To offer sacrifice, seven chosen bullocks, Seven chosen ewes, a herd without corruption.” They were prompt in their obedience, and the priestess Summoned the Trojans to the lofty temple. The rock’s vast side is hollowed into a cavern, With a hundred mouths, a hundred open portals, Whence voices rush, the answers of the Sibyl. They had reached the threshold, and the virgin cried: “It is time to seek the fates; the god is here, The god is here, behold him.” And as she spoke Before the entrance, her countenance and color Changed, and her hair tossed loose, and her heart was heaving, Her bosom swollen with frenzy; she seemed taller, Her voice not human at all, as the god’s presence Drew nearer, and took hold on her. “Aeneas,” She cried, “Aeneas, are you praying? Are you being swift in prayer? Until you are, The house of the gods will not be moved, nor open Its mighty portals.” More than her speech, her silence Made the Trojans cold with terror, and Aeneas Prayed from the depth of his heart: “Phoebus Apollo, Compassionate ever, slayer of Achilles Through aim of Paris’ arrow, helper and guide Over the seas, over the lands, the deserts, The shoals and quicksands, now at last we have come To Italy, we hold the lands which fled us: Grant that thus far, no farther, a Trojan fortune Attend our wandering. And spare us now, All of you, gods and goddesses, who hated Troy in the past, and Trojan glory. I beg you, Most holy prophetess, in whose foreknowing The future stands revealed, grant that the Trojans-- I ask with fate’s permission--rest in Latium Their wandering storm-tossed gods. I will build a temple, In honor of Apollo and Diana, Out of eternal marble, and ordain Festivals in their honor, and for the Sibyl A great shrine in our kingdom, and I will place there The lots and mystic oracles for my people With chosen priests to tend them. Only, priestess, This once, I pray you, chant the sacred verses With your own lips; do not trust them to the leaves, The mockery of the rushing wind’s disorder.”