The Aeneid (24 page)
Here came to an end the games in honor of Aeneas’
hallowed father.
But here for the first time Fortune
veered in its course and turned against the Trojans.
While they consecrated the tomb with various games,
Saturnian Juno hurries Iris down from the sky
to the Trojan fleet, breathing gusts at her back
to wing her on her way. Juno brooding, scheming,
her old inveterate rancor never sated. Iris flies,
arcing down on her rainbow showering iridescence,
and no one sees the virgin glide along the shore,
past the huge assembly, catching sight of the harbor
all deserted now, and the fleet they left unguarded.
But there, far off on a lonely stretch of beach
the Trojan women wept for the lost Anchises.
Gazing out on the deep dark swells they wept
and wailed: “How many reefs, how many sea-miles
more that we must cross! Heart-weary as we are!”
hallowed father.
But here for the first time Fortune
veered in its course and turned against the Trojans.
While they consecrated the tomb with various games,
Saturnian Juno hurries Iris down from the sky
to the Trojan fleet, breathing gusts at her back
to wing her on her way. Juno brooding, scheming,
her old inveterate rancor never sated. Iris flies,
arcing down on her rainbow showering iridescence,
and no one sees the virgin glide along the shore,
past the huge assembly, catching sight of the harbor
all deserted now, and the fleet they left unguarded.
But there, far off on a lonely stretch of beach
the Trojan women wept for the lost Anchises.
Gazing out on the deep dark swells they wept
and wailed: “How many reefs, how many sea-miles
more that we must cross! Heart-weary as we are!”
They cried with one voice. A city is what they pray for.
All were sick of struggling with the sea.
So down
in their midst speeds Iris—no stranger to mischief—
putting aside the looks and gown of a goddess,
turning into Beroë, aged wife of Doryclus
the Tmarian, a woman of fine, noble birth
who once had fame and sons. Like Beroë now,
Iris mingles in among all the Trojan mothers.
“How wretched we are,” she cries, “that no Greek soldier
dragged us off to die in the war beneath our country’s walls.
Oh, my poor doomed people! What is Fortune saving you for,
what death-blow? Seven summers gone since Troy went down
and still we’re swept along, measuring out each land, each sea—
how many hostile rocks and stars?—scanning an endless ocean,
chasing an Italy fading still as the waves roll us on.
Here is our brother Eryx’ land. Acestes is our host.
What prevents us from building walls right here,
presenting our citizens with a city? Oh, my country,
gods of the hearth we tore from enemies, all for nothing,
will
no
walls ever again be called the walls of Troy?
We’re never again to see the rivers Hector loved,
the Simois and the Xanthus? No, come, action!
Help me burn these accursed ships to ashes.
The ghost of Cassandra came to me in dreams,
the prophetess gave me flaming brands and said:
‘Look for Troy right here, your own home here!’
Act now. No delay in the face of signs like these.
You see? Four altars to Neptune. The god himself
is giving us torches, building our courage, too.”
All were sick of struggling with the sea.
So down
in their midst speeds Iris—no stranger to mischief—
putting aside the looks and gown of a goddess,
turning into Beroë, aged wife of Doryclus
the Tmarian, a woman of fine, noble birth
who once had fame and sons. Like Beroë now,
Iris mingles in among all the Trojan mothers.
“How wretched we are,” she cries, “that no Greek soldier
dragged us off to die in the war beneath our country’s walls.
Oh, my poor doomed people! What is Fortune saving you for,
what death-blow? Seven summers gone since Troy went down
and still we’re swept along, measuring out each land, each sea—
how many hostile rocks and stars?—scanning an endless ocean,
chasing an Italy fading still as the waves roll us on.
Here is our brother Eryx’ land. Acestes is our host.
What prevents us from building walls right here,
presenting our citizens with a city? Oh, my country,
gods of the hearth we tore from enemies, all for nothing,
will
no
walls ever again be called the walls of Troy?
We’re never again to see the rivers Hector loved,
the Simois and the Xanthus? No, come, action!
Help me burn these accursed ships to ashes.
The ghost of Cassandra came to me in dreams,
the prophetess gave me flaming brands and said:
‘Look for Troy right here, your own home here!’
Act now. No delay in the face of signs like these.
You see? Four altars to Neptune. The god himself
is giving us torches, building our courage, too.”
Spurring them on and first to seize a deadly brand,
she held it high in her right hand, shook it to flame
and with all her power hurled the fire home.
