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The Aeneid of Virgil
Book Four
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ARGUMENT
Dido opens her heart to her sister. But for her promised loyalty to
the dead Sychaeus, she must have yielded (1-36). Anna pleads for
AEneas, and Dido half-yielding sacrifices to the marriage-gods. The
growth of her passion is described (37-104). Venus feigns assent to
Juno's proposal that AEneas shall marry Dido and be king of Carthage.
At a hunting Juno will send a storm and the lovers will shelter in
a cave, and there plight their vows (105-144). The plot is
consummated. Dido yields (145-198). Description of Rumour, who
bruits abroad the story and rouses the jealous Iarbas to conjure his
father, Jupiter, to interpose (199-248). Jupiter sends Mercury to
remind AEneas of his mission (249-298). AEneas, terrified by the
message, prepares for instant flight, to the delight of his followers
and the despair of Dido (299-342), who entreats him to stay, and
rehearses the dangers to which he is leaving her (343-374). AEneas
is obdurate. Although he loves Dido, he is the slave of a destiny
which he must at all costs fulfil (375-410). After calling down a
solemn curse upon him Dido swoons, but crushing the impulse to
comfort her, he hastens his preparations for departure (411-468).
Dido sends Anna with a last appeal to AEneas, who nevertheless, in
spite of struggles, obeys the gods (469-513). In utter misery Dido,
on pretext of burning all AEneas' love-gifts, prepares a pyre and
summons a sorceress. Her preparations complete, she utters her last
lament (514-639). Mercury repeats his warning to AEneas, who sails
forthwith (640-671). Daybreak reveals his flight, and Dido--cursing
her betrayer--falls by her own hand, to the despair of her sister
and the consternation of her subjects (672-837).
I. Long since a prey to passion's torturing pains,
The Queen was wasting with the secret flame,
The cruel wound was feeding on her veins.
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Back to the fancy of the lovelorn dame
Came the chief's valour and his country's fame.
His looks, his words still lingered in her breast,
Deep-fixt. And now the dewy Dawn upcame,
And chased the shadows, when her love's unrest
Thus to her sister's soul responsive she confessed:
II. "What dreams, dear Anna, fill me with alarms;
What stranger guest is this? like whom in face?
How proud in portance, how expert in arms!
In sooth I deem him of celestial race;
Fear argues souls degenerate and base;
But he--how oft by danger sore bestead,
What warlike exploits did his lips retrace.
Were not my purpose steadfast, ne'er to wed,
Since love first played me false, and mocked me with the dead,
III. "Were I not sick of bridal torch and bower,
This once, perchance, I had been frail again.
Anna--for I will own it--since the hour
When, poor Sychaeus miserably slain,
A brother's murder rent a home in twain,
He, he alone my stubborn will could tame,
And stir the balance of my soul. Too plain
I know the traces of the long-quenched flame;
The sparks of love revive, rekindled, but the same.
IV. "But O! gape Earth, or may the Sire of might
Hurl me with lightning to the Shades amain,
Pale shades of Erebus and abysmal Night,
Ere, wifely modesty, thy name I stain,
Or dare thy sacred precepts to profane.
Nay, he whose love first linked us long ago,
Took all my love, and he shall still retain
And guard it with him in the grave below."
She spake, and o'er her lap the gushing tears outflow.
V. Then Anna: "Sister, dearer than the day,
Why thus in loneliness and endless woe
Wilt thou for ever wear thy youth away?
Nor care sweet sons, fair Venus' gifts to know?
Think'st thou such grief concerns the shades below?
What though no husband, Libyan or of Tyre,
Could bend a heart made desolate; what though
In vain Iarbas did thy love desire,
And Africa's proud chiefs, why quench a pleasing fire?
VI. "Think too, whose lands surround thee: on this side,
Gaetulian cities, an unconquered race,
Numidians, reinless as the steeds they ride,
And cheerless Syrtis hold thee in embrace;
There fierce Barcaeans and a sandy space
Wasted by drought. Why tell of wars from Tyre,
A brother's threats? Well know I Juno's grace
And heaven's propitious auspices conspire
To find for Trojans here the home of their desire.
VII. "Sister, how glorious even now these towers,
What realm shall rise, with such a wondrous pair
When Teucrian arms join fellowship with ours,
What glory shall the Punic state upbear!
