by Virgil
Hearken what first there is to do: the dusky tree within
Lurks the gold bough with golden leaves and limber twigs of gold,
To nether Juno consecrate; this all these woods enfold,
Dim shadowy places cover it amid the hollow dale;
To come unto the under-world none living may avail
Till he that growth of golden locks from off the tree hath shorn;
For this fair Proserpine ordained should evermore be borne
Her very gift: but, plucked away, still faileth not the thing,
Another golden stem instead hath leafy tide of spring.
So throughly search with eyes: thine hand aright upon it lay
When thou hast found: for easily ‘twill yield and come away
If the Fates call thee: otherwise no might may overbear
Its will, nor with the hardened steel the marvel mayst thou shear.
— Ah! further, — of thy perished friend as yet thou nothing know’st,
Whose body lying dead and cold defileth all thine host,
While thou beseechest answering words, and hangest on our door:
Go, bring him to his own abode and heap the grave mound o’er;
Bring forth the black-wooled ewes to be first bringing back of grace:
So shalt thou see the Stygian groves, so shalt thou see the place
That hath no road for living men.”
So hushed her mouth shut close:
But sad-faced and with downcast eyes therefrom Æneas goes,
And leaves the cave, still turning o’er those coming things, so dim,
So dark to see. Achates fares nigh fellow unto him,
And ever ‘neath like load of cares he lets his footsteps fall:
And many diverse words they cast each unto each withal,
What was the dead friend and the grave whereof the seer did teach.
But when they gat them down at last upon the barren beach,
They saw Misenus lying dead by death but lightly earned;
Misenus, son of Æolus; no man more nobly learned
In waking up the war with brass and singing Mars alight.
Great Hector’s fellow was he erst, with Hector through the fight
He thrust, by horn made glorious, made glorious by the spear.
But when from Hector life and all Achilles’ hand did tear,
Dardan Æneas’ man became that mightiest under shield,
Nor unto any worser lord his fellowship would yield.
Now while by chance through hollow shell he blew across the sea,
And witless called the very Gods his singing-foes to be,
The envious Triton caught him up, if ye the tale may trow,
And sank the hero ‘twixt the rocks in foaming waters’ flow.
Wherefore about him weeping sore were gathered all the men,
And good Æneas chief of all: the Sibyl’s bidding then
Weeping they speed, and loiter not, but heap the tree-boughs high
Upon the altar of the dead to raise it to the sky:
Then to the ancient wood they fare, high dwelling of wild things;
They fell the pine, and ‘neath the axe the smitten holm-oak rings;
With wedge they cleave the ashen logs, and knitted oaken bole,
Full fain to split; and mighty elms down from the mountains roll.
Amid the work Æneas is, who hearteneth on his folk,
As with such very tools as they he girds him for the stroke;
But through the sorrow of his heart such thought as this there strays,
And looking toward the waste of wood such word as this he prays:
“O if that very golden bough would show upon the tree,
In such a thicket and so great; since all she told of thee,
The seer-maid, O Misenus lost, was true and overtrue!”
But scarcely had he spoken thus, when lo, from heaven there flew
Two doves before his very eyes, who settled fluttering
On the green grass: and therewithal that mightiest battle-king
Knoweth his mother’s birds new-come, and joyful poureth prayer:
“O, if a way there be at all, lead ye amid the air,
Lead on unto the thicket place where o’er the wealthy soil
The rich bough casteth shadow down! Fail not my eyeless toil,
O Goddess-mother!”
So he saith, and stays his feet to heed
What token they may bring to him, and whitherward they speed.
So on they flutter pasturing, with such a space between,
As they by eyes of following folk may scantly well be seen;
But when Avernus’ jaws at last, the noisome place, they reach,
They rise aloft and skim the air, and settle each by each
Upon the very wished-for place, yea high amid the tree,
Where the changed light through twigs of gold shines forth diversedly;
As in the woods mid winter’s chill puts forth the mistletoe,
And bloometh with a leafage strange his own tree ne’er did sow,
And with his yellow children hath the rounded trunk in hold,
So in the dusky holm-oak seemed that bough of leafy gold,
As through the tinkling shaken foil the gentle wind went by:
Then straight Æneas caught and culled the tough stem greedily,
And to the Sibyl’s dwelling-place the gift in hand he bore.
Nor less meanwhile the Teucrians weep Misenus on the shore,
And do last service to the dead that hath no thanks to pay.
And first fat fagots of the fir and oaken logs they lay,
And pile a mighty bale and rich, and weave the dusk-leaved trees
Between its sides, and set before the funeral cypresses,
And over all in seemly wise the gleaming weapons pile:
But some speed fire bewavèd brass and water’s warmth meanwhile,
And wash all o’er and sleek with oil the cold corpse of the dead:
Goes up the wail; the limbs bewept they streak upon the bed,
And cast thereon the purple cloths, the well-known noble gear.
Then some of them, they shoulder up the mighty-fashioned bier,
Sad service! and put forth the torch with faces from him turned,
In fashion of the fathers old: there the heaped offerings burned,
The frankincense, the dainty meats, the bowls o’erflowed with oil.
