But smitten sore
by this mischance, Aeneas doubtfully
weighs in his heart its mighty load of cares,
and ponders if indeed he may abide
in Sicily, not heeding prophet-songs,
or seek Italian shores. Thereon uprose
Nautes, an aged sire, to whom alone
Tritonian Pallas of her wisdom gave
and made his skill renowned; he had the power
to show celestial anger's warning signs,
or tell Fate's fixed decree. The gifted man
thus to Aeneas comfortably spoke:
“O goddess-born, we follow here or there,
as Fate compels or stays. But come what may,
he triumphs over Fortune, who can bear
whate'er she brings. Behold, Acestes draws
from Dardanus his origin divine!
Make him thy willing friend, to share with thee
thy purpose and thy counsel. Leave with him
the crews of the lost ships, and all whose hearts
repine at thy high task and great emprise:
the spent old men, the women ocean-weary,
whate'er is feeble found, or faint of heart
in danger's hour,—set that apart, and give
such weary ones within this friendly isle
a city called Acesta,—if he will.”
Much moved Aeneas was by this wise word
of his gray friend, though still his anxious soul
was vexed by doubt and care. But when dark night
had brought her chariot to the middle sky,
the sacred shade of Sire Anchises seemed,
from heaven descending, thus to speak aloud:
“My son, than life more dear, when life was mine!
O son, upon whose heart the Trojan doom
has weighed so Iong! Beside thy couch I stand,
at pleasure of great Jove, whose hand dispelled
the mad fire from thy ships; and now he looks
from heaven with pitying brow. I bid thee heed
the noble counsels aged Nautes gave.
Only with warriors of dauntless breast
to Italy repair; of hardy breed,
of wild, rough life, thy Latin foes will be.
But first the shores of Pluto and the Shades
thy feet must tread, and through the deep abyss
of dark Avernus come to me, thy sire:
for I inhabit not the guilty gloom
of Tartarus, but bright Elysian day,
where all the just their sweet assemblies hold.
Hither the virgin Sibyl, if thou give
full offerings of the blood of sable kine,
shall lead thee down; and visions I will show
of cities proud and nations sprung from thee.
Farewell, for dewy Night has wheeled her way
far past her middle course; the panting steeds
of orient Morn breathe pitiless upon me.”
He spoke, and passed, like fleeting clouds of smoke,
to empty air. “O, whither haste away?”
Aeneas cried. “Whom dost thou fly? What god
from my fond yearning and embrace removes?”
Then on the altar of the gods of Troy
he woke the smouldering embers, at the shrine
of venerable Vesta, worshipping
with hallowed bread and incense burning free.
Straightway he calls assembly of his friends, —
Acestes first in honor,—and makes known
Jove's will, the counsel of his cherished sire,
and his own fresh resolve. With prompt assent
they hear his word, nor does Acestes fail
the task to share. They people the new town
with women; and leave every wight behind
who wills it—souls not thirsting for high praise.
Themselves re-bench their ships, rebuild, and fit
with rope and oar the flame-swept galleys all;
a band not large, but warriors bold and true.
Aeneas, guiding with his hand a plough,
marks out the city's ground, gives separate lands
by lot, and bids within this space appear
a second Troy. Trojan Acestes takes
the kingly power, and with benignant joy
appoints a forum, and decrees just laws
before a gathered senate.
Then they raise
on that star-circled Erycinian hill,
the temple to Idalian Venus dear;
and at Anchises' sepulchre ordain
a priesthood and wide groves of hallowed shade.
Now the nine days of funeral pomp are done,
and every altar has had honors due
from all the folk. Now tranquil-breathing winds
have levelled the great deep, while brisk and free,
a favoring Auster bids them launch away.
But sound of many a wailing voice is heard
along the winding shore; for ere they go,
in fond embraces for a night and day
they linger still. The women—aye, and men! —
who hated yesterday the ocean's face
and loathed its name, now clamor to set sail
and bear all want and woe to exiles known.
But good Aeneas with benignant words
their sorrow soothes, and, not without a tear,
consigns them to Acestes' kindred care.
Then bids he sacrifice to Eryx' shade
three bulls, and to the wind-gods and the storm
a lamb, then loose the ships in order due.
He, with a garland of shorn olive, stood
holding aloft the sacrificial bowl
from his own vessel's prow, and scattered far
the sacred entrails o'er the bitter wave,
with gift of flowing wine. Swift at the stern
a fair wind rose and thrust them; while the crews
with rival strokes swept o'er the spreading sea.
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