As, waiting for the queen, he gazed
Around the fane with eyes upraised,
Much marvelling at a lot so blessed,
At art by rival hands expressed,
And labour’s mastery confessed,
O wonder! there is Ilium’s war,
And all those battles blazed afar:
Here stands Atrides, Priam here,
And chafed Achilles, either’s fear.
He starts: the tears rain fast and hot:
And ‘Is there, friend,’ he cries, ‘a spot
That knows not Troy’s unhappy lot?
See Priam! ay, praise waits on worth
E’en in this corner of the earth;
E’en here the tear of pity springs,
And hearts are touched by human things.
Dismiss your fear: we sure may claim
To find some safety in our fame.’
He said; and feeds his hungry heart
With shapes of unsubstantial art,
In fond remembrance groaning deep,
While briny floods his visage steep.
There spreads and broadens on his sight
The portraiture of Greece in flight,
Pressed by the Trojan youth; while here
Troy flies, Achilles in her rear.
Not far removed with tears he knows
The tents of Rhesus, white as snows,
Through which, by sleep’s first breath betrayed,
Tydides makes his murderous raid,
And camp-ward drives the fiery brood
Of coursers, ere on Trojan food
They browse, or drink of Xanthus’ flood.
Here Troilus, shield and lance let go,
Poor youth, Achilles’ ill-matched foe,
Fallen backward from the chariot seat,
Whirls on, yet clinging by his feet,
Still grasps the reins: his hair, his neck
Trail o’er the ground in helpless wreck,
And the loose spear he wont to wield
Makes dusty scoring on the field.
Meantime to partial Pallas’ fane
Moved with slow steps a matron train;
With smitten breasts, dishevelled, pale,
Beseechingly they bore the veil:
She motionless as stone remained,
Her cruel eyes to earth enchained.
Thrice, to Achilles’ chariot bound,
Had Hector circled Ilium round,
And now the satiate victor sold
His mangled enemy for gold.
Deep groaned the gazer to survey
The spoils, the arms, the lifeless clay,
And Priam, with weak hands outspread
In piteous pleading for the dead.
Himself too in the press he knows,
Mixed with the foremost line of foes,
And swarthy Memnon, armed for war,
With followers from the morning star.
Penthesilea leads afield
The sisters of the moony shield,
One naked breast conspicuous shown,
By looping of her golden zone,
And burns with all the battle’s heat,
A maid, the shock of men to meet.
Æneas stood in one set gaze,
Queen Dido with a warrior train
In beauty’s pride approached the fane.
As when upon Eurotas’ banks
Or Cynthus’ summits high
Diana leads the Oread ranks
In choric revelry,
Girt with her quiver, straight and tall,
Though all be gods, she towers o’er all;
Latona’s mild maternal eyes
Beam with unspoken ecstasies:
So Dido looked; so ’mid the throng
With joyous step she moved along,
As pressing on to antedate
The birthday of her nascent state.
Then, ’neath the temple’s roofing shell,
On stairs that mount the inner cell,
Throned on a chair of queenly state,
Hemmed round by glittering arms, she sate.
Thus circled by religious awe
She gives the gathered people law,
By chance- drawn lot or studious care
Assigning each his labour’s share.
When lo! a concourse to the fane:
He looks: amid the shouting train
Lost Antheus and Sergestus pressed,
And brave Cloanthus, and the rest,
Driven by fierce gales the water o’er,
And landed on a different shore.
Astounded stand ’twixt fear and joy
Achates and the chief of Troy:
They burn to hail them and salute,
But wildering wonder keeps them mute.
So, peering through their cloudy screen,
They strive the broken tale to glean,
Where rest the vessels and the crew,
And wherefore thus they come to sue:
For every ship her chief had sent,
And clamouring towards the fane they went.
Ilioneus spoke with placid mien:
‘Lady, whom gracious Jove has willed
A city in the waste to build,
And minds of savage temper school
By justice’ humanizing rule,
We, tempest-tost on every wave,
Poor Trojans, your compassion crave
From hideous flame our barks to save:
Commiserate our wretched case,
And war not on a pious race.
We come not, we, to spoil and slay
Your Libyan households, sweep the prey
Off to the shore, then haste away:
Meek grows the heart by misery cowed,
And vanquished souls are not so proud.
A land there is, by Greece of old
Knows as Hesperia, rich its mould,
Its children brave and free:
œnotrians were its planters: Fame
Now gives the race their leader’s name,
And calls it Italy.
There lay our course, when, grief to tell,
Orion, rising with a swell,
Hurled us on shoals, and scattered wide
O’er pathless rocks along the tide
’Mid swirling billows: thence our crew
Drifts to your coast, a rescued few.
What tribe of human kind is here?
What barbarous region yields such cheer?
E’en the cold welcome of the sand
To travellers is barred and banned:
Ere earth we touch, they draw the sword,
And drive us from the bare sea-board.
If men and mortal arms ye slight,
Know there are Gods who watch o’er right.
Æneas was our king, than who
The breath of being none e’er drew,
More brave, more pious, or more true:
If he still looks upon the sun,
No spectre yet, our fears are done,
Nor need you doubt to assume the lead
In rivalry of generous deed.
Sicilia too, no niggard field,
Has towns to hold us, arms to shield,
And king Acestes,
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