P. Vergilius Maro, Aeneid
Theodore C. Williams, Ed.

Soon came I to my father's ancient seat,
our home and heritage. But lo! my sire
(whom first of all I sought, and first would bear
to safe asylum in the distant hills)
vowed he could never, after fallen Troy,
live longer on, or bear an exile's woe.
“O you,” he cried, “whose blood not yet betrays
the cruel taint of time, whose powers be still
unpropped and undecayed, go, take your flight.
If heavenly wrath had willed my life to spare,
this dwelling had been safe. It is too much
that I have watched one wreck, and for too Iong
outlived my vanquished country. Thus, O, thus!
Compose these limbs for death, and say farewell.
My own hand will procure it; or my foe
will end me of mere pity, and for spoil
will strip me bare. It is an easy loss
to have no grave. For many a year gone by,
accursed of Heaven, I tarry in this world
a useless burden, since that fatal hour
when Jove, of gods the Sire and men the King,
his lightnings o'er me breathed and blasting fire.”