HKB
lifting up to heav’n his hands and eyes, Ador’d the greater gods: ‘Avert,’ said he, ‘These omens; render vain this prophecy, And from th’ impending curse a pious people free!’
“Thus having said, he bids us put to sea; We loose from shore our haulsers, and obey, And soon with swelling sails pursue the wat’ry way. Amidst our course, Zacynthian woods appear; And next by rocky Neritos we steer: We fly from Ithaca’s detested shore, And curse the land which dire Ulysses bore. At length Leucate’s cloudy top appears, And the Sun’s temple, which the sailor fears. Resolv’d to breathe a while from labour past, Our crooked anchors from the prow we cast, And joyful to the little city haste. Here, safe beyond our hopes, our vows we pay To Jove, the guide and patron of our way. The customs of our country we pursue, And Trojan games on Actian shores renew. Our youth their naked limbs besmear with oil, And exercise the wrastlers’ noble toil; Pleas’d to have sail’d so long before the wind, And left so many Grecian towns behind. The sun had now fulfill’d his annual course, And Boreas on the seas display’d his force: I fix’d upon the temple’s lofty door The brazen shield which vanquish’d Abas bore; The verse beneath my name and action speaks: ‘These arms Aeneas took from conqu’ring Greeks.’ Then I command to weigh; the seamen ply Their sweeping oars; the smoking billows fly. The sight of high Phaeacia soon we lost, And skimm’d along Epirus’ rocky coast.
“Then to Chaonia’s port our course we bend, And, landed, to Buthrotus’ heights ascend. Here wondrous things were loudly blaz’d fame: How Helenus reviv’d the Trojan name, And reign’d in Greece; that Priam’s captive son Succeeded Pyrrhus in his bed and throne; And fair Andromache, restor’d by fate, Once more was happy in a Trojan mate. I leave my galleys riding in the port, And long to see the new Dardanian court. By chance, the mournful queen, before the gate, Then solemniz’d her former husband’s fate. Green altars, rais’d of turf, with gifts she crown’d, And sacred priests in order stand around, And thrice the name of hapless Hector sound. The grove itself resembles Ida’s wood; And Simois seem’d the well-dissembled flood. But when at nearer distance she beheld My shining armour and my Trojan shield, Astonish’d at the sight, the vital heat Forsakes her limbs; her veins no longer beat: She faints, she falls, and scarce recov’ring strength, Thus, with a falt’ring tongue, she speaks at length:
“‘Are you alive, O goddess-born?’ she said, ‘Or if a ghost, then where is Hector’s shade?’ At this, she cast a loud and frightful cry. With broken words I made this brief reply: ‘All of me that remains appears in sight; I live, if living be to loathe the light. No phantom; but I drag a wretched life, My fate resembling that of Hector’s wife. What have you suffer’d since you lost your lord? By what strange blessing are you now restor’d? Still are you Hector’s? or is Hector fled, And his remembrance lost in Pyrrhus’ bed?’ With eyes dejected, in a lowly tone, After a modest pause she thus begun: