 Book 2, Part 2 of the Aeneid. This is the Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org. The Aeneid by Publius Regilius Maro, translated by John Dryden. Book 2. How they took the city. Part 2. Thus when the rival wins their quarrel try, contending for the kingdom of the sky. South, east, and west on airy coarsers born, the whirlwind gathers, and the woods are torn. Then Nereus strikes the deep, the billows rise, and mixed with ooze and sand pollute the skies. And troops we squandered first again appear, from several quarters and enclose the rear. They first observe, and to the rest betray, our different speech and our bow-out arms survey. Oppressed with odds, we fall, Corbus first, at Pallas's altar, by Penelius pierced. Then Rifius followed in the unequal fight, just of his word observant of the right. Heaven thought not so. Dimus their fate attends, with Hypanus mistaken by their friends. Nor Pantheus, thee thy mitre, nor the bands, of awful Phobos, saved from in Pallas's hands. Eotrogen flames, your testimony bear, what I performed and what I suffered there. No sword avoiding in the fateful strife, exposed the death and prodigal of life. Witness ye, heavens, I live not by my fault. I strove to have deserved the death I sought. But when I could not fight and would have died, borne off to distance by the growing tide. Old Iphytus and I were hurried thence, with Pelius wounded and without defense. New clamors from the invested Pallas ring, rerun to die or disengage the king. So hot the assault, so high the tumult rose, while ours defend and while the Greeks oppose, as all that Darden and Argolic race had been contracted in that narrow space. Or, as Ilium else were void of fear, and tumult, war, and slaughter only there. Their targets in a tortoise cast, the foes, securely advancing to the turrets rose. Some mount the scaling ladders, some more bold, swerve upwards and by posts and pillars hold. Their left hand gripes their bucklers in the assent, and with their right they seize the battlement. From their demolished towers the Trojans throw huge heaps of stones that, falling, crush the foe. And heavy beams and rafters from the sides, such arms their last necessity provides, and gilded roofs come tumbling from on high, the marks of state and of ancient royalty. The guards below, fixed in the past, attend, the charge undaunted and the gate defend. Renewed in courage and with recovered breath, a second time we ran to tempt our death. To clear the palace from the foe succeed, the weary living, and revenge the dead. A postor and door yet unobserved and free, joined by the length of a blind gallery. To the king's closet led, a way well known, to Hector's wife, while Priam held the throne, through which she brought Istanix unseen, to cheer his grand sire and his grand sire's queen. Through this we pass and mount the tower from wence, with unavailing arms the Trojans make defense. From this the trembling king had off-described, the Grecian camp and saw their navy ride. Beams from its lofty height with swords we hew, then wrenching with our hands the assault renew. And where the rafters on the columns meet, we push them headlong with our arms and feet. The lightning flies not swifter than the fall, nor thunder louder than the ruined wall. Down goes the top at once, the Greeks beneath, our piecemeal torn or pounded into death. Yet more succeed, and more to death or sent, we cease not from above, nor they below relent. Before the gates stood purus, threatening loud, with glittering arms conspicuous in the crowd. So shines renewed in youth, the crested snake, who slept the winter in a thorny break. And, casting off his slough, when spring returns, now looks aloft and with new glory burns. Restored with poisonous herbs his ardent sides, reflect the sun, and raised on spires he rides. High over the grass, hissing he rolls along, and brandishes by fits his forky tongue. Proud paraffists and fierce automadan, his father's charioteer together run, to force the gate, the scurrian infantry, rushed in on crowds, and the bard passage free. Entering the court with shouts, the skies they rend, inflaming firebrands to the roof's ascend. Himself among the foremost deals the blows, and with his axe repeated strokes bestows. On the strong doors, then all their shoulders ply, till from the post the brazen hinges fly. He hues a pace, the double bars at length, yield to his axe, and unresistant strength. A mighty breach is made, the rooms concealed, appear, and all the palace is revealed. The halls of audience, and of public state, and where the lonely queen and secret sate. Armed soldiers now by trembling maids are seen. With not a door, and scarce a space between. The house is filled with loud laments and cries, and shrieks of women rend the vaulted skies. The fearful matrons run from place to place, and kiss the thresholds, and the posts embrace. The fatal work in human purist plies, and all his father sparkles in his eyes. Nor bars, nor fighting guards, his force sustain. The bars are broken, and the guards are slain. In rushed the Greeks, and all the apartments fill. Those few defendants whom they find, they kill. Not with Silphius a rage, the foaming flood. Roars when he finds his rapid course withstood. Bears down the dams with unresisted sway, and sweeps the cattle and the cots away. These eyes beheld him when he marched between. The brother-kings, I saw the unhappy queen. The hundred wives, and were old primes stood, to stay in his hallow altered with his brood. The fifty nuptial beds, such hopes had he, so large a promise of a progeny. The posts of plated gold, and hung with spoils, fell the reward of the proud victor's toils. Wherever the raging fire had left to space, the Greeks enter, and possess the place. Perhaps you may, a primes fate inquire. He, when he saw his regal town on fire, his ruined palace, and his entering foes, on every side inevitable woes. In arms, disused, invest his limbs decayed. Like them with age, a late and useless aid. His feeble shoulders scarce the weight sustain. Loaded, not armed, he creeps along with pain. Despairing of success, ambitious to be slain. Uncovered, but by heaven, there stood in view, an altar near the hearth a laurel grew. Dotted with age, whose bow encompassed round, the household gods, and shade the holy ground. Here, Hecuba, with her helpless train, of dames for shelter sought, but sought in vain. Driven like a flock of doves along the sky, their images they hug, and to their altars fly. The queen, when she beheld her trembling lord, and hanging by his side a heavy sword. What rage, she cried, has seized my husband's mind. What arms are these, and to what use designed? These times what other aids were hector here? Even hector now in vain, like Priam would appear. With us, one common shelter thou shalt find, or in one common fate with us be joined. She said, and with a last salute embraced, the poor old man, and by the laurel placed. Behold, Polites, one of Priam's sons, pursued by Pyrrhus, there for safety runs. Throw swords and foes, amazed and hurt he flies. Throw empty cords and open galleries. Him, Pyrrhus, urging with his lance pursues, and often reaches and his thrusts renews. The youth transfixed with lamentable cries, expires before his wretched parent's eyes. Whom, gasping at his feet when Priam saw, the fear of death gave place to nature's law. And shaking more with anger than with age, the gods said he requite thy brutal rage. As sure they will, barbarian, sure they must, if there be gods in heaven, and gods be just, who takest in wrongs an insolent delight with a son's death to infect a father's sight. Nor he whom thou in lying fame conspire, to call thee his, not he thy vaulted sire. Thou used my wretched age, the gods he feared, the laws of nature and of nations heard. He cheered my sorrows, and for sums of gold, the bloody carcass of my hector sold. Pity the woes a parent underwent, and sent me back in safety from his tent. This said, his feeble hand a javelin threw, which, fluttering, seemed to loiter as it flew, just and but barely to a market held, and faintly tinkled on the brazen shield. Then Pyrrhus said, Go thou from me to fate, and to my father my foul deeds relate, now die! And with that he dragged the trembling sire, slittering through the clotted blood and holy mire. The mingled paste his murdered son had made, hauled from beneath the violated shade. And on the sacred pile the royal victim laid. His right hand held his bloody falchion bear. His left he twisted in his hoary hair. Then, with the speeding thrust, his heart he found, the lukewarm blood came rushing through the wound. The sanguine streams disdained the sacred ground. Thus Priam fell, and shared one common fate. And with Troy and Ashes, and his ruined state. He, who the scepter of all Asia swayed, whom monarchs like domestic slaves obeyed, on the bleak shore now lies the abandoned king, a headless carcass, and a nameless thing. Then, not before, I felt my cruel blood congealed with fear my hair with horror stood. My father's image filled my pious mind, lest equal years might equal fortune find. Again I thought of my forsaken wife, and trembled from my son's abandoned life. I looked about, but found myself alone. Deserted at my need, my friends were gone. Some spent with toil, some with despair oppressed, leaped headlong from the heights, the flames consumed the rest. Thus, wandering in my way, without a guide, the graceless Helen, in the porch I spied. A vestus temple there she lurked alone. Muffled she sat, in what she could, unknown. But by the flames that cast their blaze around, that common bane of Greece and Troy I found. For Ilium burns, she dreads the Trojan sword, more dreads the vengeance of her injured lord. Even by those gods who refuged her aboard. Trumbled with rage, the strumpet I regard. Resolved to give her guilt the due reward. Shall she triumphant sail before the wind, and leave on flames unhappy Troy behind? Shall she, her kingdom, and her friends' review, in state attended, with a captive crew? While unrevenged, the good old Priam falls, and Grecian fires consume the Trojan walls. For this the Phrygian fields in Xanthian flood were swelled with bodies and were drunk with blood. Tis is true a soldier can small honor gain, and boast no conquest from a woman's yet shall the fact not pass without applause, a vengeance taken and so just a cause. The punished crime shall set my soul at ease. The murmuring mains of my friends appease. Thus, while I rave, a gleam of pleasing light, spread over the palace and shining heavenly bright. My mother