LXXXVII. She paused, and pressed her lips upon the bed. "To die—and unavenged? Yea, let me die! Thus—thus it joys to journey to the dead. Let yon false Dardan with remorseful eye Drink in this bale-fire from the deep, and sigh To bear the omens of my death."—No more She said, but swooned. The servants see her lie, Sunk on the sword; they see the life-blood pour, Reddening her tender hands, the weapon drenched with gore.

LXXXVIII. Then through the lofty palace rose a scream, And madly Rumour riots, as she flies Through the shocked town. The very houses seem To groan, and shrieks, and sobbing and the cries Of wailing women pierce the vaulted skies. 'Twas e'en as though all Carthage or old Tyre Were falling, stormed by ruthless enemies, While over roof and battlement and spire And temples of the Gods rolled on the infuriate fire.

LXXXIX. Her sister heard, and through the concourse came, And tore her cheeks and beat her bosom fair, And called upon the dying Queen by name. "Sister! was this thy secret? thine this snare? For me this fraud? For this did I prepare That pyre, those flames and altars? This the end? Ah me, forlorn! what worse remains to bear? Would'st thou in death desert me, and pretend To scorn a sister's care, and shun me as a friend?

XC. "Thou should'st have called me to thy doom! One stroke, A moment's pang, and we had ceased to sigh. Reared I this pyre, did I the gods invoke To leave thee thus companionless, to die? Lo, all are dead together, thou and I, Town, princes, people, perished in a day. Bring water; let me close the lightless eye, And bathe those wounds, and kiss those lips of clay, And catch one fluttering breath, if yet, perchance, I may!"

XCI. So saying, she climbs the steps, and, groaning sore, Clasps to her breast her sister ere she dies, And stanches with her robe the streaming gore. In vain poor Dido lifts her wearied eyes, The closing eyelids sicken at the skies. Deep gurgles in her breast the deadly wound; Thrice on her elbow she essays to rise, Thrice back she sinks. With wandering eyes all round She seeks the light of heaven, and moans when it is found.

XCII. Then Juno, pitying her agony Of lingering death, sent Iris down with speed. Her struggling soul from clinging limbs to free. For since by Fate, or for her own misdeed She perished not, but, ere the day decreed, Fell in the frenzy of her love's despair, Not yet Proserpina had claimed her meed, And shorn the ringlet of her golden hair, And bade the sacred shade to Stygian realms repair.

XCIII. So down to earth came Iris from on high On saffron wings all glittering with the dew. A thousand tints against the sunlit sky She flashed from out her rainbow as she flew, Then, hovering overhead, these words outthrew, "Behold, to Dis this offering I bear, And loose thee from thy body."—Forth she drew The fatal shears, and clipped the golden hair; The vital heats disperse, and life dissolves in air.



BOOK FIVE

ARGUMENT

AEneas, unaware of Dido's fate, sails away to Acestes in Sicily, and prepares funeral games against the anniversary of Anchises' death (1-90). Offerings are paid to the spirit of Anchises. Sicilians and Trojans assemble for the first contest, a boat race (91-140), which is described at length. Cloanthus, ancestor of the Cluentii, wins with the "Scylla" (141-342). The foot-race is next narrated. Euryalus, by his friend's cunning, gains the first prize, and the scene shifts (343-441) to the ring, in which Dares is defeated by the veteran Entellus, who fells the ox, his prize, as an offering to his master Eryx (442-594). After some wonderful shooting in the archery which follows, AEneas awards the first prize to Acestes, as the favourite of the gods (595-667). Before this contest is over AEneas summons Ascanius and his boy-companions to perform the elaborate manoeuvres afterwards celebrated in Rome as the "Trojan Ride" (668-729). Juno schemes to destroy the Trojan fleet, while the games are being held. She inspires with discontent the Trojan matrons, who are not present at the festival. They set fire to the ships (730-810). Ascanius hurries to the scene. Jupiter sends rain and saves all the ships but four (811-855). Nautes advises AEneas to leave behind the weak and aged with Acestes. The wraith of Anchises enforces the advice, and bids AEneas visit him in the nether-world (856-909). Preparations for departure. Acestes accepts his new subjects, and the Trojans depart. Venus prevails on Neptune to grant them safe convoy in return for the life of the helmsman Palinurus, who is drowned (910-1062).

I. Now well at sea, AEneas, fixt in mind, Held on his course, and cleft the watery ways Through billows blackened by the northern wind, And backward on the city bent his gaze, Bright with the flames of Dido. Whence the blaze Arose, they knew not; but the pangs they knew When love is passionate, and man betrays, And what a frantic woman scorned can do, And many a sad surmise their boding thoughts pursue.

II. The fleet was on mid-ocean; land no more Was visible, nor aught but sea and sky; When lo! above them a black cloud, that bore Tempest and Night, frowned iron-dark on high, And the wave, shuddering as the wind swept by, Curled and was darkened. From the stern loud cries The pilot Palinurus: "Whence and why This cloudy rack that gathers o'er the skies? What, father Neptune, now, what mischief dost devise?"

III. So having said, he bade the seamen take The tackling in, and ply the lusty oar, Then sloped the mainsheet to the wind, and spake: "Noble AEneas, e'en if high Jove swore To bring us safely to Italia's shore, With skies like these, 'twere hopeless. Westward loom The dark clouds mustering, and the changed winds roar Athwart us, and the air is thick with gloom. Vainly we strive to move, and struggle with our doom.

IV. "Come, then, since Fortune hath the mastering hand, Yield we and turn. Not far, methinks, there lies A friendly shore, thy brother Eryx' land, And ports Sicanian, if aright these eyes Recall my former reading of the skies." Then good AEneas: "Long ago, 'tis plain, The winds so willed it. I have seen," he cries, "And marked thee toiling in their teeth in vain. Shift sail and turn the helm. What sweeter shore to gain,

V. "What port more welcome to a wearied fleet And wave-worn mariners, what land more blest Than that where still Acestes lives, to greet His Dardan friends, and in the boon earth's breast My father's bones, Anchises', are at rest?" He spake; at once the Trojans strive to gain The port. Fair breezes, blowing from the West, Swell out the sails. They bound along the main, And soon with gladdening hearts the well-known shore attain.

VI. Far off Acestes, wondering, from a height The coming of their friendly ships descries, And hastes to meet them. Roughly is he dight In Libyan bearskin, as in huntsman's guise; A pointed javelin in each hand he plies. Him once a Trojan to Crimisus bore, The stream-god. Mindful of ancestral ties He hails his weary kinsmen, come once more, And dainty fruits sets forth, and cheers them from his store.

VII. Next dawn had chased the stars, when on the shore AEneas thus the gathered crews addressed: "Twelve months have passed, brave Dardans, since we bore The bones of great Anchises to his rest, And laid his ashes in the ground, and blessed The mourning altars by the rolling sea. And now once more, if rightly I have guessed, The day is come, which Heaven hath willed to be Sacred for evermore, but ever sad to me.

VIII. This day, though exiled on Gaetulian sands, Or caught by tempests on th' AEgean brine, Or at Mycenae in the foemen's hands, With annual honours will I hold divine, And head with fitting offerings the shrine. By chance unsought, now hither are we led, Yet not, I ween, without the God's design, Where lie the ashes of my father dead, And greet a friendly port, by favouring breezes sped.

IX. "Come then, with festival his name revere, Pray we for winds to waft us, and entreat His shade to take these offerings year by year, When gathered to our new-built Troy, we meet In hallowed fanes, his worship to repeat. See, for each ship two head of horned kine Acestes sends, his Trojan friends to greet Bid then the home-gods of the Trojan line, With those our host adores, to grace the feast divine.

X. "Nay, if the ninth fair morning show fine day, And bring the sunshine, be a match decreed For Teucrian ships, their swiftness to essay. Next, in the footrace whosoe'er hath speed, Or, glorying in his manhood, claims the meed With dart, or flying arrow and the bow, Or bout with untanned gauntlet, mark and heed, And wait the victor's guerdon. Come ye now; Hush'd be each idle tongue, and garlanded each brow."

XI. He spake, and round his temples binds with joy His mother's myrtle. Helymus is crowned, The veteran Acestes, and the boy Ascanius, and the Trojan warriors round. So from the council to the funeral mound He moves, the centre of a circling crowd. Two bowls of wine he pours upon the ground, Two of warm milk, and two of victim's blood, And, scattering purple flowers, invokes the shade aloud.

XII. "Hail, holy Sire! blest Spirit, hail once more, And ashes, vainly rescued! Not with thee Was I allowed to reach Italia's shore, The fields Ausonian that the Fates decree, And Latin Tiber—whatsoe'er it be." He ceased, when lo, a monstrous serpent, wound In seven huge coils, seven giant spires, they see Glide from the grave, and gently clasp the mound, And 'twixt the altars trail in many a tortuous round.

XIII. The back with azure and the scales with gold In streaks and glittering patches were ablaze: So doth the rainbow in the clouds unfold A thousand hues against the sun's bright rays. AEneas stood bewildered with amaze. In lengthened train meanwhile the snake went on, 'Twixt cups and bowls weaving its sinuous ways, Then sipped the sacred food, and harming none, The tasted altars left and 'neath the tomb was gone.

XIV. Cheered, to Anchises he the rites renewed, In doubt if there some Genius of the shrine Or menial spirit of his sire he viewed. Two sheep, two dark-backed heifers, and two swine He slays, invoking, as he pours the wine, The ghost, released from Acheron. Glad of soul, Each adds his gift. These slay the sacred Kine, Pile altars, set the cauldrons, heap the coal, And, sitting, hold the spits, and roast the entrails whole.

XV. Now came the looked-for day. The ninth fair dawn Bright Phaethon drove up a cloudless sky. Rumour and great Acestes' name had drawn The neighbouring folk; shoreward in crowds they hie To see the Trojans, or the games to try. Piled in the lists the presents they behold, Green garlands, tripods, robes of purple dye, The conqueror's palm, bright armour for the bold, And many a talent's weight of silver and of gold.

XVI. Now from a mound the trumpet's notes proclaim The sports begun. Four galleys from the fleet, The choicest, manned by mariners of fame, And matched in size and urged with ponderous beat Of oar-blades, for the naval contest meet. See, here the Shark comes speeding to her place, Trained is her crew and eager to compete, Brave Mnestheus is her captain, born to grace Italia's land ere long, and found the Memmian race.

XVII. Here too, the huge Chimaera towers along, A floating citadel, with walls of pine, Three tale of Dardans urge her, stout and strong, Their triple tiers in unison combine To drive her, ruled by Gyas, through the brine. Borne in the monstrous Centaur, next doth come Sergestus, father of the Sergian line. Last, in the dark-blue Scylla ploughs the foam Cloanthus, whence thy house, Cluentius of Rome.

