Complete Works of Virgil

by Virgil

  thus answered him: “Have I not known the face

  of yonder placid seas and tranquil waves?

  Put faith in such a monster? Could I trust —

  I, oft by ocean’s treacherous calm betrayed —

  my lord Aeneas to false winds and skies?”

  So saying, he grasped his rudder tight, and clung

  more firmly, fixing on the stars his eyes.

  Then waved the god above his brows a branch

  wet with the dews of Lethe and imbued

  with power of Stygian dark, until his eyes

  wavered and slowly sank. The slumberous snare

  had scarce unbound his limbs, when, leaning o’er,

  the god upon the waters flung him forth,

  hands clutching still the helm and ship-rail torn,

  and calling on his comrades, but in vain.

  Then soared th’ immortal into viewless air;

  and in swift course across the level sea

  the fleet sped safe, protected from all fear

  by Neptune’s vow. Yet were they drawing nigh

  the sirens’ island-steep, where oft are seen

  white, bleaching bones, and to the distant ear

  the rocks roar harshly in perpetual foam.

  Then of his drifting fleet and pilot gone

  Aeneas was aware, and, taking helm,

  steered through the midnight waves, with many a sigh;

  and, by his comrade’s pitiable death

  sore-smitten, cried, “O, thou didst trust too far

  fair skies and seas, and liest without a grave,

  my Palinurus, in a land unknown!”

  BOOK VI

  After such words and tears, he flung free rein

  To the swift fleet, which sped along the wave

  To old Euboean Cumae’s sacred shore.

  They veer all prows to sea; the anchor fluke

  Makes each ship sure, and shading the long strand

  The rounded sterns jut o’er. Impetuously

  The eager warriors leap forth to land

  Upon Hesperian soil. One strikes the flint

  To find the seed-spark hidden in its veins;

  One breaks the thick-branched trees, and steals away

  The shelter where the woodland creatures bide;

  One leads his mates where living waters flow.

  Aeneas, servant of the gods, ascends

  The templed hill where lofty Phoebus reigns,

  And that far-off, inviolable shrine

  Of dread Sibylla, in stupendous cave,

  O’er whose deep soul the god of Delos breathes

  Prophetic gifts, unfolding things to come.

  Here are pale Trivia’s golden house and grove.

  Here Daedalus, the ancient story tells,

  Escaping Minos’ power, and having made

  Hazard of heaven on far-mounting wings,

  Floated to northward, a cold, trackless way,

  And lightly poised, at last, o’er Cumae’s towers.

  Here first to earth come down, he gave to thee

  His gear of wings, Apollo! and ordained

  Vast temples to thy name and altars fair.

  On huge bronze doors Androgeos’ death was done;

  And Cecrops’ children paid their debt of woe,

  Where, seven and seven, — 0 pitiable sight! —

  The youths and maidens wait the annual doom,

  Drawn out by lot from yonder marble urn.

  Beyond, above a sea, lay carven Crete: —

  The bull was there; the passion, the strange guile;

  And Queen Pasiphae’s brute-human son,

  The Minotaur — of monstrous loves the sign.

  Here was the toilsome, labyrinthine maze,

  Where, pitying love-lorn Ariadne’s tears,

  The crafty Daedalus himself betrayed

  The secret of his work; and gave the clue

  To guide the path of Theseus through the gloom.

  0 Icarus, in such well-graven scene

  How proud thy place should be! but grief forbade:

  Twice in pure gold a father’s fingers strove

  To shape thy fall, and twice they strove in vain.

  Aeneas long the various work would scan;

  But now Achates comes, and by his side

  Deiphobe, the Sibyl, Glaucus’ child.

  Thus to the prince she spoke :

  “Is this thine hour

  To stand and wonder? Rather go obtain

  From young unbroken herd the bullocks seven,

  And seven yearling ewes, our wonted way.”

  Thus to Aeneas; his attendants haste

  To work her will; the priestess, calling loud,

  Gathers the Trojans to her mountain-shrine.

