Book IV

Now felt the Queen the sharp, slow-gathering pangs

of love; and out of every pulsing vein

nourished the wound and fed its viewless fire.

Her hero's virtues and his lordly line

keep calling to her soul; his words, his glance,

cling to her heart like lingering, barbed steel,

and rest and peace from her vexed body fly.

A new day's dawn with Phoebus' lamp divine

lit up all lands, and from the vaulted heaven

Aurora had dispelled the dark and dew;

when thus unto the ever-answering heart

of her dear sister spoke the stricken Queen:

“Anna, my sister, what disturbing dreams

perplex me and alarm? What guest is this

new-welcomed to our house? How proud his mien!

What dauntless courage and exploits of war!

Sooth, I receive it for no idle tale

that of the gods he sprang. 'T is cowardice

betrays the base-born soul. Ah me! How fate

has smitten him with storms! What dire extremes

of war and horror in his tale he told!

O, were it not immutably resolved

in my fixed heart, that to no shape of man

I would be wed again (since my first love

left me by death abandoned and betrayed);

loathed I not so the marriage torch and train,

I could—who knows?—to this one weakness yield.

Anna, I hide it not! But since the doom

of my ill-starred Sichaeus, when our shrines

were by a brother's murder dabbled o'er,

this man alone has moved me; he alone

has shaken my weak will. I seem to feel

the motions of love's lost, familiar fire.

But may the earth gape open where I tread,

and may almighty Jove with thunder-scourge

hurl me to Erebus' abysmal shade,

to pallid ghosts and midnight fathomless,

before, O Chastity! I shall offend

thy holy power, or cast thy bonds away!

He who first mingled his dear life with mine

took with him all my heart. 'T is his alone —

o, let it rest beside him in the grave!”

She spoke: the bursting tears her breast o'erflowed.

“O dearer to thy sister than her life,”

Anna replied, “wouldst thou in sorrow's weed

waste thy long youth alone, nor ever know

sweet babes at thine own breast, nor gifts of love?

Will dust and ashes, or a buried ghost

reck what we do? 'T is true thy grieving heart

was cold to earlier wooers, Libya 's now,

and long ago in Tyre . Iarbas knew

thy scorn, and many a prince and captain bred

in Afric's land of glory. Why resist

a love that makes thee glad? Hast thou no care

what alien lands are these where thou dost reign?

Here are Gaetulia's cities and her tribes

unconquered ever; on thy borders rove

Numidia 's uncurbed cavalry; here too

lies Syrtis' cruel shore, and regions wide

of thirsty desert, menaced everywhere

by the wild hordes of Barca . Shall I tell

of Tyre 's hostilities, the threats and rage

of our own brother? Friendly gods, I bow,

wafted the Teucrian ships, with Juno's aid,

to these our shores. O sister, what a throne,

and what imperial city shall be thine,

if thus espoused! With Trojan arms allied

how far may not our Punic fame extend

in deeds of power? Call therefore on the gods

to favor thee; and, after omens fair,

give queenly welcome, and contrive excuse

to make him tarry, while yon wintry seas

are loud beneath Orion's stormful star,

and on his battered ships the season frowns.”

So saying, she stirred a passion-burning breast

to Iove more madly still; her words infused

a doubting mind with hope, and bade the blush

of shame begone. First to the shrines they went

and sued for grace; performing sacrifice,

choosing an offering of unblemished ewes,

to law-bestowing Ceres, to the god

of light, to sire Lyeus, Iord of wine;

but chiefly unto Juno, patroness

of nuptial vows. There Dido, beauteous Queen

held forth in her right hand the sacred bowl

and poured it full between the lifted horns

of the white heifer; or on temple floors

she strode among the richly laden shrines,

the eyes of gods upon her, worshipping

with many a votive gift; or, peering deep

into the victims' cloven sides, she read

the fate-revealing tokens trembling there.

How blind the hearts of prophets be! Alas!

Of what avail be temples and fond prayers

to change a frenzied mind? Devouring ever,

love's fire burns inward to her bones; she feels

quick in her breast the viewless, voiceless wound.

Ill-fated Dido ranges up and down

the spaces of her city, desperate

her life one flame—like arrow-stricken doe

through Cretan forest rashly wandering,

pierced by a far-off shepherd, who pursues

with shafts, and leaves behind his light-winged steed,

not knowing; while she scours the dark ravines

of Dicte and its woodlands; at her heart

the mortal barb irrevocably clings.

around her city's battlements she guides

aeneas, to make show of Sidon 's gold,

and what her realm can boast; full oft her voice

essays to speak and frembling dies away:

or, when the daylight fades, she spreads anew

a royal banquet, and once more will plead

mad that she is, to hear the Trojan sorrow;

and with oblivious ravishment once more

hangs on his lips who tells; or when her guests

are scattered, and the wan moon's fading horn

bedims its ray, while many a sinking star

invites to slumber, there she weeps alone

in the deserted hall, and casts her down

on the cold couch he pressed. Her love from far

beholds her vanished hero and receives

his voice upon her ears; or to her breast,

moved by a father's image in his child,

she clasps Ascanius, seeking to deceive

her unblest passion so. Her enterprise

of tower and rampart stops: her martial host

no Ionger she reviews, nor fashions now

defensive haven and defiant wall;

but idly all her half-built bastions frown,

and enginery of sieges, high as heaven.

