The Portable Roman Reader (Portable Library) (37 page)

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“0 son, well learned in all the lore of Ilium’s fate,” he said,
“Cassandra only of such hap would sing; I mind me well
Of like fate meted to our folk full oft would she foretell;
And oft would call to Italy and that Hesperian home.
But who believed that Teucrian folk on any day might come
Unto Hesperia’s shores? or who might trow Cassandra then?
Yield we to Phoebus, follow we as better-counselled men
The better part.“
We, full of joy, obey him with one mind;
From this seat too we fare away and leave a few behind;
With sail abroad in hollow tree we skim the ocean o‘er.
 
But when our keels the deep sea made, nor had we any more
The land in sight, but sea around, and sky around was spread,
A coal-blue cloud drew up to us that, hanging overhead,
Bore night and storm, and mirky gloom o‘er all the waters cast:
Therewith the winds heap up the waves, the seas are rising fast
And huge; and through the mighty whirl scattered we toss about;
The storm-clouds wrap around the day, and wet mirk blotteth out
The heavens, and mid the riven clouds the ceaseless lightnings live.
So are we blown from out our course, through might of seas we drive,
Nor e‘en might Palinurus’ self the day from night-tide sift,
Nor have a deeming of the road atwixt the watery drift.
Still on for three uncertain suns, that blind mists overlay,
And e‘en so many starless nights, across the sea we stray;
But on the fourth day at the last afar upon us broke
The mountains of another land, mid curling wreaths of smoke.
Then fall the sails, we rise on oars, no sloth hath any place,
The eager seamen toss the spray and sweep the blue sea’s face;
And me first saved from whirl of waves the Strophades on strand
Now welcome; named by Greekish name Isles of the Sea, they stand
Amid the great Ionian folk: Celæno holds the shores,
And others of the Harpies grim, since shut were Phineus’ doors
Against them, and they had to leave the tables they had won.
No monster woefuller than they, and crueller is none
Of all God’s plagues and curses dread from Stygian waters sent.
A wingèd thing with maiden face, whose bellies’ excrement
Is utter foul; and hookèd hands, and face for ever pale
With hunger that no feeding stints.
 
Borne thither, into haven come, we see how everywhere
The merry wholesome herds of neat feed down the meadows fair,
And all untended goatish flocks amid the herbage bite.
With point and edge we fall on them, and all the Gods invite,
Yea, very Jove, to share the spoil, and on the curvèd strand
We strew the beds, and feast upon rich dainties of the land.
When lo, with sudden dreadful rush from out the mountains hap
The Harpy folk, and all about their clanging wings they flap,
And foul all things with filthy touch as at the food they wrench,
And riseth up their grisly voice amid the evilest stench.
 
Once more then ‘neath a hollow rock at a long valley’s head,
Where close around the boughs of trees their quavering shadows shed,
We dight the boards, and once again flame on the altars raise.
Again from diverse parts of heaven, from dusky lurking-place,
The shrieking rout with hookèd feet about the prey doth fly,
Fouling the feast with mouth: therewith I bid my company
To arms, that with an evil folk the war may come to pass.
They do no less than my commands, and lay along the grass
Their hidden swords, and therewithal their bucklers cover o‘er.
Wherefore, when swooping down again, they fill the curved shore
With noise, Misenus blows the call from off a watch-stead high
With hollow brass; our folk fall on and wondrous battle try,
Striving that sea-foul’s filthy folk with point and edge to spill.
But nought will bite upon their backs, and from their feathers still
Glanceth the sword, and swift they flee up ‘neath the stars of air,
Half-eaten meat and token foul leaving behind them there.
But on a rock exceeding high yet did Celæno rest,
Unhappy seer! there breaks withal a voice from out her breast:
 
 
“What, war to pay for slaughtered neat, war for our heifers slain?
O children of Laomedon, the war then will ye gain?
The sackless Harpies will ye drive from their own land away?
Then let this sink into your souls, heed well the words I say;
The Father unto Phoebus told a tale that Phoebus told
To me, and I the first-born fiend that same to you unfold:
Ye sail for Italy, and ye, the winds appeased by prayer,
Shall come to Italy, and gain the grace of haven there:
Yet shall ye gird no wall about the city granted you,
Till famine, and this murder’s wrong that ye were fain to do,
Drive you your tables gnawed with teeth to eat up utterly.“
 
She spake, and through the woody deeps borne off on wings did fly.
But sudden fear fell on our folk, and chilled their frozen blood;
Their hearts fell down; with weapon-stroke no more they deem it good
To seek for peace: but rather now sore prayers and vows they will,
Whether these things be goddesses or filthy fowls of ill.
Father Anchises on the strand stretched both his hands abroad,
And, bidding all their worship due, the Mighty Ones adored:
“Gods, bring their threats to nought! 0 Gods, turn ye the curse, we pray!
Be kind, and keep the pious folk!“ Then bade he pluck away
The hawser from the shore and slack the warping cable’s strain:
The south wind fills the sails, we fare o‘er foaming waves again,
E‘en as the helmsman and the winds have will that we should fare.
 
 
And now amidmost of the flood Zacynthus’ woods appear,
Dulichium, Samos, Neritos, with sides of stony steep:
Wide course from cliffs of Ithaca, Laertes’ land, we keep,
Cursing the soil that bore and nursed Ulysses’ cruelty.
Now open up Leucata’s peaks, that fare so cloudy high
Over Apollo, mighty dread to all seafarers grown;
But weary thither do we steer and make the little town,
We cast the anchors from the bows and swing the sterns a-strand.
And therewithal since we at last have gained the longed-for land,
We purge us before Jupiter and by the altars pray,
Then on the shores of Actium’s head the Ilian plays we play.
Anointed with the sleeking oil there strive our fellows stripped
In wrestling game of fatherland: it joys us to have slipped
By such a host of Argive towns amidmost of the foe.
 
