The Aeneid

The herald summons all, and then proclaims Cloanthus conqu’ror of the naval games. The prince with laurel crowns the victor’s head, And three fat steers are to his vessel led, The ship’s reward; with gen’rous wine beside, And sums of silver, which the crew divide. The leaders are distinguish’d from the rest; The victor honour’d with a nobler vest, Where gold and purple strive in equal rows, And needlework its happy cost bestows. There Ganymede is wrought with living art, Chasing thro’ Ida’s groves the trembling hart: Breathless he seems, yet eager to pursue; When from aloft descends, in open view, The bird of Jove, and, sousing on his prey, With crooked talons bears the boy away. In vain, with lifted hands and gazing eyes, His guards behold him soaring thro’ the skies, And dogs pursue his flight with imitated cries.

Mnestheus the second victor was declar’d; And, summon’d there, the second prize he shar’d. A coat of mail, brave Demoleus bore, More brave Aeneas from his shoulders tore, In single combat on the Trojan shore: This was ordain’d for Mnestheus to possess; In war for his defence, for ornament in peace. Rich was the gift, and glorious to behold, But yet so pond’rous with its plates of gold, That scarce two servants could the weight sustain; Yet, loaded thus, Demoleus o’er the plain Pursued and lightly seiz’d the Trojan train. The third, succeeding to the last reward, Two goodly bowls of massy silver shar’d, With figures prominent, and richly wrought, And two brass caldrons from Dodona brought.

Thus all, rewarded by the hero’s hands, Their conqu’ring temples bound with purple bands; And now Sergesthus, clearing from the rock, Brought back his galley shatter’d with the shock. Forlorn she look’d, without an aiding oar, And, houted by the vulgar, made to shore. As when a snake, surpris’d upon the road, Is crush’d athwart her body by the load Of heavy wheels; or with a mortal wound Her belly bruis’d, and trodden to the ground: In vain, with loosen’d curls, she crawls along; Yet, fierce above, she brandishes her tongue; Glares with her eyes, and bristles with her scales; But, groveling in the dust, her parts unsound she trails: So slowly to the port the Centaur tends, But, what she wants in oars, with sails amends. Yet, for his galley sav’d, the grateful prince Is pleas’d th’ unhappy chief to recompense. Pholoe, the Cretan slave, rewards his care, Beauteous herself, with lovely twins as fair.

From thence his way the Trojan hero bent Into the neighb’ring plain, with mountains pent, Whose sides were shaded with surrounding wood. Full in the midst of this fair valley stood A native theatre, which, rising slow By just degrees, o’erlook’d the ground below. High on a sylvan throne the leader sate; A num’rous train attend in solemn state. Here those that in the rapid course delight, Desire of honour and the prize invite. The rival runners without order stand; The Trojans mix’d with the Sicilian band. First Nisus, with Euryalus, appears; Euryalus a boy of blooming years, With sprightly grace and equal beauty crown’d; Nisus, for friendship to the youth renown’d. Diores next, of Priam’s royal race, Then Salius joined with Patron, took their place; But Patron in Arcadia had his birth, And Salius his from Arcananian earth; Then two Sicilian youths, the names of these, Swift Helymus, and lovely Panopes: Both jolly huntsmen, both in forest bred, And owning old Acestes for their head; With sev’ral others of ignobler name, Whom time has not deliver’d o’er to fame.

To these the hero thus his thoughts explain’d, In words which gen’ral approbation gain’d: “One common largess is for all design’d, The vanquish’d and the victor shall be join’d, Two darts of polish’d steel and Gnosian wood, A silver-studded ax alike bestow’d. The foremost three have olive wreaths decreed: The first of these obtains a stately steed, Adorn’d with trappings; and the next in fame, The quiver of an Amazonian dame, With feather’d Thracian arrows well supplied: A golden belt shall gird his manly side, Which with a sparkling diamond shall be tied. The third this Grecian helmet shall content.” He said. To their appointed base they went; With beating hearts th’ expected sign receive, And, starting all at once, the barrier leave. Spread out, as on the winged winds, they flew, And seiz’d the distant goal with greedy view. Shot from the crowd, swift Nisus all o’erpass’d; Nor storms, nor thunder, equal half his haste. The next, but tho’ the next, yet far disjoin’d, Came Salius, and Euryalus behind; Then Helymus, whom young Diores plied, Step after step, and almost side by side, His shoulders pressing; and, in longer space, Had won, or left at least a dubious race.

Now, spent, the goal they almost reach at last, When eager Nisus, hapless in his haste, Slipp’d first, and, slipping, fell upon the plain, Soak’d with the blood of oxen newly slain. The careless victor had not mark’d his way; But, treading where the treach’rous puddle lay, His heels flew up; and on the grassy floor He fell, besmear’d with filth and holy gore. Not mindless then, Euryalus, of thee, Nor of the sacred bonds of amity, He strove th’ immediate rival’s hope to cross, And caught the foot of Salius as he rose. So Salius lay extended on the plain; Euryalus springs out, the prize to gain, And leaves the crowd: applauding peals attend The victor to the goal, who vanquish’d by his friend. Next Helymus; and then Diores came, By two misfortunes made the third in fame.

But Salius enters, and, exclaiming loud For justice, deafens and disturbs the crowd; Urges his cause may in the court be heard; And pleads the prize is wrongfully conferr’d. But favour for Euryalus appears; His blooming beauty, with his tender tears, Had brib’d the judges for the promis’d prize. Besides, Diores fills the court with cries, Who vainly reaches at the last reward, If the first palm on Salius be conferr’d. Then thus the prince: “Let no disputes arise: Where fortune plac’d it, I award the prize. But fortune’s errors give me leave to mend, At least to pity my deserving friend.” He said, and, from among the spoils, he draws (Pond’rous with shaggy mane and golden paws) A lion’s hide: to Salius this he gives. Nisus with envy sees the gift, and grieves. “If such rewards to vanquish’d men are due.” He said, “and falling is to rise by you, What prize may Nisus from your bounty claim, Who merited the first rewards and fame? In falling, both an equal fortune tried; Would fortune for my fall so well provide!” With this he pointed to his face, and show’d His hand and all his habit smear’d with blood. Th’ indulgent father of the people smil’d, And caus’d to be produc’d an ample shield, Of wondrous art, by Didymaon wrought, Long since from Neptune’s bars in triumph brought. This giv’n to Nisus, he divides the rest, And equal justice in his gifts express’d.

The race thus ended, and rewards bestow’d, Once more the prince bespeaks th’ attentive crowd: “If there be here, whose dauntless courage dare In gauntlet fight, with limbs and body bare, His opposite sustain in open view, Stand forth the champion, and the games renew. Two prizes I propose, and thus divide: A bull with gilded horns, and fillets tied, Shall be the portion of the conqu’ring chief; A sword and helm shall cheer the loser’s grief.”

Then haughty Dares in the lists appears; Stalking he strides, his head erected bears: His nervous arms the weighty gauntlet wield, And loud applauses echo thro’ the field. Dares alone in combat us’d to stand The match of mighty Paris, hand to hand; The same, at Hector’s fun’rals, undertook Gigantic Butes, of th’ Amycian stock, And, by the stroke of his resistless hand, Stretch’d the vast bulk upon the yellow sand. Such Dares was; and such he strode along, And drew the wonder of the gazing throng. His brawny back and ample breast he shows, His lifted arms around his head he throws, And deals in whistling air his empty blows. His match is sought; but, thro’ the trembling band, Not one dares answer to the proud demand. Presuming of his force, with sparkling eyes Already he devours the promis’d prize. He claims the bull with awless insolence, And having seiz’d his horns, accosts the prince: “If none my matchless valour dares oppose, How long shall Dares wait his dastard foes? Permit me, chief, permit without delay, To lead this uncontended gift away.” The crowd assents, and with redoubled cries For the proud challenger demands the prize.

Acestes, fir’d with just disdain, to see The palm usurp’d without a victory, Reproach’d Entellus thus, who sate beside, And heard and saw, unmov’d, the Trojan’s pride: “Once, but in vain, a champion of renown, So tamely can you bear the ravish’d crown, A prize in triumph borne before your sight, And shun, for fear, the danger of the fight? Where is our Eryx now, the boasted name, The god who taught your thund’ring arm the game? Where now your baffled honour? Where the spoil That fill’d your house, and fame that fill’d our isle?” Entellus, thus: “My soul is still the same, Unmov’d with fear, and mov’d with martial fame; But my chill blood is curdled in my veins, And scarce the shadow of a man remains. O could I turn to that fair prime again, That prime of which this boaster is so vain, The brave, who this decrepid age defies, Should feel my force, without the promis’d prize.”

He said; and, rising at the word, he threw Two pond’rous gauntlets down in open view; Gauntlets which Eryx wont in fight to wield, And sheathe his hands with in the listed field. With fear and wonder seiz’d, the crowd beholds The gloves of death, with sev’n distinguish’d folds Of tough bull hides; the space within is spread With iron, or with loads of heavy lead: Dares himself was daunted at the sight, Renounc’d his challenge, and refus’d to fight. Astonish’d at their weight, the hero stands, And pois’d the pond’rous engines in his hands. “What had your wonder,” said Entellus, “been, Had you the gauntlets of Alcides seen, Or view’d the stern debate on this unhappy green! These which I bear your brother Eryx bore, Still mark’d with batter’d brains and mingled gore. With these he long sustain’d th’ Herculean arm; And these I wielded while my blood was warm, This languish’d frame while better spirits fed, Ere age unstrung my nerves, or time o’ersnow’d my head. But if the challenger these arms refuse, And cannot wield their weight, or dare not use; If great Aeneas and Acestes join In his request, these gauntlets I resign; Let us with equal arms perform the fight, And let him leave to fear, since I resign my right.”

