All being gone that of the mass could burn, They closed the ashes, wine-washed, in the urn. Then Chorinœus sprinkled thrice the ring Of mourners with pure water from the spring, And bade the Shade, leaving the world above, Last farewell words of sorrowing and love. Yet was the debt the Prince was proud to owe But half-paid to a friend in weal and woe, Till rose a sepulchre, stately and high, For th’ honoured dust enshrined therein to lie. Topped by oar and horn, sword, and spear, and shield, To proclaim the champion of sea and field, It crowns the airy Cape that boasts the name, And through the ages seals a Trojan’s fame. So, drowned Misenus need not wander more Between two worlds on Styx’s groaning shore, Dragging soulless flesh—choke in a foul fen, Companionless for Shadows, and for Men. No more an unburied suppliant this, But Hero, Pilot trumpeting in bliss! And, their consciences purged, with duties done, All turned to fresh cares, leaving Misenus alone. The Prince and men, the Sibyl guiding, went By a rough track until a yawning rent In a grim cliff disclosed a cavern; day Was blocked by a dense grove; and in front lay A dim dark pool; from its black lips a breath Steamed into the arched sky, carrying death. On its banks sounded never a bird’s song; Whence “Avernus,” “birdless” in the Greek tongue. Hard-by the Sibyl hallowed victims, four Steers dusk-coloured; proceeding first to pour Wine on their heads, and on the altar burn Bristles from between the horns she had shorn; Next, by blood calling Hecate, Divine In Heaven as Hell, to further their design. The Prince then to the Furies’ kith and kin— Vain to try their Three vengeful selves to win— Slaughtered a black-fleeced lamb; to Hades’ Queen A cow untaught what mother’s joys had been; And, lastly, after sunset, to the King Of Tartarus, a vast, rich offering— Whole bulls’ entrails upon the altars thrown, With oil to sting the flames to hiss and groan. But the sun rose, and earth began to growl Underfoot, dogs in the grey dawn to howl, And on wooded heights leaves waved in still air, As Nature felt the Goddess coming there. “Away, unsanctified; far from the grove,” Threatens the Sibyl; “as your lives ye love! Alone, Æneas, sword unsheathed, come Thou; Need for stout heart, for all thy courage now!” Prophetess possessed, she dared the dark cave; Step by step followed he, with soul as brave. Gods, whose the Spirit-empire, and, ye, hosts— Chaos, Phlegethon, Powers too—of ghosts, Dumb in a dumb world, grant I may unfold Things, of which my spirit by yours is told. Cloudy must my story needs be to him Who reads. All to the pilgrims’ selves was dim! Phantom-like, and alone with night, they passed Through Dis’s kingdom, lifeless, joyless, waste, As, pale and ghostly will a forest seem, Between pale clouds and the moon’s grudging beam.