But when the ashes were sunk down and fire had rest from toil,
The relics and the thirsty ash with unmixed wine they wet.
Then the gleaned bones in brazen urn doth Corynæus set,
Who thrice about the gathered folk the stainless water bore.
As from the fruitful olive-bough light dew he sprinkled o’er,
And cleansed the men, and spake withal last farewell to the dead.
But good Æneas raised a tomb, a mound huge fashionèd,
And laid thereon the hero’s arms and oar and battle-horn,
Beneath an airy hill that thence Misenus’ name hath borne,
And still shall bear it, not to die till time hath faded out.
This done, those deeds the Sibyl bade he setteth swift about:
A deep den is there, pebble-piled, with mouth that gapeth wide;
Black mere and thicket shadowy-mirk the secret of it hide.
And over it no fowl there is may wend upon the wing
And ‘scape the bane; its blackened jaws bring forth such venoming.
Such is the breath it bears aloft unto the hollow heaven;
So to the place the Greekish folk have name of Fowl-less given.
Here, first of all, four black-skinned steers the priestess sets in line,
And on the foreheads of all these out-pours the bowl of wine.
Then ‘twixt the horns she culleth out the topmost of the hair,
And lays it on the holy fire, the first-fruits offered there,
And cries al
oud on Hecaté, of might in heaven and hell;
While others lay the knife to throat and catch the blood that fell
Warm in the bowls: Æneas then an ewe-lamb black of fleece
Smites down with sword to her that bore the dread Eumenides,
And her great sister; and a cow yet barren slays aright
To thee, O Proserpine, and rears the altars of the night
Unto the Stygian King, and lays whole bulls upon the flame,
Pouring rich oil upon the flesh that rush of fire o’ercame.
But now, when sunrise is at hand, and dawning of the day,
The earth falls moaning ‘neath their feet, the wooded ridges sway,
And dogs seem howling through the dusk as now she drew anear
The Goddess. “O be far away, ye unclean!” cries the seer.
“Be far away! ah, get ye gone from all the holy wood!
But thou, Æneas, draw thy steel and take thee to the road;
Now needeth all thine hardihood and steadfast heart and brave.”
She spake, and wildly cast herself amidst the hollow cave,
But close upon her fearless feet Æneas followeth.
O Gods, who rule the ghosts of men, O silent shades of death,
Chaos and Phlegethon, hushed lands that lie beneath the night!
Let me speak now, for I have heard: O aid me with your might
To open things deep sunk in earth, and mid the darkness blent.
All dim amid the lonely night on through the dusk they went,
On through the empty house of Dis, the land of nought at all.
E’en as beneath the doubtful moon, when niggard light doth fall
Upon some way amid the woods, when God hath hidden heaven,
And black night from the things of earth the colours dear hath driven.
Lo, in the first of Orcus’ jaws, close to the doorway side,
The Sorrows and Avenging Griefs have set their beds to bide;
There the pale kin of Sickness dwells, and Eld, the woeful thing,
And Fear, and squalid-fashioned Lack, and witless Hungering,
Shapes terrible to see with eye; and Toil of Men, and Death,
And Sleep, Death’s brother, and the Lust of Soul that sickeneth:
And War, the death-bearer, was set full in the threshold’s way,
And those Well-willers’ iron beds: there heartless Discord lay,
Whose viper-breeding hair about was bloody-filleted.
But in the midst a mighty elm, dusk as the night, outspread
Its immemorial boughs and limbs, where lying dreams there lurk,
As tells the tale, still clinging close ‘neath every leaf-side mirk.
Withal most wondrous, many-shaped are all the wood-beasts there;
The Centaurs stable by the porch, and twi-shaped Scyllas fare,
And hundred-folded Briareus, and Lerna’s Worm of dread
Fell hissing; and Chimæra’s length and fire-behelmèd head,
Gorgons and Harpies, and the shape of that three-bodied Shade.
Then smitten by a sudden fear Æneas caught his blade,
And turned the naked point and edge against their drawing nigh;
And but for her wise word that these were thin lives flitting by
All bodiless, and wrapped about in hollow shape and vain,
With idle sword had he set on to cleave the ghosts atwain.
To Acheron of Tartarus from hence the road doth go,
That mire-bemingled, whirling wild, rolls on his desert flow,
And all amid Cocytus’ flood casteth his world of sand.
This flood and river’s ferrying doth Charon take in hand,
Dread in his squalor: on his chin untrimmed the hoar hair lies
Most plenteous; and unchanging flame bides in his staring eyes:
Down from his shoulders hangs his gear in filthy knot upknit;
And he himself poles on his ship, and tends the sails of it,
And crawls with load of bodies lost in bark all iron-grey,
Grown old by now: but fresh and green is godhead’s latter day.
