Aeneas, With sadness in his eyes, and downcast heart, Turned from the cave, and at his side Achates Accompanied his anxious meditations. They talked together: who could be the comrade Named by the priestess, lying there unburied? And they found him on dry sand; it was Misenus, Aeolus’ son, none better with the trumpet To make men burn for warfare. He had been Great Hector’s man-at-arms; he was good in battle With spear as well as horn, and after Hector Had fallen to Achilles, he had followed Aeneas, entering no meaner service. Some foolishness came over him; he made The ocean echo to the blare of his trumpet That day, and challenged the sea-gods to a contest In martial music, and Triton, jealous, caught him, However unbelievable the story, And held him down between the rocks, and drowned him Under the foaming waves. His comrades mourned, Aeneas most of all, and in their sorrow They carry out, in haste, the Sibyl’s orders, Construct the funeral altar, high as heaven, They go to an old wood, and the pine-trees fall Where wild beasts have their dens, and holm-oak rings To the stroke of the axe, and oak and ash are riven By the splitting wedge, and rowan-trees come rolling Down the steep mountain-side. Aeneas helps them, And cheers them on; studies the endless forest, Takes thought, and prays: “If only we might see it, That golden bough, here in the depth of the forest, Bright on some tree. She told the truth, our priestess, Too much, too bitter truth, about Misenus.” No sooner had he spoken than twin doves Came flying down before him, and alighted On the green ground. He knew his mother’s birds, And made his prayer, rejoicing,--“Oh, be leaders, Wherever the way, and guide me to the grove Where the rich bough makes rich the shaded ground. Help me, O goddess-mother!” And he paused, Watching what sign they gave, what course they set. The birds flew on a little, just ahead Of the pursuing vision; when they came To the jaws of dank Avernus, evil-smelling, They rose aloft, then swooped down the bright air, Perched on the double tree, where the off-color Of gold was gleaming golden through the branches. As mistletoe, in the cold winter, blossoms With its strange foliage on an alien tree, The yellow berry gilding the smooth branches, Such was the vision of the gold in leaf On the dark holm-oak, so the foil was rustling, Rattling, almost, the bract in the soft wind Stirring like metal. Aeneas broke it off With eager grasp, and bore it to the Sibyl.