The Aeneid Virgil (the top 100 crime novels of all time .TXT) 📖

He said, and, rising from his homely throne,
The solemn rites of Hercules begun,
And on his altars wak’d the sleeping fires;
Then cheerful to his household gods retires;
There offers chosen sheep. Th’ Arcadian king
And Trojan youth the same oblations bring.
Next, of his men and ships he makes review;
Draws out the best and ablest of the crew.
Down with the falling stream the refuse run,
To raise with joyful news his drooping son.
Steeds are prepar’d to mount the Trojan band,
Who wait their leader to the Tyrrhene land.
A sprightly courser, fairer than the rest,
The king himself presents his royal guest:
A lion’s hide his back and limbs infold,
Precious with studded work, and paws of gold.
Fame thro’ the little city spreads aloud
Th’ intended march, amid the fearful crowd:
The matrons beat their breasts, dissolve in tears,
And double their devotion in their fears.
The war at hand appears with more affright,
And rises ev’ry moment to the sight.

Then old Evander, with a close embrace,
Strain’d his departing friend; and tears o’erflow his face.
“Would Heav’n,” said he, “my strength and youth recall,
Such as I was beneath Praeneste’s wall;
Then when I made the foremost foes retire,
And set whole heaps of conquer’d shields on fire;
When Herilus in single fight I slew,
Whom with three lives Feronia did endue;
And thrice I sent him to the Stygian shore,
Till the last ebbing soul return’d no more⁠—
Such if I stood renew’d, not these alarms,
Nor death, should rend me from my Pallas’ arms;
Nor proud Mezentius, thus unpunish’d, boast
His rapes and murders on the Tuscan coast.
Ye gods, and mighty Jove, in pity bring
Relief, and hear a father and a king!
If fate and you reserve these eyes, to see
My son return with peace and victory;
If the lov’d boy shall bless his father’s sight;
If we shall meet again with more delight;
Then draw my life in length; let me sustain,
In hopes of his embrace, the worst of pain.
But if your hard decrees⁠—which, O! I dread⁠—
Have doom’d to death his undeserving head;
This, O this very moment, let me die!
While hopes and fears in equal balance lie;
While, yet possess’d of all his youthful charms,
I strain him close within these aged arms;
Before that fatal news my soul shall wound!”
He said, and, swooning, sunk upon the ground.
His servants bore him off, and softly laid
His languish’d limbs upon his homely bed.

The horsemen march; the gates are open’d wide;
Aeneas at their head, Achates by his side.
Next these, the Trojan leaders rode along;
Last follows in the rear th’ Arcadian throng.
Young Pallas shone conspicuous o’er the rest;
Gilded his arms, embroider’d was his vest.
So, from the seas, exerts his radiant head
The star by whom the lights of heav’n are led;
Shakes from his rosy locks the pearly dews,
Dispels the darkness, and the day renews.
The trembling wives the walls and turrets crowd,
And follow, with their eyes, the dusty cloud,
Which winds disperse by fits, and shew from far
The blaze of arms, and shields, and shining war.
The troops, drawn up in beautiful array,
O’er heathy plains pursue the ready way.
Repeated peals of shouts are heard around;
The neighing coursers answer to the sound,
And shake with horny hoofs the solid ground.

A greenwood shade, for long religion known,
Stands by the streams that wash the Tuscan town,
Incompass’d round with gloomy hills above,
Which add a holy horror to the grove.
The first inhabitants of Grecian blood,
That sacred forest to Silvanus vow’d,
The guardian of their flocks and fields; and pay
Their due devotions on his annual day.
Not far from hence, along the river’s side,
In tents secure, the Tuscan troops abide,
By Tarchon led. Now, from a rising ground,
Aeneas cast his wond’ring eyes around,
And all the Tyrrhene army had in sight,
Stretch’d on the spacious plain from left to right.
Thither his warlike train the Trojan led,
Refresh’d his men, and wearied horses fed.

Meantime the mother goddess, crown’d with charms,
Breaks thro’ the clouds, and brings the fated arms.
Within a winding vale she finds her son,
On the cool river’s banks, retir’d alone.
She shews her heav’nly form without disguise,
And gives herself to his desiring eyes.
“Behold,” she said, “perform’d in ev’ry part,
My promise made, and Vulcan’s labour’d art.
Now seek, secure, the Latian enemy,
And haughty Turnus to the field defy.”
She said; and, having first her son embrac’d,
The radiant arms beneath an oak she plac’d,
Proud of the gift, he roll’d his greedy sight
Around the work, and gaz’d with vast delight.
He lifts, he turns, he poises, and admires
The crested helm, that vomits radiant fires:
His hands the fatal sword and corslet hold,
One keen with temper’d steel, one stiff with gold:
Both ample, flaming both, and beamy bright;
So shines a cloud, when edg’d with adverse light.
He shakes the pointed spear, and longs to try
The plated cuishes on his manly thigh;
But most admires the shield’s mysterious mould,
And Roman triumphs rising on the gold:
For these, emboss’d, the heav’nly smith had wrought
(Not in the rolls of future fate untaught)
The wars in order, and the race divine
Of warriors issuing from the Julian line.
The cave of Mars was dress’d with mossy greens:
There, by the wolf, were laid the martial twins.
Intrepid on her