Now in Aeneas' ever-burdened breastthe voice of hope revived. He bade make hasteto raise the masts, spread canvas on the spars;all hands hauled at the sheets, and left or rightshook out the loosened sails, or twirled in placethe horn-tipped yards. Before a favoring windthe fleet sped on. The line in close arraywas led by Palinurus, in whose courseall ships were bid to follow. Soon the carof dewy Night drew near the turning-pointof her celestial round. The oarsmen allyielded their limbs to rest, and prone had fallenon the hard thwarts, in deep, unpillowed slumber.Then from the high stars on light-moving wings,the God of Sleep found passage through the darkand clove the gloom,—to bring upon thy head,O Palinurus, an ill-boding sleep,though blameless thou. Upon thy ship the godin guise of Phorbas stood, thus whispering:“Look, Palinurus, how the flowing tideslift on thy fleet unsteered, and changeless windsbehind thee breathe! 'T is now a happy hourtake thy rest. Lay down the weary head.Steal tired eyes from toiling. I will dothine office for thee, just a little space.”But Palinurus, lifting scarce his eyes,thus answered him: “Have I not known the faceof yonder placid seas and tranquil waves?Put faith in such a monster? Could I trust —I, oft by ocean's treacherous calm betrayed —my lord Aeneas to false winds and skies?”
So saying, he grasped his rudder tight, and clungmore firmly, fixing on the stars his eyes.Then waved the god above his brows a branchwet with the dews of Lethe and imbuedwith power of Stygian dark, until his eyeswavered and slowly sank. The slumberous snarehad scarce unbound his limbs, when, leaning o'er,the god upon the waters flung him forth,hands clutching still the helm and ship-rail torn,and calling on his comrades, but in vain.Then soared th' immortal into viewless air;and in swift course across the level seathe fleet sped safe, protected from all fearby Neptune's vow. Yet were they drawing nighthe sirens' island-steep, where oft are seenwhite, bleaching bones, and to the distant earthe rocks roar harshly in perpetual foam.Then of his drifting fleet and pilot goneAeneas was aware, and, taking helm,steered through the midnight waves, with many a sigh;and, by his comrade's pitiable deathsore-smitten, cried, “O, thou didst trust too farfair skies and seas, and liest without a grave,my Palinurus, in a land unknown!”
After such words and tears, he flung free reinTo the swift fleet, which sped along the waveTo old Euboean Cumae's sacred shore.They veer all prows to sea; the anchor flukeMakes each ship sure, and shading the long strandThe rounded sterns jut o'er. ImpetuouslyThe eager warriors leap forth to landUpon Hesperian soil. One strikes the flintTo find the seed-spark hidden in its veins;One breaks the thick-branched trees, and steals awayThe shelter where the woodland creatures bide;One leads his mates where living waters flow.Aeneas, servant of the gods, ascendsThe templed hill where lofty Phoebus reigns,And that far-off, inviolable shrineOf dread Sibylla, in stupendous cave,O'er whose deep soul the god of Delos breathesProphetic gifts, unfolding things to come.Here are pale Trivia's golden house and grove. Here Daedalus, the ancient story tells,Escaping Minos' power, and having madeHazard of heaven on far-mounting wings,Floated to northward, a cold, trackless way,And lightly poised, at last, o'er Cumae's towers.Here first to earth come down, he gave to theeHis gear of wings, Apollo! and ordainedVast temples to thy name and altars fair.On huge bronze doors Androgeos' death was done;And Cecrops' children paid their debt of woe,Where, seven and seven,—0 pitiable sight!—The youths and maidens wait the annual doom,Drawn out by lot from yonder marble urn.Beyond, above a sea, lay carven Crete:—The bull was there; the passion, the strange guile;And Queen Pasiphae's brute-human son,The Minotaur—of monstrous loves the sign.Here was the toilsome, labyrinthine maze,Where, pitying love-lorn Ariadne's tears,The crafty Daedalus himself betrayedThe secret of his work; and gave the clueTo guide the path of Theseus through the gloom.0 Icarus, in such well-graven sceneHow proud thy place should be! but grief forbade:Twice in pure gold a father's fingers stroveTo shape thy fall, and twice they strove in vain.Aeneas long the various work would scan;But now Achates comes, and by his sideDeiphobe, the Sibyl, Glaucus' child.Thus to the prince she spoke :“Is this thine hourTo stand and wonder? Rather go obtainFrom young unbroken herd the bullocks seven,And seven yearling ewes, our wonted way.”Thus to Aeneas; his attendants hasteTo work her will; the priestess, calling loud,Gathers the Trojans to her mountain-shrine. Deep in the face of that Euboean cragA cavern vast is hollowed out amain,With hundred openings, a hundred mouths,Whence voices flow, the Sibyl's answering songs.While at the door they paused, the virgin cried :“Ask now thy doom!