BOOK V

THE FUNERAL GAMES FOR ANCHISES

Meanwhile Aeneas and the fleet were holding The sure course over the sea, cutting the waters That darkened under the wind. His gaze went back To the walls of Carthage, glowing in the flame Of Dido’s funeral pyre. What cause had kindled So high a blaze, they did not know, but anguish When love is wounded deep, and the way of a woman With frenzy in her heart, they knew too well, And dwelt on with foreboding.

They were out of sight of land, with only sea Around them on all sides, alone with ocean, Ocean and sky, when a cloud, black-blue, loomed over With night and tempest in it; the water roughened In shadow, and the pilot Palinurus Cried from the lofty stern. “What clouds are these Filling the sky? What threat is father Neptune Preparing over our heads? Trim ship,” he ordered, “Bend to the oars, reef down the sail.” The course Was changed, on a slant across the wind, and the pilot Turned 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 course From the black evening, thickening into cloud. We have no strength for headway. Luck is against us, Let us change the course, and follow. I remember Fraternal shores near by, the land of Eryx, Sicilian harbors; we were here before If 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; there My friend Acestes dwells, and there my father Anchises lies at rest. What better land To 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 javelins Bristling in his grasp, and he remembered The old relationship, and gave them welcome With 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 year Draws to an end, a year ago we buried My father in this land, and consecrated Sorrowful altars to his shade. The day Comes 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 captive In some Greek ship or city, I would honor This day with solemn rites, and pile the altars With sacrificial offering. But now,-- This must be heaven’s purpose--we have entered A friendly harbor. Come, then, all of us, Let us be happy in our celebration, Let us pray for winds, and that the god hereafter Receive his rites in temples for his honor Built in the city we found. Two heads of oxen Acestes gives each vessel; bring the gods Of our own household, and the ones Acestes Pays worship to. Nine days from now, if dawn Comes 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 battle With rawhide gloves; let all attend, competing For victory’s palm and prize. And now, in silence, Garland the brow with leaves.”

He bound his temples With 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 thousands Came 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 alone The fated fields, Italian soil, alone To seek, whatever it is, Ausonian Tiber.” And as he finished speaking, a huge serpent Slid over the ground, seven shining loops, surrounding The tomb, peacefully gliding around the altars, Dappled with blue and gold, such iridescence As rainbow gives to cloud, when the sun strikes it. Aeneas stood amazed; and the great serpent Crawled to the bowls and cups, tasted the offerings, And slid again, without a hint of menace, Under the altar-stone. Intent, Aeneas Resumed 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 comrades Also bring gifts, whatever they can, slay bullocks, Load altars high; others prepare the kettles, Sprawl on the greensward, keep the live coals glowing Under the roasting-spits, and the meat turning.

And the day came, the ninth they had awaited With eagerness, bright and clear, and the crowd gathered Under Acestes’ sanction; they were eager To 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 heralds The start of the games.

For the first contest Four ships are entered, heavy-oared, and chosen, The pick of the fleet. Mnestheus is one captain, His ship the _Dragon_, and his crew is eager,-- (Later the Memmian line will call him father). Gyas commands the big _Chimaera_, a vessel Huge as a town; it takes three tiers of oarsmen To keep her moving. Then there is Sergestus Riding the _Centaur_, and the sea-blue _Scylla_ Cloanthus leads. (The Sergian house at Rome Descends from one, Cluentians from the other.)

Far out in the water, facing the foaming shores, There lies a rock, which the swollen waves beat over On stormy days when gales blot out the stars, But quiet in calm weather, a level landing For the sun-loving sea-gulls. Here Aeneas Sets a green bough of holm-oak, as a signal To mark the turning-point; to this the sailors Must row, then turn, and double back. The places Are chosen by lot; the captains are set off, Shining in gold and purple; all the sailors Wear poplar-wreaths, and their naked shoulders glisten With the smear of oil. They are at their places, straining Arms stretched to the oars, waiting the word, and their chests Heave, and their hearts are pumping fast; ambition And 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 churned To a foam like snow; the start is very even, The sea gapes open under the rush of the beaks And the pull of the oars. The racers go no faster When the chariots take the field, and the barrier springs Cars into action, and the drivers lash Whipping and shaking the reins. Applause and shouting Volley and ring, and shrill excitement rises From some with bets on the issue; all the woodland Resounds, the shores are loud, and the beaten hillside Sends back the uproar.

