Book IV

But stricken long since with anguish deep, the queen,-
Feeds at her veins the wound, whose hidden fire
Consumes her. To her heart comes surging back
Full oft the manhood of the man, full oft
The lustre of his line: his looks, his words,
Cling rooted fast within her bosom’s core.
And anguish to her frame calm sleep denies.
Now, with the torch of Phoebus, next day’s dawn
Was traversing the world, and had from heaven
The dewy shade dispelled, when, ill at ease.
Thus, heart to heart, her sister she bespeaks:

“Anna, my sister, say what dreams are these
Perplex me and affright? what wondrous guest
Hath entered ’neath our portals? what a mien
He bears! what strength of breast and shoulder! I
Deem him — no idle fancy — sprung from gods:
Fear proves the base-born spirit. Ah! me, what shocks
Of fate he sang, what draughts of battle drained!
Were not my heart’s resolve set firm and fast.
With none to yoke in wedlock-bands, since he,
My first love, tricked me and betrayed by death —
Irked me not bridal torch and bridal bed —
To this one weakness I perchance had stooped.
Anna, for I will own it, since the doom
Of my poor lord Sychaeus, and the hearth
Stained by a brother’s blood-guilt, only he
Hath swayed my sense, my tottering heart o’erthrown.
Traces of that old flame I recognise:
But first I would that earth yawn deep for me
Or that the Sire Almighty with his bolt
May to the shades, pale shades of Erebus
And night abysmal, hurl me, before thee,
O shame, I outrage, or thy laws relax.
He, who first joined me to himself, hath borne
My heart away with him; his only be it
To hold and guard within the grave.” So saying.
She filled her bosom with o’er-brimming tears.

“O dearer to thy sister than the light,”
Anna replies, “wilt thou, till youth be done,
Still waste in lonely widowhood, nor e’er
The joy of children or love’s guerdon know?
Think’st this to dust and buried shades a care?
Albeit I trow no suitors heretofore
Swayed thy sick heart — no nor in Libya’s land,
Nor erst in Tyre — Iarbas thus was scorned,
And other lords to boot, whom Afric land
Rich in war’s triumph rears — wilt brave no less
A love that likes thee? dost not call to mind
Within whose borders thou art planted? here
Gaetulian cities hem thee in, a race
In war untamable, and therewithal
Numidia’s reinless riders, and the shoals
Of barbarous Syrtis: yonder lies a tract
Barren with drought, and the wide-raging sons
Of Barce. Wherefore tell of war’s alarms
Rising from Tyre, and thine own brother’s threats?
With gods to guide, methinks, and Juno’s aid,
This man sailed hither in his Ilian keels.
Think what a city, sister, here thou’lt see,
Ay, what a realm, arise, so husbanded!
With Teucria’s arms beside her, to what pitch
Will soar the Punic glory! only thou
Sue grace of heaven, and, expiation made,
Be lavish of good cheer, and interweave
Fresh pleas for tarriance, while on sea the storm
Still blusters, and Orion’s watery star,
’Mid shattered barks, and skies implacable.”
So saying, she set her love-lit heart ablaze.
Made bold her wavering mind, and banished shame.
First they approach the shrines, and pardon seek
Amid the altars, duly-chosen ewes
To Ceres, lawgiver, and Phoebus slaying.
And sire Lyaeus — Juno before all.
Mistress of wedlock-bands. Dido herself
In peerless beauty, with her right hand grasps
A cup, and pours it full betwixt the horns
Of a white gleaming heifer, or moves on
Majestic, in the presence of the gods.
To the rich altars, and with sacrifice
Inaugurates the day, then, all agape,
Peering into the victim’s cloven breasts.
Consults the quivering entrails. Ah! how blind
The eyes of seers! love-frenzied, what can vows
Or shrines avail her? Ever the flame eats
Her tender heartstrings, and the wound is there
Silent, yet quick within her bosom’s core.
So, all on fire, unhappy Dido roams
Raging throughout the city, as some hind
Shaft-stricken, at unawares ’mid Cretan groves.
Which from far off a shepherd, with his darts
Chasing, hath pierced, and left the winged barb
Not knowing; through Dicte’s woody glades in flight
She scours, the death-reed sticking in her side.
Now through the city’s midst she with her leads
Aeneas, displaying her Sidonian wealth
And town built ready: she essays to speak,
And in mid-utterance stops; now, as day falls.
Seeking the selfsame board, poor fool! she asks
Once more to hear the tale of Ilium’s woe,
And hangs upon the speaker’s lips once more.
Then, when the guests have parted, when in turn
The low moon hides her radiance, and the stars
Sinking invite to sleep, in the void hall
With lonely grief, on his abandoned couch
She casts her, and, though sundered each from each,
Hears him and sees, or to her bosom clasps
Ascanius, ravished by his father’s look,
Her tyrant passion haply to beguile.
The half-reared turrets rise not, the youth ply
No martial exercise, nor harbours build.
Nor bastions for defence in war; the works
Break off suspended, the high-threatening bulk
Of walls, and engines that uptower to heaven.
Her when the well-loved spouse of Jove beheld
By such a plague possessed, and her good name
No bar to madness, thus to Venus then
Spake Saturn’s daughter: “Peerless is the praise,
Ample the booty ye bear off, I wot.
Thou and thy boy, a great and famous name —
One woman by two gods o’ermatched with guile!
Me, soothly, it escapes not that thou fear’st
These walls of ours, tall Carthage and her homes
Eyeing askance; but what shall be the end?
Or whereto serves this mighty conflict now?
Why rather work we not a lasting peace.
And plighted spousal-troth? that, thy whole heart
Desired, thou hast. Dido with love’s ablaze,
And through her frame the tide of frenzy spreads.
Rule we as one then, and with equal powers,
This people; let her own a Phrygian lord.
And yield her Tyrians to thy hand as dower.”
Perceiving that in guile of heart she spake,
To shift Rome’s empire to the Libyan shore,
Venus in turn addressed her:”.Who so fond
As to reject such offers, or make choice
With thee to strive for mastery, so success
Wait on thy words accomplishment? but I
Drift doubtful of the fates, if Jupiter
To Tyrian folk and travellers from Troy
Wills but one city, or would have them blent
Nation with nation, or firm league be joined.
Thou art his wife; for thee ’tis meet to probe
His heart with supplication; do thou lead,
I follow.” Then royal Juno took the word:

“Leave me that task; now, mark, I’ll briefly teach
How the main purpose may be compassed,
Aeneas, unhappy Dido at his side
Goes forth to hunt amid the forest, when
Titan to-morrow’s dawn shall first display,
And with his beams lay bare the world; then I,
While huntsmen hurry, and hem the wood with snares
Will a black storm of mingled hail and rain
Pour down, with thunder the whole welkin wake.
Far will their train be sundered, by thick gloom
Enveloped; Dido and the Trojan prince
To the same cave shall come. I will be there
To knit the twain, so stead me thy goodwill,
In wedlock sure, and seal her for his own.
Such-shall their spousal be.” To her request
She of Cythera nodded, nothing loth.
And laughed at revelation of the guile.
Meanwhile Aurora rising left the sea.
With dayspring from the gates a chosen band
Go forth; mesh-woven toils, nets, hunting-spears
Broad-tipped with iron, Massylian horsemen too
Rush onward, and the dogs’ keen-scented might.
The queen still loiters in her bower, the while
Her Punic lords beside the portal wait;
See, housed in gold and purple her steed stands,
And fiercely champs the foaming bit. At length.
Thronged with. a mighty concourse, forth she comes,
Clad in Sidonian scarf with broidered hem —
Gold quiver, and locks up-knotted into gold,
Gold too the brooch that clasps her purple robe!
Here ’mid the Phrygian train Iulus rides
Exulting. Comelier than all else himself
Aeneas moves to meet them, joins the troop.
As when Apollo quits his winter-home,
Lycia, and Xanthus’ floods, his mother’s isle
Delos to visit, and renews the dance,
While round’ the altar. in a motley throng
Shout with one voice Cretans and Dryopes,
And painted Agathyrsi; he himself
‘Walks over Cynthus’ height, his flowing hair
Trimmed with a wreath’s soft pressure, twined with gold;
Clatter the shafts about his shoulders; so.
Nor tardier-limbed than he, Aeneas strode;
Such beauty from his peerless face outshone.
Now to the heights and pathless coverts come,
Mark, how the wild goats from the crag-top scared
Run down the ridges! yonder see the stags
Scour through the open in close-huddling herds.
Dust in their wake, and leave the hills behind.
But in the glen’s heart’ young Ascanius
Joys in his fiery steed, now these, now those
Out-galloping, and, mid the timorous game,
Prays heaven a foaming boar his vows may bless.
Or tawny lion from the height come down.
Meanwhile with mutterings loud a mighty broil
Begins in heaven: rain follows, mixed with hail.
The Tyrian train and Trojan youth pell-mell.
With Venus’ grandson, the Dardanian boy,
Dismayed, seek various shelter through the fields;
Streams from the hillside race. The Trojan prince
And Dido to the self-same cavern come.
Earth first, and bridal Juno, gave the sign;
Flashed at the nuptials fire and conscious air,
And shouted from their topmost peak the nymphs.
First day of death was that, first cause of ill;
Swayed nor by outward show, nor rumour’s tongue,
Dido of secret passion dreams no more:
Marriage she calls it — name to mask her fall.
Anon flies fame through Libya’s mighty towns.
Fame, whom no other evil can outrun;
Motion her might, strength gains she as she goes.
Small first through fear, soon mounts she up to heaven.
Plants foot on earth, and hides her head in cloud.
Her once, provoked to wrath against the gods,
Earth bare the latest of her brood, they say.
Sister to Coeus and Enceladus,
Swift-footed, fleet-winged, monster dreadful, vast.
Who, for each plume her body bears, beneath
Hath watchful eyes as many, strange to tell.
As many tongues, as many sounding mouths,
Pricks ears as many: by night ’twixt earth and heaven
She cleaves the darkness, hissing as she flies,
Nor ever droops her eyelids in sweet sleep:
By day she sits perched like a sentinel.
Or on high roof-top, or on lofty tower.
And scares great cities, prone to grip as fast
False tales and baseless, as bear tidings true.
She now with manifold discourse had joy
Folks’ ears to fill, now fable and now fact
Rehearsing: that Aeneas has arrived,
Sprung from the blood of Troy, with whom for lord
Fair Dido deigns to wed: now, each with each.
They lap the livelong winter in soft ease,
Heedless of empire, by base love enthralled.
Such tidings the foul goddess far and wide
Scatters from mouth to mouth: then straightway bends
Her course to king Iarbas, and inflames
His heart with rumour, and heaps high his wrath.
He, sprung from Ammon and his ravished bride
A Garymantian nymph, to Jove had reared
Through his broad realms a hundred mighty fanes,
A hundred altars, and had hallowed there
Fire, the gods’ sleepless sentry, to keep watch
For ever, a floor fat with blood of beasts,
And portal with gay blossoms garlanded.
He, soul-distraught, fired with the bitter tale,
Is said, before the altars, and amidst
The majesties of heaven, to have implored
Jove fervently with suppliant hands upturned:

“Almighty Jove, to whom the Moorish race
On broidered couches feasting pour as now
The offering of the wine-god, seest thou this?
Or is’t for nought we dread thee, Sire, when thou
Hurlest thy thunderbolts, and do blind fires
Affright our spirit in the clouds, and brew
But empty rumblings? lo! a woman here.
Who wandering in our realm gat leave for gold
To found a paltry city, to whom we gave
Coastland to till, and laws of tenure — she
Hath our alliance spurned, and ta’en instead
Aeneas to lord, and partner of her throne.
And now that Paris, with his emasculate train,
Chin and oiled hair with Lydian headgear propped.
Enjoys the spoil: we to thy fanes, ay thine.
Bring gifts forsooth, and nurse an empty tale.”
As thus he prayed and clasped the altar, lo!
Him the almighty heard, and turned his eyes
Towards the queen’s palace, and the lovers there
Of nobler fame forgetful, then with words
Like these addresses Mercury, and on such
An errand sends him: “Hie thee forth, my son.
Invoke the Zephyrs, glide upon the wing,
And to the Dardan chief who loiters now
In Tyrian Carthage, and regards no whit
His fate-assigned city, speak, bear safe
Through the swift winds my word. Not such the man
His beauteous mother to our hopes foretold,
Twice therefore rescued from the hosts of Greece,
But one to rule o’er Italy, a land
Teeming with empires, turbulent with war,
Hand on the race from Teucer’s blood derived.
And to law’s bidding make the whole world bow.
If by such high renown he be not fired.
Nor for his own fame brace him to the toil.
Yet to Ascanius can his sire begrudge
Rome’s ramparts? what designs he? with what aim
Lags amid folk unfriendly, nor regards
Ausonia’s race and the Lavinian fields?
Let him aboard! this is the sum in brief;
Hereof be thou my herald.”
He had said:
Anon the other made ready to obey
His mighty sire’s behest, and first he binds
About his feet the golden anklets, which
Wing-wafted bear him high o’er land and sea
Swift as the hurrying breeze, then grasps his wand.
Wherewith from Orcus the pale ghosts he bids
Others to gloomy Tartarus sends below,
Gives or bereaves of slumber, and unseals
The eyes in death: on this relying, he drives
The winds along, and skims the weltering clouds.
Now ’mid his flight the crest and towering sides
He sees of stubborn Atlas, who bears heaven
Upon his peak, Atlas whose pine-clad head
Girt round about for ever with dark clouds
By wind and rain is buffeted; shed snow
Mantles his shoulders, while from his hoar chin
Streams tumble, and an ice-beard bristles stiff.
Here, poised on level pinions, stayed him first
The god Cyllenian, to the waves from hence
Plunged with his whole frame headlong, like a bird
Which round the shores, round the fish-haunted rocks.
Flies low beside the sea-marge: thus he flew
’Twixt earth and heaven o’er Libya’s sandy shore.
And clove the winds, leaving his mother’s sire,
Cyllene’s nursling. Soon as his wing’d feet
Had gained the huts, Aeneas he discerns
Building new homes, and founding towers, and lo!
A sword he wore, with yellow jasper starred,
And from his shoulders hung a cloak that burned
With Tyrian purple, wealthy Dido’s gift.
Wrought by her hand, and tissued with fine gold.
Forthwith he thus assails him: “Art thou now
Of lofty Carthage the foundations laying.
