From that noble blood will arise a Trojan Caesar,
his empire bound by the Ocean, his glory by the stars:
Julius, a name passed down from Iulus, his great forebear.
听了podcast之后才知道维吉尔写这首诗是被奥古斯都commission的。知道以后就理解为什么Jove会说这个了。
Aeneas will wage
a long, costly war in Italy, crush defiant tribes
and build high city walls for his people there
and found the rule of law.
【不知道维吉尔的rule of law现在的是不是一样。当然了大概率不一样毕竟罗马那时候都帝制了。但是读到Jove说要建立法律我还是挺震惊的。
For awaiting the queen, beneath the great temple now,
exploring its features one by one, amazed at it all,
the city’s splendor, the work of rival workers’ hands
and the vast scale of their labors—all at once he sees,
spread out from first to last, the battles fought at Troy,
the fame of the Trojan War now known throughout the world,
Atreus’ sons and Priam—Achilles, savage to both at once.
Aeneas came to a halt and wept, and “Oh, Achates,”
he cried, “is there anywhere, any place on earth
not filled with our ordeals? There’s Priam, look!
Even here, merit will have its true reward . . .
even here, the world is a world of tears
and the burdens of mortality touch the heart.
Dismiss your fears. Trust me, this fame of ours
will offer us some haven.”
听了podcast才知道Lacrimae rerum（"tears of things"）经常被单独引用，比如在战争纪念碑上。
上面的英文版是Robert Fagles的译版，Robert Fitzgerald是这么翻译的：
“What spot on earth,”
He said, “what region of the earth, Achatës,
Is not full of the story of our sorrow?
Look, here is Priam. Even so far away
Great valor has due honor; they weep here
For how the world goes, and our life that passes
Touches their hearts.
“That said, he drags the old man
straight to the altar, quaking, slithering on through
slicks of his son’s blood, and twisting Priam’s hair
in his left hand, his right hand sweeping forth his sword—
a flash of steel—he buries it hilt-deep in the king’s flank.
“Such was the fate of Priam, his death, his lot on earth,
with Troy blazing before his eyes, her ramparts down,
the monarch who once had ruled in all his glory
the many lands of Asia, Asia’s many tribes.
A powerful trunk is lying on the shore.
The head wrenched from the shoulders.
A corpse without a name.
Priam之死，维吉尔写特洛伊沦陷这段确实惊心动魄。
Think: it’s not that beauty, Helen, you should hate,
not even Paris, the man that you should blame, no,
it’s the gods, the ruthless gods who are tearing down
the wealth of Troy, her toppling crown of towers.
没想到维纳斯直接对儿子说不要怨海伦也不要怨帕里斯，怨诸神吧。
我知道有点套路但是读起来还是心酸：要是Astyanax还活着，他该跟你一样大了
“Andromache grieves no less at our final parting.
She brings out robes shot through with gilded thread
and a Phrygian cloak for Ascanius. Not to be outdone
in kindness, weighing him down with woven gifts
she says: ‘Please take these as well, the work
of my hands, reminders of me to you, dear boy,
and tokens of my love . . .
the love of Hector’s Andromache that never dies.
Take them. The last gifts from your own people.
You are the only image of my Astyanax that’s left.
His eyes, his hands, his features, so like yours—
he would be growing up now, just your age.’
像奥德修斯一样在海边搬了十年的家