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 IWill 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 threwA 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 foundThe tossing vessel sail’d on shoaly ground.Sure of his pilot’s loss, he takes himselfThe 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.”
BOOK VI
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 beforeThe 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 hillWhere Phoebus is ador’d; and seeks the shadeWhich 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 highThe steerage of his wings, that cut the sky:Then o’er the lofty gate his art emboss’dAndrogeos’ death, and off’rings to his ghost;Sev’n youths from Athens yearly sent, to meetThe 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 seenThe 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 wellThat 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 eyesWith 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 artThro’ the hill’s hollow sides: before the place,A hundred doors a hundred entries grace;As many voices issue, and the soundOf 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’dHer 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 dartPierc’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 seeTh’ 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 placeFor the long exiles of the Trojan race.Then shall my grateful hands a temple rearTo 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 trainOf holy priests, and ever shall remain.But O! commit not thy prophetic mindTo 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 doorsOpe of themselves; a rushing whirlwind roarsWithin 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 shownFrom 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 roadTo hell lies open, and the dark abodeWhich 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 nightHis 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 vainHas 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 goBy 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 nightPossess the middle space: th’ infernal boundsCocytus, 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 groveThere stands a tree; the queen of Stygian JoveClaims it her own; thick woods and gloomy nightConceal 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 seeThe 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 wentSad 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’dWhat 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’dThe 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 prideOf forest ashes, feel the fatal stroke,And piercing wedges cleave the stubborn oak.Huge trunks of trees, fell’d from the steepy crownOf 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 mindThe 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 breathForetold, 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 withdrewStill farther from the place, but still in view:Hopping and flying, thus they led him onTo the slow lake, whose baleful stench to shunThey 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 aloudInvok’d the dead, and then dismissed the crowd.But good Aeneas order’d on the shoreA stately tomb, whose top a trumpet bore,A soldier’s falchion, and a seaman’s oar.Thus was his friend interr’d; and deathless fameStill 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 wentFrom 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 bereaveThe beasts of life, and in full bowls receiveThe 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.
