The Aeneid. Публий Марон ВергилийЧитать онлайн книгу.
wood;
And Simois seem’d the well-dissembled flood.
But when at nearer distance she beheld
My shining armor and my Trojan shield,
Astonish’d at the sight, the vital heat
Forsakes her limbs; her veins no longer beat:
She faints, she falls, and scarce recov’ring strength,
Thus, with a falt’ring tongue, she speaks at length:
“‘Are you alive, O goddess-born?’ she said,
‘Or if a ghost, then where is Hector’s shade?’
At this, she cast a loud and frightful cry.
With broken words I made this brief reply:
‘All of me that remains appears in sight;
I live, if living be to loathe the light.
No phantom; but I drag a wretched life,
My fate resembling that of Hector’s wife.
What have you suffer’d since you lost your lord?
By what strange blessing are you now restor’d?
Still are you Hector’s? or is Hector fled,
And his remembrance lost in Pyrrhus’ bed?’
With eyes dejected, in a lowly tone,
After a modest pause she thus begun:
“‘O only happy maid of Priam’s race,
Whom death deliver’d from the foes’ embrace!
Commanded on Achilles’ tomb to die,
Not forc’d, like us, to hard captivity,
Or in a haughty master’s arms to lie.
In Grecian ships unhappy we were borne,
Endur’d the victor’s lust, sustain’d the scorn:
Thus I submitted to the lawless pride
Of Pyrrhus, more a handmaid than a bride.
Cloy’d with possession, he forsook my bed,
And Helen’s lovely daughter sought to wed;
Then me to Trojan Helenus resign’d,
And his two slaves in equal marriage join’d;
Till young Orestes, pierc’d with deep despair,
And longing to redeem the promis’d fair,
Before Apollo’s altar slew the ravisher.
By Pyrrhus’ death the kingdom we regain’d:
At least one half with Helenus remain’d.
Our part, from Chaon, he Chaonia calls,
And names from Pergamus his rising walls.
But you, what fates have landed on our coast?
What gods have sent you, or what storms have toss’d?
Does young Ascanius life and health enjoy,
Sav’d from the ruins of unhappy Troy?
O tell me how his mother’s loss he bears,
What hopes are promis’d from his blooming years,
How much of Hector in his face appears?’
She spoke; and mix’d her speech with mournful cries,
And fruitless tears came trickling from her eyes.
“At length her lord descends upon the plain,
In pomp, attended with a num’rous train;
Receives his friends, and to the city leads,
And tears of joy amidst his welcome sheds.
Proceeding on, another Troy I see,
Or, in less compass, Troy’s epitome.
A riv’let by the name of Xanthus ran,
And I embrace the Scaean gate again.
My friends in porticoes were entertain’d,
And feasts and pleasures thro’ the city reign’d.
The tables fill’d the spacious hall around,
And golden bowls with sparkling wine were crown’d.
Two days we pass’d in mirth, till friendly gales,
Blown from the south supplied our swelling sails.
Then to the royal seer I thus began:
‘O thou, who know’st, beyond the reach of man,
The laws of heav’n, and what the stars decree;
Whom Phoebus taught unerring prophecy,
From his own tripod, and his holy tree;
Skill’d in the wing’d inhabitants of air,
What auspices their notes and flights declare:
O say—for all religious rites portend
A happy voyage, and a prosp’rous end;
And ev’ry power and omen of the sky
Direct my course for destin’d Italy;
But only dire Celaeno, from the gods,
A dismal famine fatally forebodes—
O say what dangers I am first to shun,
What toils vanquish, and what course to run.’
“The prophet first with sacrifice adores
The greater gods; their pardon then implores;
Unbinds the fillet from his holy head;
To Phoebus, next, my trembling steps he led,
Full of religious doubts and awful dread.
Then, with his god possess’d, before the shrine,
These words proceeded from his mouth divine:
‘O goddess-born, (for Heav’n’s appointed will,
With greater auspices of good than ill,
Foreshows thy voyage, and thy course directs;
Thy fates conspire, and Jove himself protects,)
Of many things some few I shall explain,
Teach thee to shun the dangers of the main,
And how at length the promis’d shore to gain.
The rest the fates from Helenus conceal,
And Juno’s angry pow’r forbids to tell.
First, then, that happy shore, that seems so nigh,
Will far from your deluded wishes fly;
Long tracts of seas divide your hopes from Italy:
For you must cruise along Sicilian shores,
And stem the currents with your struggling oars;
Then round th’ Italian coast your navy steer;
And, after this, to Circe’s island veer;
And, last, before your new foundations rise,
Must pass the Stygian lake, and view the nether skies.
Now mark the signs of future ease and rest,
And bear them safely treasur’d in thy breast.
When, in the shady shelter of a wood,
And