The Aeneid. Публий Марон Вергилий

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СКАЧАТЬ mute;

      But, as it was agreed, pronounc’d that I

      Was destin’d by the wrathful gods to die.

      All prais’d the sentence, pleas’d the storm should fall

      On one alone, whose fury threaten’d all.

      The dismal day was come; the priests prepare

      Their leaven’d cakes, and fillets for my hair.

      I follow’d nature’s laws, and must avow

      I broke my bonds and fled the fatal blow.

      Hid in a weedy lake all night I lay,

      Secure of safety when they sail’d away.

      But now what further hopes for me remain,

      To see my friends, or native soil, again;

      My tender infants, or my careful sire,

      Whom they returning will to death require;

      Will perpetrate on them their first design,

      And take the forfeit of their heads for mine?

      Which, O! if pity mortal minds can move,

      If there be faith below, or gods above,

      If innocence and truth can claim desert,

      Ye Trojans, from an injur’d wretch avert.’

      “False tears true pity move; the king commands

      To loose his fetters, and unbind his hands:

      Then adds these friendly words: ‘Dismiss thy fears;

      Forget the Greeks; be mine as thou wert theirs.

      But truly tell, was it for force or guile,

      Or some religious end, you rais’d the pile?’

      Thus said the king. He, full of fraudful arts,

      This well-invented tale for truth imparts:

      ‘Ye lamps of heav’n!’ he said, and lifted high

      His hands now free, ‘thou venerable sky!

      Inviolable pow’rs, ador’d with dread!

      Ye fatal fillets, that once bound this head!

      Ye sacred altars, from whose flames I fled!

      Be all of you adjur’d; and grant I may,

      Without a crime, th’ ungrateful Greeks betray,

      Reveal the secrets of the guilty state,

      And justly punish whom I justly hate!

      But you, O king, preserve the faith you gave,

      If I, to save myself, your empire save.

      The Grecian hopes, and all th’ attempts they made,

      Were only founded on Minerva’s aid.

      But from the time when impious Diomede,

      And false Ulysses, that inventive head,

      Her fatal image from the temple drew,

      The sleeping guardians of the castle slew,

      Her virgin statue with their bloody hands

      Polluted, and profan’d her holy bands;

      From thence the tide of fortune left their shore,

      And ebb’d much faster than it flow’d before:

      Their courage languish’d, as their hopes decay’d;

      And Pallas, now averse, refus’d her aid.

      Nor did the goddess doubtfully declare

      Her alter’d mind and alienated care.

      When first her fatal image touch’d the ground,

      She sternly cast her glaring eyes around,

      That sparkled as they roll’d, and seem’d to threat:

      Her heav’nly limbs distill’d a briny sweat.

      Thrice from the ground she leap’d, was seen to wield

      Her brandish’d lance, and shake her horrid shield.

      Then Calchas bade our host for flight

      And hope no conquest from the tedious war,

      Till first they sail’d for Greece; with pray’rs besought

      Her injur’d pow’r, and better omens brought.

      And now their navy plows the wat’ry main,

      Yet soon expect it on your shores again,

      With Pallas pleas’d; as Calchas did ordain.

      But first, to reconcile the blue-ey’d maid

      For her stol’n statue and her tow’r betray’d,

      Warn’d by the seer, to her offended name

      We rais’d and dedicate this wondrous frame,

      So lofty, lest thro’ your forbidden gates

      It pass, and intercept our better fates:

      For, once admitted there, our hopes are lost;

      And Troy may then a new Palladium boast;

      For so religion and the gods ordain,

      That, if you violate with hands profane

      Minerva’s gift, your town in flames shall burn,

      (Which omen, O ye gods, on Graecia turn!)

      But if it climb, with your assisting hands,

      The Trojan walls, and in the city stands;

      Then Troy shall Argos and Mycenae burn,

      And the reverse of fate on us return.’

      “With such deceits he gain’d their easy hearts,

      Too prone to credit his perfidious arts.

      What Diomede, nor Thetis’ greater son,

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