LVII. "'Seek Juno first; great Juno's power adore; With suppliant gifts the potent queen constrain, And winds shall waft thee to Italia's shore. There, when at Cumae landing from the main, Avernus' lakes and sounding woods ye gain, Thyself shalt see, within her rock-hewn shrine, The frenzied prophetess, whose mystic strain Expounds the Fates, to leaves of trees consign The notes and names that mark the oracles divine. LVIII. "'Whate'er the maiden on those leaves doth trace, In rows she sorts, and in the cave doth store. There rest they, nor their sequence change, nor place, Save when, by chance, on grating hinge the door Swings open, and a light breath sweeps the floor, Or rougher blasts the tender leaves disperse. Loose then they flutter, for she recks no more To call them back, and rearrange the verse; Untaught the votaries leave, the Sibyl's cave to curse. LIX. "'But linger thou, nor count thy lingering vain, Though comrades chide, and breezes woo the fleet. Approach the prophetess; with prayer unchain Her voice to speak. She shall the tale repeat Of wars in Italy, thy destined seat,-- What toils to shun, what dangers to despise,-- And make the triumph of thy quest complete. Thou hast whate'er 'tis lawful to advise; Go, and with deathless deeds raise Ilion to the skies.' LX. "So spake the seer, and shipward bids his friends Rich gifts convey, and store them in the hold. Gold, silver plate, carved ivory he sends, With massive caldrons of Dodona's mould; A coat of mail, with triple chain of gold, And shining helm, with cone and flowing crest, The arms of Pyrrhus, glorious to behold. Nor lacks my sire his presents; for the rest Steeds, guides and arms he finds, and oarsmen of the best. LXI. "Then to Anchises, as he bids us spread The sails, with reverence speaks Apollo's seer, 'Far-famed Anchises, honoured with the bed Of haughty Venus, Heaven's peculiar care, Twice saved from Troy! behold Ausonia there, Steer towards her coasts, yet skirt them; far away That region lies, which Phoebus doth prepare. Blest in thy son's devotion, take thy way. Why should more words of mine the rising South delay?' LXII. "Nor less Andromache, sore grieved to part, Rich raiment fetches, wrought with golden thread, And Phrygian scarf, and still with bounteous heart Loads him with broideries. 'Take these,' she said, 'Sole image of Astyanax now dead. Thy kin's last gifts, my handiwork, to show How Hector's widow loved the son she bred. Such eyes had he, such very looks as thou, Such hands, and oh! like thine his age were ripening now!'