Aeneid

Here Cerberus, with triple-throated roar,

Made all the region ring, as there he lay

At vast length in his cave. The Sibyl then,

Seeing the serpents writhe around his neck,

Threw down a loaf with honeyed herbs imbued

And drowsy essences: he, ravenous,

Gaped wide his three fierce mouths and snatched the bait,

Crouched with his large backs loose upon the ground,

And filled his cavern floor from end to end.

Aeneas through hell's portal moved, while sleep

Its warder buried; then he fled that shore

Of Stygian stream, whence travellers ne'er return.

Now hears he sobs, and piteous, lisping cries

Of souls of babes upon the threshold plaining;

Whom, ere they took their portion of sweet life,

Dark Fate from nursing bosoms tore, and plunged

In bitterness of death. Nor far from these,

The throng of dead by unjust judgment slain.

Not without judge or law these realms abide:

Wise Minos there the urn of justice moves,

And holds assembly of the silent shades,

Hearing the stories of their lives and deeds.

Close on this place those doleful ghosts abide,

Who, not for crime, but loathing life and light

With their own hands took death, and cast away

The vital essence. Willingly, alas!

They now would suffer need, or burdens bear,

If only life were given! But Fate forbids.

Around them winds the sad, unlovely wave

Of Styx: nine times it coils and interflows.

Not far from hence, on every side outspread,

The Fields of Sorrow lie,—such name they bear;

Here all whom ruthless love did waste away

Wander in paths unseen, or in the gloom

Of dark myrtle grove: not even in death

Have they forgot their griefs of long ago.

Here impious Phaedra and poor Procris bide;

Lorn Eriphyle bares the vengeful wounds

Her own son's dagger made; Evadne here,

And foul Pasiphae are seen; hard by,

Laodamia, nobly fond and fair;

And Caeneus, not a boy, but maiden now,

By Fate remoulded to her native seeming.

Here Tyrian Dido, too, her wound unhealed,

Roamed through a mighty wood. The Trojan's eyes

Beheld her near him through the murky gloom,

As when, in her young month and crescent pale,

One sees th' o'er-clouded moon, or thinks he sees.

Down dropped his tears, and thus he fondly spoke:

“0 suffering Dido! Were those tidings true

That thou didst fling thee on the fatal steel?

Thy death, ah me! I dealt it. But I swear

By stars above us, by the powers in Heaven,

Or whatsoever oath ye dead believe,

That not by choice I fled thy shores, 0 Queen!

Divine decrees compelled me, even as now

Among these ghosts I pass, and thread my way

Along this gulf of night and loathsome land.

How could I deem my cruel taking leave

Would bring thee at the last to all this woe?

0, stay! Why shun me? Wherefore haste away?

Our last farewell! Our doom! I speak it now!”

Thus, though she glared with fierce, relentless gaze,

Aaeneas, with fond words and tearful plea,

Would soothe her angry soul. But on the ground

She fixed averted eyes. For all he spoke

Moved her no more than if her frowning brow

Were changeless flint or carved in Parian stone.

Then, after pause, away in wrath she fled,

And refuge took within the cool, dark grove,

Where her first spouse, Sichaeus, with her tears

Mingled his own in mutual love and true.

Aeneas, none the less, her guiltless woe

With anguish knew, watched with dimmed eyes her way,

And pitied from afar the fallen Queen.

But now his destined way he must be gone;

Now the last regions round the travellers lie,

Where famous warriors in the darkness dwell:

Here Tydeus comes in view, with far-renowned

Parthenopaeus and Adrastus pale;

Here mourned in upper air with many a moan,

In battle fallen, the Dardanidae,

Whose long defile Aeneas groans to see:

Glaucus and Medon and Thersilochus,

Antenor's children three, and Ceres' priest,

That Polypoetes, and Idaeus still.

Keeping the kingly chariot and spear.

Around him left and right the crowding shades

Not only once would see, but clutch and cling

Obstructive, asking on what quest he goes.

Soon as the princes of Argolic blood,

With line on line of Agamemnon's men,

Beheld the hero and his glittering arms

Flash through the dark, they trembled with amaze,

Or turned in flight, as if once more they fled

To shelter of the ships; some raised aloft

A feeble shout, or vainly opened wide

Their gaping lips in mockery of sound.

Here Priam's son, with body rent and torn,

Deiphobus is seen,—his mangled face,