BOOK II

THE FALL OF TROY

They all were silent, watching. From his couch Aeneas spoke: “A terrible grief, O Queen, You bid me live again, how Troy went down Before the Greeks, her wealth, her pitiful kingdom, Sorrowful things I saw myself, wherein I had my share and more. Even Ulysses, Even his toughest soldiery might grieve At such a story. And the hour is late Already; night is sliding down the sky And setting stars urge slumber. But if you long To learn our downfall, to hear the final chapter Of Troy, no matter how I shrink, remembering, And turn away in grief, let me begin it.

Broken in war, set back by fate, the leaders Of the Greek host, as years went by, contrived, With Pallas’ help, a horse as big as a mountain. They wove its sides with planks of fir, pretending This was an offering for their safe return, At least, so rumor had it. But inside They packed, in secret, into the hollow sides The fittest warriors; the belly’s cavern, Huge as it was, was filled with men in armor. There is an island, Tenedos, well-known, Rich in the days of Priam; now it is only A bay, and not too good an anchorage For any ship to trust. They sailed there, hid On the deserted shore. We thought they had gone, Bound for Mycenae, and Troy was very happy, Shaking off grief, throwing the gates wide open. It was a pleasure, for a change, to go See the Greek camp, station and shore abandoned; Why, this was where Achilles camped, his minions, The Dolopes, were here; and the fleet just yonder, And that was the plain where we used to meet in battle. Some of us stared in wonder at the horse, Astounded by its vastness, Minerva’s gift, Death from the virgin goddess, had we known it. Thymoetes, whether in treachery, or because The fates of Troy so ordered, was the first one To urge us bring it in to the heart of the city, But Capys, and some others, knowing better, Suspicious of Greek plotting, said to throw it Into the sea, to burn it up with fire, To cut it open, see what there was inside it. The wavering crowd could not make up its mind.

And, at that point, Laocoön came running, With a great throng at his heels, down from the hilltop As fast as ever he could, and before he reached us, Cried in alarm: ‘Are you crazy, wretched people? Do you think they have gone, the foe? Do you think that any Gifts of the Greeks lack treachery? Ulysses,-- What was his reputation? Let me tell you, Either the Greeks are hiding in this monster, Or it’s some trick of war, a spy, or engine, To come down on the city. Tricky business Is hiding in it. Do not trust it, Trojans, Do not believe this horse. Whatever it may be, I fear the Greeks, even when bringing presents.’ With that, he hurled the great spear at the side With all the strength he had. It fastened, trembling, And the struck womb rang hollow, a moaning sound. He had driven us, almost, to let the light in With the point of the steel, to probe, to tear, but something Got in his way, the gods, or fate, or counsel, Ill-omened, in our hearts; or Troy would be standing And Priam’s lofty citadel unshaken.

Meanwhile, some Trojan shepherds, pulling and hauling, Had a young fellow, with his hands behind him, Tied up, and they were dragging him to Priam. He had let himself be taken so, on purpose, To open Troy to the Greeks, a stranger, ready For death or shifty cunning, a cool intriguer, Let come what may. They crowd around to see him, Take turns in making fun of him, that captive. Listen, and learn Greek trickiness; learn all Their crimes from one. He stopped in the middle, frightened and defenceless, Looked at the Trojan ranks,--‘What land, what waters, Can take me now?’ he cried, ‘There is nothing, nothing Left for me any more, no place with the Greeks, And here are the Trojans howling for my blood!’ Our mood was changed. We pitied him, poor fellow, Sobbing his heart out. We bade him tell his story, His lineage, his news: what can he count on, The captive that he is? His fear had gone As he began: ‘O King, whatever happens, I will tell the truth, tell all of it; to start with, I own I am a Greek. Sinon is wretched, Fortune has made him so, but she will never Make him a liar. You may perhaps have heard Rumors of Palamedes, son of Belus, A man of glorious fame. But the Greeks killed him,-- He was against the war, and so they killed him, An innocent man, by perjury and lying False witness. Now that he is dead they mourn him. My father, his poor relative, had sent me To soldier in his company; I was then Scarcely beyond my boyhood. Palamedes Held, for some time, some influence and standing In royal councils, and we shared his glory, But, and all men know this, Ulysses’ hatred, His cunning malice, pulled him down; thereafter I lived in darkness, dragging out a lifetime In sorrow for my innocent lord, and anger, And in my anger I was very foolish, I talked; I vowed, if I got home to Argos, I would have vengeance: so I roused Ulysses To hate me in his turn, and that began it, Downfall and evil, Ulysses always trying To frighten me with hint and accusation, With rumors planted where the crowd would listen; Oh yes, Ulysses knew what he was doing, He never stopped, until with Calchas working Hand in glove with him--why am I telling this, And what’s the use? I am stalling. All the Greeks, You think, are all alike; what more do you want? Inflict the punishment. That would be something Ulysses would rejoice in, and some others Pay handsome money for!’