stood revealed before my sight. Never so radiant did her eyes appear. Not her own star confessed a light so clear. Great in her charms, as, when on God's above, she looks and breathes herself into their love. She held my hand, the destined blow to break, then from her rosy lips began to speak. My son, from whence this madness, this neglect, of my commands and those whom I protect? Why this unmanly rage? Recall to mind, whom you forsake, what pledges leave behind? Look if your helpless father yet survive, or if Ascanius or Corsa live. Around your house the greedy Grecian's air, and these had perished in the nightly war, but in my presence in protecting care. Not Helen's face nor Paris was in fault, but by the gods was this destruction brought. Now cast thy eyes around while I dissolve, the mists and films that mortal eyes involve. Purge from your sight the dross, and make you see the shape of every avenging deity. Enlighten thus my just commands fulfill, nor fear obedience to thy mother's will. Where Yon, disordered heap of ruin lies, stones rent from stones, where clouds of dust arise. Amid that smother, Neptune holds his place. Below the wall's foundation drives his mace, and heaves the building from the solid base. Look where, in arms imperial Juno stands, full in the sky on gate with loud commands, urging on shore the tardy Grecian bands. See, see, palace on her snakely buckler proud, bestrides the tower, refulgent through the crowd. See, drove new courage to the faux supplies, and arms against the town, the partial deities. Haste, hence my son, this fruitless labor end. Haste, where your troubling spouse and sire attend. Haste, and a mother's care your passage shall be friend. She said, and swiftly vanished from my sight, obscured in clouds and gloomy shades of night. I looked, I listened, dreadful sounds I hear, and the dire forms of hostile gods appear. Troy, sunken flames I saw, nor could prevent, and Ilium from its old foundation's rent. Rent, like a mountain ash, which dared the winds, and stood the sturdy strokes of laboring hines. About the roots the cruel axe resounds, and stumps are pierced with off-repeated wounds. The war is felt on high, the nodding crown. Now threats a fall, and throws the leafy honors down. To their united force it yields though late, and mourns with immortal groans the approaching fate. The roots no more their upper loads sustain, but down she falls and spreads a ruin through the plain. Descending vents I scrape through foes and fire, before the goddess foes and flames retire. Arrived at home, he, for whose only sake, or most for his, such toils I undertake. The good entrances, whom, by timely flight, I proposed to secure on Ida's height, refused the journey, resolute to die, and added his funerals to the fate of Troy. Rather than exile and old age sustain, go you whose blood runs warm in every vein. Had heaven decreed that I should, life and joy, heaven had decreed to save unhappy Troy. To assure enough, if not too much for one, twice to have seen our Ilium overthrown. Make haste to save the poor remaining crew, and give this useless corpse a long ado. These weak old hands suffice to stop my breath, at least pitying the foes will aid my death. To take my spoils and leave my body bare. As for my sepulchre, let heaven take care. Tis long since I, for my celestial life, loath by the gods had dragged a lingering life. Since every hour and moment I expire. Blasted from heaven by Joves avenging fire. This oft-repeated he stood fixed to die. Myself, my wife, my son, my family, entreat, pray, beg, and raise a doleful cry. What, will he still persist on death resolve, and in his ruin all his house involve? He still persists, his reason to maintain. Our prayers, our tears, our loud laments are vain. Urged by despair, again I go to try. The fate of arms resolved in fight to die. What hope remains, but what my death must give? Can I, without so dear, a father live? You term it prudence, what I baseness call? Could such a word, from such a parent, fall? If fortune please, and so the gods ordain, that nothing should of ruin Troy remain, and you conspire with fortune to be slain. The way to death is wide, the approach is near, for soon relentless pierce will appear, reeking with Priam's blood, the wretch who slew, the son inhuman in the father's view. And then, the sire himself, to the dire altar drew, O goddess mother, give me back to fate. Your gift was undesired and came too late. Did you, for this unhappy me convey, through foes and fires to see my house a prey? Shall I, my father, wife, and son behold, walttering in blood, each other's arms enfold, haste, girt my sword, through spent and overcome, tis the last summons to receive our doom. I hear thee, fate, and I obey thy call, not unrevenge the foe shall see my fall. Restore me, the yet unfinished fight. My death is wanting to conclude the night. Armed once again my glittering sword I wheeled, while the other hand sustains my weighty shield, and forth I rushed to seek the abandoned field. I went, but sad Croissa stopped my way, and crossed the threshold in my passage lay, raised my knees, and when I would have gone, showed me my feeble sire and tender son. If death be your design at least, said she, take us along to share your destiny. If any farther hopes and arms remain, this place, these pledges of your love, maintain. To whom do you expose your father's life, your sons and mine, your now forgotten wife? While thus she feels the house with clamoring cries, our hearing is diverted by our eyes, for while I held my son in the short space betweeks our kisses and our last embrace. Strange to relate, from young Ulysses' head, a lambent flame arose which gently spread, around his brows and on his temples fed, amazed with running water we prepare to quench the sacred fire and slake his hair. But old Anchesis, versed in omens, reared, his hands to heaven, and this request preferred. If any vows, almighty Joe, can bend, thy will, if piety, can prayers command. Confirm the glad presage, which thou art pleased to send. Scarcehead he said, when, on our left, we hear, a peal of rattling thunder roll in air. There shot a streaming lamp across the sky, which, on the wing lightning, seemed to fly. From over the roof the blaze began to move, and trailing vanished in the idian grove. It swept a path in heaven, and shone a guide. Then, in a streaming stench of sulfur, died. The good old man was simply at hands implored, the God's protection, and their star adored. Now, now, said he, my son, no more delay, I yield, I follow where heaven shows the way. Keep, O my country gods, our dwelling place, and guard this relic of the Trojan race, this tender child. These omens are your own, and you can yet restore the ruin town. At least accomplish what your signs foreshow. I stand resigned, and unprepared to go. He said the crackling fires appear on high, and driving sparkles dance along the sky, with Vulcan's rage the rising winds conspire, and near our palace roll the flood of fire. Haste, my dear father, it is no time to wait, and load my th'shoulders with a willing freight. Whatever befalls your life shall be my care, one death or one deliverance we will share. My hand shall lead our little son, and you. My faithful consort shall our steps pursue. Next, you, my servants, heed my strict commands. Without the walls a ruined temple stands. Two series hallowed once, a cypress nigh, shoots up her venerable head on high. By long religion kept, there bend thy feet, and in divided parties let us meet. Our country gods, the relics and the bands, hold you, my father, in your guiltless hands. In me, tis impious holy things to bear, read as I am with slaughter, new from war. Till, in some living stream, I cleanse the guilt, of dire debate and blood and battle spilt. Thus ordering all that prudence could provide, I clothe my shoulders with a lion's hide, and yellow spoils. Then, on my bending back, the welcome load of my father take. When, on my better hand, a scantiest hung, and with unequal paces tripped along, Croissa kept behind by choice we stray, through every dark and every devious way. I, who so bold and dauntless just before, the Grecian darts and shocks of lances bore. At every shadow now am seized with fear, not for myself, but for the charges I bear. Till, near the ruined gate, arrived at last, secure in deeming all the danger past. A frightful noise of trampling feet we hear. My father, looking through the shades with fear, cried out, haste, haste, my son, the foes and I, their swords and shining armor I describe. Some hostile God, for some unknown offense, had sure bereft my mind of better sense. For, while through a winding ways, I took my flight, and sought the shelter of the gloomy night. At last, I lost Croissa, hard to tell, if by her fatal destiny she fell. Or weary state, or wandering with a fright. But she was lost forever to my sight. I knew not, nor reflected till I meet my friends at Ceres, now deserted seat. We met, no one was wanting, only she, deceived her friends, her son, and wretched me. What mad expressions did my tongue refuse? Whom did I not of God's and men accuse? This was the fatal blow that pained me more than all I felt from Ruin Troy before. Stung with my loss and raving with despair, abandoning my now forgotten care of counsel, comfort, and of hope bereft. My sire, my son, my country gods I left. In shining armor, once again I sheath, my limbs not feeling wounds, nor fearing death. Then headlong to the burning walls I run, and seek the danger I was forced to shun. I tread my former tracks through the night explorer, every passage, every street I crossed before. All things were full of horror and a fright, and dreadful even the silence of the night. Then, to my father's house I make repair, with some small glimpses of hope to find her there. Instead of her, the cruel Greeks I met. The house was filled with foes with flames beset, driven on the wings of winds, whole sheets of fire, through air transported to the roof's aspire. From Wentz to Priam's palace I resort, and searched the citadel and desert court. Then unobserved I passed by Juno's church, the guard of Grecians had possessed the porch. There Phoenix and Ulysses watched pray, and thither all the wealth of Troy convey, the spoils which they from ransacked houses brought, and golden bowls from burning altars caught, the tables of the gods, the purple vests, the people's treasure and the pomp of priests, a rank of wretched youths with pinion hands, and captive matrons and long order stands. Then, with ungoverned madness I proclaim, through