—the god! the god is nigh!”So saying, from her face its color flew,Her twisted locks flowed free, the heaving breastSwelled with her heart's wild blood; her stature seemedVaster, her accent more than mortal man,As all th' oncoming god around her breathed :“On with thy vows and prayers, 0 Trojan, on!For only unto prayer this haunted caveMay its vast lips unclose.” She spake no more.An icy shudder through the marrow ranOf the bold Trojans; while their sacred KingPoured from his inmost soul this plaint and prayer :“Phoebus, who ever for the woes of Troy
Hadst pitying eyes! who gavest deadly aimTo Paris when his Dardan shaft he hurledOn great Achilles! Thou hast guided meThrough many an unknown water, where the seasBreak upon kingdoms vast, and to the tribesOf the remote Massyli, whose wild landTo Syrtes spreads. But now; because at lastI touch Hesperia's ever-fleeting bound,May Troy's ill fate forsake me from this day!0 gods and goddesses, beneath whose wrathDardania's glory and great Ilium stood,Spare, for ye may, the remnant of my race!And thou, most holy prophetess, whose soulForeknows events to come, grant to my prayer(Which asks no kingdom save what Fate decrees)That I may stablish in the Latin landMy Trojans, my far-wandering household-gods,And storm-tossed deities of fallen Troy.Then unto Phoebus and his sister paleA temple all of marble shall be given,And festal days to Phoebus evermore.Thee also in my realms a spacious shrineShall honor; thy dark books and holy songsI there will keep, to be my people's law;And thee, benignant Sibyl for all timeA company of chosen priests shall serve.O, not on leaves, light leaves, inscribe thy songs!Lest, playthings of each breeze, they fly afarIn swift confusion! Sing thyself, I pray.”So ceased his voice;the virgin through the cave,Scarce bridled yet by Phoebus' hand divine,Ecstatic swept along, and vainly stoveTo fing its potent master from her breast;But he more strongly plied his rein and curbUpon her frenzied lips, and soon subduedHer spirit fierce, and swayed her at his will.Free and self-moved the cavern's hundred adoorsSwung open wide, and uttered to the airThe oracles the virgin-priestess sung :“Thy long sea-perils thou hast safely passed;But heavier woes await thee on the land.Truly thy Trojans to Lavinian shoreShall come—vex not thyself thereon—but, oh!Shall rue their coming thither! war, red war!And Tiber stained with bloody foam I see.Simois, Xanthus, and the Dorian hordeThou shalt behold; a new Achilles nowIn Latium breathes,—he, too, of goddess born;And Juno, burden of the sons of Troy,Will vex them ever; while thyself shalt sueIn dire distress to many a town and tribeThrough Italy; the cause of so much illAgain shall be a hostess-queen, againA marriage-chamber for an alien bride.Oh! yield not to thy woe, but front it ever,And follow boldly whither Fortune calls.Thy way of safety, as thou least couldst dream,Lies through a city of the Greeks, thy foes.” Thus from her shrine Cumaea's prophetessChanted the dark decrees; the dreadful soundReverberated through the bellowing cave,Commingling truth with ecstasies obscure.Apollo, as she raged, flung loosened rein,And thrust beneath her heart a quickening spur.When first her madness ceased, and her wild lipsWere still at last, the hero thus began :“No tribulations new, 0 Sibyl blest,Can now confront me; every future painI have foretasted; my prophetic soulEndured each stroke of fate before it fell.One boon I ask. If of th' infernal KingThis be the portal where the murky waveOf swollen Acheron o'erflows its bound,Here let me enter and behold the faceOf my loved sire. Thy hand may point the way;Thy word will open wide yon holy doors.My father through the flames and falling spears,Straight through the centre of our foes, I boreUpon these shoulders. My long flight he sharedFrom sea to sea, and suffered at my sideThe anger of rude waters and dark skies,—Though weak—0 task too great for old and gray!Thus as a suppliant at thy door to stand,Was his behest and prayer. On son and sire,0 gracious one, have pity,—for thy ruleIs over all; no vain authorityHadst thou from Trivia o'er th' Avernian groves.If Orpheus could call back his loved one's shade,Emboldened by the lyre's melodious string :If Pollux by the interchange of deathRedeemed his twin, and oft repassed the way :If Theseus—but why name him? why recallAlcides' task? I, too, am sprung from Jove.”