But we were all on fire to hear him further. Pelasgian craft meant nothing to our folly. Trembling and nervous, he resumed his lying: ‘The Greeks were tired of the long war; they often Wanted to sail from Troy for home. Oh, would That they had only done it! But a storm Would cut them off, or the wrong wind terrify them. Especially, just after the horse was finished, With the joined planks of maple, all the heaven Roared loud with storm-clouds. In suspense and terror We sent Eurypylus to ask Apollo What could be done; the oracle was gloomy, Foreboding: “Blood, O Greeks, and a slain virgin Appeased the winds when first you came here; blood Must pay for your return, a life be given, An Argive life.” The word came to our ears With terror in it, our blood ran cold in our veins, For whom was fate preparing? who would be The victim of Apollo? Then Ulysses Dragged Calchas into our midst, with a great uproar, Trying his best to make the prophet tell us What the gods wanted. And there were many then Who told me what was coming, or kept silent Because they saw, and all too well, the scheme Ulysses had in mind. For ten days Calchas Said nothing at all, hid in his tent, refusing To have a word of his pronounce the sentence, And all the time Ulysses kept on shouting, Till Calchas broke, and doomed me to the altar. And all assented; what each man had feared In his own case, he bore with great composure When turned another way. The terrible day was almost on me; fillets Were ready for my temples, the salted meal Prepared, the altars standing. But I fled, I tore myself away from death, I admit it, I hid all night in sedge and muddy water At the edge of the lake, hoping, forever hoping, They might set sail. And now I hope no longer To see my home, my parents, or my children, Poor things, whom they will kill because I fled them, Whom they will murder for my sacrilege. But oh, by the gods above, by any power That values truth, by any uncorrupted Remnant of faith in all the world, have pity, Have pity on a soul that bears such sorrow, More than I ever deserved.’ He had no need to ask us. Priam said, _Untie him_, and we did so with a promise To spare his life. Our king, with friendly words, Addressed him, saying, ‘Whoever you are, forget The Greeks, from now on. You are ours; but tell me Why they have built this monstrous horse? who made it, Who thought of it? What is it, war-machine, Religious offering?’ And he, instructed In every trick and artifice, made answer, Lifting his hands, now free: ‘Eternal fires, Inviolable godhead, be my witness, You altars, you accursèd swords, you fillets Which I as victim wore, I had the right To break those solemn bonds, I had the right To hate those men, to bring whatever they hide Into the light and air; I am bound no longer To any country, any laws, but, Trojans, Keep to the promise, if I tell the truth, If I pay back with interest. All the Greek hope, since first the war began, Rested in Pallas, always. But Ulysses, The crime-contriver, and the son of Tydeus Attacked Minerva’s temple, stole her image Out of the holy shrine, and slew the guards, And laid their bloody hands upon the goddess, And from that time the Danaan hopes were broken, Faltered and failed. It was no doubtful anger Pallas revealed; she gave them signs and portents. From her image in the camp the upraised eyes Shot fire, and sweat ran salty down the limbs, Thrice from the ground she seemed to flash and leap With vibrant spear and clashing shield. The priest, Calchas, made prophecy: they must take to flight Over the sea, and Troy could not be taken Without new omens; they must go to Argos, Bring back the goddess again, whom they have taken In curved ships over the sea. And if they have gone, They are bound for home, Mycenae, for new arms, New gods, new soldiers; they will be here again When least expected. Calchas’ message warned them, And so they built this image, to replace The one they had stolen, a gigantic offering For a tremendous sacrilege. It was Calchas, Again, who bade them build a mass so mighty It almost reached the stars, too big to enter Through any gate, or be brought inside the walls. For if your hands should damage it, destruction, (May God avert it) would come upon the city, But if your hands helped bring it home, then Asia Would be invading Greece, and doom await Our children’s children.’

