The Aeneid Virgil (the top 100 crime novels of all time .TXT) đ
- Author: Virgil
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With leaves and falling mast they spread the ground;
The hollow valleys echo to the sound:
Unmovâd, the royal plant their fury mocks,
Or, shaken, clings more closely to the rocks;
Far as he shoots his towâring head on high,
So deep in earth his fixâd foundations lie.
No less a storm the Trojan hero bears;
Thick messages and loud complaints he hears,
And bandied words, still beating on his ears.
Sighs, groans, and tears proclaim his inward pains;
But the firm purpose of his heart remains.
The wretched queen, pursued by cruel fate,
Begins at length the light of heavân to hate,
And loathes to live. Then dire portents she sees,
To hasten on the death her soul decrees:
Strange to relate! for when, before the shrine,
She pours in sacrifice the purple wine,
The purple wine is turnâd to putrid blood,
And the white offerâd milk converts to mud.
This dire presage, to her alone revealâd,
From all, and evân her sister, she concealâd.
A marble temple stood within the grove,
Sacred to death, and to her murderâd love;
That honourâd chapel she had hung around
With snowy fleeces, and with garlands crownâd:
Oft, when she visited this lonely dome,
Strange voices issued from her husbandâs tomb;
She thought she heard him summon her away,
Invite her to his grave, and chide her stay.
Hourly âtis heard, when with a boding note
The solitary screech owl strains her throat,
And, on a chimneyâs top, or turretâs height,
With songs obscene disturbs the silence of the night.
Besides, old prophecies augment her fears;
And stern Aeneas in her dreams appears,
Disdainful as by day: she seems, alone,
To wander in her sleep, throâ ways unknown,
Guideless and dark; or, in a desert plain,
To seek her subjects, and to seek in vain:
Like Pentheus, when, distracted with his fear,
He saw two suns, and double Thebes, appear;
Or mad Orestes, when his motherâs ghost
Full in his face infernal torches tossâd,
And shook her snaky locks: he shuns the sight,
Flies oâer the stage, surprisâd with mortal fright;
The Furies guard the door and intercept his flight.
Now, sinking underneath a load of grief,
From death alone she seeks her last relief;
The time and means resolvâd within her breast,
She to her mournful sister thus addressâd
(Dissembling hope, her cloudy front she clears,
And a false vigour in her eyes appears):
âRejoice!â she said. âInstructed from above,
My lover I shall gain, or lose my love.
Nigh rising Atlas, next the falling sun,
Long tracts of Ethiopian climates run:
There a Massylian priestess I have found,
Honourâd for age, for magic arts renownâd:
Thâ Hesperian temple was her trusted care;
âTwas she supplied the wakeful dragonâs fare.
She poppy seeds in honey taught to steep,
Reclaimâd his rage, and soothâd him into sleep.
She watchâd the golden fruit; her charms unbind
The chains of love, or fix them on the mind:
She stops the torrents, leaves the channel dry,
Repels the stars, and backward bears the sky.
The yawning earth rebellows to her call,
Pale ghosts ascend, and mountain ashes fall.
Witness, ye gods, and thou my better part,
How loth I am to try this impious art!
Within the secret court, with silent care,
Erect a lofty pile, exposâd in air:
Hang on the topmost part the Trojan vest,
Spoils, arms, and presents, of my faithless guest.
Next, under these, the bridal bed be placâd,
Where I my ruin in his arms embracâd:
All relics of the wretch are doomâd to fire;
For so the priestess and her charms require.â
Thus far she said, and farther speech forbears;
A mortal paleness in her face appears:
Yet the mistrustless Anna could not find
The secret funâral in these rites designâd;
Nor thought so dire a rage possessâd her mind.
Unknowing of a train concealâd so well,
She fearâd no worse than when Sichaeus fell;
Therefore obeys. The fatal pile they rear,
Within the secret court, exposâd in air.
The cloven holms and pines are heapâd on high,
And garlands on the hollow spaces lie.
Sad cypress, vervain, yew, compose the wreath,
And evâry baleful green denoting death.
The queen, determinâd to the fatal deed,
The spoils and sword he left, in order spread,
And the manâs image on the nuptial bed.
And now (the sacred altars placâd around)
The priestess enters, with her hair unbound,
And thrice invokes the powârs below the ground.
Night, Erebus, and Chaos she proclaims,
And threefold Hecate, with her hundred names,
And three Dianas: next, she sprinkles round
With feignâd Avernian drops the hallowâd ground;
Culls hoary simples, found by Phoebeâs light,
With brazen sickles reapâd at noon of night;
Then mixes baleful juices in the bowl,
And cuts the forehead of a newborn foal,
Robbing the motherâs love. The destinâd queen
Observes, assisting at the rites obscene;
A leavenâd cake in her devoted hands
She holds, and next the highest altar stands:
One tender foot was shod, her other bare;
Girt was her gatherâd gown, and loose her hair.
Thus dressâd, she summonâd, with her dying breath,
The heavâns and planets conscious of her death,
And evâry powâr, if any rules above,
Who minds, or who revenges, injurâd love.
âââTwas dead of night, when weary bodies close
Their eyes in balmy sleep and soft repose:
The winds no longer whisper throâ the woods,
Nor murmâring tides disturb the gentle floods.
The stars in silent order movâd around;
And Peace, with downy wings, was brooding on the ground
The flocks and herds, and party-colourâd fowl,
Which haunt the woods, or swim the weedy pool,
Stretchâd on the quiet earth, securely lay,
Forgetting the past labours of the day.
All else of natureâs common gift partake:
Unhappy Dido was alone awake.
Nor sleep nor ease the furious queen can find;
Sleep fled her eyes, as quiet fled her mind.
Despair, and rage, and love divide her heart;
Despair and rage had some, but love the greater part.
Then thus she said within her secret mind:
âWhat shall I do? what succour can I find?
Become a suppliant to Hyarbaâs pride,
And take my turn, to court and be denied?
Shall I with this ungrateful Trojan go,
Forsake an empire, and attend a foe?
Himself I refugâd, and his train relievâdâ â
âTis trueâ âbut am I sure to be receivâd?
Can gratitude in Trojan souls have place!
Laomedon still lives in all his race!
Then, shall I seek alone the churlish crew,
Or with my fleet their flying sails pursue?
What force have I but those whom scarce before
I drew reluctant from their native shore?
Will they again embark at my desire,
Once more sustain the seas, and quit their second Tyre?
Rather with steel thy guilty breast invade,
And take the fortune thou thyself hast made.
Your pity, sister, first seducâd my
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