Translation Of Part Of The First Book Of The Aeneid
THE
EDITORS
OF
THE
PHILOLOGICAL
MUSEUM
BUT
Cytherea,
studious
to
invent
Arts
yet
untried,
upon
new
counsels
bent,
Resolves
that
Cupid,
changed
in
form
and
face
To
young
Ascanius,
should
assume
his
place;
Present
the
maddening
gifts,
and
kindle
heat
Of
passion
at
the
bosom's
inmost
seat.
She
dreads
the
treacherous
house,
the
double
tongue;
She
burns,
she
frets--by
Juno's
rancour
stung;
The
calm
of
night
is
powerless
to
remove
These
cares,
and
thus
she
speaks
to
winged
Love:
'O
son,
my
strength,
my
power!
who
dost
despise
(What,
save
thyself,
none
dares
through
earth
and
skies)
The
giant-quelling
bolts
of
Jove,
I
flee,
O
son,
a
suppliant
to
thy
deity!
What
perils
meet
Aeneas
in
his
course,
How
Juno's
hate
with
unrelenting
force
Pursues
thy
brother--this
to
thee
is
known;
And
oft-times
hast
thou
made
my
griefs
thine
own.
Him
now
the
generous
Dido
by
soft
chains
Of
bland
entreaty
at
her
court
detains;
Junonian
hospitalities
prepare
Such
apt
occasion
that
I
dread
a
snare.
Hence,
ere
some
hostile
God
can
intervene,
Would
I,
by
previous
wiles,
inflame
the
queen
With
passion
for
Aeneas,
such
strong
love
That
at
my
beck,
mine
only,
she
shall
move.
Hear,
and
assist;--the
father's
mandate
calls
His
young
Ascanius
to
the
Tyrian
walls;
He
comes,
my
dear
delight,--and
costliest
things
Preserved
from
fire
and
flood
for
presents
brings.
Him
will
I
take,
and
in
close
covert
keep,
'Mid
groves
Idalian,
lulled
to
gentle
sleep,
Or
on
Cythera's
far-sequestered
steep,
That
he
may
neither
know
what
hope
is
mine,
Nor
by
his
presence
traverse
the
design.
Do
thou,
but
for
a
single
night's
brief
space,
Dissemble;
be
that
boy
in
form
and
face!
And
when
enraptured
Dido
shall
receive
Thee
to
her
arms,
and
kisses
interweave
With
many
a
fond
embrace,
while
joy
runs
high,
And
goblets
crown
the
proud
festivity,
Instil
thy
subtle
poison,
and
inspire,
At
every
touch,
an
unsuspected
fire.'
Love,
at
the
word,
before
his
mother's
sight
Puts
off
his
wings,
and
walks,
with
proud
delight,
Like
young
Iulus;
but
the
gentlest
dews
Of
slumber
Venus
sheds,
to
circumfuse
The
true
Ascanius
steeped
in
placid
rest;
Then
wafts
him,
cherished
on
her
careful
breast,
Through
upper
air
to
an
Idalian
glade,
Where
he
on
soft
'amaracus'
is
laid,
With
breathing
flowers
embraced,
and
fragrant
shade.
But
Cupid,
following
cheerily
his
guide
Achates,
with
the
gifts
to
Carthage
hied;
And,
as
the
hall
he
entered,
there,
between
The
sharers
of
her
golden
couch,
was
seen
Reclined
in
festal
pomp
the
Tyrian
queen.
The
Trojans,
too
(Aeneas
at
their
head),
On
conches
lie,
with
purple
overspread:
Meantime
in
canisters
is
heaped
the
bread,
Pellucid
water
for
the
hands
is
borne,
And
napkins
of
smooth
texture,
finely
shorn.
Within
are
fifty
handmaids,
who
prepare,
As
they
in
order
stand,
the
dainty
fare;
And
fume
the
household
deities
with
store
Of
odorous
incense;
while
a
hundred
more
Matched
with
an
equal
number
of
like
age,
But
each
of
manly
sex,
a
docile
page,
Marshal
the
banquet,
giving
with
due
grace
To
cup
or
viand
its
appointed
place.
The
Tyrians
rushing
in,
an
eager
band,
Their
painted
couches
seek,
obedient
to
command.
They
look
with
wonder
on
the
gifts--they
gaze
Upon
Iulus,
dazzled
with
the
rays
That
from
his
ardent
countenance
are
flung,
And
charmed
to
hear
his
simulating
tongue;
Nor
pass
unpraised
the
robe
and
veil
divine,
Round
which
the
yellow
flowers
and
wandering
foliage
twine.
