sound.Aeneas starts from sleep, aware, somehow,Of a lost pilot, and a vessel drifting,Himself takes over guidance, with a sighAnd heartache for a friend’s mishap, “Alas,Too trustful in the calm of sea and sky,O Palinurus, on an unknown shore,You will be lying, naked.”
Meanwhile Aeneas and the fleet were holdingThe sure course over the sea, cutting the watersThat darkened under the wind. His gaze went backTo the walls of Carthage, glowing in the flameOf Dido’s funeral pyre. What cause had kindledSo high a blaze, they did not know, but anguishWhen love is wounded deep, and the way of a womanWith frenzy in her heart, they knew too well,And dwelt on with foreboding.They were out of sight of land, with only seaAround them on all sides, alone with ocean,Ocean and sky, when a cloud, black-blue, loomed overWith night and tempest in it; the water roughenedIn shadow, and the pilot PalinurusCried from the lofty stern. “What clouds are theseFilling the sky? What threat is father NeptunePreparing over our heads? Trim ship,” he ordered,“Bend to the oars, reef down the sail.” The courseWas changed, on a slant across the wind, and the pilotTurned to Aeneas: “With a sky like this,I’d have no hope of reaching Italy,Even if Jove himself should guarantee it.The winds have changed, they roar across our courseFrom the black evening, thickening into cloud.We have no strength for headway. Luck is against us,Let us change the course, and follow. I rememberFraternal shores near by, the land of Eryx,Sicilian harbors; we were here beforeIf I recall my stars.”Aeneas answered:“I saw it long ago, the will of the winds,The uselessness of struggle. Change the course,Steer to the land most welcome to me; thereMy friend Acestes dwells, and there my fatherAnchises lies at rest. What better landTo rest our weary ships?” They made for the harbor,With favoring wind, a swift run over the water,A happy turn to a familiar shore.High on a hill-top look-out, king Acestes,Son of a Trojan mother and Crinisus,A river-god, saw friendly vessels coming,With wonder and delight, came hurrying toward them,With a bear-skin over his shoulder, and javelinsBristling in his grasp, and he rememberedThe old relationship, and gave them welcomeWith all his rustic treasure, a glad returning,Friendly assurance for their weariness.A good night’s rest, and a bright morning followed,And from the shore Aeneas called his comrades,Stood on a little rise of ground, and told them:“Great sons of Dardanus, heaven-born, a yearDraws to an end, a year ago we buriedMy father in this land, and consecratedSorrowful altars to his shade. The dayComes round again, which I shall always cherish,Always lament, with reverence, in the mourning,For the gods’ will. If I were held, an exile,In the Gaetulian quicksands, or a captiveIn some Greek ship or city, I would honorThis day with solemn rites, and pile the altarsWith sacrificial offering. But now,—This must be heaven’s purpose—we have enteredA friendly harbor. Come, then, all of us,Let us be happy in our celebration,Let us pray for winds, and that the god hereafterReceive his rites in temples for his honorBuilt in the city we found. Two heads of oxenAcestes gives each vessel; bring the godsOf our own household, and the ones AcestesPays worship to. Nine days from now, if dawnComes bright and shining over the world of men,There will be games, a contest for the boats,A foot-race, javelin-throw or archery, a battleWith rawhide gloves; let all attend, competingFor victory’s palm and prize. And now, in silence,Garland the brow with leaves.”He bound his templesWith Venus’ myrtle, and the others followed,Acestes, Helymus, and young Iulus,And the other lads, and Aeneas, from the meeting,Moved to Anchises’ tomb, and many thousandsCame thronging there. He poured libation, duly,Bowls of pure wine, and milk, and victim-blood,And strewed bright flowers, praying: “Holy father,Hail, once again; hail once again, O ashes,Regained in vain; hail, holy shade and spirit!Hail, from a son, destined to seek aloneThe fated fields, Italian soil, aloneTo seek, whatever it is, Ausonian Tiber.”And as he finished speaking, a huge serpentSlid over the ground, seven shining loops, surroundingThe tomb, peacefully gliding around the altars,Dappled with blue and gold, such iridescenceAs rainbow gives to cloud, when the sun strikes it.Aeneas stood amazed; and the great serpentCrawled to the bowls and cups, tasted the offerings,And slid again, without a hint of menace,Under the altar-stone. Intent, AeneasResumed the rites; the serpent might have been,For all he knew, a guardian of the altar,Or some familiar spirit of Anchises.Two sheep he sacrificed, two swine, two heifers,Poured wine, invoked the spirit of his father,And the shade loosed from Acheron. His comradesAlso bring gifts, whatever they can, slay bullocks,Load altars high; others prepare the kettles,Sprawl on the greensward, keep the live coals glowingUnder the roasting-spits, and the meat turning.And the day came, the ninth they had awaitedWith eagerness, bright and clear, and the crowd gatheredUnder Acestes’ sanction; they were eagerTo see the Trojans, or to join the contests.There were the prizes, tripods, and green garlands,And palms for the winners, armor, crimson garments,Talents of silver and gold. And a trumpet heraldsThe start of the games.For the first contestFour ships are entered, heavy-oared, and chosen,The pick of the fleet. Mnestheus is one captain,His ship theDragon, and his crew is eager,—(Later the Memmian line will call him father).Gyas commands the bigChimaera, a vesselHuge as a town; it takes three tiers of oarsmenTo keep her moving. Then there is SergestusRiding theCentaur, and the sea-blueScyllaCloanthus leads. (The Sergian house at RomeDescends from one, Cluentians from the other.)Far out in the water, facing the foaming shores,There lies a rock, which the swollen waves beat overOn stormy days when gales blot out the stars,But quiet in calm weather, a level landingFor the sun-loving sea-gulls. Here AeneasSets a green bough of holm-oak, as a signalTo mark the turning-point; to this the sailorsMust row, then turn, and double back. The placesAre chosen by lot; the captains are set off,Shining in gold and purple; all the sailorsWear poplar-wreaths, and their naked shoulders glistenWith the smear of oil. They are at their places, strainingArms stretched to the oars, waiting the word, and their chestsHeave, and their hearts are pumping fast; ambitionAnd nervousness take hold of them. The signal!They shoot away; the noise goes up to the heavens,The arms pull back to the chests, the water is churnedTo a foam like snow; the start is very even,The sea gapes open under the rush of the beaksAnd the pull of the oars. The racers go no fasterWhen the chariots take the field, and the barrier springsCars into action, and the drivers lashWhipping and shaking the reins. Applause and shoutingVolley and ring, and shrill excitement risesFrom some with bets on the issue; all the woodlandResounds, the shores are loud, and the beaten hillsideSends back the uproar.Gyas beats the othersIn the rush of the starting sprint; Cloanthus follows,With a better crew, but a slower, heavier vessel;Behind them come theDragonand theCentaur,With no advantage either way; first one,And then the other, has it, moving evenWith long keels through salt water; and the leaderHas almost reached the rock, the turn; that’s Gyas,The captain, yelling loudly at his pilot:—“Menoetes, what the hell! Why are you steeringSo far off to the right? Bring her in closer,This way, let the oars just miss the rocks, hug shore,Cut her close here on the left; let the other fellowsStay out as far as they like.” Menoetes, though,Feared unseen rocks, and made for open water.“Why so far off the course? The rock, Menoetes,Keep close to the rock!” And while he shouted, GyasCould see Cloanthus coming up behind himInside him, on the left, and gaining, gaining.Between the roar of the rock and the ship of Gyas,Cloanthus grazed his way, and passed the leader,Made the turn safely, and reached open water.Then Gyas really was burnt up; he was cryingIn rage; to hell with pride, to hell with safety!He grabbed that cautious pilot of his, and heaved himOver the stern, he took the rudder over,Steering for shore, and yelling at the sailors,As old Menoetes slowly came to the surface,His heavy garments dripping, clawing and scramblingUp to the top of the rock, to perch there, drying,A good laugh for the Trojans, as they watched himTaking his header, coming up, and swimming,And spitting out salt water.The two last ones,Mnestheus and Sergestus, were encouraged;Gyas was easy now; Sergestus managedTo get ahead, a little; he neared the rock,Less than a length ahead; the rivalDragonWas lapped on him, and up and down, amidships,Went Mnestheus, cheering on his crew:—“Get going,Rise to the oars, my comrades, men of HectorWhom I picked out for mine in Troy’s last moment.Show the old spirit and the nerve that took usThrough the Gaetulian sands, Ionian waters,Off Cape Malea! We can’t hope to win it,—Let Neptune look to that!