He paus’d; and, while with wond’ring eyes they view’dThe passing spirits, thus his speech renew’d:“See great Marcellus! how, untir’d in toils,He moves with manly grace, how rich with regal spoils!He, when his country, threaten’d with alarms,Requires his courage and his conqu’ring arms,Shall more than once the Punic bands affright;Shall kill the Gaulish king in single fight;Then to the Capitol in triumph move,And the third spoils shall grace Feretrian Jove.”Aeneas here beheld, of form divine,A godlike youth in glitt’ring armour shine,With great Marcellus keeping equal pace;But gloomy were his eyes, dejected was his face.He saw, and, wond’ring, ask’d his airy guide,What and of whence was he, who press’d the hero’s side:“His son, or one of his illustrious name?How like the former, and almost the same!Observe the crowds that compass him around;All gaze, and all admire, and raise a shouting sound:But hov’ring mists around his brows are spread,And night, with sable shades, involves his head.”“Seek not to know,” the ghost replied with tears,“The sorrows of thy sons in future years.This youth (the blissful vision of a day)Shall just be shown on earth, and snatch’d away.The gods too high had rais’d the Roman state,Were but their gifts as permanent as great.What groans of men shall fill the Martian field!How fierce a blaze his flaming pile shall yield!What fun’ral pomp shall floating Tiber see,When, rising from his bed, he views the sad solemnity!No youth shall equal hopes of glory give,No youth afford so great a cause to grieve;The Trojan honour, and the Roman boast,Admir’d when living, and ador’d when lost!Mirror of ancient faith in early youth!Undaunted worth, inviolable truth!No foe, unpunish’d, in the fighting fieldShall dare thee, foot to foot, with sword and shield;Much less in arms oppose thy matchless force,When thy sharp spurs shall urge thy foaming horse.Ah! couldst thou break thro’ fate’s severe decree,A new Marcellus shall arise in thee!Full canisters of fragrant lilies bring,Mix’d with the purple roses of the spring;Let me with fun’ral flow’rs his body strow;This gift which parents to their children owe,This unavailing gift, at least, I may bestow!”Thus having said, he led the hero roundThe confines of the blest Elysian ground;Which when Anchises to his son had shown,And fir’d his mind to mount the promis’d throne,He tells the future wars, ordain’d by fate;The strength and customs of the Latian state;The prince, and people; and forearms his careWith rules, to push his fortune, or to bear.
Two gates the silent house of Sleep adorn;Of polish’d ivory this, that of transparent horn:True visions thro’ transparent horn arise;Thro’ polish’d ivory pass deluding lies.Of various things discoursing as he pass’d,Anchises hither bends his steps at last.Then, thro’ the gate of iv’ry, he dismiss’dHis valiant offspring and divining guest.Straight to the ships Aeneas took his way,Embark’d his men, and skimm’d along the sea,Still coasting, till he gain’d Cajeta’s bay.At length on oozy ground his galleys moor;Their heads are turn’d to sea, their sterns to shore.
BOOK VII
THE ARGUMENT.
King Latinus entertains Aeneas, and promises him his only daughter, Lavinia, the heiress of his crown. Turnus, being in love with her, favoured by her mother, and by Juno and Alecto, breaks the treaty which was made, and engages in his quarrel Mezentius, Camilla, Messapus, and many other of the neighbouring princes; whose forces, and the names of their commanders are particularly related.
And thou, O matron of immortal fame,Here dying, to the shore hast left thy name;Cajeta still the place is call’d from thee,The nurse of great Aeneas’ infancy.Here rest thy bones in rich Hesperia’s plains;Thy name (’tis all a ghost can have) remains.
Now, when the prince her fun’ral rites had paid,He plow’d the Tyrrhene seas with sails display’d.From land a gentle breeze arose by night,Serenely shone the stars, the moon was bright,And the sea trembled with her silver light.Now near the shelves of Circe’s shores they run,(Circe the rich, the daughter of the Sun,)A dang’rous coast: the goddess wastes her daysIn joyous songs; the rocks resound her lays:In spinning, or the loom, she spends the night,And cedar brands supply her father’s light.From hence were heard, rebellowing to the main,The roars of lions that refuse the chain,The grunts of bristled boars, and groans of bears,And herds of howling wolves that stun the sailors’ ears.These from their caverns, at the close of night,Fill the sad isle with horror and affright.Darkling they mourn their fate, whom Circe’s pow’r,(That watch’d the moon and planetary hour,)With words and wicked herbs from humankindHad alter’d, and in brutal shapes confin’d.Which monsters lest the Trojans’ pious hostShould bear, or touch upon th’ inchanted coast,Propitious Neptune steer’d their course by nightWith rising gales that sped their happy flight.Supplied with these, they skim the sounding shore,And hear the swelling surges vainly roar.Now, when the rosy morn began to rise,And wav’d her saffron streamer thro’ the skies;When Thetis blush’d in purple not her own,And from her face the breathing winds were blown,A sudden silence sate upon the sea,And sweeping oars, with struggling, urge their way.The Trojan, from the main, beheld a wood,Which thick with shades and a brown horror stood:Betwixt the trees the Tiber took his course,With whirlpools dimpled; and with downward force,That drove the sand along, he took his way,And roll’d his yellow billows to the sea.About him, and above, and round the wood,The birds that haunt the borders of his flood,That bath’d within, or basked upon his side,To tuneful songs their narrow throats applied.The captain gives command; the joyful trainGlide thro’ the gloomy shade, and leave the main.
