The Vision of the Underworld

So speaks he weeping, and gives his fleet the rein, and at last glides in to Euboïc Cumae's coast. They turn the prows seaward; the ships grounded fast on their anchors' teeth, and the curving ships line the beach. The warrior band leaps forth eagerly on the Hesperian shore; some seek the seeds of flame hidden in veins of flint, some scour the woods, the thick coverts of wild beasts, and find and shew the streams. But good Aeneas seeks the fortress where Apollo sits high enthroned, and the lone mystery of the awful Sibyl's cavern depth, over whose mind and soul the prophetic Delian breathes high inspiration and reveals futurity.

He speaks through tears and gives his fleet free rein. At last, he glides in to the coast of Euboïc Cumae. The men turn the prows toward the sea and anchor the ships firmly. The curved ships line the beach. The warriors leap eagerly onto the Hesperian shore. Some search the veins of flint for sparks to start a fire. Others search the woods and the thick hiding places of wild beasts, finding streams and pointing them out. But good Aeneas seeks the fortress where Apollo sits on his high throne. He also seeks the lonely, mysterious depths of the cavern of the awe-inspiring Sibyl. The prophetic Delian breathes divine inspiration into her mind and soul and reveals the future to her.

Now they draw nigh the groves of Trivia and the roof of gold. Daedalus, as the story runs, when in flight from Minos' realm he dared to spread his fleet wings to the sky, glided on his unwonted way towards the icy northern star, and at length lit gently on the Chalcidian fastness. Here, on the first land he retrod, he dedicated his winged oarage to thee, O Phoebus, in the vast temple he built. On the doors is Androgeus' death; thereby the children of Cecrops, bidden, ah me! to pay for yearly ransom seven souls of their sons; the urn stands there, and the lots are drawn. Right opposite the land of Gnosus rises from the sea; on it is the cruel love of the bull, the disguised stealth of Pasiphaë, and the mingled breed and double issue of the Minotaur, record of a shameful passion; on it the famous dwelling's laborious inextricable maze; but Daedalus, pitying the great love of the princess, himself unlocked the tangled treachery of the palace, guiding with the clue her lover's blind footsteps. Thou too hadst no slight part in the work he wrought, O Icarus, did grief allow. Twice had he essayed to portray thy fate in gold; twice the father's hands dropped down. Nay, their eyes would scan all the story in order, were not Achates already returned from his errand, and with him the priestess of Phoebus and Trivia, Deïphobe daughter of Glaucus, who thus accosts the king: 'Other than this are the sights the time demands: now were it well to sacrifice seven unbroken bullocks of the herd, as many fitly chosen sheep of two years old.' Thus speaks she to Aeneas; nor do they delay to do her sacred bidding; and the priestess calls the Teucrians into the lofty shrine.

Now they approach the groves of Trivia and the golden roof. As the story goes, Daedalus was fleeing Minos' realm when he dared to spread his swift wings and fly. He took an unfamiliar path toward the icy northern star and finally landed gently on the Chalcidian stronghold. There, on the first land he had set foot on again, he dedicated his wings to you, O Phoebus, in the vast temple he built. The doors show the death of Androgeus. Because of his death, the children of Cecrops are ordered to pay a yearly tribute of seven of their sons. Alas! The urn stands there, and the lots are being drawn. Opposite them, the land of Gnosus rises from the sea. There, the doors show Pasiphaë's cruel love for the bull and the disguise she used to approach it in secret. They show the Minotaur, her offspring of mixed and double nature, a reminder of a shameful passion. They also show the intricate, inescapable maze of the famous palace. But Daedalus took pity on the princess in her great love. He himself unraveled the palace's tangled traps, using a thread to guide her lover's blind steps. You too, O Icarus, would have had no small part in his work, if grief had allowed it. Twice Daedalus tried to show your fate in gold. Twice the father's hands fell. Indeed, they would have studied the whole story in order, but Achates had already returned from his errand. With him was Deïphobe, daughter of Glaucus and priestess of Phoebus and Trivia. She addressed the king: 'These are not the sights the moment calls for. Now would be a good time to sacrifice seven unbroken bullocks from the herd, and seven suitably chosen two-year-old sheep.' So she spoke to Aeneas, and they lost no time in carrying out her sacred command. Then the priestess called the Teucrians into the lofty shrine.

A vast cavern is scooped in the side of the Euboïc cliff, whither lead an hundred wide passages by an hundred gates, whence peal forth as manifold the responses of the Sibyl. They had reached the threshold, when the maiden cries: It is time to enquire thy fate: the god, lo! the god! And even as she spoke thus in the gateway, suddenly countenance nor colour nor ranged tresses stayed the same; her wild heart heaves madly in her panting bosom; and she expands to sight, and her voice is more than mortal, now the god breathes on her in nearer deity. 'Lingerest thou to vow and pray,' she cries, 'Aeneas of Troy? lingerest thou? for not till then will the vast portals of the spellbound house swing open.' So spoke she, and sank to silence. A cold shiver ran through the Teucrians' iron frames, and the king pours heart-deep supplication:

A vast cavern is carved into the side of the Euboïc cliff. A hundred wide passages lead into it through a hundred gates, and through them ring the Sibyl's many responses. They had reached the threshold when the maiden cried: It is time to learn your fate: the god, look! the god! Even as she spoke in the gateway, her face, her color, and her neatly arranged hair suddenly changed. Her wild heart pounded in her heaving chest. She seemed to grow larger, and her voice was more than mortal, as the god breathed on her more closely. 'Do you delay making vows and praying,' she cries, 'Aeneas of Troy? Do you delay? The vast doors of this enchanted house will not open until you do.' With that, she fell silent. A cold shiver ran through the Teucrians' iron frames, and the king prayed from the depths of his heart:

'Phoebus, who hast ever pitied the sore travail of Troy, who didst guide the Dardanian shaft from Paris' hand full on the son of Aeacus, in thy leading have I pierced all these seas that skirt mighty lands, the Massylian nations far withdrawn, and the fields the Syrtes fringe; thus far let the fortune of Troy follow us. You too may now unforbidden spare the nation of Pergama, gods and goddesses to whomsoever Ilium and the great glory of Dardania did wrong. And thou, O prophetess most holy, foreknower of the future, grant (for no unearned realm does my destiny claim) a resting-place in Latium to the Teucrians, to their wandering gods and the storm-tossed deities of Troy. Then will I ordain to Phoebus and Trivia a temple of solid marble, and festal days in Phoebus' name. Thee likewise a mighty sanctuary awaits in our realm. For here will I place thine oracles and the secrets of destiny uttered to my people, and consecrate chosen men, O gracious one. Only commit not thou thy verses to leaves, lest they fly disordered, the sport of rushing winds; thyself utter them, I beseech thee.' His lips made an end of utterance.

'Phoebus, you have always pitied Troy's bitter suffering. You guided the Dardanian arrow from Paris' hand straight to the son of Aeacus. Under your guidance, I have crossed all these seas that border mighty lands. I have reached the distant Massylian nations and the fields along the Syrtes. Let Troy's fortunes have pursued us far enough. Gods and goddesses whom Ilium and the great glory of Dardania have wronged, you too may now spare the people of Pergama without blame. And you, most holy prophetess, who know the future, grant the Teucrians a resting place in Latium. Grant it also to their wandering gods, the storm-tossed deities of Troy. For my destiny does not claim a kingdom I have not earned. Then I will build a temple of solid marble to Phoebus and Trivia. I will also establish festival days in Phoebus' name. A great sanctuary awaits you too in our kingdom. There I will place your oracles and the secrets of destiny you reveal to my people. I will also consecrate chosen men to serve you, gracious one. Only do not write your verses on leaves, or the rushing winds may scatter them out of order. Speak the verses yourself, I beg you.' He finished speaking.

But the prophetess, not yet tame to Phoebus' hand, rages fiercely in the cavern, so she may shake the mighty godhead from her breast; so much the more does he tire her maddened mouth and subdue her wild breast and shape her to his pressure. And now the hundred mighty portals of the house open of their own accord, and bring through the air the answer of the soothsayer:

But the prophetess, still resisting Phoebus' control, rages fiercely in the cavern, trying to shake the mighty god from her breast. All the more, he exhausts her frenzied mouth, calms her wild heart, and bends her to his will. Now the hundred great doors of the house open on their own, and the soothsayer's answer rings through the air:

'O past at length with the great perils of the sea! though heavier yet by land await thee, the Dardanians shall come to the realm of Lavinium; relieve thy heart of this care; but not so shall they have joy of their coming. Wars, grim wars I discern, and Tiber afoam with streams of blood. A Simoïs shall not fail thee, a Xanthus, a Dorian camp; another Achilles is already found for Latium, he too goddess-born; nor shall Juno's presence ever leave the Teucrians; while thou in thy need, to what nations or what towns of Italy shalt thou not sue! Again is an alien bride the source of all that Teucrian woe, again a foreign marriage-chamber. . . . Yield not thou to distresses, but all the bolder go forth to meet them, as thy fortune shall allow thee way. The path of rescue, little as thou deemest it, shall first open from a Grecian town.'

'At last you have passed through the great dangers of the sea! But greater dangers await you on land. The Dardanians will reach the realm of Lavinium, so set that worry aside. But they will not rejoice at their arrival. I see wars, grim wars, and the Tiber foaming with streams of blood. You will not lack a Simoïs, a Xanthus, or a Dorian camp. Another Achilles has already appeared in Latium, and he too is born of a goddess. Juno will never cease to pursue the Teucrians. In your need, what nations or towns of Italy will you not beg for help? Once again, a foreign bride is the source of all the Teucrians' suffering. Once again, it is a marriage to a foreigner. . . . Do not yield to hardship. Instead, go forth all the more boldly to meet it, as your fortune allows. Though you little expect it, the path to rescue will first open from a Grecian town.'

In such words the Sibyl of Cumae chants from the shrine her perplexing terrors, echoing through the cavern truth wrapped in obscurity: so does Apollo clash the reins and ply the goad in her maddened breast. So soon as the spasm ceased and the raving lips sank to silence, Aeneas the hero begins: 'No shape of toil, O maiden, rises strange or sudden on my sight; all this ere now have I guessed and inly rehearsed in spirit. One thing I pray; since here is the gate named of the infernal king, and the darkling marsh of Acheron's overflow, be it given me to go to my beloved father, to see him face to face; teach thou the way, and open the consecrated portals. Him on these shoulders I rescued from encircling flames and a thousand pursuing weapons, and brought him safe from amid the enemy; he accompanied my way over all the seas, and bore with me all the threats of ocean and sky, in weakness, beyond his age's strength and due. Nay, he it was who besought and enjoined me to seek thy grace and draw nigh thy courts. Have pity, I beseech thee, on son and father, O gracious one! for thou art all-powerful, nor in vain hath Hecate given thee rule in the groves of Avernus. If Orpheus could call up his wife's ghost in the strength of his Thracian lyre and the music of the strings,—if Pollux redeemed his brother by exchange of death, and passes and repasses so often,—why make mention of great Theseus, why of Alcides? I too am of Jove's sovereign race.'

