BOOK I

THE LANDING NEAR CARTHAGE

Arms and the man I sing, the first who came, Compelled by fate, an exile out of Troy, To Italy and the Lavinian coast, Much buffeted on land and on the deep By violence of the gods, through that long rage, That lasting hate, of Juno’s. And he suffered Much, also, in war, till he should build his town And bring his gods to Latium, whence, in time, The Latin race, the Alban fathers, rose And the great walls of everlasting Rome.

Help me, O Muse, recall the reasons: why, Why did the queen of heaven drive a man So known for goodness, for devotion, through So many toils and perils? Was there slight, Affront, or outrage? Is vindictiveness An attribute of the celestial mind?

There was an ancient city, Carthage, once Founded by Tyrians, facing Italy And Tiber’s mouth, far-off, a wealthy town, War-loving, and aggressive; and Juno held Even her precious Samos in less regard. Here were her arms, her chariot, and here, Should fate at all permit, the goddess burned To found the empire of the world forever. But, she had heard, a Trojan race would come, Some day, to overthrow the Tyrian towers, A race would come, imperious people, proud In war, with wide dominion, bringing doom For Libya. Fate willed it so. And Juno Feared, and remembered: there was the old war She fought at Troy for her dear Greeks; her mind Still fed on hurt and anger; deep in her heart Paris’ decision rankled, and the wrong Offered her slighted beauty; and the hatred Of the whole race; and Ganymede’s honors-- All that was fuel to fire; she tossed and harried All over the seas, wherever she could, those Trojans Who had survived the Greeks and fierce Achilles, And so they wandered over many an ocean, Through many a year, fate-hounded. Such a struggle It was to found the race of Rome!

They were happy Spreading the sail, rushing the foam with bronze, And Sicily hardly out of sight, when Juno, Still nourishing the everlasting wound, Raged to herself: “I am beaten, I suppose; It seems I cannot keep this Trojan king From Italy. The fates, no doubt, forbid me. Pallas, of course, could burn the Argive ships, Could drown the sailors, all for one man’s guilt, The crazy acts of Ajax. Her own hand Hurled from the cloud Jove’s thunderbolt, and shattered Their ships all over the sea; she raised up storm And tempest; she spiked Ajax on the rocks, Whirled him in wind, blasted his heart with fire. And I, who walk my way as queen of the gods, Sister of Jove, and wife of Jove, keep warring With one tribe through the long, long years. Who cares For Juno’s godhead? Who brings sacrifice Devoutly to her altars?”

Brooding, burning, She sought Aeolia, the storm-clouds’ dwelling, A land that sweeps and swarms with the winds’ fury, Whose monarch, Aeolus, in his deep cave rules Imperious, weighing down with bolt and prison Those boisterous struggling roarers, who go raging Around their bars, under the moan of the mountain. High over them their sceptered lord sits watching, Soothing, restraining, their passionate proud spirit, Lest, uncontrolled, they seize, in their wild keeping, The land, the sea, the arch of sky, in ruin Sweeping through space. This Jupiter feared; he hid them Deep in dark caverns, with a mass of mountain Piled over above them, and a king to give them Most certain regulation, with a knowledge When to hold in, when to let go. Him Juno Approached in supplication:--“Aeolus, Given by Jove the power to still the waters, Or raise them with a gale, a tribe I hate Is on its way to Italy, and they carry Troy with them, and their household gods, once beaten. Shake anger into those winds of yours, turn over Their ships, and drown them; drive them in all directions, Litter the sea with bodies! For such service The loveliest nymph I have, Deiopea, Shall be your bride forever, and you will father Fair children on her fairness.” Aeolus Made answer: “Yours, O Queen, the task of seeking Whatever it is you will; and mine the duty To follow with performance. All my empire, My sceptre, Jove’s indulgence, are beholden To Juno’s favor, by whose blessing I Attend the feasts of the gods and rule this storm-land.”