Gyas beats the others In the rush of the starting sprint; Cloanthus follows, With a better crew, but a slower, heavier vessel; Behind them come the _Dragon_ and the _Centaur_, With no advantage either way; first one, And then the other, has it, moving even With long keels through salt water; and the leader Has almost reached the rock, the turn; that’s Gyas, The captain, yelling loudly at his pilot:-- “Menoetes, what the hell! Why are you steering So 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 fellows Stay 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, Gyas Could see Cloanthus coming up behind him Inside 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 crying In rage; to hell with pride, to hell with safety! He grabbed that cautious pilot of his, and heaved him Over 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 scrambling Up to the top of the rock, to perch there, drying, A good laugh for the Trojans, as they watched him Taking 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 managed To get ahead, a little; he neared the rock, Less than a length ahead; the rival _Dragon_ Was lapped on him, and up and down, amidships, Went Mnestheus, cheering on his crew:--“Get going, Rise to the oars, my comrades, men of Hector Whom I picked out for mine in Troy’s last moment. Show the old spirit and the nerve that took us Through 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 not Bear any such disgrace.” They did their utmost, Straining with all their might, the bronze deck shaking Under the effort, and the quiet ocean Streamed under and past them. Arms and legs were weary, Wobbly, shaking; breath came hard, they gulped And 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 oars Were 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 Mnestheus Easier now, and with exalted spirit From this much victory, with a prayer to the winds And the oars’ swift drive, was running down-hill waters, Over the open ocean, as a dove Suddenly startled out of her nest in a cavern Where the young brood waits, wings to the fields in fright, Flapping on anxious pinions, and recovers, And skims down peaceful air, with never a motion Of wing in the lifting air, so Mnestheus sped, So sped the _Dragon_, racing home, and the sweep Of her own speed made a wind. She passed Sergestus Struggling, rock-bound, in shallow water, howling For help, in vain, and learning how to manage A boat when the oars are broken. She overhauled Gyas, in the _Chimaera_, wallowing heavy Without a pilot. Only Cloanthus was left; They were after him with all their might, the clamor Rose twice as loud; they were cheering the pursuer, And the sky was a crash of shouting. On the _Scylla_ They 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 Cloanthus Taken to prayer:--“Gods of the seas, whose waters I skim, whose empire lifts me up, I gladly Promise you sacrifice, a snow-white bullock At altars on this shore, and wine for the ocean, And the entrails flung to the flood!” Under the waves The Nereids heard him, Phorcus, Panopea The 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’ son Put the green bay leaf on his temples, silver And wine for the ships, a steer for each. The captains Have special prizes; the winner has a mantle, Woven with gold, and a double seam of crimson, With a story in the texture, Ganymede Hunting on Ida, breathless, tossing darts And racing after the deer, and caught and carried In 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; Aeneas Had beaten him at Troy, by Simois river, And taken the armor, glory and guard in battle. The servants, Sagaris and Phegeus, hardly Can 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 prizes And went their way, proud of their wealth, and shining With 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-wheel Runs over on the road, or a traveller smashes With the weight of a stone, and, crushed, it writhes and struggles, Looping the coils, and half of it is angry With fiery eyes and hissing mouth, and half Keeps dragging back the rest and doubles over On useless muscles, powerless; Sergestus Came 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, accomplished At weaving, was his prize, and her twin children, Boy-infants, at the breast. The boat-race over, Aeneas makes his way To a grassy plain, with wooded hills surrounding The race-course in the valley. All the crowd Come trooping after, group themselves around The central prominence. Rewards and prizes Draw the competitors, travellers and natives, Trojans, Sicilians; in the foremost ranks Are Nisus and Euryalus, the latter Conspicuous 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 others Whose fame by now the darkness hides. Aeneas Speaks to their hope:--“No one goes unrewarded: To each I give two Cretan arrows, gleaming With polished steel, and a double-bitted axe Embossed with silver. Everybody wins These prizes, but the first three runners also Shall wear the wreath of olive, and the winner Ride home a horse equipped with splendid trappings; For second place, an Amazonian quiver With Thracian arrows, a broad belt of gold With jeweled buckle; and this Argive helmet For 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 bullocks Fell in the sacrifice, a slippery puddle Red 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 header Through 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 winner Thanks 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’ faces With cries of _Foul!_ and _Outrage!_ “I was robbed, Give me first prize!” But all the popular favor Sides with Euryalus, who is young, and weeping, And better-looking; and Diores backs him, Loudly, of course, since who would get the helmet If Salius was first? Aeneas ends it:-- “The race will stand as run; you get your prizes As first proposed; no one will change the order; But one thing I can do, and will do,--offer A 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 prizes For falling down, what’s good enough for Nisus? I would have won it surely, only Fortune Gave me the same bad deal she handed Salius!” And with the words he made a sudden gesture Showing 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 courage And fighting spirit in his heart, step forward And 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 murmur Runs through the crowd as this big man comes forward. They know that he was Paris’ sparring-partner, And they recall his famous match with Butes At Hector’s tomb, where he knocked out that champion And 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 hurry To take on Dares. So, exultant, thinking Himself a winner by default, he grabs The bullock by one horn, says to Aeneas:-- “If no man, goddess-born, is taking chances, How long must I keep standing here? How long Hang around waiting? Give the order, let me Lead home my prize!” The Trojans all applaud him. But king Acestes, sprawling on the greensward Beside 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 glory And 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 bragger Has 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 Eryx And 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; Aeneas Inspects them, turning them slowly, over and over, And old Entellus adds a word of comment:-- “Why, these are nothing! What if you had seen The 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 brains That stained them long ago. I used to wear them Myself when I was younger, and unchallenged By Time, that envious rival. But if Dares Declines these arms, all right, make matters equal, Don’t be afraid; I waive the gloves of Eryx, You put the Trojan gloves aside; Aeneas Will 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 muscles A giant in the ring. Aeneas brings them Matched pairs of gloves.

