National Epics by Kate Milner Rabb

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All the birds that fly in mid-air
Fell like snow-flakes from the heavens,
Flew to hear the minstrel's playing,
Hear the harp of Wainamoinen.
Eagles in their lofty eyrie
Heard the songs of the enchanter;
Swift they left their unfledged young ones,
Flew and perched around the minstrel.
From the heights the hawks descended,
From the clouds down swooped the falcon,
Ducks arose from inland waters,
Swans came gliding from the marshes;
Tiny finches, green and golden,
Flew in flocks that darkened sunlight,
Came in myriads to listen,
Perched upon the head and shoulders
Of the charming Wainamoinen,
Sweetly singing to the playing
Of the ancient bard and minstrel.
And the daughters of the welkin,
Nature's well-beloved daughters,
Listened all in rapt attention;
Some were seated on the rainbow,
Some upon the crimson cloudlets,
Some upon the dome of heaven.

In their hands the Moon's fair daughters
Held their weaving-combs of silver;
In their hands the Sun's sweet maidens
Grasped the handles of their distaffs,
Weaving with their golden shuttles,
Spinning from their silver spindles,
On the red rims of the cloudlets,
On the bow of many colors.
As they hear the minstrel playing,
Hear the harp of Wainamoinen,
Quick they drop their combs of silver,
Drop the spindles from their fingers,
And the golden threads are broken,
Broken are the threads of silver.

All the fish in Suomi-waters
Heard the songs of the magician,
Came on flying fins to listen
To the harp of Wainamoinen.
Came the trout with graceful motions,
Water-dogs with awkward movements,
From the water-cliffs the salmon,
From the sea-caves came the whiting,
From the deeper caves the bill-fish;
Came the pike from beds of sea-fern,
Little fish with eyes of scarlet,
Leaning on the reeds and rushes,
With their heads above the surface;
Came to hear the harp of joyance,
Hear the songs of the enchanter.

Ahto, king of all the waters,
Ancient king with beard of sea-grass,
Raised his head above the billows,
In a boat of water-lilies,
Glided to the coast in silence,
Listened to the wondrous singing,
To the harp of Wainamoinen.
These the words the sea-king uttered:

"Never have I heard such playing,
Never heard such strains of music,
Never since the sea was fashioned,
As the songs of this enchanter,
This sweet singer, Wainamoinen."

Satko's daughters from the blue-deep,
Sisters of the wave-washed ledges,
On the colored strands were sitting,
Smoothing out their sea-green tresses
With the combs of molten silver,
With their silver-handled brushes,
Brushes forged with golden bristles.
When they hear the magic playing,
Hear the harp of Wainamoinen,
Fall their brushes on the billows,
Fall their combs with silver handles
To the bottom of the waters,
Unadorned their heads remaining,
And uncombed their sea-green tresses.

Came the hostess of the waters,
Ancient hostess robed in flowers,
Rising from her deep sea-castle,
Swimming to the shore in wonder,
Listened to the minstrel's playing,
To the harp of Wainamoinen.
As the magic tones re-echoed,
As the singer's song outcircled,
Sank the hostess into slumber,
On the rocks of many colors,
On her watery couch of joyance,
Deep the sleep that settled o'er her.

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel,
Played one day and then a second,
Played the third from morn to even.
There was neither man nor hero,
Neither ancient dame nor maiden,
Not in Metsola a daughter,
Whom he did not touch to weeping;
Wept the young and wept the aged,
Wept the mothers, wept the daughters,
At the music of his playing,
At the songs of the magician.
_Crawford's Translation, Runes XL.-XLI._

THE AENEID.

The Aeneid was written by Publius Vergilius Maro, commonly known as
Vergil, who was born at Andes, near Mantua, Oct. 15, 70 B. C., and died at
Brundusium, Sept. 22, 19 B.C.

He was educated at Cremona, Milan, Naples, and Rome. When the lands near
Cremona and Mantua were assigned by Octavianus to his soldiers after the
battle of Philippi, Vergil lost his estates; but they were afterwards
restored to him through Asinius Pollio.

