She spake; her holy bidding then the warriors go about, 40 Nor tarry: into temple high she calls the Teucrian men, Where the huge side of Cumæ's rock is carven in a den, Where are an hundred doors to come, an hundred mouths to go, Whence e'en so many awful sounds, the Sibyl's answers flow. But at the threshold cried the maid: "Now is the hour awake For asking--Ah, the God, the God!" And as the word she spake Within the door, all suddenly her visage and her hue Were changed, and all her sleekèd hair, and gasping breath she drew, And with the rage her wild heart swelled, and greater was she grown, Nor mortal-voiced; for breath of God upon her heart was blown 50 As He drew nigher: "Art thou dumb of vows and prayers, forsooth, Trojan Æneas, art thou dumb? unprayed, the mighty mouth Of awe-mazed house shall open not." Even such a word she said, Then hushed: through hardened Teucrian bones swift ran the chilly dread, And straight the king from inmost heart the flood of prayers doth pour: "Phoebus, who all the woe of Troy hast pitied evermore, Who Dardan shaft and Paris' hands in time agone didst speed Against Achilles' body there, who me withal didst lead Over the seas that go about so many a mighty land, Through those Massylian folks remote, and length of Syrtes' sand, 60 Till now I hold that Italy that ever drew aback; And now perchance a Trojan fate we, even we may lack. Ye now, O Gods and Goddesses, to whom a stumbling-stone Was Ilium in the days of old, and Dardan folk's renown, May spare the folk of Pergamus. But thou, O holiest, O Maid that knowest things to come, grant thou the Latin rest To Teucrian men, and Gods of Troy, the straying way-worn powers! For surely now no realm I ask but such as Fate makes ours. To Phoebus and to Trivia then a temple will I raise, A marble world; in Phoebus' name will hallow festal days: 70 Thee also in our realm to be full mighty shrines await, There will I set thine holy lots and hidden words of fate Said to my folk, and hallow there well-chosen men for thee, O Holy One: But give thou not thy songs to leaf of tree, Lest made a sport to hurrying gales confusedly they wend; But sing them thou thyself, I pray!" Therewith his words had end. Meanwhile the Seer-maid, not yet tamed to Phoebus, raves about The cave, still striving from her breast to cast the godhead out; But yet the more the mighty God her mouth bewildered wears, Taming her wild heart, fashioning her soul with weight of fears. 80 At last the hundred mighty doors fly open, touched of none, And on the air the answer floats of that foreseeing one: