Now, with a furious blast, the hundred doors } Ope of themselves; a rushing whirlwind roars } Within the cave, and Sibyl's voice restores:-- } "Escaped the dangers of the watery reign, Yet more and greater ills by land remain. The coast, so long desired, (nor doubt the event,) Thy troops shall reach, but, having reached, repent. Wars, horrid wars, I view--a field of blood, And Tyber rolling with a purple flood. Simoïs nor Xanthus shall be wanting there: A new Achilles shall in arms appear, And he, too, goddess-born. Fierce Juno's hate, Added to hostile force, shall urge thy fate. To what strange nations shalt not thou resort, Driven to solicit aid at every court! The cause the same which Ilium once oppressed-- A foreign mistress, and a foreign guest. But thou, secure of soul, unbent with woes, The more thy fortune frowns, the more oppose. The dawnings of thy safety shall be shown, From, whence thou least shall hope, a Grecian town." Thus, from the dark recess, the Sibyl spoke, } And the resisting air the thunder broke; } The cave rebellowed, and the temple shook. } The ambiguous god, who ruled her labouring breast, } In these mysterious words his mind expressed; } Some truths revealed, in terms involved the rest. } At length her fury fell, her foaming ceased, And, ebbing in her soul, the god decreased. Then thus the chief:--"No terror to my view, No frightful face of danger, can be new. Inured to suffer, and resolved to dare, The Fates, without my power, shall be without my care. This let me crave--since near your grove the road } To hell lies open, and the dark abode, } Which Acheron surrounds, the innavigable flood-- } Conduct me through the regions void of light, And lead me longing to my father's sight. For him, a thousand dangers I have sought, } And, rushing where the thickest Grecians fought, } Safe on my back the sacred burden brought. } He, for my sake, the raging ocean tried, } And wrath of heaven, (my still auspicious guide,) } And bore, beyond the strength decrepit age supplied. } Oft, since he breathed his last, in dead of night, His reverend image stood before my sight; Enjoined to seek, below, his holy shade-- Conducted there by your unerring aid. But you, if pious minds by prayers are won, Oblige the father, and protect the son. Yours is the power; nor Proserpine in vain Has made you priestess of her nightly reign. If Orpheus, armed with his enchanting lyre, The ruthless king with pity could inspire, And from the shades below redeem his wife; If Pollux, offering his alternate life, Could free his brother, and can daily go By turns aloft, by turns descend below;--