He became a favorite of Augustus, and spent part of his time in Rome, near
his patron, Maecenas, the emperor's minister.

Vergil's first work was the Bucolics, in imitation of Theocritus. His
second work, the Georgics, treats of husbandry. The Aeneid relates the
adventures of Aeneas, the legendary ancestor of the Romans.

The Aeneid is in twelve books, of which the first six describe the
wanderings of Aeneas, and the last six his wars in Italy. Its metre is the
dactyllic hexameter.

Vergil worked for eleven years on the poem, and considered it incomplete
at his death.

The Aeneid tells the story of the flight of Aeneas from burning Troy to
Italy, and makes him an ancestor of the Romans. With the story of his
wanderings are interwoven praises of the Caesars and the glory of Rome.

It is claimed that because Vergil was essentially a poet of rural life, he
was especially fitted to be the national poet, since the Roman life was
founded on the agricultural country life. He also chose a theme which
particularly appealed to the patriotism of the Romans. For this reason,
the poem was immediately received into popular favor, and was made a
text-book of the Roman youths. It is often said of Vergil by way of
reproach, that his work was an imitation of Homer, and the first six books
of the Aeneid are compared to the Odyssey, the last six to the Iliad. But
while Vergil may be accused of imitation of subject matter, his style is
his own, and is entirely different from that of Homer. There is a tender
grace in the Roman writer which the Greek does not possess. Vergil also
lacks that purely pagan enjoyment of life; in its place there is a tender
melancholy that suggests the passing of the golden age. This difference of
treatment, this added grace and charm, which are always mentioned as
peculiarly Vergil's own, united with his poetical feeling, and skill in
versification, are sufficient to absolve him from the reproach of a mere
imitator.

The Aeneid was greatly admired and imitated during the Middle Ages, and
still retains its high place in literature.

BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE AENEID.

R. W. Brown's History of Roman Classical Literature, n. d., pp. 257-265;

John Alfred Church's Story of the Aeneid, 1886;

Domenico Comparetti's Virgil in the Middle Ages, Tr. by Benecke, 1895;

C. T. Cruttwell's Virgil (see his History of Roman Literature, n. d. pp.
252-375);

John Davis's Observations on the poems of Homer and Virgil, out of the
French, 1672;

James Henry's Aeneidea: or Critical, Exegetical, and Aesthetical Remarks
on the Aeneis, 1873;

James Henry's Notes of Twelve Years' Voyage of Discovery in the first six
Books of the Aeneid, 1853;

J. W. Mackail's Virgil (see his Latin Literature, 1895, pp. 91-106);

H. Nettleship's The Aeneid (see his Vergil, 1880, pp. 45-74);

H. T. Peck and R. Arrowsmith's Roman Life in Latin Prose and Verse, 1894,
pp. 68-70;

Leonhard Schmitz's History of Latin Literature, 1877, pp. 106-108;

W. Y. Sellar's Roman Poets of the Augustan Age, Vergil, Ed. 2, 1883;

W. S. Teuffel's Aeneis (see his History of Roman Literature, 1891, pp.
434-439);

J. S. Tunison's Master Virgil, the author of the Aeneid, as he seemed in
the Middle Ages, 1888;

Robert Y. Tyrrell's Virgil (see his Latin Poetry, 1895, pp. 126-161);

A Forgotten Virtue, Macmillan, 1895, xii. 51-56, an article on the Aeneid,
"the epic of piety;"

Scene of the last six books of the Aeneid, Blackwood, 1832, xxxii. 76-87;

A. A. Knight's The Year in the Aeneid, Education, 1886, vi. 612-616;

William C. Cawton's The Underworld in Homer, Virgil, and Dante, Atlantic,
1884, liv. 99-110.

STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, THE AENEID.

The Aeneid, Tr. by J. Conington, 1887;

The Aeneid, Tr. by C. P. Cranch, 1872;

The Aeneid, Tr. by John Dryden (1697), 1884;

The Aeneid, Tr. by William Morris, 1882;

The Aeneid, Tr. by W. S. Thornhill, 1886;

The Aeneid, Tr. by J. A. Wilstach, 1884;

The Aeneid, Tr. by J. W. Mackail, 1890.

