Complete Works of Virgil

by Virgil

  What else the Sibyl said. Straightway they find

  A cave profound, of entrance gaping wide,

  O’erhung with rock, in gloom of sheltering grove,

  Near the dark waters of a lake, whereby

  No bird might ever pass with scathless wing,

  So dire an exhalation is breathed out

  From that dark deep of death to upper air : —

  Hence, in the Grecian tongue, Aornos called.

  Here first four youthful bulls of swarthy hide

  Were led for sacrifice; on each broad brow

  The priestess sprinkled wine; ‘twixt the two horns

  Outplucked the lifted hair, and cast it forth

  Upon the holy flames, beginning so

  Her offerings; then loudly sued the power

  of Hecate, a Queen in heaven and hell.

  Some struck with knives, and caught in shallow bowls

  The smoking blood. Aeneas’ lifted hand

  Smote with a sword a sable-fleeced ewe

  To Night, the mother of th’ Eumenides,

  And Earth, her sister dread; next unto thee,

  O Proserpine, a curst and barren cow;

  Then unto Pluto, Stygian King, he built

  An altar dark, and piled upon the flames

  The ponderous entrails of the bulls, and poured

  Free o’er the burning flesh the goodly oil.

  Then lo! at dawn’s dim, earliest beam began

  Beneath their feet a groaning of the ground :

  The wooded hill-tops shook, and, as it seemed,

  She-hounds of hell howled viewless through the shade ,

  To hail their Queen. “Away, 0 souls profane!

  Stand far away!” the priestess shrieked, “nor dare

  Unto this grove come near! Aeneas, on!

  Begin thy journey! Draw thy sheathed blade!

  Now, all thy courage! now, th’ unshaken soul!”

  She spoke, and burst into the yawning cave

  With frenzied step; he follows where she leads,

  And strides with feet unfaltering at her side.

  Ye gods! who rule the spirits of the dead!

  Ye voiceless shades and silent lands of night!

  0 Phlegethon! 0 Chaos! let my song,

  If it be lawful, in fit words declare

  What I have heard; and by your help divine

  Unfold what hidden things enshrouded lie

  In that dark underworld of sightless gloom.

  They walked exploring the unpeopled night,

  Through Pluto’s vacuous realms, and regions void,

  As when one’s path in dreary woodlands winds

  Beneath a misty moon’s deceiving ray,

  When Jove has mantled all his heaven in shade,

  And night seals up the beauty of the world.

  In the first courts and entrances of Hell

  Sorrows and vengeful Cares on couches lie :

  There sad Old Age abides, Diseases pale,

  And Fear, and Hunger, temptress to all crime;

  Want, base and vile, and, two dread shapes to see,

  Bondage and Death : then Sleep, Death’s next of kin;

  And dreams of guilty joy. Death-dealing War

  Is ever at the doors, and hard thereby

  The Furies’ beds of steel, where wild-eyed Strife

  Her snaky hair with blood-stained fillet binds.

  There in the middle court a shadowy elm

  Its ancient branches spreads, and in its leaves

  Deluding visions ever haunt and cling.

  Then come strange prodigies of bestial kind :

  Centaurs are stabled there, and double shapes

  Like Scylla, or the dragon Lerna bred,

  With hideous scream; Briareus clutching far

  His hundred hands, Chimaera girt with flame,

  A crowd of Gorgons, Harpies of foul wing,

  And giant Geryon’s triple-monstered shade.

  Aeneas, shuddering with sudden fear,

  Drew sword and fronted them with naked steel;

  And, save his sage conductress bade him know

  These were but shapes and shadows sweeping by,

  His stroke had cloven in vain the vacant air.

  Hence the way leads to that Tartarean stream

  Of Acheron, whose torrent fierce and foul

  Disgorges in Cocytus all its sands.

