Thus while he wrought, revolving in his mind The ways to compass what his wish design’d, He cast his eyes upon the gloomy grove, And then with vows implor’d the Queen of Love: “O may thy pow’r, propitious still to me, Conduct my steps to find the fatal tree, In this deep forest; since the Sibyl’s breath Foretold, alas! too true, Misenus’ death.” Scarce had he said, when, full before his sight, Two doves, descending from their airy flight, Secure upon the grassy plain alight. He knew his mother’s birds; and thus he pray’d: “Be you my guides, with your auspicious aid, And lead my footsteps, till the branch be found, Whose glitt’ring shadow gilds the sacred ground. And thou, great parent, with celestial care, In this distress be present to my pray’r!” Thus having said, he stopp’d with watchful sight, Observing still the motions of their flight, What course they took, what happy signs they shew. They fed, and, flutt’ring, by degrees withdrew Still farther from the place, but still in view: Hopping and flying, thus they led him on To the slow lake, whose baleful stench to shun They wing’d their flight aloft; then, stooping low, Perch’d on the double tree that bears the golden bough. Thro’ the green leafs the glitt’ring shadows glow; As, on the sacred oak, the wintry mistletoe, Where the proud mother views her precious brood, And happier branches, which she never sow’d. Such was the glitt’ring; such the ruddy rind, And dancing leaves, that wanton’d in the wind. He seiz’d the shining bough with griping hold, And rent away, with ease, the ling’ring gold; Then to the Sibyl’s palace bore the prize. Meantime the Trojan troops, with weeping eyes, To dead Misenus pay his obsequies. First, from the ground a lofty pile they rear, Of pitch trees, oaks, and pines, and unctuous fir: The fabric’s front with cypress twigs they strew, And stick the sides with boughs of baleful yew. The topmost part his glitt’ring arms adorn; Warm waters, then, in brazen caldrons borne, Are pour’d to wash his body, joint by joint, And fragrant oils the stiffen’d limbs anoint. With groans and cries Misenus they deplore: Then on a bier, with purple cover’d o’er, The breathless body, thus bewail’d, they lay, And fire the pile, their faces turn’d away: Such reverend rites their fathers us’d to pay. Pure oil and incense on the fire they throw, And fat of victims, which his friends bestow. These gifts the greedy flames to dust devour; Then on the living coals red wine they pour; And, last, the relics by themselves dispose, Which in a brazen urn the priests inclose. Old Corynaeus compass’d thrice the crew, And dipp’d an olive branch in holy dew;