  Deep in the face of that Euboean crag

  A cavern vast is hollowed out amain,

  With hundred openings, a hundred mouths,

  Whence voices flow, the Sibyl’s answering songs.

  While at the door they paused, the virgin cried :

  “Ask now thy doom! — the god! the god is nigh!”

  So saying, from her face its color flew,

  Her twisted locks flowed free, the heaving breast

  Swelled with her heart’s wild blood; her stature seemed

  Vaster, her accent more than mortal man,

  As all th’ oncoming god around her breathed :

  “On with thy vows and prayers, 0 Trojan, on!

  For only unto prayer this haunted cave

  May its vast lips unclose.” She spake no more.

  An icy shudder through the marrow ran

  Of the bold Trojans; while their sacred King

  Poured from his inmost soul this plaint and prayer :

  “Phoebus, who ever for the woes of Troy

  Hadst pitying eyes! who gavest deadly aim

  To Paris when his Dardan shaft he hurled

  On great Achilles! Thou hast guided me

  Through many an unknown water, where the seas

  Break upon kingdoms vast, and to the tribes

  Of the remote Massyli, whose wild land

  To Syrtes spreads. But now; because at last

  I touch Hesperia’s ever-fleeting bound,

  May Troy’s ill fate forsake me from this day!

  0 gods and goddesses, beneath whose wrath

  Dardania’s glory and great Ilium stood,

  Spare, for ye may, the remnant of my race!

  And thou, most holy prophetess, whose soul

  Foreknows events to come, grant to my prayer

  (Which asks no kingdom save what Fate decrees)

  That I may stablish in the Latin land

  My Trojans, my far-wandering household-gods,

  And storm-tossed deities of fallen Troy.

  Then unto Phoebus and his sister pale

  A temple all of marble shall be given,

  And festal days to Phoebus evermore.

  Thee also in my realms a spacious shrine

  Shall honor; thy dark books and holy songs

  I there will keep, to be my people’s law;

  And thee, benignant Sibyl for all time

  A company of chosen priests shall serve.

  O, not on leaves, light leaves, inscribe thy songs!

  Lest, playthings of each breeze, they fly afar

  In swift confusion! Sing thyself, I pray.”

  So ceased his voice;the virgin through the cave,

  Scarce bridled yet by Phoebus’ hand divine,

  Ecstatic swept along, and vainly stove

  To fing its potent master from her breast;

  But he more strongly plied his rein and curb

  Upon her frenzied lips, and soon subdued

  Her spirit fierce, and swayed her at his will.

  Free and self-moved the cavern’s hundred adoors

  Swung open wide, and uttered to the air

  The oracles the virgin-priestess sung :

  “Thy long sea-perils thou
hast safely passed;

  But heavier woes await thee on the land.

  Truly thy Trojans to Lavinian shore

  Shall come — vex not thyself thereon — but, oh!

  Shall rue their coming thither! war, red war!

  And Tiber stained with bloody foam I see.

  Simois, Xanthus, and the Dorian horde

  Thou shalt behold; a new Achilles now

  In Latium breathes, — he, too, of goddess born;

  And Juno, burden of the sons of Troy,

  Will vex them ever; while thyself shalt sue

  In dire distress to many a town and tribe

  Through Italy; the cause of so much ill

  Again shall be a hostess-queen, again

  A marriage-chamber for an alien bride.

  Oh! yield not to thy woe, but front it ever,

  And follow boldly whither Fortune calls.

  Thy way of safety, as thou least couldst dream,

  Lies through a city of the Greeks, thy foes.”

  Thus from her shrine Cumaea’s prophetess

  Chanted the dark decrees; the dreadful sound

  Reverberated through the bellowing cave,

  Commingling truth with ecstasies obscure.

  Apollo, as she raged, flung loosened rein,

  And thrust beneath her heart a quickening spur.