THE STORY OF THE AENEID.

For many years the heroic Aeneas, who escaped from falling Troy to seek the
shores of Italy, there to found the lofty walls of Rome, was tossed upon
the sea by the wrath of cruel Juno.

The fates foretold that these future Romans would overthrow a city dearer
to her than Samos,--Carthage, founded by the Tyrians, opposite Italy, and
far from the Tiberine mouths. For this rich city Juno desired boundless
rule,--hence her hatred of the Trojans. Moreover, she had not forgotten
the judgment of Paris, her slighted charms, and the supplanting of Hebe by
Ganymede.

After having tossed the unhappy hero and his men over many seas, Juno,
observing their approach to Italy, hastened to Aeolia, where King Aeolus
ruled over the struggling winds and tempests, chained in vast caves.

Bribed by Juno, Aeolus sent forth a tempest that scattered the ships of
Aeneas, and would have destroyed them had it not been for the interposition
of Neptune.

Suspecting his sister's treachery, Neptune angrily dismissed the winds,
and hastened to the relief of the Trojans. Cymothoe and Triton pushed the
ships from the rocks, he himself assisting with his trident. Then, driving
over the rough waves in his chariot, he soothed the frenzy of the sea.

The wearied Aeneans speedily sought a harbor on the Libyan shore, a long
and deep recess bordered by a dense grove. In the cliffs was a cave, with
sweet waters and seats carved from the living rock,--the abode of the
nymphs. Gathering here the seven ships that survived the fury of the
storm, Aeneas landed, and feasted with his comrades.

The next morning Aeneas, accompanied by his friend Achates, sallied forth
from the camp at dawn, to learn, if possible, something of the land on
which they had been thrown. They had gone but a little way in the depths
of the forest when they met Aeneas's mother, Venus, in the guise of a
Spartan maid, her bow hung from her shoulders, her hair flowing to the
wind.

"Hast thou seen my sister?" she inquired, "hunting the boar, wrapped in a
spotted lynx hide, her quiver at her back?"

"Nay, we have seen no one," replied Aeneas. "But what shall I call thee,
maiden? A goddess, a nymph? Be kind, I pray thee, and tell us among what
people we have fallen, that before thy altars we may sacrifice many a
victim."

"I am unworthy of such honors," Venus answered. "This land is Libya, but
the town is Tyrian, founded by Dido, who fled hither from her brother
Pygmalion, who had secretly murdered her husband, Sichaeus, for his gold.
To Dido, sleeping, appeared the wraith of Sichaeus, pallid, his breast
pierced with the impious wound, and revealed to her her brother's crime,
showed where a hoard of gold was concealed, and advised her to leave the
country.

"Gathering together a company of those who wished to flee from the tyrant,
Dido seized the ships, loaded them with the gold, and fled to Libya, where
she is now erecting the walls and towers of New Carthage. I would advise
thee to hasten forward and seek our queen. If augury fail me not, I read
from yonder flight of swans the return of thy missing ships and comrades."

As she turned to go, her neck shone with a rosy refulgence, ambrosial
fragrance breathed from her, her robe flowed down about her feet and
revealed the goddess. As she vanished, her son stretched longing hands
after her. "Ah, mother, why dost thou thus trifle with me? Why may not I
clasp thy loved hands and exchange true words with thee?"

Wrapped in a cloud by Venus, Aeneas and Achates mounted a hill that
overlooked the city, and looked down wondering on the broad roofs and the
paved streets of Carthage. The busy Tyrians worked like the bees in early
summer: some moving the immense masses of stone, some founding the
citadel, others laying off the sites for the law courts and sacred Senate
House. "O happy ye whose walls now rise!" exclaimed Aeneas, as he and
Achates mingled with the crowd, still cloud-wrapped, and entered the vast
temple built to Juno. Here Aeneas's fear fell from him; for as he waited
for the queen's coming, he saw pictured on the walls the fall of his own
dear city, and wept as he gazed upon the white tents of Rhesus, and
Hector's disfigured body.