Now, Erato, thy poet’s mind inspire,And fill his soul with thy celestial fire!Relate what Latium was; her ancient kings;Declare the past and present state of things,When first the Trojan fleet Ausonia sought,And how the rivals lov’d, and how they fought.These are my theme, and how the war began,And how concluded by the godlike man:For I shall sing of battles, blood, and rage,Which princes and their people did engage;And haughty souls, that, mov’d with mutual hate,In fighting fields pursued and found their fate;That rous’d the Tyrrhene realm with loud alarms,And peaceful Italy involv’d in arms.A larger scene of action is display’d;And, rising hence, a greater work is weigh’d.
Latinus, old and mild, had long possess’dThe Latin scepter, and his people blest:His father Faunus; a Laurentian dameHis mother; fair Marica was her name.But Faunus came from Picus: Picus drewHis birth from Saturn, if records be true.Thus King Latinus, in the third degree,Had Saturn author of his family.But this old peaceful prince, as Heav’n decreed,Was blest with no male issue to succeed:His sons in blooming youth were snatch’d by fate;One only daughter heir’d the royal state.Fir’d with her love, and with ambition led,The neighb’ring princes court her nuptial bed.Among the crowd, but far above the rest,Young Turnus to the beauteous maid address’d.Turnus, for high descent and graceful mien,Was first, and favour’d by the Latian queen;With him she strove to join Lavinia’s hand,But dire portents the purpos’d match withstand.
Deep in the palace, of long growth, there stoodA laurel’s trunk, a venerable wood;Where rites divine were paid; whose holy hairWas kept and cut with superstitious care.This plant Latinus, when his town he wall’d,Then found, and from the tree Laurentum call’d;And last, in honour of his new abode,He vow’d the laurel to the laurel’s god.It happen’d once (a boding prodigy!)A swarm of bees, that cut the liquid sky,Unknown from whence they took their airy flight,Upon the topmost branch in clouds alight;There with their clasping feet together clung,And a long cluster from the laurel hung.An ancient augur prophesied from hence:“Behold on Latian shores a foreign prince!From the same parts of heav’n his navy stands,To the same parts on earth; his army lands;The town he conquers, and the tow’r commands.”
Yet more, when fair Lavinia fed the fireBefore the gods, and stood beside her sire,Strange to relate, the flames, involv’d in smokeOf incense, from the sacred altar broke,Caught her dishevel’d hair and rich attire;Her crown and jewels crackled in the fire:From thence the fuming trail began to spreadAnd lambent glories danc’d about her head.This new portent the seer with wonder views,Then pausing, thus his prophecy renews:“The nymph, who scatters flaming fires around,Shall shine with honour, shall herself be crown’d;But, caus’d by her irrevocable fate,War shall the country waste, and change the state.”
Latinus, frighted with this dire ostent,For counsel to his father Faunus went,And sought the shades renown’d for prophecyWhich near Albunea’s sulph’rous fountain lie.To these the Latian and the Sabine landFly, when distress’d, and thence relief demand.The priest on skins of off’rings takes his ease,And nightly visions in his slumber sees;A swarm of thin aerial shapes appears,And, flutt’ring round his temples, deafs his ears:These he consults, the future fates to know,From pow’rs above, and from the fiends below.Here, for the gods’ advice, Latinus flies,Off’ring a hundred sheep for sacrifice:Their woolly fleeces, as the rites requir’d,He laid beneath him, and to rest retir’d.No sooner were his eyes in slumber bound,When, from above, a more than mortal soundInvades his ears; and thus the vision spoke:“Seek not, my seed, in Latian bands to yokeOur fair Lavinia, nor the gods provoke.A foreign son upon thy shore descends,Whose martial fame from pole to pole extends.His race, in arms and arts of peace renown’d,Not Latium shall contain, nor Europe bound:’Tis theirs whate’er the sun surveys around.”These answers, in the silent night receiv’d,The king himself divulg’d, the land believ’d:The fame thro’ all the neighb’ring nations flew,When now the Trojan navy was in view.
