Complete Works of Virgil

by Virgil

  Nor ended till the next returning sun.

  Then earth began to bellow, trees to dance,

  And howling dogs in glimm’ring light advance,

  Ere Hecate came. “Far hence be souls profane!”

  The Sibyl cried, “and from the grove abstain!

  Now, Trojan, take the way thy fates afford;

  Assume thy courage, and unsheathe thy sword.”

  She said, and pass’d along the gloomy space;

  The prince pursued her steps with equal pace.

  Ye realms, yet unreveal’d to human sight,

  Ye gods who rule the regions of the night,

  Ye gliding ghosts, permit me to relate

  The mystic wonders of your silent state!

  Obscure they went thro’ dreary shades, that led

  Along the waste dominions of the dead.

  Thus wander travelers in woods by night,

  By the moon’s doubtful and malignant light,

  When Jove in dusky clouds involves the skies,

  And the faint crescent shoots by fits before their eyes.

  Just in the gate and in the jaws of hell,

  Revengeful Cares and sullen Sorrows dwell,

  And pale Diseases, and repining Age,

  Want, Fear, and Famine’s unresisted rage;

  Here Toils, and Death, and Death’s half-brother, Sleep,

  Forms terrible to view, their sentry keep;

  With anxious Pleasures of a guilty mind,

  Deep Frauds before, and open Force behind;

  The Furies’ iron beds; and Strife, that shakes

  Her hissing tresses and unfolds her snakes.

  Full in the midst of this infernal road,

  An elm displays her dusky arms abroad:

  The God of Sleep there hides his heavy head,

  And empty dreams on ev’ry leaf are spread.

  Of various forms unnumber’d specters more,

  Centaurs, and double shapes, besiege the door.

  Before the passage, horrid Hydra stands,

  And Briareus with all his hundred hands;

  Gorgons, Geryon with his triple frame;

  And vain Chimaera vomits empty flame.

  The chief unsheath’d his shining steel, prepar’d,

  Tho’ seiz’d with sudden fear, to force the guard,

  Off’ring his brandish’d weapon at their face;

  Had not the Sibyl stopp’d his eager pace,

  And told him what those empty phantoms were:

  Forms without bodies, and impassive air.

  Hence to deep Acheron they take their way,

  Whose troubled eddies, thick with ooze and clay,

  Are whirl’d aloft, and in Cocytus lost.

  There Charon stands, who rules the dreary coast-

  A sordid god: down from his hoary chin

  A length of beard descends, uncomb’d, unclean;

  His eyes, like hollow furnaces on fire;

  A girdle, foul with grease, binds his obscene attire.

  He spreads his canvas; with his pole he steers;

  The freights of flitting ghosts in his thin bottom bears.

  He look’d in years; yet in his years were seen

  A youthful vigor and autumnal green.

  An airy crowd came rushing where he stood,

  Which fill’d the margin of the fatal flood:

  Husbands and wives, boys and unmarried maids,

  And mighty heroes’ more majestic shades,

  And youths, intomb’d before their fathers’ eyes,

  With hollow groans, and shrieks, and feeble cries.

  Thick as the leaves in autumn strow the woods,

  Or fowls, by winter forc’d, forsake the floods,

  And wing their hasty flight to happier lands;

  Such, and so thick, the shiv’ring army stands,

  And press for passage with extended hands.

  Now these, now those, the surly boatman bore:

  The rest he drove to distance from the shore.

  The hero, who beheld with wond’ring eyes

  The tumult mix’d with shrieks, laments, and cries,

  Ask’d of his guide, what the rude concourse meant;

  Why to the shore the thronging people bent;

  What forms of law among the ghosts were us’d;

  Why some were ferried o’er, and some refus’d.

  “Son of Anchises, offspring of the gods,”

  The Sibyl said, “you see the Stygian floods,

  The sacred stream which heav’n’s imperial state

  Attests in oaths, and fears to violate.

