So there must be a cleansing, By penalty, by punishment, by fire, By sweep of wind, by water’s absolution, Before the guilt is gone. Each of us suffers His own peculiar ghost. But the day comes When we are sent through wide Elysium, The Fields of the Blessed, a few of us, to linger Until the turn of time, the wheel of ages, Wears off the taint, and leaves the core of spirit Pure sense, pure flame. A thousand years pass over And the god calls the countless host to Lethe Where memory is annulled, and souls are willing Once more to enter into mortal bodies.” The discourse ended; the father drew his son And his companion toward the hum, the center Of the full host; they came to rising ground Where all the long array was visible, Anchises watching, noting, every comer. “Glory to come, my son, illustrious spirits Of Dardan lineage, Italian offspring, Heirs of our name, begetters of our future! These I will name for you and tell our fortunes: First, leaning on a headless spear, and standing Nearest the light, that youth, the first to rise To the world above, is Silvius; his name Is Alban; in his veins Italian blood Will run with Trojan; he will be the son Of your late age; Lavinia will bear him, A king and sire of kings; from him our race Will rule in Alba Longa. Near him, Procas, A glory to the Trojan race; and Capys, And Numitor, and Silvius Aeneas, Resembling you in name, in arms, in goodness, If ever he wins the Alban kingdom over. What fine young men they are! What strength, what prowess! The civic oak already shades their foreheads. These will found cities, Gabii, Fidenae, Nomentum; they will crown the hills with towers Above Collatia, Inuus fortress, Bola, Cora, all names to be, thus far ungiven.