The ruthless king with pity could inspire, And from the shades below redeem his wife; If Pollux, off’ring his alternate life, Could free his brother, and can daily go By turns aloft, by turns descend below: Why name I Theseus, or his greater friend, Who trod the downward path, and upward could ascend? Not less than theirs from Jove my lineage came; My mother greater, my descent the same.” So pray’d the Trojan prince, and, while he pray’d, His hand upon the holy altar laid. Then thus replied the prophetess divine: “O goddess-born of great Anchises’ line, The gates of hell are open night and day; Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return, and view the cheerful skies, In this the task and mighty labour lies. To few great Jupiter imparts this grace, And those of shining worth and heav’nly race. Betwixt those regions and our upper light, Deep forests and impenetrable night Possess the middle space: th’ infernal bounds Cocytus, with his sable waves, surrounds. But if so dire a love your soul invades, As twice below to view the trembling shades; If you so hard a toil will undertake, As twice to pass th’ innavigable lake; Receive my counsel. In the neighb’ring grove There stands a tree; the queen of Stygian Jove Claims it her own; thick woods and gloomy night Conceal the happy plant from human sight. One bough it bears; but wondrous to behold! The ductile rind and leaves of radiant gold: This from the vulgar branches must be torn, And to fair Proserpine the present borne, Ere leave be giv’n to tempt the nether skies. The first thus rent a second will arise, And the same metal the same room supplies. Look round the wood, with lifted eyes, to see The lurking gold upon the fatal tree: Then rend it off, as holy rites command; The willing metal will obey thy hand, Following with ease, if favour’d by thy fate, Thou art foredoom’d to view the Stygian state: If not, no labour can the tree constrain; And strength of stubborn arms and steel are vain. Besides, you know not, while you here attend, Th’ unworthy fate of your unhappy friend: Breathless he lies; and his unburied ghost, Depriv’d of fun’ral rites, pollutes your host. Pay first his pious dues; and, for the dead, Two sable sheep around his hearse be led; Then, living turfs upon his body lay: This done, securely take the destin’d way, To find the regions destitute of day.”