His spear-butt struck the hollow mountain-side, And the winds, wherever they could, came sweeping forth, Whirled over the land, swooped down upon the ocean. East, South, Southwest, they heave the billows, howl, Storm, roll the giant combers toward the shore. Men cry; the rigging creaks and strains; the clouds Darken, and men see nothing; a weight of darkness Broods over the deep; the heavy thunder rumbles From pole to pole; the lightning rips and dazzles; There is no way out but death. Aeneas shudders In the chill shock, and lifts both hands to heaven:-- “O happy men, thrice happy, four times happy, Who had the luck to die, with their fathers watching Below the walls of Troy! Ah, Diomedes, Bravest of Greeks, why could I not have fallen, Bleeding my life away on plains of Ilium In our encounter there, where mighty Hector Went down before Achilles’ spear, and huge Sarpedon lay in dust, and Simois river Rolled to the sea so many noble heroes, All drowned in all their armor?” And the gale Howls from the north, striking the sail, head on; The waves are lifted to the stars; the oars Are broken, and the prow slews round; the ship Lies broadside on; a wall of water, a mountain, Looms up, comes pouring down; some ride the crest, Some, in the trough, can see the boil of the sand. The South wind hurls three ships on the hidden rocks, That sea-reef which Italians call the Altars; The West takes three, sweeping them from the deep On shoal and quicksand; over the stern of one, Before Aeneas’ eyes, a great sea falls, Washing the helmsman overboard; the ship Whirls thrice in the suck of the water and goes down In the devouring gulf; and here and there A few survivors swim, the Lycian men Whose captain was Orontes; now their arms, Their Trojan treasures, float with the broken timbers On the swing and slide of the waves. The storm, triumphant, Rides down more boats, and more; there goes Achates; Abas, Aletes, Ilioneus, Receive the hostile water; the walls are broken; The enemy pours in.

But meanwhile Neptune Saw ocean in a welter of confusion, The roar of storm, and deep and surface mingled. Troublesome business, this; he rose, majestic, From under the waves, and saw the Trojan vessels Scattered all over the sea by the might of the waves And the wreck of sky; he recognized the anger And cunning of his sister, and he summoned The winds by name:--“What arrogance is this, What pride of birth, you winds, to meddle here Without my sanction, raising all this trouble? I’ll--No, the waves come first: but listen to me, You are going to pay for this! Get out of here! Go tell your king the lordship of the ocean, The trident, are not his, but mine. His realm Reaches no further than the rocks and caverns You brawlers dwell in; let him rule that palace, Big as he pleases, shut you in, and stay there!”

This said, he calmed the swollen sea and cloud, Brought back the sun; Cymothoe and Triton, Heaving together, pulled the ships from the reef, As Neptune used his trident for a lever, Opened the quicksand, made the water smooth, And the flying chariot skimmed the level surface. Sometimes, in a great nation, there are riots With the rabble out of hand, and firebrands fly And cobblestones; whatever they lay their hands on Is a weapon for their fury, but should they see One man of noble presence, they fall silent, Obedient dogs, with ears pricked up, and waiting, Waiting his word, and he knows how to bring them Back to good sense again. So ocean, roaring, Subsided into stillness, as the sea-god Looked forth upon the waters, and clear weather Shone over him as he drove his flying horses.

Aeneas’ weary children make for harbor, Whichever lies most near, and the prows are turned To Libya’s coast-line. In a bay’s deep curve They find a haven, where the water lies With never a ripple. A little island keeps The sea-swell off, and the waves break on its sides And slide back harmless. The great cliffs come down Steep to deep water, and the background shimmers, Darkens and shines, the tremulous aspen moving And the dark fir pointing still. And there is a cave Under the overhanging rocks, alive With water running fresh, a home of the Nymphs, With benches for them, cut from the living stone. No anchor is needed here for weary ships, No mooring-cable. Aeneas brings them in, Seven weary vessels, and the men are glad To be ashore again, to feel dry sand Under the salt-stained limbs. Achates strikes The spark from the flint, catches the fire on leaves, Adds chips and kindling, blows and fans the flame, And they bring out the soaked and salty corn, The hand-mills, stone and mortar, and make ready, As best they can, for bread.

