Much moved Aeneas was by this wise wordof his gray friend, though still his anxious soulwas vexed by doubt and care. But when dark nighthad brought her chariot to the middle sky,the sacred shade of Sire Anchises seemed,from heaven descending, thus to speak aloud:“My son, than life more dear, when life was mine!O son, upon whose heart the Trojan doomhas weighed so Iong! Beside thy couch I stand,at pleasure of great Jove, whose hand dispelledthe mad fire from thy ships; and now he looksfrom heaven with pitying brow. I bid thee heedthe noble counsels aged Nautes gave.Only with warriors of dauntless breastto Italy repair; of hardy breed,of wild, rough life, thy Latin foes will be.But first the shores of Pluto and the Shadesthy feet must tread, and through the deep abyssof dark Avernus come to me, thy sire:for I inhabit not the guilty gloomof Tartarus, but bright Elysian day,where all the just their sweet assemblies hold.Hither the virgin Sibyl, if thou givefull offerings of the blood of sable kine,shall lead thee down; and visions I will showof cities proud and nations sprung from thee.Farewell, for dewy Night has wheeled her wayfar past her middle course; the panting steedsof orient Morn breathe pitiless upon me.”He spoke, and passed, like fleeting clouds of smoke,to empty air. “O, whither haste away?”Aeneas cried. “Whom dost thou fly? What godfrom my fond yearning and embrace removes?”Then on the altar of the gods of Troy he woke the smouldering embers, at the shrineof venerable Vesta, worshippingwith hallowed bread and incense burning free.

Straightway he calls assembly of his friends, —Acestes first in honor,—and makes knownJove's will, the counsel of his cherished sire,and his own fresh resolve. With prompt assentthey hear his word, nor does Acestes failthe task to share. They people the new townwith women; and leave every wight behindwho wills it—souls not thirsting for high praise.Themselves re-bench their ships, rebuild, and fitwith rope and oar the flame-swept galleys all;a band not large, but warriors bold and true.Aeneas, guiding with his hand a plough,marks out the city's ground, gives separate landsby lot, and bids within this space appeara second Troy. Trojan Acestes takesthe kingly power, and with benignant joyappoints a forum, and decrees just lawsbefore a gathered senate. Then they raiseon that star-circled Erycinian hill,the temple to Idalian Venus dear;and at Anchises' sepulchre ordaina priesthood and wide groves of hallowed shade.

Now the nine days of funeral pomp are done,and every altar has had honors duefrom all the folk. Now tranquil-breathing windshave levelled the great deep, while brisk and free,a favoring Auster bids them launch away.But sound of many a wailing voice is heardalong the winding shore; for ere they go,in fond embraces for a night and daythey linger still. The women—aye, and men! —who hated yesterday the ocean's faceand loathed its name, now clamor to set sailand bear all want and woe to exiles known.But good Aeneas with benignant wordstheir sorrow soothes, and, not without a tear,consigns them to Acestes' kindred care.Then bids he sacrifice to Eryx' shadethree bulls, and to the wind-gods and the storma lamb, then loose the ships in order due.He, with a garland of shorn olive, stoodholding aloft the sacrificial bowlfrom his own vessel's prow, and scattered farthe sacred entrails o'er the bitter wave,with gift of flowing wine. Swift at the sterna fair wind rose and thrust them; while the crewswith rival strokes swept o'er the spreading sea.

Venus, the while, disturbed with grief and care,to Neptune thus her sorrowing heart outpoured:“Stern Juno's wrath and breast implacablecompel me, Neptune, to abase my pridein lowly supplication. Lapse of days,nor prayers, nor virtues her hard heart subdue,nor Jove's command; nor will she rest or yieldat Fate's decree. Her execrable grudgeis still unfed, although she did consumethe Trojan city, Phrygia's midmost throne,and though she has accomplished stroke on strokeof retribution. But she now pursuesthe remnant—aye! the ashes and bare bonesof perished Ilium; though the cause and springof wrath so great none but herself can tell.Wert thou not witness on the Libyan wavewhat storm she stirred, immingling sea and sky,and with Aeolian whirlwinds made her war, —in vain and insolent invasion, sire,of thine own realm and power? Behold, but now,goading to evil deeds the Trojan dames,she basely burned his ships; he in strange landsmust leave the crews of his Iost fleet behind.O, I entreat thee, let the remnant sailin safety o'er thy sea, and end their wayin Tiber's holy stream;—if this my prayerbe lawful, and that city's rampart proudbe still what Fate intends.”Then Saturn's son,the ruler of the seas profound, replied:“Queen of Cythera, it is meet for theeto trust my waves from which thyself art sprung.Have I not proved a friend, and oft restrainedthe anger and wild wrath of seas and skies?On land, let Simois and Xanthus tellif I have loved Aeneas! On that dayAchilles drove the shuddering hosts of Troy in panic to the walls, and hurled to deathinnumerable foes, until the streamswere choked with dead, and Xanthus scarce could findhis wonted path to sea; that self-same day,aeneas, spent, and with no help of Heaven,met Peleus' dreadful son:—who else but Iin cloudy mantle bore him safe afar?Though 't was my will to cast down utterlythe walls of perjured Troy, which my own handshad built beside the sea. And even to-daymy favor changes not. Dispel thy fear!Safe, even as thou prayest, he shall rideto Cumae's haven, where Avernus lies.One only sinks beneath th' engulfing seas, —one life in lieu of many.” Having soothedand cheered her heart divine, the worshipped sireflung o'er his mated steeds a yoke of gold,bridled the wild, white mouths, and with strong handshook out long, Ioosened reins. His azure carskimmed light and free along the crested waves;before his path the rolling billows allwere calm and still, and each o'er-swollen floodsank 'neath his sounding wheel; while from the skiesthe storm-clouds fled away. Behind him traileda various company; vast bulk of whales,the hoary band of Glaucus, Ino's son,Palaemon and the nimble Tritons all,the troop of Phorcus; and to leftward rangedThalia, Thetis, and fair Alelite,with virgin Panopea, and the nymphsNesaea, Spio and Cymodoce.

Now in Aeneas' ever-burdened breastthe voice of hope revived. He bade make hasteto raise the masts, spread canvas on the spars;all hands hauled at the sheets, and left or rightshook out the loosened sails, or twirled in placethe horn-tipped yards. Before a favoring windthe fleet sped on. The line in close arraywas led by Palinurus, in whose courseall ships were bid to follow. Soon the carof dewy Night drew near the turning-pointof her celestial round. The oarsmen allyielded their limbs to rest, and prone had fallenon the hard thwarts, in deep, unpillowed slumber.Then from the high stars on light-moving wings,the God of Sleep found passage through the darkand clove the gloom,—to bring upon thy head,O Palinurus, an ill-boding sleep,though blameless thou. Upon thy ship the godin guise of Phorbas stood, thus whispering:“Look, Palinurus, how the flowing tideslift on thy fleet unsteered, and changeless windsbehind thee breathe! 'T is now a happy hourtake thy rest. Lay down the weary head.Steal tired eyes from toiling. I will dothine office for thee, just a little space.”But Palinurus, lifting scarce his eyes,thus answered him: “Have I not known the faceof 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?”