LXXXVI. In flowing robes the Thracian minstrel sings, Sweetly responsive to the seven-toned lyre; Fingers and quill alternate wakes the strings. Here Teucer's race, and many an ancient sire, Chieftains of nobler days and martial fire, Ilus, high-souled Assaracus, and he Who founded Troy, the rapturous strains admire, And arms afar and shadowy cars they see, And lances fixt in earth, and coursers grazing free. LXXXVII. The love of arms and chariots, the care Their glossy steeds to pasture and to train, That pleased them living, still attends them there: These, stretched at ease, lie feasting on the plain; There, choral companies, in gladsome strain, Chant the loud Paean, in a grove of bay, Rich in sweet scents, whence hurrying to the main, Eridanus' full torrent on its way Rolls from below through woods majestic to the day. LXXXVIII. There, the slain patriot, and the spotless sage, And pious poets, worthy of the God; There he, whose arts improved a rugged age, And those who, labouring for their country's good, Lived long-remembered,--all, in eager mood, Crowned with white fillets, round the Sibyl pressed; Chiefly Musaeus; in the midst he stood, With ample shoulders towering o'er the rest, When thus the listening crowd the prophetess addressed: LXXXIX. "Tell, happy souls; and thou, great poet, tell Where--in what place--Anchises doth abide, For whom we came and crossed the streams of Hell." Briefly the venerable chief replied: "Fixt home hath no one; by the streamlet's side, Or in dark groves, or dewy meads we stray, Where living waters through the pastures glide. Mount, if ye list, and I will point the way, Yon summit, and beneath the shining fields survey." XC. Thus on he leads them, till they leave the height, Rejoicing.--In a valley far away The sire Anchises scanned, with fond delight, The prisoned souls, who waited for the day. Their shape, their mien his studious eyes survey; Their fates and fortunes he reviews with pride, And counts his future offspring in array. Now, when his son advancing he espied, Aloud, with tearful eyes and outspread hands, he cried: XCI. "Art thou, then, come at last? Has filial love, Thrice welcome, braved the perils of the way? O joy! do I behold thee? hear thee move Sweet converse as of old? 'Tis come, the day I longed and looked for, pondering the delay, And counting every moment, nor in vain. How tost with perils do I greet thee? yea, What wanderings thine on every land and main! What dangers did I dread from Libya's tempting reign!"