Pray thou to heaven and, having gained thy prayer,
Indulge thy welcome, and thy guest entreat
To tarry. Bid him winter's storms beware;
Point to Orion's watery star, the fleet
Still shattered, and the skies for mariners unmeet."
VIII. So fanned, her passion kindled into flame:
Hope scattered scruples, and her doubts gave way,
And loosed were all the lingering ties of shame.
First to the fane the sisters haste away,
And there for peace at every shrine they pray,
And chosen ewes, as ancient rites ordain,
To Sire Lyaeus, to the God of Day,
And Ceres, giver of the law, are slain,
And most to Juno's power, who guards the nuptial chain.
IX. Herself, the lovely Dido, bowl in hand,
O'er a white heifer's forehead pours the wine,
Or by the Gods' rich altars takes her stand,
And piles the gifts, and o'er the slaughtered kine
Pores, from the quivering heartstrings to divine
The doom of Fate. Blind seers, alas! what art
To calm her frenzy, now hath vow or shrine?
Deep in her marrow feeds the tender smart,
Unseen, the silent wound is festering in her heart.
X. Poor Dido burns, and roams from street to street,
Wild as a doe, whom heedless, far away,
Some swain hath pierced amid the woods of Crete,
And left, unware, the flying steel to stay,
While through the forests and the lawns his prey
Roams, with the death-bolt clinging to her side.
Now to AEneas doth the queen display
Her walls and wealth, the dowry of his bride;
Oft she essays to speak, so oft the utterance died.
XI. Again, when evening steals upon the light,
She seeks the feast, again would fain give ear
To Troy's sad tale and, ravished with delight,
Hangs on his lips; and when the hall is clear,
And the moon sinks, and drowsy stars appear,
Alone she mourns, clings to the couch he pressed,
Him absent sees, his absent voice doth hear,
Now, fain to cheat her utter love's unrest,
Clasps for his sire's sweet sake Ascanius to her breast.
XII. No longer rise the growing towers, nor care
The youths in martial exercise to vie,
Nor ports nor bulwarks for defence prepare.
The frowning battlements neglected lie,
And lofty scaffolding that threats the sky.
Her, when Saturnian Juno saw possessed
With love so tameless, as would dare defy
The shame that whispers in a woman's breast,
Forthwith the queen of Jove fair Venus thus addressed:
XIII. "Fine spoils, forsooth, proud triumph ye have won,
Thou and thy boy,--vast worship and renown!
Two gods by fraud one woman have undone.
But well I know ye fear the rising town,
The homes of Carthage offered for your own.
When shall this end? or why a feud so dire?
Let lasting peace and plighted wedlock crown
The compact. See, thou hast thy heart's desire,
Poor Dido burns with love, her blood is turned to fire.
XIV. "Come then and rule we, each with equal power,
These folks as one. Let Tyrian Dido bear
A Phrygian's yoke, and Tyrians be her dower."
Then Venus, for she marked the Libyan snare
To snatch Italia's lordship, "Who would care
To spurn such offer, or with thee contend,
Should fortune follow on a scheme so fair?
'Tis Fate, I doubt, if Jupiter intend
The sons of Tyre and Troy in common league to blend.
XV. "Thou art his consort; 'tis thy right to learn
By prayer the counsels of his breast. Lead thou,
I follow." Quickly Juno made return:
"Be mine that task. Now briefly will I show
What means our purpose shall achieve, and how.
Soon as to-morrow's rising sun is seen,
And Titan's rays unveil the world below,
Forth ride AEneas and the love-sick Queen,
With followers to the chase, to scour the woodland green.
XVI. "While busy beaters round the lawns prepare
Their feathered nets, thick sleet-storms will I shower
And rend all heaven with thunder. Here and there
The rest shall fly, and in the darkness cower.
One cave shall screen both lovers in that hour.
There will I be, if thou approve, meanwhile
And make her his in wedlock. Hymen's power
Shall seal the rite."--Not adverse, with a smile
Sweet Venus nods assent, and gladdens at the guile.
XVII. Meanwhile Aurora o'er the deep appears.
At daybreak, issuing from the gates is seen
A chosen train, with nets and steel-tipt spears
And wide-meshed toils; and sleuth-hounds, staunch and keen,
Mixed with Massylian riders, scour the green.
Each on his charger, by the doorway sit
The princes, waiting for the lingering Queen.
