Then, as Æneas paced the shore in gloom, Achates with him, see! a Body there! Misenus, trumpeter, charioteer! He drowned, and how? that horseman tried and good, Hard and intrepid spearman, who had stood The brunt of battle, as of rough sea-wave, Of Hector and Æneas comrade brave— There, like worthless seaweed, see! Misenus dead! In eyes stark staring might almost be read An appeal as if to Heaven, and Fate, Against false friends who left him desolate! And, true, ’twas pity touching on remorse, Which swept through the armament, when the corse Was drawn to the encampment on the shore. The first thought, the Prince led, was to deplore A comrade; the next, the pyre, to proceed To raise, as to One who could intercede In Heaven, what an altar might have been. A primeval forest that had never seen Woodman, or, profaning its silence, heard The horn of huntsman chasing beast or bird, Suddenly awoke to the frequent crash Of pitch-pine, ilex, and the mountain-ash, While heart of oak had to admit a wedge, And giants rolled down many a hill ledge. In all the toil none bore sturdier part Than Æneas; for he, and with full heart, Grieved for a loyal ally; but his brain, With that central thought, took a wider train: “Forests as this,” he mused, “the whole land through! How to track to one tree a single bough! Yet”—as of Misenus—“could the Maid tell Ill news so truly, why not good as well?” And ah! that instant, in his joyful sight, Alighting from blue sky, in soft, smooth flight, On the green turf a pair of milk-white doves Such as flit where his Mother, Venus, moves. “After them! Oh! to guess whither they make, And match their speed whatever course they take!” Fain would he think the rate was, as they flew, Ruled for pursuit to keep them just in view, To the dark arbour where a yellow glow Should flicker on the verdant turf below. Hope not in vain; the pair, after brief pause For circling Avernus, and its death-jaws, Tower swiftly aloft; next, in straight line Glide to a tree, settle as by design. The Hero arrives, and with heart aflame Marks, checkering green shadows, a gold gleam. Upon a foreign stem the mistletoe Will in the woods a cluster of sprays grow, With berries saffron-hued in winter’s cold. Thus, on the holm-oak swayed the Branch of Gold, Rustling its slight leafage in the soft wind; Coy—rather than resisting, disinclined— As Æneas plucked, in hot haste to bear His prize, and trust it to the Sibyl’s care. Meanwhile, the Trojans thronged, the Dead to mourn With rites for which no thanks could it return. First, they build, a marvel for bulk, the pyre— Pitch-pine for flame, split oak to feed the fire, Cypress, Death’s tribute, armour to remind Of the warrior, twigs the logs to bind. Vast the heap; but, with oil and incense, soon Fire had done its work; and when it died down,