—maybe—at least,Whatever we do, don’t come in last! We could notBear any such disgrace.” They did their utmost,Straining with all their might, the bronze deck shakingUnder the effort, and the quiet oceanStreamed under and past them. Arms and legs were weary,Wobbly, shaking; breath came hard, they gulpedAnd gasped for air, and sweat ran down in rivers,And they had some luck. Sergestus, out of his senses,Drove in, too close, and piled up on the rock,Which almost bounced as he hit there, and the oarsWere sheared away, and the bow hung up, and the sailors,Shouting like mad, pushed hard with pikes or boat-hooks,Or the wreck of the oars, to shove them off. And MnestheusEasier now, and with exalted spiritFrom this much victory, with a prayer to the windsAnd the oars’ swift drive, was running down-hill waters,Over the open ocean, as a doveSuddenly startled out of her nest in a cavernWhere the young brood waits, wings to the fields in fright,Flapping on anxious pinions, and recovers,And skims down peaceful air, with never a motionOf wing in the lifting air, so Mnestheus sped,So sped theDragon, racing home, and the sweepOf her own speed made a wind. She passed SergestusStruggling, rock-bound, in shallow water, howlingFor help, in vain, and learning how to manageA boat when the oars are broken. She overhauledGyas, in theChimaera, wallowing heavyWithout a pilot. Only Cloanthus was left;They were after him with all their might, the clamorRose twice as loud; they were cheering the pursuer,And the sky was a crash of shouting. On theScyllaThey would give their lives to hold their place, they have won it,The glory and honor are theirs already, almost;And Mnestheus’ men take courage from their nearness;They can because they think they can. They would have,Perhaps, or tied, at least had not CloanthusTaken to prayer:—“Gods of the seas, whose watersI skim, whose empire lifts me up, I gladlyPromise you sacrifice, a snow-white bullockAt altars on this shore, and wine for the ocean,And the entrails flung to the flood!” Under the wavesThe Nereids heard him, Phorcus, PanopeaThe maiden, and Portunus, the big-handed,Boosted him on his way. Swifter than arrow,Swifter than wind, the ship swept into the harbor.The herald’s cry proclaimed Cloanthus victor,When all were summoned, and Anchises’ sonPut the green bay leaf on his temples, silverAnd wine for the ships, a steer for each. The captainsHave special prizes; the winner has a mantle,Woven with gold, and a double seam of crimson,With a story in the texture, GanymedeHunting on Ida, breathless, tossing dartsAnd racing after the deer, and caught and carriedIn the talons of Jove’s eagle, soaring skyward,While the boy’s old guardians reach their hands up, vainly,And the hounds set up a cry. Mnestheus, second,Has a coat of mail, with triple links of gold,A trophy of Demoleos; AeneasHad beaten him at Troy, by Simois river,And taken the armor, glory and guard in battle.The servants, Sagaris and Phegeus, hardlyCan lift it up, but when Demoleos wore it,He could go, full-speed, after the flying Trojans.The third award is a pair of brazen caldrons,And bowls embossed in silver.They had their prizesAnd went their way, proud of their wealth, and shiningWith foreheads garlanded, when with much effort,Scraped off the rock, oars lost, and one bank crippled,Here came Sergestus, butt of jeering laughter,Like a snake with a broken back, which a wagon-wheelRuns over on the road, or a traveller smashesWith the weight of a stone, and, crushed, it writhes and struggles,Looping the coils, and half of it is angryWith fiery eyes and hissing mouth, and halfKeeps dragging back the rest and doubles overOn useless muscles, powerless; SergestusCame home like such a serpent, maimed and broken,But the sail went bravely up as they made the harbor,And Aeneas kept his promise to the captain,Glad for the ship’s return, and the safe sailors.A slave-girl, Pholoe from Crete, accomplishedAt weaving, was his prize, and her twin children,Boy-infants, at the breast.The boat-race over, Aeneas makes his wayTo a grassy plain, with wooded hills surroundingThe race-course in the valley. All the crowdCome trooping after, group themselves aroundThe central prominence. Rewards and prizesDraw the competitors, travellers and natives,Trojans, Sicilians; in the foremost ranksAre Nisus and Euryalus, the latterConspicuous in the flower of youth and beauty,Whom Nisus follows with entire devotion:Diores, of the royal house of Priam,Was ready; Salius, an Acarnanian;Patron, Tegean-born; and two Sicilians,Panopes, Helymus, trained to the forests,Companions of Acestes; and many othersWhose fame by now the darkness hides. AeneasSpeaks to their hope:—“No one goes unrewarded:To each I give two Cretan arrows, gleamingWith polished steel, and a double-bitted axeEmbossed with silver. Everybody winsThese prizes, but the first three runners alsoShall wear the wreath of olive, and the winnerRide home a horse equipped with splendid trappings;For second place, an Amazonian quiverWith Thracian arrows, a broad belt of goldWith jeweled buckle; and this Argive helmetFor the one who comes in third.”They take their places,And when the signal is given, away they go,Like rain from storm-cloud, bodies leaning forward,Eyes on the goal. And for the lead it’s Nisus,Swifter than winds or lightning; running second,A good way back, comes Salius; and the third one,Third at some distance, is Euryalus,Helymus next; right on his heels Diores.There’s a little crowding there, the course too narrow,Diores, full of run, is in a pocket,He can’t get through. The race is almost over,Their breath comes hard, they are almost at the finish,—There’s a pool of blood on the ground, where the slain bullocksFell in the sacrifice, a slippery puddleRed on green ground, and Nisus does not see it,Nisus, still leading, thinking himself the winner,Is out of luck, his feet slide out from under,He wobbles, totters, recovers himself a little,Slips and goes forward, in a beautiful headerThrough blood and mud. But he keeps his wits about him,Does not forget his friend Euryalus; rising,And sort of accidentally on purpose,Gets in the way of Salius and spills him,A cartwheel, head over heels on the flying sand.Euryalus flashes past, an easy winnerThanks to his friend’s assistance, and they cheer him;Helymus second; in third place, Diores.Immediately there’s a loud howl of protest,Salius shrieking in the elders’ facesWith cries ofFoul!andOutrage!“I was robbed,Give me first prize!” But all the popular favorSides with Euryalus, who is young, and weeping,And better-looking; and Diores backs him,Loudly, of course, since who would get the helmetIf Salius was first? Aeneas ends it:—“The race will stand as run; you get your prizesAs first proposed; no one will change the order;But one thing I can do, and will do,—offerA consolation to our innocent friend.”With this, he gives a lion-skin to Salius,Heavy with shaggy hair, and the claws gilded.Nisus is heard from:—“If you’re giving prizesFor falling down, what’s good enough for Nisus?I would have won it surely, only FortuneGave me the same bad deal she handed Salius!”And with the words he made a sudden gestureShowing his muddy face. Aeneas, laughing,Ordered another prize, a shield for him,The work of Didymaon, stolen by Greeks,From Neptune’s temple sometime, but recovered,A worthy prize for a distinguished hero.Next is a boxing-bout. “Whoever has courageAnd fighting spirit in his heart, step forwardAnd put the gloves on!” There are double prizes,For the winner a bullock, decked with gold and ribbons,A sword and shining helmet for the loser.Without delay, Dares gets up; a murmurRuns through the crowd as this big man comes forward.They know that he was Paris’ sparring-partner,And they recall his famous match with ButesAt Hector’s tomb, where he knocked out that championAnd stretched him dying on the yellow sand.Now Dares holds his head up for the battle,Shakes his broad shoulders loose, warms up a little,A left, a right, a left, in shadow-boxing.Who will oppose him? No one puts the gloves on,No one, from all that throng, is in a hurryTo take on Dares. So, exultant, thinkingHimself a winner by default, he grabsThe bullock by one horn, says to Aeneas:—“If no man, goddess-born, is taking chances,How long must I keep standing here? How longHang around waiting? Give the order, let meLead home my prize!” The Trojans all applaud him.But king Acestes, sprawling on the greenswardBeside Entellus, nudges him a little:—“What was the use, Entellus, of being a hero,Of having been our bravest, under Eryx?Where is that old Sicilian reputation,And all those prizes hanging from the rafters?Does Dares get away with this, no contest,And all those prizes, and you sit here tamely?”Entellus answers, “Oh, I still love gloryAnd praise; there’s nothing the matter with my courage,But I’m too old, the blood is slow and colder,The strength not what it used to be. That braggerHas one thing, youth, and how he revels in it!If I had what he has, I’d not need prizes,Bullocks or helmets either, to get me fighting.”From somewhere he produced the gloves of EryxAnd tossed them into the ring, all stiff and heavy,Seven layers of hide, and insewn lead and iron.The people stand amazed, and Dares shudders,Wanting no part of gloves like these; AeneasInspects them, turning them slowly, over and over,And old Entellus adds a word of comment:—“Why, these are nothing! What if you had seenThe gloves of Hercules? He used to fight here.These are the gloves that Eryx wore against him.You still can see the blood and a splash of brainsThat stained them long ago. I used to wear themMyself when I was younger, and unchallengedBy Time, that envious rival. But if DaresDeclines these arms, all right, make matters equal,Don’t be afraid; I waive the gloves of Eryx,You put the Trojan gloves aside; AeneasWill see fair play, Acestes be my second.”He throws the double cloak from off his shoulders,Strips down to the