But
chiefly
Dido,
to
the
coming
ill
Devoted,
strives
in
vain
her
vast
desires
to
fill;
She
views
the
gifts;
upon
the
child
then
turns
Insatiable
looks,
and
gazing
burns.
To
ease
a
father's
cheated
love
he
hung
Upon
Aeneas,
and
around
him
clung;
Then
seeks
the
queen;
with
her
his
arts
he
tries;
She
fastens
on
the
boy
enamoured
eyes,
Clasps
in
her
arms,
nor
weens
(O
lot
unblest!)
How
great
a
God,
incumbent
o'er
her
breast,
Would
fill
it
with
his
spirit.
He,
to
please
His
Acidalian
mother,
by
degrees
Blots
out
Sichaeus,
studious
to
remove
The
dead,
by
influx
of
a
living
love,
By
stealthy
entrance
of
a
perilous
guest.
Troubling
a
heart
that
had
been
long
at
rest.
Now
when
the
viands
were
withdrawn,
and
ceased
The
first
division
of
the
splendid
feast,
While
round
a
vacant
board
the
chiefs
recline,
Huge
goblets
are
brought
forth;
they
crown
the
wine;
Voices
of
gladness
roll
the
walls
around;
Those
gladsome
voices
from
the
courts
rebound;
From
gilded
rafters
many
a
blazing
light
Depends,
and
torches
overcome
the
night.
The
minutes
fly--till,
at
the
queen's
command,
A
bowl
of
state
is
offered
to
her
hand:
Then
she,
as
Belus
wont,
and
all
the
line
From
Belus,
filled
it
to
the
brim
with
wine;
Silence
ensued.
'O
Jupiter,
whose
care
Is
hospitable
dealing,
grant
my
prayer!
Productive
day
be
this
of
lasting
joy
To
Tyrians,
and
these
exiles
driven
from
Troy;
A
day
to
future
generations
dear!
Let
Bacchus,
donor
of
soul-quick'ning
cheer,
Be
present;
kindly
Juno,
be
thou
near!
And,
Tyrians,
may
your
choicest
favours
wait
Upon
this
hour,
the
bond
to
celebrate!'
She
spake
and
shed
an
offering
on
the
board;
Then
sipped
the
bowl
whence
she
the
wine
had
poured
And
gave
to
Bitias,
urging
the
prompt
lord;
He
raised
the
bowl,
and
took
a
long
deep
draught;
Then
every
chief
in
turn
the
beverage
quaffed.
Graced
with
redundant
hair,
Iopas
sings
The
lore
of
Atlas,
to
resounding
strings,
The
labours
of
the
Sun,
the
lunar
wanderings;
When
human
kind,
and
brute;
what
natural
powers
Engender
lightning,
whence
are
falling
showers.
He
haunts
Arcturus,--that
fraternal
twain
The
glittering
Bears,--the
Pleiads
fraught
with
rain;
--Why
suns
in
winter,
shunning
heaven's
steep
heights
Post
seaward,--what
impedes
the
tardy
nights.
The
learned
song
from
Tyrian
hearers
draws
Loud
shouts,--the
Trojans
echo
the
applause.
--But,
lengthening
out
the
night
with
converse
new,
Large
draughts
of
love
unhappy
Dido
drew;
Of
Priam
asked,
of
Hector--o'er
and
o'er--
What
arms
the
son
of
bright
Aurora
wore;--
What
steeds
the
car
of
Diomed
could
boast;
Among
the
leaders
of
the
Grecian
host.
How
looked
Achilles,
their
dread
paramount--
'But
nay--the
fatal
wiles,
O
guest,
recount,
Retrace
the
Grecian
cunning
from
its
source,
Your
own
grief
and
your
friends?--your
wandering
course;
For
now,
till
this
seventh
summer
have
ye
ranged
The
sea,
or
trod
the
earth,
to
peace
estranged.'
William Wordsworth
The English poet William Wordsworth is considered to be one of the most important literary figures in modern history, as well as one of the leading purveyors of the Romantic Movement. He was born in 1770, in Cumbria, and was one of four children. Over the course of his life, he continued to return to the Lake District, and eventually passed away in Cumbria, in 1850. The influence of William Wordsworth should not be underestimated, as he not only helped to kick-start the Romantic Age, he also formed half of one of the most famous literary partnerships in history. The friendship that he shared with fellow poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge is now the stuff of legend, as is the subsequent fallout after the friendship fell apart.