Shall come to Italy, and gain the grace of haven there:Yet shall ye gird no wall about the city granted you,
Till famine, and this murder's wrong that ye were fain to do,
Drive you your tables gnawed with teeth to eat up utterly.'
She spake, and through the woody deeps borne off on wings did fly.
But sudden fear fell on our folk, and chilled their frozen blood;259
Their hearts fell down; with weapon-stroke no more they deem it good
To seek for peace: but rather now sore prayers and vows they will,
Whether these things be goddesses or filthy fowls of ill.
Father Anchises on the strand stretched both his hands abroad,
And, bidding all their worship due, the Mighty Ones adored:
'Gods, bring their threats to nought! O Gods, turn ye the curse, we pray!
Be kind, and keep the pious folk!'
Then bade he pluck away
The hawser from the shore and slack the warping cable's strain:
The south wind fills the sails, we fare o'er foaming waves again,
E'en as the helmsman and the winds have will that we should fare.
And now amidmost of the flood Zacynthus' woods appear,270
Dulichium, Samos, Neritos, with sides of stony steep:
Wide course from cliffs of Ithaca, Laertes' land, we keep,
Cursing the soil that bore and nursed Ulysses' cruelty.
Now open up Leucata's peaks, that fare so cloudy high
Over Apollo, mighty dread to all seafarers grown;
But weary thither do we steer and make the little town,
We cast the anchors from the bows and swing the sterns a-strand.
And therewithal since we at last have gained the longed-for land,
We purge us before Jupiter and by the altars pray,
Then on the shores of Actium's head the Ilian plays we play.280
Anointed with the sleeking oil there strive our fellows stripped
In wrestling game of fatherland: it joys us to have slipped
By such a host of Argive towns amidmost of the foe.
Meanwhile, the sun still pressing on, the year about doth go,
And frosty winter with his north the sea's face rough doth wear;
A buckler of the hollow brass of mighty Abas' gear
I set amid the temple-doors with singing scroll thereon,
Æneas hangeth armour here from conquering Danaans won.
And then I bid to leave the shore and man the thwarts again.
Hard strive the folk in smiting sea, and oar-blades brush the main.290
The airy high Phæacian towers sink down behind our wake,
And coasting the Epirote shores Chaonia's bay we make,
And so Buthrotus' city-walls high set we enter in.
There tidings hard for us to trow unto our ears do win,
How Helenus, e'en Priam's son, hath gotten wife and crown
Of Pyrrhus come of Æacus, and ruleth Greekish town,
And that Andromache hath wed one of her folk once more.
All mazed am I; for wondrous love my heart was kindling sore
To give some word unto the man, of such great things to learn:
So from the haven forth I fare, from ships and shore I turn.300
But as it happed Andromache was keeping yearly day,
Pouring sad gifts unto the dead, amidst a grove that lay
Outside the town, by wave that feigned the Simoïs that had been,
Blessing the dead by Hector's mound empty and grassy green,
Which she with altars twain thereby had hallowed for her tears.
But when she saw me drawing nigh with armour that Troy bears
About me, senseless, throughly feared with marvels grown so great,
She stiffens midst her gaze; her bones are reft of life-blood's heat,
She totters, scarce, a long while o'er, this word comes forth from her:
'Is the show true, O Goddess-born? com'st thou a messenger310
Alive indeed? or if from thee the holy light is fled,
Where then is Hector?'
Flowed the tears e'en as the word she said,
And with her wailing rang the place: sore moved I scarce may speak
This word to her, grown wild with grief, in broken voice and weak:
'I live indeed, I drag my life through outer ways of ill;
Doubt not, thou seest the very sooth.
Alas! what hap hath caught thee up from such a man downcast?
Hath any fortune worthy thee come back again at last?
Doth Hector's own Andromache yet serve in Pyrrhus' bed?'
She cast her countenance adown, and in a low voice said:320
'O thou alone of Trojan maids that won a little joy,
Bidden to die on foeman's tomb before the walls of Troy!
Who died, and never had to bear the sifting lot's award,
Whose slavish body never touched the bed of victor lord!
We from our burning fatherland carried o'er many a sea,
Of Achillæan offspring's pride the yoke-fellow must be,
Must bear the childbed of a slave: thereafter he, being led
To Leda's child Hermione and that Laconian bed,
To Helenus his very thrall me very thrall gave o'er:
But there Orestes, set on fire by all the love he bore330
His ravished