great limbs, great bones, great musclesA giant in the ring. Aeneas brings themMatched pairs of gloves.They take their stand, each risingOn the balls of his feet, their arms upraised, and rollingTheir heads back from the punch. They spar, they lead,They watch for openings. Dares, much the younger,Is much the better in footwork; old EntellusHas to rely on strength; his knees are shaky,His wind not what it was. They throw their punches,And many miss; and some, with a solid thump,Land on the ribs or chest; temples and earsFeel the wind of a miss, or the jaws rattleWhen a punch lands. Entellus stands flat-footed,Wasting no motion, just a slip of the body,The watchful eyes alert. And Dares, feinting,Like one who artfully attacks a city,Tries this approach, then that, dancing around himIn varied vain attack. Entellus, rising,Draws back his right (in fact, he telegraphs it),And Dares, seeing it coming, slips aside;Entellus lands on nothing but the windAnd, thrown off balance, heavily comes downFlat on his face, as falls on ErymanthusA thunder-smitten oak, and so on, and so on.Roaring, the Trojans and Sicilians bothRise to their feet; the noise goes up to heaven;Acestes rushes in, to raise his comradeIn pity and sorrow. But that old-time fighterIs not slowed down a bit, nor made more wary;His rage is terrible, and his shame awakensA consciousness of strength. He chases DaresAll over the ring, left, right, left, right, the punchesRattle like hailstones on a roof; he batters Dares,Spins him halfway around with one hand, clouts himStraight with the other again. At last AeneasSteps in and stops it, with a word of comfortFor the exhausted Dares:—“Luckless fellow,Yield to the god! What madness blinds your visionTo strength beyond your own?” They rescue Dares,And drag him to the ships, with his knees caving,Head rolling side to side, spitting out bloodAnd teeth; he hardly sees the sword and helmet.They leave the palm and bullock for Entellus,Who, in the pride of victory, cries aloud:“Look, goddess-born! Watch, Trojans, and discoverTwo things—how strong I was when I was younger,And what a death you’ve kept away from Dares!”And, with the word, he faced his prize, the bullock,Drew back his right hand, poised it, sent it smashingBetween the horns, shattering the skull, and splashingBrains on the bones, as the great beast came down, lifeless.“This life, a better one than Dares’, Eryx,I vow as sacrifice, and so, victorious,Retire, and lay aside the gloves forever.”Next comes an archery contest. Aeneas offersPrizes and summons; on Serestus’ vesselThe mast is raised, and from its top a cordWith a fluttering dove bound to it as the mark.Four enter; a bronze helmet takes the lots,Hippocoön’s leaps out first; then Mnestheus follows,Green with the olive garland, sign and tokenOf ship well driven; and third was Pandarus’ brother,Eurytion; Pandarus was the archerWho once broke truce with the Greeks, firing an arrowIn the days of peace; and last came king Acestes,Willing to try his hand with younger men.They bend the pliant bows, each archer straining,Draw shaft from quiver. First from the twanging stringHippocoön’s arrow flew, through sky, through wind,Reaching its mark in the wood of the mast, which trembledAnd the bird flapped wings in terror, and the crowdRang with applause. Mnestheus took his stand,Drawing the bow back, aiming a little higher,And missed the bird, but severed knot and tether,And the dove sped free to the south. Eurytion, waitingAnd ready, called in prayer upon his brother,Let the dart fly, brought down the bird, exulting,From under the dark of the cloud. She came down lifeless,Pierced by the arrow still. No prize was leftFor king Acestes, but he fired his arrow,High as he could, to prove his skill. And a wonderCame to their eyes; it proved an omen laterWhen seers explained its meaning. The shaft caught fireFlying amid the clouds, a course of flame,Vanishing into space, as comets streamSweeping across the heaven, their long train flyingBehind them through the sky. All hearts were shaken,Sicilian, Trojan, both, and all men prayedTo the powers on high. Aeneas hailed the omen,Embraced Acestes, loaded him with presents,Saying, “Receive them, father; for the kingOf heaven has willed it so, unusual honorsFor skill surpassing. This bowl, with graven figures,Anchises owned, given him by a Thracian,King Cisseus, memorial and token,Of everlasting friendship.” On his browsHe bound green laurel, hailing Acestes victorOver the rest, and no one grudged the honor,Not even Eurytion, who had shot the dove;Mnestheus, for the cutting of the tether,Took his reward, and the one who hit the mast,Hippocoön, was not forgotten either.But while the shoot was on, Aeneas calledEpytides, Iulus’ guardian, to him,With words for a loyal ear:—“Go, tell Iulus,If the boys are ready, and the horses marshalled,To lead them, for Anchises’ sake, presentingHimself in arms.” And he bade the throng draw back,Leaving the long course clear and the field open.The boys rode in, shining on bridled poniesBefore their fathers’ eyes, in true formation,To a murmur of delight. The garlands weighedThe young hair down, they carried cornel spear-wandsWith iron at the tip; and some had quiversBright-polished, at their shoulders; torques of goldLooped high on the breast in pliant rings. Three leadersLed, each, three squadrons, and a dozen followedEach gay young captain. One of them was Priam,Son of Polites, and King Priam’s grandson,On a piebald Thracian, white of brow and fetlock.Young Atys led another line—(The Atii,In Latium, claim descent from him)—young Atys,Iulus’ special friend. And last, most handsome,Iulus rode a Carthaginian courser,Queen Dido’s gift. Sicilian horses carriedThe other riders, who rode up to the cheeringShy, as they heard the sound, and the fond welcomeOf crowds that saw the fathers in the children.They rode full circle once, and then a signal,A crack of the whip, was given, and they partedInto three groups, went galloping off, recalled,Wheeled, made mock charge, with lances at the ready,Made march and counter-march, troops intermingledWith troops, to right and left, in mimic battle,Mimic retreat, and mimic peace, a courseConfusing as the Labyrinth in CreteWhose path runs through blind walls, where craft has hiddenA thousand wandering ways, mistake and errorThreading insoluble mazes, so the children,The sons of Troy, wove in and out, in conflictIn flight and sport, as happy as dolphins leapingThrough the Carpathian waters. This was a customAscanius, when grown, himself establishedAt Alba Longa, his own town, and taught thereWhat he had learned in boyhood, and the AlbansIn turn informed their children, and the RomansKeep this ancestral rite; the boys are Troy,And the game Trojan, to this very day,From its first observance, in Anchises’ honor.Here fortune changed, not keeping faith; for Juno,While the ritual of sport went on, sent Iris,With a fair wind, to the Trojan fleet. She was angry,Still, and the ancient grudge unsatisfied,And Iris, over her thousand-colored rainbow,Ran her swift path, unseen, beheld the crowd,Surveyed the shore, harbor and fleet deserted,While far off on the lonely coast the womenMourned for Anchises lost, weeping and watchingThe unfathomable deep. “For weary people,Alas! how much remains, of shoal and ocean!”So ran the common sigh. They crave a city,They are tired of bearing the vast toil of sailing,And into their midst came Iris, versed in mischief,Laying aside her goddess-guise, becomingOld Beroe, Doryclus’ wife, who sometimeHad children, fame, and lineage. Now Iris,Resembling her, came down to the Trojan mothers.“Alas for us!” she cried, “on whom the GreeksNever laid hands, to drag us down to deathBefore our native walls! Unfortunate people,For what is fortune saving us, what doom,What dying? It is seven weary summersSince Troy’s destruction, and still we wander overAll lands, all seas, with rocks and stars foreverImplacable, as we go on pursuingA land that flees forever over the waters.Here lived our brother Eryx, here we findA welcomer, king Acestes; who forbids usTo found the walls, to build our city here?O fatherland, O household gods in vainSaved from the Greeks, will there never be any wallsFor Troy again? No Simois or Xanthus,The rivers Hector loved? Come with me, burnThese vessels of ill-omen. Let me tell you,I have been given warnings; in a dreamI saw Cassandra, she was giving me firebrands,Here seek your Troy, here is your home, she told me;It is time for us to act, be quick about it!Neptune himself, with fire on these four altars,Provides the method, and the resolution.”She was the first to seize a brand; she raised itAbove her head, and swung it, streaming and glowing,And flung it forth. The women, for a moment,Stood in bewilderment, and one, the oldest,Named Pyrgo, nurse to Priam’s many children,Cried out:—“This is no Beroe, I tell you,Mothers! Look at her flashing eyes, her spirit,Her stride, her features; every mark of the goddessAttends her presence. Beroe I myselfHave just now come from; she lies ill and grievingAll by herself, in sorrow for her absenceFrom reverence for Anchises.”As they gazedDoubtfully at the ships, with sullen eyes,Distracted, torn between a sickly yearningFor present land and rest, and the kingdoms callingThem fatefully over the sea, the goddess, cleavingThe air on her bright pinions, rose to heaven.They were shaken then, amazed, and frenzy-driven;They cried aloud; tore fire from the hearths and altars;Made tinder of the altar-decorations,The garlandry and wreaths. And the fire, let loose,Rioted over thwarts and oars and rigging.To theatre and tomb Eumelus broughtWord of the ships on fire; and the men could seeThe black ash billowing in the smoky cloud,And first Ascanius, as full of spiritAs when he led the games, rushed to the troubleAs fast as he could ride; no troubled mastersCould hold him back. “Poor things, what are you doing?What craziness is this? what are you up to?It is no Greek camp, no enemy you’re burningBut your own hopes! Look at me! Here I am,Your own Ascanius!” And before their feetHe flung the helmet he had worn when leadingThe little war-game. And Aeneas hurriedWith others to the troubled camp. The womenScattered and fled along the shore, in terrorAnd guilt, wherever they could, to hiding-placesIn woods or caves in the rock; they are ashamedOf daylight and their deed; Juno is shakenOut of their hearts, and they recognize their own.That does not stop the fire; it burns in furyUnder wet oak, tow smoulders, and the stubbornSteam eats the keels away, destruction seizingOn deck and hull, and water can not quench it,Nor any strength of men. Tearing his garmentLoose from his shoulders, Aeneas prays to heaven:—“Almighty Jove, if the Trojans are not hatefulTo the last man, if any record of goodnessAlleviates human trouble, let our fleetEscape this flame, O father; save from doomThis little Trojan remnant; or with lightning,If I deserve it, strike us down forever!”He had scarcely spoken, when a cloudburst fellFull force, with darkness and black tempest streaming,And thunder rumbling over plain and hillock,The whole sky pouring rain; the ships were drownedWith water from above, the half-burnt timbersWere soaked, and the hiss of steam died out; four vesselsWere gone, the others rescued from disaster.And now Aeneas, stunned by the bitter evil,Was troubled at heart, uncertain, anxious, grieving:What could be done? forget the call of the fatesAnd settle here in Sicily, or keep onTo the coast of Italy? An old man, Nautes,Whom Pallas had instructed in deep wisdom,Gave him the answer. “Goddess-born, whereverFate pulls or hauls us, there we have to follow;Whatever happens, fortune can be beatenBy nothing but endurance. We have hereA friend, Acestes, Trojan-born, divineIn parentage; make him an ally in counsel,Partner in enterprise; to him hand overThe ones whose ships are lost, and all the weary,The sick and tired, the old men, and the mothersWho have had too much of the sea, and the faint-hearted,Whose weariness may find a city for themHere in this land; Acesta, let them call it.”The old man’s words still troubled him; the mindWas torn this way and that. Night rode the heavensIn her dark chariot, and there came from the darknessThe image of Anchises, speaking to himIn words of comfort:—“Son, more dear to meThan life, when life was mine; son, sorely troubledBy Trojan fate, I come at Jove’s command,Who drove the fire away, and from the heavenHas taken pity. Obey the words of Nautes,He gives the best of counsel; the flower of the youth,The bravest hearts, lead on to Italy.There will be trouble there, a rugged peopleMust be subdued in Latium. Come to meet me,First, in the lower world; come through AvernusTo find me, son. Tartarus’ evil prisonOf gloomy shades I know not, for I dwellAmong the happy spirits in Elysium.Black sheep are good for sacrifice. The Sibyl,A holy guide, will lead the way, foretellingThe race to come, the given walls. Farewell,My son; the dewy night is almost over,I feel the breath of the morning’s cruel horses.”He spoke, and vanished, smoke into airy thinness,From the cries of his son, who woke, and roused the embersOf the drowsing altar-fires, with meal and censerPropitiating Vesta, making worshipTo Trojan household gods.And called AcestesAnd the Trojan counsellors, told them of JoveAnd his good father’s orders, the decisionHe has reached at last. They all agree, AcestesAccepts the trust. They make a roll for the city,The women-folk, the people willing to linger,The unadventurous; and they make readyThe thwarts again, replace the fire-scorched timbers,Fit out new oars and rigging. There are not many,But a living company, for war brave-hearted.Aeneas ploughs the limits for the city,Sets out new homes, Ilium, again, and Troy,A kingdom welcome to Acestes, senateAnd courts, and laws, established; and a shrineHigh on the crest of Eryx, is given Venus,Near the high stars, and a priest assigned as wardenTo the wide boundaries of Anchises’ grove.Nine days they hold farewells, one tribe togetherFor the last time, with honor at the altars,And seas are calm, and winds go down, and the whisperOf a little breeze calls to the sail; the shoreHears a great wail arise; they cling to each otherAll through the night and day. Even the mothers,The weary men, to whom the face of the seaOnce seemed so cruel, and its very nameA menacing monster, want to go now, willingFor all the toil of exile. These AeneasComforts with friendly words, and bids AcestesBe their good brother. Then he slays to EryxThree bullocks, and a lamb to the gods of storm-cloud.It is time to loose the cables. At the bowHe stands, his temples garlanded with olive,Makes to the sea libation of wine and entrails,And the wind comes up astern, and they sweep the watersIn happy rivalry.But meanwhile Venus,Driven by worry, went to Neptune, pouringComplaints from a full heart:—“Neptune, the angerOf Juno, her insatiable vengeance,Which neither time nor any goodness softens,Drives me to humble prayer. She never weakensFor Jove’s command, nor the orders of the fates;It is not enough for her that the Trojan cityIs quite consumed by hatred, and the remnantsOf that poor town harried all over the worldWith every kind of punishment; she still followsEven their bones and ashes. She may knowThe reasons for that wrath of hers. RememberHow great a weight of water she stirred up latelyIn the Libyan seas, confusing sky and ocean,With Aeolus conspiring, and in your kingdom!And now her crime has driven the Trojan mothersTo burn their ships, to give their comrades overTo a coast unknown. Let what is left come safelyOver the sea, to reach Laurentian Tiber,If what I ask is just, if those are wallsDue them by fate’s decree.”And Neptune answered:—“None has a better right to trust my kingdomThan the goddess born of the sea-foam. And I have earnedThis confidence. I have often checked the angerOf sea and sky. And the rivers of Troy are witnessI have helped on land as well, and saved Aeneas.When thousands died at Troy, with fierce AchillesIn hot pursuit, and the rivers groaned, and XanthusCould hardly find the sea, I formed a cloudAround Aeneas, when he met AchillesWith the gods adverse, and no great strength to help himI rescued him, in spite of my own angerAt the perjury of Troy, in spite of my passionTo raze the walls I had built. Now too my purposeRemains; have done with fear; he will reach in safetyThe haven of Avernus; the prayer is granted.Let one be lost in the flood, one life aloneBe given for the many.”This comfort given,To bring the goddess joy, he yoked his horses,Gold bridle, foaming bit, and sent them flyingWith the lightest touch of the reins, skimming the surfaceIn the bright blue car; and the waves went down, the axleSubdued the swell of the wave, and storm-clouds meltedTo nothing in the sky, and his attendantsFollowed along, great whales, and ancient Glaucus,Palaemon, Ino’s son, and the rushing Tritons,The army of Phorcus, Melite and ThetisWatching the left, and the maiden Panopea,Cymodoce and Thalia and Spio,So that Aeneas, in his turn, was happy,Less anxious at heart. The masts are raised, and sailStretched from the halyards; right and left they bendThe canvas to fair winds: at the head of the fleetRides Palinurus, and the others follow,As ordered, close behind him; dewy nightHas reached mid-heaven, while the sailors, sleeping,Relax on the hard benches under the oars,All calm, all quiet. And the god of SleepParting the shadowy air, comes gently down,Looking for Palinurus, bringing him,A guiltless man, ill-omened dreams. He settlesOn the high stern, a god disguised as a man,Speaking in Phorbas’ guise, “O Palinurus,The fleet rides smoothly in the even weather,The hour is given for rest. Lay down the head,Rest the tired eyes from toil. I will take overA little while.” But Palinurus, barelyLifting his eyes, made answer: “Trust the waves,However quiet? trust a peaceful ocean?Put faith in such a monster? Never! IHave been too often fooled by the clear starsTo trust Aeneas to their faithless keeping.”And so he clung to the tiller, never loosedHis hand from the wood, his eyes from the fair heaven.But lo, the god over his temples shookA bough that dripped with dew from Lethe, steepedWith Stygian magic, so the swimming eyes,Against his effort close, blink open, closeAgain, and slumber takes the drowsy limbs.Bending above him, leaning over, the godShoves him, still clinging to the tiller, callingHis comrades vainly, into the clear waves.And the god is gone like a bird to the clear air,And the fleet is going safely over its journeyAs Neptune promised. But the rocks were near,The Siren-cliffs, most perilous of old,White with the bones of many mariners,Loud with their hoarse eternal warning sound.Aeneas starts from sleep, aware, somehow,Of a lost pilot, and a vessel drifting,Himself takes over guidance, with a sighAnd heartache for a friend’s mishap, “Alas,Too trustful in the calm of sea and sky,O Palinurus, on an unknown shore,You will be lying, naked.”