  A ferryman of gruesome guise keeps ward

  Upon these waters, — Charon, foully garbed,

  With unkempt, thick gray beard upon his chin,

  And staring eyes of flame; a mantle coarse,

  All stained and knotted, from his shoulder falls,

  As with a pole he guides his craft, tends sail,

  And in the black boat ferries o’er his dead; —

  Old, but a god’s old age looks fresh and strong.

  To those dim shores the multitude streams on —

  Husbands and wives, and pale, unbreathing forms

  Of high-souled heroes, boys and virgins fair,

  And strong youth at whose graves fond parents mourned.

  As numberless the throng as leaves that fall

  When autumn’s early frost is on the grove;

  Or like vast flocks of birds by winter’s chill

  Sent flying o’er wide seas to lands of flowers.

  All stood beseeching to begin their voyage

  Across that river, and reached out pale hands,

  In passionate yearning for its distant shore.

  But the grim boatman takes now these, now those,

  Or thrusts unpitying from the stream away.

  Aeneas, moved to wonder and deep awe,

  Beheld the tumult; “Virgin seer!” he cried, .

  “Why move the thronging ghosts toward yonder stream?

  What seek they there? Or what election holds

  That these unwilling linger, while their peers

  Sweep forward yonder o’er the leaden waves?”

  To him, in few, the aged Sibyl spoke :

  “Son of Anchises, offspring of the gods,

  Yon are Cocytus and the Stygian stream,

  By whose dread power the gods themselves do fear

  To take an oath in vain. Here far and wide

  Thou seest the hapless throng that hath no grave.

  That boatman Charon bears across the deep

  Such as be sepulchred with holy care.

  But over that loud flood and dreadful shore

  No trav’ler may be borne, until in peace

  His gathered ashes rest. A hundred years

  Round this dark borderland some haunt and roam,

  Then win late passage o’er the longed-for wave.”

  Aeneas lingered for a little space,

  Revolving in his soul with pitying prayer

  Fate’s partial way. But presently he sees

  Leucaspis and the Lycian navy’s lord,

  Orontes; both of melancholy brow,

  Both hapless and unhonored after death,

  Whom, while from Troy they crossed the wind-swept seas,

  A whirling tempest wrecked with ship and crew.

  There, too, the helmsman Palinurus strayed :

  Who, as he whilom watched the Libyan stars,

  Had fallen, plunging from his lofty seat

  Into the billowy deep. Aeneas now

  Discerned his sad face through the blinding gloom,

  And hailed him thus : “0 Palinurus, tell

  What god was he who ravished thee away

  From me and mine, beneath the o’crwhelming wave?

  Speak on! for he who ne’er had spoke untrue,

  Apollo’s self, did mock my listening mind,

  And chanted me a faithful oracle

  That thou shouldst ride the seas unharmed, and touch

  Ausonian shores. Is this the pledge divine?”

  Then he, “0 chieftain of Anchises’ race,

  Apollo’s tripod told thee not untrue.
r />   No god did thrust me down beneath the wave,

  For that strong rudder unto which I clung,

  My charge and duty, and my ship’s sole guide,

  Wrenched from its place, dropped with me as I fell.

  Not for myself — by the rude seas I swear —

  Did I have terror, but lest thy good ship,

  Stripped of her gear, and her poor pilot lost,

  Should fail and founder in that rising flood.

  Three wintry nights across the boundless main

  The south wind buffeted and bore me on;

  At the fourth daybreak, lifted from the surge,

  I looked at last on Italy, and swam

  With weary stroke on stroke unto the land.

  Safe was I then. Alas! but as I climbed

  With garments wet and heavy, my clenched hand

  Grasping the steep rock, came a cruel horde

  Upon me with drawn blades, accounting me —

  So blind they were! — a wrecker’s prize and spoil.

  Now are the waves my tomb; and wandering winds

  Toss me along the coast. 0, I implore,

  By heaven’s sweet light, by yonder upper air,

  By thy lost father, by lulus dear,

  Thy rising hope and joy, that from these woes,

  Unconquered chieftain, thou wilt set me free!