Thus, to the altar clinging, did he pray :The Sibyl thus replied : “Offspring of Heaven,Anchises' son, the downward path to deathIs easy; all the livelong night and dayDark Pluto's door stands open for a guest.But 0! remounting to the world of light,This is a task indeed, a strife supreme.Few, very few, whom righteous Jove did bless,Or quenchless virtue carried to the stars,Children of gods, have such a victory won.Grim forests stop the way, and, gliding slow,Cocytus circles through the sightless gloom.But if it be thy dream and fond desireTwice o'er the Stygian gulf to travel, twiceOn glooms of Tartarus to set thine eyes,If such mad quest be now thy pleasure—hearWhat must be first fulfilled . A certain treeHides in obscurest shade a golden bough,Of pliant stems and many a leaf of gold,Sacred to Proserpine, infernal Queen.Far in the grove it hides; in sunless valeDeep shadows keep it in captivity.No pilgrim to that underworld can passBut he who plucks this burgeoned, leafy gold;For this hath beauteous Proserpine ordainedHer chosen gift to be. Whene'er it is culled,A branch out-leafing in like golden gleam,A second wonder-stem, fails not to spring.Therefore go seek it with uplifted eyes!And when by will of Heaven thou findest it,Reach forth and pluck; for at a touch it yields,A free and willing gift, if Fate ordain;But otherwise no mortal strength avails,Nor strong, sharp steel, to rend it from the tree.Another task awaits; thy friend's cold clayLies unentombed. Alas! thou art not ware(While in my house thou lingerest, seeking light)That all thy ships are by his death defiled.Unto his resting-place and sepulchre,Go, carry him! And sable victims bring,In expiation, to his mournful shade.So at the last on yonder Stygian groves,And realms to things that breathe impassable,Thine eye shall gaze.” So closed her lips inspired.
Aeneas then drew forth, with downcast eyes,From that dark cavern, pondering in his heartThe riddle of his fate. His faithful friendAchates at his side, with paces slow,Companioned all his care, while their sad soulsMade mutual and oft-renewed surmiseWhat comrade dead, what cold and tombless clay,The Sibyl's word would show.But as they mused,Behold Misenus on the dry sea-sands,By hasty hand of death struck guiltless down!A son of Aeolus, none better knewTo waken heroes by the clarion's call,With war-enkindling sound. Great Hector's friendIn happier days, he oft at Hector's sideStrode to the fight with glittering lance and horn.But when Achilles stripped his fallen foe,This dauntless hero to Aeneas gaveAllegiance true, in not less noble cause.But, on a day, he chanced beside the seaTo blow his shell-shaped horn, and wildly daredChallenge the gods themselves to rival song;Till jealous Triton, if the tale be true,Grasped the rash mortal, and out-flung him far'mid surf-beat rocks and waves of whirling foam.Now from all sides, with tumult and loud cry,The Trojans came,—Aeneas leading allIn faithful grief; they hasten to fulfilThe Sibyl's mandate, and with many a tearBuild, altar-wise, a pyre, of tree on treeHeaped high as heaven : then they penetrateThe tall, old forest, where wild creatures bide,And fell pitch-pines, or with resounding blowsOf axe and wedge, cleave oak and ash-tree through,Or logs of rowan down the mountains roll.