Her steed, with gold and purple housings fit,
Impatient paws the ground, and champs the foaming bit.
XVIII. Now forth at length, with numbers in her train,
She comes in state, majestic to behold,
Wrapped in a purpled scarf of Tyrian grain.
All golden is her quiver; knots of gold
Confine her hair; a golden clasp doth hold
Her purple cloak. Behind her throng amain
The Trojans, with Iulus, blithe and bold,
And good AEneas, with the rest, as fain,
Joins in, and steps along, the comeliest of the train.
XIX. As when from wintry Lycia and the shore
Of Xanthus, to his mother's Delian seat
Apollo comes, the dances to restore.
Around his shrines Dryopians, sons of Crete,
And tattooed Agathyrsians shouting meet.
He, on high Cynthus moving, binds around
His flowing locks the foliage soft and sweet,
And braids with gold: his arms behind him sound,
So firm AEneas strode, such grace his features crowned.
XX. The hill-tops and the pathless lairs they gain.
Lo! from the rocks dislodged, the goats in fear
Bound o'er the crags. In dust-clouds o'er the plain
Down from the mountains rush the frightened deer.
On mettled steed the boy, in wild career,
Outrides them, glorying in the chase. No more
He heeds such timid prey, but longs to hear
The tawny lion, issuing with a roar
Forth from the lofty hills, and front the foaming boar.
XXI. Meanwhile deep mutterings vex the louring sky,
And, mixt with hail, in torrents comes the rain.
Scar'd, o'er the fields to diverse shelter fly
Troy's sons, Ascanius, and the Tyrian train.
Down from the hills the deluge pours amain.
One cave protects the pair. Earth gives the sign,
With Juno, mistress of the nuptial chain.
And heaven bears witness, and the lightnings shine,
And from the crags above shriek out the Nymphs divine.
XXII. Dark day of fate, and dismal hour of sin!
Then first disaster did the gods ordain,
And death and woe were destined to begin.
Nor shame nor scandal now the Queen restrain,
No more she meditates to hide the stain,
No longer chooses to conceal her flame.
Marriage she calls it, but the fraud is plain,
And pretexts weaves, and with a specious name
Attempts to veil her guilt, and sanctify her shame.
XXIII. Fame with the news through Libya's cities hies,
Fame, far the swiftest of all mischiefs bred;
Speed gives her force; she strengthens as she flies.
Small first through fear, she lifts a loftier head,
Her forehead in the clouds, on earth her tread.
Last sister of Enceladus, whom Earth
Brought forth, in anger with the gods, 'tis said,
Swift-winged, swift-footed, of enormous girth,
Huge, horrible, deformed, a giantess from birth.
XXIV. As many feathers as her form surround,
Strange sight! peep forth so many watchful eyes,
So many mouths and tattling tongues resound,
So many ears among the plumes uprise.
By night with shrieks 'twixt heaven and earth she flies,
Nor suffers sleep her eyelids to subdue;
By day, the terror of great towns, she spies
From towers and housetops, perched aloft in view,
Fond of the false and foul, yet herald of the true.
XXV. So now, exulting, with a mingled hum
Of truth and falsehood, through the crowd she sped;
How one AEneas hath from Ilion come,
A Dardan guest, whom Dido deigns to wed.
Now, lapt in dalliance and with ease o'erfed,
All winter long they revel in their shame,
Lost to their kingdoms. Such the tale she spread;
And straight the demon to Iarbas came,
And wrath on wrath upheaped, and fanned his soul to flame.
XXVI. Born of a nymph, by Ammon's forced embrace,
A hundred temples and in each a shrine
He built to Jove, the father of his race,
And lit the sacred fires, that sleepless shine,
The Gods' eternal watches. Slaughtered kine
Smoke on the teeming pavement, garlands fair
Of various hues the stately porch entwine.
Stung by the bitter tidings, in despair
Before the gods he kneels, and pours a suppliant's prayer.
XXVII. "Great Jove, to whom our Moorish tribes, reclined
On broidered couch, the votive wine-cup drain,
See'st thou or, Father, are thy bolts but blind,
Mere noise thy thunder, and thy lightnings vain?
This woman here, who, wandering on the main,
Bought leave to build and govern as her own
Her puny town, and till the sandy plain,
Our proffered love hath ventured to disown,
And takes a Trojan lord, AEneas, to her throne.
