Seize that, she bids; he listens to the Maid;
Then views the mournful Mansions of the Dead:
The Shade of Great Anchises, and the Place.
By Fates determin'd to the Trojan Race.
As back to upper Light the Hero came,
He thus salutes the Visionary Dame.—
O, whether some propitious Deity,
Or lov'd by those bright Rulers of the Sky!
With grateful Incense I shall stile you One,
And deem no Godhead greater, than your own.
'Twas you restor'd me from the Realms of Night,
And gave me to behold the Fields of Light:
To feel the Breezes of Congenial Air;
And Nature's blest Benevolence to share.
The Story of the Sibyll.
I am no Deity; reply'd the Dame.
But Mortal, and religious Rites disclaim.
Yet had avoided Death's tyrannick Sway,
Had I consented to the God of Day.
With Promises he sought my Love, and said,
Have all you wish, my fair Cumæan Maid.
I paus'd; then pointing to a Heap of Sand,
For ev'ry Grain, to live a Year, demand.
But ah! unmindful of th' Effect of Time,
Forgot to covenant for Youth, and Prime.
The smiling Bloom, I boasted once, is gone,
And feeble Age with lagging Limbs creeps on.
Sev'n Gentries have I liv'd; Three more fulfil
The Period of the Years to finish still.
Who'll think, that Phæbus, drest in Youth Divine,
Had once believ'd his Lustre less, than mine?
This wither'd Frame (so Fates have will'd) shall waste
To nothing, but Prophetick Words, at last.