They take their stand, each rising On the balls of his feet, their arms upraised, and rolling Their heads back from the punch. They spar, they lead, They watch for openings. Dares, much the younger, Is much the better in footwork; old Entellus Has 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 ears Feel the wind of a miss, or the jaws rattle When 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 him In 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 wind And, thrown off balance, heavily comes down Flat on his face, as falls on Erymanthus A thunder-smitten oak, and so on, and so on. Roaring, the Trojans and Sicilians both Rise to their feet; the noise goes up to heaven; Acestes rushes in, to raise his comrade In pity and sorrow. But that old-time fighter Is not slowed down a bit, nor made more wary; His rage is terrible, and his shame awakens A consciousness of strength. He chases Dares All over the ring, left, right, left, right, the punches Rattle like hailstones on a roof; he batters Dares, Spins him halfway around with one hand, clouts him Straight with the other again. At last Aeneas Steps in and stops it, with a word of comfort For the exhausted Dares:--“Luckless fellow, Yield to the god! What madness blinds your vision To strength beyond your own?” They rescue Dares, And drag him to the ships, with his knees caving, Head rolling side to side, spitting out blood And 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 discover Two 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 smashing Between the horns, shattering the skull, and splashing Brains 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 offers Prizes and summons; on Serestus’ vessel The mast is raised, and from its top a cord With 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 token Of ship well driven; and third was Pandarus’ brother, Eurytion; Pandarus was the archer Who once broke truce with the Greeks, firing an arrow In 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 string Hippocoön’s arrow flew, through sky, through wind, Reaching its mark in the wood of the mast, which trembled And the bird flapped wings in terror, and the crowd Rang 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, waiting And 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 left For king Acestes, but he fired his arrow, High as he could, to prove his skill. And a wonder Came to their eyes; it proved an omen later When seers explained its meaning. The shaft caught fire Flying amid the clouds, a course of flame, Vanishing into space, as comets stream Sweeping across the heaven, their long train flying Behind them through the sky. All hearts were shaken, Sicilian, Trojan, both, and all men prayed To the powers on high. Aeneas hailed the omen, Embraced Acestes, loaded him with presents, Saying, “Receive them, father; for the king Of heaven has willed it so, unusual honors For skill surpassing. This bowl, with graven figures, Anchises owned, given him by a Thracian, King Cisseus, memorial and token, Of everlasting friendship.” On his brows He bound green laurel, hailing Acestes victor Over 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 called Epytides, 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, presenting Himself 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 ponies Before their fathers’ eyes, in true formation, To a murmur of delight. The garlands weighed The young hair down, they carried cornel spear-wands With iron at the tip; and some had quivers Bright-polished, at their shoulders; torques of gold Looped high on the breast in pliant rings. Three leaders Led, each, three squadrons, and a dozen followed Each 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 carried The other riders, who rode up to the cheering Shy, as they heard the sound, and the fond welcome Of 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 parted Into three groups, went galloping off, recalled, Wheeled, made mock charge, with lances at the ready, Made march and counter-march, troops intermingled With troops, to right and left, in mimic battle, Mimic retreat, and mimic peace, a course Confusing as the Labyrinth in Crete Whose path runs through blind walls, where craft has hidden A thousand wandering ways, mistake and error Threading insoluble mazes, so the children, The sons of Troy, wove in and out, in conflict In flight and sport, as happy as dolphins leaping Through the Carpathian waters. This was a custom Ascanius, when grown, himself established At Alba Longa, his own town, and taught there What he had learned in boyhood, and the Albans In turn informed their children, and the Romans Keep 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 women Mourned for Anchises lost, weeping and watching The 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, becoming Old Beroe, Doryclus’ wife, who sometime Had children, fame, and lineage. Now Iris, Resembling her, came down to the Trojan mothers. “Alas for us!” she cried, “on whom the Greeks Never laid hands, to drag us down to death Before our native walls! Unfortunate people, For what is fortune saving us, what doom, What dying? It is seven weary summers Since Troy’s destruction, and still we wander over All lands, all seas, with rocks and stars forever Implacable, as we go on pursuing A land that flees forever over the waters. Here lived our brother Eryx, here we find A welcomer, king Acestes; who forbids us To found the walls, to build our city here? O fatherland, O household gods in vain Saved from the Greeks, will there never be any walls For Troy again? No Simois or Xanthus, The rivers Hector loved? Come with me, burn These vessels of ill-omen. Let me tell you, I have been given warnings; in a dream I 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 it Above 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 goddess Attends her presence. Beroe I myself Have just now come from; she lies ill and grieving All by herself, in sorrow for her absence From reverence for Anchises.”

