A way has been appointed and decreed, By funeral rites, for it to be freed From that now mere burden; who lack them pray The Ferryman in vain; driven away, They tread a hundred years the same dull track, Till, less in hope than apathy straying back, They are—disbodied—afloat! It may be, If rarely, that friendship, or charity, Late informed, or remorse for crime, has laid White bones in earth, and thus a debt repaid. Æneas heard, believed; for by him stood, Witnesses to fortune of storm and flood, And Hell’s hard rules, two whom he recognised As of Troy’s remnant, but at sea surprised; By a wild south wind robbed of life and tomb. Leucaspis, Orontes, they; and in doom Alike, though companionless, save for woe, Palinurus!” Exclaimed Æneas: “So Diedst?” but Phœbus promised: “None lost at sea, And all to disembark in Italy?” “The Oracle spoke truth;” the Pilot said: “Clinging to the helm, the fourth morn I made Italy; the while, by the Seas I swear, I feared not for myself; my only care Was for thy ship, its steersman lost, and helm, A prey for waves and gales to overwhelm. But I landed, began to climb the cliff, When brute shore-men taking me, soaked and stiff, And unarmed, for sea-prize, attacked and slew. Then, stripping my body naked, they threw Into the sea, by turns there to abide, And on the beach, at pleasure of the tide. Oh, by the heaven’s cheerful light and airs, By thy Sire’s memory, thy hopes and cares For thy son! to Velia, returning, steer— My body floats hard-by—give it a bier! Or why, my Prince, not take a shorter mode Of lifting my intolerable load? Whate’er thou wilt, thou canst, with, by thy side, A Divine Mother for thy shield and guide. How else could living mortal hope to pass Such rivers, and the Stygian morass? Let me cross with thee; all my griefs will cease; I shall have died at last, and be at peace;”— “Unburied,” cried the Maid: “without command From the Furies, presume to tread their strand! Stop importuning for what Fate denies; Heaven has not forgotten thy death-cries; Thy murderers shall avow their foul crime, And thou be honoured to the end of time; For I can teach thee more, to ease the ache Of waiting:—the Cape o’er thy tomb shall take Thy name; seamen, as, doubling it, they sail, Shall muse upon thy death, and tell the tale.” They parted, he to tramp those marshes drear, Where years are moments, a moment a year. And living spirits to dead bodies bound Pace in a tedious circle round and round; Still, with his pain a joy—“My Cape, my name!” For Death is ne’er so dead as to be dead to Fame!