Meanwhile Aeneas and the fleet were holdingThe sure course over the sea, cutting the watersThat darkened under the wind. His gaze went backTo the walls of Carthage, glowing in the flameOf Dido’s funeral pyre. What cause had kindledSo high a blaze, they did not know, but anguishWhen love is wounded deep, and the way of a womanWith frenzy in her heart, they knew too well,And dwelt on with foreboding.
They were out of sight of land, with only seaAround them on all sides, alone with ocean,Ocean and sky, when a cloud, black-blue, loomed overWith night and tempest in it; the water roughenedIn shadow, and the pilot PalinurusCried from the lofty stern. “What clouds are theseFilling the sky? What threat is father NeptunePreparing over our heads? Trim ship,” he ordered,“Bend to the oars, reef down the sail.” The courseWas changed, on a slant across the wind, and the pilotTurned to Aeneas: “With a sky like this,I’d have no hope of reaching Italy,Even if Jove himself should guarantee it.The winds have changed, they roar across our courseFrom the black evening, thickening into cloud.We have no strength for headway. Luck is against us,Let us change the course, and follow. I rememberFraternal shores near by, the land of Eryx,Sicilian harbors; we were here beforeIf I recall my stars.”
Aeneas answered:“I saw it long ago, the will of the winds,The uselessness of struggle. Change the course,Steer to the land most welcome to me; thereMy friend Acestes dwells, and there my fatherAnchises lies at rest. What better landTo rest our weary ships?” They made for the harbor,With favoring wind, a swift run over the water,A happy turn to a familiar shore.
High on a hill-top look-out, king Acestes,Son of a Trojan mother and Crinisus,A river-god, saw friendly vessels coming,With wonder and delight, came hurrying toward them,With a bear-skin over his shoulder, and javelinsBristling in his grasp, and he rememberedThe old relationship, and gave them welcomeWith all his rustic treasure, a glad returning,Friendly assurance for their weariness.A good night’s rest, and a bright morning followed,And from the shore Aeneas called his comrades,Stood on a little rise of ground, and told them:“Great sons of Dardanus, heaven-born, a yearDraws to an end, a year ago we buriedMy father in this land, and consecratedSorrowful altars to his shade. The dayComes round again, which I shall always cherish,Always lament, with reverence, in the mourning,For the gods’ will. If I were held, an exile,In the Gaetulian quicksands, or a captiveIn some Greek ship or city, I would honorThis day with solemn rites, and pile the altarsWith sacrificial offering. But now,—This must be heaven’s purpose—we have enteredA friendly harbor. Come, then, all of us,Let us be happy in our celebration,Let us pray for winds, and that the god hereafterReceive his rites in temples for his honorBuilt in the city we found. Two heads of oxenAcestes gives each vessel; bring the godsOf our own household, and the ones AcestesPays worship to. Nine days from now, if dawnComes bright and shining over the world of men,There will be games, a contest for the boats,A foot-race, javelin-throw or archery, a battleWith rawhide gloves; let all attend, competingFor victory’s palm and prize. And now, in silence,Garland the brow with leaves.”
He bound his templesWith Venus’ myrtle, and the others followed,Acestes, Helymus, and young Iulus,And the other lads, and Aeneas, from the meeting,Moved to Anchises’ tomb, and many thousandsCame thronging there. He poured libation, duly,Bowls of pure wine, and milk, and victim-blood,And strewed bright flowers, praying: “Holy father,Hail, once again; hail once again, O ashes,Regained in vain; hail, holy shade and spirit!Hail, from a son, destined to seek aloneThe fated fields, Italian soil, aloneTo seek, whatever it is, Ausonian Tiber.”And as he finished speaking, a huge serpentSlid over the ground, seven shining loops, surroundingThe tomb, peacefully gliding around the altars,Dappled with blue and gold, such iridescenceAs rainbow gives to cloud, when the sun strikes it.Aeneas stood amazed; and the great serpentCrawled to the bowls and cups, tasted the offerings,And slid again, without a hint of menace,Under the altar-stone. Intent, AeneasResumed the rites; the serpent might have been,For all he knew, a guardian of the altar,Or some familiar spirit of Anchises.Two sheep he sacrificed, two swine, two heifers,Poured wine, invoked the spirit of his father,And the shade loosed from Acheron. His comradesAlso bring gifts, whatever they can, slay bullocks,Load altars high; others prepare the kettles,Sprawl on the greensward, keep the live coals glowingUnder the roasting-spits, and the meat turning.
And the day came, the ninth they had awaitedWith eagerness, bright and clear, and the crowd gatheredUnder Acestes’ sanction; they were eagerTo see the Trojans, or to join the contests.There were the prizes, tripods, and green garlands,And palms for the winners, armor, crimson garments,Talents of silver and gold. And a trumpet heraldsThe start of the games.
For the first contestFour ships are entered, heavy-oared, and chosen,The pick of the fleet. Mnestheus is one captain,His ship theDragon, and his crew is eager,—(Later the Memmian line will call him father).Gyas commands the bigChimaera, a vesselHuge as a town; it takes three tiers of oarsmenTo keep her moving. Then there is SergestusRiding theCentaur, and the sea-blueScyllaCloanthus leads. (The Sergian house at RomeDescends from one, Cluentians from the other.)
Far out in the water, facing the foaming shores,There lies a rock, which the swollen waves beat overOn stormy days when gales blot out the stars,But quiet in calm weather, a level landingFor the sun-loving sea-gulls. Here AeneasSets a green bough of holm-oak, as a signalTo mark the turning-point; to this the sailorsMust row, then turn, and double back. The placesAre chosen by lot; the captains are set off,Shining in gold and purple; all the sailorsWear poplar-wreaths, and their naked shoulders glistenWith the smear of oil. They are at their places, strainingArms stretched to the oars, waiting the word, and their chestsHeave, and their hearts are pumping fast; ambitionAnd nervousness take hold of them. The signal!They shoot away; the noise goes up to the heavens,The arms pull back to the chests, the water is churnedTo a foam like snow; the start is very even,The sea gapes open under the rush of the beaksAnd the pull of the oars. The racers go no fasterWhen the chariots take the field, and the barrier springsCars into action, and the drivers lashWhipping and shaking the reins. Applause and shoutingVolley and ring, and shrill excitement risesFrom some with bets on the issue; all the woodlandResounds, the shores are loud, and the beaten hillsideSends back the uproar.
Gyas beats the othersIn the rush of the starting sprint; Cloanthus follows,With a better crew, but a slower, heavier vessel;Behind them come theDragonand theCentaur,With no advantage either way; first one,And then the other, has it, moving evenWith long keels through salt water; and the leaderHas almost reached the rock, the turn; that’s Gyas,The captain, yelling loudly at his pilot:—“Menoetes, what the hell! Why are you steeringSo far off to the right? Bring her in closer,This way, let the oars just miss the rocks, hug shore,Cut her close here on the left; let the other fellowsStay out as far as they like.” Menoetes, though,Feared unseen rocks, and made for open water.“Why so far off the course? The rock, Menoetes,Keep close to the rock!” And while he shouted, GyasCould see Cloanthus coming up behind himInside him, on the left, and gaining, gaining.Between the roar of the rock and the ship of Gyas,Cloanthus grazed his way, and passed the leader,Made the turn safely, and reached open water.Then Gyas really was burnt up; he was cryingIn rage; to hell with pride, to hell with safety!He grabbed that cautious pilot of his, and heaved himOver the stern, he took the rudder over,Steering for shore, and yelling at the sailors,As old Menoetes slowly came to the surface,His heavy garments dripping, clawing and scramblingUp to the top of the rock, to perch there, drying,A good laugh for the Trojans, as they watched himTaking his header, coming up, and swimming,And spitting out salt water.