  Give me a grave where Velia’s haven lies,

  For thou hast power! Or if some path there be,

  If thy celestial mother guide thee here

  (For not, I ween, without the grace of gods

  Wilt cross yon rivers vast, you Stygian pool)

  Reach me a hand! and bear with thee along!

  Until (least gift!) death bring me peace and calm.”

  Such words he spoke: the priestess thus replied:

  “Why, Palinurus, these unblest desires?

  Wouldst thou, unsepulchred, behold the wave

  Of Styx, stern river of th’ Eumenides?

  Wouldst thou, unbidden, tread its fearful strand?

  Hope not by prayer to change the laws of Heaven!

  But heed my words, and in thy memory

  Cherish and keep, to cheer this evil time.

  Lo, far and wide, led on by signs from Heaven,

  Thy countrymen from many a templed town

  Shall consecrate thy dust, and build thy tomb,

  A tomb with annual feasts and votive flowers,

  To Palinurus a perpetual fame!”

  Thus was his anguish stayed, from his sad heart

  Grief ebbed awhile, and even to this day,

  Our land is glad such noble name to wear.

  The twain continue now their destined way

  Unto the river’s edge. The Ferryman,

  Who watched them through still groves approach his shore,

  Hailed them, at distance, from the Stygian wave,

  And with reproachful summons thus began:

  “Whoe’er thou art that in this warrior guise

  Unto my river comest, — quickly tell

  Thine errand! Stay thee where thou standest now!

  This is ghosts’ land, for sleep and slumbrous dark.

  That flesh and blood my Stygian ship should bear

  Were lawless wrong. Unwillingly I took

  Alcides, Theseus, and Pirithous,

  Though sons of gods, too mighty to be quelled.

  One bound in chains yon warder of Hell’s door,

  And dragged him trembling from our monarch’s throne:

  The others, impious, would steal away

  Out of her bride-bed Pluto’s ravished Queen.”

  Briefly th’ Amphrysian priestess made reply:

  “Not ours, such guile: Fear not! This warrior’s arms

  Are innocent. Let Cerberus from his cave

  Bay ceaselessly, the bloodless shades to scare;

  Let Proserpine immaculately keep

  The house and honor of her kinsman King.

  Trojan Aeneas, famed for faithful prayer

  And victory in arms, descends to seek

  His father in this gloomy deep of death.

  If loyal goodness move not such as thee,

  This branch at least” (she drew it from her breast)

  “Thou knowest well.”

  Then cooled his wrathful heart;

  With silent lips he looked and wondering eyes

  Upon that fateful, venerable wand,

  Seen only once an age. Shoreward he turned,

  And pushed their way his boat of leaden hue.

  The rows of crouching ghosts along the thwarts

  He scattered, cleared a passage, and gave room

  To great Aeneas. The light shallop groaned

  Beneath his weight, and, straining at each seam,

  Took in the foul flood with unstinted flow.

  At last the hero and his priestess-guide

  Came safe across the river, and were moored

  ‘mid sea-green sedges in the formless mire.

  Here Cerberus, with triple-throated roar,

  Made all the region ring, as there he lay

  At vast length in his cave. The Sibyl then,

  Seeing the serpents writhe around his neck,

  Threw down a loaf with honeyed herbs imbued

  And drowsy essences: he, ravenous,

  Gaped wide his three fierce mouths and snatched the bait,

  Crouched with his large backs loose upon the ground,

  And filled his cavern floor from end to end.

  Aeneas through hell’s portal moved, while sleep

  Its warder buried; then he fled that shore

  Of Stygian stream, whence travellers ne’er return.

  Now hears he sobs, and piteous, lisping cries

  Of souls of babes upon the threshold plaining;

  Whom, ere they took their portion of sweet life,

  Dark Fate from nursing bosoms tore, and plunged

  In bitterness of death. Nor far from these,

  The throng of dead by unjust judgment slain.

  Not without judge or law these realms abide:

  Wise Minos there the urn of justice moves,

  And holds assembly of the silent shades,

  Hearing the stories of their lives and deeds.