  The ghosts rejected are th’ unhappy crew

  Depriv’d of sepulchers and fun’ral due:

  The boatman, Charon; those, the buried host,

  He ferries over to the farther coast;

  Nor dares his transport vessel cross the waves

  With such whose bones are not compos’d in graves.

  A hundred years they wander on the shore;

  At length, their penance done, are wafted o’er.”

  The Trojan chief his forward pace repress’d,

  Revolving anxious thoughts within his breast,

  He saw his friends, who, whelm’d beneath the waves,

  Their fun’ral honors claim’d, and ask’d their quiet graves.

  The lost Leucaspis in the crowd he knew,

  And the brave leader of the Lycian crew,

  Whom, on the Tyrrhene seas, the tempests met;

  The sailors master’d, and the ship o’erset.

  Amidst the spirits, Palinurus press’d,

  Yet fresh from life, a new-admitted guest,

  Who, while he steering view’d the stars, and bore

  His course from Afric to the Latian shore,

  Fell headlong down. The Trojan fix’d his view,

  And scarcely thro’ the gloom the sullen shadow knew.

  Then thus the prince: “What envious pow’r, O friend,

  Brought your lov’d life to this disastrous end?

  For Phoebus, ever true in all he said,

  Has in your fate alone my faith betray’d.

  The god foretold you should not die, before

  You reach’d, secure from seas, th’ Italian shore.

  Is this th’ unerring pow’r?” The ghost replied;

  “Nor Phoebus flatter’d, nor his answers lied;

  Nor envious gods have sent me to the deep:

  But, while the stars and course of heav’n I keep,

  My wearied eyes were seiz’d with fatal sleep.

  I fell; and, with my weight, the helm constrain’d

  Was drawn along, which yet my gripe retain’d.

  Now by the winds and raging waves I swear,

  Your safety, more than mine, was then my care;

  Lest, of the guide bereft, the rudder lost,

  Your ship should run against the rocky coast.

  Three blust’ring nights, borne by the southern blast,

  I floated, and discover’d land at last:

  High on a mounting wave my head I bore,

  Forcing my strength, and gath’ring to the shore.

  Panting, but past the danger, now I seiz’d

  The craggy cliffs, and my tir’d members eas’d.

  While, cumber’d with my dropping clothes, I lay,

  The cruel nation, covetous of prey,

  Stain’d with my blood th’ unhospitable coast;

  And now, by winds and waves, my lifeless limbs are toss’d:

  Which O avert, by yon ethereal light,

  Which I have lost for this eternal night!

  Or, if by dearer ties you may be won,

  By your dead sire, and by your living son,

  Redeem from this reproach my wand’ring ghost;

  Or with your navy seek the Velin coast,

  And in a peaceful grave my corpse compose;

  Or, if a nearer way your mother shows,

  Without whose aid you durst not undertake

&n
bsp; This frightful passage o’er the Stygian lake,

  Lend to this wretch your hand, and waft him o’er

  To the sweet banks of yon forbidden shore.”

  Scarce had he said, the prophetess began:

  “What hopes delude thee, miserable man?

  Think’st thou, thus unintomb’d, to cross the floods,

  To view the Furies and infernal gods,

  And visit, without leave, the dark abodes?

  Attend the term of long revolving years;

  Fate, and the dooming gods, are deaf to tears.

  This comfort of thy dire misfortune take:

  The wrath of Heav’n, inflicted for thy sake,

  With vengeance shall pursue th’ inhuman coast,

  Till they propitiate thy offended ghost,

  And raise a tomb, with vows and solemn pray’r;

  And Palinurus’ name the place shall bear.”

  This calm’d his cares; sooth’d with his future fame,

  And pleas’d to hear his propagated name.

  Now nearer to the Stygian lake they draw:

  Whom, from the shore, the surly boatman saw;

  Observ’d their passage thro’ the shady wood,

  And mark’d their near approaches to the flood.