In these words, the Sibyl of Cumae chants her bewildering terrors from the shrine. Through the cavern, she echoes truth wrapped in mystery. Apollo shakes the reins and drives the goad in her frenzied heart. At last her convulsions cease, and her raving lips fall silent. Then the hero Aeneas speaks: 'No kind of hardship comes as a surprise to me, maiden. I have already imagined and prepared myself for all of it. I ask one thing. Here is the gate to the realm of the king of the underworld, and the dark marsh where Acheron overflows. Let me go to my beloved father and see him face to face. Show me the way and open the sacred gates. 'I carried him on these shoulders out of the surrounding flames and away from a thousand weapons in pursuit. I brought him safely through the enemy. He came with me over all the seas and endured every threat from sea and sky. He bore it all despite his weakness, beyond what his age should have allowed. Indeed, he urged and commanded me to seek your favor and come to your shrine. Have pity, I beg you, on a son and father, gracious one! For you have power over all this, and Hecate has not given you rule over the groves of Avernus for nothing. 'If Orpheus could summon his wife's ghost with his Thracian lyre and the music of its strings, and if Pollux saved his brother by taking turns with him in death, passing back and forth so often, why should I mention great Theseus or Alcides? I too am descended from mighty Jove.'

In such words he pleaded and clasped the altars; when the soothsayer thus began to speak:

He pleaded with these words and clutched the altars. Then the soothsayer began to speak:

'O sprung of gods' blood, child of Anchises of Troy, easy is the descent into hell; all night and day the gate of dark Dis stands open; but to recall thy steps and issue to upper air, this is the task and burden. Some few of gods' lineage have availed, such as Jupiter's gracious favour or virtue's ardour hath upborne to heaven. Midway all is muffled in forest, and the black coils of Cocytus circle it round. Yet if thy soul is so passionate and so desirous twice to float across the Stygian lake, twice to see dark Tartarus, and thy pleasure is to plunge into the mad task, learn what must first be accomplished. Hidden in a shady tree is a bough with leafage and pliant shoot all of gold, consecrate to nether Juno, wrapped in the depth of woodland and shut in by dim dusky vales. But to him only who first hath plucked the golden-tressed fruitage from the tree is it given to enter the hidden places of the earth. This hath beautiful Proserpine ordained to be borne to her for her proper gift. The first torn away, a second fills the place in gold, and the spray burgeons with even such ore again. So let thine eyes trace it home, and thine hand pluck it duly when found; for lightly and unreluctant will it follow if thine is fate's summons; else will no strength of thine avail to conquer it nor hard steel to cut it away. Yet again, a friend of thine lies a lifeless corpse, alas! thou knowest it not, and defiles all the fleet with death, while thou seekest our counsel and lingerest in our courts. First lay him in his resting-place and hide him in the tomb; lead thither black cattle; be this first thine expiation; so at last shalt thou behold the Stygian groves and the realm untrodden of the living.' She spoke, and her lips shut to silence.

‘O descendant of gods, child of Anchises of Troy, the descent into hell is easy. The gate of dark Dis stands open all night and day. But retracing your steps and returning to the upper air is the hard task. A few children of the gods have succeeded, lifted to heaven by Jupiter’s favor or their own burning virtue. Between here and there, everything is wrapped in forest, and the black coils of Cocytus circle it. Yet perhaps your heart is so set on crossing the Stygian lake twice and seeing dark Tartarus twice. If you wish to plunge into this mad task, learn what must first be done. Hidden in a shady tree is a branch with leaves and a supple shoot, all made of gold. It is sacred to Juno of the underworld, hidden deep in the forest and enclosed by dim, dark valleys. But only someone who has first plucked the golden growth from the tree may enter the earth’s hidden places. Beautiful Proserpine has decreed that it be brought to her as her own gift. Once the first branch is torn away, a second golden branch takes its place. Its shoots grow again with the same metal. So search carefully until you find it, then pluck it with your hand as you must. If fate calls you, it will come away easily and willingly. Otherwise, no strength of yours can pull it free, and no hard steel can cut it away. There is more. A friend of yours lies dead, though sadly you do not know it. His corpse defiles the whole fleet with death while you seek my counsel and linger in my halls. First, lay him to rest and place him in a tomb. Lead black cattle there as your first offering to atone for this defilement. Only then will you see the Stygian groves and the realm where no living person walks.’ She spoke, then fell silent.

Aeneas goes forth, and leaves the cavern with fixed eyes and sad countenance, his soul revolving inly the unseen issues. By his side goes faithful Achates, and plants his footsteps in equal perplexity. Long they ran on in mutual change of talk; of what lifeless comrade spoke the soothsayer, of what body for burial? And even as they came, they see on the dry beach Misenus cut off by untimely death, Misenus the Aeolid, excelled of none other in stirring men with brazen breath and kindling battle with his trumpet-note. He had been attendant on mighty Hector; in Hector's train he waged battle, renowned alike for bugle and spear: after victorious Achilles robbed him of life the valiant hero had joined Dardanian Aeneas' company, and followed no meaner leader. But now, while he makes his hollow shell echo over the seas, ah fool! and calls the gods to rival his blast, jealous Triton, if belief is due, had caught him among the rocks and sunk him in the foaming waves. So all surrounded him with loud murmur and cries, good Aeneas the foremost. Then weeping they quickly hasten on the Sibyl's orders, and work hard to pile trees for the altar of burial, and heap it up into the sky. They move into the ancient forest, the deep coverts of game; pitch-pines fall flat, ilex rings to the stroke of axes, and ashen beams and oak are split in clefts with wedges; they roll in huge mountain-ashes from the hills. Aeneas likewise is first in the work, and cheers on his crew and arms himself with their weapons. And alone with his sad heart he ponders it all, gazing on the endless forest, and utters this prayer: 'If but now that bough of gold would shew itself to us on the tree in this depth of woodland! since all the soothsayer's tale of thee, Misenus, was, alas! too truly spoken.' Scarcely had he said thus, when twin doves haply came flying down the sky, and lit on the green sod right under his eyes. Then the kingly hero knows them for his mother's birds, and joyfully prays: 'Ah, be my guides, if way there be, and direct your aëry passage into the groves where the rich bough overshadows the fertile ground! and thou, O goddess mother, fail not our wavering fortune.' So spoke he and stayed his steps, marking what they signify, whither they urge their way. Feeding and flying they advance at such distance as following eyes could keep them in view; then, when they came to Avernus' pestilent gorge, they tower swiftly, and sliding down through the liquid air, choose their seat and light side by side on a tree, through whose boughs shone out the contrasting flicker of gold. As in chill mid-winter the woodland is wont to blossom with the strange leafage of the mistletoe, sown on an alien tree and wreathing the smooth stems with burgeoning saffron; so on the shadowy ilex seemed that leafy gold, so the foil tinkled in the light breeze. Immediately Aeneas seizes it and eagerly breaks off its resistance, and carries it beneath the Sibyl's roof.

Aeneas leaves the cavern, his eyes fixed ahead and his face sad. In his mind, he turns over the unknown events to come. Faithful Achates walks beside him, just as troubled. They talk for a long time, wondering which dead comrade the soothsayer had meant and whose body needed burial. Just as they arrive, they see Misenus lying on the dry beach, cut off by an untimely death. Misenus the Aeolid had no equal at rousing men with his brass instrument and stirring them to battle with his trumpet. He had served mighty Hector and fought at his side, renowned for both trumpet and spear. After victorious Achilles killed Hector, the brave Misenus joined Dardanian Aeneas and followed a leader no less great. But now, as Misenus sounded his hollow shell across the seas, he foolishly challenged the gods to match him. If the story is true, jealous Triton caught him among the rocks and drowned him in the foaming waves. All gathered around Misenus with loud murmurs and cries, with good Aeneas at their head. Then, weeping, they hurry to carry out the Sibyl's orders. They work hard, piling trees high into the sky for the funeral pyre. They enter the ancient forest, where wild animals shelter in its depths. Pitch-pines fall to the ground, and ilex trees ring with the blows of axes. They split ash and oak with wedges and roll huge mountain-ashes down from the hills. Aeneas too is first at the work, encouraging his crew and taking up their tools. Alone with his sorrow, he thinks over everything as he gazes at the endless forest. He prays: "If only that golden bough would now appear to us on a tree deep in these woods! For everything the soothsayer said about you, Misenus, was, alas, all too true." He has scarcely spoken when two doves happen to fly down from the sky and land on the grass before him. The kingly hero recognizes them as his mother's birds and prays joyfully: "Please, be my guides, if there is a way. Fly toward the groves where the precious bough overshadows the fertile ground! And you, goddess mother, do not fail us in our uncertain fortune." He stops walking and watches to see what the birds mean and where they will go. They feed and fly onward, always staying close enough for him to follow them with his eyes. When they reach the poisonous gorge of Avernus, they rise swiftly into the air. Then they glide down through the fluid air and settle side by side on a tree. Through its branches, gold shines with a contrasting flicker. In cold midwinter, mistletoe often blooms in the woods with its strange leaves. It grows on a tree not its own, wrapping the smooth trunks in fresh yellow growth. So the leafy gold appears on the shadowy ilex, and its thin leaves rustle in the light breeze. Aeneas immediately seizes the bough and eagerly breaks it off, though it resists him. Then he carries it to the Sibyl's dwelling.

And therewithal the Teucrians on the beach wept Misenus, and bore the last rites to the thankless ashes. First they build up a vast pyre of resinous billets and sawn oak, whose sides they entwine with dark leaves and plant funereal cypresses in front, and adorn it above with his shining armour. Some prepare warm water in cauldrons bubbling over the flames, and wash and anoint the chill body, and make their moan; then, their weeping done, lay his limbs on the pillow, and spread over it crimson raiment, the accustomed pall. Some uplift the heavy bier, a melancholy service, and with averted faces in their ancestral fashion hold and thrust in the torch. Gifts of frankincense, food, and bowls of olive oil, are poured and piled upon the fire. After the embers sank in and the flame died away, they soaked with wine the remnant of thirsty ashes, and Corynaeus gathered the bones and shut them in an urn of brass; and he too thrice encircled his comrades with fresh water, and cleansed them with light spray sprinkled from a bough of fruitful olive, and spoke the last words of all. But good Aeneas heaps a mighty mounded tomb over him, with his own armour and his oar and trumpet, beneath a skyey mountain that now is called Misenus after him, and keeps his name immortal from age to age.