XVIII. Far seaward stands, afront the foamy shore, A rock, half-hid when wintry waves upleap, And skies are starless, and the North-winds roar, But still and silent, when the calm waves sleep, A level top it lifts above the deep, The seamews' haunt. A bough of ilex here The good AEneas sets upon the steep, Green-leaved and tall,—a goal, to seamen clear, To seek and, doubling round, their homeward course to steer.

XIX. Each takes his station. On the sterns behold, Ranged in due order as the lots assign, The captains, gay with purple and with gold. The crews their brows with poplar garlands twine, And wet with oil their naked shoulders shine. Prone on their oars, and straining from the thwart, With souls astretch, they listen for the sign. Fear stirs the pulse and drains the throbbing heart, Thrilled with the lust of praise, and panting for the start.

XX. Loud peals the trumpet. From the port they dash With cheers. The waves hiss, as the strong arms keep In time, drawn up to finish with a flash; And three-toothed prow and oars, with measured sweep, Tear up the yawning furrows of the deep, Less swiftly, to the chariot yoked atwain, The bounding racers from the base outleap, Less keen the driver, as they scour the plain, Leans o'er the whistling lash, and slacks the streaming rein.

XXI. Shouts, cheers and plaudits wake the woods around, Their clamours roll along the land-locked shore, And, echoing, from the beaten hills rebound. First Gyas comes, amid the rout and roar; Cloanthus second,—better with the oar His crew, but heavier is the load of pine. Next Shark and Centaur struggle to the fore, Now Shark ahead, now Centaur, now in line The long keels, urged abreast, together plough the brine.

XXII. Near lay the rock, the goal was close in sight, When Gyas, first o'er half a length of tide Shouts to his helmsman: "Whither to the right? Hug close the cliff, and graze the leftward side. Let others hold the deep." In vain he cried. Menoetes feared the hidden reefs, and bore To seaward. "Whither from thy course so wide? What; swerving still?" the captain shouts once more, "Keep to the shore, I say, Menoetes, to the shore."

XXIII. He turned, when lo! behind him, gaining fast, Cloanthus. On the leeward side he stole A narrower compass, grazing as he passed His rival's vessel and the sounding shoal, Then gained safe water, as he turned the goal. Grief fired young Gyas at the sight, and drew Tears from his eyes and anger from his soul. Careless alike of honour and his crew, Down from the lofty stern his timorous guide he threw.

XXIV. Forthwith he grasps the tiller in his hand, Captain and helmsman, and his comrades cheers, And wrests the rudder leftward to the land, Slow from the depths Menoetes reappears, Clogged by his clothes, and cumbered with his years. Then, shoreward swimming, climbs with feeble craft The rock, and there sits drying. All with jeers Laughed as he fell and floated; loud they laughed As, sputtering, from his throat he spits the briny draught.

XXV. Joy, mixt with hope, as Gyas slacks his pace, Fires the two hindmost. Now they near the mark; Sergestus, leading, takes the inside place. Yet not a length divides them, for the Shark Shoots up halfway and overlaps his bark. Mnestheus, amidships pacing, cheers his crew; "Now, now lean to, and let each arm be stark; Row, mighty Hector's followers, whom I drew From Troy, in Troy's last hour, my comrades tried and true!

XXVI. "Now for the strength and hardihood that braved Gaetulian shoals, and the Ionian main, And billows following billows, as they raved Against steep Malea. Not mine to gain The prize: I strive not to be first—'tis vain. Sweet were the thought—but Neptune rules the race; Let them the palm, whom he has willed, retain. But oh, for shame! to take the hindmost place Win this—to ward that doom, and ban the dire disgrace."

XXVII. Straining each nerve, they bend them to the oar. The bronze poop reels, so lustily they row, And from beneath them slips the watery floor. The parched lips quiver, as they pant and blow, Sweat pours in rivers from their limbs; when now Chance brings the wished-for honour. Blindly rash, Close to the rocks Sergestus drives his prow. Too close he steals; on jutting crags they dash; The straining oars snap short, the bows with sudden crash

XXVIII. Stick fast, and hang upon the ledge. Up spring With shouts the sailors, clamorous at delay, And snatch the crushed oars from the waves, and bring Sharp poles and steel-tipt boathooks, and essay To thrust the forepart from the rocks away. Brave Mnestheus sees and, glorying in his gain, Invokes the winds. With oarsmen in array His swift bark, urged with many a stalwart strain, Shoots down the sloping tide, and wins the open main.

XXIX. Like as a pigeon, startled from her rest, Swift from the crannies of the rock, where clings Her heart's desire, the darlings of her nest, Darts forth and, scared with terror, flaps her wings, Then, gliding smoothly, in the soft air swings, And skims her liquid passage through the skies On pinions motionless. So Mnestheus springs, So springs the Shark; her impulse, as she flies, Cleaving the homeward seas, the wanting wings supplies.

XXX. He leaves Sergestus, who implores in vain His aid, still toiling from the rocks to clear And headway with his shattered oars to gain. Soon huge Chimaera, left with none to steer, Drops off astern, and labours in the rear. Alone remains Cloanthus, but the race Well-nigh is ended, and the goal is near; Him Mnestheus seeks; his crew, with quickened pace And utmost stretch of oars, press forward in the chase.

XXXI. Now, now the noise redoubles; cheers and cries Urge on the follower, and the wild acclaim Rolls up, and wakes the echoes of the skies. These scorn to lose their vantage, stung with shame, And life is wagered willingly for fame. Success inspires the hindmost; as they dare, They do; the thought of winning wins the game. With equal honours Chance had crowned the pair, But thus, with outspread hands, Cloanthus breathed a prayer:

XXXII. "Great Gods of Ocean! on whose waves I ride, A milk-white bull upon the shore I vow, And with its entrails will I strew the tide, And on your altars make the wine outflow." Fair Panopea hears him from below, The Nereids hear, and old Portunus plies His own great hand, to push them as they go. Swifter than arrow to the shore she flies, Swifter than Southern gale, and in the harbour lies.

XXXIII. All summoned now, the herald's voice declares Cloanthus conqueror, and with verdant bay AEneas crowns him. To each crew he shares Three steers and wine, and, to recall the day, A silver talent bids them bear away. Choice honours to the captains next are told, A scarf he gives the victor, rich and gay, Twice-fringed with purple, glorious to behold, Whose Melibaean dye meanders round the gold.

XXXIV. Inwoven there, behold the kingly boy, Fair Ganymede, pursues the flying deer On Ida and the wooded heights of Troy, Swift-footed, glorying with uplifted spear, So keen the panting of his heart ye hear. Down swoops Jove's armour-bearer, and on high With taloned claws hath trussed him. Vainly here His aged guardians lift their heads and cry; The faithful dogs look up, and fiercely bay the sky.

XXXV. A goodly hauberk to the next he gave, With polished rings and triple chain of gold, Torn by his own hands from Demoleos brave, Beneath high Troy, where Simois swiftly rolled, The warrior's glory and defence, to hold. Phegeus and Sagaris, with all their might, Two stalwart slaves, scarce bore it, fold on fold, That coat of mail, wherein Demoleos dight, Trod down the ranks of Troy, and put his foes to flight.

XXXVI. Last comes the third: two brazen caldrons fine, Two cups of silver doth the prince bestow, Rough-chased with imagery of choice design. Each had his prize, and glorying forth they go, With purple ribbons on their brows, when lo! Scarce torn with effort from the rock's embrace, Oarless, and short of oarsmen by a row, Home comes Sergestus, and in rueful case Drives his dishonoured bark, left hindmost in the race.

XXXVII. As when an adder, whom athwart the way Some wheel hath crushed, or traveller, passing by, Maimed with a stone, as unaware he lay, And left sore mangled, on the point to die, In vain his coils would lengthen, fain to fly: One half erect, his burning eyes around He darts, and lifts his hissing throat on high, Defiant, half still writhes upon the ground, Self-twined in tortuous knots, and crippled by the wound:

XXXVIII. So slowly rows the Centaur, yet anon They set the sails, and loose the spreading sheet, And crowd full canvas; and the port is won. Glad is AEneas, and he joys to greet His friends brought safely and his ships complete. So to Sergestus, for his portion due, He gives fair Pholoe, a slave of Crete, Twins at her breast, two sons of loveliest hue, And well Minerva's works, the weaving art, she knew.

XXXIX. This contest o'er, the good AEneas sought A grassy plain, with waving forests crowned And sloping hills—fit theatre for sport, Where in the middle of the vale was found A circus. Hither comes he, ringed around With thousands, here, amidst them, throned on high In rustic state, he seats him on a mound, And all who in the footrace list to vie, With proffered gifts invites, and tempts their souls to try.

XL. In crowds the Teucrians and Sicanians come, First, Nisus and Euryalus. None so fair As young Euryalus, in youthful bloom And beauty; none with Nisus could compare In pure affection for a youth so rare. Here stood Diores, famous for his speed, A prince of Priam's lineage; Salius there, And Patron, this of Acarnanian seed, That of Arcadian birth and Tegeaean breed.

XLI. Came from Trinacria two champions bold, Young Helymus and Panopes, well-tried In woodland craft, and followers of old Acestes; came full many a youth beside, Whose fame shines dimly, or whose name hath died. Then cries AEneas 'mid the concourse: "Ho! Give heed, for surely shall my word abide, Blithe be your hearts, for none among you—no, Not one of all this crowd—without a gift shall go.

XLII. "To each, a common largess, be a pair Of Gnossian javelins and an axe decreed, With haft of silver chasings. Three shall wear Crowns of pale olive. For the victor's need, Adorned with trappings, stands a noble steed. A quiver, worn by Amazon of old, With Thracian arrows, for the next in speed, Clasped with a gem and belted with bright gold. The third this Argive helm, fit recompense, shall hold."

XLIII. He spake, and at the signal forth they burst Together, like a storm-cloud, from the base, With eager eyes set goalward. Nisus first Darts off, and, bounding with the South-wind's pace, And swift as winged lightning, leads the race. Next, but the next with many a length between, Comes Salius; then, behind him, third in place, Euryalus; then Helymus is seen; And lo! Diores last, comes flying along the green.

XLIV. Heel touching heel, on Helymus he hung, Shoulder to shoulder. But a rood beside, And, slipping past him, foremost he had sprung, And solved a doubt by winning. Side by side, The last lap reached, with many a labouring stride And breathless effort to the post they strain, When lo! chance-tripping where the sward is dyed With slippery blood of oxen newly slain, Down luckless Nisus slides, and sprawls upon the plain.