This said, Entellus for the strife prepares; Stripp’d of his quilted coat, his body bares; Compos’d of mighty bones and brawn he stands, A goodly tow’ring object on the sands. Then just Aeneas equal arms supplied, Which round their shoulders to their wrists they tied. Both on the tiptoe stand, at full extent, Their arms aloft, their bodies inly bent; Their heads from aiming blows they bear afar; With clashing gauntlets then provoke the war. One on his youth and pliant limbs relies; One on his sinews and his giant size. The last is stiff with age, his motion slow; He heaves for breath, he staggers to and fro, And clouds of issuing smoke his nostrils loudly blow. Yet equal in success, they ward, they strike; Their ways are diff’rent, but their art alike. Before, behind, the blows are dealt; around Their hollow sides the rattling thumps resound. A storm of strokes, well meant, with fury flies, And errs about their temples, ears, and eyes. Nor always errs; for oft the gauntlet draws A sweeping stroke along the crackling jaws. Heavy with age, Entellus stands his ground, But with his warping body wards the wound. His hand and watchful eye

keep even pace; While Dares traverses and shifts his place, And, like a captain who beleaguers round Some strong-built castle on a rising ground, Views all th’ approaches with observing eyes: This and that other part in vain he tries, And more on industry than force relies. With hands on high, Entellus threats the foe; But Dares watch’d the motion from below, And slipp’d aside, and shunn’d the long descending blow. Entellus wastes his forces on the wind, And, thus deluded of the stroke design’d, Headlong and heavy fell; his ample breast And weighty limbs his ancient mother press’d. So falls a hollow pine, that long had stood On Ida’s height, or Erymanthus’ wood, Torn from the roots. The diff’ring nations rise, And shouts and mingled murmurs rend the skies, Acestus runs with eager haste, to raise The fall’n companion of his youthful days. Dauntless he rose, and to the fight return’d; With shame his glowing cheeks, his eyes with fury burn’d. Disdain and conscious virtue fir’d his breast, And with redoubled force his foe he press’d. He lays on load with either hand, amain, And headlong drives the Trojan o’er the plain; Nor stops, nor stays; nor rest nor

breath allows; But storms of strokes descend about his brows, A rattling tempest, and a hail of blows. But now the prince, who saw the wild increase Of wounds, commands the combatants to cease, And bounds Entellus’ wrath, and bids the peace. First to the Trojan, spent with toil, he came, And sooth’d his sorrow for the suffer’d shame. “What fury seiz’d my friend? The gods,” said he, “To him propitious, and averse to thee, Have giv’n his arm superior force to thine. ’Tis madness to contend with strength divine.” The gauntlet fight thus ended, from the shore His faithful friends unhappy Dares bore: His mouth and nostrils pour’d a purple flood, And pounded teeth came rushing with his blood. Faintly he stagger’d thro’ the hissing throng, And hung his head, and trail’d his legs along. The sword and casque are carried by his train; But with his foe the palm and ox remain.

The champion, then, before Aeneas came, Proud of his prize, but prouder of his fame: “O goddess-born, and you, Dardanian host, Mark with attention, and forgive my boast; Learn what I was, by what remains; and know From what impending fate you sav’d my foe.” Sternly he spoke, and then confronts the bull; And, on his ample forehead aiming full, The deadly stroke, descending, pierc’d the skull. Down drops the beast, nor needs a second wound, But sprawls in pangs of death, and spurns the ground. Then, thus: “In Dares’ stead I offer this. Eryx, accept a nobler sacrifice; Take the last gift my wither’d arms can yield: Thy gauntlets I resign, and here renounce the field.”

This done, Aeneas orders, for the close, The strife of archers with contending bows. The mast Sergesthus’ shatter’d galley bore With his own hands he raises on the shore. A flutt’ring dove upon the top they tie, The living mark at which their arrows fly. The rival archers in a line advance, Their turn of shooting to receive from chance. A helmet holds their names; the lots are drawn: On the first scroll was read Hippocoon. The people shout. Upon the next was found Young Mnestheus, late with naval honours crown’d. The third contain’d Eurytion’s noble name, Thy brother, Pandarus, and next in fame, Whom Pallas urg’d the treaty to confound, And send among the Greeks a feather’d wound. Acestes in the bottom last remain’d, Whom not his age from youthful sports restrain’d. Soon all with vigour bend their trusty bows, And from the quiver each his arrow chose. Hippocoon’s was the first: with forceful sway It flew, and, whizzing, cut the liquid way. Fix’d in the mast the feather’d weapon stands: The fearful pigeon flutters in her bands, And the tree trembled, and the shouting cries Of the pleas’d people rend the vaulted skies. Then Mnestheus to the head

his arrow drove, With lifted eyes, and took his aim above, But made a glancing shot, and missed the dove; Yet miss’d so narrow, that he cut the cord Which fasten’d by the foot the flitting bird. The captive thus releas’d, away she flies, And beats with clapping wings the yielding skies. His bow already bent, Eurytion stood; And, having first invok’d his brother god, His winged shaft with eager haste he sped. The fatal message reach’d her as she fled: She leaves her life aloft; she strikes the ground, And renders back the weapon in the wound. Acestes, grudging at his lot, remains, Without a prize to gratify his pains. Yet, shooting upward, sends his shaft, to show An archer’s art, and boast his twanging bow. The feather’d arrow gave a dire portent, And latter augurs judge from this event. Chaf’d by the speed, it fir’d; and, as it flew, A trail of following flames ascending drew: Kindling they mount, and mark the shiny way; Across the skies as falling meteors play, And vanish into wind, or in a blaze decay. The Trojans and Sicilians wildly stare, And, trembling, turn their wonder into pray’r. The Dardan prince put on

a smiling face, And strain’d Acestes with a close embrace; Then, hon’ring him with gifts above the rest, Turn’d the bad omen, nor his fears confess’d. “The gods,” said he, “this miracle have wrought, And order’d you the prize without the lot. Accept this goblet, rough with figur’d gold, Which Thracian Cisseus gave my sire of old: This pledge of ancient amity receive, Which to my second sire I justly give.” He said, and, with the trumpets’ cheerful sound, Proclaim’d him victor, and with laurel-crown’d. Nor good Eurytion envied him the prize, Tho’ he transfix’d the pigeon in the skies. Who cut the line, with second gifts was grac’d; The third was his whose arrow pierc’d the mast.

The chief, before the games were wholly done, Call’d Periphantes, tutor to his son, And whisper’d thus: “With speed Ascanius find; And, if his childish troop be ready join’d, On horseback let him grace his grandsire’s day, And lead his equals arm’d in just array.” He said; and, calling out, the cirque he clears. The crowd withdrawn, an open plain appears. And now the noble youths, of form divine, Advance before their fathers, in a line; The riders grace the steeds; the steeds with glory shine.

Thus marching on in military pride, Shouts of applause resound from side to side. Their casques adorn’d with laurel wreaths they wear, Each brandishing aloft a cornel spear. Some at their backs their gilded quivers bore; Their chains of burnish’d gold hung down before. Three graceful troops they form’d upon the green; Three graceful leaders at their head were seen; Twelve follow’d ev’ry chief, and left a space between. The first young Priam led; a lovely boy, Whose grandsire was th’ unhappy king of Troy; His race in after times was known to fame, New honours adding to the Latian name; And well the royal boy his Thracian steed became. White were the fetlocks of his feet before, And on his front a snowy star he bore. Then beauteous Atys, with Iulus bred, Of equal age, the second squadron led. The last in order, but the first in place, First in the lovely features of his face, Rode fair Ascanius on a fiery steed, Queen Dido’s gift, and of the Tyrian breed. Sure coursers for the rest the king ordains, With golden bits adorn’d, and purple reins.

The pleas’d spectators peals of shouts renew, And all the parents in the children view; Their make, their motions, and their sprightly grace, And hopes and fears alternate in their face.

Th’ unfledg’d commanders and their martial train First make the circuit of the sandy plain Around their sires, and, at th’ appointed sign, Drawn up in beauteous order, form a line. The second signal sounds, the troop divides In three distinguish’d parts, with three distinguish’d guides Again they close, and once again disjoin; In troop to troop oppos’d, and line to line. They meet; they wheel; they throw their darts afar With harmless rage and well-dissembled war. Then in a round the mingled bodies run: Flying they follow, and pursuing shun; Broken, they break; and, rallying, they renew In other forms the military shew. At last, in order, undiscern’d they join, And march together in a friendly line. And, as the Cretan labyrinth of old, With wand’ring ways and many a winding fold, Involv’d the weary feet, without redress, In a round error, which denied recess; So fought the Trojan boys in warlike play, Turn’d and return’d, and still a diff’rent way. Thus dolphins in the deep each other chase In circles, when they swim around the wat’ry race. This game, these carousels, Ascanius taught; And, building Alba, to the Latins brought; Shew’d what he learn’d: the Latin sires impart To their succeeding sons the graceful art; From these imperial Rome receiv’d the game, Which Troy, the youths the Trojan troop, they name.

Thus far the sacred sports they celebrate: But Fortune soon resum’d her ancient hate; For, while they pay the dead his annual dues, Those envied rites Saturnian Juno views; And sends the goddess of the various bow, To try new methods of revenge below; Supplies the winds to wing her airy way, Where in the port secure the navy lay. Swiftly fair Iris down her arch descends, And, undiscern’d, her fatal voyage ends. She saw the gath’ring crowd; and, gliding thence, The desert shore, and fleet without defence. The Trojan matrons, on the sands alone, With sighs and tears Anchises’ death bemoan; Then, turning to the sea their weeping eyes, Their pity to themselves renews their cries. “Alas!” said one, “what oceans yet remain For us to sail! what labours to sustain!” All take the word, and, with a gen’ral groan, Implore the gods for peace, and places of their own.