Meanwhile, the Teucrians wept for Misenus on the beach and performed the last rites for his unresponsive ashes. First, they built a vast pyre of resinous logs and sawn oak. They wove dark leaves around its sides, placed funeral cypresses in front, and adorned the top with his shining armor. Some heated water in cauldrons bubbling over the flames. They washed and anointed his cold body and mourned him. When they had finished weeping, they laid his body on a pillow and covered it with the customary crimson funeral cloth. Some lifted the heavy bier in a sorrowful duty. Following their ancestral custom, they turned their faces away and held a torch to the pyre. They poured and piled gifts of frankincense, food, and bowls of olive oil onto the fire. After the embers sank and the flames died away, they soaked the remaining thirsty ashes with wine. Corynaeus gathered the bones and placed them in a bronze urn. He also walked around his comrades three times with fresh water. He purified them with a light spray from a branch of a fruit-bearing olive tree and spoke the final words. But good Aeneas raised a great burial mound over Misenus, with his armor, oar, and trumpet. The tomb stood beneath a towering mountain now called Misenus after him, which keeps his name alive through the ages.

This done, he hastens to fulfil the Sibyl's ordinance. A deep cave yawned dreary and vast, shingle-strewn, sheltered by the black lake and the gloom of the forests; over it no flying things could wing their way unharmed, such a vapour streamed from the dark gorge and rose into the overarching sky. Here the priestess first arrays four black-bodied bullocks and pours wine upon their forehead; and plucking the topmost hairs from between the horns, lays them on the sacred fire for first-offering, calling aloud on Hecate, mistress of heaven and hell. Others lay knives beneath, and catch the warm blood in cups. Aeneas himself smites with the sword a black-fleeced she-lamb to the mother of the Eumenides and her mighty sister, and a barren heifer, Proserpine, to thee. Then he uprears darkling altars to the Stygian king, and lays whole carcases of bulls upon the flames, pouring fat oil over the blazing entrails. And lo! about the first rays of sunrise the ground moaned underfoot, and the woodland ridges began to stir, and dogs seemed to howl through the dusk as the goddess came. 'Apart, ah keep apart, O ye unsanctified!' cries the soothsayer; 'retire from all the grove; and thou, stride on and unsheath thy steel; now is need of courage, O Aeneas, now of strong resolve.' So much she spoke, and plunged madly into the cavern's opening; he with unflinching steps keeps pace with his advancing guide.

With this done, he hurried to carry out the Sibyl's instructions. A deep cave gaped, bleak and vast. It was strewn with pebbles and sheltered by the black lake and the dark forests. No flying creature could pass over it unharmed. Vapors streamed from the dark opening and rose into the sky above. Here the priestess first positioned four black bullocks and poured wine on their foreheads. She plucked the topmost hairs from between their horns and laid them on the sacred fire as the first offering. She called aloud on Hecate, mistress of heaven and hell. Others held knives beneath the bullocks and caught their warm blood in cups. Aeneas himself killed a black-fleeced ewe lamb with his sword. He offered it to the mother of the Eumenides and her mighty sister. He also offered a barren heifer to you, Proserpine. Then he raised dark altars to the Stygian king and laid whole bull carcasses on the flames. He poured rich oil over their burning entrails. And then, at the first light of sunrise, the ground moaned underfoot. The wooded ridges began to stir, and dogs seemed to howl through the dim light as the goddess came. 'Stand back, oh, stand back, you who are not sanctified!' cried the soothsayer. 'Leave the grove, all of you. And you, Aeneas, go forward and draw your sword. Now you need courage, now you need strong resolve.' With those words, she plunged wildly into the cave's opening. He followed his guide without faltering.

Gods who are sovereign over souls! silent ghosts, and Chaos and Phlegethon, the wide dumb realm of night! as I have heard, so let me tell, and according to your will unfold things sunken deep under earth in gloom.

Gods who rule over souls! Silent ghosts, Chaos, Phlegethon, and the vast, silent realm of night! Let me tell what I have heard. Let me reveal, as you will, what lies buried in darkness deep beneath the earth.

They went darkling through the dusk beneath the solitary night, through the empty dwellings and bodiless realm of Dis; even as one walks in the forest beneath the jealous light of a doubtful moon, when Jupiter shrouds the sky in shadow and black night blots out the world. Right in front of the doorway and in the entry of the jaws of hell Grief and avenging Cares have made their bed; there dwell wan Sicknesses and gloomy Eld, and Fear, and ill-counselling Hunger, and loathly Want, shapes terrible to see; and Death and Travail, and thereby Sleep, Death's kinsman, and the Soul's guilty Joys, and death-dealing War full in the gateway, and the Furies in their iron cells, and mad Discord with bloodstained fillets enwreathing her serpent locks.

They walked in darkness through the dusk beneath the lonely night. They passed through the empty dwellings and the bodiless realm of Dis. It was like walking through a forest in the uncertain moon’s grudging light, when Jupiter covers the sky in shadow and black night blots out the world. Just outside the doorway, at the entrance to the jaws of hell, Grief and avenging Cares have made their bed. Pale Sicknesses and gloomy Old Age dwell there, along with Fear, Hunger that gives evil counsel, and hideous Want. These are terrible shapes to behold. There too are Death and Toil, and Sleep, Death’s kinsman, and the Soul’s guilty Joys. Death-dealing War stands in the gateway, along with the Furies in their iron cells. There too is mad Discord, with bloodstained ribbons wrapped around her serpent hair.

Midway an elm, shadowy and high, spreads her boughs and secular arms, where, one saith, idle Dreams dwell clustering, and cling under every leaf. And monstrous creatures besides, many and diverse, keep covert at the gates, Centaurs and twy-shaped Scyllas, and the hundredfold Briareus, and the beast of Lerna hissing horribly, and the Chimaera armed with flame, Gorgons and Harpies, and the body of the triform shade. Here Aeneas snatches at his sword in a sudden flutter of terror, and turns the naked edge on them as they come; and did not his wise fellow-passenger remind him that these lives flit thin and unessential in the hollow mask of body, he would rush on and vainly lash through phantoms with his steel.

In the middle stands a tall, shadowy elm, spreading its branches and ancient limbs. They say that idle Dreams gather there, clinging beneath every leaf. Many different monstrous creatures also lurk at the gates. There are Centaurs and two-shaped Scyllas, the hundredfold Briareus, and the beast of Lerna, hissing horribly. There are the flame-armed Chimaera, Gorgons and Harpies, and the body of the three-formed shade. Suddenly terrified, Aeneas grabs his sword and turns its bare blade toward them as they approach. But his wise companion reminds him that these beings are thin and insubstantial, mere hollow forms of bodies. Without that warning, he would rush at them and strike uselessly through the phantoms with his sword.

Hence a road leads to Tartarus and Acheron's wave. Here the dreary pool swirls thick in muddy eddies and disgorges into Cocytus with its load of sand. Charon, the dread ferryman, guards these flowing streams, ragged and awful, his chin covered with untrimmed masses of hoary hair, and his glassy eyes aflame; his soiled raiment hangs knotted from his shoulders. Himself he plies the pole and trims the sails of his vessel, the steel-blue galley with freight of dead; stricken now in years, but a god's old age is lusty and green. Hither all crowded, and rushed streaming to the bank, matrons and men and high-hearted heroes dead and done with life, boys and unwedded girls, and children laid young on the bier before their parents' eyes, multitudinous as leaves fall dropping in the forests at autumn's earliest frost, or birds swarm landward from the deep gulf, when the chill of the year routs them overseas and drives them to sunny lands. They stood pleading for the first passage across, and stretched forth passionate hands to the farther shore. But the grim sailor admits now one and now another, while some he pushes back far apart on the strand. Moved with marvel at the confused throng: 'Say, O maiden,' cries Aeneas, 'what means this flocking to the river? of what are the souls so fain? or what difference makes these retire from the banks, those go with sweeping oars over the leaden waterways?'

From here, a road leads to Tartarus and the waters of Acheron. The dreary pool churns in thick, muddy currents and pours its load of sand into Cocytus. Charon, the terrifying ferryman, guards these waters. He is ragged and fearsome, with a mass of untrimmed white hair covering his chin and fire in his glassy eyes. His dirty clothes hang from his shoulders, fastened in a knot. He poles the steel-blue galley himself and tends its sails as it carries its cargo of the dead. He is old now, but a god remains vigorous and strong in old age. All crowded toward him, streaming to the bank: women and men, brave heroes dead and done with life, boys and unmarried girls, and children placed on funeral biers while their parents watched. They were as countless as leaves falling in the forests at autumn's first frost. They were as countless as birds flocking toward land from the deep gulf. The year's cold had driven the birds across the sea toward sunny lands. The souls stood begging to cross first and stretched eager hands toward the far shore. But the grim sailor takes some aboard and pushes others back, leaving them far apart on the shore. Aeneas marveled at the confused crowd. "Tell me, maiden," he cried, "why are they flocking to the river? What do the souls want so much? Why must some leave the bank, while others sweep across the leaden waters with oars?"

To him the long-lived priestess thus briefly returned: 'Seed of Anchises, most sure progeny of gods, thou seest the deep pools of Cocytus and the Stygian marsh, by whose divinity the gods fear to swear falsely. All this crowd thou discernest is helpless and unsepultured; Charon is the ferryman; they who ride on the wave found a tomb. Nor is it given to cross the awful banks and hoarse streams ere the dust hath found a resting-place. An hundred years they wander here flitting about the shore; then at last they gain entrance, and revisit the pools so sorely desired.'

The long-lived priestess replied briefly: 'Son of Anchises, you are surely descended from gods. You see the deep pools of Cocytus and the Stygian marsh. The gods fear to swear falsely by their divine power. All this crowd you see is helpless and unburied. Charon is the ferryman. Those who ride in his boat have been buried. No one may cross the dreadful banks and roaring streams until their remains have found a resting place. The unburied wander here, flitting about the shore for a hundred years. Only then may they cross and return to the pools they long for so desperately.'

Anchises' son stood still, and ponderingly stayed his footsteps, pitying at heart their cruel lot. There he discerns, mournful and unhonoured dead, Leucaspis and Orontes, captains of the Lycian squadron, whom, as they sailed together from Troy over gusty seas, the south wind overwhelmed and wrapped the waters round ship and men.

Anchises' son stopped and stood in thought, his heart filled with pity for their cruel fate. There he saw Leucaspis and Orontes, captains of the Lycian squadron, mournful and unhonored in death. They had sailed together from Troy over stormy seas. The south wind had overwhelmed them, swallowing ships and men beneath the waves.

