At this one of their multitude, and she the eldest, Pyrgo, nurse in the
palace to all Priam's many children: 'This is not Beroe, I tell you, O
mothers; this is not the wife of Doryclus of Rhoeteum.
palace to all Priam's many children: 'This is not Beroe, I tell you, O
mothers; this is not the wife of Doryclus of Rhoeteum.
Virgil - Aeneid
' such is the single cry of all.
They pray for
a city, sick of the burden of their sea-sorrow. So she darts among them,
not witless to harm, and lays by face and raiment of a goddess: she
becomes Beroe, the aged wife of Tmarian Doryclus, who had once had birth
and name and children, and in this guise goes among the Dardanian
matrons. 'Ah, wretched we,' she cries, 'whom hostile Achaean hands did
not drag to death beneath our native city! ah hapless race, for what
destruction does Fortune hold thee back? The [626-660]seventh summer
now declines since Troy's overthrow, while we pass measuring out by so
many stars the harbourless rocks over every water and land, pursuing all
the while over the vast sea an Italy that flies us, and tossing on the
waves. Here are our brother Eryx' borders, and Acestes' welcome: who
denies us to cast up walls and give our citizens a city? O country, O
household gods vainly rescued from the foe! shall there never be a
Trojan town to tell of? shall I nowhere see a Xanthus and a Simois, the
rivers of Hector? Nay, up and join me in burning with fire these
ill-ominous ships. For in sleep the phantom of Cassandra the soothsayer
seemed to give me blazing brands: _Here seek your Troy_, she said; _here
is your home_. Now is the time to do it; nor do these high portents
allow delay. Behold four altars to Neptune; the god himself lends the
firebrand and the nerve. ' Speaking thus, at once she strongly seizes the
fiery weapon, and with straining hand whirls it far upreared, and
flings: the souls of the Ilian women are startled and their wits amazed.
At this one of their multitude, and she the eldest, Pyrgo, nurse in the
palace to all Priam's many children: 'This is not Beroe, I tell you, O
mothers; this is not the wife of Doryclus of Rhoeteum. Mark the
lineaments of divine grace and the gleaming eyes, what a breath is hers,
what a countenance, and the sound of her voice and the steps of her
going. I, I time agone left Beroe apart, sick and fretting that she
alone must have no part in this our service, nor pay Anchises his due
sacrifice. ' So spoke she. . . . But the matrons at first, dubious and
wavering, gazed on the ships with malignant eyes, between the wretched
longing for the land they trod and the fated realm that summoned them:
when the goddess rose through the sky on poised wings, and in her flight
drew a vast bow beneath the clouds. Then indeed, amazed at the tokens
and driven by madness, they raise a cry and snatch fire from the
[661-694]hearths within; others plunder the altars, and cast on
brushwood boughs and brands. The Fire-god rages with loose rein over
thwarts and oars and hulls of painted fir. Eumelus carries the news of
the burning ships to the grave of Anchises and the ranges of the
theatre; and looking back, their own eyes see the floating cloud of dark
ashes. And in a moment Ascanius, as he rode gaily before his cavalry,
spurred his horse to the disordered camp; nor can his breathless
guardians hold him back. 'What strange madness is this? ' he cries;
'whither now hasten you, whither, alas and woe! O citizens? not on the
foe nor on some hostile Argive camp; it is your own hopes you burn.
a city, sick of the burden of their sea-sorrow. So she darts among them,
not witless to harm, and lays by face and raiment of a goddess: she
becomes Beroe, the aged wife of Tmarian Doryclus, who had once had birth
and name and children, and in this guise goes among the Dardanian
matrons. 'Ah, wretched we,' she cries, 'whom hostile Achaean hands did
not drag to death beneath our native city! ah hapless race, for what
destruction does Fortune hold thee back? The [626-660]seventh summer
now declines since Troy's overthrow, while we pass measuring out by so
many stars the harbourless rocks over every water and land, pursuing all
the while over the vast sea an Italy that flies us, and tossing on the
waves. Here are our brother Eryx' borders, and Acestes' welcome: who
denies us to cast up walls and give our citizens a city? O country, O
household gods vainly rescued from the foe! shall there never be a
Trojan town to tell of? shall I nowhere see a Xanthus and a Simois, the
rivers of Hector? Nay, up and join me in burning with fire these
ill-ominous ships. For in sleep the phantom of Cassandra the soothsayer
seemed to give me blazing brands: _Here seek your Troy_, she said; _here
is your home_. Now is the time to do it; nor do these high portents
allow delay. Behold four altars to Neptune; the god himself lends the
firebrand and the nerve. ' Speaking thus, at once she strongly seizes the
fiery weapon, and with straining hand whirls it far upreared, and
flings: the souls of the Ilian women are startled and their wits amazed.
At this one of their multitude, and she the eldest, Pyrgo, nurse in the
palace to all Priam's many children: 'This is not Beroe, I tell you, O
mothers; this is not the wife of Doryclus of Rhoeteum. Mark the
lineaments of divine grace and the gleaming eyes, what a breath is hers,
what a countenance, and the sound of her voice and the steps of her
going. I, I time agone left Beroe apart, sick and fretting that she
alone must have no part in this our service, nor pay Anchises his due
sacrifice. ' So spoke she. . . . But the matrons at first, dubious and
wavering, gazed on the ships with malignant eyes, between the wretched
longing for the land they trod and the fated realm that summoned them:
when the goddess rose through the sky on poised wings, and in her flight
drew a vast bow beneath the clouds. Then indeed, amazed at the tokens
and driven by madness, they raise a cry and snatch fire from the
[661-694]hearths within; others plunder the altars, and cast on
brushwood boughs and brands. The Fire-god rages with loose rein over
thwarts and oars and hulls of painted fir. Eumelus carries the news of
the burning ships to the grave of Anchises and the ranges of the
theatre; and looking back, their own eyes see the floating cloud of dark
ashes. And in a moment Ascanius, as he rode gaily before his cavalry,
spurred his horse to the disordered camp; nor can his breathless
guardians hold him back. 'What strange madness is this? ' he cries;
'whither now hasten you, whither, alas and woe! O citizens? not on the
foe nor on some hostile Argive camp; it is your own hopes you burn.
