The Aeneid by Virgil (best novel books to read TXT) đ
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Virgilâs epic poem begins with Aeneas fleeing the ruins of Troy with his father Anchises and his young son Ascanius, with a plan to make a home in Italy. Because of a prophecy foretelling that the descendants of Aeneas will one day destroy Carthage, Junoâs favorite city, Juno orders the god of the winds to unleash a terrible storm. The ships are thrown off course and arrive at an African port. As Aeneas makes his way towards his new home he encounters Dido, Carthageâs queen, and falls deeply in love.
Although Charles W. Elliot stated that âthe modern appreciation of the Iliad and the Odyssey has tended to carry with it a depreciation of the Aeneid,â this epic poem continues to inspire artists, writers, and musicians centuries after its first telling. John Drydenâs translation captures the musicality of the original Latin verses while avoiding the stumbling of an English translation forced into dactylic hexameter.
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- Author: Virgil
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Which only wanted, to complete my shame?
How will the Latins hoot their championâs flight!
How Drancës will insult and point them to the sight!
Is death so hard to bear? Ye gods below,
(Since those above so small compassion show,)
Receive a soul unsullied yet with shame,
Which not belies my great forefatherâs name!â
He said; and while he spoke, with flying speed
Came Sages urging on his foamy steed:
Fixâd on his wounded face a shaft he bore,
And, seeking Turnus, sent his voice before:
âTurnus, on you, on you alone, depends
Our last relief: compassionate your friends!
Like lightning, fierce Aeneas, rolling on,
With arms invests, with flames invades the town:
The brands are tossâd on high; the winds conspire
To drive along the deluge of the fire.
All eyes are fixâd on you: your foes rejoice;
Evân the king staggers, and suspends his choice;
Doubts to deliver or defend the town,
Whom to reject, or whom to call his son.
The queen, on whom your utmost hopes were placâd,
Herself suborning death, has breathâd her last.
âTis true, Messapus, fearless of his fate,
With fierce Atinasâ aid, defends the gate:
On evâry side surrounded by the foe,
The more they kill, the greater numbers grow;
An iron harvest mounts, and still remains to mow.
You, far aloof from your forsaken bands,
Your rolling chariot drive oâer empty sands.
Stupid he sate, his eyes on earth declinâd,
And various cares revolving in his mind:
Rage, boiling from the bottom of his breast,
And sorrow mixâd with shame, his soul oppressâd;
And conscious worth lay labâring in his thought,
And love by jealousy to madness wrought.
By slow degrees his reason drove away
The mists of passion, and resumâd her sway.
Then, rising on his car, he turnâd his look,
And saw the town involvâd in fire and smoke.
A wooden towâr with flames already blazâd,
Which his own hands on beams and rafters raisâd;
And bridges laid above to join the space,
And wheels below to roll from place to place.
âSister, the Fates have vanquishâd: let us go
The way which Heavân and my hard fortune show.
The fight is fixâd; nor shall the branded name
Of a base coward blot your brotherâs fame.
Death is my choice; but suffer me to try
My force, and vent my rage before I die.â
He said; and, leaping down without delay,
Throâ crowds of scatterâd foes he freed his way.
Striding he passâd, impetuous as the wind,
And left the grieving goddess far behind.
As when a fragment, from a mountain torn
By raging tempests, or by torrents borne,
Or sappâd by time, or loosenâd from the rootsâ â
Prone throâ the void the rocky ruin shoots,
Rolling from crag to crag, from steep to steep;
Down sink, at once, the shepherds and their sheep:
Involvâd alike, they rush to nether ground;
Stunnâd with the shock they fall, and stunnâd from earth rebound:
So Turnus, hasting headlong to the town,
Shouldâring and shoving, bore the squadrons down.
Still pressing onward, to the walls he drew,
Where shafts, and spears, and darts promiscuous flew,
And sanguine streams the slippâry ground embrue.
First stretching out his arm, in sign of peace,
He cries aloud, to make the combat cease:
âRutulians, hold; and Latin troops, retire!
The fight is mine; and me the gods require.
âTis just that I should vindicate alone
The broken truce, or for the breach atone.
This day shall free from wars thâ Ausonian state,
Or finish my misfortunes in my fate.â
Both armies from their bloody work desist,
And, bearing backward, form a spacious list.
The Trojan hero, who receivâd from fame
The welcome sound, and heard the championâs name,
Soon leaves the taken works and mounted walls,
Greedy of war where greater glory calls.
He springs to fight, exulting in his force
His jointed armour rattles in the course.
Like Eryx, or like Athos, great he shows,
Or Father Apennine, when, white with snows,
His head divine obscure in clouds he hides,
And shakes the sounding forest on his sides.
The nations, overawâd, surcease the fight;
Immovable their bodies, fixâd their sight.
Evân death stands still; nor from above they throw
Their darts, nor drive their battâring-rams below.
In silent order either army stands,
And drop their swords, unknowing, from their hands.
Thâ Ausonian king beholds, with wondâring sight,
Two mighty champions matchâd in single fight,
Born under climes remote, and brought by fate,
With swords to try their titles to the state.
Now, in closâd field, each other from afar
They view; and, rushing on, begin the war.
They launch their spears; then hand to hand they meet;
The trembling soil resounds beneath their feet:
Their bucklers clash; thick blows descend from high,
And flakes of fire from their hard helmets fly.
Courage conspires with chance, and both engage
With equal fortune yet, and mutual rage.
As when two bulls for their fair female fight
In Silaâs shades, or on Taburnusâ height;
With horns adverse they meet; the keeper flies;
Mute stands the herd; the heifers roll their eyes,
And wait thâ event; which victor they shall bear,
And who shall be the lord, to rule the lusty year:
With rage of love the jealous rivals burn,
And push for push, and wound for wound return;
Their dewlaps gorâd, their sides are lavâd in blood;
Loud cries and roaring sounds rebellow throâ the wood:
Such was the combat in the listed ground;
So clash their swords, and so their shields resound.
Jove sets the beam; in either scale he lays
The championsâ fate, and each exactly weighs.
On this side, life and lucky chance ascends;
Loaded with death, that other scale descends.
Raisâd on the stretch, young Turnus aims a blow
Full on the helm of his unguarded foe:
Shrill shouts and clamours ring on either side,
As hopes and fears their panting hearts divide.
But all in pieces flies the traitor sword,
And, in the middle stroke, deserts his lord.
Now is but death, or flight; disarmâd he flies,
When in his hand an unknown hilt he spies.
Fame says that Turnus, when his steeds he joinâd,
Hurrying to war, disorderâd in his mind,
Snatchâd the first weapon which his haste could find.
âTwas not the fated sword his father bore,
But that his charioteer Metiscus wore.
This, while the Trojans fled, the toughness held;
But, vain against the great Vulcanian shield,
The mortal-temperâd steel deceivâd his hand:
The shiverâd fragments shone amid the sand.
Surprisâd with fear, he fled along the field,
And now forthright, and now in orbits wheelâd;
For here the Trojan troops the list surround,
And there the pass is closâd with pools and marshy ground.
Aeneas hastens, thoâ with heavier paceâ â
His wound, so newly knit, retards the chase,
And
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