Meanwhile Aeneas Climbs to a look-out, for a view of the ocean, Hoping for some good luck; the Phrygian galleys Might meet his gaze, or Capys’ boats, or a pennon On a far-off mast-head flying. There is nothing, Nothing to see out yonder, but near the water Three stags are grazing, with a herd behind them, A long line browsing through the peaceful valley. He reaches for the bow and the swift arrows Borne by Achates, and he shoots the leaders, High-antlered, routs the common herd, and ceases Only when seven are slain, a number equal To the ships’ tally, and then he seeks the harbor, Divides the spoil, broaches the wine Acestes Had stowed for them at Drepanum on their leaving, A kingly present, and he calms their trouble, Saying: “O comrades, we have been through evil Together before this; we have been through worse, Scylla, Charybdis, and the Cyclops’ dwelling, The sounding rocks. This, too, the god will end. Call the nerve back; dismiss the fear, the sadness. Some day, perhaps, remembering even this Will be a pleasure. We are going on Through whatsoever chance and change, until We come to Latium, where the fates point out A quiet dwelling-place, and Troy recovered. Endure, and keep yourself for better days.” He kept to himself the sorrow in the heart, Wearing, for them, a mask of hopefulness. They were ready for the feasting. Part lay bare The flesh from the torn hides, part cut the meat Impaling it, still quivering, on spits, Setting the kettles, keeping the water boiling, And strong with food again, sprawling stretched out On comfortable grass, they take their fill Of bread and wine and venison, till hunger Is gone, and the board cleared. And then they talk For a long time, of where their comrades are, Are, or may be, hopeful and doubtful both. Could they believe them living? or would a cry Fall on deaf ears forever? All those captains, Brave Gyas, brave Cloanthus, Amycus, Lycus, Orontes,--in his secret heart Aeneas mourns them.

Meanwhile, from the heaven Jupiter watched the lands below, and the seas With the white points of sails, and far-off people, Turning his gaze toward Libya. And Venus Came to him then, a little sadly, tears Brimming in those bright eyes of hers. “Great father,” She said, “Great ruler of the world Of men and gods, great wielder of the lightning, What has my poor Aeneas done? what outrage Could Trojans perpetrate, so that the world Rejects them everywhere, and many a death Inflicted on them over Italy? There was a promise once, that as the years Rolled onward, they would father Rome and rulers Of Roman stock, to hold dominion over All sea and land. That was a promise, father; What changed it? Once that promise was my comfort; Troy fell; I weighed one fate against another And found some consolation. But disaster Keeps on; the same ill-fortune follows after. What end of it all, great king? One man, Antenor, Escaped the Greeks, came through Illyrian waters Safe to Liburnian regions, where Timavus Roars underground, comes up nine times, and reaches The floodland near the seas. One man, Antenor, Founded a city, Padua, a dwelling For Trojan men, a resting-place from labor, And shares their quietude. But we, your children, To whom heaven’s height is granted, we are betrayed, We have lost our ships, we are kept from Italy, Kept far away. One enemy--I tell you This is a shameful thing! Do we deserve it? Is this our rise to power?”

He smiled, in answer, The kind of smile that clears the air, and kissed her. “Fear not, my daughter; fate remains unmoved For the Roman generations. You will witness Lavinium’s rise, her walls fulfill the promise; You will bring to heaven lofty-souled Aeneas. There has been no change in me whatever. Listen! To ease this care, I will prophesy a little, I will open the book of fate. Your son Aeneas Will wage a mighty war in Italy, Beat down proud nations, give his people laws, Found them a city, a matter of three years From victory to settlement. His son, The boy Ascanius, named Ilus once, When Troy was standing, and now called Iulus, Shall reign for thirty years, and great in power Forsake Lavinium, transfer the kingdom To Alba Longa, new-built capital. Here, for three hundred years, the line of Hector Shall govern, till a royal priestess bears Twin sons to Mars, and Romulus, rejoicing In the brown wolf-skin of his foster-mother, Takes up the tribe, and builds the martial walls And calls the people, after himself, the Romans. To these I set no bounds in space or time; They shall rule forever. Even bitter Juno Whose fear now harries earth and sea and heaven Will change to better counsels, and will cherish The race that wears the toga, Roman masters Of all the world. It is decreed. The time Will come, as holy years wheel on, when Troy Will subjugate Mycenae, vanquish Phthia, Be lord of Argos. And from this great line Will come a Trojan, Caesar, to establish The limit of his empire at the ocean, His glory at the stars, a man called Julius Whose name recalls Iulus. Welcome waits For him in heaven; all the spoils of Asia Will weigh him down, and prayer be made before him. Then wars will cease, and a rough age grow gentler, White Faith and Vesta, Romulus and Remus, Give law to nations. War’s grim gates will close, Tight-shut with bars of iron, and inside them The wickedness of war sit bound and silent, The red mouth straining and the hands held tight In fastenings of bronze, a hundred hundred.”

