While thus they talked, the crimsoned car of MornHad wheeled beyond the midmost point of heaven,On her ethereal road. The princely pairHad wasted thus the whole brief gift of hours;But Sibyl spoke the warning: “Night speeds by,And we, Aeneas, lose it in lamenting.Here comes the place where cleaves our way in twain.Thy road, the right, toward Pluto's dwelling goes,And leads us to Elysium. But the leftSpeeds sinful souls to doom, and is their pathTo Tartarus th' accurst.” DeiphobusDeïphobus Cried out: “0 priestess, be not wroth with us!Back to the ranks with yonder ghosts I go.0 glory of my race, pass on! Thy lotBe happier than mine!” He spoke, and fled.

Aeneas straightway by the leftward cliffBeheld a spreading rampart, high begirtWith triple wall, and circling round it ranA raging river of swift floods of flame,Infernal Phlegethon, which whirls alongLoud-thundering rocks. A mighty gate is thereColumned in adamant; no human power,Nor even the gods, against this gate prevail.Tall tower of steel it has; and seated thereTisiphone, in blood-flecked pall arrayed,Sleepless forever, guards the entering way.Hence groans are heard, fierce cracks of lash and scourge,Loud-clanking iron links and trailing chains.Aeneas motionless with horror stoodo'erwhelmed at such uproar. “0 virgin, sayWhat shapes of guilt are these? What penal woeHarries them thus? What wailing smites the air?”To whom the Sibyl, “Far-famed prince of Troy,The feet of innocence may never passInto this house of sin. But Hecate,When o'er th' Avernian groves she gave me power,Taught me what penalties the gods decree,And showed me all. There Cretan RhadamanthHis kingdom keeps, and from unpitying throneChastises and lays bare the secret sinsOf mortals who, exulting in vain guile,Elude till death, their expiation due.There, armed forever with her vengeful scourge,Tisiphone, with menace and affront,The guilty swarm pursues; in her left handShe lifts her angered serpents, while she callsA troop of sister-furies fierce as she.Then, grating loud on hinge of sickening sound,Hell's portals open wide. 0, dost thou seeWhat sentinel upon that threshold sits,What shapes of fear keep guard upon that gloom?

Far, far within the dragon Hydra broodsWith half a hundred mouths, gaping and black;And Tartarus slopes downward to the darkTwice the whole space that in the realms of lightTh' Olympian heaven above our earth aspires. —Here Earth's first offspring, the Titanic brood,Roll lightning-blasted in the gulf profound;The twin AloidaeAloïdae, colossal shades,Came on my view; their hands made stroke at HeavenAnd strove to thrust Jove from his seat on high.I saw Salmoneus his dread stripes endure,Who dared to counterfeit Olympian thunderAnd Jove's own fire. In chariot of four steeds,Brandishing torches, he triumphant rodeThrough throngs of Greeks, o'er Elis' sacred way,Demanding worship as a god. 0 fool!To mock the storm's inimitable flash—With crash of hoofs and roll of brazen wheel!But mightiest Jove from rampart of thick cloudHurled his own shaft, no flickering, mortal flame,And in vast whirl of tempest laid him low.Next unto these, on Tityos I looked,Child of old Earth, whose womb all creatures bears:Stretched o'er nine roods he lies; a vulture hugeTears with hooked beak at his immortal side,Or deep in entrails ever rife with painGropes for a feast, making his haunt and homeIn the great Titan bosom; nor will giveTo ever new-born flesh surcease of woe.Why name Ixion and Pirithous,The Lapithae, above whose impious browsA crag of flint hangs quaking to its fall,As if just toppling down, while couches proud,Propped upon golden pillars, bid them feastIn royal glory: but beside them liesThe eldest of the Furies, whose dread handsThrust from the feast away, and wave aloftA flashing firebrand, with shrieks of woe.Here in a prison-house awaiting doomAre men who hated, long as life endured,Their brothers, or maltreated their gray sires,Or tricked a humble friend; the men who graspedAt hoarded riches, with their kith and kinNot sharing ever—an unnumbered throng;Here slain adulterers be; and men who daredTo fight in unjust cause, and break all faithWith their own lawful lords. Seek not to knowWhat forms of woe they feel, what fateful shapeOf retribution hath o'erwhelmed them there.Some roll huge boulders up; some hang on wheels,Lashed to the whirling spokes; in his sad seatTheseus is sitting, nevermore to rise;Unhappy Phlegyas uplifts his voiceIn warning through the darkness, calling loud,‘0, ere too late, learn justice and fear God!’Yon traitor sold his country, and for goldEnchained her to a tyrant, traffickingIn laws, for bribes enacted or made void;Another did incestuously takeHis daughter for a wife in lawless bonds.All ventured some unclean, prodigious crime;And what they dared, achieved. I could not tell,Not with a hundred mouths, a hundred tongues,Or iron voice, their divers shapes of sin,Nor call by name the myriad pangs they bear.”