We believed him, we Whom neither Diomede nor great Achilles Had taken, nor ten years, nor that armada, A thousand ships of war. But Sinon did it By perjury and guile.

Then something else, Much greater and more terrible, was forced Upon us, troubling our unseeing spirits. Laocoön, allotted priest of Neptune, Was slaying a great bull beside the altars, When suddenly, over the tranquil deep From Tenedos,--I shudder even now, Recalling it--there came a pair of serpents With monstrous coils, breasting the sea, and aiming Together for the shore. Their heads and shoulders Rose over the waves, upright, with bloody crests, The rest of them trailing along the water, Looping in giant spirals; the foaming sea Hissed under their motion. And they reached the land, Their burning eyes suffused with blood and fire, Their darting tongues licking the hissing mouths. Pale at the sight, we fled. But they went on Straight toward Laocoön, and first each serpent Seized in its coils his two young sons, and fastened The fangs in those poor bodies. And the priest Struggled to help them, weapons in his hand. They seized him, bound him with their mighty coils, Twice round his waist, twice round his neck, they squeezed With scaly pressure, and still towered above him. Straining his hands to tear the knots apart, His chaplets stained with blood and the black poison, He uttered horrible cries, not even human, More like the bellowing of a bull, when, wounded It flees the altar, shaking from the shoulder The ill-aimed axe. And on the pair went gliding To the highest shrine, the citadel of Pallas, And vanished underneath the feet of the goddess And the circle of her shield.

The people trembled Again; they said Laocoön deserved it, Having, with spear, profaned the sacred image. It must be brought to its place, they cried, the goddess Must be appeased. We broke the walls, exposing The city’s battlements, and all were busy Helping the work, with rollers underfoot And ropes around the neck. It climbed our walls, The deadly engine. Boys, unwedded girls Sang alleluias round it, all rejoicing To have a hand on the tow-rope. It came nearer, Threatening, gliding, into the very city. O motherland! O Ilium, home of gods, O walls of Troy! Four times it stopped, four times The sound of arms came from it, and we pressed on, Unheedful, blind in madness, till we set it, Ill-omened thing, on the citadel we worshipped. And even when Cassandra gave us warning, We never believed her; so a god had ordered. That day, our last, poor wretches, we were happy, Garlanding the temples of the gods All through the town.

And the sky turned, and darkness Came from the ocean, the great shade covering earth And heaven, and the trickery of the Greeks. Sprawling along the walls, the Trojans slumbered, Sleep holding their weary limbs, and the Greek armada, From Tenedos, under the friendly silence Of a still moon, came surely on. The flagship Blazed at the masthead with a sudden signal, And Sinon, guarded by the fates, the hostile Will of the gods, swung loose the bolts; the Greeks Came out of the wooden womb. The air received them The happy captains, Sthenelus, Ulysses, Thessandrus, Acamas, Achilles’ son Called Neoptolemus, Thoas, Machaon, Epeos, who designed the thing,--they all Came sliding down the rope, and Menelaus Was with them in the storming of a city Buried in sleep and wine. The watch was murdered, The open doors welcome the rush of comrades, They marshal the determined ranks for battle.

It was the time when the first sleep begins For weary mortals, heaven’s most welcome gift. In sleep, before my eyes, I seemed to see Hector, most sorrowful, black with bloody dust, Torn, as he had been, by Achilles’ car, The thong-marks on his swollen feet. How changed He was from that great Hector who came, once, Triumphant in Achilles’ spoil, from hurling Fire at the Grecian ships. With ragged beard, Hair matted with his blood, wearing the wounds He earned around the walls of Troy, he stood there. It seemed that I spoke first:--‘O light of Troy, Our surest hope, we have long been waiting for you, What shores have kept you from us? Many deaths, Much suffering, have visited our city, And we are tired. Why do I see these wounds? What shame has caused them?’ Those were foolish questions; He made no answer but a sigh or a groan, And then: ‘Alas, O goddess-born! Take flight, Escape these flames! The enemy has the walls, Troy topples from her lofty height; enough Has been paid out to Priam and to country. Could any hand have saved them, Hector’s would have. Troy trusts to you her household gods, commending Her holy things to you; take them, companions Of destiny; seek walls for them, and a city To be established, a long sea-wandering over.’ From the inner shrine he carried Vesta’s chaplets In his own hands, and her undying fire.

