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.
Ye gods! who rule the spirits of the dead!Ye voiceless shades and silent lands of night!0 Phlegethon! 0 Chaos! let my song,If it be lawful, in fit words declareWhat I have heard; and by your help divineUnfold what hidden things enshrouded lieIn that dark underworld of sightless gloom.
They walked exploring the unpeopled night,Through Pluto's vacuous realms, and regions void,As when one's path in dreary woodlands windsBeneath a misty moon's deceiving ray,When Jove has mantled all his heaven in shade,And night seals up the beauty of the world.In the first courts and entrances of HellSorrows and vengeful Cares on couches lie :There sad Old Age abides, Diseases pale,And Fear, and Hunger, temptress to all crime;Want, base and vile, and, two dread shapes to see,Bondage and Death : then Sleep, Death's next of kin;And dreams of guilty joy. Death-dealing WarIs ever at the doors, and hard therebyThe Furies' beds of steel, where wild-eyed StrifeHer snaky hair with blood-stained fillet binds.
There in the middle court a shadowy elmIts ancient branches spreads, and in its leavesDeluding visions ever haunt and cling.Then come strange prodigies of bestial kind :Centaurs are stabled there, and double shapesLike Scylla, or the dragon Lerna bred,With hideous scream; Briareus clutching farHis hundred hands, Chimaera girt with flame,A crowd of Gorgons, Harpies of foul wing,And giant Geryon's triple-monstered shade.Aeneas, shuddering with sudden fear,Drew sword and fronted them with naked steel;And, save his sage conductress bade him knowThese were but shapes and shadows sweeping by,His stroke had cloven in vain the vacant air. Hence the way leads to that Tartarean streamOf Acheron, whose torrent fierce and foulDisgorges in Cocytus all its sands.A ferryman of gruesome guise keeps wardUpon these waters,—Charon, foully garbed,With unkempt, thick gray beard upon his chin,And staring eyes of flame; a mantle coarse,All stained and knotted, from his shoulder falls,As with a pole he guides his craft, tends sail,And in the black boat ferries o'er his dead;—Old, but a god's old age looks fresh and strong.To those dim shores the multitude streams on—Husbands and wives, and pale, unbreathing formsOf high-souled heroes, boys and virgins fair,And strong youth at whose graves fond parents mourned.As numberless the throng as leaves that fallWhen autumn's early frost is on the grove;Or like vast flocks of birds by winter's chillSent flying o'er wide seas to lands of flowers.All stood beseeching to begin their voyageAcross that river, and reached out pale hands,In passionate yearning for its distant shore.But the grim boatman takes now these, now those,Or thrusts unpitying from the stream away.Aeneas, moved to wonder and deep awe,Beheld the tumult; “Virgin seer!” he cried, .“Why move the thronging ghosts toward yonder stream?What seek they there? Or what election holdsThat these unwilling linger, while their peersSweep forward yonder o'er the leaden waves?”To him, in few, the aged Sibyl spoke :“Son of Anchises, offspring of the gods,Yon are Cocytus and the Stygian stream,By whose dread power the gods themselves do fearTo take an oath in vain. Here far and wideThou seest the hapless throng that hath no grave.That boatman Charon bears across the deepSuch as be sepulchred with holy care.But over that loud flood and dreadful shoreNo trav'ler may be borne, until in peaceHis gathered ashes rest. A hundred yearsRound this dark borderland some haunt and roam,Then win late passage o'er the longed-for wave.”Aeneas lingered for a little space,Revolving in his soul with pitying prayerFate's partial way. But presently he seesLeucaspis and the Lycian navy's lord,Orontes; both of melancholy brow,Both hapless and unhonored after death,Whom, while from Troy they crossed the wind-swept seas,A whirling tempest wrecked with ship and crew. There, too, the helmsman Palinurus strayed :Who, as he whilom watched the Libyan stars,Had fallen, plunging from his lofty seatInto the billowy deep. Aeneas nowDiscerned his sad face through the blinding gloom,And hailed him thus : “0 Palinurus, tellWhat god was he who ravished thee awayFrom me and mine, beneath the o'crwhelming wave?Speak on! for he who ne'er had spoke untrue,Apollo's self, did mock my listening mind,And chanted me a faithful oracleThat thou shouldst ride the seas unharmed, and touchAusonian shores. Is