all the silent street, Croissa's name, Croissa still I call, at length she hears, and sudden through the shades of night appears. Appears, no more, Croissa, nor my wife, but a pale specter larger than the life. Aghast, astonished, and struck dumb with fear, I stood, like bristles rose my stiffen hair. Then thus the ghost began to soothe my grief, nor tears nor cries can give the dead relief. Desist, my much-loved Lord, to indulge your pain. You bear no more than what the gods ordain. My fates permit me not from hence to fly, nor he, the great controller of the sky, long-wandering ways for you, the powers decree, on land hard labors and a length of sea. Then, after many painful years are passed, on Latium's happily shore you shall be cast, where gentle Tybur from his bed beholds, the flowery meadows and the feeding folds. There, in your toils, and there your fates provide, a quiet kingdom and a royal bride. There fortune shall the Trojan line restore, and for you lost Croissa wait no more. Fear not that I shall watch with servile shame, the imperious looks of some proud Grecian dame, or stooping to the victor's lust, disgrace, my goddess mother or my royal race. And now farewell, the parent of the gods, restrains my fleeting soul in her abodes. I trust our common issue to your care, she said, and gliding past unseen in air. I strove to speak but horror tied my tongue, and thrice about her neck my arms I flung, and thrice deceived my vein embraces hung. Light is an empty dream at break of day, or as a blast of wind she rushed away. Thus, having passed the night in fruitless pain, I, to my longing friends, return again, amaze the augmented numbers to behold, of men and matrons mixed of young and old, with arms appointed and with treasure fraught, resolved and willing under my command, to run all the hazards both of sea and land. The mourn began, from Ida to display, her rosy cheeks and phosphor led the day. Before the gates the Grecians took their post, and all pretense of late relief was lost. I yield to fate, unwillingly retire, and loaded up the hill, convey my sire. End of book two. Book three, part one of the Enid. This is a LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Lars Rolander. The Enid by Publius Vergilius Maro, translated by John Dryden. Book three, Sea Wanderings and Strange Meetings, part one. When heaven had overturned the Trojan state, and preamps thrown by too severe a fate, when ruin Troy became the Grecian's prey, and Ilium's lofty towers in Asheslay, worn by celestial omens we retreat to seek in foreign lands a happier seat. Near old Antandros and at Ida's foot the timber for the sacred groves we cut, and build our fleet uncertain yet to find what place the gods for our repose assigned. Friends daily flock and scarce the kindly spring began to clothe the ground and birds to sing. When old Anquisa summed all to sea, the crew, my father and the fates obey. With sighs and tears I leave my native shore, and empty fields where Ilium stood before. My sire, my son, our less and greater gods all sail at once and cleave the briny floods. Against our coast appears a spacious land, which once the fierce Lycurgus did command. Tragia, the name, the people bold in war, vast are their fields, and tillage is their care. A hospital rim, while fate was kind, with Troy in friendship and religion joined. I land with luckless omens than a door, their gods, and draw a line along the shore. I lay the deep foundations of a wall, and Anos, named from me the city-call. To Dionian, Venus, vows are paid, and all the powers that rising labours aid. A bull on Joe's imperial altar laid. Not far, a rising hillock stood in view, sharp riddles on the sides, and corners grew. There, while I went to crop the sylvan scenes, and shade our altar with their leafy greens, I pulled a plant with horror I relay, a prodigy so strange and full of fate. The rooted fibres rose, and from the wound, black bloody drops distilled upon the groaned. Mute, and amazed my hair with terror stood, fear shrunk my seniors, and congealed my blood. Man once again, another plant I try, that other gushed with the same sanguine dye. Then, fearing guilt for some offence unknown, with prayers and vows, the triads I atone. With all the sisters of the woods and most, the God of arms who rules the Trakyan coast, that they or he, these omens, would avert, release our fears, and better signs impart. Cleared as I thought, and fully fixed at length, to learn the course I tugged with all my strength, I bent my knees against the ground once more. The violated miracle ran with gore. Scarce there I tell the sequel, from the womb of wounded earth and caverns of the tomb, a groan as of a troubled coast renewed. My fright and then these dreadful words ensued. Why dost thou thus my buried body rend, O spare the corpse of thy unhappy friend? Spare to pollute thy peous hands with blood, the tears distilled not from the wounded wood. But every drop this living tree contains, is kindred blood and ran in Trojan veins. O fly from this unhospitable shore, worn by my fate, for I am polydor. Here loads of lances in my blood embrood, again shot upward by my blood renewed. My faltering tongue and shivering limbs declare, my horror and in bristles rose my hair. When Troy with Grecian arms was closely penned, old Priam, fearful of the war's event, this hapless polydor to Trocia sent. Loaded with gold, he sent his darling far from noise and to malts and destructive war. Committed to the faithless tyrant's care, who when he saw the power of Troy decline, forsook the weaker with the strong to join, broke every bond of nature and of truth, and murdered for his wealth the royal youth. O sacred hunger, O pernicious gold, what pants of faith can impious plucker hold? Now, when my soul had shaken off her fears, I call my father and the Troy and Piers. Relate the prodigies of heaven require, what he commands and their advice desire. All vote to leave that execrable shore polluted with the blood of polydor. But ere we sail, his funeral rites prepare, then to his ghost a tomb and altar's rare. In mournful pomp the matrons walk the round, with baleful suppress and blue fillets crowned, with ice dejected and with hair unbound, the boughs of tipped milk and blood we pour, and thrice invoke the soul of polydor. Now, when the raging storms no longer rain, but southern gales invite us to the main, we launch our vessels with the prosperous wind and leave the cities and the shores behind. An island in the age shean main appears, Neptune and the watery Doris claim it theirs. It floated once till foibos fixed the sides, to rooted earth, and now it braves the tides. Here, borne by friendly winds we come ashore, with needful ease our weary limbs restore, and the sun's temple and his town adore. In just the priest and king, with laurel crowned, his hoary locks with purple fillets bound, who saw my sire, the dearly unshore ascend, came forth with eager haste to meet his friend, invites him to his palace and in sign of ancient love their plighted hands they join. Then to the temple of the god I went, and thus before the shrine my vows present. Give, O Tymbrios, give a resting place to the sad relics of the Trojan race, a seat secure, a region of their own, a lasting empire, and a happier town. Where shall we fix? Where shall our labor's end? Whom shall we follow, and what fate attend? Let not my prayer's doubtful answer find, but in clear auguris unveil thy mind. Scarce had I said he shook the holy crown, the laurels and the lofty hills around, and from the tree postrushed a bellowing sound, prostrate we fell, confessed the present god who gave this answer from his dark abode. Untaunted youth, go seek that mother earth, from which your ancestors derived their birth, the soil that sent you forth, her ancient race in her old bosom shall again embrace. Through the wide world the Aenean house shall reign, and children's children shall the crown sustain. Thus foibos did our future fates disclose, a mighty tumult mixed with joy arose. All are concerned to know what place the god assigned, and where determined our abode. My father, long revolving in his mind, the race and lineage of the Trojan kind, thus answered their demands, ye princes here, your pleasing fortune and dispel your fear. The fruitful Isle of Crete, well known to fame, sacred of old to Joe's imperial name, in the mid-ocean lies with large command, and on its plains a hundred cities stand, another Eda rises there, and we, from thence, derive our Trojan ancestry. From thence, as is divulged by certain fame, to the Ruiton shore's old Tevkras came, there fixed and there the seat of empire chose, ere Elium and the Trojan towers arose. In humble vales they built their soft abodes till Subele, the mother of the gods. With tinkling symbols charmed the idea and woods, the secret rites and ceremonies taught, and to the joke the savage lions brought. Let us the land which heaven appoints explore, appease the winds and seek the Gnossian shore. If Joe assists the passage of our fleet, the third propitious stone discovers Crete, thus having said the sacrifices laid on smoking altars to the gods he paid, a bull to Neptune, an oblation due, another bull to Bright Apollo slew, a milk white eve, the western winds to please, and one cold black to calm the stormy seas. Ere this a flying rumor had been spread that fierce a domainus from Crete was fled, expelled and exiled that the coast was free from foreign or domestic enemy. We leave the Dalian ports and put to sea, by Naxos famed for vintage make our way, then green donuts are passed and sailing side of Paros Isle with marble quarries white. We pass the scattered Isles of Cucladas that scarce is to English seemed to stud the seas. The shouts of sailors double near the shores, they stretch their canvas and they ply their oars, all hands aloft for Crete, for Crete they cry, and swiftly through the foamy billows fly, full on the promised land at length we bore, with joy descending on the Cretan shore. With eager haste a rising town I frame, which from the Trojan Pergamus I name. The name itself was grateful, I exhort, to found their houses and erect a fort. Our ships are hauled upon the Jellostran, the youth begin to till the laboured land, and I myself new marriages promote, give laws and dwellings I divide by lot. When rising vapours choke the wholesome air and blasts of noisome winds corrupt the air, the trees devouring caterpillars burn, parched was the grass and blighted was the corn, nor scape the beast for serious from on high, with pestilential heat infects the sky. My men some