But soon the chosen spouse of Jove perceived

the Queen's infection; and because the voice

of honor to such frenzy spoke not, she,

daughter of Saturn, unto Venus turned

and counselled thus: “How noble is the praise,

how glorious the spoils of victory,

for thee and for thy boy! Your names should be

in lasting, vast renown—that by the snare

of two great gods in league one woman fell!

it 'scapes me not that my protected realms

have ever been thy fear, and the proud halls

of Carthage thy vexation and annoy.

Why further go? Prithee, what useful end

has our long war? Why not from this day forth

perpetual peace and nuptial amity?

Hast thou not worked thy will? Behold and see

how Iove-sick Dido burns, and all her flesh

'The madness feels! So let our common grace

smile on a mingled people! Let her serve

a Phrygian husband, while thy hands receive

her Tyrian subjects for the bridal dower!”

In answer (reading the dissembler's mind

which unto Libyan shores were fain to shift

italia's future throne) thus Venus spoke:

“'T were mad to spurn such favor, or by choice

be numbered with thy foes. But can it be

that fortune on thy noble counsel smiles?

To me Fate shows but dimly whether Jove

unto the Trojan wanderers ordains

a common city with the sons of Tyre ,

with mingling blood and sworn, perpetual peace.

His wife thou art; it is thy rightful due

to plead to know his mind. Go, ask him, then!

For humbly I obey!” With instant word

Juno the Queen replied: “Leave that to me!

But in what wise our urgent task and grave

may soon be sped, I will in brief unfold

to thine attending ear. A royal hunt

in sylvan shades unhappy Dido gives

for her Aeneas, when to-morrow's dawn

uplifts its earliest ray and Titan's beam

shall first unveil the world. But I will pour

black storm-clouds with a burst of heavy hail

along their way; and as the huntsmen speed

to hem the wood with snares, I will arouse

all heaven with thunder. The attending train

shall scatter and be veiled in blinding dark,

while Dido and her hero out of Troy

to the same cavern fly. My auspices

I will declare—if thou alike wilt bless;

and yield her in true wedlock for his bride.

Such shall their spousal be!” To Juno's will

Cythera's Queen inclined assenting brow,

and laughed such guile to see. Aurora rose,

and left the ocean's rim. The city's gates

pour forth to greet the morn a gallant train

of huntsmen, bearing many a woven snare

and steel-tipped javelin; while to and fro

run the keen-scented dogs and Libyan squires.

The Queen still keeps her chamber; at her doors

the Punic lords await; her palfrey, brave

in gold and purple housing, paws the ground

and fiercely champs the foam-flecked bridle-rein.

At last, with numerous escort, forth she shines:

her Tyrian pall is bordered in bright hues,

her quiver, gold; her tresses are confined

only with gold; her robes of purple rare

meet in a golden clasp. To greet her come

the noble Phrygian guests; among them smiles

the boy Iulus; and in fair array

Aeneas, goodliest of all his train.

In such a guise Apollo (when he leaves

cold Lycian hills and Xanthus ' frosty stream

to visit Delos to Latona dear)

ordains the song, while round his altars cry

the choirs of many islands, with the pied,

fantastic Agathyrsi; soon the god

moves o'er the Cynthian steep; his flowing hair

he binds with laurel garland and bright gold;

upon his shining shoulder as he goes

the arrows ring:—not less uplifted mien

aeneas wore; from his illustrious brow

such beauty shone. Soon to the mountains tall

the cavalcade comes nigh, to pathless haunts

of woodland creatures; the wild goats are seen,

from pointed crag descending leap by leap

down the steep ridges; in the vales below

are routed deer, that scour the spreading plain,

and mass their dust-blown squadrons in wild flight,

far from the mountain's bound. Ascanius

flushed with the sport, spurs on a mettled steed

from vale to vale, and many a flying herd

his chase outspeeds; but in his heart he prays

among these tame things suddenly to see

a tusky boar, or, leaping from the hills,

a growling mountain-lion, golden-maned.

Meanwhile low thunders in the distant sky

mutter confusedly; soon bursts in full

the storm-cloud and the hail. The Tyrian troop

is scattered wide; the chivalry of Troy ,

with the young heir of Dardan's kingly line,

of Venus sprung, seek shelter where they may,

with sudden terror; down the deep ravines

the swollen torrents roar. In that same hour

Queen Dido and her hero out of Troy

to the same cavern fly. Old Mother-Earth

and wedlock-keeping Juno gave the sign;

the flash of lightnings on the conscious air

were torches to the bridal; from the hills

the wailing wood-nymphs sobbed a wedding song.

Such was that day of death, the source and spring

of many a woe. For Dido took no heed

of honor and good-name; nor did she mean

her loves to hide; but called the lawlessness

a marriage, and with phrases veiled her shame.

Swift through the Libyan cities Rumor sped.