And rearing a fair city, wife-enthralled?
Ah! lost to thine own kingdom and its cares!
From bright Olympus lo! the lord of heaven,
Who with his deity sways earth and sky.
Sends down, and through the swift breeze bids me bear
This message: ‘What design’st thou? with what aim
Wastest in Libya’s land the idle hours?
If by such high renown thou be not stirred,
Nor for thine own fame brace thee to the toil,
Yet of Ascanius springing into man,
Thine heir Iulus, and his hopes, have heed.
To whom are owed the realm of Italy,
The land of Rome.’ “So saying, Cyllene’s god
Passed, while yet speaking, from the eyes of men,
And into thin air vanished out of sight.
But at the vision stunned and speechless stood
Aeneas: his hair with horror rose, the voice
Stuck in his throat: he burns to get him gone,
And quit the pleasant land, dazed by so dread
A warning, and the sovereign voice of heaven.
What can he do? Ah! with what words approach
The impassioned queen? what opening prelude try?
Hither and thither his swift mind he parts.
Speeds it all ways, and sweeps the round of thought.
Till, wavering long, this counsel pleased him best.
Mnestheus, Sergestus, and Serestus bold
He summons all silently to trim the fleet.
Gather the crews on shore, and muster arms,
And of his altered purpose hide the cause.
Meanwhile, since gracious Dido knows not, nor
Looks for so strong a passion to be snapped.
He will try access, and what hour for speech
Most tender, and what fashion fits the need.
Right swiftly one and all his sovereign word
With joy obey, and do his bidding.
The queen — for who can lover’s heart beguile? —
Divined it, caught at once the coming change.
Fearful where all was safety. Fame again.
Fiendish as ever, in her maddened ear
Cries that the fleet is rigging, ripe for sea.
Bankrupt at heart she rages, and on fire
Through all the city, like some Maenad, storms.
Roused by the shaken emblems, when with shout
Of Bacchus the triennial orgies goad,
And loud Cithaeron summons her by night.
At length she first with words like these accosts
Aeneas: “Deceiver, didst e’en think to hide
So foul a wrong, and from my land depart
In silence? Can our love, and hand once joined
In hand, not keep thee, nor the cruel death
In store for Dido? Nay, beneath the sky
Of winter even dost thou fit out thy fleet.
And ’mid the north wind’s blustering haste to go,
O heartless, over-sea? Why, wert thou not
Bound for strange fields and unknown homes, and were
Troy, as of old, still standing, would’st thou steer
Even for Troy across yon billowy deep?
Is it from me thou fliest? by these tears,
By thy right hand, since nought beside, alas!
Myself have left me, by our love’s embrace,
And marriage-rites begun, if ever I
Did thee fair service, or if aught I am
Was dear to thee, pity a falling house,
And, if prayers yet have place, I thee conjure,
Cast the thought from thee. For thy sake the tribes
Of Libya hate me, and the nomad chiefs,
And Tyrians turn to foes; for thy sake, too.
Quenched is my honour and good name of old,
By which alone I had access to heaven.
To whom dost thou abandon me to die,
O guest, since e’en to this has shrunk the name
Of husband? Wherefore do I linger on?
Is it that Pygmalion, my brother, may
Pull down, the while, my battlements, or me
Gaetulian Iarbas make his thrall?
If only, if before thy flight, my arms
Had clasped a child of thine, if in my hall
Some tiny-limbed Aeneas played, to bring
Thee back at least in feature, I had then
Not seemed so wholly captive and forlorn.”
She had said: the other by command of Jove
Kept his eyes fixed, and, struggling deep at heart
To smother down the anguish, thus at length
Returns brief answer: “Nought that thou canst plead
Of all thy countless benefits, O queen,
Shall e’er by me be gainsaid, nor shall I
Tire of Elissa’s memory, while of self
Still mindful, while the life-breath guides my limbs.
Brief be my words to meet the need: I ne’er
Took thought — suppose it not — to veil my flight
In secrecy, nor e’er before thee held
The bridegroom’s torch, or to such compact came.
Had fate vouchsafed me at mine own free will
Life’s course to shape, and, as my own heart prompts,
Make truce with trouble, my first fond care had been
Troy’s city, and the dear ashes of my friends;
Priam’s tall roof were standing, and this hand
Had, for her vanquished children, from the dust
Requickened Pergamus. But Apollo now,
The lord of Grynium, to great Italy,
To Italy the Lycian oracles.
Bid me repair: this is my love, and this
My country. If, Phoenician as thou art,
The towers of Carthage and a Libyan town
Hold thine eyes gazing, wherefore grudge, I ask,
To Teucrian settlers an Ausonian home?
We too may quest for outland kingdoms: me.
Oft as the night with dewy shade enfolds
The world, oft as the starry fires arise.
My sire Anchises’ spirit warns in sleep.
