Classic Poem

Speaking these words with tears, and giving free rein to his vessels,
Safely he glides at last to the shore of Chalcidian Cumæ.
Seaward they turn their prows; the stubborn tooth of the anchor
Firmly secures the ships; curved sterns are fringing the shore-line.
Then the young men in troops leap eagerly down from the galleys
On the Hesperian strand. Some search out the sparks that lie hidden
Deeply in veins of flint; some plunge into forest and jungle
Haunted by beasts of prey, and bring tidings of rivers discovered.
Faithful Æneas, however, ascends to the heights where Apollo
Dwells, and adventures the gloom of the dread unapproachable Sibyl,
Even the awful abode of her whom the Delian prophet
Fills with his own great soul, and the gift of inspired divination.
Now they draw nigh to the groves and golden halls of Diana.
Dædalus, fleeing the kingdom of Minos,—so runs the tradition,—
Trusting himself on swift and adventurous wings to the heavens,
Flew through the trackless sky toward the glimmer of frosty Arcturus,
Never arresting his flight till he gained the Chalcidian mountain.
Here, first restored to the earth, his feathery oarage, O Phœbus,
Unto thyself he vowed, and built thee a marvellous temple;
Carved on its gate is the death of Androgeos; then, with what pathos,
Stand the Athenians, doomed to surrender in yearly atonement
Maidens and youths, twice seven; behold the dread urn standing empty!
Darkly companioning this, looms the island of Crete from the ocean.
Here is the mad and incestuous passion of Pasiphæ pictured,
Here its unnatural fruit, that monster half brute and half human;
Darkly the Minotaur stands monumental of nameless dishonour.
Here, too, that marvellous maze with its hopelessly intricate windings;
Hopelessly? Nay, for the king hath pitied his love-stricken daughter,
And hath himself resolved the bewildering plan of the palace,
Guiding her lover's return by a thread; thou, Icarus, also,
Largely hadst shared in a work so grand, had sorrow permitted.
Twice he essayed in gold to picture thy cruel misfortune;
Twice fell the father's hand. And thus they might long have continued
Scanning each scene in turn; but, lo! their herald, Acestes,
Timely appeared, with Deiphobe, daughter of Glaucus, and priestess
Both of Diana and Phœbus, who spake these words to Æneas:
“Not such sights as these the present hour is demanding!
Now from the virgin herd to slaughter seven bullocks were better,
Also as many lambs, selected according to custom.”
Thus she addressed the king,—nor delayed was the sacrifice ordered.
Then to her lofty abode the prophetess summons the Trojans.
Vast is the cavern hewn in the side of the mountain of Cumæ.
Pathways an hundred are there, wide arching, and portals an hundred,
Whence, through an hundred mouths, the Sibyl's responses are uttered.
Them, at the threshold, the virgin arrests: “To question the future,
Now is the time. The god! behold the god!” and, thus crying,
Suddenly faces the gate, herself nor in feature nor colour;
Kempt are her tresses no more; she is gasping, her bosom is heaving;
Swells with a frenzy her passionate soul, and tow'ring above them,
And with no mortal voice, for the god is now breathing upon her
Nearer and still more near; “Dost halt in thy vows and petitions,
Trojan Æneas,” she cries; “Art silent? Then never the mighty
Mouths of this awful shrine shall open;” and, thus having spoken,
Ceased, and an icy chill unnerved the strong limbs of the Trojans,
While from his inmost heart their king poured forth his petitions:
“Phœbus, compassionate ever of Troy's overwhelming disasters;
Thou who didst guide the hand and Dardanian arrow of Paris
'Gainst Achilles' frame, my pilot o'er many dark billows,
Breaking on boundless shores; my guide to Massylian peoples,
Far remote; and to lands far fringed by the Libyan Syrtes,
Now that at last we are come to fugitive Italy's sea-coast,
Let it suffice that the Fates of Troy thus far have pursued us.
Ye, too, well may be reconciled now to the Purgamene nation,
Gods and goddesses all, whom Ilium e'er hath offended,
Or the great Dardan name. And thou, O priestess most holy,
Thou that foreknowest the future, O grant (and I ask for no kingdom
Promised me not by fate) that Latium harbour the Trojans,
Sheltered their wandering gods and Teucria's troubled Penates;
Trivia, then, to thee and to Phœbus a temple of massive
Marble will I erect, and games shall be named for Apollo;
Thee, too, Sibyl benign, great shrines await in our kingdom;
For I will treasure thy oracles there, and the mystic arcana
Unto our race revealed; and chosen men to thy service
I will ordain. But, oh, write not upon leaves thy responses,
Lest, at the sport of the wind, they fly disturbed from their order;
Sing them thyself, I pray.” Then, closing his lips, he is silent.
