Aeneid

Build, altar-wise, a pyre, of tree on tree

Heaped high as heaven : then they penetrate

The tall, old forest, where wild creatures bide,

And fell pitch-pines, or with resounding blows

Of 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 grove

Might o'er me shine! For, 0 Aeolides,

The oracle foretold thy fate, too well!”

Scarce had he spoken, when a pair of doves

Before his very eyes flew down from heaven

To 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 throat

Swiftly they lift them through the liquid air,

In silent flight, and find a wished-for rest

On a twy-natured tree, where through green boughs

Flames 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 tree

O'er whose round limbs its tawny tendrils twine,—

So shone th' out-leafing gold within the shade

Of dark holm-oak, and so its tinsel-bract

Rustled in each light breeze. Aeneas grasped

The lingering bough, broke it in eager haste,

And bore it straightway to the Sibyl's shrine.

Meanwhile the Trojans on the doleful shore

Bewailed Misenus, and brought tribute there

Of grief's last gift to his unheeding clay.

First, of the full-sapped pine and well-hewn oak

A lofty pyre they build; then sombre boughs

Around it wreathe, and in fair order range

Funereal cypress; glittering arms are piled

High over all; on blazing coals they lift

Cauldrons of brass brimmed o'er with waters pure;

And that cold, lifeless clay lave and anoint

With many a moan and cry; on their last couch

The poor, dead limbs they lay, and mantle o'er

With 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 brass

The 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 built

A mighty tomb, and dedicated there

Trophy 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 fulfil

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!