As he wept, the beautiful Dido entered, joyously intent on her great work,
and, seating herself on her throne, proceeded to give laws to the Tyrians,
and assign their work to them.

Suddenly, to the amazement of Aeneas and Achates, in burst their lost
comrades, Antheus, Sergestus, Gyas, Cloanthus, and other Trojans,
demanding of Dido a reason for their rough reception. To whom the queen
replied:--

"Let fear desert your hearts; I, too, have suffered, and know how to aid
the unfortunate. And whither hath not the fame of Troy penetrated? I will
aid you in leaving this coast, or give you a home with me, treating you as
I treat my Tyrians. Would only that Aeneas's self stood with you!"

Then burst Aeneas forth from his cloud-wrapping, made more beautiful by
Venus, the purple bloom of youth on his face, joy in his eyes. "Here am I,
Trojan Aeneas, to render thanks to thee, divine Dido."

Dido, charmed with the hero, prepared a banquet for him in her splendid
hall, curtained with rich drapery, and adorned with costly plate, whereon
were pictured the proud deeds of her ancestors. Hither came the Trojans
with gifts for Dido,--a rich robe stiff with gold embroidery, a veil
embroidered with the yellow acanthus, ornaments of Helen, the sceptre of
Ilione, a pearl and gold necklace, and a double crown of gems and gold.

Beside Achates tripped Cupid, for Venus, suspecting the craft of the
Tyrians, had hidden Ascanius on Mount Ida, and sent her own son in his
guise, to complete Aeneas's conquest of Dido.

After the feast was over, the great beakers were brought in and crowned
with garlands. Dido called for the beaker used by Belus and all his
descendants, and pouring a libation, drank to the happiness of the Trojan
wanderers, and passed the cup around the board. Iopas, the long-haired
minstrel, sang, and the night passed by in various discourse. Dido,
forgetting Sichaeus, hung on the words of Aeneas, questioning him of Priam
and Hector, and at last demanding the story of his wanderings.

"Thou orderest me, O queen, to renew my grief, the destruction of Troy by
the Greeks, which deeds I have seen, and a part of which I have been.

"Despairing of conquering Troy, the Greeks attempted to take it by
stratagem. By the art of Pallas, they framed a heaven-high horse, within
which were concealed picked men for our destruction. Leaving this behind
them, they sailed, ostensibly for home, in reality for Tenedos.

"When we supposed them gone we joyfully went forth to examine the deserted
camp and the giant horse. As we wondered at it, and Laocooen, priest of
Neptune, urged us to destroy it, a crowd of shepherds approached with a
youth whom they had found hiding in the sedges. His name was Sinon. He was
a Greek, but he was hated by Ulysses, and had fled to save his life. The
Greeks had sailed home, he assured us, leaving the horse as a votive
offering to Pallas. They had hoped that its great bulk would prevent the
Trojans from taking it inside their walls, for once within the city, Troy
could never be taken.

"We Trojans were credulous, and Sinon's tale was plausible. To increase
our belief in it, while Laocooen was sacrificing a bull to Neptune, we saw
coming over the sea from Tenedos two huge serpents, their crimson crests
towering high, their breasts erect among the waves, their long folds
sweeping over the foaming sea. As we fled affrighted, they seized the two
sons of Laocooen, twining their coils around the wretched boys; and when
their father hastened to their aid, caught him in their huge coils,
staining his fillets with black blood. 'Laocooen suffered for his crime,'
we said, when, the priest slain, the serpents crept to Pallas's altar, and
curled themselves around the feet of the goddess. Then joyfully we made a
breach in the walls, put rollers under the horse, and, with music and
dancing, dragged it within the walls.

"That night as we lay sleeping after revelry and feasting, Sinon crept
down, opened the horse, and freed the men, who were soon joined by the
other Greeks, returned from Tenedos.