The two last ones,Mnestheus and Sergestus, were encouraged;Gyas was easy now; Sergestus managedTo get ahead, a little; he neared the rock,Less than a length ahead; the rivalDragonWas lapped on him, and up and down, amidships,Went Mnestheus, cheering on his crew:—“Get going,Rise to the oars, my comrades, men of HectorWhom I picked out for mine in Troy’s last moment.Show the old spirit and the nerve that took usThrough the Gaetulian sands, Ionian waters,Off Cape Malea! We can’t hope to win it,—Let Neptune look to that!—maybe—at least,Whatever we do, don’t come in last! We could notBear any such disgrace.” They did their utmost,Straining with all their might, the bronze deck shakingUnder the effort, and the quiet oceanStreamed under and past them. Arms and legs were weary,Wobbly, shaking; breath came hard, they gulpedAnd gasped for air, and sweat ran down in rivers,And they had some luck. Sergestus, out of his senses,Drove in, too close, and piled up on the rock,Which almost bounced as he hit there, and the oarsWere sheared away, and the bow hung up, and the sailors,Shouting like mad, pushed hard with pikes or boat-hooks,Or the wreck of the oars, to shove them off. And MnestheusEasier now, and with exalted spiritFrom this much victory, with a prayer to the windsAnd the oars’ swift drive, was running down-hill waters,Over the open ocean, as a doveSuddenly startled out of her nest in a cavernWhere the young brood waits, wings to the fields in fright,Flapping on anxious pinions, and recovers,And skims down peaceful air, with never a motionOf wing in the lifting air, so Mnestheus sped,So sped theDragon, racing home, and the sweepOf her own speed made a wind. She passed SergestusStruggling, rock-bound, in shallow water, howlingFor help, in vain, and learning how to manageA boat when the oars are broken. She overhauledGyas, in theChimaera, wallowing heavyWithout a pilot. Only Cloanthus was left;They were after him with all their might, the clamorRose twice as loud; they were cheering the pursuer,And the sky was a crash of shouting. On theScyllaThey would give their lives to hold their place, they have won it,The glory and honor are theirs already, almost;And Mnestheus’ men take courage from their nearness;They can because they think they can. They would have,Perhaps, or tied, at least had not CloanthusTaken to prayer:—“Gods of the seas, whose watersI skim, whose empire lifts me up, I gladlyPromise you sacrifice, a snow-white bullockAt altars on this shore, and wine for the ocean,And the entrails flung to the flood!” Under the wavesThe Nereids heard him, Phorcus, PanopeaThe maiden, and Portunus, the big-handed,Boosted him on his way. Swifter than arrow,Swifter than wind, the ship swept into the harbor.
The herald’s cry proclaimed Cloanthus victor,When all were summoned, and Anchises’ sonPut the green bay leaf on his temples, silverAnd wine for the ships, a steer for each. The captainsHave special prizes; the winner has a mantle,Woven with gold, and a double seam of crimson,With a story in the texture, GanymedeHunting on Ida, breathless, tossing dartsAnd racing after the deer, and caught and carriedIn the talons of Jove’s eagle, soaring skyward,While the boy’s old guardians reach their hands up, vainly,And the hounds set up a cry. Mnestheus, second,Has a coat of mail, with triple links of gold,A trophy of Demoleos; AeneasHad beaten him at Troy, by Simois river,And taken the armor, glory and guard in battle.The servants, Sagaris and Phegeus, hardlyCan lift it up, but when Demoleos wore it,He could go, full-speed, after the flying Trojans.The third award is a pair of brazen caldrons,And bowls embossed in silver.
They had their prizesAnd went their way, proud of their wealth, and shiningWith foreheads garlanded, when with much effort,Scraped off the rock, oars lost, and one bank crippled,Here came Sergestus, butt of jeering laughter,Like a snake with a broken back, which a wagon-wheelRuns over on the road, or a traveller smashesWith the weight of a stone, and, crushed, it writhes and struggles,Looping the coils, and half of it is angryWith fiery eyes and hissing mouth, and halfKeeps dragging back the rest and doubles overOn useless muscles, powerless; SergestusCame home like such a serpent, maimed and broken,But the sail went bravely up as they made the harbor,And Aeneas kept his promise to the captain,Glad for the ship’s return, and the safe sailors.A slave-girl, Pholoe from Crete, accomplishedAt weaving, was his prize, and her twin children,Boy-infants, at the breast.The boat-race over, Aeneas makes his wayTo a grassy plain, with wooded hills surroundingThe race-course in the valley. All the crowdCome trooping after, group themselves aroundThe central prominence. Rewards and prizesDraw the competitors, travellers and natives,Trojans, Sicilians; in the foremost ranksAre Nisus and Euryalus, the latterConspicuous in the flower of youth and beauty,Whom Nisus follows with entire devotion:Diores, of the royal house of Priam,Was ready; Salius, an Acarnanian;Patron, Tegean-born; and two Sicilians,Panopes, Helymus, trained to the forests,Companions of Acestes; and many othersWhose fame by now the darkness hides. AeneasSpeaks to their hope:—“No one goes unrewarded:To each I give two Cretan arrows, gleamingWith polished steel, and a double-bitted axeEmbossed with silver. Everybody winsThese prizes, but the first three runners alsoShall wear the wreath of olive, and the winnerRide home a horse equipped with splendid trappings;For second place, an Amazonian quiverWith Thracian arrows, a broad belt of goldWith jeweled buckle; and this Argive helmetFor the one who comes in third.”
They take their places,And when the signal is given, away they go,Like rain from storm-cloud, bodies leaning forward,Eyes on the goal. And for the lead it’s Nisus,Swifter than winds or lightning; running second,A good way back, comes Salius; and the third one,Third at some distance, is Euryalus,Helymus next; right on his heels Diores.There’s a little crowding there, the course too narrow,Diores, full of run, is in a pocket,He can’t get through. The race is almost over,Their breath comes hard, they are almost at the finish,—There’s a pool of blood on the ground, where the slain bullocksFell in the sacrifice, a slippery puddleRed on green ground, and Nisus does not see it,Nisus, still leading, thinking himself the winner,Is out of luck, his feet slide out from under,He wobbles, totters, recovers himself a little,Slips and goes forward, in a beautiful headerThrough blood and mud. But he keeps his wits about him,Does not forget his friend Euryalus; rising,And sort of accidentally on purpose,Gets in the way of Salius and spills him,A cartwheel, head over heels on the flying sand.Euryalus flashes past, an easy winnerThanks to his friend’s assistance, and they cheer him;Helymus second; in third place, Diores.
Immediately there’s a loud howl of protest,Salius shrieking in the elders’ facesWith cries ofFoul!andOutrage!“I was robbed,Give me first prize!” But all the popular favorSides with Euryalus, who is young, and weeping,And better-looking; and Diores backs him,Loudly, of course, since who would get the helmetIf Salius was first? Aeneas ends it:—“The race will stand as run; you get your prizesAs first proposed; no one will change the order;But one thing I can do, and will do,—offerA consolation to our innocent friend.”With this, he gives a lion-skin to Salius,Heavy with shaggy hair, and the claws gilded.Nisus is heard from:—“If you’re giving prizesFor falling down, what’s good enough for Nisus?I would have won it surely, only FortuneGave me the same bad deal she handed Salius!”And with the words he made a sudden gestureShowing his muddy face. Aeneas, laughing,Ordered another prize, a shield for him,The work of Didymaon, stolen by Greeks,From Neptune’s temple sometime, but recovered,A worthy prize for a distinguished hero.
Next is a boxing-bout. “Whoever has courageAnd fighting spirit in his heart, step forwardAnd put the gloves on!” There are double prizes,For the winner a bullock, decked with gold and ribbons,A sword and shining helmet for the loser.Without delay, Dares gets up; a murmurRuns through the crowd as this big man comes forward.They know that he was Paris’ sparring-partner,And they recall his famous match with ButesAt Hector’s tomb, where he knocked out that championAnd stretched him dying on the yellow sand.Now Dares holds his head up for the battle,Shakes his broad shoulders loose, warms up a little,A left, a right, a left, in shadow-boxing.Who will oppose him? No one puts the gloves on,No one, from all that throng, is in a hurryTo take on Dares. So, exultant, thinkingHimself a winner by default, he grabsThe bullock by one horn, says to Aeneas:—“If no man, goddess-born, is taking chances,How long must I keep standing here? How longHang around waiting? Give the order, let meLead home my prize!” The Trojans all applaud him.But king Acestes, sprawling on the greenswardBeside Entellus, nudges him a little:—“What was the use, Entellus, of being a hero,Of having been our bravest, under Eryx?Where is that old Sicilian reputation,And all those prizes hanging from the rafters?Does Dares get away with this, no contest,And all those prizes, and you sit here tamely?”Entellus answers, “Oh, I still love gloryAnd praise; there’s nothing the matter with my courage,But I’m too old, the blood is slow and colder,The strength not what it used to be. That braggerHas one thing, youth, and how he revels in it!If I had what he has, I’d not need prizes,Bullocks or helmets either, to get me fighting.”From somewhere he produced the gloves of EryxAnd tossed them into the ring, all stiff and heavy,Seven layers of hide, and insewn lead and iron.The people stand amazed, and Dares shudders,Wanting no part of gloves like these; AeneasInspects them, turning them slowly, over and over,And old Entellus adds a word of comment:—“Why, these are nothing! What if you had seenThe gloves of Hercules? He used to fight here.These are the gloves that Eryx wore against him.You still can see the blood and a splash of brainsThat stained them long ago. I used to wear themMyself when I was younger, and unchallengedBy Time, that envious rival. But if DaresDeclines these arms, all right, make matters equal,Don’t be afraid; I waive the gloves of Eryx,You put the Trojan gloves aside; AeneasWill see fair play, Acestes be my second.”He throws the double cloak from off his shoulders,Strips down to the great limbs, great bones, great musclesA giant in the ring. Aeneas brings themMatched pairs of gloves.