Rumor! What evil can surpass her speed?

In movement she grows mighty, and achieves

strength and dominion as she swifter flies.

small first, because afraid, she soon exalts

her stature skyward, stalking through the lands

and mantling in the clouds her baleful brow.

The womb of Earth, in anger at high Heaven,

bore her, they say, last of the Titan spawn,

sister to Coeus and Enceladus.

Feet swift to run and pinions like the wind

the dreadful monster wears; her carcase huge

is feathered, and at root of every plume

a peering eye abides; and, strange to tell,

an equal number of vociferous tongues,

foul, whispering lips, and ears, that catch at all.

At night she spreads midway 'twixt earth and heaven

her pinions in the darkness, hissing loud,

nor e'er to happy slumber gives her eyes:

but with the morn she takes her watchful throne

high on the housetops or on lofty towers,

to terrify the nations. She can cling

to vile invention and malignant wrong,

or mingle with her word some tidings true.

She now with changeful story filled men's ears,

exultant, whether false or true she sung:

how, Trojan-born Aeneas having come,

Dido, the lovely widow, Iooked his way,

deigning to wed; how all the winter long

they passed in revel and voluptuous ease,

to dalliance given o'er; naught heeding now

of crown or kingdom—shameless! lust-enslaved!

Such tidings broadcast on the lips of men

the filthy goddess spread; and soon she hied

to King Iarbas, where her hateful song

to newly-swollen wrath his heart inflamed.

Him the god Ammon got by forced embrace

upon a Libyan nymph; his kingdoms wide

possessed a hundred ample shrines to Jove,

a hundred altars whence ascended ever

the fires of sacrifice, perpetual seats

for a great god's abode, where flowing blood

enriched the ground, and on the portals hung

garlands of every flower. The angered King,

half-maddened by malignant Rumor's voice,

unto his favored altars came, and there,

surrounded by the effluence divine,

upraised in prayer to Jove his suppliant hands.

“Almighty Jupiter, to whom each day,

at banquet on the painted couch reclined,

Numidia pours libation! Do thine eyes

behold us? Or when out of yonder heaven,

o sire, thou launchest the swift thunderbolt,

is it for naught we fear thee? Do the clouds

shoot forth blind fire to terrify the soul

with wild, unmeaning roar? O, Iook upon

that woman, who was homeless in our realm,

and bargained where to build her paltry town,

receiving fertile coastland for her farms,

by hospitable grant! She dares disdain

our proffered nuptial vow. She has proclaimed

Aeneas partner of her bed and throne.

And now that Paris, with his eunuch crew,

beneath his chin and fragrant, oozy hair

ties the soft Lydian bonnet, boasting well

his stolen prize. But we to all these fanes,

though they be thine, a fruitless offering bring,

and feed on empty tales our trust in thee.”

As thus he prayed and to the altars clung,

th' Omnipotent gave ear, and turned his gaze

upon the royal dwelling, where for love

the amorous pair forgot their place and name.

Then thus to Mercury he gave command:

“Haste thee, my son, upon the Zephyrs call,

and take thy winged way! My mandate bear

unto that prince of Troy who tarries now

in Tyrian Carthage, heedless utterly

of empire Heaven-bestowed. On winged winds

hasten with my decrees. Not such the man

his beauteous mother promised; not for this

twice did she shield him from the Greeks in arms:

but that he might rule Italy , a land

pregnant with thrones and echoing with war;

that he of Teucer's seed a race should sire,

and bring beneath its law the whole wide world.

If such a glory and event supreme

enkindle not his bosom; if such task

to his own honor speak not; can the sire

begrudge Ascanius the heritage

of the proud name of Rome ? What plans he now?

What mad hope bids him linger in the lap

of enemies, considering no more

the land Lavinian and Ausonia's sons.

Let him to sea! Be this our final word:

this message let our herald faithful bear.”

He spoke. The god a prompt obedience gave

to his great sire's command. He fastened first

those sandals of bright gold, which carry him

aloft o'er land or sea, with airy wings

that race the fleeting wind; then lifted he

his wand, wherewith he summons from the grave

pale-featured ghosts, or, if he will, consigns

to doleful Tartarus; or by its power

gives slumber or dispels; or quite unseals

the eyelids of the dead: on this relying,

he routs the winds or cleaves th' obscurity

of stormful clouds. Soon from his flight he spied

the summit and the sides precipitous

of stubborn Atlas, whose star-pointing peak

props heaven; of Atlas, whose pine-wreathed brow

is girdled evermore with misty gloom

and lashed of wind and rain; a cloak of snow

melts on his shoulder; from his aged chin

drop rivers, and ensheathed in stiffening ice

glitters his great grim beard. Here first was stayed

the speed of Mercury's well-poising wing;

here making pause, from hence he headlong flung

his body to the sea; in motion like

some sea-bird's, which along the levelled shore

or round tall crags where rove the swarming fish,

flies Iow along the waves: o'er-hovering so

between the earth and skies, Cyllene's god

flew downward from his mother's mountain-sire,

parted the winds and skimmed the sandy merge

of Libya . When first his winged feet

came nigh the clay-built Punic huts, he saw

Aeneas building at a citadel,

and founding walls and towers; at his side

was girt a blade with yellow jaspers starred,

his mantle with the stain of Tyrian shell

flowed purple from his shoulder, broidered fair

by opulent Dido with fine threads of gold,

her gift of love; straightway the god began:

“Dost thou for lofty Carthage toil, to build

foundations strong? Dost thou, a wife's weak thrall,

build her proud city? Hast thou, shameful loss!