With that, he sent down Mercury from heaven That Carthage might be kindly, and her land And new-built towers receive them with a welcome, And their queen, Dido, knowing the will of fate, Swing wide her doors. On the oarage of his wings He flies through the wide sweep of air to Libya, Where, at the will of the god, the folk make ready In kindliness of heart, and their queen’s purpose Is gracious and gentle.

All night long Aeneas Had pondered many a care, and with bright morning Resolved to reconnoiter; the winds have brought him To a new country: who lives in it, men Or only beasts? The fields appear untended. The fleet lies under a hollow cliff, surrounded By spikes of shade, and groves arch overhead, Ample concealment. Aeneas and Achates Went forth together, armed, down the trail in the forest, And there his mother met him, a girl, it seemed, From Thrace or Sparta, trim as any huntress Who rides her horses hard, or outspeeds rivers In her swift going. A bow hung over her shoulder, Her hair blew free, her knees were bare, her garments Tucked at the waist and knotted. As she saw them, “Ho there, young men,” she cried, “have you seen my sister Around here anywhere? She wears a quiver, And a spotted lynx-hide; maybe you have heard her Hunting the boar and shouting?”

But her son Responded: “No; we have heard no sounds of hunting. We have seen no one here. But tell me, maiden, What name to call you by? In voice and feature You are, I think, no mortal; a goddess, surely,-- Nymph, or Apollo’s sister? Whoever you are, Be kind to us, lighten our trouble, tell us Under what sky, along what coast of the world, We wander, knowing neither land nor people, Driven by gales and billows. Many a victim We shall make ready for your altar.” Venus Answered: “I have no title to such honor. The Tyrian girls all wear these crimson leggings Lake mine, and carry quivers. Tyrian folk Live here; their city is Carthage; over the border Lies Libya, warlike people. Our queen, Dido, Came here from Tyre; she was fleeing from her brother,-- A long and complicated story; outrage,-- No matter; here it is, in brief. Her husband Was Sychaeus, wealthiest of all Phoenicians, At least in land, and Dido loved him dearly Since first her father gave her to him, virgin, And then unlucky bride. She had a brother, Pygmalion, king of Tyre, a monster, evil In wickedness, and madness came between Those men, the two of them. Pygmalion murdered Sychaeus at the altar; he was crazy And blind for gold and crafty; what did he care About his sister’s love? And he kept it quiet For a long time, kept telling Dido something To fool her with false comfort, but Sychaeus Came to her in a dream, a ghost, unburied, With the wounds in his breast, the story of the altar, The pale lips blurting out the secret horror, The crime in the dark of the household. _Flee_, he told her, _Forsake this land_; and he told her where the treasure Lay hidden in earth, uncounted gold and silver. Dido was moved to flight, secured companions, All those possessed by fear, all those whom hatred Had made relentless; ships were standing ready, As it so happened; they put the gold aboard, And over the sea the greedy tyrant’s treasure Went sailing, with a woman for a captain. They came here; you will see the walls arising And the great citadel of the town called Carthage. Here they bought ground; they used to call it Byrsa, That being a word for bull’s hide; they bought only What a bull’s hide could cover. And now tell me Who you might be yourselves? what land do you come from, Bound for what coast?”