Lo, there went by Palinurus the steersman, who of late, while he watched the stars on their Libyan passage, had slipped from the stern and fallen amid the waves. To him, when he first knew the melancholy form in that depth of shade, he thus opens speech: 'What god, O Palinurus, reft thee from us and sank thee amid the seas? forth and tell. For in this single answer Apollo deceived me, never found false before, when he prophesied thee safety on ocean and arrival on the Ausonian coasts. See, is this his promise-keeping?'

Palinurus the steersman passed by. Recently, on their voyage past Libya, he had been watching the stars when he slipped from the stern. He had fallen into the waves. When Aeneas recognized his sorrowful figure in the deep shadows, he spoke to him: 'What god, Palinurus, tore you from us and sank you in the sea? Tell me. Apollo had never deceived me before, but in this one answer he did. He foretold that you would be safe at sea and reach the Ausonian shores. Is this how he keeps his promise?'

And he: 'Neither did Phoebus on his oracular seat delude thee, O prince, Anchises' son, nor did any god drown me in the sea. For while I clung to my appointed charge and governed our course, I pulled the tiller with me in my fall, and the shock as I slipped wrenched it away. By the rough seas I swear, fear for myself never wrung me so sore as for thy ship, lest, the rudder lost and the pilot struck away, those gathering waves might master it. Three wintry nights in the water the blustering south drove me over the endless sea; scarcely on the fourth dawn I descried Italy as I rose on the climbing wave. Little by little I swam shoreward; already I clung safe; but while, encumbered with my dripping raiment, I caught with crooked fingers at the jagged needles of mountain rock, the barbarous people attacked me in arms and ignorantly deemed me a prize. Now the wave holds me, and the winds toss me on the shore. By heaven's pleasant light and breezes I beseech thee, by thy father, by Iülus thy rising hope, rescue me from these distresses, O unconquered one! Either do thou, for thou canst, cast earth over me and again seek the haven of Velia; or do thou, if in any wise that may be, if in any wise the goddess who bore thee shews a way,—for not without divine will do I deem thou wilt float across these vast rivers and the Stygian pool,—lend me a pitying hand, and bear me over the waves in thy company, that at least in death I may find a quiet resting-place.'

And he replied: 'Phoebus did not deceive you from his seat of prophecy, O prince, son of Anchises. Nor did any god drown me in the sea. I was clinging to my post and steering our course when I fell. I pulled the tiller with me, and the shock of my fall tore it away. I swear by the rough seas, I feared less for myself than for your ship. I feared the rising waves might overcome it, with its rudder lost and its pilot gone. For three wintry nights, the howling south wind drove me through the water across the endless sea. Only on the fourth dawn did I glimpse Italy as a rising wave lifted me. Little by little, I swam toward shore. I had already found a safe handhold, but my dripping clothes weighed me down. As I hooked my fingers around the jagged points of mountain rock, the barbarous people attacked me with weapons. They took me for a prize, not knowing who I was. Now the waves hold me, and the winds toss me on the shore. By heaven's pleasant light and breezes, by your father, and by Iülus, your rising hope, I beg you, unconquered one, to rescue me from this suffering! You have the power to cover me with earth, so do that and seek the harbor of Velia again. Or, if it is possible, if the goddess who bore you shows you a way, take my hand in pity. For I believe you would not cross these vast rivers and the Stygian pool without the gods' consent. Carry me across the waters with you, so that at least in death I may find a peaceful resting place.'

Thus he ended, and the soothsayer thus began: 'Whence, O Palinurus, this fierce longing of thine? Shalt thou without burial behold the Stygian waters and the awful river of the Furies? Cease to hope prayers may bend the decrees of heaven. But take my words to thy memory, for comfort in thy woeful case: far and wide shall the bordering cities be driven by celestial portents to appease thy dust; they shall rear a tomb, and pay the tomb a yearly offering, and for evermore shall the place keep Palinurus' name.' The words soothed away his distress, and for a while drove grief away from his sorrowing heart; he is glad in the land of his name.

When he finished, the soothsayer began: 'Palinurus, why do you long so fiercely for this? Can you see the Stygian waters and the dreadful river of the Furies without burial? Stop hoping that prayers can change the decrees of heaven. But remember my words, for they will comfort you in your misery: Signs from heaven will drive the neighboring cities far and wide to appease your remains. They will build a tomb and bring offerings to it every year. And the place will bear Palinurus' name forever.' Her words eased his distress and, for a while, drove the grief from his sorrowing heart. He was glad that the land would bear his name.

So they complete their journey's beginning, and draw nigh the river. Just then the waterman descried them from the Stygian wave advancing through the silent woodland and turning their feet towards the bank, and opens on them in these words of challenge: 'Whoso thou art who marchest in arms towards our river, forth and say, there as thou art, why thou comest, and stay thine advance. This is the land of Shadows, of Sleep, and slumberous Night; no living body may the Stygian hull convey. Nor truly had I joy of taking Alcides on the lake for passenger, nor Theseus and Pirithoüs, born of gods though they were and unconquered in might. He laid fettering hand on the warder of Tartarus, and dragged him cowering from the throne of my lord the King; they essayed to ravish our mistress from the bridal chamber of Dis.' Thereto the Amphrysian soothsayer made brief reply: 'No such plot is here; be not moved; nor do our weapons offer violence; the huge gatekeeper may bark on for ever in his cavern and affright the bloodless ghosts; Proserpine may keep her honour within her uncle's gates. Aeneas of Troy, renowned in goodness as in arms, goes down to meet his father in the deep shades of Erebus. If the sight of such affection stirs thee in nowise, yet this bough' (she discovers the bough hidden in her raiment) 'thou must know.' Then his heaving breast allays its anger, and he says no more; but marvelling at the awful gift, the fated rod so long unseen, he steers in his dusky vessel and draws to shore. Next he routs out the souls that sate on the long benches, and clears the thwarts, while he takes mighty Aeneas on board. The galley groaned under the weight in all her seams, and the marsh-water leaked fast in. At length prophetess and prince are landed unscathed on the ugly ooze and livid sedge.

So they completed the first part of their journey and approached the river. Just then, the boatman saw them from the waters of the Styx. They were coming through the silent woods toward the bank. He challenged them: 'Whoever you are, marching in arms toward our river, stop where you are and say why you have come. This is the land of Shadows, Sleep, and drowsy Night. No living body may cross in the boat of the Styx. I took no pleasure in carrying Alcides across the lake, or Theseus and Pirithoüs. They were born of gods and unconquered in strength, but Alcides seized the guard of Tartarus and bound him. He dragged the cowering guard away from the throne of my lord the King. Theseus and Pirithoüs tried to carry off our mistress from the bridal chamber of Dis.' The Amphrysian prophetess answered briefly: 'We have no such plot in mind, so do not be alarmed. Our weapons threaten no violence. The huge gatekeeper may go on barking in his cave forever, frightening the bloodless ghosts. Proserpine may keep her honor within her uncle's gates. Aeneas of Troy, renowned for his goodness and his skill in battle, is going down into the deep shadows of Erebus. He seeks to meet his father there. If such devotion does not move you, you must at least recognize this bough.' She showed him the bough hidden in her clothing. Then the anger subsided in his heaving chest, and he said no more. He marveled at the awe-inspiring gift, the fated branch he had not seen for so long. He steered his dark boat toward them and brought it to shore. He drove out the souls sitting on the long benches and cleared the seats. Then he took mighty Aeneas aboard. The boat groaned at every joint under his weight, and marsh water poured in. At last he landed the prophetess and the prince unharmed on the foul mud and pale reeds.

This realm rings with the triple-throated baying of vast Cerberus, couched huge in the cavern opposite; to whom the prophetess, seeing the serpents already bristling up on his neck, throws a cake made slumberous with honey and drugged grain. He, with threefold jaws gaping in ravenous hunger, catches it when thrown, and sinks to earth with monstrous body outstretched, and sprawling huge over all his den. The warder overwhelmed, Aeneas makes entrance, and quickly issues from the bank of the irremeable wave.

This realm echoes with the barking of huge, three-headed Cerberus, who lies in the cave opposite. The prophetess sees the snakes on his neck rising, and throws him a cake of honey and drugged grain. Cerberus opens his three jaws in ravenous hunger and catches it. He sinks to the ground, his monstrous body sprawled across his entire den. With the guard overcome, Aeneas enters and quickly leaves the bank of the river from which there is no return.

Immediately wailing voices are loud in their ears, the souls of babies crying on the doorway sill, whom, torn from the breast and portionless in life's sweetness, a dark day cut off and drowned in bitter death. Hard by them are those condemned to death on false accusation. Neither indeed are these dwellings assigned without lot and judgment; Minos presides and shakes the urn; he summons a council of the silent people, and inquires of their lives and charges. Next in order have these mourners their place whose own innocent hands dealt them death, who flung away their souls in hatred of the day. How fain were they now in upper air to endure their poverty and sore travail! It may not be; the unlovely pool locks them in her gloomy wave, and Styx pours her ninefold barrier between. And not far from here are shewn stretching on every side the Wailing Fields; so they call them by name. Here they whom pitiless love hath wasted in cruel decay hide among untrodden ways, shrouded in embosoming myrtle thickets; not death itself ends their distresses. In this region he discerns Phaedra and Procris and woeful Eriphyle, shewing on her the wounds of her merciless son, and Evadne and Pasiphaë; Laodamia goes in their company, and she who was once Caeneus and a man, now woman, and again returned by fate into her shape of old. Among whom Dido the Phoenician, fresh from her death-wound, wandered in the vast forest; by her the Trojan hero stood, and knew the dim form through the darkness, even as the moon at the month's beginning to him who sees or thinks he sees her rising through the vapours; he let tears fall, and spoke to her lovingly and sweet:

At once, loud wails reach their ears. On the threshold are the crying souls of babies, torn from the breast before they could taste life’s sweetness. A dark day cut them off and drowned them in bitter death. Nearby are those sentenced to death on false charges. Yet these places are not assigned without a drawing of lots and a judgment. Minos presides and shakes the urn. He calls a council of the silent people and examines their lives and the charges against them. Next are the mourners who killed themselves with their own innocent hands, throwing away their lives because they hated the daylight. How gladly they would now return to the upper air and endure poverty and bitter hardship! But they cannot. The grim waters of the pool hold them captive, and the ninefold barrier of the Styx lies between them and the upper air. Not far from here, the Wailing Fields, as they are called, stretch out in every direction. Here, those whom pitiless love has wasted away hide along untrodden paths, sheltered by thick myrtle bushes. Even death does not end their suffering. In this region he sees Phaedra, Procris, and sorrowful Eriphyle, displaying the wounds inflicted by her merciless son. He also sees Evadne and Pasiphaë. With them goes Laodamia, and the woman who was once Caeneus, a man, but whom fate has now returned to her former shape. Among them, Dido the Phoenician wandered through the vast forest, her fatal wound still fresh. The Trojan hero stood beside her and recognized her dim figure in the darkness. She was like the moon at the beginning of the month, rising through the mist, when a person sees it or thinks they see it. He wept and spoke to her with love and tenderness:

'Alas, Dido! so the news was true that reached me; thou didst perish, and the sword sealed thy doom! Ah me, was I cause of thy death? By the stars I swear, by the heavenly powers and all that is sacred beneath the earth, unwillingly, O queen, I left thy shore. But the gods, at whose orders now I pass through this shadowy place, this land of mouldering overgrowth and deep night, the gods' commands drove me forth; nor could I deem my departure would bring thee pain so great as this. Stay thy footstep, and withdraw not from our gaze. From whom fliest thou? the last speech of thee fate ordains me is this.'

