The Birth of Aeneas

And now Poseidon stirs the briny deep,
And demons in the ocean rise from sleep;
Three waterspouts revolve into the air,
Blackening the upper atmosphere.

Breakers tower and crash upon the main,
And rushing torrents fill the open plain,
Then 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,
And all his family shelter in the keep,
While all the ground is shaken from the deep.

And all of Troy is blanketed in dark,
As every humble hearth has lost its spark,
And every candle stands without a flame,
And every lamp’s 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 an arching hall.

In common peace, the two will live awhile,
Venus, princess of the Cyprian isle,
And old Anchises, of the Royal run,
And, in the Spring, this goddess bears a son.

Of brave Aeneas’ birth, not much is said,
In epic books which 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,
To praise this man, who suffered slings of war,
And brought the sacred embers to our shore.

So if too gently this appeal resounds,
I promise to address his warring 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 wooden shield and iron spear;
He filled the 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 was 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.