the _Aeneid_ was the product of this technique meticulously reworked to
the demands of an exacting poetic taste.

The _Ciris_ gave Vergil his first lesson in serious poetic composition,
and no task could have been set of more immediate value for the training
of Rome's epic poet. In a national epic classical objectivity could not
suffice for a people that had grown so self-conscious. Epic poetry must
become more subjective at Rome or perish. To be sure the vices of the
episodic style must be pruned away, and they were, mercilessly. The
_Aeneid_ has none of the meretricious involutions of plot, none of the
puzzling half-uttered allusions to essential facts, none of the teasing
interruptions of the neoteric story book. The poet also learned to avoid
the danger of stressing trivial and impertinent pathos, and he rejected
the elegancies of style that threatened to lead to preciosity. What he
kept, however, was of permanent value. The new poetry, which had emerged
from a society that was deeply interested in science, had taught Vergil
to observe the details of nature with accuracy and an appreciation of
their beauty. It had also taught him that in an age of sophistication the
poet should not hide his personality wholly behind the veil. There is
a pleasing self-consciousness in the poet's reflections--never too
obtrusive--that reminds one of Catullus. It implies that poetry is
recognized in its great role of a criticism of life. But most of all
there is revealed in the _Ciris_ an epic poet's first timid probing into
the depths of human emotions, a striving to understand the riddles behind
the impulsive body. One sees why Dido is not, like Apollonius' Medea,
simply driven to passion by. Cupid's arrow--the naive Greek equivalent
of the medieval love-philter--why Pallas' body is not merely laid on the
funeral pyre with the traditional wailing, why Turnus does not meet his
foe with an Homeric boast. That Vergil has penetrated a richer vein of
sentiment, that he has learned to regard passion as something more than