He saw, in a far valley, a separate grove Where the woods stir and rustle, and a river, The Lethe, gliding past the peaceful places, And tribes of people thronging, hovering over, Innumerable as the bees in summer Working the bright-hued flowers, and the shining Of the white lilies, murmuring and humming. Aeneas, filled with wonder, asks the reason For what he does not know, who are the people In such a host, and to what river coming? Anchises answers:--“These are spirits, ready Once more for life; they drink of Lethe’s water The soothing potion of forgetfulness. I have longed, for long, to show them to you, name them, Our children’s children; Italy discovered, So much the greater happiness, my son.” “But, O my father, is it thinkable That souls would leave this blessedness, be willing A second time to bear the sluggish body, Trade Paradise for earth? Alas, poor wretches, Why such a mad desire for light?” Anchises Gives detailed answer: “First, my son, a spirit Sustains all matter, heaven and earth and ocean, The moon, the stars; mind quickens mass, and moves it. Hence comes the race of man, of beast, of wingèd Creatures of air, of the strange shapes which ocean Bears down below his mottled marble surface. All these are blessed with energy from heaven; The seed of life is a spark of fire, but the body A clod of earth, a clog, a mortal burden. Hence humans fear, desire, grieve, and are joyful, And even when life is over, all the evil Ingrained so long, the adulterated mixture, The plagues and pestilences of the body Remain, persist. So there must be a cleansing, By penalty, by punishment, by fire, By sweep of wind, by water’s absolution, Before the guilt is gone. Each of us suffers His own peculiar ghost. But the day comes When we are sent through wide Elysium, The Fields of the Blessed, a few of us, to linger Until the turn of time, the wheel of ages, Wears off the taint, and leaves the core of spirit Pure sense, pure flame. A thousand years pass over And the god calls the countless host to Lethe Where memory is annulled, and souls are willing Once more to enter into mortal bodies.”
The discourse ended; the father drew his son And his companion toward the hum, the center Of the full host; they came to rising ground Where all the long array was visible, Anchises watching, noting, every comer. “Glory to come, my son, illustrious spirits Of Dardan lineage, Italian offspring, Heirs of our name, begetters of our future! These I will name for you and tell our fortunes: First, leaning on a headless spear, and standing Nearest the light, that youth, the first to rise To the world above, is Silvius; his name Is Alban; in his veins Italian blood Will run with Trojan; he will be the son Of your late age; Lavinia will bear him, A king and sire of kings; from him our race Will rule in Alba Longa. Near him, Procas, A glory to the Trojan race; and Capys, And Numitor, and Silvius Aeneas, Resembling you in name, in arms, in goodness, If ever he wins the Alban kingdom over. What fine young men they are! What strength, what prowess! The civic oak already shades their foreheads. These will found cities, Gabii, Fidenae, Nomentum; they will crown the hills with towers Above Collatia, Inuus fortress, Bola, Cora, all names to be, thus far ungiven.