Swift through the Libyan cities Rumor sped.
Rumor! What evil can surpass her speed?
In movement she grows mighty, and achieves
strength and dominion as she swifter flies.
Small first, because afraid, she soon exalts
her stature skyward, stalking through the lands
and mantling in the clouds her baleful brow.
The womb of Earth, in anger at high Heaven,
bore her, they say, last of the Titan spawn,
sister to Coeus and Enceladus.
Feet swift to run and pinions like the wind
the dreadful monster wears; her carcase huge
is feathered, and at root of every plume
a peering eye abides; and, strange to tell,
an equal number of vociferous tongues,
foul, whispering lips, and ears, that catch at all.
At night she spreads midway 'twixt earth and heaven
her pinions in the darkness, hissing loud,
nor e'er to happy slumber gives her eyes:
but with the morn she takes her watchful throne
high on the housetops or on lofty towers,
to terrify the nations. She can cling
to vile invention and malignant wrong,
or mingle with her word some tidings true.
She now with changeful story filled men's ears,
exultant, whether false or true she sung:
how, Trojan-born Aeneas having come,
Dido, the lovely widow, looked his way,
deigning to wed; how all the winter long
they passed in revel and voluptuous ease,
to dalliance given o'er; naught heeding now
of crown or kingdom—shameless! lust-enslaved!
Such tidings broadcast on the lips of men
the filthy goddess spread; and soon she hied
to King Iarbas, where her hateful song
to newly-swollen wrath his heart inflamed.
Him the god Ammon got by forced embrace
upon a Libyan nymph; his kingdoms wide
possessed a hundred ample shrines to Jove,
a hundred altars whence ascended ever
the fires of sacrifice, perpetual seats
for a great god's abode, where flowing blood
enriched the ground, and on the portals hung
garlands of every flower. The angered King,
half-maddened by malignant Rumor's voice,
unto his favored altars came, and there,
surrounded by the effluence divine,
upraised in prayer to Jove his suppliant hands.
“Almighty Jupiter, to whom each day,
at banquet on the painted couch reclined,
Numidia pours libation! Do thine eyes
behold us? Or when out of yonder heaven,
O sire, thou launchest the swift thunderbolt,
is it for naught we fear thee? Do the clouds
shoot forth blind fire to terrify the soul
with wild, unmeaning roar?
O, Iook upon
that woman, who was homeless in our realm,
and bargained where to build her paltry town,
receiving fertile coastland for her farms,
by hospitable grant! She dares disdain
our proffered nuptial vow. She has proclaimed
Aeneas partner of her bed and throne.
And now that Paris, with his eunuch crew,
beneath his chin and fragrant, oozy hair
ties the soft Lydian bonnet, boasting well
his stolen prize. But we to all these fanes,
though they be thine, a fruitless offering bring,
and feed on empty tales our trust in thee.”
As thus he prayed and to the altars clung,
th' Omnipotent gave ear, and turned his gaze
upon the royal dwelling, where for love
the amorous pair forgot their place and name.
Then thus to Mercury he gave command:
“Haste thee, my son, upon the Zephyrs call,
and take thy winged way! My mandate bear
unto that prince of Troy who tarries now
in Tyrian Carthage, heedless utterly
of empire Heaven-bestowed. On winged winds
hasten with my decrees. Not such the man
his beauteous mother promised; not for this
twice did she shield him from the Greeks in arms:
but that he might rule Italy, a land
pregnant with thrones and echoing with war;
that he of Teucer's seed a race should sire,
and bring beneath its law the whole wide world.
If such a glory and event supreme
enkindle not his bosom; if such task
to his own honor speak not; can the sire
begrudge Ascanius the heritage
of the proud name of Rome? What plans he now?
What mad hope bids him linger in the lap
of enemies, considering no more
the land Lavinian and Ausonia's sons.
Let him to sea! Be this our final word:
this message let our herald faithful bear.”
He spoke. The god a prompt obedience gave
to his great sire's command. He fastened first
those sandals of bright gold, which carry him
aloft o'er land or sea, with airy wings
that race the fleeting wind; then lifted he
his wand, wherewith he summons from the grave
pale-featured ghosts, or, if he will, consigns
to doleful Tartarus; or by its power
gives slumber or dispels; or quite unseals
the eyelids of the dead: on this relying,
he routs the winds or cleaves th' obscurity
of stormful clouds. Soon from his flight he spied
the summit and the sides precipitous
of stubborn Atlas, whose star-pointing peak
props heaven; of Atlas, whose pine-wreathed brow
is girdled evermore with misty gloom
and lashed of wind and rain; a cloak of snow
melts on his shoulder; from his aged chin
drop rivers, and ensheathed in stiffening ice
glitters his great grim beard.
Here first was stayed
the speed of Mercury's well-poising wing;
here making pause, from hence he headlong flung
his body to the sea; in motion like
some sea-bird's, which along the levelled shore
or round tall crags where rove the swarming fish,
flies Iow along the waves: o'er-hovering so
between the earth and skies, Cyllene's god
flew downward from his mother's mountain-sire,
parted the winds and skimmed the sandy merge
of Libya. When first his winged feet
came nigh the clay-built Punic huts, he saw
Aeneas building at a citadel,
and founding walls and towers; at his side
was girt a blade with yellow jaspers starred,
his mantle with the stain of Tyrian shell
flowed purple from his shoulder, broidered fair
by opulent Dido with fine threads of gold,
her gift of love; straightway the god began:
“Dost thou for lofty Carthage toil, to build
foundations strong? Dost thou, a wife's weak thrall,
build her proud city? Hast thou, shameful loss!
Forgot thy kingdom and thy task sublime?
From bright Olympus, I. He who commands
all gods, and by his sovran deity
moves earth and heaven—he it was who bade
me bear on winged winds his high decree.
What plan is thine? By what mad hope dost thou
linger so Iong in lap of Libyan land?
If the proud reward of thy destined way
move not thy heart, if all the arduous toil
to thine own honor speak not, Iook upon
Iulus in his bloom, thy hope and heir
Ascanius. It is his rightful due
in Italy o'er Roman lands to reign.”
After such word Cyllene's winged god
vanished, and e'er his accents died away,
dissolved in air before the mortal's eyes.
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