Meanwhile, the city is all confusion and sorrow; My father Anchises’ house, remote and sheltered Among its trees, was not so far away But I could hear the noises, always clearer, The thickening din of war. Breaking from sleep, I climb to the roof-top, listening and straining The way a shepherd does on the top of a mountain When fire goes over the corn, and the winds are roaring, Or the rush of a mountain torrent drowns the fields And the happy crops and the work of men and oxen And even drags great trees over. And then I knew The truth indeed; the craft of the Greeks was hidden No longer from my sight. The house of a neighbor, Deiphobus, went up in flames; next door, Ucalegon was burning. Sigeum’s water Gave back the glow. Men shouted, and the trumpets Blared loud. I grab my arms, with little purpose, There was no sense in it, but my heart was burning To mass a band for war, rush to the hilltop With comrades at my side. Anger and frenzy Hurry me on. A decent death in battle Is a helpful thought, sometimes.

And here came Panthus, running from the weapons, Priest of Apollo, and a son of Othrys, With holy relics in his hands, and dragging His little grandson, here came Panthus, running In madness to my door. ‘How goes it, Panthus? What stronghold still is ours?’ I had hardly spoken, When he began, with a groan: ‘It has come, this day Will be our last, and we can not escape it. Trojans we have been, Troy has been, and glory Is ours no more. Fierce Jupiter has taken Everything off to Argos, and Greeks lord it In a town on fire. The horse, high in the city, Pours out armed men, and Sinon, arrogant victor, Lights up more fires. The gates are standing open, And men are there by the thousands, ever as many As came once from Mycenae; others block The narrow streets, with weapons drawn; the blades Flash in the dark; the point is set for murder. A few of the guards are trying, striking blindly, For all the good it does.’

His words, or the gods’ purpose, swept me on Toward fire and arms, where the grim furies call, And the clamor and confusion, reaching heaven. Ripheus joined me, Epytus, mighty in arms, Came to my side in the moonlight, Hypanis, Dymas, And young Coroebus, Mygdon’s son, poor youngster, Mad with a hopeless passion for Cassandra, He wanted to help Priam, but never heeded The warnings of his loved one.

As they ranged Themselves for battle, eager, I addressed them: ‘O brave young hearts, it will do no good; no matter. Even if your will is fixed, to follow a leader Taking the final risk, you can’t help seeing The fortune of our state. The gods have gone, They have left their shrines and altars, and the power They once upheld is fallen. You are helping A town already burnt. So let us die, Rush into arms. One safety for the vanquished Is to have hope of none.’

They were young, and angry. Like wolves, marauders in black mist, whom hunger Drives blindly on, whose whelps, abandoned, wait them Dry-jawed, so we went on, through foes, through weapons, To certain death; we made for the heart of the city, Black night around us with its hollow shadow. Who could explain that night’s destruction, equal Its agony with tears? The ancient city, A power for many years, comes down, and corpses Lie littering the streets and homes and altars. Not only Trojans die. The old-time valor Returns to the vanquished heart, and the Greek victors Know what it is to fall. Everywhere sorrow, Everywhere panic, everywhere the image Of death, made manifold.