fall, the resting fevers fry, again my father bids me seek the shore of sacred Delos and the god implore, to learn what end of woes we might expect, and to what climb our weary course direct. Twas night when every creature void of cares, the common gift of balmy slumber shares, the statues of my gods for such they seemed, those gods whom I from flaming Troy redeemed, before me stood majestically bright, full in the beams of foibos entering light. Then thus they spoke and eased my troubled mind. What from the deliant god thou goes to find, he tells thee here, and sends us to relay, those powers are we, companions of thy fate, who from the burning town by thee were brought, thy fortune followed, and thy safety wrought. Through season lands as we thy steps attend, so shall our care thy glorious race befriend, an ample realm for thee thy fate sodane, a town that over the conquered world shall reign, thou mighty walls for mighty nations build, nor let thy weary mind to labor's yield. But change thy seat for not the deliant god, nor we have given thee creed for our abode. A land there is, Hesperia called of old, the soil is fruitful, and the native is bold. The Ornotrans held it once, by later fame, now called Italia from the leader's name. Lasios there, and Ardanus were born. From thence we came, and thither must return. Rise, and thy sire, with these glad tidings creed, search Italy, for Joe denies the creed. Astonished at their voices and their sight, nor were they dreams, but visions of the night, I saw, I knew their faces, and described, in perfect view, their hair with fillets tied. I started from my couch, a clammy sweet, on all my limbs, and shivering body's sake. To heaven I lift my hands with pious haste, and sacred incense in the flames I cast, thus to the gods their perfect honors done. More cheerful to my good old sire I run, until the pleasing news, in little space, he found his error of the double-race. Not as before he deemed, derived from creed, no more deluded by the doubtful seed, than said, O son, turmoil in Troy and fate, such things as these Cassandra did relate. This day revives within my mind what she, foretold of Troy, renewed in Italy. The Latian lands, but who could then have thought that frig and gods to Latium should be brought? Or who believed what mad Cassandra taught? Now let us go where foy was leads the way. He said, and we with glad consent obey, forsake the seat and leaving few behind, we spread our sails before the willing wind, now from the sight of land our galleys move, with only seas around and skies above. When over our heads descends a burst of rain, and night with sable clouds involves the main. The ruffling winds, the foamy billows raise, the scattered fleet is forced to several ways, the face of heaven is ravished from our eyes, and in redoubled peals the roaring thunder flies. Cast from our course, we wander in the dark, no stars to guide, no point of land to mark, even Palinorus, no distinction found, betwixt the night and day such darkness reigned around. Three starless nights the doubtful navy strays, without distinction and three sunless days, the forth renews the light, and from our shrouds we view a rising land like distant clouds. The mountaintops confirm the pleasing sight, and curling smoke ascending from their height. The canvas falls, their oars the sailors ply, from the rude strokes the whirling waters fly. At length I land upon the strophadis, safe from the dangers of the stormy seas. Those aisles are compassed by the union main, the dire abode by the foul harpious rain, forced by the wind warriors to repair, to their old homes and leave their costly fair. Monsters, more fierce offended heaven never sent, from hell's abyss for human punishment, with virgin faces, but with wounds obscene, foul paunches and with ordoers still unclean, with claws for hands and looks for ever lean. We land it at the port and soon beheld, fat herds of oxen graze the flowery field, and wanton goats without a keeper's trade, with weapons we the welcome prey invade, then call the gods for partners of our feast, and drove himself the chief invited guest. We spread the tables on the green sword ground, we fed with hunger and the bowls go round, when from the mountain tops with hijous cry, and clattering wings the hungry harp is fly. They snatch the meat, defiling all they find, and parting leave alothe some stench behind. Close by a hollow rock again we sit, new dress the dinner, and the bed's refit, secure from sight, beneath a pleasing shade, we're tufted trees a native arbor made. Again the holy fires and altars burn, and once again the ravenous birds return, or from the dark recesses where they lie, or from another quarter of the sky. With filthy claws their ojo's meal repeat, and mix their loath some ordoers with their meat. I bid my friends for vengeance then prepare, and with the hellish nation wage the war. They, as commanded for the fight, provide, and in the grass their glittering weapons hide. Then, when along the crooked shore we hear, their clattering wings and so the foes appear. Misseno sounds a charge, we take the alarm, and our strong hands with swords and butters arm. In this new kind of combat all employ, their outmost force the monsters to destroy. In vain the fate is skinnest proof to wounds, and from their plumes the shining sword rebones. At length rebuffed they leave their mangled prey, and their stretch pinions to the sky's display. Yet one remain the messenger of fate, high on a craggy cliff Silano said, and thus her dismal errand did relate. What, not contended with our oxen slain, dare you with heaven an empires war maintain, and drive the harpis from their native rain? He, therefore, what I say, and keep in mind what joe decrees, what foibos has designed. And I, the furious queen from both relate, you seek the Italian shores for a doom by fate. The Italian shores are granted you to find, and a safe passage to the poor to sign. But know, that ere your promised walls you build, my curses shall severely be fulfilled. Fear's famine is your lot for this misdeed, reduced to grin the plates on which you feed. She said, and to the neighboring forest flew, our courage fails us, and our fears renew. Hopeless to win by war, to prayers we fall, and on the offended harp is humbly called. And whether gods or birds obscene they were, our bows for pardon and for peace prefer. But old Anquisa's offering sacrifice, and lifting up to heaven his hands and eyes, adored the greater gods. Avert, said he, these omens render vain this prophecy, and from the impending curse a pious people free. Thus, having said, he bids us poor to see, we lose from shore our holsters and obey. And soon, with swelling sails, pursue the watery way. Amidst our course, saccantian woods appear, and next by rocky neritos we stare. We fly from it aghast detested shore, and curse the land which dire your lusus bore. At length Levkata's cloudy top appears, and the sun's temple which the sailor fears. Resolve to breathe a while from labor past, our crooked anchors from the probe we cast, and joyful to the little city haste, here, safe beyond our hopes, our wows we pay, to Joe, the guide and patron of our way. The customs of our country we pursue, and Troy and Gaineson action shores renew. Our youth their naked limbs besmay with oil, and exercise the rustler's noble toil. Pleased to have sailed so long before the wind, and left so many Grecian towns behind. The sun had now fulfilled his annual course, and Boreas on the seas displayed his force. I fixed upon the temple's lofty door the brazen shield which vanquished Arba's bore. The verse beneath my name and action speaks. These arms Enneas took from conquering Greeks. Then I command to weigh the seamen ply, their sweeping oars, the smoking billows flying. The sight of high fire as Yasun we lost, and skimmed along appears rocky coast. Then to Kaunya's port our course we bend, and landed to Botrotus Heights ascend. Here wonder things were loudly blazed fame, how Helenos revived the Troyan name, and reigned in grief that Priam's captive son succeeded Pyrrhus in his bed and throne, and fair Androma get restored by fate. Once more was happy in a Troyan mate. I leave my galleys riding in the port, and long to see the new Dardanian court. By chance the mournful queen before the gate. Then solemnized her former husband's fate, green altars raised on turf with gifts she crowned, and sacred priests in order stand around, and thrice the name of hapless Hector sound. The grove itself resembles Edas wood, and seamos seemed that well dissembled flood. But when at nearer distance she beheld my shining armor and my Troyan shield, astonished at the sight the vital heat forsakes her limbs, her veins no longer beat. She feints, she falls, and scares recovering strength. Thus with a faltering 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 inside. I live if living to below the light. No phantom, but I drag a wretched life, my fate resembling that of Hector's wife. What have you suffered since you lost your lord? By what strange blessing are you now restored? Still are you Hector's, or is Hector fled? And this remembrance lost in pure sped, with ice dejected in a lowly tone, after the modest pause she's thus begun. Oh, only happy maid of Priam's race, whom death delivered from the foesome praise, commanded on a killer's tomb to die, not forced like us to hard captivity, or in a haughty master's arms to lie. In Grecian ships unhappy we were born, and due to the victor's lusts sustained the scorn. Thus I submitted to the lawless pride of Pyrrhus more a handmaid than a bride. Cloyed with possession he foresoaked my bed, and Helen's lovely daughter sought to wed. Then me to Trojan Heleneus resigned, and his two slaves in equal marriage joined. Till Jung Orestes pierced with deep despair, and longing to redeem the promised fare, before Apollos altar slew the ravisher. By Pyrrhus death the kingdom we regained, at least one half with Helenus remained. Our part from Caon he Caonia 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 tossed. Thus Jung Orestes, life and health and joy, saved from the ruins of unhappy Troy. O tell me how his mother's loss he bears, what hopes are promised from his blooming years. How much of hector in his face appears. She spoke and mixed her speech with mournful cries, and fruitless tears came trickling from her eyes. At length her lord ascends upon the plain, in pomp attended with a numerous strain, 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 rivlet by the name of Xantos ran, and I embrace the skeon gate