Forgot thy kingdom and thy task sublime?

From bright Olympus , I. He who commands

all gods, and by his sovran deity

moves earth and heaven—he it was who bade

me bear on winged winds his high decree.

What plan is thine? By what mad hope dost thou

linger so Iong in lap of Libyan land?

If the proud reward of thy destined way

move not thy heart, if all the arduous toil

to thine own honor speak not, Iook upon

Iulus in his bloom, thy hope and heir

Ascanius. It is his rightful due

in Italy o'er Roman lands to reign.”

After such word Cyllene's winged god

vanished, and e'er his accents died away,

dissolved in air before the mortal's eyes.

Aeneas at the sight stood terror-dumb

with choking voice and horror-rising hair.

He fain would fly at once and get him gone

from that voluptuous land, much wondering

at Heaven's wrathful word. Alas! how stir?

What cunning argument can plead his cause

before th' infuriate Queen? How break such news?

Flashing this way and that, his startled mind

makes many a project and surveys them all.

But, pondering well, his final counsel stopped

at this resolve: he summoned to his side

Mnestheus, Sergestus, and Serestus bold,

and bade them fit the fleet, all silently

gathering the sailors and collecting gear,

but carefully dissembling what emprise

such novel stir intends: himself the while

(Since high-born Dido dreamed not love so fond

could have an end) would seek an audience,

at some indulgent time, and try what shift

such matters may require. With joy they heard,

and wrought, assiduous, at their prince's plan.

But what can cheat true love? The Queen foreknew

his stratagem, and all the coming change

perceived ere it began. Her jealous fear

counted no hour secure. That unclean tongue

of Rumor told her fevered heart the fleet

was fitting forth, and hastening to be gone.

Distractedly she raved, and passion-tossed

roamed through her city, like a Maenad roused

by the wild rout of Bacchus, when are heard

the third year's orgies, and the midnight scream

to cold Cithaeron calls the frenzied crew.

Finding Aeneas, thus her plaint she poured:

“Didst hope to hide it, false one, that such crime

was in thy heart,—to steal without farewell

out of my kingdom? Did our mutual joy

not move thee; nor thine own true promise given

once on a time? Nor Dido, who will die

a death of sorrow? Why compel thy ships

to brave the winter stars? Why off to sea

so fast through stormy skies? O, cruelty!

If Troy still stood, and if thou wert not bound

for alien shore unknown, wouldst steer for Troy

through yonder waste of waves? Is it from me

thou takest flight? O, by these flowing tears,

by thine own plighted word (for nothing more

my weakness left to miserable me),

by our poor marriage of imperfect vow,

if aught to me thou owest, if aught in me

ever have pleased thee—O, be merciful

to my low-fallen fortunes! I implore,

if place be left for prayer, thy purpose change!

Because of thee yon Libyan savages

and nomad chiefs are grown implacable,

and my own Tyrians hate me. Yes, for thee

my chastity was slain and honor fair,

by which alone to glory I aspired,

in former days. To whom dost thou in death

abandon me? my guest!—since but this name

is left me of a husband! Shall I wait

till fell Pygmalion, my brother, raze

my city walls? Or the Gaetulian king,

Iarbas, chain me captive to his car? .

O, if, ere thou hadst fled, I might but bear

some pledge of love to thee, and in these halls

watch some sweet babe Aeneas at his play,

whose face should be the memory of thine own —

I were not so forsaken, Iost, undone!”

She said. But he, obeying Jove's decree,

gazed steadfastly away; and in his heart

with strong repression crushed his cruel pain;

then thus the silence broke: “O Queen, not one

of my unnumbered debts so strongly urged

would I gainsay. Elissa's memory

will be my treasure Iong as memory holds,

or breath of life is mine. Hear my brief plea!

'T was not my hope to hide this flight I take,

as thou hast dreamed. Nay, I did never light

a bridegroom's torch, nor gave I thee the vow

of marriage. Had my destiny decreed,

that I should shape life to my heart's desire,

and at my own will put away the weight

of foil and pain, my place would now be found

in Troy , among the cherished sepulchres

of my own kin, and Priam's mansion proud

were standing still; or these my loyal hands

had rebuilt Ilium for her vanquished sons.

But now to Italy Apollo's power

commands me forth; his Lycian oracles

are loud for Italy. My heart is there,

and there my fatherland. If now the towers

of Carthage and thy Libyan colony

delight thy Tyrian eyes; wilt thou refuse

to Trojan exiles their Ausonian shore?

I too by Fate was driven, not less than thou,

to wander far a foreign throne to find.

Oft when in dewy dark night hides the world,

and flaming stars arise, Anchises' shade

looks on me in my dreams with angered brow.

