The Aeneid by Robert Fagles Virgil, Bernard Knox

father Belus helped him. Belus had sacked Cyprus,
plundered that rich island, ruled with a victor’s hand.
From that day on I have known of Troy’s disaster,
known your name, and all the kings of Greece.
Teucer, your enemy, often sang Troy’s praises,
claiming his own descent from Teucer’s ancient stock.
So come, young soldiers, welcome to our house.
My destiny, harrying me with trials hard as yours,
led me as well, at last, to anchor in this land.
Schooled in suffering, now I learn to comfort
those who suffer too.”
With that greeting
she leads Aeneas into the royal halls, announcing
offerings in the gods’ high temples as she goes.
Not forgetting to send his shipmates on the beaches
twenty bulls and a hundred huge, bristling razorbacks
and a hundred fatted lambs together with their mothers:
gifts to make this day a day of joy.
Within the palace
all is decked with adornments, lavish, regal splendor.
In the central hall they are setting out a banquet,
draping the gorgeous purple, intricately worked,
heaping the board with grand displays of silver
and gold engraved with her fathers’ valiant deeds,
a long, unending series of captains and commands,
traced through a line of heroes since her country’s birth.
     
     
    Aeneas—a father’s love would give the man no rest—
quickly sends Achates down to the ships to take
the news to Ascanius, bring him back to Carthage.
All his paternal care is focused on his son.
He tells Achates to fetch some gifts as well,
plucked from the ruins of Troy: a gown stiff
with figures stitched in gold, and a woven veil
with yellow sprays of acanthus round the border.
Helen’s glory, gifts she carried out of Mycenae,
fleeing Argos for Troy to seal her wicked marriage—
the marvelous handiwork of Helen’s mother, Leda.
Aeneas adds the scepter Ilione used to bear,
the eldest daughter of Priam; a necklace too,
strung with pearls, and a crown of double bands,
one studded with gems, the other, gold. Achates,
following orders, hurries toward the ships.
     
     
    But now Venus is mulling over some new schemes,
new intrigues. Altered in face and figure, Cupid
would go in place of the captivating Ascanius,
using his gifts to fire the queen to madness,
weaving a lover’s ardor through her bones.
No doubt Venus fears that treacherous house
and the Tyrians’ forked tongues,
and brutal Juno inflames her anguish too
and her cares keep coming back as night draws on.
So Venus makes an appeal to Love, her winged son:
“You, my son, are my strength, my greatest power—
you alone, my son, can scoff at the lightning bolts
the high and mighty Father hurled against Typhoeus.
Help me, I beg you. I need all your immortal force.
Your brother Aeneas is tossed round every coast on earth,
thanks to Juno’s ruthless hatred, as you well know,
and time and again you’ve grieved to see my grief.
But now Phoenician Dido has him in her clutches,
holding him back with smooth, seductive words,
and I fear the outcome of Juno’s welcome here . . .
She won’t sit tight while Fate is turning on its hinge.
So I plan to forestall her with ruses of my own
and besiege the queen with flames,
and no goddess will change her mood—she’s mine,
my ally-in-arms in my great love for Aeneas.
     
    “Now how can you go about this? Hear my plan.
His dear father has just sent for the young prince—
he means the world to me—and he’s bound for Carthage now,
bearing presents saved from the sea, the flames of Troy.
I’ll lull him into a deep sleep and hide him far away
on Cythera’s heights or high Idalium, my shrines,
so he cannot learn of my trap or spring it open
while it’s being set. And you with your cunning,
forge his appearance—just one night, no more—put on
the familiar features of the boy, boy that you are,
so when the wine flows free at the royal board
and Dido, lost in joy, cradles you in her lap,
caressing, kissing you gently, you can breathe
your secret fire into her, poison the queen
and she will never