again. My friends in porticos were entertained, and feasts and pleasures through the city reigned. The tables filled the spacious hall around, and golden bowls with sparkling wine were crowned. Two days we passed in mirth till friendly gales, blown from the supplied, our swelling sails. Then to the royal seer I thus began, O thou who knowsed beyond the reach of man the laws of heaven and what the stars decree, whom foibos taught unerring prophecy, from his own tree pod and his holy tree, skilled in the winged inhabitants of air, what our species their notes and flights declare. O say, for all religious rites portend, a happy voyage and a prosperous end, and every power and omen of the sky direct my course for destined Italy. But only dire Silana from the gods, a dismal famine fatally forbodes, O say, what dangers I am first to shun, what tors vanquish and what course to run. The prophet first will sacrifice adores, the greater gods, their pardon then implores, unbind the filet from his holy head, to foibos next my trembling steps he led, full of religious doubts and awful dreed, and then with his god possessed before the shrine, these words proceeded from his mouth divine. O God is born, for heaven's appointed will, with greater auspices of good than ill, for shows thy voyage and thy course directs, thy fate conspire, and Job himself protects. Of many things some few I shall explain, teach thee to shun the dangers of the main, and how it length the promised shore to gain. The rest the fates from Hellenus conceal, and Junus' angry power forbids to tell, first then that happy shore that seems so nigh will far from you 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 the Italian coast your navy stare, and after this Stochircus island where, and last before your new foundation's rise, must pass the Stygian lake and view the nether skies. Now mark the signs of future ease and rest, and bear them safely treasured in thy breast, when, in the shady shelter of the wood, and near the margin of a gentle flood, thou shalt behold a sow upon the ground, with thirty sucking young income passed round. The dam and offspring white as falling snow, these on thy city shall their name bestow, and there shall end thy labours and thy woe, nor let the threatened famine fright thy mind, for foibos will assist, and fate the wave will find. Let not thy course to that ill coast be bent, which fronts from far the Aperian continent. Those parts are all by Grecian foes possessed, the salvaged Locrians hear the shores infest. The fierce Edomenus his city builds, and guards with arms the Salentinian fields, and on the mountain's brow Petilia stands, which felocates with his troops' commands. Even when thy fleet is landed on the shore, and priests with holy vows the gods adore, then with a purple veil involve your eyes, lest hostile faces blast the sacrifice. These rites and customs to the rest command, that to your pious race they may descend. End of Book 3, Part 1 of the Aeneid. Read by Lars Rolander. Book 3, Part 2 of the Aeneid. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Lars Rolander. The Aeneid by Publius Virgilius Maro, translated by John Dryden. Book 3, Sea Wanderings and Strange Meetings, Part 2. When parted hence, the wind that ready waits, for Sicily shall bear you to the straits, where proud Pelurus hopes a wider way, tack to the larboard, and stand off to sea. Where starboard sea and land, the Italian shore, and far Sicilia's coast were one before, and earthquake caused the flow, the roaring tides, the passage broke that land from land divides, and where the lands retired, the rushing ocean rides, distinguished by the straits on either hand, now rising cities in long order stand, and fruitful fields so much can time invade, the moulding work that beauteous nature made. Far on the right, her dog's farschilla hides, caribbed is roaring on the left presides, and in her greedy whirlpool sucks the tides, then spouts them from below with fury driven, the waves mount up and wash the face of heaven, but scilla from her den with open jaws, the sinking vessel in her eddy draws, then dashes on the rocks, and human face, a virgin bosom hides her tail's disgrace, her parts obscene below the waves descend, with dogs enclosed and in a dolphin end, it is safer then to bear aloof to sea, and coast pacanus, though with more delay, than once to view mishapenskilla near, and the loud gel of water evolves to here. Besides, if faith to Hellenus bid you, and if prophetic foibos tell me true, do not this precept of your friend forget, which therefore more than once I must repeat. Above the rest great Eunus' name adore, pay vows to Juno, Juno's aid implore, let gifts be to the mighty queen designed, and mollify with prayers her haughty mind. Thus, at the length your passage shall be free, and you shall safe descend on Italy. Arrived at Cuma, when you view the flood of black awareness and the sounding wood, the mad prophetic sable you shall find dark in a cave and on a rock reclined. She sings the fates and in her frantic fits the notes and names inscribed to leaves commits, what she commits to leaves in order laid before the cavern's entrance are displayed. Unmoved they lie, but if a blaster wind, without a wapre's issue from behind, the leaves are borne aloft in liquid air, and she resumes no more her museful care, nor gathers from the rocks her scattered verse, nor sets in order what the winds disperse. Thus many not succeeding, most upbraid, the madness of the visionary made, and with a loud curses leave the mystic shade. Think it not loss of time a while to stay, though thy companions chide thy long delay, though summoned to the seas, though pleasing gales, invite thy course and stretch thy swelling sails, but beg the sacred priestess to relate with willing words and not to write thy fate, the fierce Italian people she will show, and all thy wars and all thy future woe, and what thou must avoid and what must undergo, she shall direct thy course, instruct thy mind, and teach thee how the happy shores to find. This is what heaven allows me to relate, now part in peace, pursue thy better fate, and raise by strength of arms the Trojan state. This when the priest with friendly voice declared, he gave me license and rich gifts prepared, bounteous of treasure, he supplied my want with heavy gold and polished elephant. Then Dudoni and Caldron's put on board, and every ship with sums of silver stored. A trusty coat of mail to me he sent, thrice chained with gold for use and ornament. The helm of Pyrrhus added to the rest, that flourished with a plume and waving crest. Nor was my sire forgotten, nor my friends, and large recruits he to my navy sends. Men hoarse his captains' arms and warlike stores, supplies new pilots and new sweeping oars. Meantime my sire commands to hoist our sails, lest we should lose the first auspicious scales. The prophet blessed the parting crew, and last, with words like these his ancient friend embraced. Old happy man, the care of God's above, whom heavenly Venus honored with her love, and twice preserved thy life when Troy was lost. Behold from far the wished Aessonian coast, their land but take a larger compass round, for that before is all forbidden ground. The shore that Foybus has designed for you, at farther distant lies, concealed from view. Go happy hence and seek your new abode, blessed in a sun unfabored by the gods. For I, with useless words, prolong your stay, when southern gales have summoned you away. Nor lest the queen our parting thens deplored, nor was lest Bounteous then her Troy unlawed, a noble present to my son she brought, a robe with flowers on golden tissue wrought, a friggen vest unloads with gifts beside, a precious texture and o' Asian pride. Accept, she said, these monuments of love, which in my youth with happier hands I vow, regard these trifles for the giver's sake, this the last present hector's wife can make. Thou callst my lost Astianax to mind, in thee his features and his form I find. His eyes so sparkled with a lively flame, such were his motions, such was all his frame, and ah, had heaven so pleased, his years had been the same. With tears I took my last adieu and said, Your fortune, happy pair, already made, leaves you no farther wish, my different state, avoiding one incurs another fate. To you a quiet seed, the gods allow, you have no shores to search, no seas to plow, nor fields of flying Italy to chase, deluding visions and a vain embrace. You see another Simois and enjoy, the labor of your hands, another Troy, with better auspice than her ancient towers and less obnoxious to the Grecian powers. If ever the gods whom I with valves adore, conduct my steps to Tiber's happy shore. If ever I ascend the L'Azian throne, and build a city, I may call my own. As both of us our birth from Troy derive, so let our kindred lines in concord live, and both in acts of equal friendship strive, our fortunes good or bad shall be the same, the double Troy shall differ but in name, that what we now begin may never end, but long to late posterity descend. Near the Seronian rocks our course we bore, the shortest passage to the Italian shore, now had the sun withdrawn his radiant light, and hills were hid in dusky shades of night. We land, and on the bosom of the ground a safe retreat and a bare lodging found. Close by the shore we lay, the sailors keep their watches and the rest securely sleep. The night proceeding on with silent pace stood in her noon and viewed with equal face, her steep rise and her declining race. Then wakeful, palinourous rose to spy, the face of heaven and the nocturnal sky, and listened every breath of air to try, observed the stars and notes their sliding course, the play-ads, hyads, and their watery force. And both the bears is careful to behold, and bright Odrian armed with burnished gold. Then, when he saw no threatening tempest nigh, but a sure promise of a settled sky, he gave the sign to weigh, we break our sleep, forsake the pleasing shore and blow the deep. And now the rising morn with rosy light adorns the skies and put the stars to flight. When we from far, like bluish mist discreet, the hills and then the plains of Italy, a cart as first pronounced the joyful sound, then Italy, the cheerful crew, rebound. My sire Anchesis crowned a cup with wine, and offering thus implored the powers divine. Ye gods, presiding over lands and seas, and you who raging winds and waves of peace, breathe on our swelling sails a prosperous wind, and smooth our passage to the port assinged. The gentle gales their flagging force renew, and now the happy harbor