shoulders towering o'er the rest,
When thus the listening crowd the prophetess addressed:

LXXXIX. "Tell, happy souls; and thou, great poet, tell
Where--in what place--Anchises doth abide,
For whom we came and crossed the streams of Hell."
Briefly the venerable chief replied:
"Fixt home hath no one; by the streamlet's side,
Or in dark groves, or dewy meads we stray,
Where living waters through the pastures glide.
Mount, if ye list, and I will point the way,
Yon summit, and beneath the shining fields survey."

XC. Thus on he leads them, till they leave the height,
Rejoicing.--In a valley far away
The sire Anchises scanned, with fond delight,
The prisoned souls, who waited for the day.
Their shape, their mien his studious eyes survey;
Their fates and fortunes he reviews with pride,
And counts his future offspring in array.
Now, when his son advancing he espied,
Aloud, with tearful eyes and outspread hands, he cried:

XCI. "Art thou, then, come at last? Has filial love,
Thrice welcome, braved the perils of the way?
O joy! do I behold thee? hear thee move
Sweet converse as of old? 'Tis come, the day
I longed and looked for, pondering the delay,
And counting every moment, nor in vain.
How tost with perils do I greet thee? yea,
What wanderings thine on every land and main!
What dangers did I dread from Libya's tempting reign!"

XCII. "Father, 'twas thy sad image," he replied,
"Oft-haunting, drove me to this distant place.
Our navy floats on the Tyrrhenian tide.
Give me thy hand, nor shun a son's embrace."
So spake the son, and o'er his cheeks apace
Rolled down soft tears, of sadness and delight.
Thrice he essayed the phantom to embrace;
Thrice, vainly clasped, it melted from his sight,
Swift as the winged wind, or vision of the night.

XCIII. Meanwhile he views, deep-bosomed in a dale,
A grove, and brakes that rustle in the breeze,
And Lethe, gliding through the peaceful vale.
Peoples and tribes, all hovering round, he sees,
Unnumbered, as in summer heat the bees
Hum round the flowerets of the field, to drain
The fair, white lilies of their sweets; so these
Swarm numberless, and ever and again
The gibbering ghosts disperse, and murmur o'er the plain.

XCIV. Awe-struck, AEneas would the cause enquire:
What streams are yonder? what the crowd so great,
That filled t