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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Indued with windy wings to flit in air,
With serpents girt alike, and crownâd with hissing hair.
In heavân the Dirae callâd, and still at hand,
Before the throne of angry Jove they stand,
His ministers of wrath, and ready still
The minds of mortal men with fears to fill,
Wheneâer the moody sire, to wreak his hate
On realms or towns deserving of their fate,
Hurls down diseases, death and deadly care,
And terrifies the guilty world with war.
One sister plague if these from heavân he sent,
To fright Juturna with a dire portent.
The pest comes whirling down: by far more slow
Springs the swift arrow from the Parthian bow,
Or Cydon yew, when, traversing the skies,
And drenchâd in poisânous juice, the sure destruction flies.
With such a sudden and unseen a flight
Shot throâ the clouds the daughter of the night.
Soon as the field inclosâd she had in view,
And from afar her destinâd quarry knew,
Contracted, to the boding bird she turns,
Which haunts the ruinâd piles and hallowâd urns,
And beats about the tombs with nightly wings,
Where songs obscene on sepulchers she sings.
Thus lessenâd in her form, with frightful cries
The Fury round unhappy Turnus flies,
Flaps on his shield, and flutters oâer his eyes.
A lazy chillness crept along his blood;
Chokâd was his voice; his hair with horror stood.
Juturna from afar beheld her fly,
And knew thâ ill omen, by her screaming cry
And stridor of her wings. Amazâd with fear,
Her beauteous breast she beat, and rent her flowing hair.
âAh me!â she cries, âin this unequal strife
What can thy sister more to save thy life?
Weak as I am, can I, alas! contend
In arms with that inexorable fiend?
Now, now, I quit the field! forbear to fright
My tender soul, ye baleful birds of night;
The lashing of your wings I know too well,
The sounding flight, and funâral screams of hell!
These are the gifts you bring from haughty Jove,
The worthy recompense of ravishâd love!
Did he for this exempt my life from fate?
O hard conditions of immortal state,
Thoâ born to death, not privilegâd to die,
But forcâd to bear imposâd eternity!
Take back your envious bribes, and let me go
Companion to my brotherâs ghost below!
The joys are vanishâd: nothing now remains,
Of life immortal, but immortal pains.
What earth will open her devouring womb,
To rest a weary goddess in the tomb!â
She drew a length of sighs; nor more she said,
But in her azure mantle wrappâd her head,
Then plungâd into her stream, with deep despair,
And her last sobs came bubbling up in air.
Now stern Aeneas his weighty spear
Against his foe, and thus upbraids his fear:
âWhat farther subterfuge can Turnus find?
What empty hopes are harbourâd in his mind?
âTis not thy swiftness can secure thy flight;
Not with their feet, but hands, the valiant fight.
Vary thy shape in thousand forms, and dare
What skill and courage can attempt in war;
Wish for the wings of winds, to mount the sky;
Or hid, within the hollow earth to lie!â
The champion shook his head, and made this short reply:
âNo threats of thine my manly mind can move;
âTis hostile heavân I dread, and partial Jove.â
He said no more, but, with a sigh, repressâd
The mighty sorrow in his swelling breast.
Then, as he rollâd his troubled eyes around,
An antique stone he saw, the common bound
Of neighbâring fields, and barrier of the ground;
So vast, that twelve strong men of modern days
Thâ enormous weight from earth could hardly raise.
He heavâd it at a lift, and, poisâd on high,
Ran staggâring on against his enemy,
But so disorderâd, that he scarcely knew
His way, or what unwieldly weight he threw.
His knocking knees are bent beneath the load,
And shivâring cold congeals his vital blood.
The stone drops from his arms, and, falling short
For want of vigour, mocks his vain effort.
And as, when heavy sleep has closâd the sight,
The sickly fancy labours in the night;
We seem to run; and, destitute of force,
Our sinking limbs forsake us in the course:
In vain we heave for breath; in vain we cry;
The nerves, unbracâd, their usual strength deny;
And on the tongue the faltâring accents die:
So Turnus farâd; whatever means he tried,
All force of arms and points of art employâd,
The Fury flew athwart, and made thâ endeavor void.
A thousand various thoughts his soul confound;
He starâd about, nor aid nor issue found;
His own men stop the pass, and his own walls surround.
Once more he pauses, and looks out again,
And seeks the goddess charioteer in vain.
Trembling he views the thundâring chief advance,
And brandishing aloft the deadly lance:
Amazâd he cowârs beneath his conquâring foe,
Forgets to ward, and waits the coming blow.
Astonishâd while he stands, and fixâd with fear,
Aimâd at his shield he sees thâ impending spear.
The hero measurâd first, with narrow view,
The destinâd mark; and, rising as he threw,
With its full swing the fatal weapon flew.
Not with less rage the rattling thunder falls,
Or stones from battâring-engines break the walls:
Swift as a whirlwind, from an arm so strong,
The lance drove on, and bore the death along.
Naught could his sevânfold shield the prince avail,
Nor aught, beneath his arms, the coat of mail:
It piercâd throâ all, and with a grisly wound
Transfixâd his thigh, and doubled him to ground.
With groans the Latins rend the vaulted sky:
Woods, hills, and valleys, to the voice reply.
Now low on earth the lofty chief is laid,
With eyes cast upward, and with arms displayâd,
And, recreant, thus to the proud victor prayâd:
âI know my death deservâd, nor hope to live:
Use what the gods and thy good fortune give.
Yet think, O think, if mercy may be shownâ â
Thou hadst a father once, and hast a sonâ â
Pity my sire, now sinking to the grave;
And for Anchisesâ sake old Daunus save!
Or, if thy vowâd revenge pursue my death,
Give to my friends my body void of breath!
The Latian chiefs have seen me beg my life;
Thine is the conquest, thine the royal wife:
Against a yielded man, âtis mean ignoble strife.â
In deep suspense the Trojan seemâd to stand,
And, just preparâd to strike, repressâd his hand.
He rollâd his eyes, and evâry moment felt
His manly soul with more compassion melt;
When, casting down a casual glance, he spied
The golden belt that glitterâd on his side,
The fatal spoils which haughty Turnus tore
From dying Pallas, and in triumph wore.
Then, rousâd anew to wrath, he loudly cries
(Flames, while he spoke,
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