XLV. Stumbling, he felt the tottering knees give way. With shouts of triumph on his lips he falls Prone in the gore and in the miry clay. E'en then, his love remembering, he recalls Euryalus. Across the track he crawls, Then, scrambling up from out the quagmire, flies At Salius. In the dust proud Salius sprawls. Forth darts Euryalus, 'mid cheers and cries, Hailed, through his helping friend, the winner of the prize.

XLVI. The second prize to Helymus, the third Falls thus to brave Diores.—Now the heat Was o'er, when Salius with his clamouring stirred Troy's seated elders, furious with defeat, And claimed the prize, as wrested by a cheat. Tears aid Euryalus, and favour pleads His worth, more winsome in a form so sweet, And loudly, too, Diores intercedes. Lost were his own last prize, if Salius' claim succeeds.

XLVII. "Boys," said the good AEneas, "the award Is fixt, and no man shall the palm withhold. Yet be it mine to cheer a friend ill-starred." He spake, and Salius with a gift consoled, A Moorish lion's hide, with claws of gold And shaggy hair. Then Nisus with a frown: "If gifts so great a vanquished man may hold, If falls win pity, and defeat renown, What prize shall Nisus gain, whose merit earned the crown?

XLVIII. "Ay, who had won, had Chance not interfered, And baffled me, like Salius? Look," he said, And pointed to his limbs and forehead, smeared With ordure. Smiling, the good Sire surveyed His piteous plight and raiment disarrayed; Then forth he bade a glittering shield be borne, Which Didymaon's workmanship had made, From Neptune's temple by the Danaans torn. This prize he gives the youth, his prowess to adorn.

XLIX. The race was ended, and the gifts assigned, When thus AEneas, as they thronged about, Addressed the crowd: "Now, whosoe'er hath mind His nerve to venture, or whose heart is stout, Step forth, and don the gauntlets and strike out." He spake, and straightway, while the lists they clear, Sets forth the gifts, for him who wins the bout, Gilt-horned and garlanded, a comely steer, A sword and glittering helm, the loser's soul to cheer.

L. At once, amid loud murmurs, to his feet Upsprang great Dares, who in olden day Alone the haughty Paris dared to meet. He, by the tomb where mightiest Hector lay, Huge Butes fought, who, glorying in the bay, And boasting Amycus' Bebrycian strain, Called for his match. But Dares heard him, yea, And smote him. Headlong on the sandy plain A lifeless corpse he rolled, and all his boasts were vain.

LI. Such Dares towers, and strides into the ring, With head erect, and shoulders broad and bare, And right and left his sinewy arms doth swing, And burning for a rival, beats the air. Where is his match? Not one of all will dare To don the gloves. So, deeming none can stand Against him, flushed with triumph, then and there Before AEneas, grasping in his hand The heifer's horns, he cries in accents of command:

LII. "Son of a goddess, if none risks the fray, How long shall Dares guerdonless remain? What end of standing? Must I wait all day? Bring the prize hither." Straight the Dardan train Shout for their champion, and his claim sustain. Then to Entellus, seated at his side, Couched on the green grass, in reproachful strain Thus sternly spake Acestes, fired with pride, And fain, for manhood sake, his younger friend to chide:

LIII. "Entellus, once our bravest, but in vain, Can'st thou sit tamely, with the field unfought, And see this braggart glory in his gain? Where is thy god, that Eryx? Hath he taught Thine arm its vaunted cleverness for naught? To us what booteth thy Trinacrian name, Thy spoil-hung house, thy roof with prizes fraught?" Entellus said: "My spirit is the same. Fear hath not quenched my fire, nor checked the love of fame.

LIV. "But numbing age hath made the blood run cold, And turned my strength to dulness and decay. Had I the youth that stirred these bones of old, The youth he boasts, no need of guerdon, nay, Nor comely steer to tempt me to the fray. Glory I care for, not a gift," he cried, And, rising, hurled into the ring midway Two ponderous gauntlets, stiff with hardened hide; These Eryx wore, these thongs around his wrists he tied.

LV. All stood amazed, so huge the weight, so vast, Sevenfold with lead and iron overlaid, The bull's tough hide. E'en Dares shrank aghast. Forth stepped AEneas, and the gauntlets weighed, And to and fro the ponderous folds he swayed. Then gruffly spake the veteran once more: "Ah! had ye seen great Hercules arrayed In arms like these, such gauntlets as he wore, And watched the deadly fight waged here upon the shore!

LVI. "These Eryx wore, thy brother, when that day He faced Alcides in the strife;—see now His blood and brains,—with these I dared the fray When better blood gave vigour, nor the snow Of envious eld was sprinkled on my brow. Still, if this Trojan doth these arms decline, And good AEneas and our host allow, Match we the fight. These gauntlets I resign, Put fear away, and doff those Trojan gloves of thine."

LVII. So saying, Entellus from his shoulders flung His quilted doublet, and revealed to light The massive joints, the sinews firmly strung, The bones and muscles, and the limbs of might, And, like a giant, stood prepared for fight. Two gloves for either champion, matched in weight, AEneas brings, and binds them firm and tight. So, face to face, each eager and elate, Like-armed the rivals stand, on tiptoe for debate.

LVIII. Each from the blow the towering head draws back, Fearless, with arms uplifted to the skies. Spars hand through hand, and tempts to the attack, One, nimbler-footed, on his youth relies; Entellus' strength is in his limbs and size. But the knees shake beneath him, and are slow, And age the wanted energy denies. He heaves for breath; thick pantings come and go, And shake the labouring breast, as hailing blow on blow.

LIX. In vain they strive for mastery. Loud sound Their hollow sides; the battered chests ring back, As here and there the whistling strokes pelt round Their ears and temples, and the jaw-bones crack. Firm stands Entellus, though his knees are slack; Still in the same strained posture, he defies, Unmoved, the tempest of his foe's attack. Only his body and his watchful eyes Slip from the purposed stroke, and shun the wished surprise.

LX. As one who strives with battery to o'erthrow A high-walled city, or close siege doth lay Against some mountain-stronghold; even so Sly Dares shifts, an opening to essay, And vainly varies his assault each way. On tiptoe stretched, Entellus, pricked with pride, Puts forth his right hand, with resistless sway Steep from his shoulder. But the foe, quick-ey'd, Foresees the coming blow, and lightly leaps aside.

LXI. On empty air Entellus wastes his strength. Down goes the giant, baulked of his design, Fallen like a giant, and lies stretched at length. So, torn from earth, on Ida's height divine Or Erymanthus, falls the hollow pine. Up spring each rival's countrymen. Loud cheers The welkin rend, and, bursting through the line, Forth runs Acestes, and his friend uprears, Pitying his fallen worth and fellowship of years.

LXII. Fearless, unshaken, with his soul aflame For vengeance, up Entellus springs again, And conscious valour and the sense of shame Rouse all his strength as, burning with disdain, He drives huge Dares headlong o'er the plain, Now right, now left, keeps pummelling his foe; No stint, no stay; as rattling hailstones rain On roof-tops, so with many a ceaseless blow Each hand in turn he plies, and pounds him to and fro.

LXIII. But good AEneas suffered not too far The strife to rage, not let Entellus slake His wrath, but rescued Dares from the war, Sore-spent, and thus in soothing terms bespake, "Poor friend! what madness doth thy mind o'ertake? Feel'st not that more than mortal is his aid? The gods are with him, and thy cause forsake. Yield then to heaven and desist."—He said, And with his voice straightway the deadly strife allayed.

LXIV. Then, stirred with pity, the Dardanian throng Their vanquished kinsman from the contest bore. His sick knees wearily he drags along, Feeble and helpless, for his wound is sore; And loosened teeth and clots of curdled gore Spout forth, as o'er his shoulders nods each way The drooping head. They lead him to the shore, His gifts, the sword and helmet; but the bay And bull Entellus takes, the victor of the day.

LXV. Forth steps the champion, glorying in the prize, Pride in his port, defiance on his brow. "See, Goddess-born; ye Teucrians, mark," he cried, "What strength Entellus in his youth could show; How dire a doom ye warded from his foe." He spake and, standing opposite the bull, Swung back his arm, and, rising to the blow, Betwixt the horns with hardened glove smote full, And back upon the brain drove in the splintered skull.

LXVI. Down drops the beast, and on the earth lies low, Quivering but dead. Then o'er him, as he lay, Entellus cries "O Eryx, hear my vow. This life, for Dares, I devote this day, A nobler victim and a worthier prey. Accept it thou who taught'st this arm to wield The gloves of death. Unvanquished in the fray These withered arms their latest offering yield, These gauntlets I resign, and here renounce the field."

LXVII. Next cries AEneas to the crowd: "Come now, Whoso hath mind in archer's feats to vie, Step forth, and prove his cunning with the bow": Then sets the prizes: on the beach hard by With stalwart arms he rears a mast on high, Ta'en from Serestus' vessel, and thereto A fluttering pigeon with a string doth tie, Mark for their shafts. Around the rivals drew, And in a brazen helm the gathered lots they threw.

LXIII. Out leap the names; cheers hail the first in place, Hippocoon, son of Hyrtacus renowned; Then Mnestheus, victor in the naval race, Mnestheus, his brows with olive wreath still crowned. Third in the casque Eurytion's lot is found Thy brother, famous Pandarus, whose dart, Hurled at the Danaans, did the truce confound. Last comes Acestes, for with dauntless heart Still in the toils of youth the veteran claims his part.

LXIX. Forth step the marksmen, and with bows well-bent, Draw forth their arrows, and their aim prepare. Loud twanged the cord, as first Hippocoon sent His feathered shaft, that through the flowing air Went whistling on, and pierced the mast, and there Stuck fast. The stout tree quivered, and the bird Flapped with her wings in terror and despair, Fluttering for freedom, and around were heard Shouts, as admiring joy the clamorous concourse stirred.

LXX. Next him stood Mnestheus, eager for the prize, And straight the bowstring to his breast updrew, Aiming aloft. The lightning of his eyes Went with the arrow, as he twanged the yew. Ah pity! Fortune sped the shaft untrue. The bird he missed, but cut the flaxen ties That held the feet, and cleft the knots in two. And forth, exulting, through the windy skies, Into the darkening clouds the loosened captive flies.

LXXI. Then, quick as thought, his arrow on the string, Eurytion to his brother breathed a prayer, Marking the pigeon, as she clapped her wing Beneath a cloud, he pierced her. Breathless there She drops; her life is with the stars of air, The bolt is in her breast. Acestes now Alone remains; no palm is left to bear, Yet skyward shoots the veteran, proud to show What skill his hand can boast, the sounding of his bow.

LXXII. Sudden a portent was revealed; how great An augury, the future brought to light, And frightening seers their omens sang too late. Aloft, the arrow kindled in its flight, Then marked with shining trail its pathway bright, And, wasting, vanished into viewless air. So stars, unfastened from the vault of night, Stream in the firmament with fiery glare, And through the dark fling out a length of glittering hair.

