Читать книгу The Aeneid - Публий Марон Вергилий - Страница 9

But anxious cares already seiz’d the queen:

She fed within her veins a flame unseen;

The hero’s valor, 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 morn had chas’d away

The dewy shadows, and restor’d the day,

Her sister first with early care she sought,

And thus in mournful accents eas’d her thought:

“My dearest Anna, what new dreams affright

My lab’ring 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 suffer’d, when by Fate betray’d!

What brave attempts for falling Troy he made!

Such were his looks, so gracefully he spoke,

That, were I not resolv’d against the yoke

Of hapless marriage, never to be curst

With second love, so fatal was my first,

To this one error I might yield again;

For, since Sichaeus was untimely slain,

This only man is able to subvert

The fix’d 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 thro’ the dark abyss descend;

First let avenging Jove, with flames from high,

Drive down this body to the nether sky,

Condemn’d with ghosts in endless night to lie,

Before I break the plighted faith I gave!

No! he who had my vows shall ever have;

For, whom I lov’d on earth, I worship in the grave.”

She said: the tears ran gushing from her eyes,

And stopp’d her speech. Her sister thus replies:

“O dearer than the vital air I breathe,

Will you to grief your blooming years bequeath,

Condemn’d 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 Tyrian princes to neglect,

To scorn Hyarbas, 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 Heav’n bestows,

On ev’ry side is hemm’d with warlike foes;

Gaetulian cities here are spread around,

And fierce Numidians there your frontiers bound;

Here lies a barren waste of thirsty land,

And there the Syrtes raise the moving sand;

Barcaean troops besiege the narrow shore,

And from the sea Pygmalion threatens more.

Propitious Heav’n, and gracious Juno, lead

This wand’ring navy to your needful aid:

How will your empire spread, your city rise,

From such a union, and with such allies?

Implore the favor of the pow’rs 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 shatter’d fleet.”

These words, which from a friend and sister came,

With ease resolv’d the scruples of her fame,

And added fury to the kindled flame.

Inspir’d with hope, the project they pursue;

On ev’ry altar sacrifice renew:

A chosen ewe of two years old they pay

To Ceres, Bacchus, and the God of Day;

Preferring Juno’s pow’r, 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 flow’rs adorns,

And pours the ruddy wine betwixt her horns;

And, while the priests with pray’r the gods invoke,

She feeds their altars with Sabaean smoke,

With hourly care the sacrifice renews,

And anxiously the panting entrails views.

What priestly rites, 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 labor, makes his own.

This pomp she shows, to tempt her wand’ring guest;

Her falt’ring tongue forbids to speak the rest.

When day declines, and feasts renew the night,

Still on his face she feeds her famish’d 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 ev’ry guest is gone,

Sits on the bed he press’d, 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 beguil’d.

Meantime the rising tow’rs are at a stand;

No labors exercise the youthful band,

Nor use of arts, nor toils of arms they know;

The mole is left unfinish’d to the foe;

The mounds, the works, the walls, neglected lie,

Short of their promis’d heighth, that seem’d to threat the sky.

But when imperial Juno, from above,

Saw Dido fetter’d in the chains of love,

Hot with the venom which her veins inflam’d,

And by no sense of shame to be reclaim’d,

With soothing words to Venus she begun:

“High praises, endless honors, 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?

’Tis better ended in a lasting peace.

You stand possess’d of all your soul desir’d:

Poor Dido with consuming love is fir’d.

Your Trojan with my Tyrian let us join;

So Dido shall be yours, Aeneas mine:

One common kingdom, one united line.

Eliza shall a Dardan lord obey,

And lofty Carthage for a dow’r convey.”

Then Venus, who her hidden fraud descried,

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 Tyrian line

In lasting leagues and sure 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 counsel, and the secret share.

When next the Sun his rising light displays,

And gilds the world below with purple rays,

The queen, Aeneas, and the Tyrian 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,

Dispers’d, and all involv’d 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 crown’d with due delights,

And Hymen shall be present at the rites.”

The Queen of Love consents, and closely smiles

At her vain project, and discover’d wiles.

The rosy morn was risen from the main,

And horns and hounds awake the princely train:

They issue early thro’ the city gate,

Where the more wakeful huntsmen ready wait,

With nets, and toils, and darts, beside the force

Of Spartan dogs, and swift Massylian horse.

The Tyrian peers and officers of state

For the slow queen in antechambers wait;

Her lofty courser, in the court below,

Who his majestic rider seems to know,

Proud of his purple trappings, paws the ground,

And champs the golden bit, and spreads the foam around.

The queen at length appears; on either hand

The brawny guards in martial order stand.

A flow’r’d simar with golden fringe she wore,

And at her back a golden quiver bore;

Her flowing hair a golden caul restrains,

A golden clasp the Tyrian 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 wint’ry Xanthus, and the Lycian coast,

When to his native Delos he resorts,

Ordains the dances, and renews the sports;

Where painted Scythians, mix’d with Cretan bands,

Before the joyful altars join their hands:

Himself, on Cynthus walking, sees below

The merry madness of the sacred show.

Green wreaths of bays his length of hair inclose;

A golden fillet binds his awful brows;

His quiver sounds: not less the prince is seen

In manly presence, or in lofty mien.

Now had they reach’d the hills, and storm’d the seat

Of salvage beasts, in dens, their last retreat.