'Alas, Dido! The news that reached me was true. You died, and the sword sealed your fate! Oh, was I the cause of your death? I swear by the stars, by the powers of heaven, and by all that is sacred beneath the earth. I left your shore against my will, O queen. The gods ordered me to leave, and they now order me through this shadowy place, this land of decaying growth and deep night. I could not have imagined that my departure would cause you such pain. Stop, and do not turn away from me. Who are you fleeing? Fate has ordained that these are the last words I can speak to you.'

In such words and with starting tears Aeneas soothed the burning and fierce-eyed soul. She turned away with looks fixed fast on the ground, stirred no more in countenance by the speech he essays than if she stood in iron flint or Marpesian stone. At length she started, and fled wrathfully into the shadowy woodland, where Sychaeus, her ancient husband, responds to her distresses and equals her affection. Yet Aeneas, dismayed by her cruel doom, follows her far on her way with pitying tears.

With these words and tears in his eyes, Aeneas tried to soothe her burning spirit and fierce gaze. She turned away, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground. His words stirred her expression no more than if she were made of iron flint or Marpesian stone. At last, she suddenly fled in anger into the shadowy woods. There, Sychaeus, her former husband, shares her sorrows and returns her love. Yet Aeneas, shaken by her cruel fate, watched her go for a long time, weeping with pity.

Thence he pursues his appointed path. And now they trod those utmost fields where the renowned in war have their haunt apart. Here Tydeus meets him; here Parthenopaeus, glorious in arms, and the pallid phantom of Adrastus; here the Dardanians long wept on earth and fallen in the war; sighing he discerns all their long array, Glaucus and Medon and Thersilochus, the three children of Antenor, and Polyphoetes, Ceres' priest, and Idaeus yet charioted, yet grasping his arms. The souls throng round him to right and left; nor is one look enough; lingering delighted, they pace by his side and enquire wherefore he is come. But the princes of the Grecians and Agamemnon's armies, when they see him glittering in arms through the gloom, hurry terror-stricken away; some turn backward, as when of old they fled to the ships; some raise their voice faintly, and gasp out a broken ineffectual cry.

From there he follows his appointed path. Now they walk through the farthest fields, where those famous in war dwell apart. Here he meets Tydeus, Parthenopaeus, glorious in arms, and the pale ghost of Adrastus. Here too are the Dardanians who fell in the war and were long mourned on earth. Sighing, he recognizes their whole long line: Glaucus, Medon, Thersilochus, and the three children of Antenor. He also sees Polyphoetes, Ceres' priest, and Idaeus, still in his chariot and still holding his weapons. The souls crowd around him on both sides. One look is not enough for them. Delighted, they linger, walking beside him and asking why he has come. But the Grecian princes and Agamemnon's armies see him shining in armor through the darkness. Terrified, they hurry away. Some turn back, as they once fled to the ships. Others faintly raise their voices, gasping out a broken cry that comes to nothing.

And here he saw Deïphobus son of Priam, with face cruelly torn, face and both hands, and ears lopped from his mangled temples, and nostrils maimed by a shameful wound. Barely he knew the cowering form that hid its dreadful punishment; then he springs to accost it in familiar speech:

Here he saw Deïphobus, son of Priam. His face and both hands were cruelly torn. His ears had been cut from his mangled temples, and his nostrils were disfigured by a shameful wound. He cowered, hiding the terrible injuries he had suffered. Aeneas barely recognized him. Then he sprang forward and spoke to him as an old friend:

'Deïphobus mighty in arms, seed of Teucer's royal blood, whose wantonness of vengeance was so cruel? who was allowed to use thee thus? Rumour reached me that on that last night, outwearied with endless slaughter, thou hadst sunk on the heap of mingled carnage. Then mine own hand reared an empty tomb on the Rhoetean shore, mine own voice thrice called aloud upon thy ghost. Thy name and armour keep the spot; thee, O my friend, I could not see nor lay in the native earth I left.'

'Deïphobus, mighty warrior and descendant of Teucer's royal line, whose savage desire for revenge was so cruel? Who was allowed to do this to you? I heard that on that last night, exhausted by endless slaughter, you fell onto a heap of bodies. Then I built an empty tomb for you with my own hands on the Rhoetean shore. Three times I called aloud to your ghost. Your name and armor mark the place. But I could not see you, my friend, or bury you in the native land I left behind.'

Whereto the son of Priam: 'In nothing, O my friend, wert thou wanting; thou hast paid the full to Deïphobus and the dead man's shade. But me my fate and the Laconian woman's murderous guilt thus dragged down to doom; these are the records of her leaving. For how we spent that last night in delusive gladness thou knowest, and must needs remember too well. When the fated horse leapt down on the steep towers of Troy, bearing armed infantry for the burden of its womb, she, in feigned procession, led round our Phrygian women with Bacchic cries; herself she upreared a mighty flame amid them, and called the Grecians out of the fortress height. Then was I fast in mine ill-fated bridal chamber, deep asleep and outworn with my charge, and lay overwhelmed in slumber sweet and profound and most like to easeful death. Meanwhile that crown of wives removes all the arms from my dwelling, and slips out the faithful sword from beneath my head: she calls Menelaus into the house and flings wide the gateway: be sure she hoped her lover would magnify the gift, and so she might quench the fame of her ill deeds of old. Why do I linger? They burst into the chamber, they and the Aeolid, counsellor of crime, in their company. Gods, recompense the Greeks even thus, if with righteous lips I call for vengeance! But come, tell in turn what hap hath brought thee hither yet alive. Comest thou driven on ocean wanderings, or by promptings from heaven? or what fortune keeps thee from rest, that thou shouldst draw nigh these sad sunless dwellings, this disordered land?'

The son of Priam replied: 'You failed me in nothing, my friend. You did everything owed to Deïphobus and the dead man's shade. But my fate and the murderous guilt of the Laconian woman dragged me down to this doom. These are the marks she left behind. You know how we spent that last night in false happiness, and you must remember it all too well. The fateful horse came over Troy's steep towers, carrying armed infantry in its belly. Then she led our Phrygian women in a false procession, with Bacchic cries. Among them, she held up a great flame and called the Grecians down from the fortress heights. Meanwhile, I was in my ill-fated bridal chamber, fast asleep and worn out from my duties. I lay in a deep, sweet sleep, much like peaceful death. Then that model of wives removed all the weapons from my house. She even slipped my faithful sword from beneath my head. She called Menelaus into the house and flung the gateway wide open. Surely she hoped her lover would praise her for the gift, and that she could wipe out the memory of her past crimes. Why do I delay? They burst into the chamber, with the Aeolid, their adviser in crime, at their side. Gods, repay the Greeks in the same way, if my call for vengeance is just! But come, tell me in turn what has brought you here alive. Have you come after wandering the ocean, or because heaven sent you? Or what fate keeps you from rest and brings you near these sad, sunless dwellings, this land of confusion?'

In this change of talk Dawn had already crossed heaven's mid axle on her rose-charioted way; and haply had they thus drawn out all the allotted time; but the Sibyl made brief warning speech to her companion: 'Night falls, Aeneas; we waste the hours in weeping. Here is the place where the road disparts; by this that runs to the right under great Dis' city is our path to Elysium; but the leftward wreaks vengeance on the wicked and sends them to unrelenting hell.' But Deïphobus: 'Be not angered, mighty priestess; I will depart, I will refill my place and return into darkness. Go, glory of our people, go, enjoy a fairer fate than mine.' Thus much he spoke, and on the word turned away his footsteps.

As they talked, Dawn had already crossed the middle of the sky in her rose-colored chariot. They might have spent all their allotted time this way, but the Sibyl gave her companion a brief warning: 'Night is falling, Aeneas. We are wasting the hours in tears. Here the road divides. The path to the right, beneath the great city of Dis, leads us to Elysium. But the path to the left punishes the wicked and sends them to unrelenting hell.' Deïphobus replied: 'Do not be angry, mighty priestess. I will leave, take my place again, and return to the darkness. Go, glory of our people, and enjoy a better fate than mine.' With these words, he turned and walked away.