Astounded, the hearts of the Trojan women froze,
stunned till one in the crowd, the eldest, Pyrgo,
once the royal nurse to Priam’s several sons,
called out: “That’s not Beroë, you women of Troy—
no Trojan wife of Doryclus!
Look at her beauty, her fiery eyes, immortal marks—
what pride, what features, and what a voice, what stride!
Why, I just left Beroë now, sick and bitter to be
the only one deprived of our lavish rites,
denied her part in the honors paid Anchises.”
Urging so,
but at first the women wavered, looking back
at the ships with hateful glances, torn between
their hapless love for the land they stood on now
and the fated kingdom, calling still—when all at once
the goddess towered into the sky on balanced wings,
cleaving a giant rainbow, flying beneath the clouds.
Now they are dumbstruck, driven mad by the sign
they scream, some seize fire from the inner hearths,
some plunder the altars—branches, brushwood, torches,
they hurl them all at once and the God of Fire unleashed
goes raging over the benches, oarlocks, piney blazoned sterns.
she held it high in her right hand, shook it to flame
and with all her power hurled the fire home.
Astounded, the hearts of the Trojan women froze,
stunned till one in the crowd, the eldest, Pyrgo,
once the royal nurse to Priam’s several sons,
called out: “That’s not Beroë, you women of Troy—
no Trojan wife of Doryclus!
Look at her beauty, her fiery eyes, immortal marks—
what pride, what features, and what a voice, what stride!
Why, I just left Beroë now, sick and bitter to be
the only one deprived of our lavish rites,
denied her part in the honors paid Anchises.”
Urging so,
but at first the women wavered, looking back
at the ships with hateful glances, torn between
their hapless love for the land they stood on now
and the fated kingdom, calling still—when all at once
the goddess towered into the sky on balanced wings,
cleaving a giant rainbow, flying beneath the clouds.
Now they are dumbstruck, driven mad by the sign
they scream, some seize fire from the inner hearths,
some plunder the altars—branches, brushwood, torches,
they hurl them all at once and the God of Fire unleashed
goes raging over the benches, oarlocks, piney blazoned sterns.
The ships are ablaze. The herald Eumelus runs the news
to crowds wedged in the theater round Anchises’ tomb—
even they can see the black cloud churn with sparks.
Out in the lead, Ascanius, still heading his horsemen,
still in triumph, swerves for the ships at full tilt,
his breathless handlers helpless to rein him back,
and finding the camp in chaos, shouts out: “Madness,
beyond belief! What now? What drives you on?
Wretched women of Troy, it’s not the enemy camp,
the Greeks—you’re burning your own best hopes!
Look, it’s your own Ascanius!”
Down at his feet
he flung his useless helmet, the one he donned
when he played at war, acting out mock battles.
Just then Aeneas hurries in with his Trojan troops
but the women, terrified, scatter down the beaches,
fleeing, stealing away into woods and rocky caverns,
anywhere they can hide. They cringe from the daylight,
shrink from what they’ve done. They come to their senses,
know their people, and Juno is driven from their hearts.
to crowds wedged in the theater round Anchises’ tomb—
even they can see the black cloud churn with sparks.
Out in the lead, Ascanius, still heading his horsemen,
still in triumph, swerves for the ships at full tilt,
his breathless handlers helpless to rein him back,
and finding the camp in chaos, shouts out: “Madness,
beyond belief! What now? What drives you on?
Wretched women of Troy, it’s not the enemy camp,
the Greeks—you’re burning your own best hopes!
Look, it’s your own Ascanius!”
Down at his feet
he flung his useless helmet, the one he donned
when he played at war, acting out mock battles.
Just then Aeneas hurries in with his Trojan troops
but the women, terrified, scatter down the beaches,
fleeing, stealing away into woods and rocky caverns,
anywhere they can hide. They cringe from the daylight,
shrink from what they’ve done. They come to their senses,
know their people, and Juno is driven from their hearts.
Despite all that, the flames, the implacable fire
never quits its fury. Under the sodden beams
the tow still smolders, reeking a slow, heavy smoke
that creeps along the keels, the ruin eating into the hulls,
and all their heroic efforts, showering water, get them nowhere.
At once devoted Aeneas ripped the robe on his shoulders,
called the gods for help and flung his hands in prayer:
“Almighty Jove, if you still don’t hate all Trojans,
if you still look down with your old sense of devotion,
still respect men’s labors, save our fleet from fire!