They take their stand, each risingOn the balls of his feet, their arms upraised, and rollingTheir heads back from the punch. They spar, they lead,They watch for openings. Dares, much the younger,Is much the better in footwork; old EntellusHas to rely on strength; his knees are shaky,His wind not what it was. They throw their punches,And many miss; and some, with a solid thump,Land on the ribs or chest; temples and earsFeel the wind of a miss, or the jaws rattleWhen a punch lands. Entellus stands flat-footed,Wasting no motion, just a slip of the body,The watchful eyes alert. And Dares, feinting,Like one who artfully attacks a city,Tries this approach, then that, dancing around himIn varied vain attack. Entellus, rising,Draws back his right (in fact, he telegraphs it),And Dares, seeing it coming, slips aside;Entellus lands on nothing but the windAnd, thrown off balance, heavily comes downFlat on his face, as falls on ErymanthusA thunder-smitten oak, and so on, and so on.Roaring, the Trojans and Sicilians bothRise to their feet; the noise goes up to heaven;Acestes rushes in, to raise his comradeIn pity and sorrow. But that old-time fighterIs not slowed down a bit, nor made more wary;His rage is terrible, and his shame awakensA consciousness of strength. He chases DaresAll over the ring, left, right, left, right, the punchesRattle like hailstones on a roof; he batters Dares,Spins him halfway around with one hand, clouts himStraight with the other again. At last AeneasSteps in and stops it, with a word of comfortFor the exhausted Dares:—“Luckless fellow,Yield to the god! What madness blinds your visionTo strength beyond your own?” They rescue Dares,And drag him to the ships, with his knees caving,Head rolling side to side, spitting out bloodAnd teeth; he hardly sees the sword and helmet.They leave the palm and bullock for Entellus,Who, in the pride of victory, cries aloud:“Look, goddess-born! Watch, Trojans, and discoverTwo things—how strong I was when I was younger,And what a death you’ve kept away from Dares!”And, with the word, he faced his prize, the bullock,Drew back his right hand, poised it, sent it smashingBetween the horns, shattering the skull, and splashingBrains on the bones, as the great beast came down, lifeless.“This life, a better one than Dares’, Eryx,I vow as sacrifice, and so, victorious,Retire, and lay aside the gloves forever.”
Next comes an archery contest. Aeneas offersPrizes and summons; on Serestus’ vesselThe mast is raised, and from its top a cordWith a fluttering dove bound to it as the mark.Four enter; a bronze helmet takes the lots,Hippocoön’s leaps out first; then Mnestheus follows,Green with the olive garland, sign and tokenOf ship well driven; and third was Pandarus’ brother,Eurytion; Pandarus was the archerWho once broke truce with the Greeks, firing an arrowIn the days of peace; and last came king Acestes,Willing to try his hand with younger men.
They bend the pliant bows, each archer straining,Draw shaft from quiver. First from the twanging stringHippocoön’s arrow flew, through sky, through wind,Reaching its mark in the wood of the mast, which trembledAnd the bird flapped wings in terror, and the crowdRang with applause. Mnestheus took his stand,Drawing the bow back, aiming a little higher,And missed the bird, but severed knot and tether,And the dove sped free to the south. Eurytion, waitingAnd ready, called in prayer upon his brother,Let the dart fly, brought down the bird, exulting,From under the dark of the cloud. She came down lifeless,Pierced by the arrow still. No prize was leftFor king Acestes, but he fired his arrow,High as he could, to prove his skill. And a wonderCame to their eyes; it proved an omen laterWhen seers explained its meaning. The shaft caught fireFlying amid the clouds, a course of flame,Vanishing into space, as comets streamSweeping across the heaven, their long train flyingBehind them through the sky. All hearts were shaken,Sicilian, Trojan, both, and all men prayedTo the powers on high. Aeneas hailed the omen,Embraced Acestes, loaded him with presents,Saying, “Receive them, father; for the kingOf heaven has willed it so, unusual honorsFor skill surpassing. This bowl, with graven figures,Anchises owned, given him by a Thracian,King Cisseus, memorial and token,Of everlasting friendship.” On his browsHe bound green laurel, hailing Acestes victorOver the rest, and no one grudged the honor,Not even Eurytion, who had shot the dove;Mnestheus, for the cutting of the tether,Took his reward, and the one who hit the mast,Hippocoön, was not forgotten either.
But while the shoot was on, Aeneas calledEpytides, Iulus’ guardian, to him,With words for a loyal ear:—“Go, tell Iulus,If the boys are ready, and the horses marshalled,To lead them, for Anchises’ sake, presentingHimself in arms.” And he bade the throng draw back,Leaving the long course clear and the field open.The boys rode in, shining on bridled poniesBefore their fathers’ eyes, in true formation,To a murmur of delight. The garlands weighedThe young hair down, they carried cornel spear-wandsWith iron at the tip; and some had quiversBright-polished, at their shoulders; torques of goldLooped high on the breast in pliant rings. Three leadersLed, each, three squadrons, and a dozen followedEach gay young captain. One of them was Priam,Son of Polites, and King Priam’s grandson,On a piebald Thracian, white of brow and fetlock.Young Atys led another line—(The Atii,In Latium, claim descent from him)—young Atys,Iulus’ special friend. And last, most handsome,Iulus rode a Carthaginian courser,Queen Dido’s gift. Sicilian horses carriedThe other riders, who rode up to the cheeringShy, as they heard the sound, and the fond welcomeOf crowds that saw the fathers in the children.They rode full circle once, and then a signal,A crack of the whip, was given, and they partedInto three groups, went galloping off, recalled,Wheeled, made mock charge, with lances at the ready,Made march and counter-march, troops intermingledWith troops, to right and left, in mimic battle,Mimic retreat, and mimic peace, a courseConfusing as the Labyrinth in CreteWhose path runs through blind walls, where craft has hiddenA thousand wandering ways, mistake and errorThreading insoluble mazes, so the children,The sons of Troy, wove in and out, in conflictIn flight and sport, as happy as dolphins leapingThrough the Carpathian waters. This was a customAscanius, when grown, himself establishedAt Alba Longa, his own town, and taught thereWhat he had learned in boyhood, and the AlbansIn turn informed their children, and the RomansKeep this ancestral rite; the boys are Troy,And the game Trojan, to this very day,From its first observance, in Anchises’ honor.
Here fortune changed, not keeping faith; for Juno,While the ritual of sport went on, sent Iris,With a fair wind, to the Trojan fleet. She was angry,Still, and the ancient grudge unsatisfied,And Iris, over her thousand-colored rainbow,Ran her swift path, unseen, beheld the crowd,Surveyed the shore, harbor and fleet deserted,While far off on the lonely coast the womenMourned for Anchises lost, weeping and watchingThe unfathomable deep. “For weary people,Alas! how much remains, of shoal and ocean!”So ran the common sigh. They crave a city,They are tired of bearing the vast toil of sailing,And into their midst came Iris, versed in mischief,Laying aside her goddess-guise, becomingOld Beroe, Doryclus’ wife, who sometimeHad children, fame, and lineage. Now Iris,Resembling her, came down to the Trojan mothers.“Alas for us!” she cried, “on whom the GreeksNever laid hands, to drag us down to deathBefore our native walls! Unfortunate people,For what is fortune saving us, what doom,What dying? It is seven weary summersSince Troy’s destruction, and still we wander overAll lands, all seas, with rocks and stars foreverImplacable, as we go on pursuingA land that flees forever over the waters.Here lived our brother Eryx, here we findA welcomer, king Acestes; who forbids usTo found the walls, to build our city here?O fatherland, O household gods in vainSaved from the Greeks, will there never be any wallsFor Troy again? No Simois or Xanthus,The rivers Hector loved? Come with me, burnThese vessels of ill-omen. Let me tell you,I have been given warnings; in a dreamI saw Cassandra, she was giving me firebrands,Here seek your Troy, here is your home, she told me;It is time for us to act, be quick about it!Neptune himself, with fire on these four altars,Provides the method, and the resolution.”
She was the first to seize a brand; she raised itAbove her head, and swung it, streaming and glowing,And flung it forth. The women, for a moment,Stood in bewilderment, and one, the oldest,Named Pyrgo, nurse to Priam’s many children,Cried out:—“This is no Beroe, I tell you,Mothers! Look at her flashing eyes, her spirit,Her stride, her features; every mark of the goddessAttends her presence. Beroe I myselfHave just now come from; she lies ill and grievingAll by herself, in sorrow for her absenceFrom reverence for Anchises.”
As they gazedDoubtfully at the ships, with sullen eyes,Distracted, torn between a sickly yearningFor present land and rest, and the kingdoms callingThem fatefully over the sea, the goddess, cleavingThe air on her bright pinions, rose to heaven.They were shaken then, amazed, and frenzy-driven;They cried aloud; tore fire from the hearths and altars;Made tinder of the altar-decorations,The garlandry and wreaths. And the fire, let loose,Rioted over thwarts and oars and rigging.