Down thither rushed a mighty crowd, unto the flood-side borne;
Mothers and men, and bodies there with all the life outworn
Of great-souled heroes; many a boy and never-wedded maid,
And youths before their fathers’ eyes upon the death-bale laid:
As many as the leaves fall down in first of autumn cold;
As many as the gathered fowl press on to field and fold,
From off the weltering ocean-flood, when the late year and chill
Hath driven them across the sea the sunny lands to fill.
There stood the first and prayed him hard to waft their bodies o’er,
With hands stretched out for utter love of that far-lying shore.
But that grim sailor now takes these, now those from out the band,
While all the others far away he thrusteth from the sand.
Æneas wondered at the press, and moved thereby he spoke:
“Say, Maid, what means this river-side, and gathering of the folk?
What seek the souls, and why must some depart the river’s rim,
While others with the sweep of oars the leaden waters skim?”
Thereon the ancient Maid of Days in few words answered thus:
“Anchises’ seed, thou very child of Godhead glorious,
Thou seest the deep Cocytus’ pools, thou seest the Stygian mere,
By whose might Gods will take the oath, and all forswearing fear:
But all the wretched crowd thou seest are they that lack a grave,
And Charon is the ferryman: those borne across the wave
Are buried: none may ever cross the awful roaring road
Until their bones are laid at rest within their last abode.
An hundred years they stray about and wander round the shore,
Then they at last have grace to gain the pools desired so sore.”
There tarried then Anchises’ child and stayed awhile his feet,
Mid many thoughts, and sore at heart, for such a doom unmeet:
And there he saw all sorrowful, without the death-dues dead,
Leucaspis, and Orontes, he that Lycian ship-host led;
Whom, borne from Troy o’er windy plain, the South wind utterly
O’erwhelming, sank him, ships and men, in swallow of the sea.
And lo ye now, where Palinure the helmsman draweth nigh,
Who lately on the Libyan sea, noting the starry sky,
Fell from the high poop headlong down mid wavy waters cast.
His sad face through the plenteous dusk Æneas knew at last,
And spake:
“What God, O Palinure, did snatch thee so away
From us thy friends and drown thee dead amidst the watery way?
Speak out! for Seer Apollo, found no guileful prophet erst,
By this one answer in my soul a lying hope hath nursed;
Who sang of thee safe from the deep and gaining field and fold
Of fair Ausonia: suchwise he his plighted word doth hold!”
The other spake: “Apollo’s shrine in nowise lied to thee,
King of Anchises, and no God hath drowned me in the sea:
But while I clung unto the helm, its guard ordained of right,
And steered thee on, I chanced to fall, and so by very might
Seaward I dragged it down with me. By the rough seas I swear
My heart, for any hap of mine, had no so great a fear
As for thy ship; lest, rudderless, its master from it torn,
Amid so great o’ertoppling seas it yet might fail forlorn.
Three nights of storm I drifted on, ‘neath wind and water’s might,
Over the sea-plain measureless; but with the fourth day’s light
There saw I Italy rise up from welter of the wave.
Then slow I swam unto the land, that me well-nigh did save,
But fell the cruel folk on me, heavy with raiment wet,
And striving with my hookèd hands hold on the rocks to get:
The fools, they took me for a prey, and steel against me bore.
Now the waves have me, and the winds on sea-beach roll me o’er.
But by the breath of heaven above, by daylight’s joyous ways,
By thine own father, by the hope of young Iulus’ days,
Snatch me, O dauntless, from these woes, and o’er me cast the earth!
As well thou may’st when thou once more hast gained the Veline firth.
Or if a way there be, if way thy Goddess-mother show, —
For not without the will of Gods meseemeth wouldst thou go
O’er so great floods, or have a mind to swim the Stygian mere, —
Then give thine hand, and o’er the wave me woeful with thee bear,
That I at least in quiet place may rest when I am dead.”
So spake he, but the priestess straight such word unto him said:
“O Palinure, what godless mind hath gotten hold of thee,
That thou the grim Well-willers’ stream and Stygian flood wouldst see
Unburied, and unbidden still the brim wilt draw anear?
Hope not the Fates of very God to change by any prayer.
But take this memory of my words to soothe thy wretched case:
Through all their cities far and wide the people of the place,
Driven by mighty signs from heaven, thy bones shall expiate
And raise thee tomb, and year by year with worship on thee wait;
And there the name of Palinure shall dwell eternally.”
So at that word his trouble lulled, his grief of heart passed by,
A little while he joyed to think of land that bore his name.
So forth upon their way they went and toward the river came;
But when from Stygian wave their path the shipman’s gaze did meet,
As through the dead hush of the grove shoreward they turned their feet,
He fell upon them first with words and unbid chided them:
“Whoe’er ye be who come in arms unto our river’s hem,
Say what ye be! yea, speak from thence and stay your steps forthright!
This is the very place of shades, and sleep, and sleepful night;
And living bodies am I banned in Stygian keel to bear.
Nor soothly did I gain a joy, giving Alcides fare,
Or ferrying of Pirithoüs and Theseus time agone,
Though come of God they were and matched in valiancy of none:
He sought the guard of Tartarus chains on his limbs to lay,
And from the King’s own seat he dragged the quaking beast away: