第48章

Here his gigantic limbs, with large embrace, Infold nine acres of infernal space.

A rav'nous vulture, in his open'd side, Her crooked beak and cruel talons tried;Still for the growing liver digg'd his breast;The growing liver still supplied the feast;Still are his entrails fruitful to their pains:

Th' immortal hunger lasts, th' immortal food remains.

Ixion and Perithous I could name, And more Thessalian chiefs of mighty fame.

High o'er their heads a mold'ring rock is plac'd, That promises a fall, and shakes at ev'ry blast.

They lie below, on golden beds display'd;And genial feasts with regal pomp are made.

The Queen of Furies by their sides is set, And snatches from their mouths th' untasted meat, Which if they touch, her hissing snakes she rears, Tossing her torch, and thund'ring in their ears.

Then they, who brothers' better claim disown, Expel their parents, and usurp the throne;Defraud their clients, and, to lucre sold, Sit brooding on unprofitable gold;Who dare not give, and ev'n refuse to lend To their poor kindred, or a wanting friend.

Vast is the throng of these; nor less the train Of lustful youths, for foul adult'ry slain:

Hosts of deserters, who their honor sold, And basely broke their faith for bribes of gold.

All these within the dungeon's depth remain, Despairing pardon, and expecting pain.

Ask not what pains; nor farther seek to know Their process, or the forms of law below.

Some roll a weighty stone; some, laid along, And bound with burning wires, on spokes of wheels are hung Unhappy Theseus, doom'd for ever there, Is fix'd by fate on his eternal chair;And wretched Phlegyas warns the world with cries (Could warning make the world more just or wise):

'Learn righteousness, and dread th' avenging deities.'

To tyrants others have their country sold, Imposing foreign lords, for foreign gold;Some have old laws repeal'd, new statutes made, Not as the people pleas'd, but as they paid;With incest some their daughters' bed profan'd:

All dar'd the worst of ills, and, what they dar'd, attain'd.

Had I a hundred mouths, a hundred tongues, And throats of brass, inspir'd with iron lungs, I could not half those horrid crimes repeat, Nor half the punishments those crimes have met.

But let us haste our voyage to pursue:

The walls of Pluto's palace are in view;

The gate, and iron arch above it, stands On anvils labor'd by the Cyclops' hands.

Before our farther way the Fates allow, Here must we fix on high the golden bough."She said: and thro' the gloomy shades they pass'd, And chose the middle path.Arriv'd at last, The prince with living water sprinkled o'er His limbs and body; then approach'd the door, Possess'd the porch, and on the front above He fix'd the fatal bough requir'd by Pluto's love.

These holy rites perform'd, they took their way Where long extended plains of pleasure lay:

The verdant fields with those of heav'n may vie, With ether vested, and a purple sky;The blissful seats of happy souls below.

Stars of their own, and their own suns, they know;Their airy limbs in sports they exercise, And on the green contend the wrestler's prize.

Some in heroic verse divinely sing;

Others in artful measures led the ring.

The Thracian bard, surrounded by the rest, There stands conspicuous in his flowing vest;His flying fingers, and harmonious quill, Strikes sev'n distinguish'd notes, and sev'n at once they fill.

Here found they Tsucer's old heroic race, Born better times and happier years to grace.

Assaracus and Ilus here enjoy Perpetual fame, with him who founded Troy.

The chief beheld their chariots from afar, Their shining arms, and coursers train'd to war:

Their lances fix'd in earth, their steeds around, Free from their harness, graze the flow'ry ground.

The love of horses which they had, alive, And care of chariots, after death survive.

Some cheerful souls were feasting on the plain;Some did the song, and some the choir maintain, Beneath a laurel shade, where mighty Po Mounts up to woods above, and hides his head below.

Here patriots live, who, for their country's good, In fighting fields, were prodigal of blood:

Priests of unblemish'd lives here make abode, And poets worthy their inspiring god;And searching wits, of more mechanic parts, Who grac'd their age with new-invented arts:

Those who to worth their bounty did extend, And those who knew that bounty to commend.

The heads of these with holy fillets bound, And all their temples were with garlands crown'd.

To these the Sibyl thus her speech address'd, And first to him surrounded by the rest (Tow'ring his height, and ample was his breast):

"Say, happy souls, divine Musaeus, say, Where lives Anchises, and where lies our way To find the hero, for whose only sake We sought the dark abodes, and cross'd the bitter lake?"To this the sacred poet thus replied:

"In no fix'd place the happy souls reside.

In groves we live, and lie on mossy beds, By crystal streams, that murmur thro' the meads:

But pass yon easy hill, and thence descend;The path conducts you to your journey's end."This said, he led them up the mountain's brow, And shews them all the shining fields below.

They wind the hill, and thro' the blissful meadows go.

But old Anchises, in a flow'ry vale, Review'd his muster'd race, and took the tale:

Those happy spirits, which, ordain'd by fate, For future beings and new bodies wait-With studious thought observ'd th' illustrious throng, In nature's order as they pass'd along:

Their names, their fates, their conduct, and their care, In peaceful senates and successful war.

He, when Aeneas on the plain appears, Meets him with open arms, and falling tears.

"Welcome," he said, "the gods' undoubted race!

O long expected to my dear embrace!

Once more 't is giv'n me to behold your face!

The love and pious duty which you pay Have pass'd the perils of so hard a way.

'T is true, computing times, I now believ'd The happy day approach'd; nor are my hopes deceiv'd.

What length of lands, what oceans have you pass'd;What storms sustain'd, and on what shores been cast?