To theatre and tomb Eumelus broughtWord of the ships on fire; and the men could seeThe black ash billowing in the smoky cloud,And first Ascanius, as full of spiritAs when he led the games, rushed to the troubleAs fast as he could ride; no troubled mastersCould hold him back. “Poor things, what are you doing?What craziness is this? what are you up to?It is no Greek camp, no enemy you’re burningBut your own hopes! Look at me! Here I am,Your own Ascanius!” And before their feetHe flung the helmet he had worn when leadingThe little war-game. And Aeneas hurriedWith others to the troubled camp. The womenScattered and fled along the shore, in terrorAnd guilt, wherever they could, to hiding-placesIn woods or caves in the rock; they are ashamedOf daylight and their deed; Juno is shakenOut of their hearts, and they recognize their own.That does not stop the fire; it burns in furyUnder wet oak, tow smoulders, and the stubbornSteam eats the keels away, destruction seizingOn deck and hull, and water can not quench it,Nor any strength of men. Tearing his garmentLoose from his shoulders, Aeneas prays to heaven:—“Almighty Jove, if the Trojans are not hatefulTo the last man, if any record of goodnessAlleviates human trouble, let our fleetEscape this flame, O father; save from doomThis little Trojan remnant; or with lightning,If I deserve it, strike us down forever!”He had scarcely spoken, when a cloudburst fellFull force, with darkness and black tempest streaming,And thunder rumbling over plain and hillock,The whole sky pouring rain; the ships were drownedWith water from above, the half-burnt timbersWere soaked, and the hiss of steam died out; four vesselsWere gone, the others rescued from disaster.
And now Aeneas, stunned by the bitter evil,Was troubled at heart, uncertain, anxious, grieving:What could be done? forget the call of the fatesAnd settle here in Sicily, or keep onTo the coast of Italy? An old man, Nautes,Whom Pallas had instructed in deep wisdom,Gave him the answer. “Goddess-born, whereverFate pulls or hauls us, there we have to follow;Whatever happens, fortune can be beatenBy nothing but endurance. We have hereA friend, Acestes, Trojan-born, divineIn parentage; make him an ally in counsel,Partner in enterprise; to him hand overThe ones whose ships are lost, and all the weary,The sick and tired, the old men, and the mothersWho have had too much of the sea, and the faint-hearted,Whose weariness may find a city for themHere in this land; Acesta, let them call it.”The old man’s words still troubled him; the mindWas torn this way and that. Night rode the heavensIn her dark chariot, and there came from the darknessThe image of Anchises, speaking to himIn words of comfort:—“Son, more dear to meThan life, when life was mine; son, sorely troubledBy Trojan fate, I come at Jove’s command,Who drove the fire away, and from the heavenHas taken pity. Obey the words of Nautes,He gives the best of counsel; the flower of the youth,The bravest hearts, lead on to Italy.There will be trouble there, a rugged peopleMust be subdued in Latium. Come to meet me,First, in the lower world; come through AvernusTo find me, son. Tartarus’ evil prisonOf gloomy shades I know not, for I dwellAmong the happy spirits in Elysium.Black sheep are good for sacrifice. The Sibyl,A holy guide, will lead the way, foretellingThe race to come, the given walls. Farewell,My son; the dewy night is almost over,I feel the breath of the morning’s cruel horses.”He spoke, and vanished, smoke into airy thinness,From the cries of his son, who woke, and roused the embersOf the drowsing altar-fires, with meal and censerPropitiating Vesta, making worshipTo Trojan household gods.
And called AcestesAnd the Trojan counsellors, told them of JoveAnd his good father’s orders, the decisionHe has reached at last. They all agree, AcestesAccepts the trust. They make a roll for the city,The women-folk, the people willing to linger,The unadventurous; and they make readyThe thwarts again, replace the fire-scorched timbers,Fit out new oars and rigging. There are not many,But a living company, for war brave-hearted.Aeneas ploughs the limits for the city,Sets out new homes, Ilium, again, and Troy,A kingdom welcome to Acestes, senateAnd courts, and laws, established; and a shrineHigh on the crest of Eryx, is given Venus,Near the high stars, and a priest assigned as wardenTo the wide boundaries of Anchises’ grove.
Nine days they hold farewells, one tribe togetherFor the last time, with honor at the altars,And seas are calm, and winds go down, and the whisperOf a little breeze calls to the sail; the shoreHears a great wail arise; they cling to each otherAll through the night and day. Even the mothers,The weary men, to whom the face of the seaOnce seemed so cruel, and its very nameA menacing monster, want to go now, willingFor all the toil of exile. These AeneasComforts with friendly words, and bids AcestesBe their good brother. Then he slays to EryxThree bullocks, and a lamb to the gods of storm-cloud.It is time to loose the cables. At the bowHe stands, his temples garlanded with olive,Makes to the sea libation of wine and entrails,And the wind comes up astern, and they sweep the watersIn happy rivalry.
But meanwhile Venus,Driven by worry, went to Neptune, pouringComplaints from a full heart:—“Neptune, the angerOf Juno, her insatiable vengeance,Which neither time nor any goodness softens,Drives me to humble prayer. She never weakensFor Jove’s command, nor the orders of the fates;It is not enough for her that the Trojan cityIs quite consumed by hatred, and the remnantsOf that poor town harried all over the worldWith every kind of punishment; she still followsEven their bones and ashes. She may knowThe reasons for that wrath of hers. RememberHow great a weight of water she stirred up latelyIn the Libyan seas, confusing sky and ocean,With Aeolus conspiring, and in your kingdom!And now her crime has driven the Trojan mothersTo burn their ships, to give their comrades overTo a coast unknown. Let what is left come safelyOver the sea, to reach Laurentian Tiber,If what I ask is just, if those are wallsDue them by fate’s decree.”
And Neptune answered:—“None has a better right to trust my kingdomThan the goddess born of the sea-foam. And I have earnedThis confidence. I have often checked the angerOf sea and sky. And the rivers of Troy are witnessI have helped on land as well, and saved Aeneas.When thousands died at Troy, with fierce AchillesIn hot pursuit, and the rivers groaned, and XanthusCould hardly find the sea, I formed a cloudAround Aeneas, when he met AchillesWith the gods adverse, and no great strength to help himI rescued him, in spite of my own angerAt the perjury of Troy, in spite of my passionTo raze the walls I had built. Now too my purposeRemains; have done with fear; he will reach in safetyThe haven of Avernus; the prayer is granted.Let one be lost in the flood, one life aloneBe given for the many.”
This comfort given,To bring the goddess joy, he yoked his horses,Gold bridle, foaming bit, and sent them flyingWith the lightest touch of the reins, skimming the surfaceIn the bright blue car; and the waves went down, the axleSubdued the swell of the wave, and storm-clouds meltedTo nothing in the sky, and his attendantsFollowed along, great whales, and ancient Glaucus,Palaemon, Ino’s son, and the rushing Tritons,The army of Phorcus, Melite and ThetisWatching the left, and the maiden Panopea,Cymodoce and Thalia and Spio,So that Aeneas, in his turn, was happy,Less anxious at heart. The masts are raised, and sailStretched from the halyards; right and left they bendThe canvas to fair winds: at the head of the fleetRides Palinurus, and the others follow,As ordered, close behind him; dewy nightHas reached mid-heaven, while the sailors, sleeping,Relax on the hard benches under the oars,All calm, all quiet. And the god of SleepParting the shadowy air, comes gently down,Looking for Palinurus, bringing him,A guiltless man, ill-omened dreams. He settlesOn the high stern, a god disguised as a man,Speaking in Phorbas’ guise, “O Palinurus,The fleet rides smoothly in the even weather,The hour is given for rest. Lay down the head,Rest the tired eyes from toil. I will take overA little while.” But Palinurus, barelyLifting his eyes, made answer: “Trust the waves,However quiet? trust a peaceful ocean?Put faith in such a monster? Never! IHave been too often fooled by the clear starsTo trust Aeneas to their faithless keeping.”And so he clung to the tiller, never loosedHis hand from the wood, his eyes from the fair heaven.But lo, the god over his temples shookA bough that dripped with dew from Lethe, steepedWith Stygian magic, so the swimming eyes,Against his effort close, blink open, closeAgain, and slumber takes the drowsy limbs.Bending above him, leaning over, the godShoves him, still clinging to the tiller, callingHis comrades vainly, into the clear waves.And the god is gone like a bird to the clear air,And the fleet is going safely over its journeyAs Neptune promised. But the rocks were near,The Siren-cliffs, most perilous of old,White with the bones of many mariners,Loud with their hoarse eternal warning sound.Aeneas starts from sleep, aware, somehow,Of a lost pilot, and a vessel drifting,Himself takes over guidance, with a sighAnd heartache for a friend’s mishap, “Alas,Too trustful in the calm of sea and sky,O Palinurus, on an unknown shore,You will be lying, naked.”