Virgil, The Aeneid (First Century B.C.E.)

When Augustus assumed power in 27 B.C.E., he did not cast himself as an innovator. Well aware of Romans’ reverence for tradition, he used republican customs to cloak his creation of a new political system anchored in the power of its “first man,” the emperor. Despite the misgivings some Romans had with this transformation, they enjoyed a period of unrivaled prosperity and stability. During Augustus’s reign, artists and writers celebrated Rome’s glory and superiority. One of the emperor’s favorites was the poet Virgil (70–19 B.C.E.), who regularly shared his work with Augustus. Inspired by Homer, Virgil composed an epic poem about the origins of Rome, The Aeneid. He died before finishing it to his satisfaction and, in his will, requested that it be destroyed. Augustus intervened, however, thereby preserving The Aeneid for posterity. The poem recounts the story of the legendary founder of Rome, the Trojan Aeneas. The first six books focus on his travels to Italy from Troy; as in The Odyssey, the hero’s voyage takes longer than expected due to a variety of mishaps and diversions along the way. These include a visit to the Underworld, as described in the excerpt below. Guided by the Sibyl, here Aeneas meets his dead father, Anchises, who shows him a pageant of the spirits of the great Romans to come, who will establish the empire and peace throughout the world.

From Virgil, The Aeneid, trans. Robert Fagles (New York: Penguin Group, 2006), 205–10.

Now father Anchises, deep in a valley’s green recess,

was passing among the souls secluded there, reviewing them,

eagerly, on their way to the world of light above. By chance

he was counting over his own people, all his cherished heirs,

their fame and their fates, their values, acts of valor.

When he saw Aeneas striding toward him over the fields,

he reached out both his hands as his spirit lifted,

tears ran down his cheeks, a cry broke from his lips:

“You’ve come at last? Has the love your father hoped for

mastered the hardship of the journey? Let me look at your face,

my son, exchange some words, and hear your familiar voice.

So I dreamed, I knew you’d come, I counted the moments—

my longing has not betrayed me.

Over what lands, what seas have you been driven,

buffeted by what perils into my open arms, my son?

How I feared the realm of Libya might well do you harm!”

“Your ghost, my father,” he replied, “your grieving ghost,

so often it came and urged me to your threshold!

My ships are lying moored in the Tuscan sea.

Let me clasp your hand, my father, let me—

I beg you, don’t withdraw from my embrace!”

So Aeneas pleaded, his face streaming tears.

Three times he tried to fling his arms around his neck,

three times he embraced—nothing . . . the phantom

sifting through his fingers,

light as wind, quick as a dream in flight.

And now Aeneas sees in the valley’s depths

a sheltered grove and rustling wooded brakes

and the Lethe¹ flowing past the homes of peace.

Around it hovered numberless races, nations of souls

like bees in meadowlands on a cloudless summer day

that settle on flowers, riots of color, swarming round

the lilies’ lustrous sheen, and the whole field comes alive

with a humming murmur. Struck by the sudden sight,

Aeneas, all unknowing, wonders aloud, and asks:

“What is the river over there? And who are they

who crowd the banks in such a growing throng?”

His father Anchises answers: “They are the spirits

owed a second body by the Fates. They drink deep

of the river Lethe’s currents there, long drafts

that will set them free of cares, oblivious forever.

How long I have yearned to tell you, show them to you,

face-to-face, yes, as I count the tally out

of all my children’s children. So all the more

you can rejoice with me in Italy, found at last.” . . .

Anchises, silent a moment, drawing his son and Sibyl

with him into the midst of the vast murmuring throng,

took his stand on a rise of ground where he could scan

the long column marching toward him, soul by soul,

and recognize their features as they neared.

So come,

the glory that will follow the sons of Troy through time,

your children born of Italian stock who wait for life,

bright souls, future heirs of our name and our renown:

I will reveal them all and tell you of your fate. . . .

“Here,

a son of Mars, his grandsire Numitor’s comrade—Romulus,

bred from Assaracus’ blood by his mother, Ilia.

See how the twin plumes stand joined on his helmet?

And the Father of Gods himself already marks him out

with his own bolts of honor. Under his auspices, watch,

my son, our brilliant Rome will extend her empire far

and wide as the earth, her spirit high as Olympus.

Within her single wall she will gird her seven hills,

blest in her breed of men: like the Berecynthian Mother

crowned with her turrets, riding her victor’s chariot

through the Phrygian cities, glad in her brood of gods,

embracing a hundred grandsons. All dwell in the heavens,

all command the heights.

Now turn your eyes this way

and behold these people, your own Roman people.

Here is Caesar and all the line of Iulus

soon to venture under the sky’s great arch.

Here is the man, he’s here! Time and again

you’ve heard his coming promised—Caesar Augustus!

Son of a god, he will bring back the Age of Gold

to the Latian fields where Saturn once held sway,

expand his empire past the Garamants and the Indians

to a land beyond the stars, beyond the wheel of the year,

the course of the sun itself, where Atlas bears the skies

and turns on his shoulder the heavens studded with flaming stars.

Even now the Caspian and Maeotic kingdoms quake at his coming,

oracles sound the alarm and the seven mouths of the Nile

churn with fear. Not even Hercules² himself could cross

such a vast expanse of earth, though it’s true he shot

the stag with its brazen hoofs, and brought peace

to the ravaged woods of Erymanthus, terrorized

the Hydra of Lerna with his bow. Not even Bacchus³

in all his glory, driving his team with vines for reins

and lashing his tigers down from Nysa’s soaring ridge.

Do we still flinch from turning our valor into deeds?

Or fear to make our home on Western soil? . . .

Others, I have no doubt,

will forge the bronze to breathe with suppler lines,

draw from the block of marble features quick with life,

plead their cases better, chart with their rods the stars

that climb the sky and foretell the times they rise.

But you, Roman, remember, rule with all your power

the peoples of the earth—these will be your arts:

to put your stamp on the works and ways of peace,

to spare the defeated, break the proud in war.”

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