Here stood showing glorious wounds a band Of heroes fall’n to save its native land; Though other arts could equal entrance gain,— To give life charm, or steal a pang from pain. Priests too, who as they at the altar stood Offered pure lives as well as victims’ blood: And seers, who ne’er falsified Heav’n’s truth, But spoke as they heard from Apollo’s mouth:— A various tribe, yet all alike in this, That, having served, they have deserved their bliss. The Maid led where the white-filleted throng Was thickest; for Musæus’s the song, Responsive to the lyre’s seven sweet chords, That vied with all the magic of the words. High he by head and shoulders o’er the ring Around. The Sibyl, when he ceased to sing, Besought him of his courtesy to tell Where might Anchises in that blest land dwell; Their search for him had many labours cost; Dread sights been seen, perilous rivers crossed; Their grace was brief, they must not longer bide; How, clogged with flesh, find him without a guide? Quick answer made the sage: “We count no home As you on earth; wheresoever we roam At home are we; for our repose at noon, Or eve, no couch can equal with its down A meadow bank, that rills unfailing heap With flow’rs wooing irresistible sleep. But flesh and blood aye move the heart and will, And ye are here their purpose to fulfil; So, follow me beyond this hanging peak, And I will point your path to him you seek.” Under his lead they climbed the height, and thence Down into a wide, smiling champaign, whence Opened a wooded valley: in a glade Anchises stood, and deep in thought surveyed A host of hurrying Shades. As he gazed, He heard steps, his Son’s! Eagerly he raised, Both hands, while eyes and heart joined in the burst Of love and joy; each struggling to be first Its welcome to express: “Dearest! at last I see Thee; at what cost of perils passed! Yet never feared I that the utmost pow’rs Of Earth and Hell could bar a love like ours From meeting, as in old times, face to face, In full converse, however brief the space. With trust undoubting traced I to its goal Thy devious course; for well I knew thy soul; Each stage I numbered; tempests on what seas; Unfriendly lands; kindnesses worse than these!” “And could’st Thou,” cried Æneas “more repine, Missing my presence than I longed for thine? Thy image warned me on the island shore, To ask thy counsels, as, on earth, of yore, So, I am here! Once more to feel thy heart Beating to my own!— Nay; my Father, why, When I would clasp hands, kiss thy face, deny The embrace I dared Hell’s alarms to gain?” Of no avail his prayers, tears; all vain; Thrice in his arms the image melted away— As flutter of breeze; dream at break of day.