LXXIII. Awed stand the men of Sicily and Troy, And pray the gods. AEneas owns the sign, And, heaping gifts, Acestes clasps with joy. "Take, father, take; Jove's auspices divine A special honour for thy meed assign. This bowl, embossed with images of gold, The gift of old Anchises, shall be thine, Which Thracian Cisseus to my sire of old Gave, as a pledge of love, to have it and to hold."

LXXIV. So saying, with a garland of green bay He crowned his temples, and the prize conferred, And named Acestes victor of the day. Nor good Eurytion to the choice demurred, Nor grudged to see the veteran's claim preferred, Though his the prowess that the rest surpassed, His shaft the one that struck the soaring bird. The second, he who cut the cord, the last, He who with feathered reed transfixed the tapering mast.

LXXV. But good AEneas, ere the games are done, The child of Epytus, companion dear And trusty guardian of his beardless son, Calls to his side, and whispers in his ear: "Go bid Ascanius, if his troop be here And steeds in readiness, with spear and shield In honour of his grandsire to appear." Then, calling to the thronging crowd to yield Free space, he clears the course, and open lies the field.

LXXVI. Forth ride the boys, before their fathers' eyes, Reining their steeds. In radiant files they fare, And wondering murmurs from each host arise. All with stript leaves have bound the flowing hair. Two cornel javelins, tipt with steel, they bear, Some, polished quivers; and a pliant chain Of twisted gold around the neck they wear; Three companies—three captains scour the plain. Twelve youths, behind each chief, compose the glittering train.

LXXVII. One shouting troop young Priam's lead obeys, Thy son, Polites, from his grandsire hight, And born erelong Italia's fame to raise. A dappled Thracian charger bears the knight, His pasterns flecked and forehead starred with white. Next Atys, whom the Atian line reveres, The youthful idol of a youth's delight, So well Iulus loved him. Last appears Iulus, first in grace and comeliest of his peers.

LXXVIII. His a Sidonian charger; Dido fair This pledge and token of her love supplied. Trinacrian horses his attendants bear, Acestes' gift. Their bosoms throb with pride, While Dardans, cheering, welcome as they ride The sires that have been in the sons that are. So, when before their kinsfolk on each side Their ranks had passed, Epytides afar Cracks the loud whip, and shouts the signal, as for war.

LXXIX. In equal bands the triple troops divide, Then turn, and rallying, with spears bent low, Charge at the call. Now back again they ride, Wheel round, and weave new courses to and fro, In armed similitude of martial show, Circling and intercircling. Now in flight They bare their backs, now turning, foe to foe, Level their lances to the charge, now plight The truce, and side by side in friendly league unite.

LXXX. E'en as in Crete the Labyrinth of old Between blind walls its secret hid from view, With wildering ways and many a winding fold, Wherein the wanderer, if the tale be true, Roamed unreturning, cheated of the clue: Such tangles weave the Teucrians, as they feign Fighting or flying, and the game renew: So dolphins, sporting on the watery plain, Cleave the Carpathian waves and distant Libya's main.

LXXXI. These feats Ascanius to his people showed, When girdling Alba Longa; there with joy The ancient Latins in the pastime rode, Wherein the princely Dardan, as a boy, Was wont his Trojan comrades to employ. To Alban children from their sires it came, And mighty Rome took up the "game of Troy," And called the players "Trojans," and the name Lives on, as sons renew the hereditary game.

LXXXII. Thus far to blest Anchises they defrayed The funeral rites; when Fortune turned unkind, Forsook her faith. For while the games were played Before the tomb, Saturnian Juno's mind New schemes, to glut her ancient wrath, designed. Iris she calls, and bids the Goddess go Down to the Ilian fleet, and breathes a wind To waft her on. So, borne upon her bow Of myriad hues, unseen, the maiden hastes below.

LXXXIII. She eyes the concourse, marks the ships unmanned, And sees the empty harbour and the shore. While far off on the solitary strand The Trojan dames sat sorrowful, and o'er The deep sea gazed, and, gazing, evermore Wept for the Sire. "Ah, woe! the fields of foam! The waste of waters for the wearied oar! Oh! for a city and a certain home; A rest for sea-worn souls, for weary 'tis to roam!"

LXXXIV. So, not unversed in mischief, from the skies Amidst the gathered matrons down she came, In raiment and in face to mortal eyes No more a Goddess, but an aged dame, The wife of Doryclus, of Tmarian fame. E'en venerable Beroe, once blest With rank, and children and a noble name. So changed in semblance, the celestial guest Mixed with the Dardan dames, and thus the crowd addressed:

LXXXV. "Oh, born to sorrow! whom th' Achaian foe Dragged not to death, when Ilion was o'erthrown! O hapless race! what still extremer woe Doth Fortune doom the living to bemoan? Since Ilion fell, seven summers nigh have flown, And we o'er every ocean, every plain, Past cheerless rocks, and under stars unknown, Oft and so oft are driven, as in vain Italia's shores we grasp, and welter on the main!

LXXXVI. "'Tis Eryx' land, Acestes is our host. What hinders for the homeless here to gain A home—an Ilion for the one we lost? O fatherland! O home-gods saved in vain, If still in endless exile we remain! Ah! nevermore shall I behold with joy A Xanthus and a Simois again, Our Hector's streams? ne'er hear the name of Troy? Up! let devouring flames these ill-starred ships destroy!

LXXXVII. "Methought in sleep, Cassandra's ghost came near, With torches in her hands, and bade me seize The flaming firebrands, and exclaimed: 'See, here Thy Troy, the home that destiny decrees! The hour is ripe; such prodigies as these Brook not delay. Lo! here to Neptune rise Four altars. He, the Sovereign of the seas, Himself the firebrands and the will supplies.'" Then straight, with arm drawn back, and fury in her eyes,

LXXXVIII. She waved a torch, and hurled it. Dazed with fear, The women trembled as she tossed the flame. Then one who nursed through many a bygone year The sons of Priam—Pyrgo was the dame,— "No Trojan this, nor Beroe her name, The wife of Doryclus. Full sure I ween Immortal birth her sparkling eyes proclaim. What breathing beauty! what celestial sheen! Mark her majestic voice, and more than mortal mien!

LXXXIX. "Myself but now left Beroe, worn out With sickness, grieving in her heart to miss These funeral honours to our Sire."—In doubt They waver, and with eyes that bode amiss Look towards the vessels and the blue abyss Of ocean, torn in spirit 'twixt the love Of realms that shall be and the land that is. On even wings the goddess soared above, And with her rainbow vast the cloudy drift she clove.

XC. Then, by the monstrous prodigy dismayed, And driven by madness, forth the matrons fare With shouts and shrieks. The houses they invade, And living embers from the hearthstones tear, With impious hands these strip the altars bare, And boughs, and leaves and lighted brands they cast In heaps, and fuel for the flames prepare. O'er bench and oar, from painted keel to mast, The Fire-god raves at will, and rides upon the blast.

XCI. Meanwhile, with tidings of the fleet in flames, Swift posts Eumelus. To the tomb he hies Of old Anchises, and the crowded games. Back look the Trojans, and with awe-struck eyes See the dark ash-cloud floating through the skies. And, as his troop Ascanius joyed to lead In mimic fight, so keen, when danger cries, First to the wildered camp he spurs his steed; And breathless guardians fail to stay his headlong speed.

XCII. "What madness this, poor women?" he exclaims, "What mean ye now? No camp of Argive foe, Your hopes ye doom to perish in the flames. See your Ascanius!"—At his feet below He flung the helmet, that adorned his brow When mimic fight he marshalled. Hurrying came AEneas, hurrying came the host; but lo! The shore lies bare; this way and that each dame Slinks to the woods and caves, if aught can hide her shame.

XCIII. All loathe the daylight and the deed unblest. Sobered, they know their countrymen at last, And Juno's power is shaken from each breast. Not so the flames; with gathered strength and fast Onward still swept the unconquerable blast. Forth puffed between the timbers, drenched in vain, The smoke-jets from the smouldering tow. Down passed From keel to cabin the devouring bane. Nor floods nor heroes' strength the mastering flames restrain.

XCIV. Then good AEneas from his shoulders threw His robe, and heavenward stretched his hands in prayer; "Great Jove! if spares thy vengeance to pursue Troy's children to the uttermost, if e'er The toils of mortals move thy ancient care, Preserve this feeble remnant, and command These flames from further havoc to forbear; Else, if my deeds deserve it, bare thine hand, Launch thine avenging bolt, and slay me as I stand."

XCV. Scarce spake he, when in torrents comes the rain. Darkly the tempest riots, and the roar Of thunder shakes the mountains and the plain. Black storm-clouds from the thickening South sweep o'er The darkened heavens, and down a deluge pour. Drenched are the decks; the timbers, charr'd with heat, Are soaked and smoulder, till the fire no more Raves, and the flames are conquered, and the fleet, Save four alone, survives the fiery plague complete.

XCVI. Sore-struck, AEneas in his breast debates This way and that, still doubtful to remain In fields Sicilian, mindless of the Fates, Or strive the shores of Italy to gain, Then aged Nautes, wisest of his train, Taught by Tritonian Pallas to unfold What wrathful gods or destinies ordain, In prescient utterance his response unrolled, And thus with cheerful words the anxious chief consoled:

XCVII. "O Goddess-born, where Fate directs the way, 'Tis ours to follow. Who the best can bear, Best conquers Fortune, be the doom what may. A friend thou hast, Acestes; bid him share And be a willing partner of thy care. He too is Trojan, and of seed divine. Give him the lost ships' crews, and whosoe'er Is faint or feeble, to his charge consign, Old men and sea-sick dames, who glory's quest decline.

XCVIII. "Here let them rest, who care not for renown, And build their walls, and, if our host assent, Acesta from Acestes name the town." Such counsel cheered him, but his breast is rent With trouble, musing on the dark event. And now black Night, upon her course midway, With ebon car had climbed the steep ascent, When, gliding down before him as he lay, His father's phantom stood, and speaking, seemed to say:

XCIX. "O dearer than the life, while life remained, My son, by Troy's hard destinies sore tried, Hither I come at Jove's command, who deigned Thy burning ships to save, and pitying-eyed Beholds thy sorrows. Hear then, nor deride The grey-haired Nautes, for his words are good. Choice youths, the bravest, for thy quest provide. Stout hearts ye need in Italy, for rude And rough the Latin race, and hard to be subdued.