  Close on this place those doleful ghosts abide,

  Who, not for crime, but loathing life and light

  With their own hands took death, and cast away

  The vital essence. Willingly, alas!

  They now would suffer need, or burdens bear,

  If only life were given! But Fate forbids.

  Around them winds the sad, unlovely wave

  Of Styx: nine times it coils and interflows.

  Not far from hence, on every side outspread,

  The Fields of Sorrow lie, — such name they bear;

  Here all whom ruthless love did waste away

  Wander in paths unseen, or in the gloom

  Of dark myrtle grove: not even in death

  Have they forgot their griefs of long ago.

  Here impious Phaedra and poor Procris bide;

  Lorn Eriphyle bares the vengeful wounds

  Her own son’s dagger made; Evadne here,

  And foul Pasiphaë are seen; hard by,

  Laodamia, nobly fond and fair;

  And Caeneus, not a boy, but maiden now,

  By Fate remoulded to her native seeming.

  Here Tyrian Dido, too, her wound unhealed,

  Roamed through a mighty wood. The Trojan’s eyes

  Beheld her near him through the murky gloom,

  As when, in her young month and crescent pale,

  One sees th’ o’er-clouded moon, or thinks he sees.

  Down dropped his tears, and thus he fondly spoke:

  “0 suffering Dido! Were those tidings true

  That thou didst fling thee on the fatal steel?

  Thy death, ah me! I dealt it. But I swear

  By stars above us, by the powers in Heaven,


  Or whatsoever oath ye dead believe,

  That not by choice I fled thy shores, 0 Queen!

  Divine decrees compelled me, even as now

  Among these ghosts I pass, and thread my way

  Along this gulf of night and loathsome land.

  How could I deem my cruel taking leave

  Would bring thee at the last to all this woe?

  0, stay! Why shun me? Wherefore haste away?

  Our last farewell! Our doom! I speak it now!”

  Thus, though she glared with fierce, relentless gaze,

  Aaeneas, with fond words and tearful plea,

  Would soothe her angry soul. But on the ground

  She fixed averted eyes. For all he spoke

  Moved her no more than if her frowning brow

  Were changeless flint or carved in Parian stone.

  Then, after pause, away in wrath she fled,

  And refuge took within the cool, dark grove,

  Where her first spouse, Sichaeus, with her tears

  Mingled his own in mutual love and true.

  Aeneas, none the less, her guiltless woe

  With anguish knew, watched with dimmed eyes her way,

  And pitied from afar the fallen Queen.

  But now his destined way he must be gone;

  Now the last regions round the travellers lie,

  Where famous warriors in the darkness dwell:

  Here Tydeus comes in view, with far-renowned

  Parthenopaeus and Adrastus pale;

  Here mourned in upper air with many a moan,

  In battle fallen, the Dardanidae,

  Whose long defile Aeneas groans to see:

  Glaucus and Medon and Thersilochus,

  Antenor’s children three, and Ceres’ priest,

  That Polypoetes, and Idaeus still.

  Keeping the kingly chariot and spear.

  Around him left and right the crowding shades

  Not only once would see, but clutch and cling

  Obstructive, asking on what quest he goes.

  Soon as the princes of Argolic blood,

  With line on line of Agamemnon’s men,

  Beheld the hero and his glittering arms

  Flash through the dark, they trembled with amaze,

  Or turned in flight, as if once more they fled

  To shelter of the ships; some raised aloft

  A feeble shout, or vainly opened wide

  Their gaping lips in mockery of sound.

  Here Priam’s son, with body rent and torn,

  Deïphobus is seen, — his mangled face,

  His face and bloody hands, his wounded head

  Of ears and nostrils infamously shorn.

  Scarce could Aeneas know the shuddering shade

  That strove to hide its face and shameful scar;

  But, speaking first, he said, in their own tongue:

  “Deiphobus, strong warrior, nobly born

  Of Teucer’s royal stem, what ruthless foe