Out of a crowd of Greeks comes one Androgeos, Thinking us allies, hailing us as friendly: ‘Why men, where have you been, you dawdling fellows? Hurry along! Here is plunder for the taking, Others are busy at it, and you just coming From the high ships!’ And then he knew he had blundered; He had fallen in with foes, who gave no answer. He stopped, stepped back, like a man who treads on a serpent Unseen in the rough brush, and then in panic Draws back as the purple neck swells out in anger. Even so, Androgeos pulled away in terror. We rush them, swarm all over them; they are frightened, They do not know their ground, and fortune favors Our first endeavor. Coroebus, a little crazy With nerve and luck, cries out: ‘Comrades, where fortune First shows the way and sides with us, we follow. Let us change our shields, put on the Grecian emblems! All’s fair in war: we lick them or we trick them, And what’s the odds?’ He takes Androgeos’ helmet, Whose plume streams over his head, takes up the shield With proud device, and fits the sword to his side. And Ripheus does the same, and so does Dymas, And all the others, happily, being armed With spoil, new-won. We join the Greeks, all going Under no gods of ours, in the night’s darkness Wade into many a fight, and Greeks by the dozens We send to hell. And some of them in panic Speed to the ships; they know that shore, and trust it, And some of them--these were the abject cowards-- Climb scrambling up the horse’s sides, again Take refuge in the womb.

It is not for men to trust unwilling gods. Cassandra was being dragged from Pallas’ temple, Her hair loosed to the wind, her eyes turned upward To heaven for mercy; they had bound her hands. Coroebus could not bear that sight; in madness He threw himself upon them, and he died. We followed, all of us, into the thick of it, And were cut down, not only by Greeks; the rooftops, Held by our friends, rained weapons: we were wearing Greek crests and armor, and they did not know us. And the Greeks came on, shouting with anger, burning To foil that rescue; there was Menelaus, And Agamemnon, and the savage Ajax, And a whole army of them. Hurricanes Rage the same way, when winds from different quarters Clash in the sky, and the forest groans, and Neptune Storms underneath the ocean. Those we routed Once in the dark came back again from the byways And alleys of the town; they mark our shields, Our lying weapons, and our foreign voices. Of course we are outnumbered. Peneleus It was, who slew Coroebus, at the altar Sacred to Pallas. Ripheus fell, a man Most just of all the Trojans, most fair-minded. The gods thought otherwise. Hypanis, Dymas, Were slain by their own men, and Panthus’ goodness Was no protection, nor his priestly office. I call to witness Troy, her fires, her ashes, And the last agonies of all our people That in that hour I ran from no encounter With any Greek, and if the fates had been For me to fall in battle, there I earned it. The current swept me off, with two companions, One, Iphitus, too slow with age, the other, Pelias, limping from Ulysses’ wound. The noise kept calling us to Priam’s palace.

There might have been no fighting and no dying Through all the city, such a battle raged Here, from the ground to roof-top. At the threshold Waves of assault were breaking, and the Greeks Were climbing, rung by rung, along the ladders, Using one hand, the right one up and forward Over the battlements, the left one thrust In the protecting shield. And over their heads The Trojans pried up towers and planking, wrecking The building; gilded beams, the spoils of their fathers, Were ample weapons for the final moment. Some had the doorways blocked, others, behind them, Were ready with drawn swords. We had a moment When help seemed possible: new reinforcement Might yet relieve the palace. There was a secret entrance there, a passage All the way through the building, a postern gate, Where, while the kingdom stood, Andromache Would go, alone, or bring the little boy, Astyanax, to Hector’s father and mother. I climbed to the top of the roof, where the poor Trojans Were hurling down their unavailing darts. A tower stood on the very edge, a look-out Over all Troy, the ships and camp of the Greeks. This we attacked with steel, where the joints were weakest, And pried it up, and shoved it over. It crashed. A noisy ruin, over the hostile columns; But more kept coming up; the shower of stones And darts continued raining. Before the entrance, at the very threshold Stood Pyrrhus, flashing proudly in bronze light, Sleek as a serpent coming into the open, Fed on rank herbs, wintering under the ground, The old slough cast, the new skin shining, rolling His slippery length, reaching his neck to the sun, While the forked tongue darts from the mouth. Automedon Was with him, Periphas, Achilles’ driver, A giant of a man, and the host from Scyros, All closing in on the palace, and hurling flames. Among the foremost, Pyrrhus, swinging an axe, Burst through, wrenched the bronze doors out of their hinges, Smashed through the panelling, turned it into a window. The long halls came to view, the inner chambers Of Priam and the older kings; they see Armed warriors at the threshold. Within, it is all confusion, women wailing, Pitiful noise, groaning, and blows; the din Reaches the golden stars. The trembling mothers Wander, not knowing where, or find a spot To cling to; they would hold and kiss the doors. Pyrrhus comes on, aggressive as his father; No barrier holds him back; the gate is battered As the ram smashes at it; the doors come down. Force finds a way: the Greeks pour in, they slaughter The first ones in their path; they fill the courtyard With soldiery, wilder than any river In flood over the banks and dikes and ploughland. I saw them, Pyrrhus, going mad with murder, And Atreus’ twin sons, and Hecuba I saw, and all her daughters, and poor old Priam, His blood polluting the altars he had hallowed. The fifty marriage-chambers, the proud hope Of an everlasting line, are violated, The doors with the golden spoil are turned to splinters. Whatever the fire has spared the Greeks take over.