this the pledge divine?”Then he, “0 chieftain of Anchises' race,Apollo's tripod told thee not untrue.No god did thrust me down beneath the wave,For that strong rudder unto which I clung,My charge and duty, and my ship's sole guide,Wrenched from its place, dropped with me as I fell.Not for myself—by the rude seas I swear—Did I have terror, but lest thy good ship,Stripped of her gear, and her poor pilot lost,Should fail and founder in that rising flood.Three wintry nights across the boundless mainThe south wind buffeted and bore me on;At the fourth daybreak, lifted from the surge,I looked at last on Italy, and swamWith weary stroke on stroke unto the land.Safe was I then. Alas! but as I climbedWith garments wet and heavy, my clenched handGrasping the steep rock, came a cruel hordeUpon me with drawn blades, accounting me—So blind they were!—a wrecker's prize and spoil.Now are the waves my tomb; and wandering windsToss me along the coast. 0, I implore,By heaven's sweet light, by yonder upper air,By thy lost father, by Iulus dear,Thy rising hope and joy, that from these woes,Unconquered chieftain, thou wilt set me free!Give me a grave where Velia's haven lies,For thou hast power! Or if some path there be,If thy celestial mother guide thee here(For not, I ween, without the grace of godsWilt cross yon rivers vast, you Stygian pool)Reach me a hand! and bear with thee along!Until (least gift!) death bring me peace and calm.”Such words he spoke: the priestess thus replied:“Why, Palinurus, these unblest desires?Wouldst thou, unsepulchred, behold the waveOf Styx, stern river of th' Eumenides?Wouldst thou, unbidden, tread its fearful strand?Hope not by prayer to change the laws of Heaven!But heed my words, and in thy memoryCherish and keep, to cheer this evil time.Lo, far and wide, led on by signs from Heaven,Thy countrymen from many a templed townShall consecrate thy dust, and build thy tomb,A tomb with annual feasts and votive flowers,To Palinurus a perpetual fame!”Thus was his anguish stayed, from his sad heartGrief ebbed awhile, and even to this day,Our land is glad such noble name to wear. The twain continue now their destined wayUnto the river's edge. The Ferryman,Who watched them through still groves approach his shore,Hailed them, at distance, from the Stygian wave,And with reproachful summons thus began:“Whoe'er thou art that in this warrior guiseUnto my river comest,—quickly tellThine errand! Stay thee where thou standest now!This is ghosts' land, for sleep and slumbrous dark.That flesh and blood my Stygian ship should bearWere lawless wrong. Unwillingly I tookAlcides, Theseus, and Pirithous,Though sons of gods, too mighty to be quelled.One bound in chains yon warder of Hell's door,And dragged him trembling from our monarch's throne:The others, impious, would steal awayOut of her bride-bed Pluto's ravished Queen.”Briefly th' Amphrysian priestess made reply:“Not ours, such guile: Fear not! This warrior's armsAre innocent. Let Cerberus from his caveBay ceaselessly, the bloodless shades to scare;Let Proserpine immaculately keepThe house and honor of her kinsman King.Trojan Aeneas, famed for faithful prayerAnd victory in arms, descends to seekHis father in this gloomy deep of death.If loyal goodness move not such as thee,This branch at least” (she drew it from her breast)“Thou knowest well.”Then cooled his wrathful heart;With silent lips he looked and wondering eyesUpon that fateful, venerable wand,Seen only once an age. Shoreward he turned,And pushed their way his boat of leaden hue.The rows of crouching ghosts along the thwartsHe scattered, cleared a passage, and gave roomTo great Aeneas. The light shallop groanedBeneath his weight, and, straining at each seam,Took in the foul flood with unstinted flow.At last the hero and his priestess-guideCame safe across the river, and were moored'mid sea-green sedges in the formless mire.
Here Cerberus, with triple-throated roar,Made all the region ring, as there he layAt vast length in his cave. The Sibyl then,Seeing the serpents writhe around his neck,Threw down a loaf with honeyed herbs imbuedAnd drowsy essences: he, ravenous,Gaped wide his three fierce mouths and snatched the bait,Crouched with his large backs loose upon the ground,And filled his cavern floor from end to end.Aeneas through hell's portal moved, while sleepIts warder buried; then he fled that shoreOf Stygian stream, whence travellers ne'er return.