C. "But seek thou first the nether realms of Dis, And through Avernus tread the dark domain To meet me. Not in Tartarus' abyss, Sad shades of sin and never-ending pain, I dwell, but on the blest Elysian plain Join with the just in fellowship. Now heed: There the chaste Sibyl, if with victims slain, Black sheep, ye seek her, shall thy footsteps lead, And show thy destined walls and progeny decreed.

CI. "And now farewell; for dewy Night midway Wheels on her course, and from the Orient sky Fierce beats the breathing of the steeds of Day." He spake, and melted as a mist on high. "Ah, whither," cried AEneas, "wilt thou fly? Who tears thee hence? Where hurriest thou again?" So saying, he wakes the embers ere they die. And offering frankincense and sacred grain, Troy's household gods adores, and hoary Vesta's fane.

CII. Forthwith he tells Acestes, then the crews, Jove's will, his father's counsel and his own. All vote assent, nor doth his host refuse. No tarrying now; they write the matrons down, And all who faint or care not for renown They leave behind,—the idlers of each crew, But willing settlers in the new-planned town. These the charred timbers and the thwarts renew, Shape oars and fit the ropes; a gallant band, but few.

CIII. AEneas with a ploughshare marks the town, And, homes allotting, gives each place a name, Here Troy, there Ilion. Pleased to wear the crown, A forum good Acestes hastes to frame, And laws to gathered senators proclaim. Rear'd high on Eryx, to the stars ascends A temple, to Idalian Venus' fame. A priest Anchises' sepulchre attends, A grove's far sacred shade his hallowed dust defends.

CIV. The rites are paid, the nine-days' feast is o'er, Smooth lies the deep, and Southern winds invite The mariners. Along the winding shore Loud rise the sounds of sorrow, day and night, Where friends, clasped close in lingering undelight, Weep at the thought of parting. Matrons, ay, And men, who lately shuddered at the sight, And loathed the name of Ocean, scorn to stay, And willing hearts now brave the long, laborious way.

CV. Kindly AEneas cheers them, and with tears Leaves to their King, then, parting, gives command A lamb to slay to tempest, and three steers To Eryx. So they loosen from the land. He on the prow, a charger in his hand, Flings forth the entrails, and outpours the wine, And, crowned with olive chaplet, takes his stand. Up-springs the favouring stern breeze, as in line With emulous sweep of oars, they brush the level brine.

CVI. Then Venus, torn with anguish and desire, Spake thus to Neptune, and her grief confessed: "O Neptune, Juno's unrelenting ire, The quenchless malice, that consumes her breast, Constrains me thus to urge a suppliant's quest; And stoop, with humbled majesty, to sue. Her neither piety nor Jove's behest Nor time, nor Fate can soften or subdue, Still doth immortal hate the Phrygian race pursue.

CVII. "'Tis not enough their city to destroy, And wear their remnant with remorseless pain, Needs must she trample on the dust of Troy. She best, forsooth, her fury can explain. But thou,—thou know'st how on the Libyan main,— Thine eyes beheld it from thy throne on high,— Lately she stirred the tumult, and in vain Armed with AEolian tempests, sea and sky Mixed in rebellious wrath, thy sceptre to defy.

CVIII. "All this she ventured in thy realm; nay more, Her rage hath filled the matrons, fired the fleet, And left these crews upon an alien shore, Reft of their friends, and baffled of retreat. O spare this Trojan remnant, I entreat; Safe in thy guidance let them sail the main, And scatheless reach their promised walls, and greet Laurentian Tiber and the Latian plain, If what I ask be just, and so the Fates ordain."

CIX. Then spake the Monarch of the deep: "'Tis just To look for safety to my realm, that gave Thee birth; and well have I deserved thy trust, Who oft have stilled the raging wind and wave; Nor less on land have interposed, to save— Xanthus and Simois I attest again— Thy darling son, when back Achilles drave Troy's breathless host, and rivers, choked with slain, Groaned, ay, and Xanthus scarce could struggle to the main.

CX. "Then, as with adverse Gods and feebler power He faced Pelides, in a cloud I caught Thy favourite, albeit 'twas the hour When, wroth with perjured Ilion, I sought To raze the walls these very hands had wrought. Fear not; unaltered doth my will remain. Safe shall he be into this haven brought. One, only one, for many shall be slain; One in the deep thy son shall look for, but in vain."

CXI. So saying, he soothed the Goddess, and in haste His steeds with golden harness yoked amain. The bridle and the foaming bit he placed, To curb their fury, and outflung the rein. Lightly he flies along the watery plain, Borne in his azure chariot. Far and nigh Beneath his thundering wheels the heaving main Sinks, and the waves are tranquil, and on high Through flying storm-drift shines the immeasurable sky.

CXII. Behind him throng, in many a motley group, His followers—monsters of enormous chine, Sea-shouldering whales, and Glaucus' aged troop, Paloemon, Ino's progeny divine, Swift Tritons, born to gambol in the brine, And Phorcus' finny legions. Melite, And virgin Panopoea leftward shine, Thetis, Nesaee, daughters of the sea, Spio, Thalia fair, and bright Cymodoce.

CXIII. Then o'er AEneas' spirit, racked with fear, Joy stole in gentle counterchange. He hails The crews, and biddeth them the masts uprear, And stretch the sheets. All, tacking, loose the brails Larboard or starboard, and let go the sails, And square or sideways to the breeze incline The lofty sailyards. Welcome blow the gales Behind them. Palinurus leads the line; The rest his course obey, and follow at his sign.

CXIV. Damp Night well-nigh had climbed Olympus' crest; Each slumbering mariner his limbs unbends, Stretched by his oar, along the bench at rest, When lo! false Sleep his feathery wings extends. To guiltless Palinurus he descends, Parting the scattered shadows. Down he bears Delusive dreams, and cunning words pretends, As now, in Phorbas' likeness he appears, Perched on the lofty stern, and whispers in his ears:

CXV. "Son of Iasus! see, the tide that flows Bears thee along; behind thee breathes apace The stern breeze, and the hour invites repose. Rest now, and cheat thy wearied eyes a space, Myself will take the rudder in thy place." "Nay," quoth the pilot, with half-lifted eyes, "Shall I put faith in ocean's treacherous face, And trust AEneas to the flattering skies, I, whom their smiles oft fooled, but folly hath made wise?"

CXVI. So saying, he grasped the tiller, nor his hold Relaxed, nor ever from the stars withdrew His steadfast eyes, still watchful when behold! A slumberous bough the god revealed to view, Thrice dipt in Styx, and drenched with Lethe's dew. Then, lightly sprinkling, o'er the pilot's brows The drowsy dewdrops from the leaves he threw. Dim grow his eyes; the languor of repose Steals o'er his faltering sense, the lingering eyelids close.

CXVII. Scarce now his limbs were loosened by the spell, Down weighed the god, and in the rolling main Dashed him headforemost, clutching, as he fell, Stern timbers torn, and rudder rent in twain, And calling oft his comrades, but in vain. This done, his wings he balanced, and away Soared skyward. Natheless o'er the broad sea-plain The ships sail on; safe lies the watery way, For Neptune's plighted words the seamen's cares allay.

CXVIII. Now near the Sirens' perilous cliffs they draw, White with men's bones, and hear the surf-beat side Roar with hoarse thunder. Here the Sire, who saw The ship was labouring, and had lost her guide, Straight seized the helm, and steered her through the tide, While, grieved in heart, with many a groan and sigh, He mourned for Palinurus. "Ah," he cried, "For faith reposed on flattering sea and sky, Left on an unknown shore, thy naked corpse must lie!"



BOOK SIX

ARGUMENT

Arrived at Cumae AEneas visits the Sibyl's shrine, and, after prayer and sacrifice to Apollo, asks access to the nether-world to visit his father (1-162). He must first pluck for Proserpine the golden bough and bury a dead comrade (163-198). After the death and burial of Misenus, AEneas finds and gathers the golden bough (199-261). Preparation and Invocation (262-328). The start (329-333). The "dreadful faces" that guard the outskirts of Hell. Charon's ferry and the unburied dead (334-405). Palinurus approaches and entreats burial. Passing by Charon and Cerberus, they see the phantoms of suicides, of children, of lovers, and experience Dido's disdain (406-559). From Greek and Trojan shades Deiphobus is singled out to tell his story (560-644). The Sibyl hurries AEneas on past the approach to Tartarus, describing by the way its rulers and its horrors. Finally, they reach Elysium and gain entrance (645-757). The search among the shades of the Blessed for Anchises, and the meeting between father and son (758-828). Anchises explains the mystery of the Transmigration of Souls, and the book closes with the revelation to AEneas of the future greatness of Rome, whose heroes, from the days of the kings to the times of Augustus, pass in procession before him (829-1071). He is then dismissed through the Ivory Gate, and sails on his way to Caieta (1072-1080).

I. Weeping he speaks, and gives his fleet the rein, And glides at length to the Euboean strand Of Cumae. There, with prows towards the main, Safe-fastened by the biting anchors, stand The vessels, and the round sterns line the land. Forth on the shore, in eager haste to claim Hesperia's welcome, leaps a youthful band. These search the flint-stones for the seeds of flame, Those point to new-found streams, or scour the woods for game.

II. But good AEneas seeks the castled height And temple, to the great Apollo dear, And the vast cave where, hidden far from sight Within her sanctuary dark and drear, Dwells the dread Sibyl, whom the Delian seer Inspires with soul and wisdom to unfold The things to come.—So now, approaching near Through Trivia's grove, the temple they behold, And entering, see the roof all glittering with gold.

III. Fame is, that Daedalus, adventuring forth On rapid wings, from Minos' realms in flight, Trusted the sky, and to the frosty North Swam his strange way, till on the tower-girt height Of Chalcis gently he essayed to light. Here, touching first the wished-for land again, To thee, great Phoebus, and thy guardian might, He vowed, and bade as offerings to remain, The oarage of his wings, and built a stately fane.

IV. Androgeos' death is graven on the gate; There stand the sons of Cecrops, doomed each year With seven victims to atone his fate. The lots are drawn; the fatal urn is near. Here, o'er the deep the Gnossian fields appear, The bull—the cruel passion—the embrace Stol'n from Pasiphae—all the tale is here; The Minotaur, half human, beast in face, Record of nameless lust, and token of disgrace.

V. There, toil-wrought house and labyrinthine grove, With tangled maze, too intricate to tread, But that, in pity for the queen's great love, Its secret Daedalus revealed, and led Her lover's blinded footsteps with a thread. There, too, had sorrow not the wish denied, Thy name and fame, poor Icarus, were read. Twice in the gold to carve thy fate he tried, And twice the father's hands dropped faltering to his side.