Beneath a shady tree, the hero spreadHis table on the turf, with cakes of bread;And, with his chiefs, on forest fruits he fed.They sate; and, (not without the god’s command,)Their homely fare dispatch’d, the hungry bandInvade their trenchers next, and soon devour,To mend the scanty meal, their cakes of flour.Ascanius this observ’d, and smiling said:“See, we devour the plates on which we fed.”The speech had omen, that the Trojan raceShould find repose, and this the time and place.Aeneas took the word, and thus replies,Confessing fate with wonder in his eyes:“All hail, O earth! all hail, my household gods!Behold the destin’d place of your abodes!For thus Anchises prophesied of old,And this our fatal place of rest foretold:‘When, on a foreign shore, instead of meat,By famine forc’d, your trenchers you shall eat,Then ease your weary Trojans will attend,And the long labours of your voyage end.Remember on that happy coast to build,And with a trench inclose the fruitful field.’This was that famine, this the fatal placeWhich ends the wand’ring of our exil’d race.Then, on tomorrow’s dawn, your care employ,To search the land, and where the cities lie,And what the men; but give this day to joy.Now pour to Jove; and, after Jove is blest,Call great Anchises to the genial feast:Crown high the goblets with a cheerful draught;Enjoy the present hour; adjourn the future thought.”
Thus having said, the hero bound his browsWith leafy branches, then perform’d his vows;Adoring first the genius of the place,Then Earth, the mother of the heav’nly race,The nymphs, and native godheads yet unknown,And Night, and all the stars that gild her sable throne,And ancient Cybel, and Idaean Jove,And last his sire below, and mother queen above.Then heav’n’s high monarch thunder’d thrice aloud,And thrice he shook aloft a golden cloud.Soon thro’ the joyful camp a rumour flew,The time was come their city to renew.Then ev’ry brow with cheerful green is crown’d,The feasts are doubled, and the bowls go round.
When next the rosy morn disclos’d the day,The scouts to sev’ral parts divide their way,To learn the natives’ names, their towns explore,The coasts and trendings of the crooked shore:Here Tiber flows, and here Numicus stands;Here warlike Latins hold the happy lands.The pious chief, who sought by peaceful waysTo found his empire, and his town to raise,A hundred youths from all his train selects,And to the Latian court their course directs,(The spacious palace where their prince resides,)And all their heads with wreaths of olive hides.They go commission’d to require a peace,And carry presents to procure access.Thus while they speed their pace, the prince designsHis new-elected seat, and draws the lines.The Trojans round the place a rampire cast,And palisades about the trenches plac’d.
Meantime the train, proceeding on their way,From far the town and lofty tow’rs survey;At length approach the walls. Without the gate,They see the boys and Latian youth debateThe martial prizes on the dusty plain:Some drive the cars, and some the coursers rein;Some bend the stubborn bow for victory,And some with darts their active sinews try.A posting messenger, dispatch’d from hence,Of this fair troop advis’d their aged prince,That foreign men of mighty stature came;Uncouth their habit, and unknown their name.The king ordains their entrance, and ascendsHis regal seat, surrounded by his friends.
The palace built by Picus, vast and proud,Supported by a hundred pillars stood,And round incompass’d with a rising wood.The pile o’erlook’d the town, and drew the sight;Surpris’d at once with reverence and delight.There kings receiv’d the marks of sov’reign pow’r;In state the monarchs march’d; the lictors boreTheir awful axes and the rods before.Here the tribunal stood, the house of pray’r,And here the sacred senators repair;All at large tables, in long order set,A ram their off’ring, and a ram their meat.Above the portal, carv’d in cedar wood,Plac’d in their ranks, their godlike grandsires stood;Old Saturn, with his crooked scythe, on high;And Italus, that led the colony;And ancient Janus, with his double face,And bunch of keys, the porter of the place.There good Sabinus, planter of the vines,On a short pruning hook his head reclines,And studiously surveys his gen’rous wines;Then warlike kings, who for their country fought,And honourable wounds from battle brought.Around the posts hung helmets, darts, and spears,And captive chariots, axes, shields, and bars,And broken beaks of ships, the trophies of their wars.Above the rest, as chief of all the band,Was Picus plac’d, a buckler in his hand;His other wav’d a long divining wand.Girt in his Gabin gown the hero sate,Yet could not with his art avoid his fate:For Circe long had lov’d the youth in vain,Till love, refus’d, converted to disdain:Then, mixing pow’rful herbs, with magic art,She chang’d his form, who could not change his heart;Constrain’d him in a bird, and made him fly,With party-colour’d plumes, a chatt’ring pie.
In this high temple, on a chair of state,The seat of audience, old Latinus sate;Then gave admission to the Trojan train;And thus with pleasing accents he began:“Tell me, ye Trojans, for that name you own,Nor is your course upon our coasts unknown;Say what you seek, and whither were you bound:Were you by stress of weather cast aground?Such dangers as on seas are often seen,And oft befall to miserable men,Or come, your shipping in our ports to lay,Spent and disabled in so long a way?Say what you want: the Latians you shall findNot forc’d to goodness, but by will inclin’d;For, since the time of Saturn’s holy reign,His hospitable customs we retain.I call to mind (but time the tale has worn)Th’ Arunci told, that Dardanus, tho’ bornOn Latian plains, yet sought the Phrygian shore,And Samothracia, Samos call’d before.From Tuscan Coritum he claim’d his birth;But after, when exempt from mortal earth,From thence ascended to his kindred skies,A god, and, as a god, augments their sacrifice.”