I think of my Ascanius, and the wrong

to that dear heart, from whom I steal away

Hesperia, his destined home and throne.

But now the winged messenger of Heaven,

sent down by Jove (I swear by thee and me!),

has brought on winged winds his sire's command.

My own eyes with unclouded vision saw

the god within these walls; I have received

with my own ears his word. No more inflame

with lamentation fond thy heart and mine.

'T is not my own free act seeks Italy .”

She with averted eyes and glance that rolled

speechless this way and that, had listened long

to his reply, till thus her rage broke forth:

“No goddess gave thee birth. No Dardanus

begot thy sires. But on its breast of stone

Caucasus bore thee, and the tigresses

of fell Hyrcania to thy baby lip

their udders gave. Why should I longer show

a lying smile? What worse can I endure?

Did my tears draw one sigh? Did he once drop

his stony stare? or did he yield a tear

to my lament, or pity this fond heart?

Why set my wrongs in order? Juno, now,

and Jove, the son of Saturn, heed no more

where justice lies. No trusting heart is safe

in all this world. That waif and castaway

I found in beggary and gave him share—

fool that I was!—in my own royal glory.

His Iost fleet and his sorry crews I steered

from death away. O, how my fevered soul

unceasing raves! Forsooth Apollo speaks!

His Lycian oracles! and sent by Jove

the messenger of Heaven on fleeting air

the ruthless bidding brings! Proud business

for gods, I trow, that such a task disturbs

their still abodes! I hold thee back no more,

nor to thy cunning speeches give the lie.

Begone! Sail on to Italy , thy throne,

through wind and wave! I pray that, if there be

any just gods of power, thou mayest drink down

death on the mid-sea rocks, and often call

with dying gasps on Dido's name—while I

pursue with vengeful fire. When cold death rends

the body from the breath, my ghost shall sit

forever in thy path. Full penalties

thy stubborn heart shall pay. They'll bring me never

in yon deep gulf of death of all thy woe.”

Abrupt her utterance ceased; and sick at heart

she fled the light of day, as if to shrink

from human eyes, and left Aeneas there

irresolute with horror, while his soul

framed many a vain reply. Her swooning shape

her maidens to a marble chamber bore

and on her couch the helpless limbs reposed.

Aeneas, faithful to a task divine,

though yearning sore to remedy and soothe

such misery, and with the timely word

her grief assuage, and though his burdened heart

was weak because of love, while many a groan

rose from his bosom, yet no whit did fail

to do the will of Heaven, but of his fleet

resumed command. The Trojans on the shore

ply well their task and push into the sea

the lofty ships. Now floats the shining keel,

and oars they bring all leafy from the grove,

with oak half-hewn, so hurried was the flight.

Behold them how they haste—from every gate

forth-streaming!—just as when a heap of corn

is thronged with ants, who, knowing winter nigh,

refill their granaries; the long black line

runs o'er the levels, and conveys the spoil

in narrow pathway through the grass; a part

with straining and assiduous shoulder push

the kernels huge; a part array the file,

and whip the laggards on; their busy track

swarms quick and eager with unceasing toil.

O Dido, how thy suffering heart was wrung,

that spectacle to see! What sore lament

was thine, when from the towering citadel

the whole shore seemed alive, the sea itself

in turmoil with loud cries! Relentless Love,

to what mad courses may not mortal hearts

by thee be driven? Again her sorrow flies

to doleful plaint and supplication vain;

again her pride to tyrant Love bows down

lest, though resolved to die, she fail to prove

each hope of living: “O Anna, dost thou see

yon busy shore? From every side they come.

their canvas wooes the winds, and o'er each prow

the merry seamen hang their votive flowers.

Dear sister, since I did forebode this grief,

I shall be strong to bear it. One sole boon

my sorrow asks thee, Anna! Since of thee,

thee only, did that traitor make a friend,

and trusted thee with what he hid so deep —

the feelings of his heart; since thou alone

hast known what way, what hour the man would yield

to soft persuasion—therefore, sister, haste,

and humbly thus implore our haughty foe:

‘I was not with the Greeks what time they swore

at Aulis to cut off the seed of Troy ;

I sent no ships to Ilium . Pray, have I

profaned Anchises' tomb, or vexed his shade?’

Why should his ear be deaf and obdurate

to all I say? What haste? May he not make

one last poor offering to her whose love

is only pain? O, bid him but delay

till flight be easy and the winds blow fair.

I plead no more that bygone marriage-vow

by him forsworn, nor ask that he should lose

his beauteous Latium and his realm to be.

Nothing but time I crave! to give repose

and more room to this fever, till my fate

teach a crushed heart to sorrow. I implore

this last grace. (To thy sister's grief be kind!)

I will requite with increase, till I die.”

Such plaints, such prayers, again and yet again,

betwixt the twain the sorrowing sister bore.

