We summon all Our men. The early summer scarce begun, My sire Anchises bids us give our sails Unto the fates. Weeping, I leave behind My native shores, the harbors, and the fields Where Troy once stood—an exile born away Upon the deep: with me my friends, my son, And household gods, and those of mightier power.
“Brave Dardan men, that land from which you trace Your birth and first beginnings of your race Shall take you back unto its joyful breast. Go seek your ancient mother, and there rest. There shall all shores Aeneas’ rule obey, And a long line of sons hold sovereign sway.”
It proved a fatal year. Either they left Their pleasant lives, or their sick bodies dragged About; the dog-star parched the sterile fields; And all the grass was dry; the sickly crops Refused their grain.
“You hold your course to Italy; Your Italy you shall find, with winds invoked, And sail into her ports. But ere you gird Your city with its walls, by famine dire, For this your outrage, you shall be compelled To gnaw the very boards on which you eat.”
Alas, I lose Anchises, honored sire, Who was the solace of my cares and griefs. Here, best of fathers, you did leave me, sad And worn; you, from so many perils snatched, Alas, now all in vain!
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