So spake Apollo's aged prophetess.“Now up and on!” she cried. “Thy task fulfil!We must make speed. Behold yon arching doorsYon walls in furnace of the Cyclops forged!'T is there we are commanded to lay downTh' appointed offering.” So, side by side,Swift through the intervening dark they strode,And, drawing near the portal-arch, made pause.Aeneas, taking station at the door,Pure, lustral waters o'er his body threw,And hung for garland there the Golden Bough.

Now, every rite fulfilled, and tribute duePaid to the sovereign power of Proserpine,At last within a land delectableTheir journey lay, through pleasurable bowersOf groves where all is joy,—a blest abode!An ampler sky its roseate light bestowsOn that bright land, which sees the cloudless beamOf suns and planets to our earth unknown.On smooth green lawns, contending limb with limb,Immortal athletes play, and wrestle long'gainst mate or rival on the tawny sand;With sounding footsteps and ecstatic song,Some thread the dance divine: among them movesThe bard of Thrace, in flowing vesture clad,Discoursing seven-noted melody,Who sweeps the numbered strings with changeful hand,Or smites with ivory point his golden lyre.Here Trojans be of eldest, noblest race,Great-hearted heroes, born in happier times,Ilus, Assaracus, and Dardanus,Illustrious builders of the Trojan town.Their arms and shadowy chariots he views,And lances fixed in earth, while through the fieldsTheir steeds without a bridle graze at will.For if in life their darling passion ranTo chariots, arms, or glossy-coated steeds,The self-same joy, though in their graves, they feel.Lo! on the left and right at feast reclinedAre other blessed souls, whose chorus singsVictorious paeans on the fragrant airOf laurel groves; and hence to earth outpoursEridanus, through forests rolling free.Here dwell the brave who for their native landFell wounded on the field; here holy priestsWho kept them undefiled their mortal day;And poets, of whom the true-inspired songDeserved Apollo's name; and all who foundNew arts, to make man's life more blest or fair;Yea! here dwell all those dead whose deeds bequeathDeserved and grateful memory to their kind.And each bright brow a snow-white fillet wears.Unto this host the Sibyl turned, and hailedMusaeus, midmost of a numerous throng,Who towered o'er his peers a shoulder higher:“0 spirits blest! 0 venerable bard!Declare what dwelling or what region holdsAnchises, for whose sake we twain essayedYon passage over the wide streams of hell.”And briefly thus the hero made reply:“No fixed abode is ours. In shadowy grovesWe make our home, or meadows fresh and fair,With streams whose flowery banks our couches be.But you, if thitherward your wishes turn,Climb yonder hill, where I your path may show.”So saying, he strode forth and led them on,Till from that vantage they had prospect fairOf a wide, shining land; thence wending down,They left the height they trod;for far belowFather Anchises in a pleasant valeStood pondering, while his eyes and thought surveyedA host of prisoned spirits, who there abodeAwaiting entrance to terrestrial air.And musing he reviewed the legions brightOf his own progeny and offspring proud—Their fates and fortunes, virtues and great deeds.Soon he discerned Aeneas drawing nigho'er the green slope, and, lifting both his handsIn eager welcome, spread them swiftly forth.Tears from his eyelids rained, and thus he spoke:“Art here at last? Hath thy well-proven loveOf me thy sire achieved yon arduous way?Will Heaven, beloved son, once more allowThat eye to eye we look? and shall I hearThy kindred accent mingling with my own?I cherished long this hope. My prophet-soulNumbered the lapse of days, nor did my thoughtDeceive. 0, o'er what lands and seas wast drivenTo this embrace! What perils manifoldAssailed thee, 0 my son, on every side!How long I trembled, lest that Libyan throneShould work thee woe!”Aeneas thus replied:“Thine image, sire, thy melancholy shade,Came oft upon my vision, and impelledMy journey hitherward. Our fleet of shipsLies safe at anchor in the Tuscan seas.Come, clasp my hand! Come, father, I implore,And heart to heart this fond embrace receive!”So speaking, all his eyes suffused with tears;Thrice would his arms in vain that shape enfold.Thrice from the touch of hand the vision fled,Like wafted winds or likest hovering dreams.