Aeneas looks swiftly back, and sees beneath the cliff on the left hand a wide city, girt with a triple wall and encircled by a racing river of boiling flame, Tartarean Phlegethon, that echoes over its rolling rocks. In front is the gate, huge and pillared with solid adamant, that no warring force of men nor the very habitants of heaven may avail to overthrow; it stands up a tower of iron, and Tisiphone sitting girt in bloodstained pall keeps sleepless watch at the entry by night and day. Hence moans are heard and fierce lashes resound, with the clank of iron and dragging chains. Aeneas stopped and hung dismayed at the tumult. 'What shapes of crime are here? declare, O maiden; or what the punishment that pursues them, and all this upsurging wail?' Then the soothsayer thus began to speak: 'Illustrious chief of Troy, no pure foot may tread these guilty courts; but to me Hecate herself, when she gave me rule over the groves of Avernus, taught how the gods punish, and guided me through all her realm. Gnosian Rhadamanthus here holds unrelaxing sway, chastises secret crime revealed, and exacts confession, wheresoever in the upper world one vainly exultant in stolen guilt hath till the dusk of death kept clear from the evil he wrought. Straightway avenging Tisiphone, girt with her scourge, tramples down the shivering sinners, menaces them with the grim snakes in her left hand, and summons forth her sisters in merciless train. Then at last the sacred gates are flung open and grate on the jarring hinge. Markest thou what sentry is seated in the doorway? what shape guards the threshold? More grim within sits the monstrous Hydra with her fifty black yawning throats: and Tartarus' self gapes sheer and strikes into the gloom through twice the space that one looks upward to Olympus and the skyey heaven. Here Earth's ancient children, the Titans' brood, hurled down by the thunderbolt, lie wallowing in the abyss. Here likewise I saw the twin Aloïds, enormous of frame, who essayed with violent hands to pluck down high heaven and thrust Jove from his upper realm. Likewise I saw Salmoneus in the cruel payment he gives for mocking Jove's flame and Olympus' thunders. Borne by four horses and brandishing a torch, he rode in triumph midway through the populous city of Grecian Elis, and claimed for himself the worship of deity; madman! who would mimic the storm-cloud and the inimitable bolt with brass that rang under his trampling horse-hoofs. But the Lord omnipotent hurled his shaft through thickening clouds (no firebrand his nor smoky glare of torches) and dashed him headlong in the fury of the whirlwind. Therewithal Tityos might be seen, fosterling of Earth the mother of all, whose body stretches over nine full acres, and a monstrous vulture with crooked beak eats away the imperishable liver and the entrails that breed in suffering, and plunges deep into the breast that gives it food and dwelling; nor is any rest given to the fibres that ever grow anew. Why tell of the Lapithae, of Ixion and Pirithoüs? over whom a stone hangs just slipping and just as though it fell; or the high banqueting couches gleam golden-pillared, and the feast is spread in royal luxury before their faces; couched hard by, the eldest of the Furies wards the tables from their touch and rises with torch upreared and thunderous lips. Here are they who hated their brethren while life endured, or struck a parent or entangled a client in wrong, or who brooded alone over found treasure and shared it not with their fellows, this the greatest multitude of all; and they who were slain for adultery, and who followed unrighteous arms, and feared not to betray their masters' plighted hand. Imprisoned they await their doom. Seek not to be told that doom, that fashion of fortune wherein they are sunk. Some roll a vast stone, or hang outstretched on the spokes of wheels; hapless Theseus sits and shall sit for ever, and Phlegyas in his misery gives counsel to all and witnesses aloud through the gloom, Learn by this warning to do justly and not to slight the gods. This man sold his country for gold, and laid her under a tyrant's sway; he set up and pulled down laws at a price; this other forced his daughter's bridal chamber and a forbidden marriage; all dared some monstrous wickedness, and had success in what they dared. Not had I an hundred tongues, an hundred mouths, and a voice of iron, could I sum up all the shapes of crime or name over all their punishments.'

Aeneas quickly looks back. Below the cliff on his left, he sees a great city surrounded by a triple wall. Around it races Tartarean Phlegethon, a river of boiling flame that roars over rolling rocks. In front stands a huge gate with pillars of solid adamant. No army of men, nor even the inhabitants of heaven, can overthrow it. An iron tower rises there, and Tisiphone sits at the entrance, wrapped in a bloodstained cloak. She keeps watch without sleep, night and day. From within come moans, the cracking of fierce lashes, the clank of iron, and the dragging of chains. Aeneas stops, stunned by the tumult. 'What kinds of crimes are here? Tell me, maiden. What punishment pursues the sinners, and why all this rising wail?' Then the prophetess begins: 'Great leader of Troy, no innocent person may set foot in these courts of the guilty. But Hecate herself gave me authority over the groves of Avernus. She taught me how the gods punish and guided me through all her realm. Gnosian Rhadamanthus rules here without mercy. He punishes hidden crimes when they are revealed and forces confessions. In the world above, some exulted in their undetected crimes. They escaped the consequences of their evil deeds until death, but it was in vain. At once, Tisiphone the avenger, armed with her whip, tramples the trembling sinners. She threatens them with the fearsome snakes in her left hand and calls her sisters to follow without mercy. Then at last the sacred gates are thrown open, grinding on their hinges. 'Do you see the guard seated in the doorway? Do you see what creature guards the threshold? Within sits a still more fearsome monster, the Hydra, with her fifty black, gaping throats. Tartarus itself opens straight down into the darkness. It reaches twice as far below as the distance one looks upward to Olympus and the heavens. Here lie Earth's ancient children, the brood of Titans, thrown down by the thunderbolt and wallowing in the abyss. Here too I saw the twin Aloïds, enormous in size. They tried to tear down high heaven by force and drive Jove from his realm above. 'I also saw Salmoneus, cruelly punished for mocking Jove's lightning and the thunder of Olympus. Drawn by four horses and waving a torch, he rode in triumph through the crowded Greek city of Elis. He claimed the worship due to a god. Madman! He tried to imitate the storm cloud and the lightning bolt, which no one can imitate. He used the brass that rang beneath his horses' pounding hooves. But the all-powerful lord hurled his bolt through the gathering clouds. His was no firebrand or smoky torchlight. In the fury of the whirlwind, he sent Salmoneus plunging headlong. 'There too was Tityos, foster child of Earth, the mother of all. His body stretches over nine full acres. A monstrous vulture with a hooked beak eats his deathless liver and his entrails, which grow again in torment. The bird plunges deep into his chest, where it feeds and makes its home. His flesh is given no rest as it grows back again and again. 'Why tell of the Lapithae, of Ixion and Pirithoüs? Above them hangs a stone, forever on the verge of falling. Or there are high banqueting couches gleaming with golden pillars, and a feast spread before them in royal splendor. Lying close by, the eldest of the Furies keeps them from touching the tables. She rises, holding up a torch and speaking in a voice of thunder. 'Here are those who hated their brothers throughout their lives, struck a parent, or cheated a client. Here too are those who kept found treasure to themselves and shared none with their companions. They are the largest crowd of all. Here are those killed for adultery, those who fought in an unjust cause, and those who dared betray their masters' pledged word. Imprisoned, they await their doom. Do not ask me to describe that doom or the fate they have suffered. 'Some roll a huge stone or hang stretched out on the spokes of wheels. Unhappy Theseus sits and will sit forever. In his misery, Phlegyas advises everyone, crying out through the darkness, Learn from this warning to act justly and not to scorn the gods. One man sold his country for gold and put it under a tyrant's rule. He made and unmade laws for a price. Another forced his daughter's bridal chamber and a forbidden marriage. All dared some monstrous crime, and all succeeded in what they dared. Even if I had a hundred tongues, a hundred mouths, and a voice of iron, I could not list every kind of crime or name all their punishments.'

Thus spoke Phoebus' long-lived priestess; then 'But come now,' she cries; 'haste on the way and perfect the service begun; let us go faster; I descry the ramparts cast in Cyclopean furnaces, and in front the arched gateway where they bid us lay the gifts foreordained.' She ended, and advancing side by side along the shadowy ways, they pass over and draw nigh the gates. Aeneas makes entrance, and sprinkling his body with fresh water, plants the bough full in the gateway.

Phoebus' long-lived priestess spoke. Then she cried, 'But come, hurry on and finish the task we have begun. Let us go faster. I can see the walls forged in Cyclopean furnaces. In front of them is the arched gateway where they tell us to lay the appointed gifts.' She finished speaking, and they went side by side along the shadowy paths until they reached the gates. Aeneas entered, sprinkled his body with fresh water, and planted the bough in the middle of the gateway.

Now at length, this fully done, and the service of the goddess perfected, they came to the happy place, the green pleasances and blissful seats of the Fortunate Woodlands. Here an ampler air clothes the meadows in lustrous sheen, and they know their own sun and a starlight of their own. Some exercise their limbs in tournament on the greensward, contend in games, and wrestle on the yellow sand. Some dance with beating footfall and lips that sing; with them is the Thracian priest in sweeping robe, and makes music to their measures with the notes' sevenfold interval, the notes struck now with his fingers, now with his ivory rod. Here is Teucer's ancient brood, a generation excellent in beauty, high-hearted heroes born in happier years, Ilus and Assaracus, and Dardanus, founder of Troy. Afar he marvels at the armour and chariots empty of their lords: their spears stand fixed in the ground, and their unyoked horses pasture at large over the plain: their life's delight in chariot and armour, their care in pasturing their sleek horses, follows them in like wise low under earth. Others, lo! he beholds feasting on the sward to right and left, and singing in chorus the glad Paean-cry, within a scented laurel-grove whence Eridanus river surges upward full-volumed through the wood. Here is the band of them who bore wounds in fighting for their country, and they who were pure in priesthood while life endured, and the good poets whose speech abased not Apollo; and they who made life beautiful by the arts of their invention, and who won by service a memory among men, the brows of all girt with the snow-white fillet. To their encircling throng the Sibyl spoke thus, and to Musaeus before them all; for he is midmost of all the multitude, and stands out head and shoulders among their upward gaze:

At last, after completing all this and the rites for the goddess, they came to a happy place. It was the Fortunate Woodlands, with green, pleasant groves and blissful resting places. Here a wider sky bathes the meadows in a radiant light. The fields have their own sun and their own stars. Some exercise on the grass, compete in games, and wrestle on the yellow sand. Others dance with rhythmic steps and sing. Among them is the Thracian priest in his flowing robe. He plays music to accompany their movements, sounding seven notes. He strikes the strings now with his fingers, now with his ivory rod. Here are Teucer's ancient descendants, a people of remarkable beauty. They are noble heroes born in happier times: Ilus, Assaracus, and Dardanus, the founder of Troy. From afar, he marvels at their armor and their chariots, now empty of their masters. Their spears stand planted in the ground, and their unharnessed horses graze freely across the plain. The delight they took in chariots and armor during life follows them here beneath the earth. So does their care for their sleek horses. He sees others feasting on the grass to either side. They sing the joyful Paean together in a fragrant laurel grove. From the grove, the river Eridanus rises in a great torrent through the woods. Here are those who were wounded fighting for their country, and those who served as pure priests throughout their lives. Here, too, are the good poets whose words brought no dishonor to Apollo. And here are those who made life beautiful through their inventions, and those remembered for their service to others. All wear snow-white bands around their brows. The Sibyl spoke to the crowd gathered around her, and first of all to Musaeus. He stood in the middle of the crowd, head and shoulders above the others, who looked up at him:

'Tell, O blissful souls, and thou, poet most gracious, what region, what place hath Anchises for his own? For his sake are we come, and have sailed across the wide rivers of Erebus.'

'Tell us, blessed souls and kind poet, where does Anchises dwell? We have come for his sake and sailed across the wide rivers of Erebus.'

And to her the hero thus made brief reply: 'None hath a fixed dwelling; we live in the shady woodlands; soft-swelling banks and meadows fresh with streams are our habitation. But you, if this be your heart's desire, scale this ridge, and I will even now set you on an easy pathway.' He spoke, and paced on before them, and from above shews the shining plains; thereafter they leave the mountain heights.

The hero gave her a brief reply: 'No one has a permanent home here. We live in the shady woods, on gentle banks and in meadows watered by streams. But if you wish, climb this ridge, and I will show you an easy path right now.' He went ahead of them and showed them the shining plains from above. Then they left the mountain heights.