The goddess, great in mischief, views their pains, And in a woman’s form her heav’nly limbs restrains. In face and shape old Beroe she became, Doryclus’ wife, a venerable dame, Once blest with riches, and a mother’s name. Thus chang’d, amidst the crying crowd she ran, Mix’d with the matrons, and these words began: “O wretched we, whom not the Grecian pow’r, Nor flames, destroy’d, in Troy’s unhappy hour! O wretched we, reserv’d by cruel fate, Beyond the ruins of the sinking state! Now sev’n revolving years are wholly run, Since this improsp’rous voyage we begun; Since, toss’d from shores to shores, from lands to lands, Inhospitable rocks and barren sands, Wand’ring in exile thro’ the stormy sea, We search in vain for flying Italy. Now cast by fortune on this kindred land, What should our rest and rising walls withstand, Or hinder here to fix our banish’d band? O country lost, and gods redeem’d in vain, If still in endless exile we remain! Shall we no more the Trojan walls renew, Or streams of some dissembled Simois view! Haste, join with me, th’ unhappy fleet consume! Cassandra bids; and I declare her doom. In sleep I saw her; she supplied my hands (For this I more than dreamt) with flaming brands: ‘With these,’ said she, ‘these wand’ring ships destroy: These are your fatal seats, and this your Troy.’ Time calls you now; the precious hour employ: Slack not the good presage, while Heav’n inspires Our minds to dare, and gives the ready fires. See! Neptune’s altars minister their brands: The god is pleas’d; the god supplies our hands.” Then from the pile a flaming fire she drew, And, toss’d in air, amidst the galleys threw.

Wrapp’d in amaze, the matrons wildly stare: Then Pyrgo, reverenc’d for her hoary hair, Pyrgo, the nurse of Priam’s num’rous race: “No Beroe this, tho’ she belies her face! What terrors from her frowning front arise! Behold a goddess in her ardent eyes! What rays around her heav’nly face are seen! Mark her majestic voice, and more than mortal mien! Beroe but now I left, whom, pin’d with pain, Her age and anguish from these rites detain,” She said. The matrons, seiz’d with new amaze, Roll their malignant eyes, and on the navy gaze. They fear, and hope, and neither part obey: They hope the fated land, but fear the fatal way. The goddess, having done her task below, Mounts up on equal wings, and bends her painted bow. Struck with the sight, and seiz’d with rage divine, The matrons prosecute their mad design: They shriek aloud; they snatch, with impious hands, The food of altars; fires and flaming brands. Green boughs and saplings, mingled in their haste, And smoking torches, on the ships they cast. The flame, unstopp’d at first, more fury gains, And Vulcan rides at large with loosen’d reins: Triumphant to the painted sterns he soars, And seizes, in this way, the banks and crackling oars. Eumelus was the first the news to bear, While yet they crowd the rural theatre. Then, what they hear, is witness’d by their eyes: A storm of sparkles and of flames arise.

Ascanius took th’ alarm, while yet he led His early warriors on his prancing steed, And, spurring on, his equals soon o’erpass’d; Nor could his frighted friends reclaim his haste. Soon as the royal youth appear’d in view, He sent his voice before him as he flew: “What madness moves you, matrons, to destroy The last remainders of unhappy Troy! Not hostile fleets, but your own hopes, you burn, And on your friends your fatal fury turn. Behold your own Ascanius!” While he said, He drew his glitt’ring helmet from his head, In which the youths to sportful arms he led. By this, Aeneas and his train appear; And now the women, seiz’d with shame and fear, Dispers’d, to woods and caverns take their flight, Abhor their actions, and avoid the light; Their friends acknowledge, and their error find, And shake the goddess from their alter’d mind.

Not so the raging fires their fury cease, But, lurking in the seams, with seeming peace, Work on their way amid the smould’ring tow, Sure in destruction, but in motion slow. The silent plague thro’ the green timber eats, And vomits out a tardy flame by fits. Down to the keels, and upward to the sails, The fire descends, or mounts, but still prevails; Nor buckets pour’d, nor strength of human hand, Can the victorious element withstand. The pious hero rends his robe, and throws To heav’n his hands, and with his hands his vows. “O Jove,” he cried, “if pray’rs can yet have place; If thou abhorr’st not all the Dardan race; If any spark of pity still remain; If gods are gods, and not invok’d in vain; Yet spare the relics of the Trojan train! Yet from the flames our burning vessels free, Or let thy fury fall alone on me! At this devoted head thy thunder throw, And send the willing sacrifice below!”

Scarce had he said, when southern storms arise: From pole to pole the forky lightning flies; Loud rattling shakes the mountains and the plain; Heav’n bellies downward, and descends in rain. Whole sheets of water from the clouds are sent, Which, hissing thro’ the planks, the flames prevent, And stop the fiery pest. Four ships alone Burn to the waist, and for the fleet atone.

But doubtful thoughts the hero’s heart divide; If he should still in Sicily reside, Forgetful of his fates, or tempt the main, In hope the promis’d Italy to gain. Then Nautes, old and wise, to whom alone The will of Heav’n by Pallas was foreshown; Vers’d in portents, experienc’d, and inspir’d To tell events, and what the fates requir’d; Thus while he stood, to neither part inclin’d, With cheerful words reliev’d his lab’ring mind: “O goddess-born, resign’d in ev’ry state, With patience bear, with prudence push your fate. By suff’ring well, our Fortune we subdue; Fly when she frowns, and, when she calls, pursue. Your friend Acestes is of Trojan kind; To him disclose the secrets of your mind: Trust in his hands your old and useless train; Too num’rous for the ships which yet remain: The feeble, old, indulgent of their ease, The dames who dread the dangers of the seas, With all the dastard crew, who dare not stand The shock of battle with your foes by land. Here you may build a common town for all, And, from Acestes’ name, Acesta call.” The reasons, with his friend’s experience join’d, Encourag’d much, but more disturb’d his mind.

’Twas dead of night; when to his slumb’ring eyes His father’s shade descended from the skies, And thus he spoke: “O more than vital breath, Lov’d while I liv’d, and dear ev’n after death; O son, in various toils and troubles toss’d, The King of Heav’n employs my careful ghost On his commands: the god, who sav’d from fire Your flaming fleet, and heard your just desire. The wholesome counsel of your friend receive, And here the coward train and woman leave: The chosen youth, and those who nobly dare, Transport, to tempt the dangers of the war. The stern Italians will their courage try; Rough are their manners, and their minds are high. But first to Pluto’s palace you shall go, And seek my shade among the blest below: For not with impious ghosts my soul remains, Nor suffers with the damn’d perpetual pains, But breathes the living air of soft Elysian plains. The chaste Sibylla shall your steps convey, And blood of offer’d victims free the way. There shall you know what realms the gods assign, And learn the fates and fortunes of your line. But now, farewell! I vanish with the night, And feel the blast of heav’n’s approaching light.” He said, and mix’d with shades, and took his airy flight. “Whither so fast?” the filial duty cried; “And why, ah why, the wish’d embrace denied?”

He said, and rose; as holy zeal inspires, He rakes hot embers, and renews the fires; His country gods and Vesta then adores With cakes and incense, and their aid implores. Next, for his friends and royal host he sent, Reveal’d his vision, and the gods’ intent, With his own purpose. All, without delay, The will of Jove, and his desires obey. They list with women each degenerate name, Who dares not hazard life for future fame. These they cashier: the brave remaining few, Oars, banks, and cables, half consum’d, renew. The prince designs a city with the plow; The lots their sev’ral tenements allow. This part is nam’d from Ilium, that from Troy, And the new king ascends the throne with joy; A chosen senate from the people draws; Appoints the judges, and ordains the laws. Then, on the top of Eryx, they begin A rising temple to the Paphian queen. Anchises, last, is honour’d as a god; A priest is added, annual gifts bestow’d, And groves are planted round his blest abode. Nine days they pass in feasts, their temples crown’d; And fumes of incense in the fanes abound. Then from the south arose a gentle breeze That curl’d the smoothness of the glassy seas; The rising winds a ruffling gale afford, And call the merry mariners aboard.

Now loud laments along the shores resound, Of parting friends in close embraces bound. The trembling women, the degenerate train, Who shunn’d the frightful dangers of the main, Ev’n those desire to sail, and take their share Of the rough passage and the promis’d war: Whom good Aeneas cheers, and recommends To their new master’s care his fearful friends. On Eryx’s altars three fat calves he lays; A lamb new-fallen to the stormy seas; Then slips his haulsers, and his anchors weighs. High on the deck the godlike hero stands, With olive crown’d, a charger in his hands; Then cast the reeking entrails in the brine, And pour’d the sacrifice of purple wine. Fresh gales arise; with equal strokes they vie, And brush the buxom seas, and o’er the billows fly.

Meantime the mother goddess, full of fears, To Neptune thus address’d, with tender tears: “The pride of Jove’s imperious queen, the rage, The malice which no suff’rings can assuage, Compel me to these pray’rs; since neither fate, Nor time, nor pity, can remove her hate: Ev’n Jove is thwarted by his haughty wife; Still vanquish’d, yet she still renews the strife. As if ’twere little to consume the town Which aw’d the world, and wore th’ imperial crown, She prosecutes the ghost of Troy with pains, And gnaws, ev’n to the bones, the last remains. Let her the causes of her hatred tell; But you can witness its effects too well. You saw the storm she rais’d on Libyan floods, That mix’d the mounting billows with the clouds; When, bribing Aeolus, she shook the main, And mov’d rebellion in your wat’ry reign. With fury she possess’d the Dardan dames, To burn their fleet with execrable flames, And forc’d Aeneas, when his ships were lost, To leave his foll’wers on a foreign coast. For what remains, your godhead I implore, And trust my son to your protecting pow’r. If neither Jove’s nor Fate’s decree withstand, Secure his passage to the Latian land.”

