Thus, on the holm-oak swayed the Branch of Gold,
Rustling its slight leafage in the soft wind;
Coy—rather than resisting, disinclined—
As Æneas plucked, in hot haste to bear
His prize, and trust it to the Sibyl’s care.
Meanwhile, the Trojans thronged, the Dead to mourn
With rites for which no thanks could it return.
First, they build, a marvel for bulk, the pyre—
Pitch-pine for flame, split oak to feed the fire,
Cypress, Death’s tribute, armour to remind