We view a rising land, like distant clouds;
The mountain-tops confirm the pleasing sight,
And curling smoke ascending from their height.
The canvas falls; their oars the sailors ply;
From the rude strokes the whirling waters fly.
At length I land upon the Strophades,
Safe from the danger of the stormy seas.
Those isles are compass’d by th’ Ionian main,
The dire abode where the foul Harpies reign,
Forc’d by the winged warriors to repair
To their old homes, and leave their costly fare.
Monsters more fierce offended Heav’n ne’er sent
From hell’s abyss, for human punishment:
With virgin faces, but with wombs obscene,
Foul paunches, and with ordure still unclean;
With claws for hands, and looks for ever lean.
“We landed at the port, and soon beheld
Fat herds of oxen graze the flow’ry field,
And wanton goats without a keeper stray’d.
With weapons we the welcome prey invade,
Then call the gods for partners of our feast,
And Jove himself, the chief invited guest.
We spread the tables on the greensward ground;
We feed with hunger, and the bowls go round;
When from the mountain-tops, with hideous cry,
And clatt’ring wings, the hungry Harpies fly;
They snatch the meat, defiling all they find,
And, parting, leave a loathsome stench behind.
Close by a hollow rock, again we sit,
New dress the dinner, and the beds refit,
Secure from sight, beneath a pleasing shade,
Where tufted trees a native arbour made.
Again the holy fires on altars burn;
And once again the rav’nous birds return,
Or from the dark recesses where they lie,
Or from another quarter of the sky;
With filthy claws their odious meal repeat,
And mix their loathsome ordures with their meat.
I bid my friends for vengeance then prepare,
And with the hellish nation wage the war.
They, as commanded, for the fight provide,
And in the grass their glitt’ring weapons hide;
Then, when along the crooked shore we hear
Their clatt’ring wings, and saw the foes appear,
Misenus sounds a charge: we take th’ alarm,
And our strong hands with swords and bucklers arm.
In this new kind of combat all employ
Their utmost force, the monsters to destroy.
In vain—the fated skin is proof to wounds;
And from their plumes the shining sword rebounds.
At length rebuff’d, they leave their mangled prey,
And their stretch’d pinions to the skies display.
Yet one remain’d—the messenger of Fate:
High on a craggy cliff Celaeno sate,
And thus her dismal errand did relate:
‘What! not contented with our oxen slain,
Dare you with Heav’n an impious war maintain,
And drive the Harpies from their native reign?
Heed therefore what I say; and keep in mind
What Jove decrees, what Phoebus has design’d,
And I, the Furies’ queen, from both relate—
You seek th’ Italian shores, foredoom’d by fate:
Th’ Italian shores are granted you to find,
And a safe passage to the port assign’d.
But know, that ere your promis’d walls you build,
My curses shall severely be fulfill’d.
Fierce famine is your lot for this misdeed,
Reduc’d to grind the plates on which you feed.’
She said, and to the neighb’ring forest flew.
Our courage fails us, and our fears renew.
Hopeless to win by war, to pray’rs we fall,
And on th’ offended Harpies humbly call,
And whether gods or birds obscene they were,
Our vows for pardon and for peace prefer.
But old Anchises, off’ring sacrifice,
And lifting up to heav’n his hands and eyes,
Ador’d the greater gods: ‘Avert,’ said he,
‘These omens; render vain this prophecy,
And from th’ impending curse a pious people free!’
“Thus having said, he bids us put to sea;
We loose from shore our haulsers, and obey,
And soon with swelling sails pursue the wat’ry way.
Amidst our course, Zacynthian woods appear;
And next by rocky Neritos we steer:
We fly from Ithaca’s detested shore,
And curse the land which dire Ulysses bore.
At length Leucate’s cloudy top appears,
And the Sun’s temple, which the sailor fears.
Resolv’d to breathe a while from labour past,
Our crooked anchors from the prow we cast,
And joyful to the little city haste.
Here, safe beyond our hopes, our vows we pay
To Jove, the guide and patron of our way.
The customs of our country we pursue,
And Trojan games on Actian shores renew.
Our youth their naked limbs besmear with oil,
And exercise the wrastlers’ noble toil;
Pleas’d to have sail’d so long before the wind,
And left so many Grecian towns behind.
The sun had now fulfill’d his annual course,
And Boreas on the seas display’d his force:
I fix’d upon the temple’s lofty door
The brazen shield which vanquish’d Abas bore;
The verse beneath my name and action speaks:
‘These arms Aeneas took from conqu’ring Greeks.’
Then I command to weigh; the seamen ply
Their sweeping oars; the smoking billows fly.
The sight of high Phaeacia soon we lost,
And skimm’d along Epirus’ rocky coast.
“Then to Chaonia’s port our course we bend,
And, landed, to Buthrotus’ heights ascend.
Here wondrous things were loudly blaz’d fame:
How Helenus reviv’d the Trojan name,
And reign’d in Greece; that Priam’s captive son
Succeeded Pyrrhus in his bed and throne;
And fair Andromachë, restor’d by fate,
Once more was happy in a Trojan mate.
I leave my galleys riding in the port,
And long to see the new Dardanian court.
By chance, the mournful queen, before the gate,
Then solemniz’d her former husband’s fate.
Green altars, rais’d of turf, with gifts she crown’d,
And sacred priests in order stand around,
And thrice the name of hapless Hector sound.
The grove itself resembles Ida’s wood;
And Simoïs seem’d the well-dissembled flood.
But when at nearer distance she beheld
My shining armour and my Trojan shield,
Astonish’d at the sight, the vital heat
Forsakes her limbs; her veins no longer beat:
She faints, she falls, and scarce recov’ring strength,
Thus, with a falt’ring tongue, she speaks at length:
“ ‘Are you alive, O goddess-born?’ she said,
‘Or if a ghost, then where is Hector’s shade?’
At this, she cast a loud and frightful cry.
With broken words I made this brief reply:
‘All of me that remains appears in sight;
I live, if living be to loathe the light.
No phantom; but I drag a wretched life,
My fate resembling that of Hector’s wife.
What have you suffer’d since you lost your lord?
By what strange blessing are you now restor’d?
Still are you Hector’s? or is Hector fled,
And his remembrance lost in Pyrrhus’ bed?’
With eyes dejected, in a lowly tone,
After a modest pause she thus begun:
“ ‘O only happy maid of Priam’s race,
Whom death deliver’d from the foes’ embrace!
Commanded on Achilles’ tomb to die,
Not forc’d, like us, to hard captivity,
Or in a haughty master’s arms to lie.
In Grecian ships unhappy we were borne,
Endur’d