VI. So they in gazing had the time beguiled, But now, returning from his quest, comes near Achates, with Deiphobe, the child Of Glaucus, Phoebus' and Diana's seer. "Not this," she cries, "the time for tarrying here For shows like these. Go, hither bring with speed Seven ewes, the choicest, and with each a steer Unyoked, in honour of the God to bleed." So to the Chief she spake, and straight his followers heed.

VII. Into the lofty temple now with speed,— A huge cave hollowed in the mountain's side,— The priestess calls the Teucrians. Thither lead A hundred doors, a hundred entries wide, A hundred voices from the rock inside Peal forth, the Sibyl answering. So they Had reached the threshold, when the maiden cried, "Now 'tis the time to seek the fates and pray; Behold, behold the God!" and standing there, straightway,

VIII. Her colour and her features change; loose streams Her hair disordered, and her heart distrest Swells with wild frenzy. Larger now she seems, Her voice not mortal, as her heaving breast Pants, with the approaching Deity possest. "Pray, Trojan," peals her warning utterance, "pray! Cease not, AEneas, nor withhold thy quest, Nor stint thy vows. While dumbly ye delay, Ne'er shall its yawning doors the spell-bound house display."

IX. She ceased: at once an icy chill ran through The sturdy Trojans. From his inmost heart Thus prayed the King: "O Phoebus, wont to view With pity Troy's sore travail; thou, whose art True to Achilles aimed the Dardan dart, How oft, thou guiding, have I tracked the main Round mighty lands, to earth's remotest part Massylian tribes and Libya's sandy plain: Scarce now the flying shores of Italy we gain.

X. "Enough, thus far Troy's destinies to bear, Ye, too, at length, your anger may abate And deign the race of Pergamus to spare, O Gods and Goddesses, who viewed with hate Troy and the glories of the Dardan state. And thou, dread mistress of prophetic lore, Grant us—I ask but what is due by Fate, Our promised realms—that on the Latian shore Troy's sons and wandering gods may find a home once more.

XI. "To Phoebus then and Trivia's sacred name, Thy patron powers, a temple will I rear Of solid marble, and due rites proclaim And festal days, for votaries each year The name of guardian Phoebus to revere. Thee, too, hereafter in our realms await Shrines of the stateliest, for thy name is dear. There safe shall rest the mystic words of Fate, And chosen priests shall guard the oracles of state.

XII. "Only to leaves commit not, priestess kind, Thy verse, lest fragments of the mystic scroll Fly, tost abroad, the playthings of the wind. Thyself in song the oracle unroll." He ceased; the seer, impatient of control, Strives, like a frenzied Bacchant, in her cell, To shake the mighty deity from her soul. So much the more, her raging heart to quell, He tires the foaming mouth, and shapes her to his spell.

XIII. Then yawned the hundred gates, and every door, Self-opening suddenly, revealed the fane, And through the air the Sibyl's answer bore: "O freed from Ocean's perils, but in vain, Worse evils yet upon the land remain. Doubt not; Troy's sons shall reach Lavinium's shore, And rule in Latium; so the Fates ordain. Yet shall they rue their coming. Woes in store, Wars, savage wars, I see, and Tiber foam with gore.

XIV. "A Xanthus there and Simois shall be seen, And Doric tents; Achilles, goddess-born, Shall rise anew, nor Jove's relentless Queen Shall cease to vex the Teucrians night and morn. Then oft shalt thou, sore straitened and forlorn, All towns and tribes of Italy implore To grant thee shelter from the foemen's scorn. An alien bride, a foreign bed once more Shall bring the old, old woes, the ancient feud restore.

XV. "Yield not to evils, but the bolder thou Persist, defiant of misfortune's frown, And take the path thy Destinies allow. Hope, where unlooked for, comes thy toils to crown, Thy road to safety from a Grecian town." So sang the Sibyl from her echoing fane, And, wrapping truth in mystery, made known The dark enigmas of her frenzied strain. So Phoebus plied the goad, and shook the maddening rein.

XVI. Soon ceased the fit, the foaming lips were still. "O maiden," said AEneas, "me no more Can danger startle, nor strange shape of ill. All have I seen and throughly conned before. One boon I beg,—since yonder are the door Of Pluto, and the gloomy lakes, they tell, Fed by o'erflowing Acheron,—once more To see the father whom I loved so well. Teach me the way, and ope the sacred gates of hell.

XVII. "Him on these shoulders, in the days ago, A thousand darts behind us, did I bear Safe through the thickest of the flames and foe. He, partner of my travels, loved to share The threats of ocean and the storms of air, Though weak, yet strong beyond the lot of age. 'Twas he who bade me, with prevailing prayer, Approach thee humbly, and thy care engage, Pity the sire and son, and Trojan hearts assuage.

XVIII. "For thou can'st all, nor Hecate for naught Hath set thee o'er Avernus' groves to reign. If Orpheus from the shades his bride up-brought, Trusting his Thracian harp and sounding strain, If Pollux could from Pluto's drear domain His brother by alternate death reclaim, And tread the road to Hades o'er again Oft and so oft—why great Alcides name? Why Theseus? I, as they, Jove's ancestry can claim."

XIX. So prayed AEneas, clinging to the shrine, When thus the prophetess: "O Trojan Knight, Born of Anchises, and of seed divine, Down to Avernus the descent is light, The gate of Dis stands open day and night. But upward thence thy journey to retrace, There lies the labour; 'tis a task of might, By few achieved, and those of heavenly race, Whom shining worth extolled or Jove hath deigned to grace.

XX. "Thick woods and shades the middle space invest, And black Cocytus girds the drear abode. Yet, if such passion hath thy soul possessed, If so thou longest to indulge thy mood, And madly twice to cross the Stygian flood, And visit twice black Tartarus, mark the way Sacred to nether Juno, in a wood, With golden stem and foliage, lurks a spray, And trees and darksome dales surrounding shroud the day.

XXI. "Yet none the shades can visit, till he tear That golden growth, the gift of Pluto's queen, And show the passport she decreed to bear. One plucked, another in its place is seen, As bright and burgeoning with golden green. Search then aloft, and when thou see'st the spray, Reach forth and pluck it; willingly, I ween, If Fate shall call thee, 'twill thy touch obey; Else steel nor strength of arm shall rend the prize away.

XXII. "Mark yet—alas! thou know'st not—yonder lies Thy friend's dead body, and pollutes the shore. While thou the Fates art asking to advise, And lingering here, a suppliant, at our door. Nay, first thy comrade to his home restore, And build a tomb, and bring black cattle; they The stain shall expiate; so the Stygian shore Shalt thou behold, and tread the sunless way, Which living feet ne'er trod, and mounted to the day."

XXIII. She ended. From the cave AEneas went, With down-dropt eyes and melancholy mien, Inly revolving many a dark event. Trusty Achates at his side is seen, Moody alike, each measured step between In musing converse framing phantasies, What lifeless comrade could the priestess mean? Whom to be buried? When before their eyes, Stretched on the barren beach the dead Misenus lies,

XXIV. Dead with dishonour, in unseemly plight, Misenus, son of AEolus, whom beside None better knew with brazen blast to light The flames of war, and wake the warrior's pride. Once Hector's co-mate, proud at Hector's side To wind the clarion and the sword to wield. When, stricken by Achilles, Hector died, AEneas then he followed to the field, Loth to a meaner lord his fealty to yield.

XXV. Now while a challenge to the gods he blew, And made the waves his hollow shell resound, Him Triton, jealous—if the tale be true— Caught unaware, and in the surges drowned Among the rocks.—There now the corpse they found. Loud groaned AEneas, and a mournful cry Rose from the Trojans, as they gazed around. Then, filled with tears, the Sibyl's task they ply, And rear a wood-built pile and altar to the sky.

XXVI. Into a grove of aged trees they go, The wild-beasts' lair. The holm-oak rings amain, Smit with the axe, the pitchy pine falls low, Sharp wedges cleave the beechen core in twain, The mountain ash comes rolling to the plain. Foremost himself, accoutred as the rest, AEneas cheered them, toiling with his train; Then, musing sadly, and with pensive breast, Gazed on the boundless grove, and thus his prayer addressed:

XXVII. "O in this grove could I behold the tree With golden bough; since true, alas, too true, Misenus, hath the priestess sung of thee!" He spake, when, lighting on the sward, down flew Two doves. With joy his mother's birds he knew, "Lead on, blest guides, along the air," he prayed, "If way there be, the precious bough to view, Whose golden leaves the teeming soil o'ershade; O mother, solve my doubts, nor stint the needed aid."

XXVIII. So saying, he stays his footsteps, fain to heed What signs they give, and whitherward their flight. Awhile they fly, awhile they stop to feed, Then, fluttering, keep within the range of sight, Till, coming where Avernus, dark as night, Gapes, with rank vapours from its depths uprolled, Aloft they soar, and through the liquid height Dart to the tree, where, wondrous to behold, The varying green sets forth the glitter of the gold.

XXIX. As in the woods, in winter's cold, is seen, Sown on an alien tree, the mistletoe To bloom afresh with foliage newly green, And round the tapering boles its arms to throw, Laden with yellow fruitage, even so The oak's dark boughs the golden leaves display, So the foil rustles in the breezes low. Quickly AEneas plucks the lingering spray, And to the Sibyl bears the welcome gift away.

XXX. Nor less the dead Misenus they deplore, And honours to the thankless dust assign. A stately pyre they build upon the shore, Rich with oak-timbers and the resinous pine, And sombre foliage in the sides entwine. In front, the cypress marks the fatal soil, Above, they leave the warrior's arms to shine. These heat the water, till the caldrons boil, And wash the stiffened limbs, and fill the wounds with oil.

XXXI. Loud is the wailing; then with many a tear They lay him on the bed, and o'er him throw His purple robes. These lift the massive bier; Those, as of yore—sad ministry of woe— With eyes averted, hold the torch below. Oil, spice and viands, in promiscuous heap, They pour and pile upon the fire; and now, The embers crumbling and the flames asleep, With draughts of ruddy wine the thirsty ash they steep.

XXXII. And Cornyaeus in a brazen urn Enshrined the bones, upgathered in a caul, And bearing round pure water, thrice in turn From olive branch the lustral dew lets fall, And, sprinkling, speaks the latest words of all. A lofty mound AEneas hastes to frame, Crowned with his oar and trumpet, 'neath a tall And airy cliff, which still Misenus' name Preserves, and ages keep his everlasting fame.

XXXIII. This done, AEneas hastens to obey The Sibyl's hest.—There was a monstrous cave, Rough, shingly, yawning wide-mouthed to the day, Sheltered from access by the lake's dark wave And shadowing forests, gloomy as the grave. O'er that dread space no flying thing could ply Its wings unjeopardied (whence Grecians gave The name "Aornos"), such a stench on high Rose from the poisonous jaws, and filled the vaulted sky.

