To trace the footsteps back to the air above, There lies the task, the toil. A few, beloved By Jupiter, descended from the gods, A few, in whom exalting virtue burned, Have been permitted. Around the central woods The black Cocytus glides, a sullen river; But if such love is in your heart, such longing For double crossing of the Stygian lake, For double sight of Tartarus, learn first What must be done. In a dark tree there hides A bough, all golden, leaf and pliant stem, Sacred to Proserpine. This all the grove Protects, and shadows cover it with darkness. Until this bough, this bloom of light, is found, No one receives his passport to the darkness Whose queen requires this tribute. In succession, After the bough is plucked, another grows, Gold-green with the same metal. Raise the eyes, Look up, reach up the hand, and it will follow With ease, if fate is calling; otherwise, No power, no steel, can loose it. Furthermore, (Alas, you do not know this!), one of your men Lies on the shore, unburied, a pollution To all the fleet, while you have come for counsel Here to our threshold. Bury him with honor; Black cattle slain in expiation for him Must fall before you see the Stygian kingdoms, The groves denied to living men.” Aeneas, With sadness in his eyes, and downcast heart, Turned from the cave, and at his side Achates Accompanied his anxious meditations. They talked together: who could be the comrade Named by the priestess, lying there unburied? And they found him on dry sand; it was Misenus, Aeolus’ son, none better with the trumpet To make men burn for warfare. He had been Great Hector’s man-at-arms; he was good in battle With spear as well as horn, and after Hector Had fallen to Achilles, he had followed Aeneas, entering no meaner service. Some foolishness came over him; he made The ocean echo to the blare of his trumpet That day, and challenged the sea-gods to a contest In martial music, and Triton, jealous, caught him, However unbelievable the story, And held him down between the rocks, and drowned him Under the foaming waves. His comrades mourned, Aeneas most of all, and in their sorrow They carry out, in haste, the Sibyl’s orders, Construct the funeral altar, high as heaven, They go to an old wood, and the pine-trees fall Where wild beasts have their dens, and holm-oak rings To the stroke of the axe, and oak and ash are riven By the splitting wedge, and rowan-trees come rolling Down the steep mountain-side. Aeneas helps them, And cheers them on; studies the endless forest, Takes thought, and prays: “If only we might see it, That golden bough, here in the depth of the forest, Bright on some tree. She told the truth, our priestess,