Aeneas oversees and shares the toil,Cheers on his mates, and swings a woodman's steel.But, sad at heart with many a doubt and care,O'erlooks the forest wide; then prays aloud :“0, that the Golden Bough from this vast groveMight o'er me shine! For, 0 Aeolides,The oracle foretold thy fate, too well!”Scarce had he spoken, when a pair of dovesBefore his very eyes flew down from heavenTo the green turf below; the prince of Troy
Knew them his mother's birds, and joyful cried,“0, guide me on, whatever path there be!In airy travel through the woodland fly,To where yon rare branch shades the blessed ground.Fail thou not me, in this my doubtful hour,0 heavenly mother!” So saying, his steps lie stayed,Close watching whither they should signal give;The lightly-feeding doves flit on and on,Ever in easy ken of following eyes,Till over foul Avernus' sulphurous throatSwiftly they lift them through the liquid air,In silent flight, and find a wished-for restOn a twy-natured tree, where through green boughsFlames forth the glowing gold's contrasted hue.As in the wintry woodland bare and chill,Fresh-budded shines the clinging mistletoe,Whose seed is never from the parent treeO'er whose round limbs its tawny tendrils twine,—So shone th' out-leafing gold within the shadeOf dark holm-oak, and so its tinsel-bractRustled in each light breeze. Aeneas graspedThe lingering bough, broke it in eager haste,And bore it straightway to the Sibyl's shrine. Meanwhile the Trojans on the doleful shoreBewailed Misenus, and brought tribute thereOf grief's last gift to his unheeding clay.First, of the full-sapped pine and well-hewn oakA lofty pyre they build; then sombre boughsAround it wreathe, and in fair order rangeFunereal cypress; glittering arms are piledHigh over all; on blazing coals they liftCauldrons of brass brimmed o'er with waters pure;And that cold, lifeless clay lave and anointWith many a moan and cry; on their last couchThe poor, dead limbs they lay, and mantle o'erWith purple vesture and familiar pall.Then in sad ministry the chosen few,With eyes averted, as our sires did use,Hold the enkindling torch beneath the pyre :They gather up and burn the gifts of myrrh,The sacred bread and bowls of flowing oil;And when in flame the dying embers fall,On thirsty ash they pour the streams of wine.Good Corynaeus, in an urn of brassThe gathered relics hides; and three times round,With blessed olive branch and sprinkling dew,Purges the people with ablution cold,In lustral rite; oft chanting, “Hail! Farewell!”Faithful Aeneas for his comrade builtA mighty tomb, and dedicated thereTrophy of arms, with trumpet and with oar,Beneath a windy hill, which now is called“Misenus,”—for all time the name to bear.
After these toils, they hasten to fulfilWhat else the Sibyl said. Straightway they findA cave profound, of entrance gaping wide,O'erhung with rock, in gloom of sheltering grove,Near the dark waters of a lake, wherebyNo bird might ever pass with scathless wing,So dire an exhalation is breathed outFrom that dark deep of death to upper air :—Hence, in the Grecian tongue, Aornos called.Here first four youthful bulls of swarthy hideWere led for sacrifice; on each broad browThe priestess sprinkled wine; 'twixt the two hornsOutplucked the lifted hair, and cast it forthUpon the holy flames, beginning soHer offerings; then loudly sued the powerof Hecate, a Queen in heaven and hell.Some struck with knives, and caught in shallow bowlsThe smoking blood. Aeneas' lifted handSmote with a sword a sable-fleeced eweTo Night, the mother of th' Eumenides,And Earth, her sister dread; next unto thee,O Proserpine, a curst and barren cow;Then unto Pluto, Stygian King, he builtAn altar dark, and piled upon the flamesThe ponderous entrails of the bulls, and pouredFree o'er the burning flesh the goodly oil.Then lo! at dawn's dim, earliest beam beganBeneath their feet a groaning of the ground :The wooded hill-tops shook, and, as it seemed,She-hounds of hell howled viewless through the shade ,To hail their Queen. “Away, 0 souls profane!Stand far away!” the priestess shrieked, “nor dareUnto this grove come near! Aeneas, on!Begin thy journey! Draw thy sheathed blade!Now, all thy courage! now, th' unshaken soul!”She spoke, and burst into the yawning caveWith frenzied step; he follows where she leads,And strides with feet unfaltering at her side.