And he began his answer With a long sigh: “O goddess, if I told you All from the first beginning, if you had leisure To listen to the record of our trouble, It would take me all day long. From ancient Troy, In case that name means anything, we come Driven over many seas, and now a storm Has whipped us on this coast. I am Aeneas, A good, devoted man; I carry with me My household gods, saved from the Greeks; I am known In heaven; it is Italy I seek, A homeland for me there, and a race descended From lofty Jove. With a score of ships we started Over the Phrygian ocean, following fate And the way my mother pointed. Only seven Are left us now, battered survivors, after The rage of wind and wave. And here I wander The wastes of Libya, unknown and needy, Driven from Europe and Asia.” And his mother Broke in on his complaining:--“Whoever you are, Some god must care for you, I think, to bring you Here to the city of Carthage. Follow on, Go to the royal palace. For, I tell you, Your comrades have returned, your fleet is safe, Brought to good haven by the turn of the winds, Unless the augury my parents taught me Was foolish nonsense. In the heaven yonder You see twelve swans, rejoicing in long column, Scattered, a little while ago, and driven By the swooping eagle, over all the sky, But now, it seems, they light on land, or watch Those who came down before them; as they circle In company, and make a cheerful sound With whir of wing or song, so, let me tell you, Your ships and men already enter harbor Or near it under full sail. Keep on, go forward Where the path leads.”

And as she turned, her shoulders Shone with a radiant light; her hair shed fragrance, Her robes slipped to her feet, and the true goddess Walked in divinity. He knew his mother, And his voice pursued her flight: “Cruel again! Why mock your son so often with false phantoms? Why may not hand be joined to hand, and words Exchanged in truthfulness?” So, still reproachful, He went on toward the city, with Achates, But Venus cast dark air around their going, A veil of mist, so that no man might see them Or lay a hand on them, or halt them, asking The reasons of their coming. She soared upward To Paphos, happily home to temple and altars Steaming with incense, redolent with garlands.

And they went on, where the little pathway led them To rising ground; below them lay the city, Majestic buildings now, where once were hovels, A wonder to Aeneas, gates and bustle And well-paved streets, the busy Tyrians toiling With stones for walls and citadel, or marking Foundations for their homes, drainage and furrow, All under ordered process. They dredge harbors, Set cornerstones, quarry the rock, where someday Their theater will tower. They are like bees In early summer over the country flowers When the sun is warm, and the young of the hive emerge, And they pack the molten honey, bulge the cells With the sweet nectar, add new loads, and harry The drones away from the hive, and the work glows, And the air is sweet with bergamot and clover. “Happy the men whose walls already rise!” Exclaims Aeneas, gazing on the city, And enters there, still veiled in cloud--a marvel!-- And walks among the people, and no one sees him.

There was a grove in the middle of the city, Most happy in its shade; this was the place Where first the Tyrians, tossed by storm and whirlwind, Dug up the symbol royal Juno showed them, The skull of a war-horse, a sign the race to come Would be supreme in war and wealth, for ages, And Dido here was building a great temple In Juno’s honor, rich in gifts, and blessed With the presence of the goddess. Lintel and rafter Were bronze above bronze stairways, and bronze portals Swung on bronze hinges. Here Aeneas first Dared hope for safety, find some reassurance In hope of better days: a strange sight met him, To take his fear away. Waiting the queen, He stood there watching, under the great temple, Letting his eyes survey the city’s fortune, The artist’s workmanship, the craftsman’s labor, And there, with more than wonder, he sees the battles Fought around Troy, and the wars whose fame had travelled The whole world over; there is Agamemnon, Priam, and Menelaus, and Achilles, A menace to them all. He is moved to tears. “What place in all the world,” he asks Achates, “Is empty of our sorrow? There is Priam! Look! even here there are rewards for praise, There are tears for things, and what men suffer touches The human heart. Dismiss your fear; this story Will bring some safety to you.” Sighing often, He could not turn his gaze away; it was only A picture on a wall, but the sight afforded Food for the spirit’s need. He saw the Greeks, Hard-pressed, in flight, and Trojans coming after, Or, on another panel, the scene reversed, Achilles in pursuit, his own men fleeing; He saw, and tears came into his eyes again, The tents of Rhesus, snowy-white, betrayed In their first sleep by bloody Diomedes With many a death, and the fiery horses driven Into the camp, before they ever tasted The grass of Troy, or drank from Xanthus’ river. Another scene showed Troilus, poor youngster, Running away, his arms flung down; Achilles Was much too good for him; he had fallen backward Out of his car, but held the reins, and the horses Dragged him along the ground, his hair and shoulders Bounding in dust, and the spear making a scribble. And there were Trojan women, all in mourning, With streaming hair, on their way to Pallas’ temple, Bearing, as gift, a robe, but the stern goddess Kept her gaze on the ground. Three times Achilles Had dragged the body of Hector around the walls, And was selling it for money. What a groan Came from Aeneas’ heart, seeing that spoil, That chariot, and helpless Priam reaching His hands, unarmed, across the broken body! And he saw himself there, too, fighting in battle Against Greek leaders, he saw the Eastern columns, And swarthy Memnon’s arms. Penthesilea, The Amazon, blazes in fury, leading Her crescent-shielded thousands, a golden buckle Below her naked breast, a soldieress Fighting with men.

