A spacious cave, within its farmost part, Was hewed and fashioned by laborious art, Through the hill's hollow sides: before the place, A hundred doors a hundred entries grace: As many voices issue, and the sound Of Sibyl's words as many times rebound. Now to the mouth they come. Aloud she cries,-- "This is the time! inquire your destinies! He comes! behold the god!" Thus while she said, (And shivering at the sacred entry staid,) Her colour changed; her face was not the same, And hollow groans from her deep spirit came. Her hair stood up; convulsive rage possessed Her trembling limbs, and heaved her labouring breast. Greater than human kind she seemed to look, And, with an accent more than mortal, spoke. Her staring eyes with sparkling fury roll, When all the god came rushing on her soul. Swiftly she turned, and, foaming as she spoke,-- "Why this delay?" she cried--"the powers invoke. Thy prayers alone can open this abode; Else vain are my demands, and dumb the god." She said no more. The trembling Trojans hear, O'er-spread with a damp sweat, and holy fear. The prince himself, with awful dread possessed, His vows to great Apollo thus addressed:-- "Indulgent god! propitious power to Troy, Swift to relieve, unwilling to destroy! Directed by whose hand, the Dardan dart Pierced the proud Grecian's only mortal part! Thus far, by Fate's decrees and thy commands, Through ambient seas and through devouring sands, Our exiled crew has sought the Ausonian ground; And now, at length, the flying coast is found. Thus far the fate of Troy, from place to place, With fury has pursued her wandering race. Here cease, ye powers, and let your vengeance end: Troy is no more, and can no more offend. And thou, O sacred maid, inspired to see The event of things in dark futurity! Give me, what heaven has promised to my fate, To conquer and command the Latian state; To fix my wandering gods, and find a place For the long exiles of the Trojan race. Then shall my grateful hands a temple rear To the twin gods, with vows and solemn prayer; And annual rites, and festivals, and games, Shall be performed to their auspicious names. Nor shalt thou want thy honours in my land; For there thy faithful oracles shall stand, Preserved in shrines; and every sacred lay, Which, by thy mouth, Apollo shall convey-- All shall be treasured by a chosen train Of holy priests, and ever shall remain. But, oh! commit not thy prophetic mind To flitting leaves, the sport of every wind, Lest they disperse in air our empty fate; Write not, but, what the powers ordain, relate." Struggling in vain, impatient of her load, And labouring underneath the ponderous god, The more she strove to shake him from her breast, With more and far superior force he pressed; Commands his entrance, and, without controul, Usurps her organs, and inspires her soul.