But no words move, no lamentations bring

persuasion to his soul; decrees of Fate

oppose, and some wise god obstructs the way

that finds the hero's ear. Oft-times around

the aged strength of some stupendous oak

the rival blasts of wintry Alpine winds

smite with alternate wrath: Ioud is the roar,

and from its rocking top the broken boughs

are strewn along the ground; but to the crag

steadfast it ever clings; far as toward heaven

its giant crest uprears, so deep below

its roots reach down to Tartarus:—not less

the hero by unceasing wail and cry

is smitten sore, and in his mighty heart

has many a pang, while his serene intent

abides unmoved, and tears gush forth in vain.

Then wretched Dido, by her doom appalled,

asks only death. It wearies her to see

the sun in heaven. Yet that she might hold fast

her dread resolve to quit the light of day,

behold, when on an incense-breathing shrine

her offering was laid—O fearful tale!—

the pure libation blackened, and the wine

flowed like polluting gore. She told the sight

to none, not even to her sister's ear.

A second sign was given: for in her house

a marble altar to her husband's shade,

with garlands bright and snowy fleeces dressed,

had fervent worship; here strange cries were heard

as if her dead spouse called while midnight reigned,

and round her towers its inhuman song

the lone owl sang, complaining o'er and o'er

with lamentation and long shriek of woe.

Forgotten oracles by wizards told

whisper old omens dire. In dreams she feels

cruel Aeneas goad her madness on,

and ever seems she, friendless and alone,

some lengthening path to travel, or to seek

her Tyrians through wide wastes of barren lands.

Thus frantic Pentheus flees the stern array

of the Eumenides, and thinks to see

two noonday lights blaze oer his doubled Thebes ;

or murdered Agamemnon's haunted son,

Orestes, flees his mother's phantom scourge

of flames and serpents foul, while at his door

avenging horrors wait. Now sorrow-crazed

and by her grief undone, resolved on death,

the manner and the time her secret soul

prepares, and, speaking to her sister sad,

she masks in cheerful calm her fatal will:

“I know a way—O, wish thy sister joy!—

to bring him back to Iove, or set me free.

On Ocean's bound and next the setting sun

lies the last Aethiop land, where Atlas tall

lifts on his shoulder the wide wheel of heaven,

studded with burning stars. From thence is come

a witch, a priestess, a Numidian crone,

who guards the shrine of the Hesperides

and feeds the dragon; she protects the fruit

of that enchanting tree, and scatters there

her slumb'rous poppies mixed with honey-dew.

Her spells and magic promise to set free

what hearts she will, or visit cruel woes

on men afar. She stops the downward flow

of rivers, and turns back the rolling stars;

on midnight ghosts she calls: her vot'ries hear

earth bellowing loud below, while from the hills

the ash-trees travel down. But, sister mine,

thou knowest, and the gods their witness give,

how little mind have I to don the garb

of sorcery. Depart in secret, thou,

and bid them build a lofty funeral pyre

inside our palalce-wall, and heap thereon

the hero's arms, which that blasphemer hung

within my chamber; every relic bring,

and chiefly that ill-omened nuptial bed,

my death and ruin! For I must blot out

all sight and token of this husband vile.

'T is what the witch commands.” She spoke no more,

and pallid was her brow. Yet Anna's mind

knew not what web of death her sister wove

by these strange rites, nor what such frenzy dares;

nor feared she worse than when Sichaeus died,

but tried her forth the errand to fulfil.

Soon as the funeral pyre was builded high

in a sequestered garden, Iooming huge

with boughs of pine and faggots of cleft oak,

the queen herself enwreathed it with sad flowers

and boughs of mournful shade; and crowning all

she laid on nuptial bed the robes and sword

by him abandoned; and stretched out thereon

a mock Aeneas;—but her doom she knew.

Altars were there; and with loose locks unbound

the priestess with a voice of thunder called

three hundred gods, Hell, Chaos, the three shapes

of triple Hecate, the faces three

of virgin Dian. She aspersed a stream

from dark Avernus drawn, she said; soft herbs

were cut by moonlight with a blade of bronze,

oozing black poison-sap; and she had plucked

that philter from the forehead of new foal

before its dam devours. Dido herself,

sprinkling the salt meal, at the altar stands;

one foot unsandalled, and with cincture free,

on all the gods and fate-instructed stars,

foreseeing death, she calls. But if there be

some just and not oblivious power on high,

who heeds when lovers plight unequal vow,

to that god first her supplications rise.

Soon fell the night, and peaceful slumbers breathed

on all earth's weary creatures; the loud seas

and babbling forests entered on repose;

now midway in their heavenly course the stars

wheeled silent on; the outspread lands below

lay voiceless; all the birds of tinted wing,

and flocks that haunt the merge of waters wide

or keep the thorny wold, oblivious lay

beneath the night so still; the stings of care

ceased troubling, and no heart its burden knew.

Not so the Tyrian Queen's deep-grieving soul!

To sleep she could not yield; her eyes and heart

refused the gift of night; her suffering

redoubled, and in full returning tide

her love rebelled, while on wild waves of rage

she drifted to and fro. So, ceasing not

from sorrow, thus she brooded on her wrongs:

“What refuge now? Shall I invite the scorn

of my rejected wooers, or entreat

of some disdainful, nomad blackamoor

to take me to his bed—though many a time

such husbands I made mock of? Shall I sail

on Ilian ships away, and sink to be

the Trojans' humble thrall? Do they rejoice

that once I gave them bread? Lives gratitude

in hearts like theirs for bygone kindnesses?