  Then thus he call’d aloud, inflam’d with wrath:

  “Mortal, whate’er, who this forbidden path

  In arms presum’st to tread, I charge thee, stand,

  And tell thy name, and bus’ness in the land.

  Know this, the realm of night- the Stygian shore:

  My boat conveys no living bodies o’er;

  Nor was I pleas’d great Theseus once to bear,

  Who forc’d a passage with his pointed spear,

  Nor strong Alcides- men of mighty fame,

  And from th’ immortal gods their lineage came.

  In fetters one the barking porter tied,

  And took him trembling from his sov’reign’s side:

  Two sought by force to seize his beauteous bride.”

  To whom the Sibyl thus: “Compose thy mind;

  Nor frauds are here contriv’d, nor force design’d.

  Still may the dog the wand’ring troops constrain

  Of airy ghosts, and vex the guilty train,

  And with her grisly lord his lovely queen remain.

  The Trojan chief, whose lineage is from Jove,

  Much fam’d for arms, and more for filial love,

  Is sent to seek his sire in your Elysian grove.

  If neither piety, nor Heav’n’s command,

  Can gain his passage to the Stygian strand,

  This fatal present shall prevail at least.”

  Then shew’d the shining bough, conceal’d within her vest.

  No more was needful: for the gloomy god

  Stood mute with awe, to see the golden rod;

  Admir’d the destin’d off’ring to his queen-

  A venerable gift, so rarely seen.

  His fury thus appeas’d, he puts to land;

  The ghosts forsake their seats at his command:

  He clears the deck, receives the mighty freight;

  The leaky vessel groans beneath the weight.

  Slowly she sails, and scarcely stems the tides;

  The pressing water pours within her sides.

  His passengers at length are wafted o’er,

  Expos’d, in muddy weeds, upon the miry shore.

  No sooner landed, in his den they found

  The triple porter of the Stygian sound,

  Grim Cerberus, who soon began to rear

  His crested snakes, and arm’d his bristling hair.

  The prudent Sibyl had before prepar’d

  A sop, in honey steep’d, to charm the guard;

  Which, mix’d with pow’rful drugs, she cast before

  His greedy grinning jaws, just op’d to roar.

  With three enormous mouths he gapes; and straight,

  With hunger press’d, devours the pleasing bait.

  Long draughts of sleep his monstrous limbs enslave;

  He reels, and, falling, fills the spacious cave.

  The keeper charm’d, the chief without delay

  Pass’d on, and took th’ irremeable way.

  Before the gates, the cries of babes new born,

  Whom fate had from their tender mothers torn,

  Assault his ears: then those, whom form of laws

  Condemn’d to die, when traitors judg’d their cause.

  Nor want they lots, nor judges to review

  The wrongful sentence, and award a new.

  Minos, the strict inquisitor, appears;

  And lives and crimes, with his assessors, hears.

  Round in his urn the blended balls he rolls,

  Absolves the just, and dooms the guilty souls.

  The next, in place and punishment, are they

  Who prodigally throw their souls away;

  Fools, who, repining at their wretched state,

  And loathing anxious life, suborn’d their fate.

  With late repentance now they would retrieve

  The bodies they forsook, and wish to live;

  Their pains and poverty desire to bear,

  To view the light of heav’n, and breathe the vital air:

  But fate forbids; the Stygian floods oppose,

  And with circling streams the captive souls inclose.

  Not far from thence, the Mournful Fields appear

  So call’d from lovers that inhabit there.

  The souls whom that unhappy flame invades,

  In secret solitude and myrtle shades

  Make endless moans, and, pining with desire,

  Lament too late their unextinguish’d fire.

  Here Procris, Eriphyle here he found,

  Baring her breast, yet bleeding with the wound

  Made by her son. He saw Pasiphae there,

  With Phaedra’s ghost, a foul incestuous pair.

  There Laodamia, with Evadne, moves,

  Unhappy both, but loyal in their loves:

  Caeneus, a woman once, and once a man,

  But ending in the sex she first began.