Now hears he sobs, and piteous, lisping criesOf souls of babes upon the threshold plaining;Whom, ere they took their portion of sweet life,Dark Fate from nursing bosoms tore, and plungedIn bitterness of death. Nor far from these,The throng of dead by unjust judgment slain.Not without judge or law these realms abide:Wise Minos there the urn of justice moves,And holds assembly of the silent shades,Hearing the stories of their lives and deeds.Close on this place those doleful ghosts abide,Who, not for crime, but loathing life and lightWith their own hands took death, and cast awayThe vital essence. Willingly, alas!They now would suffer need, or burdens bear,If only life were given! But Fate forbids.Around them winds the sad, unlovely waveOf Styx: nine times it coils and interflows.Not far from hence, on every side outspread,The Fields of Sorrow lie,—such name they bear;Here all whom ruthless love did waste awayWander in paths unseen, or in the gloomOf dark myrtle grove: not even in deathHave they forgot their griefs of long ago.Here impious Phaedra and poor Procris bide;Lorn Eriphyle bares the vengeful woundsHer own son's dagger made; Evadne here,And foul PasiphaePasiphaë are seen; hard by,Laodamia, nobly fond and fair;And Caeneus, not a boy, but maiden now,By Fate remoulded to her native seeming.Here Tyrian Dido, too, her wound unhealed,Roamed through a mighty wood. The Trojan's eyesBeheld her near him through the murky gloom,As when, in her young month and crescent pale,One sees th' o'er-clouded moon, or thinks he sees.Down dropped his tears, and thus he fondly spoke:“0 suffering Dido! Were those tidings trueThat thou didst fling thee on the fatal steel?Thy death, ah me! I dealt it. But I swearBy stars above us, by the powers in Heaven,Or whatsoever oath ye dead believe,That not by choice I fled thy shores, 0 Queen!Divine decrees compelled me, even as nowAmong these ghosts I pass, and thread my wayAlong this gulf of night and loathsome land.How could I deem my cruel taking leaveWould bring thee at the last to all this woe?0, stay! Why shun me? Wherefore haste away?Our last farewell! Our doom! I speak it now!”Thus, though she glared with fierce, relentless gaze,Aaeneas, with fond words and tearful plea,Would soothe her angry soul. But on the groundShe fixed averted eyes. For all he spokeMoved her no more than if her frowning browWere changeless flint or carved in Parian stone.Then, after pause, away in wrath she fled,And refuge took within the cool, dark grove,Where her first spouse, Sichaeus, with her tearsMingled his own in mutual love and true.Aeneas, none the less, her guiltless woeWith anguish knew, watched with dimmed eyes her way,And pitied from afar the fallen Queen.
But now his destined way he must be gone;Now the last regions round the travellers lie,Where famous warriors in the darkness dwell:Here Tydeus comes in view, with far-renownedParthenopaeus and Adrastus pale;Here mourned in upper air with many a moan,In battle fallen, the Dardanidae,Whose long defile Aeneas groans to see:Glaucus and Medon and Thersilochus,Antenor's children three, and Ceres' priest,That Polypoetes, and Idaeus still.Keeping the kingly chariot and spear.Around him left and right the crowding shadesNot only once would see, but clutch and clingObstructive, asking on what quest he goes.Soon as the princes of Argolic blood,With line on line of Agamemnon's men,Beheld the hero and his glittering armsFlash through the dark, they trembled with amaze,Or turned in flight, as if once more they fledTo shelter of the ships; some raised aloftA feeble shout, or vainly opened wideTheir gaping lips in mockery of sound.
Here Priam's son, with body rent and torn,DeiphobusDeïphobus is seen,—his mangled face,His face and bloody hands, his wounded headOf ears and nostrils infamously shorn.Scarce could Aeneas know the shuddering shadeThat strove to hide its face and shameful scar;But, speaking first, he said, in their own tongue:“Deiphobus, strong warrior, nobly bornOf Teucer's royal stem, what ruthless foeCould wish to wreak on thee this dire revenge?Who ventured, unopposed, so vast a wrong?The rumor reached me how, that deadly night,Wearied with slaying Greeks, thyself didst fallProne on a mingled heap of friends and foes.Then my own hands did for thy honor buildAn empty tomb upon the Trojan shore,And thrice with echoing voice I called thy shade.Thy name and arms are there. But, 0 my friend,Thee could I nowhere find, but launched away,Nor o'er thy bones their native earth could fling.”To him the son of Priam thus replied:“Nay, friend, no hallowed rite was left undone,But every debt to death and pity dueThe shades of thy Deiphobus received.My fate it was, and Helen's murderous wrong,Wrought me this woe; of her these tokens tell.For how that last night in false hope we passed,Thou knowest,—ah, too well we both recall!When up the steep of Troy the fateful horseCame climbing, pregnant with fierce men-at-arms,'t was she, accurst, who led the Phrygian damesIn choric dance and false bacchantic song,And, waving from the midst a lofty brand,Signalled the Greeks from Ilium's central towerIn that same hour on my sad couch I lay,Exhausted by long care and sunk in sleep,That sweet, deep sleep, so close to tranquil death.But my illustrious bride from all the houseHad stolen all arms; from 'neath my pillowed headShe stealthily bore off my trusty sword;Then loud on Menelaus did she call,And with her own false hand unbarred the door;Such gift to her fond lord she fain would sendTo blot the memory of his ancient wrong!Why tell the tale, how on my couch they broke,While their accomplice, vile Aeolides,Counselled to many a crime. 0 heavenly Powers!Reward these Greeks their deeds of wickedness,If with clean lips upon your wrath I call!But, friend, what fortunes have thy life befallen?Tell point by point. Did waves of wandering seasDrive thee this way, or some divine command?What chastisement of fortune thrusts thee onToward this forlorn abode of night and cloud?”