The Aeneid, Virgil [ebook audio reader .txt] 📗

This done, Aeneas orders, for the close,
The strife of archers with contending bows.
The mast Sergesthus’ shatter’d galley bore
With his own hands he raises on the shore.
A flutt’ring dove upon the top they tie,
The living mark at which their arrows fly.
The rival archers in a line advance,
Their turn of shooting to receive from chance.
A helmet holds their names; the lots are drawn:
On the first scroll was read Hippocoön.
The people shout. Upon the next was found
Young Mnestheus, late with naval honours crown’d.
The third contain’d Eurytion’s noble name,
Thy brother, Pandarus, and next in fame,
Whom Pallas urg’d the treaty to confound,
And send among the Greeks a feather’d wound.
Acestes in the bottom last remain’d,
Whom not his age from youthful sports restrain’d.
Soon all with vigour bend their trusty bows,
And from the quiver each his arrow chose.
Hippocoön’s was the first: with forceful sway
It flew, and, whizzing, cut the liquid way.
Fix’d in the mast the feather’d weapon stands:
The fearful pigeon flutters in her bands,
And the tree trembled, and the shouting cries
Of the pleas’d people rend the vaulted skies.
Then Mnestheus to the head his arrow drove,
With lifted eyes, and took his aim above,
But made a glancing shot, and missed the dove;
Yet miss’d so narrow, that he cut the cord
Which fasten’d by the foot the flitting bird.
The captive thus releas’d, away she flies,
And beats with clapping wings the yielding skies.
His bow already bent, Eurytion stood;
And, having first invok’d his brother god,
His winged shaft with eager haste he sped.
The fatal message reach’d her as she fled:
She leaves her life aloft; she strikes the ground,
And renders back the weapon in the wound.
Acestes, grudging at his lot, remains,
Without a prize to gratify his pains.
Yet, shooting upward, sends his shaft, to show
An archer’s art, and boast his twanging bow.
The feather’d arrow gave a dire portent,
And latter augurs judge from this event.
Chaf’d by the speed, it fir’d; and, as it flew,
A trail of following flames ascending drew:
Kindling they mount, and mark the shiny way;
Across the skies as falling meteors play,
And vanish into wind, or in a blaze decay.
The Trojans and Sicilians wildly stare,
And, trembling, turn their wonder into pray’r.
The Dardan prince put on a smiling face,
And strain’d Acestes with a close embrace;
Then, hon’ring him with gifts above the rest,
Turn’d the bad omen, nor his fears confess’d.
“The gods,” said he, “this miracle have wrought,
And order’d you the prize without the lot.
Accept this goblet, rough with figur’d gold,
Which Thracian Cisseus gave my sire of old:
This pledge of ancient amity receive,
Which to my second sire I justly give.”
He said, and, with the trumpets’ cheerful sound,
Proclaim’d him victor, and with laurel-crown’d.
Nor good Eurytion envied him the prize,
Tho’ he transfix’d the pigeon in the skies.
Who cut the line, with second gifts was grac’d;
The third was his whose arrow pierc’d the mast.

The chief, before the games were wholly done,
Call’d Periphantes, tutor to his son,
And whisper’d thus: “With speed Ascanius find;
And, if his childish troop be ready join’d,
On horseback let him grace his grandsire’s day,
And lead his equals arm’d in just array.”
He said; and, calling out, the cirque he clears.
The crowd withdrawn, an open plain appears.
And now the noble youths, of form divine,
Advance before their fathers, in a line;
The riders grace the steeds; the steeds with glory shine.

Thus marching on in military pride,
Shouts of applause resound from side to side.
Their casques adorn’d with laurel wreaths they wear,
Each brandishing aloft a cornel spear.
Some at their backs their gilded quivers bore;
Their chains of burnish’d gold hung down before.
Three graceful troops they form’d upon the green;
Three graceful leaders at their head were seen;
Twelve follow’d ev’ry chief, and left a space between.
The first young Priam led; a lovely boy,
Whose grandsire was th’ unhappy king of Troy;
His race in after times was known to fame,
New honours adding to the Latian name;
And well the royal boy his Thracian steed became.
White were the fetlocks of his feet before,
And on his front a snowy star he bore.
Then beauteous Atys, with Iülus bred,
Of equal age, the second squadron led.
The last in order, but the first in place,
First in the lovely features of his face,
Rode fair Ascanius on a fiery steed,
Queen Dido’s gift, and of the Tyrian breed.
Sure coursers for the rest the king ordains,
With golden bits adorn’d, and purple reins.

The pleas’d spectators peals of shouts renew,
And all the parents in the children view;
Their make, their motions, and their sprightly grace,
And hopes and fears alternate in their face.

Th’ unfledg’d commanders and their martial train
First make the circuit of the sandy plain
Around their sires, and, at th’ appointed sign,
Drawn up in beauteous order, form a line.
The second signal sounds, the troop divides
In three distinguish’d parts, with three distinguish’d guides
Again they close, and once again disjoin;
In troop to troop oppos’d, and line to line.
They meet; they wheel; they throw their darts afar
With harmless rage and well-dissembled war.
Then in a round the mingled bodies run:
Flying they follow, and pursuing shun;
Broken, they break; and, rallying, they renew
In other forms the military shew.
At last, in order, undiscern’d they join,
And march together in a friendly line.
And, as the Cretan labyrinth of old,
With wand’ring ways and many a winding fold,
Involv’d the weary feet, without redress,
In a round error, which denied recess;
So fought the Trojan boys in warlike play,
Turn’d and return’d, and still a diff’rent way.
Thus dolphins in the deep each other chase
In circles, when they swim around the wat’ry race.
This game, these carousels, Ascanius taught;
And, building Alba, to the Latins brought;
Shew’d what he learn’d: the Latin sires impart
To their succeeding sons the graceful art;
From these imperial Rome receiv’d the game,
Which Troy, the youths the Trojan troop, they name.

Thus far the sacred sports they celebrate:
But Fortune soon resum’d her ancient hate;
For, while they pay the dead his annual dues,
Those envied rites Saturnian Juno views;
And sends the goddess of the various bow,
To try new methods of revenge below;
Supplies the winds to wing her airy way,
Where in the port secure the navy lay.
Swiftly fair Iris down her arch descends,
And, undiscern’d, her fatal voyage ends.
She saw the gath’ring crowd; and, gliding thence,
The desert shore, and fleet without defence.
The Trojan matrons, on the sands alone,
With sighs and tears Anchises’