Now, Father, snatch the slim hopes of the Trojans
out of the jaws of death! Or if I deserve it,
come, hurl what’s left of us down to death
with all your angry bolts—
overwhelm us here with your iron fist!”
never quits its fury. Under the sodden beams
the tow still smolders, reeking a slow, heavy smoke
that creeps along the keels, the ruin eating into the hulls,
and all their heroic efforts, showering water, get them nowhere.
At once devoted Aeneas ripped the robe on his shoulders,
called the gods for help and flung his hands in prayer:
“Almighty Jove, if you still don’t hate all Trojans,
if you still look down with your old sense of devotion,
still respect men’s labors, save our fleet from fire!
Now, Father, snatch the slim hopes of the Trojans
out of the jaws of death! Or if I deserve it,
come, hurl what’s left of us down to death
with all your angry bolts—
overwhelm us here with your iron fist!”
No sooner said than a wild black flood of rain
comes whipping down in fury, claps of thunder—highlands,
lowlands quake and a raging tempest bursts from the whole sky
dense and dark with the lashing Southwind’s blast.
The decks are awash, the charred timbers drenched
till all the fires are slaked and all the ships,
except for the four hulls lost, are saved from ruin.
comes whipping down in fury, claps of thunder—highlands,
lowlands quake and a raging tempest bursts from the whole sky
dense and dark with the lashing Southwind’s blast.
The decks are awash, the charred timbers drenched
till all the fires are slaked and all the ships,
except for the four hulls lost, are saved from ruin.
But captain Aeneas, dazed by this swift sharp blow,
kept wrestling the overriding anguish in his heart,
now this way, that way. Should he forget his fate
and settle in Sicily now, or head for Italian shores?
Then old Nautes, the one man Tritonian Pallas taught,
making him famous for his knowledge of her arts,
giving him answers for what the gods’ great rage
might mean or what the march of Fate cried out for—
Nautes speaks, consoling Aeneas with his counsel:
“Son of Venus, whether the Fates will draw us on
or draw us back, let’s follow where they lead.
Whatever Fortune sends, we master it all
by bearing it all, we must!
You have Acestes, a Trojan born of the gods,
a ready adviser. Invite him into your councils.
Make your plans together. Hand them over to him,
the people left from the burnt ships and those worn out
by the vast endeavor you’ve begun, your destiny, your fate.
The old men bent with age, the women sick of the sea,
ones who are feeble, ones who shrink from danger:
set them apart, and exhausted as they are,
let them have their walls within this land.
If he lends his name, they’ll call the town Acesta.”
kept wrestling the overriding anguish in his heart,
now this way, that way. Should he forget his fate
and settle in Sicily now, or head for Italian shores?
Then old Nautes, the one man Tritonian Pallas taught,
making him famous for his knowledge of her arts,
giving him answers for what the gods’ great rage
might mean or what the march of Fate cried out for—
Nautes speaks, consoling Aeneas with his counsel:
“Son of Venus, whether the Fates will draw us on
or draw us back, let’s follow where they lead.
Whatever Fortune sends, we master it all
by bearing it all, we must!
You have Acestes, a Trojan born of the gods,
a ready adviser. Invite him into your councils.
Make your plans together. Hand them over to him,
the people left from the burnt ships and those worn out
by the vast endeavor you’ve begun, your destiny, your fate.
The old men bent with age, the women sick of the sea,
ones who are feeble, ones who shrink from danger:
set them apart, and exhausted as they are,
let them have their walls within this land.
If he lends his name, they’ll call the town Acesta.”
Inspired now by the plans of his old friend,
Aeneas is torn by anguish all the more
as dark Night, looming up in her chariot,
took command of the heavens, and all at once,
down from the sky his father Anchises’ phantom seemed
to glide and the words came rushing from him toward Aeneas:
“My son, dearer to me than life while I was still alive!
Oh my son, so pressed by the fate of Troy—I’ve come
by the will of Jove, who swept the fire from your ships
and now from the heights of heaven pities you at last.
So come, follow old Nautes’ good sound advice:
choose your elite troops, your bravest hearts,
and sail them on to Italy. There in Latium you
must battle down a people of wild, rugged ways.
But first go down to the House of Death, the Underworld,
go through Avernus’ depths, my son, to seek me, meet me there.
