From the Aeneid, Books 4 and 6

From the Aeneid, Books 4 and 6

[Mercury, the divine herald, urges Aeneas to leave Carthage and proceed to Italy.]

Mercury wastes no time:—“What are you doing,

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Forgetful of your kingdom and your fortunes,

Building for Carthage? Woman-crazy fellow,

The ruler of the Gods, the great compeller

Of heaven and earth, has sent me from Olympus

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With no more word than this: what are you doing,

With what ambition wasting time in Libya?

If your own fame and fortune count as nothing,

Think of Ascanius9 at least, whose kingdom

In Italy, whose Roman land, are waiting

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As promise justly due.” He spoke, and vanished

Into thin air. Apalled, amazed, Aeneas

Is stricken dumb; his hair stands up in terror,

His voice sticks in his throat. He is more than eager

To flee that pleasant land, awed by the warning

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Of the divine command. But how to do it?

How get around that passionate queen?10 What opening

Try first? His mind runs out in all directions,

Shifting and veering. Finally, he has it,

Or thinks he has: he calls his comrades to him,

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The leaders, bids them quietly prepare

The fleet for voyage, meanwhile saying nothing

About the new activity; since Dido

Is unaware, has no idea that passion

As strong as theirs is on the verge of breaking,

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He will see what he can do, find the right moment

To let her know, all in good time. Rejoicing,

The captains move to carry out the orders.

Who can deceive a woman in love? The queen

Anticipates each move, is fearful even

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While everything is safe, foresees this cunning,

And the same trouble-making goddess, Rumor,

Tells her the fleet is being armed, made ready

For voyaging. She rages through the city

Like a woman mad, or drunk, the way the Maenads11

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Go howling through the night-time on Cithaeron12

When Bacchus' cymbals summon with their clashing.

She waits no explanation from Aeneas;

She is the first to speak: “And so, betrayer,

You hoped to hide your wickedness, go sneaking

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Out of my land without a word? Our love

Means nothing to you, our exchange of vows,

And even the death of Dido could not hold you.

The season is dead of winter, and you labor

Over the fleet; the northern gales are nothing—You

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must be cruel, must you not? Why, even,

If ancient Troy remained, and you were seeking

Not unknown homes and lands, but Troy again,

Would you be venturing Troyward in this weather?

I am the one you flee from: true? I beg you

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By my own tears, and your right hand—(I have nothing

Else left my wretchedness)—by the beginnings

Of marriage, wedlock, what we had, if ever

I served you well, if anything of mine

Was ever sweet to you, I beg you, pity

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A falling house; if there is room for pleading

As late as this, I plead, put off that purpose.

You are the reason I am hated; Libyans,

Numidians, Tyrians, hate me; and my honor

Is lost, and the fame I had, that almost brought me

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High as the stars, is gone. To whom, O guest—

I must not call you husband any longer—

To whom do you leave me? I am a dying woman;

Why do I linger on? Until Pygmalion,

My brother, brings destruction to this city?

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Until the prince Iarbas leads me captive?

At least if there had been some hope of children

Before your flight, a little Aeneas playing

Around my courts, to bring you back, in feature

At least, I would seem less taken and deserted.”

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There was nothing he could say. Jove bade him keep

Affection from his eyes, and grief in his heart

With never a sign. At last, he managed something:—

“Never, O Queen, will I deny you merit

Whatever you have strength to claim; I will not

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Regret remembering Dido, while I have

Breath in my body, or consciousness of spirit.

I have a point or two to make. I did not,

Believe me, hope to hide my flight by cunning;

I did not, ever, claim to be a husband,

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Made no such vows. If I had fate's permission

To live my life my way, to settle my troubles

At my own will, I would be watching over

The city of Troy, and caring for my people,

Those whom the Greeks had spared, and Priam's palace

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Would still be standing; for the vanquished people

I would have built the town again. But now

It is Italy I must seek, great Italy,

Apollo orders, and his oracles

Call me to Italy. There is my love,

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There is my country. If the towers of Carthage,

The Libyan citadels, can please a woman

Who came from Tyre,13 why must you grudge the Trojans

Ausonian land?14 It is proper for us also

To seek a foreign kingdom. I am warned

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Of this in dreams: when the earth is veiled in shadow

And the fiery stars are burning, I see my father,

Anchises, or his ghost, and I am frightened;

I am troubled for the wrong I do my son,

Cheating him out of his kingdom in the west,

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And lands that fate assigns him. And a herald,

Jove's15 messenger—I call them both to witness—

Has brought me, through the rush of air, his orders;

I saw the god myself, in the full daylight,

Enter these walls, I heard the words he brought me.

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Cease to inflame us both with your complainings;

I follow Italy not because I want to.”

[In the Underworld described in Book six, Aeneas

encounters the soul of his father, Anchises, who foretells

the destiny of Rome.]

“Others, no doubt, will better mould the bronze

To the semblance of soft breathing, draw from marble,

The living countenance; and others please

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With greater eloquence, or learn to measure

Better than we, the pathways of the heavens,

The risings of the stars: remember, Roman,

To rule the people under law, to establish

The way of peace, to battle down the haughty,

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To spare the meek. Our fine arts, these forever.”