You would ask, perhaps, about the fate of Priam? When he saw the city fall, and the doors of the palace Ripped from the hinge, and the enemy pouring in, Old as he was, he went and found his armor, Unused so many years, and his old shoulders Shook as he put it on. He took his sword, A useless weapon, and, doomed to die, went rushing Into the midst of the foe. There was an altar In the open court-yard, shaded by a laurel Whose shadow darkened the household gods, and here Hecuba and her daughters had come thronging, Like doves by a black storm driven. They were praying Here at the altar, and clinging to the gods, Whatever image was left. And the queen saw Priam In the arms of his youth. ‘O my unhappy husband,’ She cried, ‘have you gone mad, to dress yourself For battle, so? It is all no use; the time Needs better help than yours; not even my Hector Could help us now. Come to me, come to the altar; It will protect us, or at least will let us Die all together.’ And she drew him to her.

Just then through darts, through weapons, came Polites, A son of Priam, fleeing deadly Pyrrhus, Down the long colonnades and empty hallways, Wounded, and Pyrrhus after him, vicious, eager For the last spear-thrust, and he drives it home; Polites falls, and his life goes out with his blood, Father and mother watching. And then Priam, In the very grip of death, cried out in anger:-- ‘If there is any righteousness in heaven, To care about such wickedness, the gods Will have the right reward and thanks to offer A man like this, who has made a father witness The murder of his son, the worst pollution! You claim to be Achilles’ son. You liar! Achilles had some reverence, respected A suppliant’s right and trust; he gave me back My Hector’s lifeless body for the tomb, And let me go to my kingdom.’ With the word He flung a feeble spear, which dropped, deflected From the rough bronze; it had hung there for a moment. And Pyrrhus sneered: ‘So, go and tell my father The latest news: do not forget to mention, Old messenger-boy, my villainous behavior, And what a bastard Pyrrhus is. Now die!’ He dragged the old man, trembling, to the altar, Slipping in his son’s blood; he grabbed his hair With the left hand, and the right drove home the sword Deep in the side, to the hilt. And so fell Priam, Who had seen Troy burn and her walls come down, once monarch, Proud ruler over the peoples and lands of Asia. He lies, a nameless body, on the shore, Dismembered, huge, the head torn from the shoulders.

Grim horror, then, came home to me. I saw My father when I saw the king, the life Going out with the cruel wound. I saw Creusa Forsaken, my abandoned home, Iulus, My little son. I looked around. They all Had gone, exhausted, flung down from the walls, Or dead in the fire, and I was left alone.