But lord Anchises, deep in the green valley, was musing in earnest survey over the imprisoned souls destined to the daylight above, and haply reviewing his beloved children and all the tale of his people, them and their fates and fortunes, their works and ways. And he, when he saw Aeneas advancing to meet him over the greensward, stretched forth both hands eagerly, while tears rolled over his cheeks, and his lips parted in a cry: 'Art thou come at last, and hath thy love, O child of my desire, conquered the difficult road? Is it granted, O my son, to gaze on thy face and hear and answer in familiar tones? Thus indeed I forecast in spirit, counting the days between; nor hath my care misled me. What lands, what space of seas hast thou traversed to reach me, through what surge of perils, O my son! How I dreaded the realm of Libya might work thee harm!'

But deep in the green valley, lord Anchises was studying the imprisoned souls destined to return to the world above. Perhaps he was reviewing his beloved children and the whole story of his people, their fates and fortunes, their deeds and ways. When he saw Aeneas coming across the grass to meet him, he eagerly stretched out both hands. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and he cried: 'Have you come at last? Has your love, my dear child, carried you through the difficult journey? Can I really look at your face and hear you and speak with you again? I knew in my heart that you would come, and I counted the days. My hopes have not misled me. What lands and stretches of sea you have crossed to reach me, my son! What waves of danger you have faced! How I feared that the land of Libya might bring you harm!'

And he: 'Thy melancholy phantom, thine, O my father, came before me often and often, and drove me to steer to these portals. My fleet is anchored on the Tyrrhenian brine. Give thine hand to clasp, O my father, give it, and withdraw not from our embrace.'

And he said: 'Father, your sorrowful ghost appeared to me again and again. It drove me to sail to these gates. My fleet is anchored in the Tyrrhenian Sea. Give me your hand, Father, let me hold it. Do not pull away from my embrace.'

So spoke he, his face wet with abundant weeping. Thrice there did he essay to fling his arms about his neck; thrice the phantom vainly grasped fled out of his hands even as light wind, and most like to fluttering sleep.

He spoke with tears streaming down his face. Three times he tried to throw his arms around the phantom’s neck. Three times he grasped in vain as the phantom slipped from his hands, like a light breeze or a fleeting dream.

Meanwhile Aeneas sees deep withdrawn in the covert of the vale a woodland and rustling forest thickets, and the river of Lethe that floats past their peaceful dwellings. Around it flitted nations and peoples innumerable; even as in the meadows when in clear summer weather bees settle on the variegated flowers and stream round the snow-white lilies, all the plain is murmurous with their humming. Aeneas starts at the sudden view, and asks the reason he knows not; what are those spreading streams, or who are they whose vast train fills the banks? Then lord Anchises: 'Souls, for whom second bodies are destined and due, drink at the wave of the Lethean stream the heedless water of long forgetfulness. These of a truth have I long desired to tell and shew thee face to face, and number all the generation of thy children, that so thou mayest the more rejoice with me in finding Italy.'—'O father, must we think that any souls travel hence into upper air, and return again to bodily fetters? why this their strange sad longing for the light?' 'I will tell,' rejoins Anchises, 'nor will I hold thee in suspense, my son.' And he unfolds all things in order one by one.

Meanwhile, deep in the shelter of the valley, Aeneas sees a woodland and rustling forest thickets. The river Lethe flows past the peaceful dwellings there. Around it flit countless nations and peoples. They are like bees settling on colorful meadow flowers in clear summer weather and swarming around snow-white lilies. The whole plain murmurs with their humming. Aeneas is startled by the sudden sight and asks what it means. What are those broad streams, and who are the souls filling the banks in such vast numbers? Then lord Anchises says: 'These souls are destined to receive bodies again. They drink from the river Lethe, whose waters bring careless, lasting forgetfulness. I have long wanted to tell you about them and show them to you face to face. I wanted to name all your descendants, so that you might rejoice all the more with me in finding Italy.' 'Father, must we believe that any souls travel from here to the world above and return to the bonds of the body? Why do they have this strange, sad longing for the light?' 'I will tell you, my son,' Anchises replies. 'I will not keep you in suspense.' And he explains everything in order, one thing at a time.

'First of all, heaven and earth and the liquid fields, the shining orb of the moon and the Titanian star, doth a spirit sustain inly, and a soul shed abroad in them sways all their members and mingles in the mighty frame. Thence is the generation of man and beast, the life of winged things, and the monstrous forms that ocean breeds under his glittering floor. Those seeds have fiery force and divine birth, so far as they are not clogged by taint of the body and dulled by earthy frames and limbs ready to die. Hence is it they fear and desire, sorrow and rejoice; nor can they pierce the air while barred in the blind darkness of their prison-house. Nay, and when the last ray of life is gone, not yet, alas! does all their woe, nor do all the plagues of the body wholly leave them free; and needs must be that many a long ingrained evil should take root marvellously deep. Therefore they are schooled in punishment, and pay all the forfeit of a lifelong ill; some are hung stretched to the viewless winds; some have the taint of guilt washed out beneath the dreary deep, or burned away in fire. We suffer, each a several ghost; thereafter we are sent to the broad spaces of Elysium, some few of us to possess the happy fields; till length of days completing time's circle takes out the ingrained soilure and leaves untainted the ethereal sense and pure spiritual flame. All these before thee, when the wheel of a thousand years hath come fully round, a God summons in vast train to the river of Lethe, that so they may regain in forgetfulness the slopes of upper earth, and begin to desire to return again into the body.'

'First of all, a spirit within sustains heaven and earth, the flowing waters, the shining moon, and the Titanian star. A soul spreads through them, moves every part, and mingles with the whole vast structure. From this spirit and soul come humans and beasts, the life of birds, and the monsters the ocean breeds beneath its glittering surface. The seeds of their life have fiery power and divine origin, as far as the body's corruption does not weigh them down, or their earthly frames and mortal limbs dull them. That is why they fear and desire, grieve and rejoice. Shut in the blind darkness of their bodily prison, they cannot see the light of day. Even when life's last ray is gone, alas, their suffering is not yet over. Nor are they wholly freed from all the afflictions of the body. Many evils, long embedded in them, must have taken remarkably deep root. So they are disciplined through punishment and pay the full penalty for a lifetime of wrongdoing. Some are hung outstretched in the invisible winds. Others have the stain of guilt washed away beneath the dismal depths, or burned away in fire. Each of us suffers as a separate ghost. Afterward, we are sent to the broad reaches of Elysium. A few of us are allowed to dwell in its happy fields. There, the passing years complete their cycle, removing the ingrained stain until only pure heavenly awareness and spiritual fire remain. When a thousand years have come full circle, a God summons all those you see before you in a vast procession to the river of Lethe. There they forget, so that they may return to the slopes of the world above and begin to desire a body once more.'

Anchises ceased, and leads his son and the Sibyl likewise amid the assembled murmurous throng, and mounts a hillock whence he might scan all the long ranks and learn their countenances as they came.

Anchises stopped speaking and led his son and the Sibyl into the gathered, murmuring crowd. He climbed a small hill so he could look over all the long ranks and see their faces as they came.

'Now come, the glory hereafter to follow our Dardanian progeny, the posterity to abide in our Italian people, illustrious souls and inheritors of our name to be, these will I rehearse, and instruct thee of thy destinies. He yonder, seest thou? the warrior leaning on his pointless spear, holds the nearest place allotted in our groves, and shall rise first into the air of heaven from the mingling blood of Italy, Silvius of Alban name, the child of thine age, whom late in thy length of days thy wife Lavinia shall nurture in the woodland, king and father of kings; from him in Alba the Long shall our house have dominion. He next him is Procas, glory of the Trojan race; and Capys and Numitor; and he who shall renew thy name, Silvius Aeneas, eminent alike in goodness or in arms, if ever he shall receive his kingdom in Alba. Men of men! see what strength they display, and wear the civic oak shading their brows. They shall establish Nomentum and Gabii and Fidena city, they the Collatine hill-fortress, Pometii and the Fort of Inuus, Bola and Cora: these shall be names that are now nameless lands. Nay, Romulus likewise, seed of Mavors, shall join his grandsire's company, from his mother Ilia's nurture and Assaracus' blood. Seest thou how the twin plumes straighten on his crest, and his father's own emblazonment already marks him for upper air? Behold, O son! by his augury shall Rome the renowned fill earth with her empire and heaven with her pride, and gird about seven fortresses with her single wall, prosperous mother of men; even as our lady of Berecyntus rides in her chariot turret-crowned through the Phrygian cities, glad in the gods she hath borne, clasping an hundred of her children's children, all habitants of heaven, all dwellers on the upper heights. Hither now bend thy twin-eyed gaze; behold this people, the Romans that are thine. Here is Caesar and all Iülus' posterity that shall arise under the mighty cope of heaven. Here is he, he of whose promise once and again thou hearest, Caesar Augustus, a god's son, who shall again establish the ages of gold in Latium over the fields that once were Saturn's realm, and carry his empire afar to Garamant and Indian, to the land that lies beyond our stars, beyond the sun's yearlong ways, where Atlas the sky-bearer wheels on his shoulder the glittering star-spangled pole. Before his coming even now the kingdoms of the Caspian shudder at oracular answers, and the Maeotic land and the mouths of sevenfold Nile flutter in alarm. Nor indeed did Alcides traverse such spaces of earth, though he pierced the brazen-footed deer, or though he stilled the Erymanthian woodlands and made Lerna tremble at his bow: nor he who sways his team with reins of vine, Liber the conqueror, when he drives his tigers from Nysa's lofty crest. And do we yet hesitate to give valour scope in deeds, or shrink in fear from setting foot on Ausonian land? Ah, and who is he apart, marked out with sprays of olive, offering sacrifice? I know the locks and hoary chin of the king of Rome who shall establish the infant city in his laws, sent from little Cures' sterile land to the majesty of empire. To him Tullus shall next succeed, who shall break the peace of his country and stir to arms men rusted from war and armies now disused to triumphs; and hard on him over-vaunting Ancus follows, even now too elate in popular breath. Wilt thou see also the Tarquin kings, and the haughty soul of Brutus the Avenger, and the fasces regained? He shall first receive a consul's power and the merciless axes, and when his children would stir fresh war, the father, for fair freedom's sake, shall summon them to doom. Unhappy! yet howsoever posterity shall take the deed, love of country and limitless passion for honour shall prevail. Nay, behold apart the Decii and the Drusi, Torquatus with his cruel axe, and Camillus returning with the standards. Yonder souls likewise, whom thou discernest gleaming in equal arms, at one now, while shut in Night, ah me! what mutual war, what battle-lines and bloodshed shall they arouse, so they attain the light of the living! father-in-law descending from the Alpine barriers and the fortress of the Dweller Alone, son-in-law facing him with the embattled East. Nay, O my children, harden not your hearts to such warfare, neither turn upon her own heart the mastering might of your country; and thou, be thou first to forgive, who drawest thy descent from heaven; cast down the weapons from thy hand, O blood of mine. . . . He shall drive his conquering chariot to the Capitoline height triumphant over Corinth, glorious in Achaean slaughter. He shall uproot Argos and Agamemnonian Mycenae, and the Aeacid's own heir, the seed of Achilles mighty in arms, avenging his ancestors in Troy and Minerva's polluted temple. Who might leave thee, lordly Cato, or thee, Cossus, to silence? who the Gracchan family, or these two sons of the Scipios, a double thunderbolt of war, Libya's bale? and Fabricius potent in poverty, or thee, Serranus, sowing in the furrow? Whither whirl you me all breathless, O Fabii? thou art he, the most mighty, the one man whose lingering retrieves our State. Others shall beat out the breathing bronze to softer lines, I believe it well; shall draw living lineaments from the marble; the cause shall be more eloquent on their lips; their pencil shall portray the pathways of heaven, and tell the stars in their arising: be thy charge, O Roman, to rule the nations in thine empire; this shall be thine art, to lay down the law of peace, to be merciful to the conquered and beat the haughty down.'