Then thus the mighty Ruler of the Main: “What may not Venus hope from Neptune’s reign? My kingdom claims your birth; my late defence Of your indanger’d fleet may claim your confidence. Nor less by land than sea my deeds declare How much your lov’d Aeneas is my care. Thee, Xanthus, and thee, Simois, I attest. Your Trojan troops when proud Achilles press’d, And drove before him headlong on the plain, And dash’d against the walls the trembling train; When floods were fill’d with bodies of the slain; When crimson Xanthus, doubtful of his way, Stood up on ridges to behold the sea; New heaps came tumbling in, and chok’d his way; When your Aeneas fought, but fought with odds Of force unequal, and unequal gods; I spread a cloud before the victor’s sight, Sustain’d the vanquish’d, and secur’d his flight; Ev’n then secur’d him, when I sought with joy The vow’d destruction of ungrateful Troy. My will’s the same: fair goddess, fear no more, Your fleet shall safely gain the Latian shore; Their lives are giv’n; one destin’d head alone Shall perish, and for multitudes atone.” Thus having arm’d with hopes her anxious mind, His finny team Saturnian Neptune join’d, Then adds the foamy bridle to their jaws, And to the loosen’d reins permits the laws. High on the waves his azure car he guides; Its axles thunder, and the sea subsides, And the smooth ocean rolls her silent tides. The tempests fly before their father’s face, Trains of inferior gods his triumph grace, And monster whales before their master play, And choirs of Tritons crowd the wat’ry way. The marshal’d pow’rs in equal troops divide To right and left; the gods his better side Inclose, and on the worse the Nymphs and Nereids ride.

Now smiling hope, with sweet vicissitude, Within the hero’s mind his joys renew’d. He calls to raise the masts, the sheets display; The cheerful crew with diligence obey; They scud before the wind, and sail in open sea. Ahead of all the master pilot steers; And, as he leads, the following navy veers. The steeds of Night had travel’d half the sky, The drowsy rowers on their benches lie, When the soft God of Sleep, with easy flight, Descends, and draws behind a trail of light. Thou, Palinurus, art his destin’d prey; To thee alone he takes his fatal way. Dire dreams to thee, and iron sleep, he bears; And, lighting on thy prow, the form of Phorbas wears. Then thus the traitor god began his tale: “The winds, my friend, inspire a pleasing gale; The ships, without thy care, securely sail. Now steal an hour of sweet repose; and I Will take the rudder and thy room supply.” To whom the yawning pilot, half asleep: “Me dost thou bid to trust the treach’rous deep, The harlot smiles of her dissembling face, And to her faith commit the Trojan race? Shall I believe the Siren South again, And, oft betray’d,

not know the monster main?” He said: his fasten’d hands the rudder keep, And, fix’d on heav’n, his eyes repel invading sleep. The god was wroth, and at his temples threw A branch in Lethe dipp’d, and drunk with Stygian dew: The pilot, vanquish’d by the pow’r divine, Soon clos’d his swimming eyes, and lay supine. Scarce were his limbs extended at their length, The god, insulting with superior strength, Fell heavy on him, plung’d him in the sea, And, with the stern, the rudder tore away. Headlong he fell, and, struggling in the main, Cried out for helping hands, but cried in vain. The victor daemon mounts obscure in air, While the ship sails without the pilot’s care. On Neptune’s faith the floating fleet relies; But what the man forsook, the god supplies, And o’er the dang’rous deep secure the navy flies; Glides by the Sirens’ cliffs, a shelfy coast, Long infamous for ships and sailors lost, And white with bones. Th’ impetuous ocean roars, And rocks rebellow from the sounding shores. The watchful hero felt the knocks, and found The tossing vessel sail’d on shoaly ground. Sure of his pilot’s loss, he takes himself The helm, and steers

aloof, and shuns the shelf. Inly he griev’d, and, groaning from the breast, Deplor’d his death; and thus his pain express’d: “For faith repos’d on seas, and on the flatt’ring sky, Thy naked corpse is doom’d on shores unknown to lie.”

THE ARGUMENT. The Sibyl foretells Aeneas the adventures he should meet with in Italy. She attends him to hell; describing to him the various scenes of that place, and conducting him to his father Anchises, who instructs him in those sublime mysteries, of the soul of the world, and the transmigration; and shows him that glorious race of heroes, which was to descend from him and his posterity.

He said, and wept; then spread his sails before The winds, and reach’d at length the Cumaean shore: Their anchors dropp’d, his crew the vessels moor. They turn their heads to sea, their sterns to land, And greet with greedy joy th’ Italian strand. Some strike from clashing flints their fiery seed; Some gather sticks, the kindled flames to feed, Or search for hollow trees, and fell the woods, Or trace thro’ valleys the discover’d floods. Thus, while their sev’ral charges they fulfil, The pious prince ascends the sacred hill Where Phoebus is ador’d; and seeks the shade Which hides from sight his venerable maid. Deep in a cave the Sibyl makes abode; Thence full of fate returns, and of the god. Thro’ Trivia’s grove they walk; and now behold, And enter now, the temple roof’d with gold. When Daedalus, to fly the Cretan shore, His heavy limbs on jointed pinions bore, (The first who sail’d in air,) ’tis sung by Fame, To the Cumaean coast at length he came, And here alighting, built this costly frame. Inscrib’d to Phoebus, here he hung on high The steerage of his wings, that cut the sky: Then o’er the lofty gate his art emboss’d Androgeos’ death, and off’rings to his ghost; Sev’n youths from Athens yearly sent, to meet The fate appointed by revengeful Crete. And next to those the dreadful urn was plac’d, In which the destin’d names by lots were cast:

The mournful parents stand around in tears, And rising Crete against their shore appears. There too, in living sculpture, might be seen The mad affection of the Cretan queen; Then how she cheats her bellowing lover’s eye; The rushing leap, the doubtful progeny, The lower part a beast, a man above, The monument of their polluted love. Not far from thence he grav’d the wondrous maze, A thousand doors, a thousand winding ways: Here dwells the monster, hid from human view, Not to be found, but by the faithful clue; Till the kind artist, mov’d with pious grief, Lent to the loving maid this last relief, And all those erring paths describ’d so well That Theseus conquer’d and the monster fell. Here hapless Icarus had found his part, Had not the father’s grief restrain’d his art. He twice assay’d to cast his son in gold; Twice from his hands he dropp’d the forming mould.

All this with wond’ring eyes Aeneas view’d; Each varying object his delight renew’d: Eager to read the rest, Achates came, And by his side the mad divining dame, The priestess of the god, Deiphobe her name. “Time suffers not,” she said, “to feed your eyes With empty pleasures; haste the sacrifice. Sev’n bullocks, yet unyok’d, for Phoebus choose, And for Diana sev’n unspotted ewes.” This said, the servants urge the sacred rites, While to the temple she the prince invites. A spacious cave, within its farmost part, Was hew’d and fashion’d by laborious art Thro’ the hill’s hollow sides: before the place, A hundred doors a hundred entries grace; As many voices issue, and the sound Of Sybil’s words as many times rebound. Now to the mouth they come. Aloud she cries: “This is the time; enquire your destinies. He comes; behold the god!” Thus while she said, (And shiv’ring at the sacred entry stay’d,) Her colour chang’d; her face was not the same, And hollow groans from her deep spirit came. Her hair stood up; convulsive rage possess’d Her trembling limbs, and heav’d her lab’ring breast. Greater than humankind she seem’d to look, And with an accent more than mortal spoke. Her staring eyes with sparkling fury roll; When all the god came rushing on her soul. Swiftly she turn’d, and, foaming as she spoke: “Why this delay?” she cried; “the pow’rs invoke! Thy pray’rs alone can open this abode; Else vain are my demands, and dumb the god.”

She said no more. The trembling Trojans hear, O’erspread with a damp sweat and holy fear. The prince himself, with awful dread possess’d, His vows to great Apollo thus address’d: “Indulgent god, propitious pow’r to Troy, Swift to relieve, unwilling to destroy, Directed by whose hand the Dardan dart Pierc’d the proud Grecian’s only mortal part: Thus far, by fate’s decrees and thy commands, Thro’ ambient seas and thro’ devouring sands, Our exil’d crew has sought th’ Ausonian ground; And now, at length, the flying coast is found. Thus far the fate of Troy, from place to place, With fury has pursued her wand’ring race. Here cease, ye pow’rs, and let your vengeance end: Troy is no more, and can no more offend. And thou, O sacred maid, inspir’d to see Th’ event of things in dark futurity; Give me what Heav’n has promis’d to my fate, To conquer and command the Latian state; To fix my wand’ring gods, and find a place For the long exiles of the Trojan race. Then shall my grateful hands a temple rear To the twin gods, with vows and solemn pray’r; And annual rites, and festivals, and games, Shall be perform’d to their auspicious names. Nor shalt thou want thy honours in my land; For there thy faithful oracles shall stand, Preserv’d in shrines; and ev’ry sacred lay, Which, by thy mouth, Apollo shall convey: All shall be treasur’d by a chosen train Of holy priests, and ever shall remain. But O! commit not thy prophetic mind To flitting leaves, the sport of ev’ry wind, Lest they disperse in air our empty fate; Write not, but, what the pow’rs ordain, relate.”

