The sounding whip and brandishes her snakes,
And the pale
sinner, with her sisters, takes.
Then, of itself, unfolds th'
eternal door;
With
dreadful sounds the
brazen hinges roar.
You see, before the gate, what stalking ghost
Commands the guard, what sentries keep the post.
More
formidable Hydra stands within,
Whose jaws with iron teeth
severely grin.
The gaping gulf low to the center lies,
And twice as deep as earth is distant from the skies.
The rivals of the gods, the Titan race,
Here, sing'd with
lightning, roll within th' unfathom'd space.
Here lie th' Alaean twins, (I saw them both,)
Enormous bodies, of
gigantic growth,
Who dar'd in fight the Thund'rer to defy,
Affect his heav'n, and force him from the sky.
Salmoneus, suff'ring cruel pains, I found,
For emulating Jove; the rattling sound
Of mimic
thunder, and the glitt'ring blaze
Of
pointedlightnings, and their forky rays.
Thro' Elis and the Grecian towns he flew;
Th' audacious
wretch four fiery coursers drew:
He wav'd a torch aloft, and, madly vain,
Sought
godlikeworship from a servile train.
Ambitious fool! with horny hoofs to pass
O'er hollow arches of resounding brass,
To rival
thunder in its rapid course,
And
imitate inimitable force!
But he, the King of Heav'n, obscure on high,
Bar'd his red arm, and, launching from the sky
His writhen bolt, not shaking empty smoke,
Down to the deep abyss the
flaming felon strook.
There Tityus was to see, who took his birth
From heav'n, his nursing from the foodful earth.
Here his
gigantic limbs, with large embrace,
Infold nine acres of
infernal space.
A rav'nous vulture, in his open'd side,
Her
crooked beak and cruel talons tried;
Still for the growing liver digg'd his breast;
The growing liver still supplied the feast;
Still are his entrails
fruitful to their pains:
Th'
immortalhunger lasts, th'
immortal food remains.
Ixion and Perithous I could name,
And more Thessalian chiefs of
mighty fame.
High o'er their heads a mold'ring rock is plac'd,
That promises a fall, and shakes at ev'ry blast.
They lie below, on golden beds display'd;
And
genial feasts with regal pomp are made.
The Queen of Furies by their sides is set,
And snatches from their mouths th' untasted meat,
Which if they touch, her hissing snakes she rears,
Tossing her torch, and thund'ring in their ears.
Then they, who brothers' better claim disown,
Expel their parents, and usurp the throne;
Defraud their clients, and, to lucre sold,
Sit brooding on
unprofitable gold;
Who dare not give, and ev'n refuse to lend
To their poor
kindred, or a
wanting friend.
Vast is the
throng of these; nor less the train
Of lustful youths, for foul adult'ry slain:
Hosts of deserters, who their honor sold,
And basely broke their faith for bribes of gold.
All these within the dungeon's depth remain,
Despairing
pardon, and expecting pain.
Ask not what pains; nor farther seek to know
Their process, or the forms of law below.
Some roll a weighty stone; some, laid along,
And bound with burning wires, on spokes of wheels are hung
Unhappy Theseus, doom'd for ever there,
Is fix'd by fate on his
eternal chair;
And
wretched Phlegyas warns the world with cries
(Could
warning make the world more just or wise):
'Learn
righteousness, and dread th' avenging deities.'
To tyrants others have their country sold,
Imposing foreign lords, for foreign gold;
Some have old laws repeal'd, new statutes made,
Not as the people pleas'd, but as they paid;
With incest some their daughters' bed profan'd:
All dar'd the worst of ills, and, what they dar'd, attain'd.
Had I a hundred mouths, a hundred tongues,
And throats of brass, inspir'd with iron lungs,
I could not half those
horrid crimes repeat,
Nor half the punishments those crimes have met.
But let us haste our
voyage to pursue:
The walls of Pluto's palace are in view;
The gate, and iron arch above it, stands
On anvils labor'd by the Cyclops' hands.
Before our farther way the Fates allow,
Here must we fix on high the golden bough."
She said: and thro' the
gloomy shades they pass'd,
And chose the middle path. Arriv'd at last,
The
prince with living water sprinkled o'er
His limbs and body; then approach'd the door,
Possess'd the porch, and on the front above
He fix'd the fatal bough requir'd by Pluto's love.
These holy rites perform'd, they took their way
Where long
extended plains of pleasure lay:
The verdant fields with those of heav'n may vie,
With ether vested, and a
purple sky;
The blissful seats of happy souls below.