I am not condemned to wicked Tartarus, those bleak shades,
I live in Elysium, the luminous fields where the true
and faithful gather. A chaste Sibyl will guide you there,
once you have offered the blood of many pure black sheep.
And then you will learn your entire race to come
and the city walls that will be made your own.
Now farewell. Dank Night wheels around
in mid-career, cruel Dawn breaks in the East,
and I feel her panting stallions breathing near.”
Aeneas is torn by anguish all the more
as dark Night, looming up in her chariot,
took command of the heavens, and all at once,
down from the sky his father Anchises’ phantom seemed
to glide and the words came rushing from him toward Aeneas:
“My son, dearer to me than life while I was still alive!
Oh my son, so pressed by the fate of Troy—I’ve come
by the will of Jove, who swept the fire from your ships
and now from the heights of heaven pities you at last.
So come, follow old Nautes’ good sound advice:
choose your elite troops, your bravest hearts,
and sail them on to Italy. There in Latium you
must battle down a people of wild, rugged ways.
But first go down to the House of Death, the Underworld,
go through Avernus’ depths, my son, to seek me, meet me there.
I am not condemned to wicked Tartarus, those bleak shades,
I live in Elysium, the luminous fields where the true
and faithful gather. A chaste Sibyl will guide you there,
once you have offered the blood of many pure black sheep.
And then you will learn your entire race to come
and the city walls that will be made your own.
Now farewell. Dank Night wheels around
in mid-career, cruel Dawn breaks in the East,
and I feel her panting stallions breathing near.”
With that, he fled into thin air like a wisp of smoke.
“Racing away, but where?” Aeneas cries, “So rushed!
Whom do you flee? Who keeps you from our embrace?”
“Racing away, but where?” Aeneas cries, “So rushed!
Whom do you flee? Who keeps you from our embrace?”
Calling so, he rakes the slumbering coals to worship
the household god of Troy and the sacred shrine
of white-haired Vesta, offering up a suppliant’s
hallowed meal, and mist from an overflowing censer.
At once
he summons his friends, Acestes first, to report
the will of Jove, his dear father’s commands
and the firm resolve now settled in his mind.
No time for debate, and no dissent from Acestes.
Consigning the women to the town, they disembark
all those who elect to stay, who feel no need for glory.
The rest repair the thwarts, replace the charred beams
with new ship timbers, refit the oars and cables;
no large troop, but their spirits burn for war.
Meanwhile Aeneas is plowing out the city limits,
assigning homes by lot. One sector, as he decrees,
called Troy, another, Ilium. Trojan-born Acestes
relishes his new kingdom, holding court,
giving laws to the elders called in session.
Then on the peak of Eryx reaching for the stars,
he founds a temple to Venus of Mount Ida, round it
a spreading sacred grove, and appoints a priest
to tend Anchises’ tomb.
Now the assembled people
have feasted nine days, the altars have their gifts,
a placid breeze has lulled the swells, and a pulsing
breath of the Southwind calls them back to sea.
A great wail rises up from the deep curved bay as
they linger out the night and day in each other’s arms.
And the same women, the same men who once believed
the face of the sea, its mighty god, too cruel to bear,
now long to embark and brave the pains of exile to the end.
But good Aeneas, consoling them all with heartfelt words,
weeps as he commends them to Acestes, their blood kin.
Three calves to Eryx, then a ewe to the god of storms—
he orders killed, and the crewmen slip the cables,
one after another. Apart at the prow, Aeneas
takes his stand, crowned with a trim olive wreath,
and raises a wine bowl high and scatters innards
over the salt swell and tips out streams of wine.
Shipmates race each other, thrashing the waves
and a rising sternwind surges, drives the vessels on.
the household god of Troy and the sacred shrine
of white-haired Vesta, offering up a suppliant’s
hallowed meal, and mist from an overflowing censer.
At once
he summons his friends, Acestes first, to report
the will of Jove, his dear father’s commands
and the firm resolve now settled in his mind.
No time for debate, and no dissent from Acestes.
Consigning the women to the town, they disembark
all those who elect to stay, who feel no need for glory.
The rest repair the thwarts, replace the charred beams
with new ship timbers, refit the oars and cables;
no large troop, but their spirits burn for war.
Meanwhile Aeneas is plowing out the city limits,
assigning homes by lot. One sector, as he decrees,
called Troy, another, Ilium. Trojan-born Acestes
relishes his new kingdom, holding court,
giving laws to the elders called in session.