And as he watched these marvels In one long fascinated stare of wonder, Dido, the queen, drew near; she came to the temple With a great train, all majesty, all beauty, As on Eurotas’ riverside, or where Mount Cynthus towers high, Diana leads Her bands of dancers, and the Oreads follow In thousands, right and left, the taller goddess, The quiver-bearing maiden, and Latona Is filled with secret happiness, so Dido Moved in her company, a queen, rejoicing, Ordering on her kingdom’s rising glory. At Juno’s portal, under the arch of the temple, She took her throne, a giver of law and justice, A fair partitioner of toil and duty, And suddenly Aeneas, from the crowd, Saw Trojan men approaching, brave Cloanthus, Sergestus, Antheus, and all those others Whom the black storm had driven here and yonder. This he cannot believe, nor can Achates, Torn between fear and joy. They burn with ardor To seek their comrades’ handclasp, but confusion Still holds them in the cloud: what can have happened? They watch from the cover of mist: men still were coming From all the ships, chosen, it seemed, as pleaders For graciousness before the temple, calling Aloud: what fortune had been theirs, he wonders, Where had they left the ships; why were they coming? They were given audience; Ilioneus, Senior to all, began: “O Queen, whom Jove Has given the founding of a great new city, Has given to bridle haughty tribes with justice, We, pitiful Trojans, over every ocean Driven by storm, make our appeal: keep from us The terrible doom of fire; protect our vessels; Have mercy on a decent race; consider Our lot with closer interest. We have not come To ravish Libyan homes, or carry plunder Down to the shore. We lack the arrogance Of conquerors; there is no aggression in us. There is a place which Greeks have given a name, The Land in the West; it is powerful in arms, Rich in its soil; Oenotrians used to live there, And now, the story goes, a younger people Inhabit it, calling themselves Italians After their leader’s name. We were going there When, big with storm and cloud, Orion rising Drove us on hidden quicksands, and wild winds Scattered us over the waves, by pathless rocks And the swell of the surge. A few of us have drifted Here to your shores. What kind of men are these, What barbarous land permits such attitudes? We have been denied the welcome of the beach, Forbidden to set foot on land; they rouse All kinds of war against us. You despise, It may be, human brotherhood, and arms Wielded by men. But there are gods, remember, Who care for right and wrong. Our king Aeneas May be alive; no man was ever more just, More decent ever, or greater in war and arms. If fate preserves him still, if he still breathes The welcome air, above the world of shadows, Fear not; to have treated us with kindly service Need bring you no repentance. We have cities In Sicily as well, and King Acestes Is one of us, from Trojan blood. We ask you To let us beach our battered fleet, make ready Beams from the forest timber, mend our oarage, Seek Italy and Latium, glad at knowing Our king and comrades rescued. But if safety Is hopeless for him now, and Libyan water Has been his grave, and if his son Iulus Is desperate, or lost, grant us permission At least to make for Sicily, whence we came here, Where king Acestes has a dwelling for us.” The Trojans, as he ended, all were shouting, And Dido, looking down, made a brief answer: “I am sorry, Trojans; put aside your care, Have no more fear. The newness of the kingdom And our strict need compel to me such measures-- Sentries on every border, far and wide. But who so ignorant as not to know The nation of Aeneas, manly both In deeds and people, and the city of Troy? We are not as dull as that, we folk from Carthage; The sun shines on us here. Whether you seek The land in the west, the sometime fields of Saturn, Or the Sicilian realms and king Acestes, I will help you to the limit; should you wish To settle here and share this kingdom with me, The city I found is yours; draw up your ships; Trojan and Tyrian I treat alike. Would, also, that your king were here, Aeneas, Driven by that same wind. I will send good men Along the coast to seek him, under orders To scour all Libya; he may be wandering Somewhere, in woods or town, surviving shipwreck.”