Stars of their own, and their own suns, they know;
Their airy limbs in sports they exercise,
And on the green
contend the wrestler's prize.
Some in
heroic verse
divinely sing;
Others in artful measures led the ring.
The Thracian bard, surrounded by the rest,
There stands
conspicuous in his flowing vest;
His flying fingers, and
harmonious quill,
Strikes sev'n distinguish'd notes, and sev'n at once they fill.
Here found they Tsucer's old
heroic race,
Born better times and happier years to grace.
Assaracus and Ilus here enjoy
Perpetual fame, with him who founded Troy.
The chief
beheld their chariots from afar,
Their shining arms, and coursers train'd to war:
Their lances fix'd in earth, their steeds around,
Free from their
harness, graze the flow'ry ground.
The love of horses which they had, alive,
And care of chariots, after death survive.
Some
cheerful souls were feasting on the plain;
Some did the song, and some the choir maintain,
Beneath a
laurel shade, where
mighty Po
Mounts up to woods above, and hides his head below.
Here patriots live, who, for their country's good,
In fighting fields, were
prodigal of blood:
Priests of unblemish'd lives here make abode,
And poets
worthy their inspiring god;
And searching wits, of more
mechanic parts,
Who grac'd their age with new-invented arts:
Those who to worth their
bounty did extend,
And those who knew that
bounty to commend.
The heads of these with holy fillets bound,
And all their temples were with garlands crown'd.
To these the Sibyl thus her speech address'd,
And first to him surrounded by the rest
(Tow'ring his
height, and ample was his breast):
"Say, happy souls,
divine Musaeus, say,
Where lives Anchises, and where lies our way
To find the hero, for whose only sake
We sought the dark abodes, and cross'd the bitter lake?"
To this the
sacred poet thus replied:
"In no fix'd place the happy souls reside.
In groves we live, and lie on mossy beds,
By
crystalstreams, that murmur thro' the meads:
But pass yon easy hill, and
thence descend;
The path conducts you to your journey's end."
This said, he led them up the mountain's brow,
And shews them all the shining fields below.
They wind the hill, and thro' the blissful meadows go.
But old Anchises, in a flow'ry vale,
Review'd his muster'd race, and took the tale:
Those happy spirits, which, ordain'd by fate,
For future beings and new bodies wait-
With studious thought observ'd th'
illustriousthrong,
In nature's order as they pass'd along:
Their names, their fates, their conduct, and their care,
In
peaceful senates and successful war.
He, when Aeneas on the plain appears,
Meets him with open arms, and falling tears.
"Welcome," he said, "the gods' undoubted race!
O long expected to my dear embrace!
Once more 't is giv'n me to behold your face!
The love and pious duty which you pay
Have pass'd the perils of so hard a way.
'T is true, computing times, I now believ'd
The happy day approach'd; nor are my hopes deceiv'd.
What length of lands, what oceans have you pass'd;
What storms sustain'd, and on what shores been cast?
How have I fear'd your fate! but fear'd it most,
When love assail'd you, on the Libyan coast."
To this, the
filial duty thus replies:
"Your
sacred ghost before my
sleeping eyes
Appear'd, and often urg'd this
painful enterprise.
After long tossing on the Tyrrhene sea,
My navy rides at
anchor in the bay.
But reach your hand, O parent shade, nor shun
The dear embraces of your
longing son!"
He said; and falling tears his face bedew:
Then
thrice around his neck his arms he threw;
And
thrice the flitting shadow slipp'd away,
Like winds, or empty dreams that fly the day.
Now, in a secret vale, the Trojan sees
A sep'rate grove, thro' which a gentle breeze
Plays with a passing
breath, and whispers thro' the trees;
And, just before the confines of the wood,
The gliding Lethe leads her silent flood.
About the boughs an airy nation flew,
Thick as the humming bees, that hunt the golden dew;
In summer's heat on tops of lilies feed,
And creep within their bells, to suck the balmy seed:
The
winged army roams the fields around;
The rivers and the rocks remurmur to the sound.
Aeneas wond'ring stood, then ask'd the cause
Which to the
stream the crowding people draws.
Then thus the sire: "The souls that
throng the flood
Are those to whom, by fate, are other bodies ow'd:
In Lethe's lake they long
oblivion taste,
Of future life secure, forgetful of the past.
Long has my soul desir'd this time and place,
To set before your sight your
glorious race,
That this presaging joy may fire your mind