Then on the peak of Eryx reaching for the stars,
he founds a temple to Venus of Mount Ida, round it
a spreading sacred grove, and appoints a priest
to tend Anchises’ tomb.
Now the assembled people
have feasted nine days, the altars have their gifts,
a placid breeze has lulled the swells, and a pulsing
breath of the Southwind calls them back to sea.
A great wail rises up from the deep curved bay as
they linger out the night and day in each other’s arms.
And the same women, the same men who once believed
the face of the sea, its mighty god, too cruel to bear,
now long to embark and brave the pains of exile to the end.
But good Aeneas, consoling them all with heartfelt words,
weeps as he commends them to Acestes, their blood kin.
Three calves to Eryx, then a ewe to the god of storms—
he orders killed, and the crewmen slip the cables,
one after another. Apart at the prow, Aeneas
takes his stand, crowned with a trim olive wreath,
and raises a wine bowl high and scatters innards
over the salt swell and tips out streams of wine.
Shipmates race each other, thrashing the waves
and a rising sternwind surges, drives the vessels on.
But now Venus, her anguish mounting, goes to Neptune,
pouring out her heart in a flood of lamentation:
“Juno—her lethal rage, her insatiable spirit,
Neptune, makes me stoop to every kind of prayer.
No lapse of time, no reverence, nothing tames her,
no decree of Jove or the Fates can break her will,
she never rests. Not even devouring a city,
the heart of the Phrygian race, in all her hatred,
dragging the remnant down through pains of every sort:
it’s not enough for her. Now she stalks the bones,
the ashes of murdered Troy! Such fury’s beyond me—
no doubt she has her reasons. Neptune, you yourself,
you’re my witness to what great instant chaos
she unleashed, just now, in Libya’s heaving seas,
mixing the sea and wind and backed by Aeolus’ blasts,
all for nothing, but all dared in your own realm.
What outrage! Why, she drove the Trojan women
down the path of crime, goading them on to gut
the ships with fire—so hateful—the fleet lost
and their friends abandoned here on alien soil.
The survivors? I beg you, give them all safe passage
across your waters, let them reach the Tiber—
if only my prayers are granted,
if Fate will grant the Trojans city walls.”
pouring out her heart in a flood of lamentation:
“Juno—her lethal rage, her insatiable spirit,
Neptune, makes me stoop to every kind of prayer.
No lapse of time, no reverence, nothing tames her,
no decree of Jove or the Fates can break her will,
she never rests. Not even devouring a city,
the heart of the Phrygian race, in all her hatred,
dragging the remnant down through pains of every sort:
it’s not enough for her. Now she stalks the bones,
the ashes of murdered Troy! Such fury’s beyond me—
no doubt she has her reasons. Neptune, you yourself,
you’re my witness to what great instant chaos
she unleashed, just now, in Libya’s heaving seas,
mixing the sea and wind and backed by Aeolus’ blasts,
all for nothing, but all dared in your own realm.
What outrage! Why, she drove the Trojan women
down the path of crime, goading them on to gut
the ships with fire—so hateful—the fleet lost
and their friends abandoned here on alien soil.
The survivors? I beg you, give them all safe passage
across your waters, let them reach the Tiber—
if only my prayers are granted,
if Fate will grant the Trojans city walls.”
Saturn’s son, the king of the deep, complied:
“By all rights, Cytherea, you should trust my realm,
it gave you birth. I’ve earned your trust, what’s more.
Time and again I tamed the wild rage of sky and sea,
the same on land—Xanthus and Simois be my witness—
I cared for your Aeneas.
“Once when Achilles harried
the breathless Trojans, pounding their ranks against their walls,
slaughtering thousands, rivers crammed with corpses groaned
and the Xanthus could find no channel rolling down to sea,
and then as Aeneas went up against the mighty Achilles—
hardly a match for the man’s gods, the man’s power—
then I saved him, wrapped him into a fold of clouds,
though I longed to crush their ramparts roots and all,
the walls I built with my own hands—those lying Trojans!
And now as then, my concern for him stands firm.
So cast your fear to the winds. Just as you wish,
he will arrive at Avernus’ haven safe and sound.
Only one will be lost, one you’ll seek at sea.
One life, for the lives of many men.”
