HKB
THE ARGUMENT.
The Sibyl foretells Aeneas the adventures he should meet with in Italy. She attends him to hell; describing to him the various scenes of that place, and conducting him to his father Anchises, who instructs him in those sublime mysteries, of the soul of the world, and the transmigration; and shows him that glorious race of heroes, which was to descend from him and his posterity.
He said, and wept; then spread his sails before The winds, and reach’d at length the Cumaean shore: Their anchors dropp’d, his crew the vessels moor. They turn their heads to sea, their sterns to land, And greet with greedy joy th’ Italian strand. Some strike from clashing flints their fiery seed; Some gather sticks, the kindled flames to feed, Or search for hollow trees, and fell the woods, Or trace thro’ valleys the discover’d floods. Thus, while their sev’ral charges they fulfil, The pious prince ascends the sacred hill Where Phoebus is ador’d; and seeks the shade Which hides from sight his venerable maid. Deep in a cave the Sibyl makes abode; Thence full of fate returns, and of the god. Thro’ Trivia’s grove they walk; and now behold, And enter now, the temple roof’d with gold. When Daedalus, to fly the Cretan shore, His heavy limbs on jointed pinions bore, (The first who sail’d in air,) ’tis sung by Fame, To the Cumaean coast at length he came, And here alighting, built this costly frame. Inscrib’d to Phoebus, here he hung on high The steerage of his wings, that cut the sky: Then o’er the lofty gate his art emboss’d Androgeos’ death, and off’rings to his ghost; Sev’n youths from Athens yearly sent, to meet The fate appointed by revengeful Crete. And next to those the dreadful urn was plac’d, In which the destin’d names by lots were cast: The mournful parents stand around in tears, And rising Crete against their shore appears. There too, in living sculpture, might be seen The mad affection of the Cretan queen; Then how she cheats her bellowing lover’s eye; The rushing leap, the doubtful progeny, The lower part a beast, a man above, The monument of their polluted love. Not far from thence he grav’d the wondrous maze, A thousand doors, a thousand winding ways: Here dwells the monster, hid from human view, Not to be found, but by the faithful clue; Till the kind artist, mov’d with pious grief, Lent to the loving maid this last relief, And all those erring paths describ’d so well That Theseus conquer’d and the monster fell. Here hapless Icarus had found his part, Had not the father’s grief restrain’d his art. He twice assay’d to cast his son in gold; Twice from his hands he dropp’d the forming mould.