And I saw Helen, hiding, of all places, At Vesta’s shrine, and clinging there in silence, But the bright flames lit the scene. That hated woman, Fearing both Trojan anger and Greek vengeance, A common fury to both lands, was crouching Beside the altar. Anger flared up in me For punishment and vengeance. Should she then, I thought, come home to Sparta safe, uninjured Walk through Mycenae, a triumphant queen? See husband, home, parents and children, tended By Trojan slave-girls? This, with Priam fallen And Troy burnt down, and the shore soaked in blood? Never! No memorable name, I knew, Was won by punishing women, yet, for me, There might be praise for the just abolition Of this unholiness, and satisfaction In vengeance for the ashes of my people. All this I may have said aloud, in frenzy, As I rushed on, when to my sight there came A vision of my lovely mother, radiant In the dark night, a goddess manifest, As tall and fair as when she walks in heaven. She caught me by the hand and stopped me:--‘Son, What sorrow rouses this relentless anger, This violence? Do you care for me no longer? Consider others first, your aged father, Anchises; is your wife Creusa living? Where is Iulus? Greeks are all around them, Only my love between them, fire and sword. It is not for you to blame the Spartan woman, Daughter of Tyndareus, or even Paris. The gods are the ones, the high gods are relentless It is they who bring this power down, who topple Troy from the high foundation. Look! Your vision Is mortal dull, I will take the cloud away,-- Fear not a mother’s counsel. Where you see Rock torn from rock, and smoke and dust in billows, Neptune is working, plying the trident, prying The walls from their foundations. And see Juno, Fiercest of all, holding the Scaean gates, Girt with the steel, and calling from the ships Implacable companions. On the towers,-- Turn, and be certain--Pallas takes command Gleaming with Gorgon and storm-cloud. Even Jove, Our father, nerves the Greeks with fire and spirit, And spurs the other gods against the Trojans. Hasten the flight, my son; no other labor Waits for accomplishment. I promise safety Until you reach your father’s house.’ She had spoken And vanished in the thickening night of shadows. Dread shapes come into vision, mighty powers, Great gods at war with Troy, which, so it seemed, Was sinking as I watched, with the same feeling As when on mountain-tops you see the loggers Hacking an ash-tree down, and it always threatens To topple, nodding a little, and the leaves Trembling when no wind stirs, and dies of its wounds With one long loud last groan, and dirt from the ridges Heaves up as it goes down with roots in air. Divinity my guide, I leave the roof-top, I pass unharmed through enemies and blazing, Weapons give place to me, and flames retire.

At last I reached the house, I found my father, The first one that I looked for. I meant to take him To the safety of the hills, but he was stubborn, Refusing longer life or barren exile, Since Troy was dead. ‘You have the strength,’ he told me, ‘You are young enough, take flight. For me, had heaven Wanted to save my life, they would have spared This home for me. We have seen enough destruction, More than enough, survived a captured city. Speak to me as a corpse laid out for burial, A quick farewell, and go. Death I shall find With my own hand; the enemy will pity, Or look for spoil. The loss of burial Is nothing at all. I have been living too long Hated by gods and useless, since the time Jove blasted me with lightning wind and fire.’ He would not move, however we wept, Creusa, Ascanius, all the house, insistent, pleading That he should not bring all to ruin with him. He would not move, he would not listen. Again I rush to arms, I pray for death; what else Was left to me? ‘Dear father, were you thinking I could abandon you, and go? what son Could bear a thought so monstrous? If the gods Want nothing to be left of so great a city, If you are bound, or pleased, to add us all To the wreck of Troy, the way is open for it-- Pyrrhus will soon be here; from the blood of Priam He comes; he slays the son before the father, The sire at the altar-stone; O my dear mother, Was it for this you saved me, brought me through The fire and sword, to see our enemies Here in the very house, and wife and son And father murdered in each other’s blood? Bring me my arms; the last light calls the conquered. Let me go back to the Greeks, renew the battle, We shall not all of us die unavenged.’

