Then shewed the shining bough, concealed within her vest. No more was needful: for the gloomy god Stood mute with awe, to see the golden rod; Admired the destined offering to his queen-- A venerable gift, so rarely seen. His fury thus appeased, he puts to land; The ghosts forsake their seats at his command: He clears the deck, receives the mighty freight; The leaky vessel groans beneath the weight. Slowly she[107] sails, and scarcely stems the tides; The pressing water pours within her sides. His passengers at length are wafted o'er, Exposed, in muddy weeds, upon the miry shore. No sooner landed, in his den they found The triple porter of the Stygian sound, Grim Cerberus, who soon began to rear His crested snakes, and armed his bristling hair. The prudent Sibyl had before prepared A sop, in honey steeped, to charm the guard; Which, mixed with powerful drugs, she cast before His greedy grinning jaws, just oped to roar. With three enormous mouths he gapes; and straight, With hunger pressed, devours the pleasing bait. Long draughts of sleep his monstrous limbs enslave; He reels, and, falling, fills the spacious cave. The keeper charmed, the chief without delay Passed on, and took the irremeable way. Before the gates, the cries of babes new born, Whom Fate had from their tender mothers torn, Assault his ears: then those, whom form of laws Condemned to die, when traitors judged their cause. Nor want they lots, nor judges to review The wrongful sentence, and award a new. Minos, the strict inquisitor, appears; And lives and crimes, with his assessors, hears. Round, in his urn, the blended balls he rolls, Absolves the just, and dooms the guilty souls. The next, in place and punishment, are they Who prodigally throw their souls away--[108] Fools, who, repining at their wretched state, And loathing anxious life, suborned their fate. With late repentance, now they would retrieve The bodies they forsook, and wish to live; Their pains and poverty desire to bear, To view the light of heaven, and breathe the vital air: But Fate forbids; the Stygian floods oppose, And, with nine circling streams, the captive souls inclose. Not far from thence, the Mournful Fields appear, So called from lovers that inhabit there. The souls, whom that unhappy flame invades, In secret solitude and myrtle shades Make endless moans, and, pining with desire, Lament too late their unextinguished fire. Here Procris, Eriphyle here he found Baring her breast, yet bleeding with the wound Made by her son. He saw Pasiphaë there, With Phædra's ghost, a foul incestuous pair. There Laodamia, with Evadne, moves-- Unhappy both, but loyal in their loves: Cæneus, a woman once, and once a man, But ending in the sex she first began. Not far from these Phœnician Dido stood, Fresh from her wound, her bosom bathed in blood; Whom when the Trojan hero hardly knew,