And with its troubled look affrights, me too
The thought of young Ascanius, and the wrong
To that dear head, from whom my fault withholds
Hesperia’s empire and predestined fields.
Now too the interpreter of heaven, by Jove
Himself sent down — thy head and mine I call
To witness — through the flying air has brought
A mandate; I myself beheld the god
Entering the city in clear light of day.
And with these ears drank in his accents. Cease
With thy complaints to fire thy soul and mine;
Not self-impelled steer I for Italy.”
On him, thus speaking, she was all the while
Glaring askance, and rolling to and fro
Her eyes, surveying with their silent looks
The whole man through, then thus blazed out in words:

“No goddess was thy mother, nor Dardanus,
False man, the founder of thy line, but thee
Jagged with hard rocks, Caucasus begat,
And to thy lips Hyrcanian tigresses
Their udders set, since why the truth disguise?
For what worse ills restrain me? Did he moan
Over my weeping? did he bend his eyes,
Pay toll of tears, show pity for his love?
What first, what next to say? Now, now no more
Juno, great queen, nor the Saturnian Sire
Looks on these things with equal eyes. Nowhere
Can faith be trusted. Cast upon my shore
A beggar, I welcomed him, and, mad the while,
Set on my throne to share it; his lost fleet,
His crews, from death I rescued. Ah! the fires
Of frenzy toss me! Now Apollo too
Soothsayer, now the Lycian oracles.
Yea, the gods’ mouthpiece, sent by Jove himself,
Now through the breezes his grim bidding bears.
Such doubtless is the task of gods above,
Such care disturbs their rest. I keep thee not,
Nor would rebut thy words; go, with the winds
Chase Italy, seek realms beyond the wave.
I hope indeed that on the mid-sea rocks,
If aught the good powers can, thy lips will drain
The cup of suffering, and oft cry aloud
On Dido’s name: with murky firebrands I
Will follow thee, though far, and, when cold death
Has severed soul and limbs, in every place
My shade shall haunt thee. O graceless, thou shalt rue it,
And I shall hear thereof, yea, for the tale
Will reach me, even among the nether dead.”
So saying, her speech broke off; she, sick at heart,
Flies from the light, and, turning from his glance,
Flings forth and leaves him with fear-palsied tongue.
Though words throng thick for utterance. Her the slaves
Uplift, and to a marble chamber bear.
And lay her fainting limbs upon the bed.
But good Aeneas, though he yearns to assuage
And soothe the sufferer, with his words ward off
Her sorrow, deeply groaning and with heart
That tottered ’neath the bulk of love, nathless
Obeys heaven’s bidding, to his fleet repairs.
Then fall the Teucrians to, and all along
The shore drag down their lofty ships: now floats
The well-pitched keel, and leafy oars they bring,
And timber from the woods unwrought, for flight
So eager: you may mark them on the move,
At every outlet hurrying from the town!
As when ants plunder a huge heap of corn.
Of winter ware, and house it in their store;
Moves a black column o’er the plain, the spoil
In narrow path along the grass convoying;
Some set their shoulders to the ponderous grains,
And push them, some drive up the rearward ranks.
Chiding delay; the whole track seethes with toil.
At such a sight what feelings then were thine,
Dido, or what groans uttered’st, to behold
From lofty tower the wide beach boil with men,
And the whole sea beneath thy gazing eyes
Maddened with their loud shouting? Tyrant love,
To what dost thou not drive the hearts of men?
To tears once more must she betake her now,
Once more with prayer assail him, and bow down
Her pride, a suppliant at the throne of love,
Lest she die vainly, leaving aught untried.

“Anna, this hurrying over the whole shore
Thou seest; from all sides they are met; the sail
Now courts the breeze, the seamen in their joy
Have crowned the sterns with flowers. If strength was mine
Such grief to anticipate, I shall no less
Have strength to bear it, sister. This one boon,
Anna, nathless perform for wretched me.
For thee alone yon traitor made his friend,
To thee would e’en his secret moods confide;
Thou only knewest the tender ways and hours
Of access to the man: go, sister mine.
And suppliant-wise entreat our haughty foe:
I never with the Danaan host conspired.
At Aulis to cut off the race of Troy,
Nor sent a fleet to Pergamus, nor uptore
His sire Anchises’ buried dust or shade,
That to those obdurate ears he should debar
My words from entrance. Whither hastes he so?
This last boon let him grant his hapless love,
And wait for a kind voyage and carrying winds.
For our old marriage-bond, by him betrayed,
I ask no more, no, nor that he should lack
Fair Latium, or resign his realm; I seek
An empty hour of time, respite and room
For madness to have play, till fortune tame
And school me unto grief. ’Tis the last grace
I ask — pity thy sister; grant but this.
In death I will requite it o’er and o’er.”
Such was her prayer, and such the tearful tale,
Her dolorous sister bears and bears again.
But by no tearful tale will he be swayed.
Nor any words heed, to be bent thereby;
Fate hinders, heaven shuts fast his willing ears.
