Aeneid

Their arms and shadowy chariots he views,

And lances fixed in earth, while through the fields

Their steeds without a bridle graze at will.

For if in life their darling passion ran

To chariots, arms, or glossy-coated steeds,

The self-same joy, though in their graves, they feel.

Lo! on the left and right at feast reclined

Are other blessed souls, whose chorus sings

Victorious paeans on the fragrant air

Of laurel groves; and hence to earth outpours

Eridanus, through forests rolling free.

Here dwell the brave who for their native land

Fell wounded on the field; here holy priests

Who kept them undefiled their mortal day;

And poets, of whom the true-inspired song

Deserved Apollo's name; and all who found

New arts, to make man's life more blest or fair;

Yea! here dwell all those dead whose deeds bequeath

Deserved and grateful memory to their kind.

And each bright brow a snow-white fillet wears.

Unto this host the Sibyl turned, and hailed

Musaeus, 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 holds

Anchises, for whose sake we twain essayed

Yon passage over the wide streams of hell.”

And briefly thus the hero made reply:

“No fixed abode is ours. In shadowy groves

We 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 fair

Of a wide, shining land; thence wending down,

They left the height they trod;for far below

Father Anchises in a pleasant vale

Stood pondering, while his eyes and thought surveyed

A host of prisoned spirits, who there abode

Awaiting entrance to terrestrial air.

And musing he reviewed the legions bright

Of his own progeny and offspring proud—

Their fates and fortunes, virtues and great deeds.

Soon he discerned Aeneas drawing nigh

o'er the green slope, and, lifting both his hands

In eager welcome, spread them swiftly forth.

Tears from his eyelids rained, and thus he spoke:

“Art here at last? Hath thy well-proven love

Of me thy sire achieved yon arduous way?

Will Heaven, beloved son, once more allow

That eye to eye we look? and shall I hear

Thy kindred accent mingling with my own?

I cherished long this hope. My prophet-soul

Numbered the lapse of days, nor did my thought

Deceive. 0, o'er what lands and seas wast driven

To this embrace! What perils manifold

Assailed thee, 0 my son, on every side!

How long I trembled, lest that Libyan throne

Should work thee woe!”

Aeneas thus replied:

“Thine image, sire, thy melancholy shade,

Came oft upon my vision, and impelled

My journey hitherward. Our fleet of ships

Lies 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.

After these things Aeneas was aware

Of solemn groves in one deep, distant vale,

Where trees were whispering, and forever flowed

The river Lethe, through its land of calm.

Nations unnumbered roved and haunted there:

As when, upon a windless summer morn,

The bees afield among the rainbow flowers

Alight and sip, or round the lilies pure

Pour forth in busy swarm, while far diffused

Their murmured songs from all the meadows rise.

Aeneas in amaze the wonder views,

And fearfully inquires of whence and why;

What yonder rivers be; what people press,

Line after line, on those dim shores along.

Said Sire Anchises: “Yonder thronging souls

To reincarnate shape predestined move.

Here, at the river Lethe's wave, they quaff

Care-quelling floods, and long oblivion.

Of these I shall discourse, and to thy soul

Make visible the number and array

Of my posterity; so shall thy heart

In Italy, thy new-found home, rejoice.”

“0 father,” said Aeneas, “must I deem

That from this region souls exalted rise

To upper air, and shall once more return

To cumbering flesh? 0, wherefore do they feel,

Unhappy ones, such fatal lust to live?”

“I speak, my son, nor make thee longer doubt,”

Anchises said, and thus the truth set forth,