Aeneas and Achates both were eager To break the cloud; the queen inspired their spirit With her address. Achates asked Aeneas:-- “What do we do now, goddess-born? You see They all are safe, our vessels and our comrades, Only one missing, and we saw him drowning, Ourselves, beneath the waves; all other things Confirm what Venus told us.” And as he finished, The cloud around them broke, dissolved in air, Illumining Aeneas, like a god, Light radiant around his face and shoulders, And Venus gave him all the bloom of youth. Its glow, its liveliness, as the artist adds Luster to ivory, or sets in gold Silver or marble. No one saw him coming Until he spoke:--“You seek me; here I am, Trojan Aeneas, saved from the Libyan waves. Worn out by all the perils of land and sea, In need of everything, blown over the great world, A remnant left by the Greeks, Dido, we lack The means to thank our only pitier For offer of a city and a home. If there is justice anywhere, if goodness Means anything to any power, if gods At all regard good people, may they give The great rewards you merit. Happy the age, Happy the parents who have brought you forth! While rivers run to sea, while shadows move Over the mountains, while the stars burn on, Always, your praise, your honor, and your name, Whatever land I go to, will endure.” His hand went out to greet his men, Serestus, Gyas, Cloanthus, Ilioneus, The others in their turn. And Dido marvelled At his appearance, first, and all that trouble He had borne up under; there was a moment’s silence Before she spoke: “What chance, what violence, O goddess-born, has driven you through danger, From grief to grief? Are you indeed that son Whom Venus bore Anchises? I remember When Teucer came to Sidon, as an exile Seeking new kingdoms, and my father helped him, My father, Belus, conqueror of Cyprus. From that time on I have known about your city, Your name, and the Greek kings, and the fall of Troy. Even their enemies would praise the Trojans, Or claim descent from Teucer’s line. I bid you Enter my house. I, too, am fortune-driven Through many sufferings; this land at last Has brought me rest. Not ignorant of evil, I know one thing, at least,--to help the wretched.” And so she led Aeneas to the palace, Proclaiming sacrifice at all the temples In honor of his welcome, and sent presents To his comrades at the shore, a score of bullocks, A hundred swine, a hundred ewes and lambs In honor of the joyous day. The palace, Within, is made most bright with pomp and splendor, The halls prepared for feasting. Crimson covers Are laid, with fine embroidery, and silver Is heavy on the tables; gold, engraven, Recalls ancestral prowess, a tale of heroes From the race’s first beginnings.

And Aeneas, Being a thoughtful father, speeds Achates Back to the ships, with tidings for Iulus, He is to join them; all the father’s fondness Is centred on the son. Orders are given To bring gifts with him, saved from the Trojan ruins, A mantle stiff with figures worked in gold; A veil with gold acanthus running through it, Once worn by Helen, when she sailed from Sparta Toward that forbidden marriage, a wondrous gift Made by her mother Leda; and the sceptre That Ilione, Priam’s eldest daughter, Had carried once; a necklace hung with pearls; A crown of gold and jewels. Toward the ships Achates sped the message.

