The night was over; I went back to my comrades. I was surprised to find so many more Had joined us, ready for exile, pitiful people, Mothers, and men, and children, streaming in From everywhere, looking for me to lead them Wherever I would. Over the hills of Ida The morning-star was rising; in the town The Danaans held the gates, and help was hopeless. I gave it up, I lifted up my father, Together we sought the hills. BOOK III THE WANDERINGS OF AENEAS “After the gods’ decision to overthrow The Asian world, the innocent house of Priam, And the proud city, built by Neptune, smoked From the ruined ground, we were driven, different ways, By heaven’s auguries, seeking lands forsaken. Below Antandros, under Phrygian Ida, We built a fleet, and gathered men, uncertain Of either direction or settlement. The summer Had scarce begun, when at my father’s orders, We spread our sails. I wept as I left the harbor, The fields where Troy had been. I was borne, an exile Over the deep, with son, companions, household, And household gods. Far off there lies a land, Sacred to Mars; the Thracians used to till it, Whose king was fierce Lycurgus; they were friendly, Of old, to Troy, when we were prosperous. Hither I sailed, and on its curving shore established A city site; Aeneadae, I called it. This I began, not knowing fate was adverse. I was offering my mother proper homage, And other gods, to bless the new beginnings, I had a white bull ready as a victim To the king of the gods. There was a mound nearby, Bristling with myrtle and with cornel-bushes. I needed greenery to veil the altar, But as I struggled with the leafy branches, A fearful portent met my gaze. Black drops Dripped from the ends of the roots, black blood was falling On the torn ground, and a cold chill went through me. I tried again; the shoot resisted; blood Followed again. Troubled, I prayed to the Nymphs, To the father of the fields, to bless the vision, Remove the curse; and down on my knees I wrestled Once more against the stubborn ground, and heard A groan from under the hillock, and a voice crying: ‘Why mangle a poor wretch, Aeneas? Spare me, Here in the tomb, and save your hands pollution. You know me, I am Trojan-born, no stranger, This is familiar blood. Alas! Take flight, Leave this remorseless land; the curse of greed Lies heavy on it. I am Polydorus, Pierced by an iron harvest; out of my body Rise javelins and lances.’ I was speechless, Stunned, in my terror.