As they gazed Doubtfully at the ships, with sullen eyes, Distracted, torn between a sickly yearning For present land and rest, and the kingdoms calling Them fatefully over the sea, the goddess, cleaving The 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 brought Word of the ships on fire; and the men could see The black ash billowing in the smoky cloud, And first Ascanius, as full of spirit As when he led the games, rushed to the trouble As fast as he could ride; no troubled masters Could 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 burning But your own hopes! Look at me! Here I am, Your own Ascanius!” And before their feet He flung the helmet he had worn when leading The little war-game. And Aeneas hurried With others to the troubled camp. The women Scattered and fled along the shore, in terror And guilt, wherever they could, to hiding-places In woods or caves in the rock; they are ashamed Of daylight and their deed; Juno is shaken Out of their hearts, and they recognize their own. That does not stop the fire; it burns in fury Under wet oak, tow smoulders, and the stubborn Steam eats the keels away, destruction seizing On deck and hull, and water can not quench it, Nor any strength of men. Tearing his garment Loose from his shoulders, Aeneas prays to heaven:-- “Almighty Jove, if the Trojans are not hateful To the last man, if any record of goodness Alleviates human trouble, let our fleet Escape this flame, O father; save from doom This little Trojan remnant; or with lightning, If I deserve it, strike us down forever!” He had scarcely spoken, when a cloudburst fell Full force, with darkness and black tempest streaming, And thunder rumbling over plain and hillock, The whole sky pouring rain; the ships were drowned With water from above, the half-burnt timbers Were soaked, and the hiss of steam died out; four vessels Were 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 fates And settle here in Sicily, or keep on To the coast of Italy? An old man, Nautes, Whom Pallas had instructed in deep wisdom, Gave him the answer. “Goddess-born, wherever Fate pulls or hauls us, there we have to follow; Whatever happens, fortune can be beaten By nothing but endurance. We have here A friend, Acestes, Trojan-born, divine In parentage; make him an ally in counsel, Partner in enterprise; to him hand over The ones whose ships are lost, and all the weary, The sick and tired, the old men, and the mothers Who have had too much of the sea, and the faint-hearted, Whose weariness may find a city for them Here in this land; Acesta, let them call it.” The old man’s words still troubled him; the mind Was torn this way and that. Night rode the heavens In her dark chariot, and there came from the darkness The image of Anchises, speaking to him In words of comfort:--“Son, more dear to me Than life, when life was mine; son, sorely troubled By Trojan fate, I come at Jove’s command, Who drove the fire away, and from the heaven Has 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 people Must be subdued in Latium. Come to meet me, First, in the lower world; come through Avernus To find me, son. Tartarus’ evil prison Of gloomy shades I know not, for I dwell Among the happy spirits in Elysium. Black sheep are good for sacrifice. The Sibyl, A holy guide, will lead the way, foretelling The 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 embers Of the drowsing altar-fires, with meal and censer Propitiating Vesta, making worship To Trojan household gods.