XXXIV. Here four black oxen, as the maid divine Commands them, forth to sacrifice are led. Over their brows she pours the sacred wine, Then plucks the hairs that sprouted on the head And burns them, as the first-fruits to the dead, Calling aloud on Hecate, whose reign In Heaven and Erebus is owned with dread. These stab the victims in the throat, and drain In bowls the steaming blood that gushes from the slain.

XXXV. A black-fleeced lamb AEneas slays, to please The Furies' mother and her sister dread, A barren cow to Proserpine decrees. Then to the Stygian monarch of the dead The midnight altars he began to spread. The bulls' whole bodies on the flames he laid, And fat oil on the broiling entrails shed, When lo! as Morn her opening beams displayed, Loud rumblings shook the ground, the wooded hill-tops swayed,

XXXVI. And hell-dogs baying through the gloom, proclaimed The Goddess near. "Back, back, unhallowed crew, And quit the grove!" the prophetess exclaimed, "Thou, bare thy blade, and take the road in view. Now, Trojan, for a stalwart heart and true; Firmness and steadiness!" No more she cried, But back into the open cave withdrew, Fired with new frenzy. He, with fearless stride, Treads on the Sibyl's heels, rejoicing in his guide.

XXXVII. O silent Shades, and ye, the powers of Hell, Chaos and Phlegethon, wide realms of night, What ear hath heard, permit the tongue to tell, High matter, veiled in darkness, to indite.— On through the gloomy shade, in darkling plight, Through Pluto's solitary halls they stray, As travellers, whom the Moon's unkindly light Baffles in woods, when, on a lonely way, Jove shrouds the heavens, and night has turned the world to grey.

XXXVIII. Before the threshold, in the jaws of Hell, Grief spreads her pillow, with remorseful Care. There sad Old Age and pale Diseases dwell, And misconceiving Famine, Want and Fear, Terrific shapes, and Death and Toil appear. Death's kinsman, Sleep, and Joys of sinful kind, And deadly War crouch opposite, and here The Furies' iron chamber, Discord blind And Strife, her viperous locks with gory fillets twined.

XXXIX. High in the midst a giant elm doth fling The shadows of its aged arms. There dwell False Dreams and, nestling, to the foliage cling, And monstrous shapes, too numerous to tell, Keep covert, stabled in the porch of Hell. The beast of Lerna, hissing in his ire, Huge Centaurs, two-formed Scyllas, fierce and fell, Briareus hundred-handed, Gorgons dire, Harpies, the triple Shade, Chimaera fenced with fire.

XL. At once AEneas, stirred by sudden fear, Clutches his sword, and points the naked blade To affront them. Then, but that the Heaven-taught seer Warned him that each was but an empty shade, A shapeless soul, vain onset he had made, And slashed the shadows. So he checked his hand, And past the gateway in the gloom they strayed Through Tartarus to Acheron's dark strand, Where thick the whirlpool boils, and voids the seething sand

XLI. Into the deep Cocytus. Charon there, Grim ferryman, stands sentry. Mean his guise, His chin a wilderness of hoary hair, And like a flaming furnace stare his eyes. Hung in a loop around his shoulders lies A filthy gaberdine. He trims the sail, And, pole in hand, across the water plies His steel-grey shallop with the corpses pale, Old, but a god's old age has left him green and hale.

XLII. There shoreward rushed a multitude, the shades Of noble heroes, numbered with the dead, Boys, husbands, mothers and unwedded maids, Sons on the pile before their parents spread, As leaves in number, which the trees have shed When Autumn's frosts begin to chill the air, Or birds, that from the wintry blasts have fled And over seas to sunnier shores repair. So thick the foremost stand, and, stretching hands of prayer,

XLIII. Plead for a passage. Now the boatman stern Takes these, now those, then thrusts the rest away, And vainly for the distant bank they yearn. Then spake AEneas, for with strange dismay He viewed the tumult, "Prithee, maiden, say What means this thronging to the river-side? What seek the souls? Why separate, do they Turn back, while others sweep the leaden tide? Who parts the shades, what doom the difference can decide?"

XLIV. Thereto in brief the aged priestess spake: "Son of Anchises, and the god's true heir, Thou see'st Cocytus and the Stygian lake, By whose dread majesty no god will dare His solemn oath attested to forswear. These are the needy, who a burial crave; The ferryman is Charon; they who fare Across the flood, the buried; none that wave Can traverse, ere his bones have rested in the grave.

XLV. "A hundred years they wander in the cold Around these shores, till at the destined date The wished-for pools, admitted, they behold." Sad stood AEneas, pitying their estate, And, thoughtful, pondered their unequal fate. Leucaspis there, and Lycia's chief he viewed, Orontes, joyless, tombless, whom of late, Sea-tost from Troy, the blustering South pursued, And ship and crew at once whelmed in the rolling flood.

XLVI. There paced in sorrow Palinurus' ghost, Who, lately from the Libyan shore their guide, Watching the stars, headforemost from his post Had fallen, and perished in the wildering tide. Him, known, but dimly in the gloom descried, The Dardan hails, "O Palinurus! who Of all the gods hath torn thee from our side? Speak, for Apollo, never known untrue, This once hath answered false, and mocked with hopes undue.

XLVII. "Safe—so he sang—should'st thou escape the sea, And scatheless to Ausonia's coast attain. Lo, this, his plighted promise!"—"Nay," said he, "Nor answered Phoebus' oracle in vain, Nor did a god o'erwhelm me in the main. For while I ruled the rudder, charged to keep Our course, and steered thee o'er the billowy plain, Sudden, I slipped, and, falling prone and steep, Snapped with sheer force the helm, and dragged it to the deep.

XLVIII. "Naught—let the rough seas witness—but for thee I feared, lest rudderless, her pilot lost, Your ship should fail in such a towering sea. Three wintry nights, nipt with the chilling frost, Upon the boundless waters I was tost, And on the fourth dawn from a wave at last Descried Italia. Slowly to her coast I swam, and clutching at the rock, held fast, Cumbered with dripping clothes, and deemed the worst o'erpast.

XLIX. "When lo! the savage folk, with sword and stave, Set on me, weening to have found rich prey. And now my bones lie weltering on the wave, Now on strange shores winds blow them far away. O! by the memory of thy sire, I pray, By young Iulus, and his hope so fair, By heaven's sweet breath and light of gladsome day, Relieve my misery, assuage my care, Sail back to Velia's port, great conqueror, and there

L. "Strew earth upon me, for the task is light; Or, if thy goddess-mother deign to show Some path—for never in the god's despite O'er these dread waters would'st thou dare to go, Thine aid in pity on a wretch bestow; Reach forth thy hand, and bear me to my rest, Dead with the dead to ease me of my woe." He spake, and him the prophetess addressed: "O Palinurus! whence so impious a request?

LI. "Think'st thou the Stygian waters to explore Unburied, and the Furies' flood to see, And reach unbidden yon relentless shore? Hope not by prayer to bend the Fates' decree, But take this comfort to thy misery; The neighbouring towns, and people far and near, Compelled by prodigies, thy ghost shall free, And load thy tomb with offerings year by year, And Palinurus' name for aye the place shall bear."

LII. These words relieved his heaviness; joy came Upon his saddened spirit, pleased to hear The well-known land remembered by his name. Thus on they journey, and the stream draw near; Whom when the Stygian boatman saw appear, As shoreward through the silent grove they stray, With stern rebuke he challenged them: "Beware; Stand off; approach not, but your purpose say; What brought you here, whoe'er ye come in armed array?

LIII. "Here Shades inhabit,—Sleep and drowsy Night,— I may not steer the living to yon shore. Small joy was mine, when, in the gods' despite, Alive Alcides o'er the stream I bore, And Theseus and Pirithous, though more Than men in prowess, nor of mortal clay. One tried to seize Hell's guardian, and before Our monarch's throne to chain the trembling prey; These from her lord's own bed to drag the queen to day."

LIV. Briefly the seer Amphrysian spake again: "No guile these arms intend, nor open fight; Fear not; still may the monster in his den With endless howl the bloodless ghosts affright, And chaste Proserpine guard her uncle's right. Duteous and brave, his father's shade to view, Descends the famed AEneas; if the sight Of love so great is powerless to subdue, Mark this,"—and from her vest the fateful gift she drew.

LV. Down fell his wrath: the venerable bough, So long unseen, with wonderment he eyed; Then, shoreward turning with his cold-blue prow, From bench and gangway thrusts the shades aside, And takes the great AEneas and his guide. The stitched bark, groaning with the load it bore, Gapes at each seam, and drinks the plenteous tide, Till Prince and Prophetess, borne safely o'er, Stand on the dank, grey ooze and grim, unsightly shore.

LVI. Crouched in a fronting cave, huge Cerberus wakes These kingdoms with his three-mouthed bark. His head The priestess marked, all bristling now with snakes, And flung a sop of honied drugs and bread. He, famine-stung, with triple jaws dispread, The morsel snaps, then prone along the cave Lies stretched on earth, with loosened limbs, as dead. The sentry lulled, AEneas, blithe and brave, Seizes the pass, and leaves the irremeable wave.

LVII. Loud shrieks are heard, and wails of the distrest, The souls of babes, that on the threshold cry, Reft of sweet life, and ravished from the breast, And early plunged in bitter death. Hard by Are those, whom slanderous charges doomed to die. Not without judgment these abodes they win. Here, urn in hand, dread Minos sits to try The charge anew; he summons from within The silent court, and learns each several life and sin.

LVIII. And next are those, who, hateful of the day, With guiltless hands their sorrowing lives have ta'en, And miserably flung their souls away. How gladly now, in upper air again, Would they endure their poverty and pain! It may not be. The Fates their doom decide Past hope, and bind them to this sad domain. Dark round them rolls the sea, unlovely tide; Ninefold the waves of Styx those dreary realms divide.

LIX. Not far off stretch the Mourning Meads, where those Whom cruel Love hath wasted with despair, In myrtle groves and alleys hide their woes, Nor Death itself relieves them of their care. Lo, Phaedra, Procris, Eriphyle there, Baring the breast by filial hands imbrued, Evadne, and Pasiphae, and fair Laodamia in the crowd he viewed, And Caeneus, maid, then man, and now a maid renewed.

LX. There through the wood Phoenician Dido strayed, Fresh from her wound. Whom when AEneas knew, Scarce seen, though near, amid the doubtful shade, As one who views, or only seems to view, The clouded moon rise when the month is new, Fondly he spake, while tears were in his eye: "Ah, hapless Dido! then the news was true That thou had'st sought the bitter end. Was I, Alas! the cause of death? O by the starry sky,

LXI. "By Gods above, by faith, if aught, below, Unwillingly, O Queen, I left thy sight. The Gods, at whose compulsion now I go Through these dark Shades, this realm of deepest Night, These wastes of squalor, 'twas their word of might That drove me forth; nor could I dream such woe Was thine at my departing. Stay thy flight. Whom dost thou fly? O, whither wilt thou go? One word—the last, sad word—one parting look bestow!"

