Their route resumed, they reached a land where air Had a stir as of life; hither repair War lords; here the heroes of old fights meet— Adrastus, Parthenopæus; here greet Æneas friends from Ilium, whose doom Himself had witnessed, wept for, at the tomb; And now re-wept, beholding each a Shade, Though, like Idæus, in bright armour clad, And charioteering. On left and right, Not with one look content, they throng; delight To find pretexts to keep him, walk beside; Question why he came, and how long might bide. Not so with the Greeks Agamemnon led; Seeing Æneas’s drawn sword, some fled As once to their Fleet; all quaked; some would shout, Mouths gaped, and the cry, a ghost, quavered out. Shamed at the sight, Æneas, gazing there As they shrank before him, became aware Of a Ghost intent upon their dismay— A Shade continuing the disarray In which life had fled; hands, nostrils and ears Lopped off by vengeful, jealous swords and spears; Lace-work of gashes; the Shade shivered o’er Dishonouring wounds, and bent, striving sore To hide them, and himself.— Hardly, at last Æneas knew; and, with tears flowing fast, Forced him to turn: “Knight, Prince, Deiphobus, Whose the force, will, to have outraged thee thus? I had heard, on the death-night of our Town, On a pile slain thou laid’st thee dying down. Thy body I found not, but I addressed Thrice farewell, consigning thy soul to rest.” “No pious kindness,” answered Priam’s son, “Friendship could require, hast thou left undone. To Fate, and the Greek Murderess I owe Horrors I bore on earth, my shame below; She made my flesh my tomb, epitaph writ Thereon, and on my ghost has graven it! Thou knowest—how forget?—the lying joy Of the last, the funeral night of Troy. The Traitress through the festal city led A chorus of Bacchantes, at its head Waving a flaming torch; and, with the cry Of ‘Evan,’ from the Citadel on high, Summoned her ambushed Argives.— I meanwhile, Worn with the day’s cares, unsuspecting guile— Least of all in my new-made Wife—in sleep, Unbroken as quiet death’s self, sweet, deep, Lay in my baleful chamber, whence my Bride Had stolen all arms, even from my side My trusty sword.— Then she invites within Menelaus—purgation for old sin! Lo! he, and Ulysses, arch fiend, and She, With Me unarmed—Why more?—Dost thou not see? Gods, whom I worshipped, have not I a right To claim like for like? Will Ye not requite? But Thou; say, what mischance on sea or land, Caprice of Fortune, or the Gods’ command, Has sentenced thee in life to wander here, Away from sunlight, and glad household cheer?” A story long to tell; and longer still Had been, were time Below, for good or ill, Not measured for guests from the Upper Air