Mourning for Palinurus, he drives the fleet To Cumae’s coast-line; the prows are turned, the anchors Let down, the beach is covered by the vessels. Young in their eagerness for the land in the west, They flash ashore; some seek the seeds of flame Hidden in veins of flint, and others spoil The woods of tinder, and show where water runs. Aeneas, in devotion, seeks the heights Where stands Apollo’s temple, and the cave Where the dread Sibyl dwells, Apollo’s priestess, With the great mind and heart, inspired revealer Of things to come. They enter Diana’s grove, Pass underneath the roof of gold.
The story Has it that Daedalus fled from Minos’ kingdom, Trusting himself to wings he made, and travelled A course unknown to man, to the cold north, Descending on this very summit; here, Earth-bound again, he built a mighty temple, Paying Apollo homage, the dedication Of the oarage of his wings. On the temple doors He carved, in bronze, Androgeos’ death, and the payment Enforced on Cecrops’ children, seven sons For sacrifice each year: there stands the urn, The lots are drawn--facing this, over the sea, Rises the land of Crete: the scene portrays Pasiphae in cruel love, the bull She took to her by cunning, and their offspring, The mongrel Minotaur, half man, half monster, The proof of lust unspeakable; and the toil Of the house is shown, the labyrinthine maze Which no one could have solved, but Daedalus Pitied a princess’ love, loosened the tangle, Gave her a skein to guide her way. His boy, Icarus, might have been here, in the picture, And almost was--his father had made the effort Once, and once more, and dropped his hands; he could not Master his grief that much. The story held them; They would have studied it longer, but Achates Came from his mission; with him came the priestess, Deiphobe, daughter of Glaucus, who tends the temple For Phoebus and Diana; she warned Aeneas: “It is no such sights the time demands; far better To offer sacrifice, seven chosen bullocks, Seven chosen ewes, a herd without corruption.” They were prompt in their obedience, and the priestess Summoned the Trojans to the lofty temple.
The rock’s vast side is hollowed into a cavern, With a hundred mouths, a hundred open portals, Whence voices rush, the answers of the Sibyl. They had reached the threshold, and the virgin cried: “It is time to seek the fates; the god is here, The god is here, behold him.” And as she spoke Before the entrance, her countenance and color Changed, and her hair tossed loose, and her heart was heaving, Her bosom swollen with frenzy; she seemed taller, Her voice not human at all, as the god’s presence Drew nearer, and took hold on her. “Aeneas,” She cried, “Aeneas, are you praying? Are you being swift in prayer? Until you are, The house of the gods will not be moved, nor open Its mighty portals.” More than her speech, her silence Made the Trojans cold with terror, and Aeneas Prayed from the depth of his heart: “Phoebus Apollo, Compassionate ever, slayer of Achilles Through aim of Paris’ arrow, helper and guide Over the seas, over the lands, the deserts, The shoals and quicksands, now at last we have come To Italy, we hold the lands which fled us: Grant that thus far, no farther, a Trojan fortune Attend our wandering. And spare us now, All of you, gods and goddesses, who hated Troy in the past, and Trojan glory. I beg you, Most holy prophetess, in whose foreknowing The future stands revealed, grant that the Trojans-- I ask with fate’s permission--rest in Latium Their wandering storm-tossed gods. I will build a temple, In honor of Apollo and Diana, Out of eternal marble, and ordain Festivals in their honor, and for the Sibyl A great shrine in our kingdom, and I will place there The lots and mystic oracles for my people With chosen priests to tend them. Only, priestess, This once, I pray you, chant the sacred verses With your own lips; do not trust them to the leaves, The mockery of the rushing wind’s disorder.”