"In a dream Hector's shade appeared to me, and, weeping, bade me fly.
'Troy falls. Do thou go forth and save her household deities!' As I woke,
sounds of battle penetrated to my palace halls, removed somewhat from the
city, and embowered in trees; and I rushed forth, forgetful of Hector's
warning. I saw the streets swimming in Trojan blood, Trojan women and
children led captive, Cassandra dragged from her shrine. Enraged, I
gathered a band and slew many Greeks. But when I saw the impious Pyrrhus
enter the palace and slay Priam at the altar, I recognized the uselessness
of my struggle, and turned to my home.

"Taking my old father Anchises on my back, and leading Iulus by the hand,
I set forth, followed by my wife Creusa. But when I looked behind me at
the city gates, my wife was gone. Mad with despair, I rushed back to the
citadel, crying, 'Creusa! Creusa!' Our homestead was in flames, the
streets filled with Greeks; but as I roamed through the town, I met her
pallid shape. 'O husband, rage not against heaven's decrees! Happy days
will come for thee on the banks of the Tiber. Farewell, and love with me
our boy!'

"Without the gates I was joined by other fugitives; and after the
departure of the Greeks we built ships from the timbers of Mount Ida, and
loading these with our household gods and a few spoils from the city, we
departed to seek new homes.

"In Thrace, our first stopping-place, I learned that Polydore, Priam's
son, who had been entrusted to the care of the Thracian king, had been
slain by him for his gold, when the fortunes of Troy fell. We hastened to
leave this accursed land, and sought Delos, only to be instructed by
Apollo that we must seek the home from which our forefathers had come.
Anchises, who remembered the legends of our race, thought this must be
Crete; so to Crete we sailed, and there laid the foundations of a city,
only to be driven thence by a plague and a threatened famine.

"In a dream my household gods instructed me that Dardanus, the founder of
our race, had come from Hesperia, and thither we must bend our course.
Tempests drove us about the sea for three suns, until, on the fourth, we
landed at the isle of the Harpies,--loathsome monsters, half woman, half
bird, who foul everything they touch. When we had slain the cattle and
prepared to banquet, they drove us from the tables; and when attacked by
us, uttered dire threats of future famine.

"At Epirus we heard that Andromache had wed Prince Helenus, who had
succeeded to the rule of Pyrrhus, two Trojans thus being united. As I
landed here, anxious to prove the truth of the rumor, I met Andromache
herself in a grove near the town, sacrificing at an empty tomb dedicated
to Hector. Pyrrhus had made her his slave after the fall of Troy, but
after he wedded Hermione, he had given her to Helenus, himself a slave.
When Pyrrhus died, part of his realm fell to Helenus, and here the two had
set up a little Troy.

"Helenus received us kindly, instructed us as to our route, and gave us
rich gifts; and Andromache, remembering her dead Astyanax, wept over lulus
as she parted with him.

"As we passed Sicily we took up a Greek, Achemenides, a companion of
Ulysses, who had been left behind, and had since been hiding in deadly
terror from the Cyclops. We ourselves caught sight of the monster
Polyphemus, feeling his way to the shore to bathe his wounded eye.

"Instructed by Helenus, we avoided Scylla and Charybdis, and reached
Sicily, where my father died. We were just leaving the island when the
storm arose that brought us hither. The rest thou knowest."

The guests departed from the banquet hall; but the unhappy Dido, consumed
with love, imparted her secret to her sister Anna.

"Why shouldst thou weep, sister dear? Why regret that thou hast at last
forgotten Sichaeus? Contend not against love, but strive to unite Trojan
and Tyrian. Winter comes on, and thou canst detain him while the sea rages
and the winds are fierce and the rains icy."

Her ambitious plans for her city forgotten, Dido wandered through the
streets, mad with love and unable to conceal her passion. She led AEneas
among the walls and towers, made feasts for him, and begged again and
again to hear the story of his wandering. At other times she fondled
Ascanius, leaving her youths undrilled, and the city works abandoned.

Perceiving that Aeneas, well content, seemed to forget that his goal was
Hesperia, Mercury was dispatched by Jupiter to warn him to depart from
Carthage.