Sword at my side, I was on the point of going, Working the left arm into the shield. Creusa Clung to me on the threshold, held my feet, And made me see my little son:--‘Dear husband, If you are bent on dying, take us with you, But if you think there is any hope in fighting, And you should know, stay and defend the house! To whom are we abandoned, your father and son, And I, once called your wife?’ She filled the house With moaning outcry. And then something happened, A wonderful portent. Over Iulus’ head, Between our hands and faces, there appeared A blaze of gentle light; a tongue of flame, Harmless and innocent, was playing over The softness of his hair, around his temples. We were afraid, we did our best to quench it With our own hands, or water, but my father Raised joyous eyes to heaven, and prayed aloud:-- ‘Almighty Jupiter, if any prayer Of ours has power to move you, look upon us, Grant only this, if we have ever deserved it, Grant us a sign, and ratify the omen!’ He had hardly spoken, when thunder on the left Resounded, and a shooting star from heaven Drew a long trail of light across the shadows. We saw it cross above the house, and vanish In the woods of Ida, a wake of gleaming light Where it had sped, and a trail of sulphurous odor. This was a victory: my father rose In worship of the gods and the holy star, Crying: ‘I follow, son, wherever you lead; There is no delay, not now; Gods of my fathers, Preserve my house, my grandson; yours the omen, And Troy is in your keeping. O my son, I yield, I am ready to follow.’ But the fire Came louder over the walls, the flames rolled nearer Their burning tide. ‘Climb to my shoulders, father, It will be no burden, so we are together, Meeting a common danger or salvation. Iulus, take my hand; Creusa, follow A little way behind. Listen, you servants! You will find, when you leave the city, an old temple That once belonged to Ceres; it has been tended For many years with the worship of our fathers. There’s a little hill there, and a cypress tree; And that’s where we shall meet, one way or another. And one thing more: you, father, are to carry The holy objects and the gods of the household, My hands are foul with battle and blood, I could not Touch them without pollution.’

I bent down And over my neck and shoulders spread the cover Of a tawny lion-skin, took up my burden; Little Iulus held my hand, and trotted, As best he could, beside me; Creusa followed. We went on through the shadows. I had been Brave, so I thought, before, in the rain of weapons And the cloud of massing Greeks. But now I trembled At every breath of air, shook at a whisper, Fearful for both my burden and companion.

I was near the gates, and thinking we had made it, But there was a sound, the tramp of marching feet, And many of them, it seemed; my father, peering Through the thick gloom, cried out:--‘Son, they are coming! Flee, flee! I see their shields, their gleaming bronze.’ Something or other took my senses from me In that confusion. I turned aside from the path, I do not know what happened then. Creusa Was lost; she had missed the road, or halted, weary, For a brief rest. I do not know what happened, She was not seen again; I had not looked back, Nor even thought about her, till we came To Ceres’ hallowed home. The count was perfect, Only one missing there, the wife and mother. Whom did I not accuse, of gods and mortals, Then in my frenzy? What worse thing had happened In the city overthrown? I left Anchises, My son, my household gods, to my companions, In a hiding-place in the valley; and I went back Into the city again, wearing my armor, Ready, still one more time, for any danger. I found the walls again, the gate’s dark portals, I followed my own footsteps back, but terror, Terror and silence were all I found. I went On to my house. She might, just might, have gone there. Only the Greeks were there, and fire devouring The very pinnacles. I tried Priam’s palace; In the empty courtyards Phoenix and Ulysses Guarded the spoils piled up at Juno’s altar. They had Trojan treasure there, loot from the altars, Great drinking-bowls of gold, and stolen garments, And human beings. A line of boys and women Stood trembling there. I took the risk of crying through the shadows, Over and over, ‘Creusa!’ I kept calling, ‘Creusa!’ and ‘Creusa!’ but no answer. No sense, no limit, to my endless rushing All through the town; and then at last I saw her, Or thought I did, her shadow a little taller Than I remembered. And she spoke to me Beside myself with terror:--‘O dear husband, What good is all this frantic grief? The gods Have willed it so, Creusa may not join you Out of this city; Jupiter denies it. Long exile lies ahead, and vast sea-reaches The ships must furrow, till you come to land Far in the West; rich fields are there, and a river Flowing with gentle current; its name is Tiber, And happy days await you there, a kingdom, A royal wife. Banish the tears of sorrow Over Creusa lost. I shall never see The arrogant houses of the Myrmidons, Nor be a slave to any Grecian woman; I am a Dardan woman; I am the wife Of Venus’ son; it is Cybele who keeps me Here on these shores. And now farewell, and love Our son.’ I wept, there was more to say; she left me, Vanishing into empty air. Three times I reached out toward her, and three times her image Fled like the breath of a wind or a dream on wings. The night was over; I went back to my comrades.

I was surprised to find so many more Had joined us, ready for exile, pitiful people, Mothers, and men, and children, streaming in From everywhere, looking for me to lead them Wherever I would. Over the hills of Ida The morning-star was rising; in the town The Danaans held the gates, and help was hopeless. I gave it up, I lifted up my father, Together we sought the hills.