Even as a sturdy and time-timbered oak,
Which Alpine north winds with their fitful blasts
Strive emulous to o’ertopple: loud it creaks,
The stem rocks, and the leaves strew deep the ground;
Itself clings to the crag, and, howso’ far
The summit soars toward the airs of heaven
So deep strikes root into the vaults of hell.
E’en thus, with ceaseless, ever-shifting cries
The hero’s heart is buffeted; he feels
The deep grief through his mighty bosom thrill;
The mind stands firm, and tears are showered in vain.
Then ill-starred Dido by her fate dismayed
Cries upon death: it irks her to behold
The arch of heaven. The more to goad her on
Her purpose to fulfil, and quit the light,
She saw — fearful to tell! — while offering gifts
Upon the incense-kindled altars — saw
The sacred juice darken, the outpoured wine
To loathsome gore transmuted: but to none.
Not even her sister, spake she of the sight.
Moreover in the palace was a shrine
Of marble to her former lord, which she
With wondrous honour tended, wreathed about
With snow-white fleeces and with festal boughs.
Hence fell upon her ears accents and words
As of her husband calling her, when night
Held the world darkling, and the owl alone
On roof-top uttered with funereal note,
Moan upon moan, her long-drawn wailing cry;
And many a presage of the seers of old
With omen dire affrights her. Then in sleep
Himself Aeneas fiercely goads her on
To frenzy; and ever being left alone
She seems, and evermore companionless
Pacing a weary journey, while she seeks
Her Tyrians in a land untenanted.
As maddened Pentheus sees the Furies’ troop,
A double sun, a twofold Thebes appear;
Or, on the stage, as Agamemnon’s child,
Orestes, hunted, flies his mother armed
With firebrands and black serpents; at the door,
Vassals of vengeance, the grim sisters sit.
So when, by grief o’erpowered, she had conceived
The frenzy, and resolved to die, alone
She weighs with her own heart the hour, the means,
And her sad sister thus bespeaks, with face
That masks her purpose, and hope-brightened brow:

“Child of my sire, I have found out a way —
Give thou thy sister joy — to win him back.
Or loose me from his love. Near ocean’s bound
And sunset is the far-off Aethiop land.
Where mightiest Atlas on his shoulder turns
The pole, with fiery stars bestudded: thence
Was shown me a priestess of Massylian race.
And temple-warder of the Hesperides,
Who erst with dainties to the dragon given
Kept safe the sacred boughs upon the tree.
Sprinkling moist honey and slumberous poppy-seed.
She with her spells takes on her to unbind
What hearts she will, on others launch shrewd pangs.
Stop rivers in their flow, turn back the stars:
She summons ghosts at midnight; thou shalt see
Earth bellowing ’neath thy feet, and from the heights
Ash-trees descending. But I call the gods.
Thee, sister dear, and thy beloved head.
To witness, that unwillingly I gird
The magic arts upon me. Do thou rear
In the inner court, all secretly, a pyre
To heaven, and let the hero’s arms, which he,
Godless, left hanging in the chamber, all
His empty raiment, and the bridal bed,
That was my bane let these be piled above:
To wipe out every record of the wretch.
Such is my pleasure, and thus the priestess bids.”
So spake she, and was silent; pallor then
O’er-spreads her features. Anna none the less
Thinks not her sister by these novel rites
Weaves but a cloak for death, nor can her heart
Conceive such frenzy, nor aught worse she fears
Than when Sychaeus died; so sets about
Her errand.
But the queen, when now the pyre
Rose huge to heaven amid her hall’s recess,
Of pine and cloven ilex, hangs the place
With garlands, and festoons with funeral boughs.
High over all upon the couch she lays
His empty raiment, and the sword he left.
Ay, and his image, knowing what should come.
Altars stand round, and with dishevelled hair
The priestess thunders forth three hundred gods,
Erebus, Chaos, and triple Hecate —
The three-faced maid Diana. Water too
She had sprinkled, from Avernus’ fountain feigned;
And downy herbs with brazen sickles shorn
By moonlight, milky with black bane, are sought.
Sought too a love-charm torn from brow of colt.
Newborn, ere dam could snatch it. She herself
With salt cake and pure hands, the altar nigh,
One foot unsandalled, and with garb ungirt,
Calls on the gods, and stars that wot of doom.
Or ere she die; ay, and if any powers
Righteous and unforgetful have in charge
Lovers ill-mated, unto these she prays.
’Twas night, and weary limbs o’er all the earth
Quaffed quiet slumber; forest and wild waves
Had sunk to rest; when stars with gliding orbs
Wheel midway, and when all the field is still,
Cattle, and painted birds, that haunt the breadth
Of limpid lakes, or the rough bosky wold —
Beneath night’s silence laid to sleep, their cares
Awhile were lulled, their hearts forgot to ache.
Not so the spirit-vexed Phoenician queen.
