The Aeneid Virgil (the top 100 crime novels of all time .TXT) đ
- Author: Virgil
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And took him trembling from his sovâreignâs side:
Two sought by force to seize his beauteous bride.â
To whom the Sibyl thus: âCompose thy mind;
Nor frauds are here contrivâd, nor force designâd.
Still may the dog the wandâring troops constrain
Of airy ghosts, and vex the guilty train,
And with her grisly lord his lovely queen remain.
The Trojan chief, whose lineage is from Jove,
Much famâd for arms, and more for filial love,
Is sent to seek his sire in your Elysian grove.
If neither piety, nor Heavânâs command,
Can gain his passage to the Stygian strand,
This fatal present shall prevail at least.â
Then shewâd the shining bough, concealâd within her vest.
No more was needful: for the gloomy god
Stood mute with awe, to see the golden rod;
Admirâd the destinâd offâring to his queenâ â
A venerable gift, so rarely seen.
His fury thus appeasâd, he puts to land;
The ghosts forsake their seats at his command:
He clears the deck, receives the mighty freight;
The leaky vessel groans beneath the weight.
Slowly she sails, and scarcely stems the tides;
The pressing water pours within her sides.
His passengers at length are wafted oâer,
Exposâd, in muddy weeds, upon the miry shore.
No sooner landed, in his den they found
The triple porter of the Stygian sound,
Grim Cerberus, who soon began to rear
His crested snakes, and armâd his bristling hair.
The prudent Sibyl had before preparâd
A sop, in honey steepâd, to charm the guard;
Which, mixâd with powârful drugs, she cast before
His greedy grinning jaws, just opâd to roar.
With three enormous mouths he gapes; and straight,
With hunger pressâd, devours the pleasing bait.
Long draughts of sleep his monstrous limbs enslave;
He reels, and, falling, fills the spacious cave.
The keeper charmâd, the chief without delay
Passâd on, and took thâ irremeable way.
Before the gates, the cries of babes new born,
Whom fate had from their tender mothers torn,
Assault his ears: then those, whom form of laws
Condemnâd to die, when traitors judgâd their cause.
Nor want they lots, nor judges to review
The wrongful sentence, and award a new.
Minos, the strict inquisitor, appears;
And lives and crimes, with his assessors, hears.
Round in his urn the blended balls he rolls,
Absolves the just, and dooms the guilty souls.
The next, in place and punishment, are they
Who prodigally throw their souls away;
Fools, who, repining at their wretched state,
And loathing anxious life, subornâd their fate.
With late repentance now they would retrieve
The bodies they forsook, and wish to live;
Their pains and poverty desire to bear,
To view the light of heavân, and breathe the vital air:
But fate forbids; the Stygian floods oppose,
And with circling streams the captive souls inclose.
Not far from thence, the Mournful Fields appear
So callâd from lovers that inhabit there.
The souls whom that unhappy flame invades,
In secret solitude and myrtle shades
Make endless moans, and, pining with desire,
Lament too late their unextinguishâd fire.
Here Procris, Eriphyle here he found,
Baring her breast, yet bleeding with the wound
Made by her son. He saw Pasiphae there,
With Phaedraâs ghost, a foul incestuous pair.
There Laodamia, with Evadne, moves,
Unhappy both, but loyal in their loves:
Caeneus, a woman once, and once a man,
But ending in the sex she first began.
Not far from these Phoenician Dido stood,
Fresh from her wound, her bosom bathâd in blood;
Whom when the Trojan hero hardly knew,
Obscure in shades, and with a doubtful view,
(Doubtful as he who sees, throâ dusky night,
Or thinks he sees, the moonâs uncertain light,)
With tears he first approachâd the sullen shade;
And, as his love inspirâd him, thus he said:
âUnhappy queen! then is the common breath
Of rumour true, in your reported death,
And I, alas! the cause? By Heavân, I vow,
And all the powârs that rule the realms below,
Unwilling I forsook your friendly state,
Commanded by the gods, and forcâd by fateâ â
Those gods, that fate, whose unresisted might
Have sent me to these regions void of light,
Throâ the vast empire of eternal night.
Nor darâd I to presume, that, pressâd with grief,
My flight should urge you to this dire relief.
Stay, stay your steps, and listen to my vows:
âTis the last interview that fate allows!â
In vain he thus attempts her mind to move
With tears, and prayârs, and late-repenting love.
Disdainfully she lookâd; then turning round,
But fixâd her eyes unmovâd upon the ground,
And what he says and swears, regards no more
Than the deaf rocks, when the loud billows roar;
But whirlâd away, to shun his hateful sight,
Hid in the forest and the shades of night;
Then sought Sichaeus throâ the shady grove,
Who answerâd all her cares, and equalâd all her love.
Some pious tears the pitying hero paid,
And followâd with his eyes the flitting shade,
Then took the forward way, by fate ordainâd,
And, with his guide, the farther fields attainâd,
Where, severâd from the rest, the warrior souls remainâd.
Tydeus he met, with Meleagerâs race,
The pride of armies, and the soldiersâ grace;
And pale Adrastus with his ghastly face.
Of Trojan chiefs he viewâd a numârous train,
All much lamented, all in battle slain;
Glaucus and Medon, high above the rest,
Antenorâs sons, and Ceresâ sacred priest.
And proud Idaeus, Priamâs charioteer,
Who shakes his empty reins, and aims his airy spear.
The gladsome ghosts, in circling troops, attend
And with unwearied eyes behold their friend;
Delight to hover near, and long to know
What busâness brought him to the realms below.
But Argive chiefs, and Agamemnonâs train,
When his refulgent arms flashâd throâ the shady plain,
Fled from his well-known face, with wonted fear,
As when his thundâring sword and pointed spear
Drove headlong to their ships, and gleanâd the routed rear.
They raisâd a feeble cry, with trembling notes;
But the weak voice deceivâd their gasping throats.
Here Priamâs son, DeĂŻphobus, he found,
Whose face and limbs were one continued wound:
Dishonest, with loppâd arms, the youth appears,
Spoilâd of his nose, and shortenâd of his ears.
He scarcely knew him, striving to disown
His blotted form, and blushing to be known;
And therefore first began: âO Teucerâs race,
Who durst thy faultless figure thus deface?
What heart could wish, what hand inflict, this dire disgrace?
âTwas famâd, that in our last and fatal night
Your single prowess long sustainâd the fight,
Till tirâd, not forcâd, a glorious fate you chose,
And fell upon a heap of slaughterâd foes.
But, in remembrance of so brave a deed,
A tomb and funâral honours I decreed;
Thrice callâd your manes on the Trojan plains:
The place your armour and your name retains.
Your body too I sought, and,
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