  When first her madness ceased, and her wild lips

  Were still at last, the hero thus began :

  “No tribulations new, 0 Sibyl blest,

  Can now confront me; every future pain

  I have foretasted; my prophetic soul

  Endured each stroke of fate before it fell.

  One boon I ask. If of th’ infernal King

  This be the portal where the murky wave

  Of swollen Acheron o’erflows its bound,

  Here let me enter and behold the face

  Of my loved sire. Thy hand may point the way;

  Thy word will open wide yon holy doors.

  My father through the flames and falling spears,

  Straight through the centre of our foes, I bore

  Upon these shoulders. My long flight he shared

  From sea to sea, and suffered at my side

  The anger of rude waters and dark skies, —

  Though weak — 0 task too great for old and gray!

  Thus as a suppliant at thy door to stand,

  Was his behest and prayer. On son and sire,

  0 gracious one, have pity, — for thy rule

  Is over all; no vain authority

  Hadst thou from Trivia o’er th’ Avernian groves.

  If Orpheus could call back his loved one’s shade,

  Emboldened by the lyre’s melodious string :

  If Pollux by the interchange of death

  Redeemed his twin, and oft repassed the way :

  If Theseus — but why name him? why recall

  Alcides’ task? I, too, am sprung from Jove.”

  Thus, to the altar clinging, did he pray :

  The Sibyl thus replied : “Offspring of Heaven,

  Anchises’ son, the downward path to death

  Is easy; all the livelong night and day

  Dark Pluto’s door stands open for a guest.

  But 0! remounting to the world of light,

  This is a task indeed, a strife supreme.

  Few, very few, whom righteous Jove did bless,

  Or quenchless virtue carried to the stars,

  Children of gods, have such a victory won.

  Grim forests stop the way, and, gliding slow,

  Cocytus circles through the sightless gloom.

  But if it be thy dream and fond desire

  Twice o’er the Stygian gulf to travel, twice

  On glooms of Tartarus to set thine eyes,

  If such mad quest be now thy pleasure — hear

  What must be first fulfilled . A certain tree

  Hides in obscurest shade a golden bough,

  Of pliant stems and many a leaf of gold,

  Sacred to Proserpine, infernal Queen.

  Far in the grove it hides; in sunless vale

  Deep shadows keep it in captivity.

  No pilgrim to that underworld can pass

  But he who plucks this burgeoned, leafy gold;

  For this hath beauteous Proserpine ordained

  Her chosen gift to be. Whene’er it is culled,

  A branch out-leafing in like golden gleam,

  A second wonder-stem, fails not to spring.

  Therefore go seek it with uplifted eyes!

  And when by will of Heaven thou findest it,

  Reach forth and pluck; for at a touch it yields,

  A free and willing gift, if Fate ordain;

  But otherwise no mortal strength avails,

  Nor strong, sharp steel, to rend it from the tree.

  Another task awaits; thy friend’s cold clay

  Lies unentombed. Alas! thou art not ware

  (While in my house thou lingerest, seeking light)

  That all thy ships are by his death defiled.

  Unto his resting-place and sepulchre,

  Go, carry him! And sable victims bring,

  In expiation, to his mournful shade.

  So at the last on yonder Stygian groves,

  And realms to things that breathe impassable,

  Thine eye shall gaze.” So closed her lips inspired.

  Aeneas then drew forth, with downcast eyes,

  From that dark cavern, pondering in his heart

  The riddle of his fate. His faithful friend

  Achates at his side, with paces slow,

  Companioned all his care, while their sad souls

  Made mutual and oft-renewed surmise

  What comrade dead, what cold and tombless clay,

  The Sibyl’s word would show.

  But as they mused,

  Behold Misenus on the dry sea-sands,

  By hasty hand of death struck guiltless down!

  A son of Aeolus, none better knew

  To waken heroes by the clarion’s call,

  With war-enkindling sound. Great Hector’s friend

  In happier days, he oft at Hector’s side

  Strode to the fight with glittering lance and horn.

