And bore beyond the strength decrepid age supplied.
Oft, since he breath'd his last, in dead of night
His
reverend image stood before my sight;
Enjoin'd to seek, below, his holy shade;
Conducted there by your unerring aid.
But you, if pious minds by pray'rs are won,
Oblige the father, and protect the son.
Yours is the pow'r; nor Proserpine in vain
Has made you priestess of her
nightly reign.
If Orpheus, arm'd with his enchanting lyre,
The
ruthless king with pity could inspire,
And from the shades below
redeem his wife;
If Pollux, off'ring his
alternate life,
Could free his brother, and can daily go
By turns aloft, by turns
descend below-
Why name I Theseus, or his greater friend,
Who trod the
downward path, and
upward could ascend?
Not less than
theirs from Jove my lineage came;
My mother greater, my
descent the same."
So pray'd the Trojan
prince, and, while he pray'd,
His hand upon the holy altar laid.
Then thus replied the prophetess divine:
"O goddess-born of great Anchises' line,
The gates of hell are open night and day;
Smooth the
descent, and easy is the way:
But to return, and view the
cheerful skies,
In this the task and
mighty labor lies.
To few great Jupiter imparts this grace,
And those of shining worth and heav'nly race.
Betwixt those regions and our upper light,
Deep forests and impenetrable night
Possess the middle space: th'
infernal bounds
Cocytus, with his sable waves, surrounds.
But if so dire a love your soul invades,
As twice below to view the trembling shades;
If you so hard a toil will undertake,
As twice to pass th' innavigable lake;
Receive my
counsel. In the neighb'ring grove
There stands a tree; the queen of Stygian Jove
Claims it her own; thick woods and
gloomy night
Conceal the happy plant from human sight.
One bough it bears; but (wondrous to behold!)
The ductile rind and leaves of
radiant gold:
This from the
vulgar branches must be torn,
And to fair Proserpine the present borne,
Ere leave be giv'n to tempt the
nether skies.
The first thus rent a second will arise,
And the same metal the same room supplies.
Look round the wood, with lifted eyes, to see
The lurking gold upon the fatal tree:
Then rend it off, as holy rites command;
The
willing metal will obey thy hand,
Following with ease, if favor'd by thy fate,
Thou art foredoom'd to view the Stygian state:
If not, no labor can the tree constrain;
And strength of
stubborn arms and steel are vain.
Besides, you know not, while you here attend,
Th'
unworthy fate of your
unhappy friend:
Breathless he lies; and his unburied ghost,
Depriv'd of fun'ral rites, pollutes your host.
Pay first his pious dues; and, for the dead,
Two sable sheep around his hearse be led;
Then, living turfs upon his body lay:
This done,
securely take the destin'd way,
To find the regions
destitute of day."
She said, and held her peace. Aeneas went
Sad from the cave, and full of discontent,
Unknowing whom the
sacred Sibyl meant.
Achates, the
companion of his breast,
Goes grieving by his side, with equal cares oppress'd.
Walking, they talk'd, and fruitlessly divin'd
What friend the priestess by those words design'd.
But soon they found an object to deplore:
Misenus lay
extended the shore;
Son of the God of Winds: none so renown'd
The
warriortrumpet in the field to sound;
With breathing brass to
kindlefierce alarms,
And rouse to dare their fate in honorable arms.
He serv'd great Hector, and was ever near,
Not with his
trumpet only, but his spear.
But by Pelides' arms when Hector fell,
He chose Aeneas; and he chose as well.
Swoln with
applause, and aiming still at more,
He now provokes the sea gods from the shore;
With envy Triton heard the
martial sound,
And the bold
champion, for his
challenge, drown'd;
Then cast his mangled
carcass on the strand:
The gazing crowd around the body stand.
All weep; but most Aeneas mourns his fate,
And hastens to perform the
funeral state.
In altar-wise, a
stately pile they rear;
The basis broad below, and top advanc'd in air.
An ancient wood, fit for the work design'd,
(The shady
covert of the salvage kind,)
The Trojans found: the sounding ax is plied;
Firs, pines, and pitch trees, and the tow'ring pride
Of forest ashes, feel the fatal stroke,
And
piercing wedges
cleave the
stubborn oak.
Huge trunks of trees, fell'd from the steepy crown
Of the bare mountains, roll with ruin down.
Arm'd like the rest the Trojan
prince appears,
And by his pious labor urges
theirs.