And called Acestes And the Trojan counsellors, told them of Jove And his good father’s orders, the decision He has reached at last. They all agree, Acestes Accepts the trust. They make a roll for the city, The women-folk, the people willing to linger, The unadventurous; and they make ready The 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, senate And courts, and laws, established; and a shrine High on the crest of Eryx, is given Venus, Near the high stars, and a priest assigned as warden To the wide boundaries of Anchises’ grove.

Nine days they hold farewells, one tribe together For the last time, with honor at the altars, And seas are calm, and winds go down, and the whisper Of a little breeze calls to the sail; the shore Hears a great wail arise; they cling to each other All through the night and day. Even the mothers, The weary men, to whom the face of the sea Once seemed so cruel, and its very name A menacing monster, want to go now, willing For all the toil of exile. These Aeneas Comforts with friendly words, and bids Acestes Be their good brother. Then he slays to Eryx Three bullocks, and a lamb to the gods of storm-cloud. It is time to loose the cables. At the bow He 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 waters In happy rivalry.

But meanwhile Venus, Driven by worry, went to Neptune, pouring Complaints from a full heart:--“Neptune, the anger Of Juno, her insatiable vengeance, Which neither time nor any goodness softens, Drives me to humble prayer. She never weakens For Jove’s command, nor the orders of the fates; It is not enough for her that the Trojan city Is quite consumed by hatred, and the remnants Of that poor town harried all over the world With every kind of punishment; she still follows Even their bones and ashes. She may know The reasons for that wrath of hers. Remember How great a weight of water she stirred up lately In the Libyan seas, confusing sky and ocean, With Aeolus conspiring, and in your kingdom! And now her crime has driven the Trojan mothers To burn their ships, to give their comrades over To a coast unknown. Let what is left come safely Over the sea, to reach Laurentian Tiber, If what I ask is just, if those are walls Due them by fate’s decree.”

And Neptune answered:-- “None has a better right to trust my kingdom Than the goddess born of the sea-foam. And I have earned This confidence. I have often checked the anger Of sea and sky. And the rivers of Troy are witness I have helped on land as well, and saved Aeneas. When thousands died at Troy, with fierce Achilles In hot pursuit, and the rivers groaned, and Xanthus Could hardly find the sea, I formed a cloud Around Aeneas, when he met Achilles With the gods adverse, and no great strength to help him I rescued him, in spite of my own anger At the perjury of Troy, in spite of my passion To raze the walls I had built. Now too my purpose Remains; have done with fear; he will reach in safety The haven of Avernus; the prayer is granted. Let one be lost in the flood, one life alone Be given for the many.”

This comfort given, To bring the goddess joy, he yoked his horses, Gold bridle, foaming bit, and sent them flying With the lightest touch of the reins, skimming the surface In the bright blue car; and the waves went down, the axle Subdued the swell of the wave, and storm-clouds melted To nothing in the sky, and his attendants Followed along, great whales, and ancient Glaucus, Palaemon, Ino’s son, and the rushing Tritons, The army of Phorcus, Melite and Thetis Watching 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 sail Stretched from the halyards; right and left they bend The canvas to fair winds: at the head of the fleet Rides Palinurus, and the others follow, As ordered, close behind him; dewy night Has reached mid-heaven, while the sailors, sleeping, Relax on the hard benches under the oars, All calm, all quiet. And the god of Sleep Parting the shadowy air, comes gently down, Looking for Palinurus, bringing him, A guiltless man, ill-omened dreams. He settles On 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 over A little while.” But Palinurus, barely Lifting his eyes, made answer: “Trust the waves, However quiet? trust a peaceful ocean? Put faith in such a monster? Never! I Have been too often fooled by the clear stars To trust Aeneas to their faithless keeping.” And so he clung to the tiller, never loosed His hand from the wood, his eyes from the fair heaven. But lo, the god over his temples shook A bough that dripped with dew from Lethe, steeped With Stygian magic, so the swimming eyes, Against his effort close, blink open, close Again, and slumber takes the drowsy limbs. Bending above him, leaning over, the god Shoves him, still clinging to the tiller, calling His 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 journey As 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 sigh And 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.”