XXVIII. "And now that Paris, tricked in Lydian guise,
With perfumed locks and bonnet, and his crew
Of men half-women, gloats upon the prize,
While vainly at thy so-called shrines we sue,
And nurse a faith as empty as untrue."
He prayed and clasped the altar. His request
Jove heard, and to the city bent his view,
And saw the guilty lovers, lapt in rest
And lost to shame, and thus Cyllenius he addressed:
XXIX. "Go, son, the Zephyrs call, and wing thy flight
To Carthage. Call the Dardan chief away,
Who, deaf to Fate, his destined walls doth slight.
This mandate through the wafting air convey,
Not such fair Venus did her son pourtray,
Nor twice for _this_ from Grecian swords reclaim
One born to rule Italia, big with sway
And fierce for war, and spread the Teucrian name
Through Teucer's sons, and laws to conquered earth proclaim.
XXX. "If glory cannot tempt him, nor inflame
His soul to win such greatness, if indeed
He takes no trouble for his own fair fame,
Shall he, a father, envy to his seed
The towers of Rome, by destiny decreed?
What schemes he now? what hope the chief constrains
To linger 'mid a hostile race, nor heed
Ausonia's sons and the Lavinian plains?
Go, bid him sail; enough; that word the sum contains."
XXXI. Jove spake. Cyllenius to his feet binds fast
His golden sandals, that aloft in flight
O'er sea and shore upbear him with the blast,
Then takes his rod--the rod of mystic might,
That calls from Hell or plunges into night
The pallid ghosts, gives sleep or bids it fly,
And lifts the dead man's eyelids to the light.
Armed with that rod, he rules the clouds on high,
And drives the scattered gales, and sails the stormy sky.
XXXII. Now, borne along, beneath him he espies
The sides precipitous and towering peak
Of rugged Atlas, who upholds the skies.
Round his pine-covered forehead, wild and bleak,
The dark clouds settle and the storm-winds shriek.
His shoulders glisten with the mantling snow,
Dark roll the torrents down his aged cheek,
Seamed with the wintry ravage, and below,
Stiff with the gathered ice his hoary beard doth show.
XXXIII. Poised on his wings, here first Cyllenius stood,
Then downward shot, and in the salt sea spray
Dipped like a sea-gull, who, in quest of food,
Searches the teeming shore-cliffs for his prey,
And scours the rocks and skims along the bay.
So swiftly now, between the earth and skies,
Leaving his mother's sire, his airy way
Cyllene's god on cleaving pinions plies,
As o'er the Libyan sands along the wind he flies.
XXXIV. Scarce now at Carthage had he stayed his feet,
Among the huts AEneas he espied,
Planning new towers and many a stately street.
A sword-hilt, starred with jasper, graced his side,
A scarf, gold-broidered by the queen, and dyed
With Tyrian hues, was o'er his shoulders thrown.
"What, thou--wilt thou build Carthage?" Hermes cried,
"And stay to beautify thy lady's town,
And dote on Tyrian realms, and disregard thine own?
XXXV. "Himself, the Sire, who rules the earth and skies,
Sends me from heaven his mandate to proclaim.
What scheme is thine? what hope allures thine eyes,
To loiter thus in Libya? If such fame
Nowise can move thee, nor thy soul inflame,
If loth to labour for thine own renown,
Think of thy young Ascanius; see with shame
His rising promise, scarce to manhood grown,
Hope of the Roman race, and heir of Latium's throne."
XXXVI. He spake and, speaking, vanished into air.
Dumb stood AEneas, by the sight unmann'd:
Fear stifled speech and stiffened all his hair.
Fain would he fly, and quit the tempting land,
Surprised and startled by the god's command.
Ah! what to do? what opening can he find
To break the news, the infuriate Queen withstand?
This way and that dividing his swift mind,
All means in turns he tries, and wavers like the wind.
XXXVII. This plan prevails; he bids a chosen few
Collect the crews in silence, arm the fleet
And hide the purport of these counsels new,
Himself, since Dido dreams not of deceit,
Nor thinks such passion can be frail or fleet,
Some avenue of access will essay,
Some tender moment for soft speeches meet,
And wit shall find, and cunning smooth the way.
With joy the captains hear, and hasten to obey.
XXXVIII. But Dido--who can cheat a lover's care?
Could guess the fraud, the coming change descry,
And in the midst of safety feared a snare.