Thus while he
wrought, revolving in his mind
The ways to
compass what his wish design'd,
He cast his eyes upon the
gloomy grove,
And then with vows implor'd the Queen of Love:
"O may thy pow'r, propitious still to me,
Conduct my steps to find the fatal tree,
In this deep forest; since the Sibyl's breath
Foretold, alas! too true, Misenus' death."
Scarce had he said, when, full before his sight,
Two doves,
descending from their airy
flight,
Secure upon the
grassy plain alight.
He knew his mother's birds; and thus he pray'd:
"Be you my guides, with your auspicious aid,
And lead my footsteps, till the branch be found,
Whose glitt'ring shadow gilds the
sacred ground.
And thou, great parent, with
celestial care,
In this
distress be present to my pray'r!"
Thus having said, he stopp'd with
watchful sight,
Observing still the motions of their
flight,
What course they took, what happy signs they shew.
They fed, and, flutt'ring, by degrees withdrew
Still farther from the place, but still in view:
Hopping and flying, thus they led him on
To the slow lake, whose baleful stench to shun
They wing'd their
flight aloft; then, stooping low,
Perch'd on the double tree that bears the golden bough.
Thro' the green leafs the glitt'ring shadows glow;
As, on the
sacred oak, the
wintry mistletoe,
Where the proud mother views her precious brood,
And happier branches, which she never sow'd.
Such was the glitt'ring; such the ruddy rind,
And dancing leaves, that wanton'd in the wind.
He seiz'd the shining bough with griping hold,
And rent away, with ease, the ling'ring gold;
Then to the Sibyl's palace bore the prize.
Meantime the Trojan troops, with
weeping eyes,
To dead Misenus pay his obsequies.
First, from the ground a lofty pile they rear,
Of pitch trees, oaks, and pines, and unctuous fir:
The fabric's front with
cypress twigs they strew,
And stick the sides with boughs of baleful yew.
The topmost part his glitt'ring arms adorn;
Warm waters, then, in
brazen caldrons borne,
Are pour'd to wash his body, joint by joint,
And
fragrant oils the stiffen'd limbs anoint.
With groans and cries Misenus they deplore:
Then on a bier, with
purple cover'd o'er,
The
breathless body, thus bewail'd, they lay,
And fire the pile, their faces turn'd away-
Such
reverend rites their fathers us'd to pay.
Pure oil and
incense on the fire they throw,
And fat of victims, which his friends bestow.
These gifts the
greedy flames to dust devour;
Then on the living coals red wine they pour;
And, last, the relics by themselves dispose,
Which in a
brazen urn the priests inclose.
Old Corynaeus
compass'd
thrice the crew,
And dipp'd an olive branch in holy dew;
Which
thrice he sprinkled round, and
thrice aloud
Invok'd the dead, and then dismissed the crowd.
But good Aeneas order'd on the shore
A
stately tomb, whose top a
trumpet bore,
A soldier's fauchion, and a seaman's oar.
Thus was his friend interr'd; and deathless fame
Still to the lofty cape consigns his name.
These rites perform'd, the
prince, without delay,
Hastes to the
nether world his destin'd way.
Deep was the cave; and,
downward as it went
From the wide mouth, a rocky rough
descent;
And here th'
access a
gloomy grove defends,
And there th' unnavigable lake extends,
O'er whose
unhappy waters, void of light,
No bird presumes to steer his airy
flight;
Such
deadly stenches from the depths arise,
And steaming
sulphur, that infects the skies.
From hence the Grecian bards their legends make,
And give the name Avernus to the lake.
Four sable bullocks, in the yoke untaught,
For sacrifice the pious hero brought.
The priestess pours the wine betwixt their horns;
Then cuts the curling hair; that first oblation burns,
Invoking Hecate
hither to repair:
A pow'rful name in hell and upper air.
The
sacred priests with ready
knives bereave
The beasts of life, and in full bowls receive
The streaming blood: a lamb to Hell and Night
(The sable wool without a
streak of white)
Aeneas offers; and, by fate's decree,
A
barrenheifer, Proserpine, to thee,
With holocausts he Pluto's altar fills;
Sev'n brawny bulls with his own hand he kills;
Then on the broiling entrails oil he pours;
Which, ointed thus, the raging flame devours.
Late the nocturnal sacrifice begun,
Nor ended till the next returning sun.
Then earth began to
bellow, trees to dance,
And howling dogs in glimm'ring light advance,
Ere Hecate came. "Far hence be souls profane!"
The Sibyl cried, "and from the grove abstain!