They seize, and with the treasures load:
Pygmalion’s stores o’er ocean speed,
And woman’s daring wrought the deed.
The spot they reached where now your eyes
See Carthage-towers in beauty rise:
There bought them soil, such space of ground
As one bull’s hide could compass round;
There fixed their site; and Byrsa’s name
Preserves the action fresh in fame.
But who are you? to whom allied?
Whence bound and whither?’ Deep he sighed,
And thus with labouring speech replied:
From first to last their tale of woe,
Or ere it ceased the day were done,
And closed the palace of the sun.
We from old Troy, if Tyrian ear
Have chanced the name of Troy to hear,
Driven o’er all seas, are thrown at last
On Libya’s coast by chance-sent blast.
Æneas I, who bear on board
My home-gods, rescued from the sword:
Men call me good; and vulgar fame
Above the stars exalts my name.
My quest is Italy, the place
That nursed my Jove-descended race.
My ships were twenty when I gave
My fortunes to the Phrygian wave;
My goddess-mother lent me light,
And oracles prescribed my flight:
And now scarce seven survive the strain
Of boisterous wind and billowy main.
I wander o’er your Libyan waste,
From Europe and from Asia chased,
Unfriended and unknown.’ No more
His plaint of anguish Venus bore,
But interrupts ere yet ’tis o’er:
Unloved of heaven you drink the beam
Of sunlight; else had never Fate
Conveyed you to a Tyrian’s gate.
Take heart and follow on the road,
Still making for the queen’s abode.
You yet shall witness, mark my word,
Your friends returned, your fleet restored;
The winds are changed, and all are brought
To port, or augury is naught,
And vain the lore my parents taught.
Mark those twelve swans that hold their way
In seemly jubilant array,
Whom late, down swooping from on high,
Jove’s eagle scattered through the sky:
Now see them o’er the land extend
Or hover, ready to descend:
They, rallying, sport on noisy wing,
And circle round the heaven, and sing:
E’en so your ships, your martial train,
Have gained the port, or stand to gain.
Then pause not further, but proceed,
Still following where the road shall lead.’
Her stately neck’s purpureal hue;
Ambrosial tresses round her head
A more than earthly fragrance shed;
Her falling robe her footprints swept,
And showed the goddess as she stept;
While he, at length his mother known,
Pursues her with complaining tone:
‘And art thou cruel like the rest?
Why cheat so oft thy son’s fond eyes?
Why cannot hand in hand be pressed,
And speech exchanged without disguise?’
So ring the words of fond regret
While toward the town his face is set.
But Venus either traveller shrouds
With thickest panoply of clouds,
That none may see them, touch, nor stay,
Nor, idly asking, breed delay.
She through the sky to Paphos moves,
And seeks the temple of her loves,
Where from a hundred altars rise
Rich steam and flowerets’ odorous sighs.
With speed their journey they pursue;
And now they climb the hill, whose frown
On the tall towers looks lowering down,
And beetles o’er the fronting town.
Æneas marvelling views the pile
Of stately structures, huts erewhile,
Marvelling, the lofty gates surveys,
The pavements, and the loud highways.
On press the Tyrians, each and all:
Some raise aloft the city’s wall,
Or at the fortress’ base of rock
Toil, heaving up the granite block:
While some for dwellings mark the ground,
Select a site and trench it round,
Or choose the rulers and the law,
And the young senate clothe with awe.
They hollow out the haven; they
The theatre’s foundations lay,
And fashion from the quarry’s side
Tall columns, germs of scenic pride.
So bees, when spring-time is begun,
Ply their warm labour in the sun,
What time along the flowery mead
Their nation’s infant hope they lead;
Or with clear honey charge each cell,
And make the hive with sweetness swell,
The workers of their loads relieve,
Or chase the drones that gorge and thieve:
With toil the busy scene ferments,
And fragrance breathes from thymy scents.
‘O happy they,’ Æneas cries,
As to the roofs he lifts his eyes,
‘Whose promised walls already rise!’
Then enters, ’neath his misty screen,
And threads the crowd, of all unseen.
A spreading grove of hallowed wood,
The spot where first the Punic train,
Fresh from the shock of storm and main,
The token Juno had foretold
Dug up, the head of charger bold;
Sign of a nation formed for strife
And born to years of plenteous life.
A temple there began to tower
To Juno, rich with many a dower
Of human wealth and heavenly power,
The oblation of the queen:
Brass was the threshold of the gate,
The posts were sheathed with brazen plate,
And brass the valves between.
First in that spot once more appears
A sight to soothe the traveller’s fears,
Illumes with hope Æneas’ eye,
And
| Previous chapter/page | Back | Home | Email this | Search | Discuss | Bookmark | Next chapter/page |