Nor ever does she sink dissolved in sleep.
Nor draw the night into her heart or eyes:
Her pangs redouble, and raging love once more
Surges and swells with the high tide of wrath.
Thus then begins she, thus with her own heart
Revolves: “Lo! what have I to do? once more
Make trial of former suitors to my scorn?
Beg on my knees with nomad lords to mate.
Whose proffered nuptials I have spurned so oft?
Well, shall I follow, therefore. Ilium’s fleet.
The Teucrians’ utmost bidding? Because they
Are fain of my past succour, and the grace
Of former kindness in their hearts lives on?
Nay, if I would, who’ll suffer me, or take
The hated woman to their haughty ships?
Ah! lost one, know’st not, nor perceivest yet
The perjured race of false Laomedon?
What then? in lonely flight shall I attend
The triumph of their seamen? or, girt round
With Tyrians, and the host of all my friends
Rush forth, and these, from their Sidonian town
Whom hardly I uptore, drive back to sea.
And bid spread canvas to the gale? Nay die.
As thou deserv’st; end sorrow with the sword.
Thou, sister, vanquished by my tears, thou first
Didst load my frantic spirit with these ills,
And thrust me on the foe. Why could I not,
Like a wild creature, free from wedlock, live
Blameless, and meddle not with woes like these?
Broken is my honour, and ill-kept the faith
Vowed to the ashes of Sychaeus! “Such
Bitter complaints kept bursting from her heart.
On the high stern Aeneas, fixed to go.
His gear in order trim, now slumbering lay,
When the god’s phantom with the self-same face
Returning, brake upon his sleep, and thus
Seemed to admonish him once more, in all
Like into Mercury, both voice and hue.
And yellow locks, and youthful grace of limb:

“O goddess-born, at such a time canst thou
Sleep on? what perils compass thee about
Perceiv’st not, madman, nor canst hear the breath
Of favouring Zephyrs? In her bosom she
Craft and dire crime revolving, fixed on death.
Lashes to storm the fitful tides of wrath.
Why fliest not headlong hence, while headlong flight
Is in thy power? Anon the main thou’lt see
Crowded with craft, and with fierce brands aglow.
Anon the shore one fiery blaze, if dawn
Still find thee on these shores a loiterer. Up!
Break off delay! a shifting, changeful thing
Was woman ever.” So he spake, and passed
Into the blackness of the night.
Forthwith
Aeneas, by the sudden phantom scared,
Upleaps from slumber, and plies hard his crew:

“Wake in hot haste, my friends, and man the thwarts;
Trim the sails quickly! sent from heaven on high,
A god, see! once again comes goading me
To speed our flight, and cut the twisted ropes.
Hail, holy among gods, we follow thee.
Whoe’er thou art, and once again obey
Thy bidding gladly. O be near with grace
To aid, and bring propitious stars in heaven.”
He spake, and from the scabbard plucked his sword
Flashing, and cut the cable with bare blade.
All, in one moment, the same ardour seized;
They hale, they hurry; deserted stands the shore,
The deep lies hid beneath their galleys; see!
Straining they churn the foam, and sweep the blue.
Now with new ray young Dawn was sprinkling earth.
Leaving Tithonus’ saffron couch. The queen.
When first from her high tower she saw the light
Whiten, and all the ships with sails arow
Stand out to sea, and shore and harbour void,
With ne’er an oarsman, thrice and four times o’er
Smote with her hand the lovely breast, and rent
The yellow locks: “O Jupiter,” she cries,
“Shall he then go, my kingdom put to scorn.
This stranger? will they not bring arms apace.
Pursue from all the city, and some tear loose
The ships from dock? away with speed, fetch fire,
Deal weapons out, ply oars! — what do I say?
Where am I? or what madness warps my wit?
Unhappy Dido! do thine impious deeds
Now touch thee home? it had been seemlier then
When thou wast offering him thy sceptre. Lo!
His hand and word of honour, who, they say,
Carries his country’s home-gods where he goes.
And bowed the shoulder to his age-worn sire!
Ah! might I not have seized and rent his limbs,
Cast them piecemeal upon the wave, cut down
His friends — his own Ascanius — and served up
The son for banquet at his father’s board?
But doubtful would have proved the chance of war;
Be it so: whom had I to fear, death-doomed?
I to their camp should have borne firebrands, filled
Their decks with flame, and, child and sire and race
Wiped out together, myself have crowned the pile.
O Sun, that with thy torch encompassest
All earthly deeds, and Juno, messenger
And witness of my woes, and Hecate,
Name in the city crossways yelled by night.
And dread avenging sisterhood, and gods
Of dying Elissa, heed ye this, and turn
Your power to ills that earn it, and give ear
Unto my prayers. If that accursed life
Must reach the harbour, and float safe to shore.
If thus Jove’s doom require, here stand the goal.
Yet by the sword of a brave race beset.