Welcome words,
and soon as Father Neptune had soothed the goddess’ heart,
he harnesses up his team with their yoke of gold,
slips the frothing bits in their chafing jaws,
slacks the reins and the team goes running free,
the sea-blue chariot skimming lightly over the crests
and the waves fall calm, and under the axle’s thunder
the sea swell levels off and the stormclouds flee
from the wild skies. And now his retinue rises
in all their forms, enormous beasts of the deep,
the veteran troupe of Glaucus, Ino’s son Palaemon,
wind-swift Tritons, Phorcus’ army in full force
with Thetis, Melite, virgin Panopea out on the left,
Fair-Isle, Sea-Cave, Spray, and the Waves’ Embrace.
“By all rights, Cytherea, you should trust my realm,
it gave you birth. I’ve earned your trust, what’s more.
Time and again I tamed the wild rage of sky and sea,
the same on land—Xanthus and Simois be my witness—
I cared for your Aeneas.
“Once when Achilles harried
the breathless Trojans, pounding their ranks against their walls,
slaughtering thousands, rivers crammed with corpses groaned
and the Xanthus could find no channel rolling down to sea,
and then as Aeneas went up against the mighty Achilles—
hardly a match for the man’s gods, the man’s power—
then I saved him, wrapped him into a fold of clouds,
though I longed to crush their ramparts roots and all,
the walls I built with my own hands—those lying Trojans!
And now as then, my concern for him stands firm.
So cast your fear to the winds. Just as you wish,
he will arrive at Avernus’ haven safe and sound.
Only one will be lost, one you’ll seek at sea.
One life, for the lives of many men.”
Welcome words,
and soon as Father Neptune had soothed the goddess’ heart,
he harnesses up his team with their yoke of gold,
slips the frothing bits in their chafing jaws,
slacks the reins and the team goes running free,
the sea-blue chariot skimming lightly over the crests
and the waves fall calm, and under the axle’s thunder
the sea swell levels off and the stormclouds flee
from the wild skies. And now his retinue rises
in all their forms, enormous beasts of the deep,
the veteran troupe of Glaucus, Ino’s son Palaemon,
wind-swift Tritons, Phorcus’ army in full force
with Thetis, Melite, virgin Panopea out on the left,
Fair-Isle, Sea-Cave, Spray, and the Waves’ Embrace.
No more wavering now, now buoyant spirits seize
Aeneas’ heart. The good commander orders all masts
stepped at once and the yardarms hung with sail.
All as one they make sheets fast and let out canvas
bellying now to port and now to starboard, all as one
they swing the lofty spars around and swing them back
as a favoring sternwind sweeps the fleet straight on.
Far in front, Palinurus leads the tight formation,
a line commanded to set their course by him.
By now
dank Night had nearly reached her turning-point in the sky,
and stretched on the hard thwarts beneath their oars
the crews gave way to a deep, quiet rest, when down
from the stars the God of Sleep came gliding gently,
cleaving the dark mists and scattering shadows,
hunting you, Palinurus, bringing you fatal sleep
in all your innocence. Like Phorbas to the life,
the god sat high astern, pouring his persuasions
into your ears: “Son of Iasius, Palinurus, the sea,
all on its own, is sweeping the squadrons on,
the wind is blowing steady. Time to sleep.
Come, put your head down, steal some rest
for your eyes worn out from labor.
For a moment I’ll take on your work myself.”
Aeneas’ heart. The good commander orders all masts
stepped at once and the yardarms hung with sail.
All as one they make sheets fast and let out canvas
bellying now to port and now to starboard, all as one
they swing the lofty spars around and swing them back
as a favoring sternwind sweeps the fleet straight on.
Far in front, Palinurus leads the tight formation,
a line commanded to set their course by him.
By now
dank Night had nearly reached her turning-point in the sky,
and stretched on the hard thwarts beneath their oars
the crews gave way to a deep, quiet rest, when down
from the stars the God of Sleep came gliding gently,
cleaving the dark mists and scattering shadows,
hunting you, Palinurus, bringing you fatal sleep
in all your innocence. Like Phorbas to the life,
the god sat high astern, pouring his persuasions
into your ears: “Son of Iasius, Palinurus, the sea,
all on its own, is sweeping the squadrons on,
the wind is blowing steady. Time to sleep.
Come, put your head down, steal some rest
for your eyes worn out from labor.
For a moment I’ll take on your work myself.”
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