Struggling in vain, impatient of her load, And lab’ring underneath the pond’rous god, The more she strove to shake him from her breast, With more and far superior force he press’d; Commands his entrance, and, without control, Usurps her organs and inspires her soul. Now, with a furious blast, the hundred doors Ope of themselves; a rushing whirlwind roars Within the cave, and Sibyl’s voice restores: “Escap’d the dangers of the wat’ry reign, Yet more and greater ills by land remain. The coast, so long desir’d (nor doubt th’ event), Thy troops shall reach, but, having reach’d, repent. Wars, horrid wars, I view; a field of blood, And Tiber rolling with a purple flood. Simois nor Xanthus shall be wanting there: A new Achilles shall in arms appear, And he, too, goddess-born. Fierce Juno’s hate, Added to hostile force, shall urge thy fate. To what strange nations shalt not thou resort, Driv’n to solicit aid at ev’ry court! The cause the same which Ilium once oppress’d; A foreign mistress, and a foreign guest. But thou, secure of soul, unbent with woes, The more thy fortune frowns, the more oppose. The dawnings of thy safety shall be shown From whence thou least shalt hope, a Grecian town.”

Thus, from the dark recess, the Sibyl spoke, And the resisting air the thunder broke; The cave rebellow’d, and the temple shook. Th’ ambiguous god, who rul’d her lab’ring breast, In these mysterious words his mind express’d; Some truths reveal’d, in terms involv’d the rest. At length her fury fell, her foaming ceas’d, And, ebbing in her soul, the god decreas’d. Then thus the chief: “No terror to my view, No frightful face of danger can be new. Inur’d to suffer, and resolv’d to dare, The Fates, without my pow’r, shall be without my care. This let me crave, since near your grove the road To hell lies open, and the dark abode Which Acheron surrounds, th’ innavigable flood; Conduct me thro’ the regions void of light, And lead me longing to my father’s sight. For him, a thousand dangers I have sought, And, rushing where the thickest Grecians fought, Safe on my back the sacred burthen brought. He, for my sake, the raging ocean tried, And wrath of Heav’n, my still auspicious guide, 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 labour 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 favour’d by thy fate, Thou art foredoom’d to view the Stygian state:

If not, no labour 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 on the shore; Son of the God of Winds: none so renown’d The warrior trumpet in the field to sound; With breathing brass to kindle fierce alarms, And rouse to dare their fate in honourable 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 labour 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 falchion, 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 barren heifer, 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! Now, Trojan, take the way thy fates afford; Assume thy courage, and unsheathe thy sword.” She said, and pass’d along the gloomy space; The prince pursued her steps with equal pace.

Ye realms, yet unreveal’d to human sight, Ye gods who rule the regions of the night, Ye gliding ghosts, permit me to relate The mystic wonders of your silent state! Obscure they went thro’ dreary shades, that led Along the waste dominions of the dead. Thus wander travelers in woods by night, By the moon’s doubtful and malignant light, When Jove in dusky clouds involves the skies, And the faint crescent shoots by fits before their eyes.

Just in the gate and in the jaws of hell, Revengeful Cares and sullen Sorrows dwell, And pale Diseases, and repining Age, Want, Fear, and Famine’s unresisted rage; Here Toils, and Death, and Death’s half-brother, Sleep, Forms terrible to view, their sentry keep; With anxious Pleasures of a guilty mind, Deep Frauds before, and open Force behind; The Furies’ iron beds; and Strife, that shakes Her hissing tresses and unfolds her snakes. Full in the midst of this infernal road, An elm displays her dusky arms abroad: The God of Sleep there hides his heavy head, And empty dreams on ev’ry leaf are spread. Of various forms unnumber’d spectres more, Centaurs, and double shapes, besiege the door. Before the passage, horrid Hydra stands, And Briareus with all his hundred hands; Gorgons, Geryon with his triple frame; And vain Chimaera vomits empty flame. The chief unsheath’d his shining steel, prepar’d, Tho’ seiz’d with sudden fear, to force the guard, Off’ring his brandish’d weapon at their face; Had not the Sibyl stopp’d his eager pace, And told him what those empty phantoms were: Forms without bodies, and impassive air. Hence to deep Acheron they take their way, Whose troubled eddies, thick with

ooze and clay, Are whirl’d aloft, and in Cocytus lost. There Charon stands, who rules the dreary coast: A sordid god: down from his hoary chin A length of beard descends, uncomb’d, unclean; His eyes, like hollow furnaces on fire; A girdle, foul with grease, binds his obscene attire. He spreads his canvas; with his pole he steers; The freights of flitting ghosts in his thin bottom bears. He look’d in years; yet in his years were seen A youthful vigour and autumnal green. An airy crowd came rushing where he stood, Which fill’d the margin of the fatal flood: Husbands and wives, boys and unmarried maids, And mighty heroes’ more majestic shades, And youths, intomb’d before their fathers’ eyes, With hollow groans, and shrieks, and feeble cries. Thick as the leaves in autumn strow the woods, Or fowls, by winter forc’d, forsake the floods, And wing their hasty flight to happier lands; Such, and so thick, the shiv’ring army stands, And press for passage with extended hands. Now these, now those, the surly boatman bore: The rest he drove to distance from the shore. The hero, who beheld with wond’ring eyes The tumult mix’d with shrieks, laments, and cries,

Ask’d of his guide, what the rude concourse meant; Why to the shore the thronging people bent; What forms of law among the ghosts were us’d; Why some were ferried o’er, and some refus’d.

“Son of Anchises, offspring of the gods,” The Sibyl said, “you see the Stygian floods, The sacred stream which heav’n’s imperial state Attests in oaths, and fears to violate. The ghosts rejected are th’ unhappy crew Depriv’d of sepulchers and fun’ral due: The boatman, Charon; those, the buried host, He ferries over to the farther coast; Nor dares his transport vessel cross the waves With such whose bones are not compos’d in graves. A hundred years they wander on the shore; At length, their penance done, are wafted o’er.” The Trojan chief his forward pace repress’d, Revolving anxious thoughts within his breast, He saw his friends, who, whelm’d beneath the waves, Their fun’ral honours claim’d, and ask’d their quiet graves. The lost Leucaspis in the crowd he knew, And the brave leader of the Lycian crew, Whom, on the Tyrrhene seas, the tempests met; The sailors master’d, and the ship o’erset.

Amidst the spirits, Palinurus press’d, Yet fresh from life, a new-admitted guest, Who, while he steering view’d the stars, and bore His course from Afric to the Latian shore, Fell headlong down. The Trojan fix’d his view, And scarcely thro’ the gloom the sullen shadow knew. Then thus the prince: “What envious pow’r, O friend, Brought your lov’d life to this disastrous end? For Phoebus, ever true in all he said, Has in your fate alone my faith betray’d. The god foretold you should not die, before You reach’d, secure from seas, th’ Italian shore. Is this th’ unerring pow’r?” The ghost replied; “Nor Phoebus flatter’d, nor his answers lied; Nor envious gods have sent me to the deep: But, while the stars and course of heav’n I keep, My wearied eyes were seiz’d with fatal sleep. I fell; and, with my weight, the helm constrain’d Was drawn along, which yet my gripe retain’d. Now by the winds and raging waves I swear, Your safety, more than mine, was then my care; Lest, of the guide bereft, the rudder lost, Your ship should run against the rocky coast. Three blust’ring nights, borne by the southern blast, I floated, and discover’d

land at last: High on a mounting wave my head I bore, Forcing my strength, and gath’ring to the shore. Panting, but past the danger, now I seiz’d The craggy cliffs, and my tir’d members eas’d. While, cumber’d with my dropping clothes, I lay, The cruel nation, covetous of prey, Stain’d with my blood th’ unhospitable coast; And now, by winds and waves, my lifeless limbs are toss’d: Which O avert, by yon ethereal light, Which I have lost for this eternal night! Or, if by dearer ties you may be won, By your dead sire, and by your living son, Redeem from this reproach my wand’ring ghost; Or with your navy seek the Velin coast, And in a peaceful grave my corpse compose; Or, if a nearer way your mother shows, Without whose aid you durst not undertake This frightful passage o’er the Stygian lake, Lend to this wretch your hand, and waft him o’er To the sweet banks of yon forbidden shore.” Scarce had he said, the prophetess began: “What hopes delude thee, miserable man? Think’st thou, thus unintomb’d, to cross the floods, To view the Furies and infernal gods, And visit, without leave, the dark abodes? Attend

the term of long revolving years; Fate, and the dooming gods, are deaf to tears. This comfort of thy dire misfortune take: The wrath of Heav’n, inflicted for thy sake, With vengeance shall pursue th’ inhuman coast, Till they propitiate thy offended ghost, And raise a tomb, with vows and solemn pray’r; And Palinurus’ name the place shall bear.” This calm’d his cares; sooth’d with his future fame, And pleas’d to hear his propagated name.

Now nearer to the Stygian lake they draw: Whom, from the shore, the surly boatman saw; Observ’d their passage thro’ the shady wood, And mark’d their near approaches to the flood. Then thus he call’d aloud, inflam’d with wrath: “Mortal, whate’er, who this forbidden path In arms presum’st to tread, I charge thee, stand, And tell thy name, and bus’ness in the land. Know this, the realm of night; the Stygian shore: My boat conveys no living bodies o’er; Nor was I pleas’d great Theseus once to bear, Who forc’d a passage with his pointed spear, Nor strong Alcides, men of mighty fame, And from th’ immortal gods their lineage came. In fetters one the barking porter tied, And took him trembling from his sov’reign’s side: Two sought by force to seize his beauteous bride.” To whom the Sibyl thus: “Compose thy mind; Nor frauds are here contriv’d, nor force design’d. Still may the dog the wand’ring troops constrain Of airy ghosts, and vex the guilty train, And with her grisly lord his lovely queen remain. The Trojan chief, whose lineage is from Jove, Much fam’d for arms, and more for filial love, Is sent to seek his sire in your Elysian grove. If neither piety, nor Heav’n’s command, Can gain his passage to the Stygian strand, This fatal present shall prevail at least.” Then shew’d the shining bough, conceal’d within her vest. No more was needful: for the gloomy god Stood mute with awe, to see the golden rod; Admir’d the destin’d off’ring to his queen; A venerable gift, so rarely seen. His fury thus appeas’d, he puts to land; The ghosts forsake their seats at his command: He clears the deck, receives the mighty freight; The leaky vessel groans beneath the weight. Slowly she sails, and scarcely stems the tides; The pressing water pours within her sides. His passengers at length are wafted o’er, Expos’d, in muddy weeds, upon the miry shore.