Not submissive, however, as yet to Apollo, the fearful
Prophetess raves in the cavern, and still the great god from her bosom
Hopes to be able to drive; her frenzied lips the more sternly
Ruling, Apollo curbs and masters her furious spirit.
Now, of their own accord, the ponderous doors of the temple
Open their hundred mouths, and utter the word of the Sibyl.
“Hail to thee, finally done with the sea and its manifold perils!
Graver, however, of land remain. The Dardans shall enter
Into Lavinian realms; dismiss this care from thy bosom,—
But they shall likewise repent of their coming, for battles, grim battles
Now I behold, and the Tiber all foaming with blood and with carnage!
Neither shall Simois fail thee, nor Xanthus, nor Doric encampments;
Cradled already in Latium rises a second Achilles;
Goddess-born, too, is he; nor e'er will implacable Juno
Far from the Teucrians be; while thou, as a suppliant beggar,
Where shalt thou wander not, among Italy's nations or cities?
Sorely the Trojans shall suffer again from a foreign alliance,
And from an alien bride.
Yield not thou to misfortunes, but go the more bravely to meet them,
Up to the limit thy Fates permit. The first way of safety,
What will surprise thee most, from a town of the Grecians will open.”
Thus from her hidden shrine the Sibyl of Cumæ replying,
Chanted her fearful enigmas, and thundered them forth from her cavern,
Darkly involving the truth; such force, while she rages, Apollo
Uses to urge her on, and goads her wild spirit to frenzy.
Soon as her raving subsides, and her furious lips become silent,
Answers Æneas the hero: “O maiden, not one of my trials
Rises before my view as a startling or strange apparition;
I have already imagined them all, and endured them in spirit;
Only since here, we are told, are the gates of the monarch infernal,
Also the murky pool of the fountain of Acheron, be it
Mine to look once more on the face of my father belovèd;
Show me the path to take, throw wide the terrible portals!
Him on my shoulders I hurried through flames and a thousand pursuing
Weapons, and bore him away unharmed from the midst of his foemen.
Long he companioned my way; he shared all the perils of ocean;
Patiently suffered with me all the threats of the sea and the heavens,
Weak as he was, and beyond an old man's lot or endurance.
Nay, it was he who implored and enjoined me to go to thy threshold
Seeking thy favour. I humbly entreat thee, kind maiden, to pity
Father and son, for power unbounded is thine, and not vainly
Hecate set thee here to govern the groves of Avernus.
If, upon tuneful lyre and Thracian cithern relying,
Orpheus was able to charm Eurydice's spirit from Hades,
If, by dying alternately, Pollux, redeeming his brother,
Trod and retrod the path so often, why call to remembrance
Theseus or Hercules mighty? I, too, have a birthright in Heaven.”
While he was praying thus, and holding the horns of the altar,
Thus did the Sibyl begin her reply: “O child of Immortals,
Trojan son of Anchises, descent to Avernus is easy;
Both by night and by day the gates of grim Pluto stand open;
But to retrace the step, to get back to the air and the sunlight,
This is labour and toil. A few have been able to do it,
Heirs of the gods, whom Jove hath graciously loved, or a quenchless
Valour restored to earth. The space intervening vast forests
Guard, and Cocytus surrounds with sunless and wandering waters.
Yet, if so deep the desire of thy heart, if so urgent thy longing
Twice on the Stygian wave to embark, if twice upon gloomy
Tartarus thou wouldst gaze, if this labour of madness delight thee,
Hear what must first be done. There's a tree in the heart of a forest,
Hiding within its gloom a branch all golden in leafage,
Golden in stem, and held to be sacred to Stygian Juno.
This the whole wood surrounds, and buries in valleys of shadow.
Yet, before any have leave to descend to the earth's dark abysses,
First he must ravish away from the tree her golden-haired children;
This for her own delight hath fair Proserpina ordered
Brought to herself. The first no sooner is plucked, than a second
Branch of like metal appears, as golden of leaf as the other.
Search for it, therefore, with eyes uplifted, and when thou hast found it,
Grasp it with reverent hand, for thee will it willingly follow,
Needing no force, if the fates are calling thee; otherwise never
Shalt thou by strength or by toughness of iron be able to move it.
More than all this, the corse of a comrade of thine lieth lifeless,—
Thou, alas, knowing it not!—and pollutes the whole fleet by its presence,
While thou art questioning fate, and lingering here at our threshold.
Him, to his place of rest, first bear, and bury the body;
Lead black sheep to the altar; let this be thy first expiation;
So shalt thou look, at last, on the Stygian groves, and the kingdom
Trackless to living feet.” She spake, closed her lips, and was silent. . . .