Meanwhile, the sun still pressing on, the year about doth go,
And frosty winter with his north the sea’s face rough doth wear;
A buckler of the hollow brass of mighty Abas’ gear
I set amid the temple-doors with singing scroll thereon,
ÆNEAS HANGETH ARMOUR HERE FROM CONQUERING DANAANS WON.
And then I bid to leave the shore and man the thwarts again.
Hard strive the folk in smiting sea, and oar-blades brush the main.
The airy high Phæacian towers sink down behind our wake,
And coasting the Epirote shores Chaonia’s bay we make,
And so Buthrotus’ city-walls high set we enter in.
There tidings hard for us to trow unto our ears do win,
How Helenus, e‘en Priam’s son, hath gotten wife and crown
Of Pyrrhus come of Æacus, and ruleth Greekish town,
And that Andromache hath wed one of her folk once more.
All mazed am I; for wondrous love my heart was kindling sore
To give some word unto the man, of such great things to learn:
So from the haven forth I fare, from ships and shore I turn.
 
 
But as it happed Andromache was keeping yearly day,
Pouring sad gifts unto the dead, amidst a grove that lay
Outside the town, by wave that feigned the Simoïs that had been,
Blessing the dead by Hector’s mound empty and grassy green,
Which she with altars twain thereby had hallowed for her tears.
But when she saw me drawing nigh with armour that Troy bears
About me, senseless, throughly feared with marvels grown so great,
She stiffens midst her gaze; her bones are reft of life-blood’s heat,
She totters, scarce, a long while o‘er, this word comes forth from her:
“Is the show true, 0 Goddess-born? com‘st thou a messenger
Alive indeed? or if from thee the holy light is fled,
Where then is Hector?“
Flowed the tears e‘en as the word she said,
And with her wailing rang the place: sore moved I scarce may speak
This word to her, grown wild with grief, in broken voice and weak:
“I live indeed, I drag my life through outer ways of ill;
Doubt not, thou seest the very sooth.
Alas! what hap hath caught thee up from such a man downcast?
Hath any fortune worthy thee come back again at last?
Doth Hector’s own Andromache yet serve in Pyrrhus’ bed?“
 
 
She cast her countenance adown, and in a low voice said:
“0 thou alone of Trojan maids that won a little joy,
Bidden to die on foeman’s tomb before the walls of Troy!
Who died, and never had to bear the sifting lot’s award,
Whose slavish body never touched the bed of victor lord!
We from our burning fatherland carried o‘er many a sea,
Of Achillæan offspring’s pride the yoke-fellow must be,
Must bear the childbed of a slave: thereafter he, being led
To Leda’s child Hermione and that Laconian bed,
To Helenus his very thrall me very thrall gave o‘er:
But there Orestes, set on fire by all the love he bore
His ravished wife, and mad with hate, comes on him unaware
Before his father’s altar-stead and slays him then and there.
By death of Neoptolemus his kingdom’s leavings came
To Helenus, who called the fields Chaonian fields by name,
And all the land Chaonia, from Chaon of Troy-town;
And Pergamos and Ilian burg on ridgy steep set down.
What winds, what fates gave thee the road to cross the ocean o‘er?
Or what of Gods hath borne thee on unwitting to our shore?
What of the boy Ascanius? lives he and breathes he yet?
Whom unto thee when Troy yet was——
The boy then, of his mother lost, hath he a thought of her?
Do him Æneas, Hector gone, father and uncle, stir,
To valour of the ancient days, and great hearts’ glorious gain?“
 
Such tale she poured forth, weeping sore, and long she wept in vain
Great floods of tears: when lo, from out the city draweth nigh
Lord Helenus the Priam-born midst mighty company,
And knows his kin, and joyfully leads onward to his door,
Though many a tear ‘twixt broken words the while doth he outpour.
So on; a little Troy I see feigned from great Troy of fame,
A Pergamos, a sandy brook that hath the Xanthus’ name,
On threshold of a Scæan gate I stoop to lay a kiss.
Soon, too, all Teucrian folk are wrapped in friendly city’s bliss,
And them the King fair welcomes in amid his cloisters broad,
And they amidmost of the hall the bowls of Bacchus poured,
The meat was set upon the gold, and cups they held in hand.
 
 
So passed a day and other day, until the gales command
The sails aloft, and canvas swells with wind from out the South:
Therewith I speak unto the seer, such matters in my mouth:
“0 Troy-born, 0 Gods’ messenger, who knowest Phœ bus’ will,
The tripods and the Clarian’s bay, and what the stars fulfil,
And tongues of fowl, and omens brought by swift fore-flying wing,
Come, tell the tale! for of my way a happy heartening thing
All shrines have said, and all the Gods have bid me follow on
To Italy, till outland shores, far off, remote were won:
Alone Celæno, Harpy-fowl, new dread of fate set forth,
Unmeet to tell, and bade us fear the grimmest day of wrath,
And ugly hunger. How may I by early perils fare?
Or doing what may I have might such toil to overbear?“
So Helenus, when he hath had the heifers duly slain,
Prays peace of Gods, from hallowed nead he doffs the bands again,
And then with hand he leadeth me, 0 Phœbus, to thy door,
My fluttering soul with all thy might of godhead shadowed o‘er.
There forth at last from God-loved mouth the seer this word did send:
 
 
“0 Goddess-born, full certainly across the sea ye wend
By mightiest bidding, such the lot the King of Gods hath found
All fateful; so he rolls the world, so turns its order round.
Few things from many will I tell that thou the outland sea
May‘st sail the safer, and at last make land in Italy;
The other things the Parcæ still ban Helenus to wot,

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