  But when Achilles stripped his fallen foe,

  This dauntless hero to Aeneas gave

  Allegiance true, in not less noble cause.

  But, on a day, he chanced beside the sea

  To blow his shell-shaped horn, and wildly dared

  Challenge the gods themselves to rival song;

  Till jealous Triton, if the tale be true,

  Grasped the rash mortal, and out-flung him far

  ‘mid surf-beat rocks and waves of whirling foam.

  Now from all sides, with tumult and loud cry,

  The Trojans came, — Aeneas leading all

  In faithful grief; they hasten to fulfil

  The Sibyl’s mandate, and with many a tear

  Build, altar-wise, a pyre, of tree on tree

  Heaped high as heaven : then they penetrate

  The tall, old forest, where wild creatures bide,

  And fell pitch-pines, or with resounding blows

  Of axe and wedge, cleave oak and ash-tree through,

  Or logs of rowan down the mountains roll.

  Aeneas oversees and shares the toil,

  Cheers on his mates, and swings a woodman’s steel.

  But, sad at heart with many a doubt and care,

  O’erlooks the forest wide; then prays aloud :

  “0, that the Golden Bough from this vast grove

  Might o’er me shine! For, 0 Aeolides,

  The oracle foretold thy fate, too well!”

  Scarce had he spoken, when a pair of doves

  Before his very eyes flew down from heaven

  To the green turf below; the prince of Troy

  Knew them his mother’s birds, and joyful cried,

  “0, guide me on, whatever path there b
e!

  In airy travel through the woodland fly,

  To where yon rare branch shades the blessed ground.

  Fail thou not me, in this my doubtful hour,

  0 heavenly mother!” So saying, his steps lie stayed,

  Close watching whither they should signal give;

  The lightly-feeding doves flit on and on,

  Ever in easy ken of following eyes,

  Till over foul Avernus’ sulphurous throat

  Swiftly they lift them through the liquid air,

  In silent flight, and find a wished-for rest

  On a twy-natured tree, where through green boughs

  Flames forth the glowing gold’s contrasted hue.

  As in the wintry woodland bare and chill,

  Fresh-budded shines the clinging mistletoe,

  Whose seed is never from the parent tree

  O’er whose round limbs its tawny tendrils twine, —

  So shone th’ out-leafing gold within the shade

  Of dark holm-oak, and so its tinsel-bract

  Rustled in each light breeze. Aeneas grasped

  The lingering bough, broke it in eager haste,

  And bore it straightway to the Sibyl’s shrine.

  Meanwhile the Trojans on the doleful shore

  Bewailed Misenus, and brought tribute there

  Of grief’s last gift to his unheeding clay.

  First, of the full-sapped pine and well-hewn oak

  A lofty pyre they build; then sombre boughs

  Around it wreathe, and in fair order range

  Funereal cypress; glittering arms are piled

  High over all; on blazing coals they lift

  Cauldrons of brass brimmed o’er with waters pure;

  And that cold, lifeless clay lave and anoint

  With many a moan and cry; on their last couch

  The poor, dead limbs they lay, and mantle o’er

  With purple vesture and familiar pall.

  Then in sad ministry the chosen few,

  With eyes averted, as our sires did use,

  Hold the enkindling torch beneath the pyre :

  They gather up and burn the gifts of myrrh,

  The sacred bread and bowls of flowing oil;

  And when in flame the dying embers fall,

  On thirsty ash they pour the streams of wine.

  Good Corynaeus, in an urn of brass

  The gathered relics hides; and three times round,

  With blessed olive branch and sprinkling dew,

  Purges the people with ablution cold,

  In lustral rite; oft chanting, “Hail! Farewell!”

  Faithful Aeneas for his comrade built

  A mighty tomb, and dedicated there

  Trophy of arms, with trumpet and with oar,

  Beneath a windy hill, which now is called

  “Misenus,” — for all time the name to bear.

  After these toils, they hasten to fulfil