The Aeneid. Публий Марон Вергилий

       Foll’wing Achates with a shorter pace,

       And brought the gifts. The queen already sate

       Amidst the Trojan lords, in shining state,

       High on a golden bed: her princely guest

       Was next her side; in order sate the rest.

       Then canisters with bread are heap’d on high;

       Th’ attendants water for their hands supply,

       And, having wash’d, with silken towels dry.

       Next fifty handmaids in long order bore

       The censers, and with fumes the gods adore:

       Then youths, and virgins twice as many, join

       To place the dishes, and to serve the wine.

       The Tyrian train, admitted to the feast,

       Approach, and on the painted couches rest.

       All on the Trojan gifts with wonder gaze,

       But view the beauteous boy with more amaze,

       His rosy-colour’d cheeks, his radiant eyes,

       His motions, voice, and shape, and all the god’s disguise;

       Nor pass unprais’d the vest and veil divine,

       Which wand’ring foliage and rich flow’rs entwine.

       But, far above the rest, the royal dame,

       (Already doom’d to love’s disastrous flame,)

       With eyes insatiate, and tumultuous joy,

       Beholds the presents, and admires the boy.

       The guileful god about the hero long,

       With children’s play, and false embraces, hung;

       Then sought the queen: she took him to her arms

       With greedy pleasure, and devour’d his charms.

       Unhappy Dido little thought what guest,

       How dire a god, she drew so near her breast;

       But he, not mindless of his mother’s pray’r,

       Works in the pliant bosom of the fair,

       And moulds her heart anew, and blots her former care.

       The dead is to the living love resign’d;

       And all Aeneas enters in her mind.

      Now, when the rage of hunger was appeas’d,

       The meat remov’d, and ev’ry guest was pleas’d,

       The golden bowls with sparkling wine are crown’d,

       And thro’ the palace cheerful cries resound.

       From gilded roofs depending lamps display

       Nocturnal beams, that emulate the day.

       A golden bowl, that shone with gems divine,

       The queen commanded to be crown’d with wine:

       The bowl that Belus us’d, and all the Tyrian line.

       Then, silence thro’ the hall proclaim’d, she spoke:

       “O hospitable Jove! we thus invoke,

       With solemn rites, thy sacred name and pow’r;

       Bless to both nations this auspicious hour!

       So may the Trojan and the Tyrian line

       In lasting concord from this day combine.

       Thou, Bacchus, god of joys and friendly cheer,

       And gracious Juno, both be present here!

       And you, my lords of Tyre, your vows address

       To Heav’n with mine, to ratify the peace.”

       The goblet then she took, with nectar crown’d

       (Sprinkling the first libations on the ground,)

       And rais’d it to her mouth with sober grace;

       Then, sipping, offer’d to the next in place.

       ’Twas Bitias whom she call’d, a thirsty soul;

       He took the challenge, and embrac’d the bowl,

       With pleasure swill’d the gold, nor ceas’d to draw,

       Till he the bottom of the brimmer saw.

       The goblet goes around: Iopas brought

       His golden lyre, and sung what ancient Atlas taught:

       The various labours of the wand’ring moon,

       And whence proceed th’ eclipses of the sun;

       Th’ original of men and beasts; and whence

       The rains arise, and fires their warmth dispense,

       And fix’d and erring stars dispose their influence;

       What shakes the solid earth; what cause delays

       The summer nights and shortens winter days.

       With peals of shouts the Tyrians praise the song:

       Those peals are echo’d by the Trojan throng.

       Th’ unhappy queen with talk prolong’d the night,

       And drank large draughts of love with vast delight;

       Of Priam much enquir’d, of Hector more;

       Then ask’d what arms the swarthy Memnon wore,

       What troops he landed on the Trojan shore;

       The steeds of Diomede varied the discourse,

       And fierce Achilles, with his matchless force;

       At length, as fate and her ill stars requir’d,

       To hear the series of the war desir’d.

       “Relate at large, my godlike guest,” she said,

       “The Grecian stratagems, the town betray’d:

       The fatal issue of so long a war,

       Your flight, your wand’rings, and your woes, declare;

       For, since on ev’ry sea, on ev’ry coast,

       Your men have been distress’d, your navy toss’d,

       Sev’n times the sun has either tropic view’d,

       The winter banish’d, and the spring renew’d.”