The Æneids of Virgil, Done into English VerseVirgil
General
The Æneids of Virgil, Done into English Verse
Virgil
Aeneas (Legendary character) -- Poetry; Epic poetry, Latin -- Translations into English
But Mnestheus, whetted by his luck, joyful, with hurrying dash 210
Of timely-beating oars, speeds forth, and praying breezes on,
O'er waters' slope adown the sea's all open way doth run:
--E'en as a pigeon in a cave stirred suddenly from rest,
Who in the shady pumice-rock hath house and happy nest;
Scared 'neath the roof she beateth forth with mighty flap of wings,
And flieth, borne adown the fields, till in soft air she swings,
And floateth on the flowing way, nor scarce a wing doth move;
--So Mnestheus, so the Whale herself, the latter waters clove,
So with the way erst made on her she flew on swift and soft;
And first Sergestus doth she leave stayed on the rock aloft, 220
Striving in shallows' tanglement, calling for help in vain,
And learning with his broken oars a little way to gain.
Then Gyas and Chimæra's bulk he holdeth hard in chase,
Who, from her lack of helmsman lost, must presently give place.
And now at very end of all Cloanthus is the last
With whom to deal: his most he strives, and presseth on him fast.
Then verily shout thrusts on shout, and all with all goodwill
Cry on the chase; their echoing noise the very lift doth fill.
These, thinking shame of letting fall their hardly-gotten gain
Of glory's meed, to buy the praise with very life are fain; 230
Those, fed on good-hap, all things may, because they deem they may:
The twain, perchance, head laid to head, had won the prize that day,
But if Cloanthus both his palms had stretched to seaward there,
And called upon the Gods to aid and poured forth eager prayer:
"O Gods, whose lordship is the sea, whose waters I run o'er,
Now glad will I, your debtor bound, by altars on the shore
Bring forth for you a snow-white bull, and cast amid the brine
His inner meat, and pour abroad a flowing of fair wine."
He spake, and all the Nereids' choir hearkened the words he said
Down 'neath the waves, and Phorcus' folk, and Panopea the maid; 240
Yea, and the sire Portunus thrust the keel with mighty hand
Upon its way, and arrow-swift it flew on toward the land,
Swift as the South, and there at rest in haven deep it lies.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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