No sooner landed, in his den they found The triple porter of the Stygian sound, Grim Cerberus, who soon began to rear His crested snakes, and arm’d his bristling hair. The prudent Sibyl had before prepar’d A sop, in honey steep’d, to charm the guard; Which, mix’d with pow’rful drugs, she cast before His greedy grinning jaws, just op’d to roar. With three enormous mouths he gapes; and straight, With hunger press’d, devours the pleasing bait. Long draughts of sleep his monstrous limbs enslave; He reels, and, falling, fills the spacious cave. The keeper charm’d, the chief without delay Pass’d on, and took th’ irremeable way. Before the gates, the cries of babes new born, Whom fate had from their tender mothers torn, Assault his ears: then those, whom form of laws Condemn’d to die, when traitors judg’d their cause. Nor want they lots, nor judges to review The wrongful sentence, and award a new. Minos, the strict inquisitor, appears; And lives and crimes, with his assessors, hears. Round in his urn the blended balls he rolls, Absolves the just, and dooms the guilty souls. The next, in place and punishment, are they Who prodigally throw their souls away; Fools, who, repining at their wretched state, And loathing anxious life, suborn’d their fate. With late repentance now they would retrieve The bodies they forsook, and wish to live; Their pains and poverty desire to bear, To view the light of heav’n, and breathe the vital air: But fate forbids; the Stygian floods oppose, And with circling streams the captive souls inclose.

Not far from thence, the Mournful Fields appear So call’d from lovers that inhabit there. The souls whom that unhappy flame invades, In secret solitude and myrtle shades Make endless moans, and, pining with desire, Lament too late their unextinguish’d fire. Here Procris, Eriphyle here he found, Baring her breast, yet bleeding with the wound Made by her son. He saw Pasiphae there, With Phaedra’s ghost, a foul incestuous pair. There Laodamia, with Evadne, moves, Unhappy both, but loyal in their loves: Caeneus, a woman once, and once a man, But ending in the sex she first began. Not far from these Phoenician Dido stood, Fresh from her wound, her bosom bath’d in blood; Whom when the Trojan hero hardly knew, Obscure in shades, and with a doubtful view, (Doubtful as he who sees, thro’ dusky night, Or thinks he sees, the moon’s uncertain light,) With tears he first approach’d the sullen shade; And, as his love inspir’d him, thus he said: “Unhappy queen! then is the common breath Of rumour true, in your reported death, And I, alas! the cause? By Heav’n, I vow, And all the pow’rs that rule the realms below, Unwilling I forsook your friendly state, Commanded by the gods, and forc’d by fate. Those gods, that fate, whose unresisted might Have sent me to these regions void of light, Thro’ the vast empire of eternal night. Nor dar’d I to presume, that, press’d with grief, My flight should urge you to this dire relief.

Stay, stay your steps, and listen to my vows: ’Tis the last interview that fate allows!” In vain he thus attempts her mind to move With tears, and pray’rs, and late-repenting love. Disdainfully she look’d; then turning round, But fix’d her eyes unmov’d upon the ground, And what he says and swears, regards no more Than the deaf rocks, when the loud billows roar; But whirl’d away, to shun his hateful sight, Hid in the forest and the shades of night; Then sought Sichaeus thro’ the shady grove, Who answer’d all her cares, and equal’d all her love.

Some pious tears the pitying hero paid, And follow’d with his eyes the flitting shade, Then took the forward way, by fate ordain’d, And, with his guide, the farther fields attain’d, Where, sever’d from the rest, the warrior souls remain’d. Tydeus he met, with Meleager’s race, The pride of armies, and the soldiers’ grace; And pale Adrastus with his ghastly face. Of Trojan chiefs he view’d a num’rous train, All much lamented, all in battle slain; Glaucus and Medon, high above the rest, Antenor’s sons, and Ceres’ sacred priest. And proud Idaeus, Priam’s charioteer, Who shakes his empty reins, and aims his airy spear. The gladsome ghosts, in circling troops, attend And with unwearied eyes behold their friend; Delight to hover near, and long to know What bus’ness brought him to the realms below. But Argive chiefs, and Agamemnon’s train, When his refulgent arms flash’d thro’ the shady plain, Fled from his well-known face, with wonted fear, As when his thund’ring sword and pointed spear Drove headlong to their ships, and glean’d the routed rear. They rais’d a feeble cry, with trembling notes; But the weak voice deceiv’d their gasping throats.

Here Priam’s son, Deiphobus, he found, Whose face and limbs were one continued wound: Dishonest, with lopp’d arms, the youth appears, Spoil’d of his nose, and shorten’d of his ears. He scarcely knew him, striving to disown His blotted form, and blushing to be known; And therefore first began: “O Teucer’s race, Who durst thy faultless figure thus deface? What heart could wish, what hand inflict, this dire disgrace? ’Twas fam’d, that in our last and fatal night Your single prowess long sustain’d the fight, Till tir’d, not forc’d, a glorious fate you chose, And fell upon a heap of slaughter’d foes. But, in remembrance of so brave a deed, A tomb and fun’ral honours I decreed; Thrice call’d your manes on the Trojan plains: The place your armour and your name retains. Your body too I sought, and, had I found, Design’d for burial in your native ground.”

The ghost replied: “Your piety has paid All needful rites, to rest my wand’ring shade; But cruel fate, and my more cruel wife, To Grecian swords betray’d my sleeping life. These are the monuments of Helen’s love: The shame I bear below, the marks I bore above. You know in what deluding joys we pass’d The night that was by Heav’n decreed our last: For, when the fatal horse, descending down, Pregnant with arms, o’erwhelm’d th’ unhappy town She feign’d nocturnal orgies; left my bed, And, mix’d with Trojan dames, the dances led Then, waving high her torch, the signal made, Which rous’d the Grecians from their ambuscade. With watching overworn, with cares oppress’d, Unhappy I had laid me down to rest, And heavy sleep my weary limbs possess’d. Meantime my worthy wife our arms mislaid, And from beneath my head my sword convey’d; The door unlatch’d, and, with repeated calls, Invites her former lord within my walls. Thus in her crime her confidence she plac’d, And with new treasons would redeem the past. What need I more? Into the room they ran, And meanly murder’d a defenceless man. Ulysses, basely born, first led the way. Avenging pow’rs! with justice if I pray, That fortune be their own another day! But answer you; and in your turn relate, What brought you, living, to the Stygian state: Driv’n by the winds and errors of the sea, Or did you Heav’n’s superior doom obey? Or tell what other chance conducts your way, To view with mortal eyes our dark retreats, Tumults and torments of th’ infernal seats.”

While thus in talk the flying hours they pass, The sun had finish’d more than half his race: And they, perhaps, in words and tears had spent The little time of stay which Heav’n had lent; But thus the Sibyl chides their long delay: “Night rushes down, and headlong drives the day: ’Tis here, in different paths, the way divides; The right to Pluto’s golden palace guides; The left to that unhappy region tends, Which to the depth of Tartarus descends; The seat of night profound, and punish’d fiends.” Then thus Deiphobus: “O sacred maid, Forbear to chide, and be your will obey’d! Lo! to the secret shadows I retire, To pay my penance till my years expire. Proceed, auspicious prince, with glory crown’d, And born to better fates than I have found.” He said; and, while he said, his steps he turn’d To secret shadows, and in silence mourn’d.

The hero, looking on the left, espied A lofty tow’r, and strong on ev’ry side With treble walls, which Phlegethon surrounds, Whose fiery flood the burning empire bounds; And, press’d betwixt the rocks, the bellowing noise resounds Wide is the fronting gate, and, rais’d on high With adamantine columns, threats the sky. Vain is the force of man, and Heav’n’s as vain, To crush the pillars which the pile sustain. Sublime on these a tow’r of steel is rear’d; And dire Tisiphone there keeps the ward, Girt in her sanguine gown, by night and day, Observant of the souls that pass the downward way. From hence are heard the groans of ghosts, the pains Of sounding lashes and of dragging chains. The Trojan stood astonish’d at their cries, And ask’d his guide from whence those yells arise; And what the crimes, and what the tortures were, And loud laments that rent the liquid air.

She thus replied: “The chaste and holy race Are all forbidden this polluted place. But Hecate, when she gave to rule the woods, Then led me trembling thro’ these dire abodes, And taught the tortures of th’ avenging gods. These are the realms of unrelenting fate; And awful Rhadamanthus rules the state. He hears and judges each committed crime; Enquires into the manner, place, and time. The conscious wretch must all his acts reveal, Loth to confess, unable to conceal, From the first moment of his vital breath, To his last hour of unrepenting death. Straight, o’er the guilty ghost, the Fury shakes 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 centre 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 pointed lightnings, 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 godlike worship 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’ immortal hunger lasts, th’ immortal food remains. Ixion and Perithous I could name, And more Thessalian chiefs of mighty fame. High o’er their heads a mould’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 honour 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 labour’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 Teucer’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 crystal streams, 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’ illustrious throng, 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 ’tis 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. ’Tis 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 To seek the shores by destiny design’d.” “O father, can it be, that souls sublime Return to visit our terrestrial clime, And that the gen’rous mind, releas’d by death, Can covet lazy limbs and mortal breath?”

Anchises then, in order, thus begun To clear those wonders to his godlike son: “Know, first, that heav’n, and earth’s compacted frame, And flowing waters, and the starry flame, And both the radiant lights, one common soul Inspires and feeds, and animates the whole. This active mind, infus’d thro’ all the space, Unites and mingles with the mighty mass. Hence men and beasts the breath of life obtain, And birds of air, and monsters of the main. Th’ ethereal vigour is in all the same, And every soul is fill’d with equal flame; As much as earthy limbs, and gross allay Of mortal members, subject to decay, Blunt not the beams of heav’n and edge of day. From this coarse mixture of terrestrial parts, Desire and fear by turns possess their hearts, And grief, and joy; nor can the groveling mind, In the dark dungeon of the limbs confin’d, Assert the native skies, or own its heav’nly kind: Nor death itself can wholly wash their stains; But long-contracted filth ev’n in the soul remains. The relics of inveterate vice they wear, And spots of sin obscene in ev’ry face appear. For this are various penances enjoin’d; And some are hung to bleach upon the wind, Some plung’d in waters, others purg’d in fires, Till all the dregs are drain’d, and all the rust expires. All have their manes, and those manes bear: The few, so cleans’d, to these abodes repair, And breathe, in ample fields, the soft Elysian air.

Then are they happy, when by length of time The scurf is worn away of each committed crime; No speck is left of their habitual stains, But the pure ether of the soul remains. But, when a thousand rolling years are past, (So long their punishments and penance last,) Whole droves of minds are, by the driving god, Compell’d to drink the deep Lethaean flood, In large forgetful draughts to steep the cares Of their past labours, and their irksome years, That, unrememb’ring of its former pain, The soul may suffer mortal flesh again.”

Thus having said, the father spirit leads The priestess and his son thro’ swarms of shades, And takes a rising ground, from thence to see The long procession of his progeny. “Survey,” pursued the sire, “this airy throng, As, offer’d to thy view, they pass along. These are th’ Italian names, which fate will join With ours, and graff upon the Trojan line. Observe the youth who first appears in sight, And holds the nearest station to the light, Already seems to snuff the vital air, And leans just forward, on a shining spear: Silvius is he, thy last-begotten race, But first in order sent, to fill thy place; An Alban name, but mix’d with Dardan blood, Born in the covert of a shady wood: Him fair Lavinia, thy surviving wife, Shall breed in groves, to lead a solitary life. In Alba he shall fix his royal seat, And, born a king, a race of kings beget. Then Procas, honour of the Trojan name, Capys, and Numitor, of endless fame. A second Silvius after these appears; Silvius Aeneas, for thy name he bears; For arms and justice equally renown’d, Who, late restor’d, in Alba shall be crown’d. How great they look! how vig’rously they wield Their weighty lances, and sustain the shield! But they, who crown’d with oaken wreaths appear, Shall Gabian walls and strong Fidena rear; Nomentum, Bola, with Pometia, found; And raise Collatian tow’rs on rocky ground. All these shall then be towns of mighty fame, Tho’ now they lie obscure, and lands without a name.

See Romulus the great, born to restore The crown that once his injur’d grandsire wore. This prince a priestess of your blood shall bear, And like his sire in arms he shall appear. Two rising crests, his royal head adorn; Born from a god, himself to godhead born: His sire already signs him for the skies, And marks the seat amidst the deities. Auspicious chief! thy race, in times to come, Shall spread the conquests of imperial Rome. Rome, whose ascending tow’rs shall heav’n invade, Involving earth and ocean in her shade; High as the Mother of the Gods in place, And proud, like her, of an immortal race. Then, when in pomp she makes the Phrygian round, With golden turrets on her temples crown’d; A hundred gods her sweeping train supply; Her offspring all, and all command the sky.

“Now fix your sight, and stand intent, to see Your Roman race, and Julian progeny. The mighty Caesar waits his vital hour, Impatient for the world, and grasps his promis’d pow’r. But next behold the youth of form divine, Caesar himself, exalted in his line; Augustus, promis’d oft, and long foretold, Sent to the realm that Saturn rul’d of old; Born to restore a better age of gold. Afric and India shall his pow’r obey; He shall extend his propagated sway Beyond the solar year, without the starry way, Where Atlas turns the rolling heav’ns around, And his broad shoulders with their lights are crown’d. At his foreseen approach, already quake The Caspian kingdoms and Maeotian lake: Their seers behold the tempest from afar, And threat’ning oracles denounce the war. Nile hears him knocking at his sev’nfold gates, And seeks his hidden spring, and fears his nephew’s fates. Nor Hercules more lands or labours knew, Not tho’ the brazen-footed hind he slew, Freed Erymanthus from the foaming boar, And dipp’d his arrows in Lernaean gore; Nor Bacchus, turning from his Indian war, By tigers drawn triumphant in his car, From Nisus’ top descending on the plains, With curling vines around

his purple reins. And doubt we yet thro’ dangers to pursue The paths of honour, and a crown in view? But what’s the man, who from afar appears? His head with olive crown’d, his hand a censer bears, His hoary beard and holy vestments bring His lost idea back: I know the Roman king. He shall to peaceful Rome new laws ordain, Call’d from his mean abode a scepter to sustain. Him Tullus next in dignity succeeds, An active prince, and prone to martial deeds. He shall his troops for fighting fields prepare, Disus’d to toils, and triumphs of the war. By dint of sword his crown he shall increase, And scour his armour from the rust of peace. Whom Ancus follows, with a fawning air, But vain within, and proudly popular. Next view the Tarquin kings, th’ avenging sword Of Brutus, justly drawn, and Rome restor’d. He first renews the rods and ax severe, And gives the consuls royal robes to wear. His sons, who seek the tyrant to sustain, And long for arbitrary lords again, With ignominy scourg’d, in open sight, He dooms to death deserv’d, asserting public right. Unhappy man, to break the pious laws Of nature,

pleading in his children’s cause! Howe’er the doubtful fact is understood, ’Tis love of honour, and his country’s good: The consul, not the father, sheds the blood. Behold Torquatus the same track pursue; And, next, the two devoted Decii view: The Drusian line, Camillus loaded home With standards well redeem’d, and foreign foes o’ercome The pair you see in equal armour shine, Now, friends below, in close embraces join; But, when they leave the shady realms of night, And, cloth’d in bodies, breathe your upper light, With mortal hate each other shall pursue: What wars, what wounds, what slaughter shall ensue! From Alpine heights the father first descends; His daughter’s husband in the plain attends: His daughter’s husband arms his eastern friends. Embrace again, my sons, be foes no more; Nor stain your country with her children’s gore! And thou, the first, lay down thy lawless claim, Thou, of my blood, who bear’st the Julian name! Another comes, who shall in triumph ride, And to the Capitol his chariot guide, From conquer’d Corinth, rich with Grecian spoils. And yet another, fam’d for warlike toils, On Argos shall impose the Roman laws, And on the Greeks revenge the Trojan cause; Shall

drag in chains their Achillean race; Shall vindicate his ancestors’ disgrace, And Pallas, for her violated place. Great Cato there, for gravity renown’d, And conqu’ring Cossus goes with laurels crown’d. Who can omit the Gracchi? who declare The Scipios’ worth, those thunderbolts of war, The double bane of Carthage? Who can see Without esteem for virtuous poverty, Severe Fabricius, or can cease t’ admire The plowman consul in his coarse attire? Tir’d as I am, my praise the Fabii claim; And thou, great hero, greatest of thy name, Ordain’d in war to save the sinking state, And, by delays, to put a stop to fate! Let others better mould the running mass Of metals, and inform the breathing brass, And soften into flesh a marble face; Plead better at the bar; describe the skies, And when the stars descend, and when they rise. But, Rome, ’tis thine alone, with awful sway, To rule mankind, and make the world obey, Disposing peace and war by thy own majestic way; To tame the proud, the fetter’d slave to free: These are imperial arts, and worthy thee.”

He paus’d; and, while with wond’ring eyes they view’d The passing spirits, thus his speech renew’d: “See great Marcellus! how, untir’d in toils, He moves with manly grace, how rich with regal spoils! He, when his country, threaten’d with alarms, Requires his courage and his conqu’ring arms, Shall more than once the Punic bands affright; Shall kill the Gaulish king in single fight; Then to the Capitol in triumph move, And the third spoils shall grace Feretrian Jove.” Aeneas here beheld, of form divine, A godlike youth in glitt’ring armour shine, With great Marcellus keeping equal pace; But gloomy were his eyes, dejected was his face. He saw, and, wond’ring, ask’d his airy guide, What and of whence was he, who press’d the hero’s side: “His son, or one of his illustrious name? How like the former, and almost the same! Observe the crowds that compass him around; All gaze, and all admire, and raise a shouting sound: But hov’ring mists around his brows are spread, And night, with sable shades, involves his head.” “Seek not to know,” the ghost replied with tears, “The sorrows of thy sons in future years. This youth (the blissful vision of a day) Shall

just be shown on earth, and snatch’d away. The gods too high had rais’d the Roman state, Were but their gifts as permanent as great. What groans of men shall fill the Martian field! How fierce a blaze his flaming pile shall yield! What fun’ral pomp shall floating Tiber see, When, rising from his bed, he views the sad solemnity! No youth shall equal hopes of glory give, No youth afford so great a cause to grieve; The Trojan honour, and the Roman boast, Admir’d when living, and ador’d when lost! Mirror of ancient faith in early youth! Undaunted worth, inviolable truth! No foe, unpunish’d, in the fighting field Shall dare thee, foot to foot, with sword and shield; Much less in arms oppose thy matchless force, When thy sharp spurs shall urge thy foaming horse. Ah! couldst thou break thro’ fate’s severe decree, A new Marcellus shall arise in thee! Full canisters of fragrant lilies bring, Mix’d with the purple roses of the spring; Let me with fun’ral flow’rs his body strow; This gift which parents to their children owe, This unavailing gift, at least, I may bestow!” Thus having said, he led the hero round The confines of

the blest Elysian ground; Which when Anchises to his son had shown, And fir’d his mind to mount the promis’d throne, He tells the future wars, ordain’d by fate; The strength and customs of the Latian state; The prince, and people; and forearms his care With rules, to push his fortune, or to bear.