"Why stoppest thou here?" questioned the herald of the gods. "If thou
carest not for thyself, think of Ascanius, thine heir. His must be the
Italian realms, the Roman world."

The horror-stricken Aeneas stood senseless with fear. He longed to escape,
but how leave the unhappy Dido? Quickly calling his comrades, he commanded
them to fit out the fleet in silence, hoping to find a time when he could
break the news to Dido gently.

But who can deceive a lover? Rumor bore the report to Dido, who, mad with
grief, reproached Aeneas. "Perfidious one! didst thou think to escape from
me? Does not our love restrain thee, and the thought that I shall surely
die when thou art gone? I have sacrificed all to thee; now leave me not
lonely in my empty palace."

Aeneas remained untouched. He would ever retain the kindest memories of his
stay in Carthage. He had never held out the hope of wedlock to her. A
higher power called him, and, bidden by Jove, he must depart, for
Ascanius's sake, to Italy.

The fainting Dido was carried to her palace, whence she could watch the
hurried preparations for the departure. As she watched, life became
intolerable to her. Pretending to her sister that she was preparing to
perform a magic spell to release her from the bonds of love, she reared a
mighty pyre in her court, wreathed it with funereal garlands, and placed
thereon Aeneas's couch, garments, and sword. With her hair dishevelled, she
then invoked Hecate, and sprinkling Avernian water and poisons on it, and
casting thereon various love charms, she called the gods to witness that
she was determined to die. As the ships left the harbor, she tore her
hair, one moment accusing herself because she had not torn Aeneas to pieces
when in her power, at another vowing to follow him. Then, anxious to
forget her grief, she mounted, the pyre, and threw herself on the sword of
her faithless, lover.

Far out at sea, the Aeneans, looking back, dimly guessed the meaning of the
flames that brightened the stormy skies.

Contrary winds compelled Aeneas to seek harbor in Sicily. Its king,
Acestes, was his friend, and there he had buried his father Anchises. A
year had elapsed since his death, and in honor of the anniversary, Aeneas
instituted funeral games, in which there were trials of skill in rowing,
foot-racing, archery, and boxing.

While the spectators were applauding the feats of skill, the Trojan women,
at the instigation of Juno, set fire to the ships, that they might compel
Aeneas to remain in Sicily. By Jupiter's aid, some of the vessels were
saved, and Aeneas, acting on the advice of Nautes, allowed the women and
those Trojans who so desired, to remain in Sicily, and himself marked out
for them the foundations of their city.

While here Aeneas was urged by Anchises in a dream to visit the Cumaean
Sibyl, that, with her assistance, he might visit Elysium and talk with
him.

In the lofty temple, the Sibyl, inspired by the god, encouraged the hero.
"Success will at last be thine, and Juno will be won over to thee. But
great labors must thou undergo."

To visit the underworld was no easy task, she assured him. "The gates of
Dis stand open night and day; small trouble it is to descend thereto, but
to retrace one's steps, and regain the upper air, there lies the toil."
Aeneas must first possess a golden branch to present to Proserpina, and
celebrate the funeral rites of his friend, Misenus, who yet lay unburied.

While Aeneas worked in the forest, felling trees for Misenus's bier, the
doves of Venus descended and aided him to find the tree, from which he
plucked the gleaming branch.

Across the Styx, past the dread Cerberus, Aeneas and the Sibyl went,
through the abode of babes and those who died for deeds they did not do,
and into the mourning fields, where the disappointed in love were hedged
in with myrtle sprays. Here Aeneas descried Dido dimly through the clouds,
and wept to see her fresh wound. Many were his protestations of his
faithfulness, and strong his declaration that he left her only at the
command of the gods. But without raising her eyes, Dido turned coldly away
to where her former husband returned her love for love. Past the chamber
of torture, beyond Phlegethon, guarded by Tisiphone and Tartarus, in whose
depths the wicked were punished, they went, and entered the beautiful
fields of Elysium, where Aeneas found his father.

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