Now wicked Fame hath bid the rumour fly
Of mustering crews. Poor Dido, crazed thereby,
Raves like a Thyiad, when the frenzied rout
With orgies hurry to Cithaeron high,
And "Bacchus! Bacchus" through the night they shout.
At length the chief she finds, and thus her wrath breaks out:
XXXIX. "Thought'st thou to steal in silence from the land,
False wretch! and cloak such treason with a lie?
Can neither love, nor this my plighted hand,
Nor dying Dido keep thee? Must thou fly,
When North-winds howl, and wintry waves are high?
O cruel! what if home before thee lay,
Not lands unknown, beneath an alien sky,
If Troy were standing, as in ancient day,
Would'st thou for Troy's own sake this angry deep essay?
XL. "_Me_ dost thou fly? O, by these tears, thy hand
Late pledged, since madness leaves me naught beside,
But lovers' vows and wedlock's sacred band,
Scarce knit and now too soon to be untied;
If aught were pleasing in a new-won bride,
If sweet the memory of our marriage day,
O by these prayers--if place for prayer abide--
In mercy put that cruel mind away.
Pity a falling house, now hastening to decay.
XLI. "For thee the Libyans and each Nomad lord
Hate me, and Tyrians would their queen disown.
My wifely honour is a name abhorred,
And that chaste fame has perished, which alone
Perchance had raised me to a starry throne.
O think with whom thou leav'st me to thy fate,
Dear guest, no longer as a husband known.
Why stay I? till Pygmalion waste my state,
Or on Iarbas' wheels, a captive queen, to wait?
XLII. "Ah! if at least, ere thou had'st sailed away,
Some babe, the token of thy love, were born,
Some child AEneas, in my halls to play,
Like thee at least in look, I should not mourn
As altogether captive and forlorn."
She paused, but he, at Jove's command, his eyes
Keeps still unmoved, and, though with anguish torn,
Strives with his love, nor suffers it to rise,
But checks his heaving heart, and thus at length replies:
XLIII. "Never, dear Queen, will I disown the debt,
Thy love's deserts, too countless to repeat,
Nor ever fair Elissa's name forget,
While memory shall last, or pulses beat.
Few words are mine, for fewest words are meet.
Think not I meant--the very thought were shame--
Thief-like to veil my going with deceit.
I gave no promise of a husband's name,
Nor talked of ties like that, or wedlock's sacred flame.
XLIV. "Did Fate but let me shape my life at will,
And rest at pleasure, Ilion, first of all,
And Troy's sweet relics would I cling to still,
And Pergama and Priam's stately hall
Once more should cheer the vanquished for their fall.
But now Grynoean Phoebus bids me fare
To great Italia; to Italia call
The Lycian lots, and so the Fates declare.
There lies the land I love, my destined home is there.
XLV. "If thee, Tyre-born, a Libyan town detain,
What grudge to Troy Ausonia's land denies?
We too may seek a foreign realm to gain.
Me, oft as Night's damp shadows from the skies
Have shrouded Earth, and fiery stars arise,
My sire Anchises' troubled ghost in sleep
Upbraids and scares, and ever louder cries
The wrong, that on Ascanius' head I heap,
Whom from Hesperia's plains, his destined realms, I keep.
XLVI. "Now, too, Jove's messenger himself comes down--
Bear witness both--I heard the voice divine,
I saw the God just entering the town.
Cease then to vex me, nor thyself repine.
Heaven's will to Latium summons me, not mine."
Him, speaking thus and pleading but in vain,
She viewed askance, rolling her restless eyne,
Then scanned him o'er, long silent, in disdain,
And thus at length broke out, and gave her wrath the rein.
XLVII. "False traitor! Goddess never gave thee birth,
Nor of thy race was Dardanus the first.
Thy limbs were fashioned in the womb of Earth,
The rugged rocks of Caucasus accurst.
Hyrcanian tigresses thy childhood nursed.
Why fawn and feign? what more have I to fear,
What more to wait for, having known the worst?
Moved he those eyes? dropped he a single tear
Sighed he with me, or spake a lover's heart to cheer?
XLVIII. "What first? what last? Nor Juno, nay, nor Jove
With equal eyes beholds the wrongs I bear.
Faithless is earth, and false is Heaven above.
I took him in, an outcast, and bade spare,
His ships and wandering comrades, let him share
My home, and made him partner of my reign.
