XXVI. Into a grove of aged trees they go, The wild-beasts' lair. The holm-oak rings amain, Smit with the axe, the pitchy pine falls low, Sharp wedges cleave the beechen core in twain, The mountain ash comes rolling to the plain. Foremost himself, accoutred as the rest, AEneas cheered them, toiling with his train; Then, musing sadly, and with pensive breast, Gazed on the boundless grove, and thus his prayer addressed: XXVII. "O in this grove could I behold the tree With golden bough; since true, alas, too true, Misenus, hath the priestess sung of thee!" He spake, when, lighting on the sward, down flew Two doves. With joy his mother's birds he knew, "Lead on, blest guides, along the air," he prayed, "If way there be, the precious bough to view, Whose golden leaves the teeming soil o'ershade; O mother, solve my doubts, nor stint the needed aid." XXVIII. So saying, he stays his footsteps, fain to heed What signs they give, and whitherward their flight. Awhile they fly, awhile they stop to feed, Then, fluttering, keep within the range of sight, Till, coming where Avernus, dark as night, Gapes, with rank vapours from its depths uprolled, Aloft they soar, and through the liquid height Dart to the tree, where, wondrous to behold, The varying green sets forth the glitter of the gold. XXIX. As in the woods, in winter's cold, is seen, Sown on an alien tree, the mistletoe To bloom afresh with foliage newly green, And round the tapering boles its arms to throw, Laden with yellow fruitage, even so The oak's dark boughs the golden leaves display, So the foil rustles in the breezes low. Quickly AEneas plucks the lingering spray, And to the Sibyl bears the welcome gift away. XXX. Nor less the dead Misenus they deplore, And honours to the thankless dust assign. A stately pyre they build upon the shore, Rich with oak-timbers and the resinous pine, And sombre foliage in the sides entwine. In front, the cypress marks the fatal soil, Above, they leave the warrior's arms to shine. These heat the water, till the caldrons boil, And wash the stiffened limbs, and fill the wounds with oil. XXXI. Loud is the wailing; then with many a tear They lay him on the bed, and o'er him throw His purple robes. These lift the massive bier; Those, as of yore--sad ministry of woe-- With eyes averted, hold the torch below. Oil, spice and viands, in promiscuous heap, They pour and pile upon the fire; and now, The embers crumbling and the flames asleep, With draughts of ruddy wine the thirsty ash they steep.