O, who, if so I stooped, would deign to bear

on yon proud ships the scorned and fallen Queen?

Lost creature! Woe betide thee! Knowest thou not

the perjured children of Laomedon?

What way is left? Should I take flight alone

and join the revelling sailors? Or depart

with Tyrians, the whole attending train

of my own people? Hard the task to force

their hearts from Sidon 's towers; how once more

compel to sea, and bid them spread the sail?

Nay, perish! Thou hast earned it. Let the sword

from sorrow save thee! Sister of my blood—

who else but thee,—my own tears borne down,

didst heap disaster on my frantic soul,

and fling me to this foe? Why could I not

pass wedlock by, and live a blameless life

as wild things do, nor taste of passion's pain?

But I broke faith! I cast the vows away

made at Sichaeus' grave.” Such loud lament

burst from her breaking heart with doleful sound.

Meanwhile Aeneas on his lofty ship,

having made ready all, and fixed his mind

to launch away upon brief slumher fell.

But the god came; and in the self-same guise

once more in monitory vision spoke,

all guised as Mercury,—his voice, his hue,

his golden locks, and young limbs strong and fair.

“Hail, goddess-born! Wouldst linger on in sleep

at such an hour? Nor seest thou the snares

that hem thee round? Nor hearest thou the voice

of friendly zephyrs calling? Senseless man!

That woman's breast contrives some treachery

and horrid stroke; for, resolute to die,

she drifts on swollen floods of wrath and scorn.

Wilt thou not fly before the hastening hour

of flight is gone? To-morrow thou wilt see

yon waters thronged with ships, the cruel glare

of fire-brands, and yonder shore all flame,

if but the light of morn again surprise

thee loitering in this land. Away! Away!

Stay not! A mutable and shifting thing

is woman ever.” Such command he spoke,

then melted in the midnight dark away.

Aeneas, by that fleeting vision struck

with an exceeding awe, straightway leaped forth

from slumber's power, and to his followers cried :

“Awake, my men! Away! Each to his place

upon the thwarts! Unfurl at once the sails!

A god from heaven a second time sent down

urges our instant flight and bids us cut

the twisted cords. Whatever be thy name,

behold, we come, O venerated Power!

Again with joy we follow! Let thy grace

assist us as we go! And may thy power

bring none but stars benign across our sky.”

So saying, from its scabbard forth he flashed

the lightning of his sword, with naked blade

striking the hawsers free. Like ardor seized

on all his willing men, who raced and ran;

and, while their galleys shadowed all the sea,

clean from the shore they scudded, with strong strokes

sweeping the purple waves and crested foam.

Aurora's first young beams to earth were pouring

as from Tithonus' saffron bed she sprang;

while from her battlements the wakeful Queen

watched the sky brighten, saw the mated sails

push forth to sea, till all her port and strand

held not an oar or keel. Thrice and four times

she smote her lovely breast with wrathful hand,

and tore her golden hair. “Great Jove,” she cries,

“Shall that departing fugitive make mock

of me, a queen? Will not my men-at-arms

draw sword, give chase, from all my city thronging?

Down from the docks, my ships! Out, out! Begone!

Take fire and sword! Bend to your oars, ye slaves!

What have I said? Where am I? What mad thoughts

delude this ruined mind? Woe unto thee,

thou wretched Dido, now thy impious deeds

strike back upon thee. Wherefore struck they not,

as was most fit, when thou didst fling away

thy sceptre from thy hand? O Iying oaths!

O faith forsworn! of him who brings, they boast,

his father's gods along, and bowed his back

to lift an age-worn sire! Why dared I not

seize on him, rend his body limb from limb,

and hurl him piecemeal on the rolling sea?

Or put his troop of followers to the sword,

ascanius too, and set his flesh before

that father for a feast? Such fearful war

had been of doubtful issue. Be it so!

What fears a woman dying? Would I had

attacked their camp with torches, kindled flame

from ship to ship, until that son and sire,

with that whole tribe, were unto ashes burned

in one huge holocaust—myself its crown!

Great orb of light whose holy beam surveys

all earthly deeds! Great Juno, patroness

of conjugal distress, who knowest all!

Pale Hecate, whose name the witches cry

at midnight crossways! O avenging furies!

O gods that guard Queen Dido's dying breath!

Give ear, and to my guiltless misery

extend your power. Hear me what I pray!

If it be fated that yon creature curst

drift to the shore and happy haven find,

if Father Iove's irrevocable word

such goal decree—there may he be assailed

by peoples fierce and bold. A banished man,

from his Iulus' kisses sundered far,

may his own eyes see miserably slain

his kin and kind, and sue for alien arms.

nor when he basely bows him to receive

terms of unequal peace, shall he be blest

with sceptre or with life; but perish there

before his time, and lie without a grave

upon the barren sand. For this I pray.