Meanwhile Venus Plotted new stratagems, that Cupid, changed In form and feature, should appear instead Of young Ascanius, and by his gifts Inspire the queen to passion, with his fire Burning her very bones. She feared the house Held dubious intentions; men of Tyre Were always two-faced people, and Juno’s anger Vexed her by night. She spoke to her wingèd son:-- “O my one strength and source of power, my son, Disdainful of Jove’s thunderbolt, to you I come in prayer for help. You know that Juno Is hateful toward Aeneas, keeps him tossing All over the seas in bitterness; you have often Grieved with me for your brother. And now Dido Holds him with flattering words; I do not trust Juno’s ideas of welcome; she will never Pause at a point like this. Therefore I purpose To take the queen by cunning, put around her A wall of flame, so that no power can change her, So that a blazing passion for Aeneas Will bind her to us. Listen! I will tell you How you can manage this. The royal boy, My greatest care, has heard his father’s summons To come to the city, bringing presents, rescued From the flames of Troy and the sea; and he is ready. But I will make him drowsy, carry him off In slumber over Cythera, or hide him Deep on Idalium in a secret bower Before he learns the scheme or interrupts it. You, for one night, no more, assume his features, The boy’s familiar guise, yourself a boy, So that when Dido takes you to her bosom During the royal feast, with the wine flowing, And happiness abounding, you, receiving The sweetness of her kiss, will overcome her With secret fire and poison.”

For his mother Cupid put off his wings, and went rejoicing With young Iulus’ stride; the real Iulus Venus had lulled in soft repose, and borne him Warm in her bosom to Idalian groves, Where the soft marjoram cradled him with blossom Exhaling shadowy sweetness over his slumber. And, with Achates leading, Cupid came Obedient to his mother, bringing gifts. The queen receives them, on a golden couch Below the royal tapestries, where spreads Of crimson wait Aeneas and his Trojans. Servants bring water for their hands, and bread In baskets, and fine napkins. At the fire Are fifty serving-maids, to set the feast, A hundred more, girls, and a hundred boys To load the tables, and bring the goblets round, As through the happy halls the Tyrians throng, Admire the Trojan gifts, admire Iulus, The young god with the glowing countenance, The charming words, the robe, the saffron veil Edged with acanthus. More than all the rest, Disaster-bound, the unhappy queen takes fire, And cannot have enough of looking, moved Alike by boy and gifts. She watches him Cling to his father’s neck, or come to her For fondling, and her eyes, her heart, receive him, Alas, poor queen, not knowing what a god Is plotting for her sorrow. He remembers What Venus told him; she forgets a little About Sychaeus; the heart unused to love Stirs with a living passion. When the first quiet settled over the tables, And the boards were cleared, they set the great bowls down, Crowning the wine with garlands. A great hum Runs through the halls, the voices reach the rafters, The burning lamps below the fretted gold, The torches flaring, put the night to rout. The queen commands the loving-cup of Belus, Heavy with gems and gold, and fills it full, And silence fills the halls before her prayer:-- “Jupiter, giver of laws for host and guest, Grant this to be a happy day for all, Both Tyrians and travellers from Troy, And something for our children to remember! May Bacchus, giver of joy, attend, and Juno Be kind, and all my Tyrians be friendly!” She poured libation on the table, touched The gold rim with her lips, passed on the bowl To Bitias, who dove deep, and other lords Took up the challenge. And a minstrel played A golden lyre, Iopas, taught by Atlas: Of the sun’s labors and the wandering moon He sang, whence came the race of beasts and man, Whence rain and fire, the stars and constellations, Why suns in winter hasten to the sea, Or what delay draws out the dawdling nights. The Tyrians roar, applauding, and the Trojans Rejoice no less, and the poor queen prolongs The night with conversation, drinking deep Of her long love, and asking many questions Of Priam, Hector; of the arms of Memnon; How big Achilles was; and Diomedes, What were his horses like? “Tell us, my guest,” She pleads, “from the beginning, all the story, The treachery of the Greeks, the wanderings, The perils of the seven tiresome years.”