Arms and the man I sing, who first made way, Predestined exile, from the Trojan shore To Italy, the blest Lavinian strand. Smitten of storms he was on land and sea By violence of Heaven, to satisfy Stern Juno’s sleepless wrath; and much in war He suffered, seeking at the last to found The city, and bring o’er his fathers’ gods To safe abode in Latium; whence arose The Latin race, old Alba’s reverend lords, And from her hills wide-walled, imperial Rome.
O Muse, the causes tell! What sacrilege, Or vengeful sorrow, moved the heavenly Queen To thrust on dangers dark and endless toil A man whose largest honor in men’s eyes Was serving Heaven? Can gods such anger feel?
In ages gones an ancient city stood—
Carthage, a Tyrian seat, which from afar
Made front on Italy and on the mouths
Of Tiber’s stream; its wealth and revenues
Were vast, and ruthless was its quest of war. ’T is said that Juno, of all lands she loved, Most cherished this,—not Samos’ self so dear. Here were her arms, her chariot; even then A throne of power o’er nations near and far, If Fate opposed not, ’t was her darling hope To ’stablish here; but anxiously she heard That of the Trojan blood there was a breed Then rising, which upon the destined day Should utterly o’erwhelm her Tyrian towers; A people of wide sway and conquest proud Should compass Libya’s doom;—such was the web The Fatal Sisters spun. Such was the fear Of Saturn’s daughter, who remembered well What long and unavailing strife she waged For her loved Greeks at Troy. Nor did she fail To meditate th’ occasions of her rage, And cherish deep within her bosom proud Its griefs and wrongs: the choice by Paris made; Her scorned and slighted beauty; a whole race Rebellious to her godhead; and Jove’s smile That beamed on eagle-ravished Ganymede. With all these thoughts infuriate, her power Pursued with tempests o’er the boundless main The Trojans, though by Grecian victor spared And fierce Achilles; so she thrust them far From Latium; and they drifted, Heaven-impelled, Year after year, o’er many an unknown sea— O labor vast, to found the Roman line! Below th’ horizon the Sicilian isle Just sank from view, as for the open sea With heart of hope they said, and every ship Clove with its brazen beak the salt, white waves. But Juno of her everlasting wound Knew no surcease, but from her heart of pain Thus darkly mused: “Must I, defeated, fail “Of what I will, nor turn the Teucrian King “From Italy away? Can Fate oppose? “Had Pallas power to lay waste in flame “The Argive fleet and sink its mariners, “Revenging but the sacrilege obscene “By Ajax wrought, Oïleus’ desperate son? “She, from the clouds, herself Jove’s lightning threw, “Scattered the ships, and ploughed the sea with storms. “Her foe, from his pierced breast out-breathing fire, “In whirlwind on a deadly rock she flung. “But I, who move among the gods a queen, “Jove’s sister and his spouse, with one weak tribe “Make war so long! Who now on Juno calls? “What suppliant gifts henceforth her altars crown?”
So, in her fevered heart complaining still, Unto the storm-cloud land the goddess came, A region with wild whirlwinds in its womb, Æolia named, where royal Æolus In a high-vaulted cavern keeps control O’er warring winds and loud concoùrse of storms. There closely pent in chains and bastions strong, They, scornful, make the vacant mountain roar, Chafing against their bonds. But from a throne Of lofty crag, their king with sceptred hand Allays their fury and their rage confines. Did he not so, our ocean, earth, and sky Were whirled before them through the vast inane. But over-ruling Jove, of this in fear, Hid them in dungeon dark: then o’er them piled Huge mountains, and ordained a lawful king To hold them in firm sway, or know what time, With Jove’s consent, to loose them o’er the world.