The Aeneid Virgil (the top 100 crime novels of all time .TXT) đ
- Author: Virgil
Book online «The Aeneid Virgil (the top 100 crime novels of all time .TXT) đ». Author Virgil
Now when the night her middle race had rode,
And his first slumber had refreshâd the godâ â
The time when early housewives leave the bed;
When living embers on the hearth they spread,
Supply the lamp, and call the maids to rise;â â
With yawning mouths, and with half-openâd eyes,
They ply the distaff by the winking light,
And to their daily labour add the night:
Thus frugally they earn their childrenâs bread,
And uncorrupted keep the nuptial bedâ â
Not less concernâd, nor at a later hour,
Rose from his downy couch the forging powâr.
Sacred to Vulcanâs name, an isle there lay,
Betwixt Siciliaâs coasts and Lipare,
Raisâd high on smoking rocks; and, deep below,
In hollow caves the fires of Aetna glow.
The Cyclops here their heavy hammers deal;
Loud strokes, and hissings of tormented steel,
Are heard around; the boiling waters roar,
And smoky flames throâ fuming tunnels soar.
Hither the Father of the Fire, by night,
Throâ the brown air precipitates his flight.
On their eternal anvils here he found
The brethren beating, and the blows go round.
A load of pointless thunder now there lies
Before their hands, to ripen for the skies:
These darts, for angry Jove, they daily cast;
Consumâd on mortals with prodigious waste.
Three rays of writhen rain, of fire three more,
Of winged southern winds and cloudy store
As many parts, the dreadful mixture frame;
And fears are added, and avenging flame.
Inferior ministers, for Mars, repair
His broken axletrees and blunted war,
And send him forth again with furbishâd arms,
To wake the lazy war with trumpetsâ loud alarms.
The rest refresh the scaly snakes that fold
The shield of Pallas, and renew their gold.
Full on the crest the Gorgonâs head they place,
With eyes that roll in death, and with distorted face.
âMy sons,â said Vulcan, âset your tasks aside;
Your strength and master-skill must now be tried.
Arms for a hero forge; arms that require
Your force, your speed, and all your forming fire.â
He said. They set their former work aside,
And their new toils with eager haste divide.
A flood of molten silver, brass, and gold,
And deadly steel, in the large furnace rollâd;
Of this, their artful hands a shield prepare,
Alone sufficient to sustain the war.
Sevân orbs within a spacious round they close:
One stirs the fire, and one the bellows blows.
The hissing steel is in the smithy drownâd;
The grot with beaten anvils groans around.
By turns their arms advance, in equal time;
By turns their hands descend, and hammers chime.
They turn the glowing mass with crooked tongs;
The fiery work proceeds, with rustic songs.
While, at the Lemnian godâs command, they urge
Their labours thus, and ply thâ Aeolian forge,
The cheerful morn salutes Evanderâs eyes,
And songs of chirping birds invite to rise.
He leaves his lowly bed: his buskins meet
Above his ankles; sandals sheathe his feet:
He sets his trusty sword upon his side,
And oâer his shoulder throws a pantherâs hide.
Two menial dogs before their master pressâd.
Thus clad, and guarded thus, he seeks his kingly guest.
Mindful of promisâd aid, he mends his pace,
But meets Aeneas in the middle space.
Young Pallas did his fatherâs steps attend,
And true Achates waited on his friend.
They join their hands; a secret seat they choose;
Thâ Arcadian first their former talk renews:
âUndaunted prince, I never can believe
The Trojan empire lost, while you survive.
Command thâ assistance of a faithful friend;
But feeble are the succours I can send.
Our narrow kingdom here the Tiber bounds;
That other side the Latian state surrounds,
Insults our walls, and wastes our fruitful grounds.
But mighty nations I prepare, to join
Their arms with yours, and aid your just design.
You come, as by your better genius sent,
And fortune seems to favour your intent.
Not far from hence there stands a hilly town,
Of ancient building, and of high renown,
Torn from the Tuscans by the Lydian race,
Who gave the name of Caere to the place,
Once Agyllina callâd. It flourishâd long,
In pride of wealth and warlike people strong,
Till cursâd Mezentius, in a fatal hour,
Assumâd the crown, with arbitrary powâr.
What words can paint those execrable times,
The subjectsâ suffârings, and the tyrantâs crimes!
That blood, those murders, O ye gods, replace
On his own head, and on his impious race!
The living and the dead at his command
Were coupled, face to face, and hand to hand,
Till, chokâd with stench, in loathâd embraces tied,
The lingâring wretches pinâd away and died.
Thus plungâd in ills, and meditating moreâ â
The peopleâs patience, tirâd, no longer bore
The raging monster; but with arms beset
His house, and vengeance and destruction threat.
They fire his palace: while the flame ascends,
They force his guards, and execute his friends.
He cleaves the crowd, and, favourâd by the night,
To Turnusâ friendly court directs his flight.
By just revenge the Tuscans set on fire,
With arms, their king to punishment require:
Their numârous troops, now musterâd on the strand,
My counsel shall submit to your command.
Their navy swarms upon the coasts; they cry
To hoist their anchors, but the gods deny.
An ancient augur, skillâd in future fate,
With these foreboding words restrains their hate:
âYe brave in arms, ye Lydian blood, the flowâr
Of Tuscan youth, and choice of all their powâr,
Whom just revenge against Mezentius arms,
To seek your tyrantâs death by lawful arms;
Know this: no native of our land may lead
This powârful people; seek a foreign head.â
Awâd with these words, in camps they still abide,
And wait with longing looks their promisâd guide.
Tarchon, the Tuscan chief, to me has sent
Their crown, and evâry regal ornament:
The people join their own with his desire;
And all my conduct, as their king, require.
But the chill blood that creeps within my veins,
And age, and listless limbs unfit for pains,
And a soul conscious of its own decay,
Have forcâd me to refuse imperial sway.
My Pallas were more fit to mount the throne,
And should, but heâs a Sabine motherâs son,
And half a native; but, in you, combine
A manly vigour, and a foreign line.
Where Fate and smiling Fortune shew the way,
Pursue the ready path to sovâreign sway.
The staff of my declining days, my son,
Shall make your good or ill success his own;
In fighting fields from you shall learn to dare,
And serve the hard apprenticeship of war;
Your matchless courage and your conduct view,
And early shall begin tâ admire and copy you.
Besides, two hundred horse he shall command;
Thoâ few, a warlike and well-chosen band.
These in my name are listed; and my son
As many more has added in his own.â
Scarce had
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