To these the Sibyl thus her speech address’d, And first to him surrounded by the rest Tow’ring his height, and ample was his breast; “Say, happy souls, divine Musaeus, say, Where lives Anchises, and where lies our way To find the hero, for whose only sake We sought the dark abodes, and cross’d the bitter lake?” To this the sacred poet thus replied: “In no fix’d place the happy souls reside. In groves we live, and lie on mossy beds, By crystal streams, that murmur thro’ the meads: But pass yon easy hill, and thence descend; The path conducts you to your journey’s end.” This said, he led them up the mountain’s brow, And shews them all the shining fields below. They wind the hill, and thro’ the blissful meadows go. But old Anchises, in a flow’ry vale, Review’d his muster’d race, and took the tale: Those happy spirits, which, ordain’d by fate, For future beings and new bodies wait. With studious thought observ’d th’ illustrious throng, In nature’s order as they pass’d along: Their names, their fates, their conduct, and their care, In peaceful senates and successful war. He, when Aeneas on the plain appears, Meets him with open arms, and falling tears. “Welcome,” he said, “the gods’ undoubted race! O long expected to my dear embrace! Once more ’tis giv’n me to behold your face! The love and pious duty which you pay Have pass’d the perils of so hard a way. ’Tis true, computing times, I now believ’d The happy day approach’d; nor are my hopes deceiv’d. What length of lands, what oceans have you pass’d; What storms sustain’d, and on what shores been cast? How have I fear’d your fate! but fear’d it most, When love assail’d you, on the Libyan coast.” To this, the filial duty thus replies: “Your sacred ghost before my sleeping eyes Appear’d, and often urg’d this painful enterprise. After long tossing on the Tyrrhene sea, My navy rides at anchor in the bay. But reach your hand, O parent shade, nor shun The dear embraces of your longing son!” He said; and falling tears his face bedew: Then thrice around his neck his arms he threw; And thrice the flitting shadow slipp’d away, Like winds, or empty dreams that fly the day.