Outcast from home, and from lulus’ arms
Torn, let him sue for succour, and behold
His friends slain miserably, and when to terms
Of wrongful peace he yields him, let him not
His kingdom or the pleasant light enjoy,
But in the bare mid-plain, before his hour
Fall and unburied lie. For this I pray,
And this last utterance with my life-blood pour.
And ye, O Tyrians, the whole stock and race
Dog with your hate for ever; to my dust
This boon bequeath ye. Let there be no love.
No league between the nations. O arise.
Unknown avenger, from my tomb, to chase
With fire and sword the Dardan settlers, now.
Hereafter, whensoe’er the strength is given.
Betwixt them, shore with shore, billow with wave.
And host with host, I call down enmity;
Be they themselves, and their sons’ sons at war!”
So saying, on every side she turned her thought,
Seeking how soonest to break off the life
She loathed, then briefly unto Barce spake,
Nurse of Sychaeus, for the grave’s black dust
In the old country held her own: “Dear nurse.
Fetch me my sister hither, bid her haste
With water from the stream her limbs to lave.
And beasts, and expiating rites prescribed
Bring with her, and so come; and thou thyself
With a pure fillet veil thy brows. ’Tis in
My heart this sacrifice to Stygian Jove,
Which duly I have ordered and begun,
To consummate, and put an end to grief.
And give to flame the Dardan’s funeral pyre.”
She spake: the other with an old wife’s zeal.
Hurried her footstep. But, in trembling haste
And fierce with her wild purpose. Dido now.
Rolling a bloodshot eye, her quivering cheeks
Flecked with bright spots, and blanched with coming death,
Bursts through to the inner court, and madly mounts
The death-pyre, and unsheathes the Dardan’s sword —
Boon never asked for such a need as this.
Here, when the Trojan garments she beheld,
And the familiar bed, a little while
Pausing for tears and thought, she cast herself
Upon the couch, and spake her latest words:

“Relics once dear, while fate and heaven allowed,
Take this my spirit, and loose me from these woes.
My life is lived; the course by fortune given
I have fulfilled, and now the shade of me
Passes majestic to the world below.
I have built a noble city, mine own walls
Beheld, avenged my husband, and therewith
Wreaked on my brother the reward of hate;
Happy, ah! all too happy, if alone
The Dardan keels had never touched our shore!”
She spake, and burying in the couch her face:

“I shall die unavenged, but let me die,”
She said: “thus, thus with joy I take the road
To darkness. Let the cruel Dardan’s eyes
Drink in the conflagration from the deep,
And my death-tokens haunt him on his way.”
She had said; and, in the midst of words like these
Her folk beheld her sunk upon the sword,
And the blade reeking, and blood-dabbled hands.
Shrieks to the roof-top rise. Fame revels high
Through the stunned city. With laments and groans
And women’s wail the palace rings, the sky
Resounds with their loud mourning. Even as if
With in-poured foes, all Carthage or old Tyre
Fell headlong, while the flames roll fiercely on
O’er towers of men and temples of the gods.
Half-dead to hear, and scared at breathless speed
With nail-torn features and fist-smitten breast.
Darts through the midst her sister, and calls loud
The dying one by name, “Was it then this,
Child of my sire? — would’st thou put fraud on me?
This that yon pyre, these flames and altars meant?
What shall I weep for first, left desolate!
Dying, didst spurn to have thy sister near?
Thou should’st have bid me share thy doom, the same
Sword-pang, the self-same hour had found us both.
Nay, did I rear it with these hands, and call
Loud on our father’s gods, ah! cruel, to be
Far off, and thou laid here? Thou hast destroyed
Sister, thyself and me, the folk and sires
Of Sidon, and thy city. Let me lave
Her wounds with water, the last hovering breath
Catch haply on my lips.” As thus she spake,
The lofty steps surmounted, she had clasped
Her dying sister to her bosom’s warmth
With groans, the dark blood stanching with her robe.
She, trying to lift her heavy eyes, sinks back
Swooning; the sword grides fixed within her breast.
Thrice, struggling, she uprose on elbow propped,
And thrice rolled backward on the couch, and sought
Light in the vault of heaven, with wandering eyes,
And, finding, groaned. Almighty Juno then,
Pitying her long pain, and hard-fought-for death,
Sent Iris from Olympus down to loose
Her struggling spirit and writhen limbs; for since
Neither by fate, nor as the wage of sin.
She dying lay, but woe-struck, ere her hour.
And fired with sudden frenzy, Proserpine
Not yet had reft her of the yellow lock.
Nor to the Stygian Orcus doomed her head.
So Iris, on her saffron wings through heaven.
Glides dewy down, trailing a thousand tints.
That shift against the sun, and, o’er her head
Standing: “This offering unto Dis I bear.
As bidden, and from thy body set thee free.”
So spake she, and with right hand sheared the lock:
At once the warmth ebbed wholly, and therewith
Her life into the breezes sped away.