  Not far from these Phoenician Dido stood,

  Fresh from her wound, her bosom bath’d in blood;

  Whom when the Trojan hero hardly knew,

  Obscure in shades, and with a doubtful view,

  (Doubtful as he who sees, thro’ dusky night,

  Or thinks he sees, the moon’s uncertain light,)

  With tears he first approach’d the sullen shade;

  And, as his love inspir’d him, thus he said:

  “Unhappy queen! then is the common breath

  Of rumor true, in your reported death,

  And I, alas! the cause? By Heav’n, I vow,

  And all the pow’rs that rule the realms below,

  Unwilling I forsook your friendly state,

  Commanded by the gods, and forc’d by fate-

  Those gods, that fate, whose unresisted might

  Have sent me to these regions void of light,

  Thro’ the vast empire of eternal night.

  Nor dar’d I to presume, that, press’d with grief,

  My flight should urge you to this dire relief.

  Stay, stay your steps, and listen to my vows:

  ‘T is the last interview that fate allows!”

  In vain he thus attempts her mind to move

  With tears, and pray’rs, and late-repenting love.

  Disdainfully she look’d; then turning round,

  But fix’d her eyes unmov’d upon the ground,

  And what he says and swears, regards no more

  Than the deaf rocks, when the loud billows roar;

  But whirl’d away, to shun his hateful sight,

  Hid in the forest and the shades of night;

  Then sought Sichaeus thro’ the shady grove,

  Who answer’d all her cares, and equal’d all her love.

  Some pious tears the pi
tying hero paid,

  And follow’d with his eyes the flitting shade,

  Then took the forward way, by fate ordain’d,

  And, with his guide, the farther fields attain’d,

  Where, sever’d from the rest, the warrior souls remain’d.

  Tydeus he met, with Meleager’s race,

  The pride of armies, and the soldiers’ grace;

  And pale Adrastus with his ghastly face.

  Of Trojan chiefs he view’d a num’rous train,

  All much lamented, all in battle slain;

  Glaucus and Medon, high above the rest,

  Antenor’s sons, and Ceres’ sacred priest.

  And proud Idaeus, Priam’s charioteer,

  Who shakes his empty reins, and aims his airy spear.

  The gladsome ghosts, in circling troops, attend

  And with unwearied eyes behold their friend;

  Delight to hover near, and long to know

  What bus’ness brought him to the realms below.

  But Argive chiefs, and Agamemnon’s train,

  When his refulgent arms flash’d thro’ the shady plain,

  Fled from his well-known face, with wonted fear,

  As when his thund’ring sword and pointed spear

  Drove headlong to their ships, and glean’d the routed rear.

  They rais’d a feeble cry, with trembling notes;

  But the weak voice deceiv’d their gasping throats.

  Here Priam’s son, Deiphobus, he found,

  Whose face and limbs were one continued wound:

  Dishonest, with lopp’d arms, the youth appears,

  Spoil’d of his nose, and shorten’d of his ears.

  He scarcely knew him, striving to disown

  His blotted form, and blushing to be known;

  And therefore first began: “O Tsucer’s race,

  Who durst thy faultless figure thus deface?

  What heart could wish, what hand inflict, this dire disgrace?

  ’Twas fam’d, that in our last and fatal night

  Your single prowess long sustain’d the fight,

  Till tir’d, not forc’d, a glorious fate you chose,

  And fell upon a heap of slaughter’d foes.

  But, in remembrance of so brave a deed,

  A tomb and fun’ral honors I decreed;

  Thrice call’d your manes on the Trojan plains:

  The place your armor and your name retains.

  Your body too I sought, and, had I found,

  Design’d for burial in your native ground.”

  The ghost replied: “Your piety has paid

  All needful rites, to rest my wand’ring shade;

  But cruel fate, and my more cruel wife,

  To Grecian swords betray’d my sleeping life.