Classic Poem

Soon as the vessels to deep sea came, no land with the eye
Seen any longer, around them the waters, above them the sky,
Purple cloud drave over the hero's head, in its womb
Carrying darkness and storm, and the waves grew rough with the gloom.
Even the pilot himself, Palinurus, cries from his post:
“Why these clouds that encompass the heavens in a gathering host?
What doom, lord of the billows, awaits us?” Then in a breath
Bids them to reef all canvas, and bend with a will to the oars,
Now to the tempest trimming his sails: “Great hero,” he saith,
“Even were Jove Immortal to plight me his heavenly faith,
Never with skies like these can I reach the Italian shores.
Shifting winds roar contrary ways, from the blackening west
Rising in force, and the mists of the air into cloud are prest;
All too feeble the vessels to strive therewith, or essay
Head to the storm. Since Fate is the sovereign, ours to obey
Turn our course at her bidding! Methinks not far on the sea
Sicily's coasts and the kingdoms of brotherly Eryx be,
If I aright have remembered the stars observed on the way.”
Quoth Æneas: “In sooth this many an hour, it is plain,
Such is the will of the breezes, and all thy labour is vain.
Alter the course. What welcomer shore can a Teucrian find,
More to desire as a shelter for ships outworn by the wind,
Than where Acestes of Troy still breathes sweet life, and the blest
Ashes and bones of a father in earth are folded to rest?”
So for the haven they make once more, and a following gale,
Risen from the west inflates with a favouring breath their sail.
Over the heaving billows the ships of the Teucrians go;
Gladly at last to an anchor are brought on the beach they know.
High on a neighbouring mountain, Acestes, king of the land,
Armed with his javelins grim, in the skin of a Libyan bear,
Saw with amaze Troy's vessels arrive, then sped to the strand.
Son of the river Crimissus, his mother an Ilian fair,
Trojan of race, he remembered his great forefathers, and bade
Joy to the crews of returning, his rustic treasures displayed,
Aided and solaced the tired.
When the morrow's morn with her bright
Eastern rays first scattered the flying stars of the night,
Scouring the sand of the wide sea-shore, Æneas his clan
Summoned to council, and thus from a rising hillock began:

“Glorious race of the Dardans! Immortal sons of the sky!
One year, lo! is complete, one circle of moons gone by,
Since all mortal remains of a sainted father we laid
Here in the earth, and the sorrowful altars dressed to his shade.
Soon, if I err not, the day draws dear, that forever shall be
Mournful and ever revered—so Destiny wills it—to me.
Exile were I to spend it on quick Gætulian sands,
Found at its dawn within Argive seas, or a Danaan's lands,
Still should annual victims, and solemn pomp for the dead
Ever be paid, and his altar with funeral offerings spread.
Now at his tomb, by his own dear ashes, his children stand,
Guided hither, methinks, by the Gods' invisible hand.
Driven to a brotherly shore and its havens by winds of the deep,
Come, and with cheerful honour the dead in remembrance keep.
Ask at his tomb for a fair sea-wind. May he grant me the joy
Gifts like these ere long, in a new-built city of Troy,
Year by year on an altar his name has hallowed to place.
Two huge oxen, Acestes, the Trojan-born, of his grace
Gives unto each of the ships. This night to the banquet command
Ilion's gods, and the gods of Acestes, king of the land.
After the ninth fair morning for mortal men has unfurled
Genial day, and the rays of the dawn uncurtained the world,
I with a race of the vessels will open the Trojan games.
Every runner of speediest foot, each hero who claims
Praise for his arrow light or his javelin, all who demand
Boldly to enter the battle with cestus-gauntleted hand,
Let them attend, and aspire each brave to the conqueror's palm.
Crown ye with boughs; and be hushed, all voices, in holiest calm.”

Then with the myrtle of Venus the chieftain wreathes him. With joy
Helymus, aged Acestes, adorn their foreheads; the boy
Ascan obeys the behest, and the youthful gallants of Troy.
While from the council assembled, the son with his thousands around
Strides in the midst of the host to the father's funeral mound;
Twain huge flagons of wine unwatered, of new milk twain,
Pours for libation, and two great bowls of the blood of the slain.
Scattering bright-hued flowers on the tomb: “All hail,” he exclaims,
“Ashes of one whom vainly I rescued once from the flames,
Spirit and shade of my sire, all hail! Not mine the emprise
By thy side to attain to the promised Italian skies,
Seeking an unknown Tiber on far Ausonia's soil.”

Ere he had uttered the word, amid sevenfold masses of coil,
Sliding in seven great rings, from the sacred hollows of gloom
Trailed an enormous serpent, in peace wreathed over the tomb,
Silently gliding from altar to altar, his every fold
Chequered with dark blue blots; bright patches of fiery gold
Burned on his scales, as the bow from a raincloud breaking anon
Flashes a thousand colours, that glance in the distant sun.
Spellbound stood Æneas. The serpent in long array
Made through flagons and polished cups his sinuous way,
Tasted the feast, then, leaving the altars where he had fed,
Entered in peace once more the sepulchral mound of the dead.
Whether his sire's familiar, or genius haunting the shore
Thus be revealed him, he knows not, renews his rites but the more;
Slays, as is meet, twain ewes of the yester year at the shrine,
Two young heifers with darkening backs, two votive swine;
Pours from the bowl libation, and summons back from the grave
Great Anchises' ghost, set free from the Acheron wave.
Gladly his comrades offer, as each can spare of his cheer,
Gifts, load every altar, and slaughter many a steer;
Brazen caldrons appoint to the fire, then, stretched on the sward,
Under the spits live embers place, roast flesh for the board.