Thus, to the altar clinging, did he pray :The Sibyl thus replied : “Offspring of Heaven,Anchises' son, the downward path to deathIs easy; all the livelong night and dayDark 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 desireTwice o'er the Stygian gulf to travel, twiceOn glooms of Tartarus to set thine eyes,If such mad quest be now thy pleasure—hearWhat must be first fulfilled . A certain treeHides 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 valeDeep shadows keep it in captivity.No pilgrim to that underworld can passBut he who plucks this burgeoned, leafy gold;For this hath beauteous Proserpine ordainedHer 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 clayLies 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 heartThe riddle of his fate. His faithful friendAchates at his side, with paces slow,Companioned all his care, while their sad soulsMade mutual and oft-renewed surmiseWhat 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 knewTo waken heroes by the clarion's call,With war-enkindling sound. Great Hector's friendIn happier days, he oft at Hector's sideStrode to the fight with glittering lance and horn.But when Achilles stripped his fallen foe,This dauntless hero to Aeneas gaveAllegiance true, in not less noble cause.But, on a day, he chanced beside the seaTo blow his shell-shaped horn, and wildly daredChallenge 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 allIn faithful grief; they hasten to fulfilThe Sibyl's mandate, and with many a tearBuild, altar-wise, a pyre, of tree on treeHeaped high as heaven : then they penetrateThe tall, old forest, where wild creatures bide,And fell pitch-pines, or with resounding blowsOf 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 groveMight o'er me shine! For, 0 Aeolides,The oracle foretold thy fate, too well!”Scarce had he spoken, when a pair of dovesBefore his very eyes flew down from heavenTo the green turf below; the prince of Troy Knew them his mother's birds, and joyful cried,“0, guide me on, whatever path there be!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 throatSwiftly they lift them through the liquid air,In silent flight, and find a wished-for restOn a twy-natured tree, where through green boughsFlames 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 treeO'er whose round limbs its tawny tendrils twine,—So shone th' out-leafing gold within the shadeOf dark holm-oak, and so its tinsel-bractRustled in each light breeze. Aeneas graspedThe lingering bough, broke it in eager haste,And bore it straightway to the Sibyl's shrine.

Meanwhile the Trojans on the doleful shoreBewailed Misenus, and brought tribute thereOf grief's last gift to his unheeding clay.First, of the full-sapped pine and well-hewn oakA lofty pyre they build; then sombre boughsAround it wreathe, and in fair order rangeFunereal cypress; glittering arms are piledHigh over all; on blazing coals they liftCauldrons of brass brimmed o'er with waters pure;And that cold, lifeless clay lave and anointWith many a moan and cry; on their last couchThe poor, dead limbs they lay, and mantle o'erWith 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 brassThe 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 builtA mighty tomb, and dedicated thereTrophy 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 fulfilWhat else the Sibyl said. Straightway they findA cave profound, of entrance gaping wide,O'erhung with rock, in gloom of sheltering grove,Near the dark waters of a lake, wherebyNo bird might ever pass with scathless wing,So dire an exhalation is breathed outFrom that dark deep of death to upper air :—Hence, in the Grecian tongue, Aornos called.Here first four youthful bulls of swarthy hideWere led for sacrifice; on each broad browThe priestess sprinkled wine; 'twixt the two hornsOutplucked the lifted hair, and cast it forthUpon the holy flames, beginning soHer offerings; then loudly sued the powerof Hecate, a Queen in heaven and hell.Some struck with knives, and caught in shallow bowlsThe smoking blood. Aeneas' lifted handSmote with a sword a sable-fleeced eweTo 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 builtAn altar dark, and piled upon the flamesThe ponderous entrails of the bulls, and pouredFree o'er the burning flesh the goodly oil.Then lo! at dawn's dim, earliest beam beganBeneath 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 dareUnto 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 caveWith frenzied step; he follows where she leads,And strides with feet unfaltering at her side.