is in view. Minerva's temple then salutes our sight, placed as a landmark on the mountain side. We furl our sails, and turn the prows to shore, the curling waters round the galleys roar. The land lies open to the raging east, then, bending like a bow with rocks compressed, shuts out the storms, the winds and waves complain, and vent their malice on the cliffs in vain. The port lies hid within on either side, two towering rocks the narrow mouth divide. The temple, which aloft we viewed before, to distance flies and seems to shun the shore. Scars landed, the first omen's eye beheld, were four white steeds that cropped the flowery field. War, war is threatened from this foreign ground, my father cried, where war-like steeds are found. Yet, sins reclaimed to chairs they submit, and bend to stubborn jokes and champ the bit. Peace may succeed to war, our way we bend, to palace and the sacred hill ascend. There prostrate to the fierce Virago Prey, whose temple was the landmark of our way. Each with a friggin mantle veiled his head, and all commands of Hellenus obeyed, and pious rites to Greece and Unipaid, these dues performed, we stretch our sails and stand to sea, forsaking that suspected land. From hence Tarentum's base appears in view, for Hercules renowned if fame be true. Just opposite Lachinian Junostans, Kowloonian Towers and Skelasian Strands, for shipwrecks fared Mount Etna's dense wispy, known by the smoky flames which cloud the sky. Far off we hear the waves with surly sound, invade the rocks, the rocks their groans rebound, the billows break upon the sounding strand, and roll the rising tide impure with sand. Then thus Anchesis inexperienced old, Tis that Charybdis which the seer foretold, and those promised rocks bear off to sea, with haste the frightened mariners obey, first Palinurus to the larboard veered, then all the fleet by his example steered, to heaven a loft of ridgely waves we ride, then down to hell descend when they divide, and thrice our galleys knock the stony ground, and thrice the hollow rocks return the sound, and thrice we saw the stars that stood with dews around, the flagging winds forsook us with the sun, and wear it on Cuclopian shores we run, the port capacious and secure from wind is to the foot of thundering Etna joined. By turns a pitchy cloud she rolls on high, by turns hot embers from her entrails fly, and flakes of mounting flames that lick the sky, oft from her bows massy rocks are thrown, and shivered by the force come piecemeal down, oft liquid lakes of burning sulfur flow, fed from the fiery springs that boil below. Enceladus they say, transfixed by Job, with blasted limbs came tumbling from above, and where he fell the avenging father drew, this flaming hill and on his body through. As often as he turns his weary sides, he shakes the solid aisle and smoke the heavens' hides. In shady woods we pass the tedious night, where bellowing sounds and groans are souls afright, of which no cause is offered to the side, for not one star was kindled in the sky, nor could the moon her borrowed light supply, for misty clouds involved the firmament, the stars were muffled, and the moon was pent. Scars had the rising sun the day revealed, scarce had his heat the pearly juice dispelled, when from the woods their bolts before our sight somewhat betwixt a mortal and a sprite, so thin, so ghastly meager and so one, so bare of flesh his scarce resembled man. This thing, all tattered, seemed from far to implore, our pious aid and pointed to the shore. We look behind, then view his shaggy beard, his clothes were tagged with thorns and filth his limbs besmeared. The rest is mean, in habit and in face, a pair to Greek, and such indeed he was. He cast on us from far a frightful view, whom soon for Troyans and for foes he knew. Stood still and paused, then all at once began, to stretch his limbs and trembled as he ran. Soon as approached upon his knees he falls, and thus with tears and sighs for pity calls. Now, by the powers above and what we share, from nature's common gift this vital air. Oh Troyans, take me hence, I beg no more, but bear me far from this unhappy shore. It is true, I am a Greek, and father own, among your foes besieged the imperial town. For such demerits if my death be due, no more for this abandoned life I sue. This only favor let my tears obtain, to throw me headlong in the rapid main. Since nothing more than death my crime demands, I die content to die by human hands. He said, and on his knees my knees embraced. I bade him boldly tell his fortune past, his present state, his lineage, and his name, the occasion of his fears, and whence he came. The good Anchesis raised him with his hand, who thus encouraged, answered our demand. From Itaka my native soil I came, to Troy and Acaminidus my name. Me, my poor father, with Ulysses sent. Oh, had I stayed with poverty content. But fearful for themselves, my countrymen left me forsaken in the Cuclub's den. The cave though large was stark, the dismount floor was paved with mangled limbs and putrid gall. Our monstrous host of more than human size erects his head and stares within the skies, bellowing his voice, and horrid is his hue. He gods remove this plague from mortal view. The joints of slaughtered wretches are his foot, and for his wine he quaffs the streaming blood. These eyes beheld when, with his spacious hand, he seized two captives of our Grecian ban. Stretched on his back he dashed against the stones, their broken bodies, and their crackling bones. With spouting blood the purple pavement swims, while the dire glutton grins the trembling limbs. Not unrevenged, Ulysses bore their fate, nor thoughtless of his own unhappy state. For gorge with flesh and drunk with human wine, while fast asleep the giant laser pine, snoring aloud and belching from his maw, his indigested foam and morsel's roar. We pray we cast the lots and then surround the monstrous bodies stretched along the ground, each as he could approach him lends a hand to bore his eyeball with a flaming brand. Beneath his frowning forehead lay his eye, for only one did the vast frame supply, but that, a globe so large, his front it filled, like the sun's disc or like a Grecian shield. The stroke succeeds and down the pupil bends, this vengeance followed for our slaughtered friends. But haste, unhappy wretches, haste to fly, your cables cut and on your oars rely. Such and so vast as polytheme appears, a hundred more this hated island bears, like him in caves they shut their woolly sheep, like him their herds on tops of mountains keep, like him with mighty strides they stalk from steep to steep. And now three moons their sharpened horns renew, since thus in woods and wilds obscure from you, I drag my loath some days with mortal fright, and in deserted caverns lodge by night. Off from the rocks a dreadful prospect sea, of the huge kickloops like a walking tree. From far I hear his thundering voice resound, and trampling feet that shake the solid ground. Cornels and salvage berries of the wood, and roots and herbs have been my meager foot. While all around my longing eyes I cast, I saw your happy ships appear at last. On those I fixed my hopes, to these I run, this all I ask, this cruel race to shun, what other death you please yourselves bestow. Scares had he said, when on the mountain's brow we saw the giant shepherd stalk before, his following flock and leading to the shore. A monstrous bark deformed the prelucite, his staff a trunk of pine, to guide his steps aright, his ponderous whistle from his neck descends, his woolly care their pensive lord attends, this only so last his hard fortune sends. Soon as he reached the shore and touched the waves, from his bored eye the guttering blood he laves. He gnashed his teeth, and groaned through seas his strides, and scarce the topmost billows touched his sides. Seized with a sudden fear we run to see, the cables cut and silent haste away, the well-deserving stranger entertain, then buckling to the work our oars divide the main, the giant harken to the dashing sound, but when our vessels out of reach he found, his strided onward and in vain a said, the union deep and durst no farther wait. With that he roared aloud the dreadful cry, shakes earth and air and sees the billows flee, before the bellowing noise to distant Italy. The ne'ering ethna trembling all around, the winding caverns echo to the sound, his brother kickloops hear the yelling roar, and rushing down the mountains crowd the shore. We saw their stern distorted looks from far, and one eyed glance that vainly threatened war, a dreadful council with their heads on high, the misty clouds about their foreheads fly, not yielding to the towering tree of Job, our tallest suppress of Diana's Grove. New pangs of mortal fear are mines assail, we target every oar and hoist up every sail, and take the advantage of the friendly gale. For one by Hellenus we strive to shun, Caribbean's Gulf, nor dare to skill a run. An equal fate on either side appears, we, tacking to the left, are free from fears. For from Pelora's point the north arose, and drew us back where swift Pantagas flows, his rocky mouth we pass and make our way, by Tapsus and Miagara's winding bay. This passage Agamenedes had shown, tracing the course which he before had run. Right over against Plumerium's watery strand there lies an isle once called the Ortigion land. Alpheus, as old fame reports has found, from Greece a secret passage underground. By love to butchers are too solid, and mingling hair they rolled in the same sacred bed. As Hellenus enjoined we next adore Diana's name, protractors of the shore. With prosperous gales we pass the quiet sounds of still Elloris and his fruitful bounds. Then, doubling Cape Pacinus, we survey the rocky shore extended to the sea. The town of Camarine from far we see, a fanny lake undrained by fate's decree. In sight of the Geloan fields we pass, and the large walls where mighty Gela was. Then agragas with lofty summits crowned, long for the race of warlike steeds renowned. We pass Cillinus and the Palmy land, and widely shunned the Lelybian strand, unsafe for secret rocks and moving sand. At length on shore the weary fleet arrived, which Drippanum's unhappy port received. Here, after endless labours, often tossed, by raging storms and driven on every coast, my dear, dear father, spent with age I lost. Ease of my cares and solace of my pain, saved through a thousand toils, but saved in vain. The prophet whom my future woes revealed, yet this the greatest and the worst concealed, and dire Cillinus, whose foreboding skill denounced all else, was silent of the ill. This my last labour was some friendly god, from thence conveyed us to our blessed abode. Thus to the listening queen the royal guest, his wandering scores and all his toils expressed, and here concluding he retired to rest. End of book three of the Anniate, read by Losh Rolander. Book four, part one of the Aeneid. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Philippa Jevons. The Aeneid by Publius Vigilius Marrow. Translated by John Dryden. Book four, The Passion of the Queen. Part one. But anxious cares already seized the queen. She fed within her veins a flame unseen. The hero's valour, acts and birth inspire her soul with love and fan the secret fire. His words, his looks imprinted in her heart improve the passion and increase the smart. Now when the purple mourn had chased away the dewy shadows and restored the day, her sister first with early care she sought, and thus in mournful accents eased her thought. My dearest Anna, what new dreams afright my labouring soul! What visions of the night disturb my quiet and distract my breast with strange ideas of our Trojan guest! His worth, his actions, and majestic air a man descended from the gods declare. Fear ever argues a degenerate kind. His birth is well asserted by his mind. Then what he suffered when by fate betrayed! What brave attempts for falling Troy he made! Such were his looks so gracefully, he spoke, that where I not resolved against the yoke of hapless marriage, never to be cursed with second love, so fatal was my first, to this one error I might yield again. For since Sicaeus was untimely slain, this only man is able to subvert the fixed foundations of my stubborn heart. And to confess my frailty, to my shame, somewhat I find within, if not the same, too like the sparkles of my former flame. But first let yawning earth a passage rend and let me through the dark abyss descend. First let avenging jove with flames from high drive down this body to the nether sky, condemned with ghosts in endless night to lie before I break the plighted faith I gave. No, he who had by vows shall ever have, for whom I loved on earth I worship in the grave. She said, the tears ran gushing from her eyes and stopped her speech. Her sister thus replies, Oh, dearer than the vital air I breathe, will you to grief your blooming years bequeath, condemned to waste in woes your lonely life without the joys of mother or of wife? Think you these tears, this pompous train of woe, are known or valued by the ghosts below? I grant that, while your sorrows yet were green, it well became a woman, and a queen, the vows of Tyrion Princess to neglect, to scorn he arbours and his love reject with all the Libyan lords of mighty name. But will you fight against a pleasing flame? This little spot of land which heaven bestows on every side is hemmed with warlike foes. Gaitulian cities here are spread around, and fierce Numidians there your frontiers bound. Here lies a barren waste of thirsty land, and there the Certes raise the moving sand. Barcaion troops besiege the narrow shore, and from the sea Pygmalion threatens more. Propitious heaven and gracious Juno lead this wandering navy to your needful aid. How will your empire spread, your city rise from such a union, and with such allies? Implore the favour of the powers above, and leave the conduct of the rest to love. Continue still your hospitable way, and still invent occasions of their stay till storms and winter winds shall cease to threat, and planks and oars repair their shattered fleet. These words which from a friend and sister came, with ease resolved the scruples of her fame, and added fury to the kindled flame. Inspired with hope the project they pursue, on every altar sacrifice renew. A chosen you of two years old they pay to Ceres, Bacchus, and the God of Day, preferring Juno's power, for Juno ties the nuptial knot and makes the marriage joys. The beauteous queen before her altar stands, and holds the golden goblet in her hands. A milk-white heifer she with flowers adorns, and pulls the ruddy wine betwixt her horns, and while the priests with prayer the gods invoke, she feeds their altars with sobane smoke. With hourly care the sacrifice renews, and anxiously the panting entrails views. What priestly rides alas, what pious art, what vows avail to cure a bleeding heart. A gentle fire she feeds within her veins, where the soft god secure in silence reigns. Sick with desire and seeking him she loves, from street to street the raving Dido roves. So when the watchful shepherd from the blind wounds with a random shaft the careless hind, distracted with her pain she flies the woods, bounds o'er the lawn, and seeks the silent floods, with fruitless care, for still the fatal dart sticks in her side and rankles in her heart. And now she leads the Trojan chief along the lofty walls, amidst the busy throng, displays her Tyrian wealth and rising town, which love without his labour makes his own. This pomp she shows to tempt her wandering guest, her faltering tongue forbids to speak the rest. When day declines and feasts renew the night, still on his face she feeds her famished sight. She longs again to hear the prince relate his own adventures and the Trojan fate. He tells it o'er and o'er, but still in vain, for still she begs to hear it once again. The hearer on the speaker's mouth depends, and thus the tragic story never ends. Then, when they part, when Phoebe's paler light withdraws and falling stars to sleep invite, she last remains, when every guest is gone sits on the bed he pressed and sighs alone. Absent her absent hero sees and hears, or in her bosom young Ascanius bears, and seeks the father's image in the child, if love by likeness might be so beguiled. Meantime the rising towers are at a stand. No labour's exercise the useful band, nor use of art, nor toils of arms they know. The mole is left unfinished to the foe. The mounds, the works, the walls neglected lie short of their promised height that seemed to threat the sky. But when Imperial Juno from above saw Dido fettered in the chains of love, hot with the venom which her veins inflamed, and by no sense of shame to be reclaimed, with soothing words to Venus she begun. High praises, endless honours you have won, and mighty trophies with your worthy son. Two gods, a silly woman, have undone. Nor am I ignorant you both suspect this rising city, which my hands erect. But shall celestial discord never cease? It is better ended in a lasting peace. You stand possessed of all your soul desired. Poor Dido with consuming love is fired. Your Trojan with my Tyrion, let us join. So Dido shall be yours, Aeneas mine. One common kingdom, one united line, Eliza shall a Darden lord obey, and lofty Carthage for a dark convey. Then Venus who her hidden fraud described, which would the scepter of the world misguide to Libyan shores, thus artfully replied. Who but a fool would wars with Juno choose, and such alliance and such gifts refuse if fortune with our joint desires comply? The doubt is all from jove and destiny, lest he forbid with absolute command to mix the people in one common land. Or will the Trojan and the Tyrion line in lasting leagues ensure succession join? But you, the partner of his bed and throne, may move his mind. My wishes are your own. Mine, said Imperial Juno, be the care. Time urges now to perfect this affair, attend my council, and the secret share. When next the sun his rising light displays and guilds the world below with purple rays, the queen, Aeneas and the Tyrion court shall to the shady woods for Sylvan game resort. There, while the huntsmen pitch their toils around, and cheerful horns from side to side resound, a pitchy cloud shall cover all the plain, with hail and thunder and tempestuous rain. The fearful train shall take their speedy flight, dispersed and all involved in gloomy night. One cave, a grateful shelter, shall afford to the fair Princess and the Trojan Lord. I will myself the bridal bed prepare, if you, to bless the nuptials, will be there. So shall their loves be crowned with due delights, and hymen shall be present at the rites. The queen of love consents, and closely smiles, at her vain project, and discovered wiles. The rosy morn was risen from the main, and horns and hounds awake the princely train. They issue early through the city gate, with a more wakeful huntsman ready-weight, with nets and toils and darts, beside the force of spartan dogs and swift messillion horse. The Tyrion peers and officers of state for the slow queen in antechamber's weight. Her lofty coarser in the court below, who his majestic rider seems to know, proud of his purple trappings, pours the ground, and champs the golden bit and spreads the foam around. The queen at length appears, on either hand the brawny guards in marshal order stand. A flowered simmer with golden fringe she wore, and at her back a golden quiver bore. Her flowing hair a golden call restrains. A golden clasp the Tyrion robe sustains. Then young Ascanius, with a sprightly grace, leads on the Trojan youth to view the chase. But far above the rest in beauty shines the great Aeneas. The troop he joins, like fair Apollo, when he leaves the frost of Wintry's Anthos and the Lysian coast, when to his native Delos he resorts, ordains the dances and renews the sports, where painted schythians, mixed with Cretan bands before the joyful altars join their hands, himself, on Synthes walking, sees below the merry madness of the sacred show. Green reeds of bays his length of hair enclose. A golden fillet binds his awful brows. His quiver sounds. Not less the prince is seen in manly presence, or in lofty mean. Now had they reached the hills and stormed the seat of savage beasts in dens their last retreat. The cry pursues the mountain goats. They bound from rock to rock and keep the craggy ground. Quite otherwise the stags a trembling train in herds unsingled scowl the dusty plain, and a long chase in open view maintain. The glad Ascanius, as his coarser guides spurs through the veil, and these and those outrides. His horses' flanks and sides are forced to feel the clanking lash and goring of the steel. Impatiently he views the feeble prey, wishing some nobler beast across his way, and rather would the tusky boar attend or see the tawny lion downward bend. In the meantime the gathering clouds obscure the skies. From pole to pole the forky lightning flies. The rattling thunders roll, and Juno pours a wintry deluge down, and sounding showers. The company disperse to cover its ride, and seek the homely cots or mountains hollow side. The rapid rains, descending from the hills, to rolling torrents raise the creeping rills. The queen and prince, as love or fortune guides, one common cavern in her bosom hides. Then first the trembling earth the signal gave, and flashing fires enlighten all the cave, hell from below and Juno from above, and howling nymphs were conscious of their love. From this ill omen hour in time arose debate and death, and all succeeding woes. The queen, whom sense of honour could not move, no longer made a secret of her love, but called it marriage, by that specious name to veil the crime and sanctify the shame. The loud report through Libyan cities goes, fame, the great ill from small beginnings grows, swift from the first and every moment brings new vigor to her flight's new opinions to her wings, soon grows the pygmy to gigantic size, her feet on earth, her forehead in the skies. Enraged against the gods, revengeful earth produced her last of the Titanian birth. Swift is her walk, more swift her winged haste, a monstrous phantom horrible and vast, as many plumes as raise her lofty flight, so many piercing eyes enlarge her sight. Millions of opening mouths to fame belong, and every mouth is furnished with a tongue, and round with listening ears the flying plague is hung. She fills the peaceful universe with cries, no slumbers ever close her wakeful eyes. By day from lofty towers her head she shows and spreads through trembling crowds disastrous news, with court-informers haunts and royal spies. Things done relates not done she feigns, and mingles truth with lies. Talk is her business and her chief delight to tell of prodigies and cause a fright. She fills the people's ears with Dido's name, who lost to honour and the sense of shame admits into her throne and nuptial bed a wandering guest who from his country fled whole days with him she passes in delights and wastes in luxury long winter nights forgetful of her fame and royal trust dissolved in ease abandoned to her lust. The goddess widely spreads the loud report, and flies at length to King Yabba's court. When first possessed with this unwelcome news, whom did he not of men and gods accuse? This prince from ravished Garamantis borne, a hundred temples did with spoils adorn in Ammon's honour, his celestial sire, a hundred altars fed with wakeful fire, and through his vast dominions priests ordained whose watchful care these holy rites maintained. The gates and columns were with garlands crowned, and blood of victim beasts enriched the ground. He, when he heard a fugitive could move the Tyrion Princess who disdained his love, his breast with fury burned, his eyes with fire, mad with despair, impatient with desire, then on the sacred altar's pouring wine he thus with prayers implored his sire divine. Great Jove, propitious to the Moorish race who feast on painted beds with offerings grace thy temples, and adore thy power divine with blood of victims and with sparkling wine, cease thou not this. Or do we fear in vain thy boasted thunder and thy thoughtless rain? Do thy broad hands the forky lightning's lance? Thine are the bolts or the blind work of chance. A wandering woman builds within our estate a little town bought at an easy rate. She pays me homage, and my grants allow a narrow space of Libyan lands to plow, yet, scorning me, by passion blindly led, admits a banished Trojan to her bed. And now this other Paris with his train of conquered cowards must in Africa reign, whom what they are, their looks and garbs, confess their locks with oil perfume, their Lydian dress. He, takes the spoil, enjoys the princely dame, and I, rejected I, adore an empty name. His vows in haughty terms he thus preferred, and held his altar's horns. The mighty thunderer heard, then cast his eyes on Carthage, where he found the lustful pair in lawless pleasure drowned, lost in their love's insensible of shame, and both forgetful of their better fame. He calls Silenius, and the god attends, by whom his menacing command he sends. Go, mount the western winds and cleave the sky, then with a swift descent to Carthage fly, there find the Trojan chief who wists his days in slothful riot and inglorious ease, nor minds the future city given by fate. To him this message from my mouth relate. Not so fair Venus hoped when twice she won thy life with prayers, nor promised such a son. Hers was a hero, destined to command a martial race and rule the Latian land. Who should his ancient line from Tusa draw, and on the conquered world impose the law? If glory cannot move a mind so mean, nor future praise from fading pleasure wean, yet why should he defraud his son of fame, and grudge the Romans their immortal name? What are his vain designs? What hopes he more from his long lingering on a hostile shore, regardless to redeem his honour lost, and for his race to gain the Arsonian coast? Bid him with speed the Tyrian court for sake, with this command the slumbering warrior wake. Hermes obeys. With golden pinions binds his flying feet and mounts the western winds, and whether o'er the seas or earth he flies with rapid force they bear him down the skies. But first he grasps within his awful hand that mark of sovereign power his magic wand. With this he draws the ghosts from hollow graves, with this he drives them down the Stygian waves, with this he seals in sleep the wakeful sight, and eyes, though closed in death, restores to light. Thus armed the god begins his airy race, and drives the wracking clouds along the liquid space. Now sees the tops of Atlas as he flies, whose brawny back supports the starry skies. Atlas, whose head with piney forests crowned, is beaten by the winds, with foggy vapours bound, snows hide his shoulders. From beneath his chin the founts of rolling streams their race begin. A beard of ice on his large breast depends. Here, poised upon his wings, the god descends. Then rested thus he from the towering height plunged downward with precipitated flight, lights on the seas, and skims along the flood as waterfowl who seek their fishy food, less and yet less to distant prospect show. By turns they dance aloft and dive below. Like these the steerage of his wings he flies, and near the surface of the water flies. Till having passed the seas and crossed the sands, he closed his wings, and stooped on Libyan lands. Where shepherds once were housed in homely sheds now towers within the clouds advance their heads. Arriving there he found the Trojan prince's new ramparts raising for the town's defence. A purple scarf with gold embroidered oar, Queen Dido's gift about his waist he wore. A sword with glittering gems diversified, for ornament not use hung idly by his side. Then thus with winged words the god began, resuming his own shape. Degenerate man, thou woman's property what makes thou here these foreign walls and Tyrion towers to rear forgetful of thy own. All powerful Jove who sways the world below and heaven above has sent me down with this severe command. What means thy lingering in the Libyan land? If glory cannot move a mind so mean nor future praise from flitting pleasure wean, regard the fortunes of thy rising air. The promised ground let young Ascanius wear, to whom the Arsonian scepter and the state of Rome's imperial name is owed by fate. So spoke the god, and speaking took his flight, involved in clouds and vanished out of sight. The pious prince was seized with sudden fear. Mute was his tongue and upright stood his hair. Revolving in his mind the stern command he longs to fly and loathes the charming land. What should he say? Or how should he begin? What course alas remains to steer between the offended lover and the powerful queen? This way and that he turns his anxious mind, and all expedience tries, and none can find. Fixed on the deed but doubtful of the means, after long thought to this advice he leans. Three chiefs he calls, commands them to repair the fleet and ship their men with silent care. Some plausible pretense he bids them find to colour what in secret he designed. Himself, meantime, the softest hours would choose before the love-sick lady heard the news, and move her tender mind by slow degrees to suffer what the sovereign power decrees. Jove will inspire him when and what to say. They hear with pleasure and with haste obey. But soon the queen perceives the thin disguise. What arts can blind a jealous woman's eyes? She was the first to find the secret fraud, before the fatal news was blazed abroad. Love the first motions of the lover hears. Quick to presage and even in safety fears, nor impious fame was wanting to report the ship's repaired, the Trojan's thick resort and purpose to forsake the Tyrian court. Frantic with fear, impatient of the wound and impotent of mind, she roves the city round. Less wild the bacchanalian dames appear, when from afar their nightly god they hear, and howl about the hills and shake the wreathy spear. At length she finds the dear, perfidious man, prevents his formed excuse, and thus began, base and ungrateful! Could you hope to fly and undiscovered, escape a lover's eye? Nor could my kindness your compassion move, nor plighted vows, nor dearer bands of love. Or is the death of a despairing queen not worth preventing, though too well foreseen. Even when the wintry winds command your stay, you dare the tempest and defy the sea. False as you are, suppose you were not bound to lands unknown and foreign coasts to sound, were Troy restored and Priam's happy reign, now durst you tempt for Troy the raging main. See whom you fly, am I the foe you shun! Now, by those holy vows so late begun, by this right hand, since I have nothing more to challenge but the faith you gave before, I beg you, by these tears too truly shed, by the new pleasures of our nuptial bed, if ever dido, when you most were kind, was pleasing in your eyes or touched your mind. By these my prayers, if prayers may yet have place, pity the fortunes of a falling race! For you I have provoked a tyrant's hate, incensed the Libyan and the Tyrian state. For you alone I suffer in my fame, bereft of honour and exposed to shame. Whom have I now to trust, ungrateful guest? That only name remains of all the rest. What have I left? Or wither can I fly? Must I attend Pygmalion's cruelty, or till he are, but shall in triumph lead a queen that proudly scorned his proffered bed? Had you deferred at least your hasty flight, and left behind some pledge of our delight, some babe to bless the mother's mournful sight, some young envious to supply your place, whose features might express his father's face, I should not then complain to live bereft of all my husband, or be wholly left. End of book four, part one.