Ah me! the Furies drive me to despair.
Now Phoebus calls him, now the Lycian fane,
Now Jove's own herald brings the dreadful news too plain:
XLIX. "Fit task for Gods; such cares disturb their ease.
I care not to confute thee nor delay.
Go, seek thy Latin lordship o'er the seas.
May Heaven--if Heaven be righteous--make thee pay
Thy forfeit, left on ocean's rocks to pray
For help to Dido. There shall Dido go
With sulphurous flames, and vex thee far away.
My ghost in death shall haunt thee. I shall know
Thy punishment, false wretch, and hail the news below."
L. Abrupt she ceased and, sickening with despair,
Turns from his gaze, and shuns the light of day,
And leaves the Dardan, faltering in his fear,
And thinking of a thousand things to say.
Back to her marble couch the maids convey
The fainting Queen. The pious Prince, though fain
With gentle words her anguish to ally,
Sighing full sore, and racked with inward pain,
Bows to the God's behest, and hastens to the main.
LI. Stirred by his presence, at their chief's command,
The Trojan mariners, with might and main,
Bend to the work. Along the shelving strand
They launch tall ships that long had idle lain.
The tarred keel joys the waters to regain.
Timbers unshaped and many a green-leaved oar
They fetch from out the forest, glad and fain
To speed their flight, and hurrying to the shore
Forth from the town-gates fast the mustering Trojans pour.
LII. As ants that, mindful of the cold to come,
Lay waste a mighty heap of garnered grain,
And store the golden treasure in their home:
Back through the grass, with plunder, o'er the plain
In narrow column troops the sable train:
Their tiny shoulders heave, with restless moil,
The cumbrous atomies; these scourge amain
The loiterers in the rear, and guard the spoil.
Hot fares the busy work; the pathway glows with toil.
LIII. What, hapless Dido, were thy feelings then?
What groans were thine, from out thy tower to view
The ships prepared, the shores astir with men,
The turmoil'd deep, the shouting of each crew!
O tyrant love, so potent to subdue!
Again, perforce, she weeps for him; again
She stoops to try persuasion, and to sue,
And yields, a suppliant, to her love's sweet pain,
Lest aught remain untried, and Dido die in vain.
LIV. "Look yonder, look, dear Anna! all around
They crowd the shore their canvas wooes the wind!
Behold the poops with festal garlands crown'd.
If I could bear this prospect, I shall find
Strength still to suffer, and a soul resign'd.
One boon I ask--O pity my distress--
For thee alone he tells his inmost mind,
To thee alone unperjur'd; thou can'st guess
The means of soft approach, the seasons of address;
LV. "Go, sister, meekly tell the haughty foe,
Not I at Aulis with the Greeks did swear
To smite the Trojans and their towers o'erthrow,
Nor sought his father's ashes to uptear.
Whom shuns he? wherefore would he spurn my prayer?
Beg him, in pity of poor love, to stay
Till flight is easy, and the winds breathe fair.
Not now for wedlock's broken vows I pray,
Nor bid him lose for me fair Latium and his sway.
LVI. "I ask but time--a respite and reprieve--
A little truce, my passion to allay,
Till fortune teach my baffled love to grieve.
Grant, sister, this, the latest grace I pray,
And Death with interest shall the debt repay."
She spake; sad Anna to the Dardan bears
Her piteous plea. But Fate hath barred the way:
Deaf stands AEneas to her prayers and tears:
Jove, unrelenting Jove, hath stopped his gentle ears.
LVII. E'en as when Northern Alpine blasts contend
This side and that to lay an oak-tree low,
Aged but strong: the branches creak and bend,
And leaves thick-falling all the ground bestrow:
The trunk clings firmly to the rock below:
High as it rears its weather-beaten crest,
So dive its roots to Tartarus. Even so
Beset with prayers, the hero stands distrest;
So vain are Anna's tears, so moveless is his breast.
LVIII. Then--then unhappy Dido prays to die,
Maddened by Fate, aweary of the day,
Aweary of the over-arching sky.
And lo! an omen seems to chide delay,
And steel her purpose. As, in act to pay
Her gifts, with incense at the shrine she kneels,
Black turns the water, horrible to say;
To loathsome gore the sacred wine congeals.
Not e'en to Anna's self this vision she reveals.
