The Aeneid Virgil (the top 100 crime novels of all time .TXT) đ
- Author: Virgil
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Directed by whose hand the Dardan dart
Piercâd the proud Grecianâs only mortal part:
Thus far, by fateâs decrees and thy commands,
Throâ ambient seas and throâ devouring sands,
Our exilâd crew has sought thâ Ausonian ground;
And now, at length, the flying coast is found.
Thus far the fate of Troy, from place to place,
With fury has pursued her wandâring race.
Here cease, ye powârs, and let your vengeance end:
Troy is no more, and can no more offend.
And thou, O sacred maid, inspirâd to see
Thâ event of things in dark futurity;
Give me what Heavân has promisâd to my fate,
To conquer and command the Latian state;
To fix my wandâring gods, and find a place
For the long exiles of the Trojan race.
Then shall my grateful hands a temple rear
To the twin gods, with vows and solemn prayâr;
And annual rites, and festivals, and games,
Shall be performâd to their auspicious names.
Nor shalt thou want thy honours in my land;
For there thy faithful oracles shall stand,
Preservâd in shrines; and evâry sacred lay,
Which, by thy mouth, Apollo shall convey:
All shall be treasurâd by a chosen train
Of holy priests, and ever shall remain.
But O! commit not thy prophetic mind
To flitting leaves, the sport of evâry wind,
Lest they disperse in air our empty fate;
Write not, but, what the powârs ordain, relate.â
Struggling in vain, impatient of her load,
And labâring underneath the pondârous god,
The more she strove to shake him from her breast,
With more and far superior force he pressâd;
Commands his entrance, and, without control,
Usurps her organs and inspires her soul.
Now, with a furious blast, the hundred doors
Ope of themselves; a rushing whirlwind roars
Within the cave, and Sibylâs voice restores:
âEscapâd the dangers of the watâry reign,
Yet more and greater ills by land remain.
The coast, so long desirâd (nor doubt thâ event),
Thy troops shall reach, but, having reachâd, repent.
Wars, horrid wars, I viewâ âa field of blood,
And Tiber rolling with a purple flood.
SimoĂŻs nor Xanthus shall be wanting there:
A new Achilles shall in arms appear,
And he, too, goddess-born. Fierce Junoâs hate,
Added to hostile force, shall urge thy fate.
To what strange nations shalt not thou resort,
Drivân to solicit aid at evâry court!
The cause the same which Ilium once oppressâd;
A foreign mistress, and a foreign guest.
But thou, secure of soul, unbent with woes,
The more thy fortune frowns, the more oppose.
The dawnings of thy safety shall be shown
From whence thou least shalt hope, a Grecian town.â
Thus, from the dark recess, the Sibyl spoke,
And the resisting air the thunder broke;
The cave rebellowâd, and the temple shook.
Thâ ambiguous god, who rulâd her labâring breast,
In these mysterious words his mind expressâd;
Some truths revealâd, in terms involvâd the rest.
At length her fury fell, her foaming ceasâd,
And, ebbing in her soul, the god decreasâd.
Then thus the chief: âNo terror to my view,
No frightful face of danger can be new.
Inurâd to suffer, and resolvâd to dare,
The Fates, without my powâr, shall be without my care.
This let me crave, since near your grove the road
To hell lies open, and the dark abode
Which Acheron surrounds, thâ innavigable flood;
Conduct me throâ the regions void of light,
And lead me longing to my fatherâs sight.
For him, a thousand dangers I have sought,
And, rushing where the thickest Grecians fought,
Safe on my back the sacred burthen brought.
He, for my sake, the raging ocean tried,
And wrath of Heavân, my still auspicious guide,
And bore beyond the strength decrepid age supplied.
Oft, since he breathâd his last, in dead of night
His reverend image stood before my sight;
Enjoinâd to seek, below, his holy shade;
Conducted there by your unerring aid.
But you, if pious minds by prayârs are won,
Oblige the father, and protect the son.
Yours is the powâr; nor Proserpine in vain
Has made you priestess of her nightly reign.
If Orpheus, armâd with his enchanting lyre,
The ruthless king with pity could inspire,
And from the shades below redeem his wife;
If Pollux, offâring his alternate life,
Could free his brother, and can daily go
By turns aloft, by turns descend belowâ â
Why name I Theseus, or his greater friend,
Who trod the downward path, and upward could ascend?
Not less than theirs from Jove my lineage came;
My mother greater, my descent the same.â
So prayâd the Trojan prince, and, while he prayâd,
His hand upon the holy altar laid.
Then thus replied the prophetess divine:
âO goddess-born of great Anchisesâ line,
The gates of hell are open night and day;
Smooth the descent, and easy is the way:
But to return, and view the cheerful skies,
In this the task and mighty labour lies.
To few great Jupiter imparts this grace,
And those of shining worth and heavânly race.
Betwixt those regions and our upper light,
Deep forests and impenetrable night
Possess the middle space: thâ infernal bounds
Cocytus, with his sable waves, surrounds.
But if so dire a love your soul invades,
As twice below to view the trembling shades;
If you so hard a toil will undertake,
As twice to pass thâ innavigable lake;
Receive my counsel. In the neighbâring grove
There stands a tree; the queen of Stygian Jove
Claims it her own; thick woods and gloomy night
Conceal the happy plant from human sight.
One bough it bears; but (wondrous to behold!)
The ductile rind and leaves of radiant gold:
This from the vulgar branches must be torn,
And to fair Proserpine the present borne,
Ere leave be givân to tempt the nether skies.
The first thus rent a second will arise,
And the same metal the same room supplies.
Look round the wood, with lifted eyes, to see
The lurking gold upon the fatal tree:
Then rend it off, as holy rites command;
The willing metal will obey thy hand,
Following with ease, if favourâd by thy fate,
Thou art foredoomâd to view the Stygian state:
If not, no labour can the tree constrain;
And strength of stubborn arms and steel are vain.
Besides, you know not, while you here attend,
Thâ unworthy fate of your unhappy friend:
Breathless he lies; and his unburied ghost,
Deprivâd of funâral rites, pollutes your host.
Pay first his pious dues; and, for the dead,
Two sable sheep around his hearse be led;
Then, living turfs upon his body lay:
This done, securely take the destinâd way,
To find the regions destitute of day.â
She said, and held her peace. Aeneas went
Sad from the cave, and full of discontent,
Unknowing whom the sacred Sibyl meant.
Achates, the companion of his breast,
Goes grieving by his
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