This dying word is flowing from my heart

with my spilt blood. And—O ye Tyrians! I

sting with your hatred all his seed and tribe

forevermore. This is the offering

my ashes ask. Betwixt our nations twain,

No Iove! No truce or amity! Arise,

Out of my dust, unknown Avenger, rise!

To harry and lay waste with sword and flame

those Dardan settlers, and to vex them sore,

to-day, to-morrow, and as long as power

is thine to use! My dying curse arrays

shore against shore and the opposing seas

in shock of arms with arms. May living foes

pass down from sire to son insatiate war!”

She said. From point to point her purpose flew,

seeking without delay to quench the flame

of her loathed life. Brief bidding she addressed

to Barce then, Sichaeus' nurse (her own

lay dust and ashes in a lonely grave

beside the Tyrian shore), “Go, nurse, and call

my sister Anna! Bid her quickly bathe

her limbs in living water, and procure

due victims for our expiating fires.

bid her make haste. Go, bind on thy own brow

the sacred fillet. For to Stygian Jove

it is my purpose now to consummate

the sacrifice ordained, ending my woe,

and touch with flame the Trojan's funeral pyre.”

The aged crone to do her bidding ran

with trembling zeal. But Dido (horror-struck

at her own dread design, unstrung with fear,

her bloodshot eyes wide-rolling, and her cheek

twitching and fever-spotted, her cold brow

blanched with approaching death)—sped past the doors

into the palace garden; there she leaped,

a frenzied creature, on the lofty pyre

and drew the Trojan's sword; a gift not asked

for use like this! When now she saw the garb

of Ilian fashion, and the nuptial couch

she knew too well, she lingered yet awhile

for memory and tears, and, falling prone

on that cold bed, outpoured a last farewell:

“Sweet relics! Ever dear when Fate and Heaven

upon me smiled, receive my parting breath,

and from my woe set free! My life is done.

I have accomplished what my lot allowed;

and now my spirit to the world of death

in royal honor goes. The founder I

of yonder noble city, I have seen

walls at my bidding rise. I was avenged

for my slain husband: I chastised the crimes

of our injurious brother. Woe is me!

Blest had I been, beyond deserving blest,

if but the Trojan galleys ne'er had moored

upon my kingdom's bound!” So saying, she pressed

one last kiss on the couch. “Though for my death

no vengeance fall, O, give me death!” she cried.

“O thus! O thus! it is my will to take

the journey to the dark. From yonder sea

may his cold Trojan eyes discern the flames

that make me ashes! Be this cruel death

his omen as he sails!” She spoke no more.

But almost ere she ceased, her maidens all

thronged to obey her cry, and found their Queen

prone fallen on the sword, the reeking steel

still in her bloody hands. Shrill clamor flew

along the lofty halls; wild rumor spread

through the whole smitten city: Ioud lament,

groans and the wail of women echoed on

from roof to roof, and to the dome of air

the noise of mourning rose. Such were the cry

if a besieging host should break the walls

of Carthage or old Tyre , and wrathful flames

o'er towers of kings and worshipped altars roll.

Her sister heard. Half in a swoon, she ran

with trembling steps, where thickest was the throng,

beating her breast, while with a desperate hand

she tore at her own face, and called aloud

upon the dying Queen. “Was it for this

my own true sister used me with such guile?

O, was this horrid deed the dire intent

of altars, Iofty couch, and funeral fires?

What shall I tell for chiefest of my woes?

Lost that I am! Why, though in death, cast off

thy sister from thy heart? Why not invite

one mortal stroke for both, a single sword,

one agony together? But these hands

built up thy pyre; and my voice implored

the blessing of our gods, who granted me

that thou shouldst perish thus—and I not know!

In thy self-slaughter, sister, thou hast slain

myself, thy people, the grave counsellors

of Sidon , and yon city thou didst build

to be thy throne!—Go, fetch me water, there!

That I may bathe those gashes! If there be

one hovering breath that stays, let my fond lips

discover and receive!” So saying, she sprang up

from stair to stair, and, clasping to her breast

her sister's dying form, moaned grievously,

and staunched the dark blood with her garment's fold.

Vainly would Dido lift her sinking eyes,

but backward fell, while at her heart the wound

opened afresh; three times with straining arm

she rose; three times dropped helpless, her dimmed eyes

turned skyward, seeking the sweet light of day, —

which when she saw, she groaned. Great Juno then

looked down in mercy on that lingering pain

and labor to depart: from realms divine

she sent the goddess of the rainbow wing,

Iris, to set the struggling spirit free

and loose its fleshly coil. For since the end

came not by destiny, nor was the doom

of guilty deed, but of a hapless wight

to sudden madness stung, ere ripe to die,

therefore the Queen of Hades had not shorn

the fair tress from her forehead, nor assigned

that soul to Stygian dark. So Iris came

on dewy, saffron pinions down from heaven,

a thousand colors on her radiant way,

from the opposing sun. She stayed her flight

above that pallid brow: “I come with power

to make this gift to Death. I set thee free

from thy frail body's bound.” With her right hand

she cut the tress: then through its every limb

the sinking form grew cold; the vital breath

fled forth, departing on the viewless air.