Aeneid
Virgil
Vergil. The Aeneid of Virgil. Williams, Theodore, C, translator. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1910.
- 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 grove
- Might o'er me shine! For, 0 Aeolides,
- The oracle foretold thy fate, too well!”
- Scarce had he spoken, when a pair of doves
- Before his very eyes flew down from heaven
- To 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 throat
- Swiftly they lift them through the liquid air,
- In silent flight, and find a wished-for rest
- On a twy-natured tree, where through green boughs
- Flames 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 tree
- O'er whose round limbs its tawny tendrils twine,—
- So shone th' out-leafing gold within the shade
- Of dark holm-oak, and so its tinsel-bract
- Rustled in each light breeze. Aeneas grasped
- The lingering bough, broke it in eager haste,
- And bore it straightway to the Sibyl's shrine.