'Come now, I will tell you of the glory that awaits our Dardanian descendants. I will show you the generations who will live among our Italian people. They are illustrious souls, destined to inherit our name. I will teach you what fate has in store for you. Do you see that warrior over there, leaning on his spear without a point? He occupies the place nearest the living world in our groves. He will be the first to rise into the light of heaven, born of blood mingled with Italy's. His name is Silvius, an Alban name. He is the child of your old age. Late in your long life, your wife Lavinia will raise him in the woods. He will be a king and the father of kings. Through him, our house will rule in Alba the Long. Next to him is Procas, the glory of the Trojan race, and Capys and Numitor. There too is Silvius Aeneas, who will renew your name. He will be outstanding in goodness and in war, if he ever receives his kingdom in Alba. What men! See the strength they display. The civic oak crowns shade their brows. They will establish Nomentum, Gabii, and the city of Fidena. They will also establish the hill fortress of Collatine, Pometii, the Fort of Inuus, Bola, and Cora. These will be the names of lands that now have none. Romulus too will join the company of his grandsire. He is the son of Mavors, raised by his mother Ilia, and descended from Assaracus. Do you see how the twin plumes stand upright on his helmet? His father's own emblem already marks him for the world above. Look, my son! Under his auspices, renowned Rome will fill the earth with her empire and heaven with her pride. She will surround seven fortresses with a single wall, a fruitful mother of men. So our lady of Berecyntus rides through the Phrygian cities in her chariot, crowned with towers. She rejoices in the gods she has borne, embracing a hundred of her children's children. All of them live in heaven, all dwell on the heights above. Now turn your eyes here. Look at this people, your own Romans. Here is Caesar and all the descendants of Iülus who will rise under the vast sky. Here is the man whose coming you have heard promised again and again: Caesar Augustus, a god's son. He will bring back the golden age to Latium, to the fields once ruled by Saturn. He will extend his empire far away, to the Garamant and the Indian. He will reach the land beyond our stars and beyond the sun's yearly paths. There Atlas, who bears the sky, turns the glittering, star-studded pole on his shoulder. Even now, the kingdoms of the Caspian tremble at prophecies of his coming. The Maeotic land and the seven mouths of the Nile tremble in alarm. Not even Alcides traveled across so much of the earth. Yet he shot the bronze-footed deer, quieted the Erymanthian woods, and made Lerna tremble at his bow. Nor did Liber the conqueror travel so far. He guides his team with vine reins, driving his tigers from the lofty peak of Nysa. And do we still hesitate to let our courage show in action? Do we shrink in fear from setting foot on Ausonian land? Ah, who is that man standing apart, crowned with olive branches and offering sacrifice? I recognize the hair and gray beard of the king of Rome. He will establish laws for the infant city. He will come from the barren land of little Cures to the majesty of empire. Tullus will succeed him. He will break his country's peace and call its men to arms. They have grown rusty from lack of war, and their armies are no longer used to triumphs. Close behind him follows the boastful Ancus, already too delighted by the people's praise. Would you also see the Tarquin kings, the proud spirit of Brutus the Avenger, and the regained fasces? He will be the first to receive a consul's power and the merciless axes. When his children try to stir up a new war, their father will sentence them to death for freedom's sake. Unhappy man! Yet whatever later generations think of his deed, love of country and boundless passion for honor will prevail. Look also at the Decii and the Drusi standing apart. There is Torquatus with his cruel axe, and Camillus returning with the standards. You can also see those souls over there, shining in matching armor. They are united now, while Night holds them captive. But alas, if they reach the light of the living, what war will they wage against each other! What battle lines and bloodshed they will bring about! The father-in-law will descend from the Alpine barriers and the fortress of the Dweller Alone. The son-in-law will face him with the East armed for battle. No, my children, do not harden your hearts to such warfare. Do not turn your country's conquering might against her own heart. And you, whose descent is from heaven, be the first to forgive. Lay down your weapons, you who are of my blood. . . . He will drive his conquering chariot to the Capitoline height, triumphant over Corinth and glorious in his slaughter of Achaeans. He will destroy Argos and Agamemnonian Mycenae. He will also destroy the Aeacid's own heir, the descendant of Achilles, mighty in arms. He will avenge his ancestors in Troy and Minerva's defiled temple. Who could pass over you in silence, lordly Cato, or you, Cossus? Who could pass over the Gracchan family, or these two sons of the Scipios? They are a double thunderbolt of war, the scourge of Libya. Who could pass over Fabricius, powerful in his poverty, or you, Serranus, sowing in the furrow? Where do you sweep me, breathless, O Fabii? You are the greatest, the one man whose delay restores our State. Others, I gladly believe, will shape living bronze with softer lines. They will carve living features from marble. They will plead a case more eloquently. Their instruments will trace the paths of heaven and predict the rising of the stars. But your task, Roman, is to rule the nations under your empire. This will be your art: to establish the law of peace, show mercy to the conquered, and defeat the proud.'

Thus lord Anchises, and as they marvel, he so pursues: 'Look how Marcellus the conqueror marches glorious in the splendid spoils, towering high above them all! He shall stay the Roman State, reeling beneath the invading shock, shall ride down Carthaginian and insurgent Gaul, and a third time hang up the captured armour before lord Quirinus.'

So spoke lord Anchises. As they marveled, he continued: 'Look at Marcellus the conqueror, marching gloriously in his splendid spoils. He towers above them all! He will steady the Roman State as it reels under the shock of invasion. He will ride down Carthaginian and rebellious Gaul. For a third time, he will hang up the captured armor before lord Quirinus.'

And at this Aeneas, for he saw going by his side one excellent in beauty and glittering in arms, but his brow had little cheer, and his eyes looked down:

Then Aeneas saw someone walking beside him, strikingly beautiful and wearing glittering armor. But the person's face was sad, and their eyes were downcast:

'Who, O my father, is he who thus attends him on his way? son, or other of his children's princely race? How his comrades murmur around him! how goodly of presence he is! but dark Night flutters round his head with melancholy shade.'

'Father, who is that walking beside him? Is he his son, or another of his royal descendants? How his companions murmur around him! How handsome he is! But dark Night flutters around his head, casting a sorrowful shadow.'

Then lord Anchises with welling tears began: 'O my son, ask not of the great sorrow of thy people. Him shall fate but shew to earth, and suffer not to stay further. Too mighty, lords of heaven, did you deem the brood of Rome, had this your gift been abiding. What moaning of men shall arise from the Field of Mavors by the imperial city! what a funeral train shalt thou see, O Tiber, as thou flowest by the new-made grave! Neither shall the boyhood of any of Ilian race raise his Latin forefathers' hope so high; nor shall the land of Romulus ever boast of any fosterling like this. Alas his goodness, alas his antique honour, and right hand invincible in war! none had faced him unscathed in armed shock, whether he met the foe on foot, or ran his spurs into the flanks of his foaming horse. Ah me, the pity of thee, O boy! if in any wise thou breakest the grim bar of fate, thou shalt be Marcellus. Give me lilies in full hands; let me strew bright blossoms, and these gifts at least let me lavish on my descendant's soul, and do the unavailing service.'

Then lord Anchises began to speak, his eyes filling with tears: 'O my son, do not ask about your people's great sorrow. Fate will only show him to the earth, and will not let him stay longer. Lords of heaven, you thought Rome's descendants would be too powerful if this gift had lasted. What cries of grief will rise from the Field of Mavors by the imperial city! What a funeral procession you will see, O Tiber, as you flow past his new grave! No other boy of Ilian race will ever raise his Latin ancestors' hopes so high. Nor will the land of Romulus ever boast of a foster child like him. Alas, his goodness, his old-fashioned honor, and his right hand, invincible in war! No one could have faced him in battle without being wounded. That was true whether he fought the enemy on foot or drove his spurs into his foaming horse's sides. Oh, what a pity for you, my boy! If you can somehow break through fate's grim barrier, you will be Marcellus. Give me handfuls of lilies. Let me scatter bright flowers and at least lavish these gifts on my descendant's soul. Let me offer this service, though it can do no good.'

Thus they wander up and down over the whole region of broad vaporous plains, and scan all the scene. And when Anchises had led his son over it, each point by each, and kindled his spirit with passion for the glories on their way, he tells him thereafter of the war he next must wage, and instructs him of the Laurentine peoples and the city of Latinus, and in what wise each task may be turned aside or borne.

They wander across the broad, misty plains and survey the whole scene. Anchises leads his son through the region, showing him each place in turn. He fills him with longing for the glories to come. Then he tells him of the war he must soon fight. He instructs him about the Laurentine peoples and the city of Latinus, and how he may avoid or endure each trial.

There are twin portals of Sleep, whereof the one is fabled of horn, and by it real shadows are given easy outlet; the other shining white of polished ivory, but false visions issue upward from the ghostly world. With these words then Anchises follows forth his son and the Sibyl together there, and dismisses them by the ivory gate. He pursues his way to the ships and revisits his comrades; then bears on to Caieta's haven straight along the shore. The anchor is cast from the prow; the sterns are grounded on the beach.

There are two gates of Sleep. One is said to be made of horn, and true shades pass easily through it. The other gleams with polished white ivory, but false visions rise through it from the world of ghosts. With these words, Anchises walks with his son and the Sibyl to the gates and sends them through the ivory gate. His son makes his way to the ships and rejoins his comrades. Then he sails straight along the shore to Caieta's harbor. The anchor is cast from the prow, and the sterns come to rest on the beach.