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Around it bends the whole dark grove,
And hides from view the treasure-trove.
Yet none may reach the shades without
The passport of that golden sprout:
For so has Proserpine decreed
That this should be her beauty's meed.
One plucked, another fills its room,
And burgeons with like precious bloom.
Go, then, the shrinking treasure track,
And pluck it with your hand:
Itself will follow, nothing slack,
Should Fate the deed command:
If not, no weapon man can wield
Will make its dull reluctance yield.
Then too, your comrade's breathless clay
(Alas! you know not) taints the day
And poisons all your fleet,
While on our threshold still you stay
And Heaven's response entreat.
Him to his parent earth return
Observant, and his bones inurn.
Lead to the shrine black cattle: they
Will cleanse whate'er would else pollute:
Thus shall you Acheron's banks survey,
Where never living soul found way.'
She ended, and was mute.

With downcast visage, sad and grave,
Æneas turns him from the cave,
And ponders o'er his woe:
Still by his side Achates moves,
Companion to the chief he loves,
As thoughtful and as slow.
Much talked they on their onward way,
Debating whose the senseless clay
That claims a comrade's tomb;