And now Poseidon stirs the briny deep,
Where demons of the ocean wake from sleep;
Three waterspouts revolve into the air,
Blackening the upper atmosphere.
Towering breakers crest upon the main,
And rushing torrents flood the open plane,
And Hera strikes with her ungodly forces,
Drowning all of Hector’s broken horses.
And now the unchained Furies strike the gates,
Where Priam huddles, praying to the Fates,
With all his family, sheltered in the keep,
While all the ground is shaken from the deep.
Now, all of Troy is blanketed in dark,
Each humble hearth has lost its sacred spark,
And every candle stands without a flame,
With every lamp extinguished just the same.
But Venus and Anchises dwell outside,
And looking for a sturdy place to hide,
The two are overtaken by the squall,
And take their cover in a rustic hall.
In common peace, the two will live awhile,
Venus, princess of the Cyprian isle,
And good Anchises, of the Royal run,
And, in the Spring, the woman bears a son.
Of brave Aeneas’ birth, not much is said,
In epic books that everyone has read,
Who later labored on the house of Rome,
And made the everlasting town our home!
The ancient bards employed imagination,
Like heavy horses bearing revelation,
Upon this child who suffered slings of war,
And brought the sacred embers to our shore!
But if too gently this appeal resounds,
I promise, shortly, to address his wounds,
For now, imagine his nativity,
Conscripted from the blue Aegean sea.
Drawn from turquoise depths, and golden sands,
Where windswept waters sweep the slender strands,
A spiral conch is pulled by wafting sails,
And dolphins, dancing, on their blue-gray tails.
Upon the shell, the infant boy commands,
With Roman ensigns on his swaddling bands;
A little flaming torch, in gold brocade,
Upon the beach, beside the child is laid.
Now wise Anchises, father of this child,
To Troy returns, from leisure in the wild,
And Venus, as her son was borne, retires,
Back to Hesperides’ purple fires.
The Trojan child to destiny is sworn,
Long before the infant Christ was born,
To wield a flaming torch to sacred Rome,
Where heaven stoops to meet the vaulting dome.
Now of his early years, I am unclear,
But skilled he was, upon his thirteenth year,
To lift the brazen shield and wooden spear;
He filled his city’s enemies with fear.
Now Paris, by the Beautiful, is led,
Aeneas, duly, to the Truth is wed,
Two common wheels, to guide one chariot,
And, in this way, the path of Troy is set.
And soon Aeneas sails the silver sea,
To Grecian shores and, setting Helen free,
Restores her to the Trojan city walled,
Which many Spartans an abduction called.