Two gates the silent house of Sleep adorn; Of polish’d ivory this, that of transparent horn: True visions thro’ transparent horn arise; Thro’ polish’d ivory pass deluding lies. Of various things discoursing as he pass’d, Anchises hither bends his steps at last. Then, thro’ the gate of iv’ry, he dismiss’d His valiant offspring and divining guest. Straight to the ships Aeneas took his way, Embark’d his men, and skimm’d along the sea, Still coasting, till he gain’d Cajeta’s bay. At length on oozy ground his galleys moor; Their heads are turn’d to sea, their sterns to shore.

THE ARGUMENT. King Latinus entertains Aeneas, and promises him his only daughter, Lavinia, the heiress of his crown. Turnus, being in love with her, favoured by her mother, and by Juno and Alecto, breaks the treaty which was made, and engages in his quarrel Mezentius, Camilla, Messapus, and many other of the neighbouring princes; whose forces, and the names of their commanders are particularly related. And thou, O matron of immortal fame, Here dying, to the shore hast left thy name; Cajeta still the place is call’d from thee, The nurse of great Aeneas’ infancy. Here rest thy bones in rich Hesperia’s plains; Thy name (’tis all a ghost can have) remains.

Now, when the prince her fun’ral rites had paid, He plow’d the Tyrrhene seas with sails display’d. From land a gentle breeze arose by night, Serenely shone the stars, the moon was bright, And the sea trembled with her silver light. Now near the shelves of Circe’s shores they run, (Circe the rich, the daughter of the Sun,) A dang’rous coast: the goddess wastes her days In joyous songs; the rocks resound her lays: In spinning, or the loom, she spends the night, And cedar brands supply her father’s light. From hence were heard, rebellowing to the main, The roars of lions that refuse the chain, The grunts of bristled boars, and groans of bears, And herds of howling wolves that stun the sailors’ ears. These from their caverns, at the close of night, Fill the sad isle with horror and affright. Darkling they mourn their fate, whom Circe’s pow’r, (That watch’d the moon and planetary hour,) With words and wicked herbs from humankind Had alter’d, and in brutal shapes confin’d. Which monsters lest the Trojans’ pious host Should bear, or touch upon th’ inchanted coast, Propitious Neptune steer’d their course by night With rising gales that sped their happy flight. Supplied with these, they skim the sounding shore, And hear the swelling surges vainly roar. Now, when the rosy morn began to rise, And wav’d her saffron streamer thro’ the skies; When Thetis blush’d in purple not her own, And from her face the breathing winds were blown, A sudden silence sate upon the sea, And sweeping oars, with struggling, urge their way.

The Trojan, from the main, beheld a wood, Which thick with shades and a brown horror stood: Betwixt the trees the Tiber took his course, With whirlpools dimpled; and with downward force, That drove the sand along, he took his way, And roll’d his yellow billows to the sea. About him, and above, and round the wood, The birds that haunt the borders of his flood, That bath’d within, or basked upon his side, To tuneful songs their narrow throats applied. The captain gives command; the joyful train Glide thro’ the gloomy shade, and leave the main.

Now, Erato, thy poet’s mind inspire, And fill his soul with thy celestial fire! Relate what Latium was; her ancient kings; Declare the past and present state of things, When first the Trojan fleet Ausonia sought, And how the rivals lov’d, and how they fought. These are my theme, and how the war began, And how concluded by the godlike man: For I shall sing of battles, blood, and rage, Which princes and their people did engage; And haughty souls, that, mov’d with mutual hate, In fighting fields pursued and found their fate; That rous’d the Tyrrhene realm with loud alarms, And peaceful Italy involv’d in arms. A larger scene of action is display’d; And, rising hence, a greater work is weigh’d.

Latinus, old and mild, had long possess’d The Latin scepter, and his people blest: His father Faunus; a Laurentian dame His mother; fair Marica was her name. But Faunus came from Picus: Picus drew His birth from Saturn, if records be true. Thus King Latinus, in the third degree, Had Saturn author of his family. But this old peaceful prince, as Heav’n decreed, Was blest with no male issue to succeed: His sons in blooming youth were snatch’d by fate; One only daughter heir’d the royal state. Fir’d with her love, and with ambition led, The neighb’ring princes court her nuptial bed. Among the crowd, but far above the rest, Young Turnus to the beauteous maid address’d. Turnus, for high descent and graceful mien, Was first, and favour’d by the Latian queen; With him she strove to join Lavinia’s hand, But dire portents the purpos’d match withstand.

Deep in the palace, of long growth, there stood A laurel’s trunk, a venerable wood; Where rites divine were paid; whose holy hair Was kept and cut with superstitious care. This plant Latinus, when his town he wall’d, Then found, and from the tree Laurentum call’d; And last, in honour of his new abode, He vow’d the laurel to the laurel’s god. It happen’d once (a boding prodigy!) A swarm of bees, that cut the liquid sky, Unknown from whence they took their airy flight, Upon the topmost branch in clouds alight; There with their clasping feet together clung, And a long cluster from the laurel hung. An ancient augur prophesied from hence: “Behold on Latian shores a foreign prince! From the same parts of heav’n his navy stands, To the same parts on earth; his army lands; The town he conquers, and the tow’r commands.”

Yet more, when fair Lavinia fed the fire Before the gods, and stood beside her sire, Strange to relate, the flames, involv’d in smoke Of incense, from the sacred altar broke, Caught her dishevel’d hair and rich attire; Her crown and jewels crackled in the fire: From thence the fuming trail began to spread And lambent glories danc’d about her head. This new portent the seer with wonder views, Then pausing, thus his prophecy renews: “The nymph, who scatters flaming fires around, Shall shine with honour, shall herself be crown’d; But, caus’d by her irrevocable fate, War shall the country waste, and change the state.”

Latinus, frighted with this dire ostent, For counsel to his father Faunus went, And sought the shades renown’d for prophecy Which near Albunea’s sulph’rous fountain lie. To these the Latian and the Sabine land Fly, when distress’d, and thence relief demand. The priest on skins of off’rings takes his ease, And nightly visions in his slumber sees; A swarm of thin aerial shapes appears, And, flutt’ring round his temples, deafs his ears: These he consults, the future fates to know, From pow’rs above, and from the fiends below. Here, for the gods’ advice, Latinus flies, Off’ring a hundred sheep for sacrifice: Their woolly fleeces, as the rites requir’d, He laid beneath him, and to rest retir’d. No sooner were his eyes in slumber bound, When, from above, a more than mortal sound Invades his ears; and thus the vision spoke: “Seek not, my seed, in Latian bands to yoke Our fair Lavinia, nor the gods provoke. A foreign son upon thy shore descends, Whose martial fame from pole to pole extends. His race, in arms and arts of peace renown’d, Not Latium shall contain, nor Europe bound: ’Tis theirs whate’er the sun surveys around.” These answers, in the silent night receiv’d, The king himself divulg’d, the land believ’d: The fame thro’ all the neighb’ring nations flew, When now the Trojan navy was in view.

Beneath a shady tree, the hero spread His table on the turf, with cakes of bread; And, with his chiefs, on forest fruits he fed. They sate; and, (not without the god’s command,) Their homely fare dispatch’d, the hungry band Invade their trenchers next, and soon devour, To mend the scanty meal, their cakes of flour. Ascanius this observ’d, and smiling said: “See, we devour the plates on which we fed.” The speech had omen, that the Trojan race Should find repose, and this the time and place. Aeneas took the word, and thus replies, Confessing fate with wonder in his eyes: “All hail, O earth! all hail, my household gods! Behold the destin’d place of your abodes! For thus Anchises prophesied of old, And this our fatal place of rest foretold: ‘When, on a foreign shore, instead of meat, By famine forc’d, your trenchers you shall eat, Then ease your weary Trojans will attend, And the long labours of your voyage end. Remember on that happy coast to build, And with a trench inclose the fruitful field.’ This was that famine, this the fatal place Which ends the wand’ring of our exil’d race. Then, on tomorrow’s dawn, your care employ, To search the land, and where the cities lie, And what the men; but give this day to joy. Now pour to Jove; and, after Jove is blest, Call great Anchises to the genial feast: Crown high the goblets with a cheerful draught; Enjoy the present hour; adjourn the future thought.”

Thus having said, the hero bound his brows With leafy branches, then perform’d his vows; Adoring first the genius of the place, Then Earth, the mother of the heav’nly race, The nymphs, and native godheads yet unknown, And Night, and all the stars that gild her sable throne, And ancient Cybel, and Idaean Jove, And last his sire below, and mother queen above. Then heav’n’s high monarch thunder’d thrice aloud, And thrice he shook aloft a golden cloud. Soon thro’ the joyful camp a rumour flew, The time was come their city to renew. Then ev’ry brow with cheerful green is crown’d, The feasts are doubled, and the bowls go round.