LXII. So strove AEneas, weeping, to appease Her wrathful spirit. She, with down-fixt eyes Turns from him, scowling, heedless of his pleas, And hard as flint or marble, nor replies. Then, starting, to the shadowy grove she flies, Where dead Sychaeus, her old lord, renews His love with hers, and sorrows with her sighs. Touched by her fate, the Dardan hero views, And far with tearful gaze the melting shade pursues.

LXIII. Thus onward to the furthest fields they strayed, The haunts of heroes here doth Tydeus fare, Parthenopaeus, pale Adrastus' shade. And many a Dardan, wailed in upper air, And fallen in war. Sighing, he sees them there, Glaucus, Thersilochus and Medon slain, Antenor's sons, three brethren past compare, And Polyphoetes, priest of Ceres' fane, And brave Idaeus, still grasping the sword and rein.

LXIV. All throng around, nor rest content to claim One look, but linger with delight, and fain Would pace beside, and question why he came. But when the Greeks and Agamemnon's train Beheld the hero, and his arms shone plain, Huge terror shook them, and some turned to fly, As erst they scattered to their ships; some strain Their husky voice, and raise a feeble cry. The warshout mocks their throats, the gibbering accents die.

LXV. There, too, he sees great Priam's son, the famed Deiphobus, in evil plight forlorn; A mangled shape, his visage marred and maimed. His ravaged face the ruthless steel had torn,— Face, nose and ears—and both his hands were shorn. Him, cowering back, and striving to disown The shameful tokens of his foemen's scorn, Scarcely AEneas knew, then, soon as known, Thus, unaccosted, hailed in old, familiar tone:

LXVI. "O brave Deiphobus, great Teucer's seed! Whose heart had will, whose cruel hand had might To wreak such punishment? Fame told, indeed, That, tired with slaughter, thou had'st sunk that night On heaps of mingled carnage in the fight. Then on the shore I reared an empty mound, And called (thy name and armour mark the site) Thy shade. Thyself, dear comrade, ne'er was found. Vain was my parting wish to lay thee in the ground."

LXVII. "Not thine the fault"; Deiphobus replied, "Thy debt is rendered; thou hast dealt aright. Fate, and the baseness of a Spartan bride Wrought this; behold the tokens of her spite. Thou know'st—too well must thou recall—that night Passed in vain pleasure and delusive joy, What time the fierce Steed, with a bound of might, Big with armed warriors, eager to destroy, Leaped o'er the wall, and scaled the citadel of Troy.

LXVIII. "Feigning mock orgies, round the town she led Troy's dames, with shrieks that rent the midnight air, And, armed with blazing cresset, at their head Bright from the watch-tower made the signal flare, That called the Danaan foemen from their lair. I, sunk in sleep, the fatal couch had pressed, Worn out with watching, and weighed down with care, And, calm and deep, Death's image, gentle Rest Crept o'er the wearied limbs, and stilled the troubled breast.

LXIX. "Meanwhile, all arms the traitress, as I slept, Stole from the house, and from beneath my head She took the trusty falchion, that I kept To guard the chamber and the bridal bed. Then, creeping to the door, with stealthy tread, She lifts the latch, and beckons from within To Menelaus; so, forsooth, she fled In hopes a lover's gratitude to win, And from the past wipe out the scandal of old sin.

LXX. "O noble wife! But why the tale prolong? Few words were best; my chamber they invade, They and Ulysses, counsellor of wrong. Heaven! be these horrors on the Greeks repaid, If pious lips for just revenge have prayed. But thou, make answer, and in turn explain What brought thee, living, to these realms of shade? By heaven's command, or wandering o'er the main, Com'st thou to view these shores, this sunless, sad domain?"

LXXI. So they in converse haply had the day Consumed, when, rosy-charioted, the Morn O'erpassed mid heaven on her ethereal way, And thus the Sibyl doth the Dardan warn: "Night lowers apace; we linger but to mourn. Here part the roads; beyond the walls of Dis There lies for us Elysium; leftward borne Thou comest to Tartarus, in whose drear abyss Poor sinners purge with pains the lives they lived amiss."

LXXII. "Spare, priestess," cried Deiphobus, "thy wrath; I will depart, and fill the tale, and hide In darkness. Thou, with happier fates, go forth, Our glory."—Sudden, from the Dardan's side He fled. Back looked AEneas, and espied Broad bastions, girt with triple wall, that frowned Beneath a rock to leftward, and the tide Of torrent Phlegethon, that flamed around, And made the beaten rocks rebellow with the sound.

LXXIII. In front, a massive gateway threats the sky, And posts of solid adamant upstay An iron tower, firm-planted to defy All force, divine or human. Night and day, Sleepless Tisiphone defends the way, Girt up with bloody garments. From within Loud groans are heard, and wailings of dismay, The whistling scourge, the fetter's clank and din, Shrieks, as of tortured fiends, and all the sounds of sin.

LXXIV. Aghast, AEneas listens to the cries. "O maid," he asks, "what crimes are theirs? What pain Do they endure? what wailings rend the skies?" Then she: "Famed Trojan, this accursed domain None chaste may enter; so the Fates ordain. Great Hecate herself, when here below She made me guardian of Avernus' reign, Led me through all the region, fain to show The tortures of the gods, the various forms of woe.

LXXV. "Here Cretan Rhadamanthus, strict and stern, His kingdom holds. Each trespass, now confessed, He hears and punishes; each tells in turn The sin, with idle triumph long suppressed, Till death has bared the secrets of the breast. Swift at the guilty, as he stands and quakes, Leaps fierce Tisiphone, for vengeance prest, And calls her sisters; o'er the wretch she shakes The torturing scourge aloft, and waves the twisted snakes.

LXXVI. "Then, opening slow, on horrid hinges grate The doors accursed. See'st thou what sentinel Sits in the porch? What presence guards the gate? Know, that within, still fiercer and more fell, Wide-yawning with her fifty throats, doth dwell A Hydra. Tartarus itself, hard by, Abrupt and sheer, beneath the ghosts in Hell, Gapes twice as deep, as o'er the earth on high Towers up the Olympian steep, the summit of the sky.

LXXVII. "There roll the Titans, born of ancient Earth, Hurled to the bottom by the lightning's blast. There lie—twin monsters of enormous girth— Aloeus' sons, who 'gainst Olympus cast Their impious hands, and strove with daring vast To disenthrone the Thunderer. There, again, The famed Salmoneus I beheld, laid fast In cruel agonies of endless pain, Who sought the flames of Jove with mimic art to feign,

LXXVIII. "And mocked Olympian thunder. Torch in hand, Drawn by four steeds, through Elis' streets he came, A conqueror, borne in triumph through the land. And, waving high the firebrand, dared to claim The God's own homage and a godlike name. Blind fool and vain! to think with brazen clash And hollow tramp of horn-hoofed steeds, to frame The dread Storm's counterfeit, the thunder's crash, The matchless bolts of Jove, the inimitable flash.

LXXIX. "But lo! his bolt, no smoky torch of pine, The Sire omnipotent through darkness sped, And hurled him headlong with the blast divine. There, too, lay Tityos, nine roods outspread, Nursling of earth. Hook-beaked, a vulture dread, Pecking the deathless liver, plied his quest, And probed the entrails and the heart, that bred Immortal pain, and burrowed in his breast. The torturing growth goes on, the fibres never rest.

LXXX. "Why now those ancient Lapithae recall, Ixion and Pirithous? There in sight The black rock frowns, and ever threats to fall. On golden pillars shine the couches bright, And royal feasts their longing eyes invite. But lo, the eldest of the Furies' band Sits by, and oft uprising in her might, Warns from the banquet, with uplifted hand, And thunders in their ears, and waves a flaming brand.

LXXXI. "Those, who with hate a brother's love repaid, Or drove a parent outcast from their door, Or, weaving fraud, their client's trust betrayed; Those, who—the most in number—brooded o'er Their gold, nor gave to kinsmen of their store; Those, who for foul adultery were slain, Who followed treason's banner, or forswore Their plighted oath to masters, here remain, And, pent in dungeons deep, await their doom of pain.

LXXXII. "Ask not what pain; what fortune or what fate O'erwhelmed them, nor their torments seek to know. These roll uphill a rock's enormous weight, Those, hung on wheels, are racked with endless woe. There, too, for ever, as the ages flow, Sad Theseus sits, and through the darkness cries Unhappy Phlegyas to the shades below, 'Learn to be good; take warning and be wise; Learn to revere the gods, nor heaven's commands despise.'

LXXXIII. "There stands the traitor, who his country sold, A tyrant's bondage for his land prepared; Made laws, unmade them, for a bribe of gold. With lawless lust a daughter's shame he shared; All dared huge crimes, and compassed what they dared. Ne'er had a hundred mouths, if such were mine, Nor hundred tongues their endless sins declared, Nor iron voice their torments could define, Or tell what doom to each the avenging gods assign.

LXXXIV. "But haste we," adds the Sibyl; "onward hold The way before thee, and thy task pursue. Forged in the Cyclops' furnaces, behold Yon walls and fronting archway, full in view. Leave there thy gift and pay the God his due." She spake, and thither through the dark they paced, And reached the gateway. He, with lustral dew Self-sprinkled, seized the entrance, and in haste High o'er the fronting door the fateful offering placed.

LXXXV. These dues performed, they reach the realms of rest, Fortunate groves, where happy souls repair, And lawns of green, the dwellings of the blest. A purple light, a more abundant air Invest the meadows. Sun and stars are there, Known but to them. There rival athletes train Their practised limbs, and feats of strength compare. These run and wrestle on the sandy plain, Those tread the measured dance, and join the song's sweet strain.

LXXXVI. In flowing robes the Thracian minstrel sings, Sweetly responsive to the seven-toned lyre; Fingers and quill alternate wakes the strings. Here Teucer's race, and many an ancient sire, Chieftains of nobler days and martial fire, Ilus, high-souled Assaracus, and he Who founded Troy, the rapturous strains admire, And arms afar and shadowy cars they see, And lances fixt in earth, and coursers grazing free.

LXXXVII. The love of arms and chariots, the care Their glossy steeds to pasture and to train, That pleased them living, still attends them there: These, stretched at ease, lie feasting on the plain; There, choral companies, in gladsome strain, Chant the loud Paean, in a grove of bay, Rich in sweet scents, whence hurrying to the main, Eridanus' full torrent on its way Rolls from below through woods majestic to the day.