LIX. Nay more; within the precincts of her house
There stood a marble shrine, with garlands bright
And snow-white fleeces, sacred to her spouse.
Hence, oft as darkness shrouds the world from sight,
Voices she hears, and accents of affright,
As though Sychaeus told aloud his wrong,
Hears from the roof-top, through the livelong night,
The solitary screech-owl's funeral song,
Wailing an endless dirge, the dismal notes prolong.
LX. Dim warnings, given by many an ancient seer,
Affright her. Ever wandering, ever lost,
In dreams she sees the fierce AEneas near,
And seeks her Tyrians on a lonely coast.
So raving Pentheus sees the Furies' host,
Twin suns and double Thebes. So, mad with Fate,
Blood-stained Orestes flees his mother's ghost,
Armed with black snakes and firebrands; at the gate
The avenging Fiends, close-crouched, the murderer await.
LXI. So now, possessed with Furies, the poor queen,
O'ercome with grief and resolute to die,
Settles the time and manner. Joy serene
Smiles on her brow, her purpose to belie,
And hope dissembled sparkles in her eye.
"Dear Anna," thus she hails with cheerful tone
Her weeping sister, "put thy sorrow by,
And joy with me. Indulgent Heaven hath shown
A way to gain his love, or rid me of my own.
LXII. "Near Ocean's limits and the sunset, lies
A far-off land, by AEthiopians owned,
Where mighty Atlas turns the spangled skies.
There a Massylian priestess I have found,
The warder of the Hesperian fane renowned.
'Twas hers to feed the dragon, hers to keep
The golden fruit, and guard the sacred ground,
The dragon's food in honied drugs to steep,
And mix the poppy drowse, that soothes the soul to sleep.
LXIII. "What souls she listeth, with her charms she claims
To free from passion, or with pains to smite
The love-sick heart; the planets all she tames,
And stays the rivers; and her voice of might
Calls forth the spirits from the realms of night.
Thyself the rumbling of the ground shalt hear,
And see the tall ash tumble from the height.
O, by the Gods, by thy sweet self I swear,
Loth am I, sister dear, these magic arms to wear.
LXIV. "Thou privily within the courtyard frame
A lofty pyre; his armour and attire
Heap on it, and the fatal couch of shame.
All relics of the wretch are doomed to fire;
So bids the priestess, and her charms require."
She ended, pale as death, and Anna plied
Her task, not dreaming of a rage so dire.
Nought worse she fears than when Sychaeus died,
Nor recks that these strange rites her purposed death could hide.
LXV. Now rose the pile within the courtyard's space,
Of oak and pine-wood, open to the wind.
Herself the Queen with garlands decked the place,
And funeral chaplets in the sides entwined.
Above, his robes, the sword he left behind,
And, last, his image on the couch she laid,
Foreknowing all, and while the altars shined
With blazing offerings, the enchantress-maid,
Frenzied, with thundering voice and tresses disarrayed,
LXVI. Summons her gods--three hundred powers divine,
Chaos and Erebus, in Hell supreme,
And Dian-Hecate, the maiden trine;
Then water, feigned of dark Avernus' stream,
She sprinkles round. Rank herbs are sought, that teem
With poisonous juice, and plants at midnight shorn
With brazen sickles by the Moon's pale beam,
And from the forehead of a foal new-born,
Ere by the dam devoured, love's talisman is torn.
LXVII. Herself, the queen, before the altar stands,
One foot unsandalled, and her flowing vest
Loosed from its cincture. In her stainless hands
The sacrificial cake she holds; her breast
Heaves, with approaching agony oppressed.
She calls the conscious planets as they move,
She calls the stars, her purpose to attest,
And all the gods, if any rules above,
Mindful of lovers' wrongs, and just to injured love.
LXVIII. 'Twas night; on earth all creatures were asleep:
Midway the stars moved silent through the sphere;
Hushed were the forest and the angry deep,
And hushed was every field, and far and near
Reigned stillness, and the night spread calm and clear.
The flocks, the birds, with painted plumage gay,
That haunt the copse, or dwell in brake and brere,
Or skim the liquid lakes--all silent lay,
Lapt in oblivion sweet, forgetful of the day.
LXIX. Not so unhappy Dido; no sweet peace
Dissolves her cares; her wakeful eyes and breast
Drink not the dewy night; her pains increase,
And love, with warring passions unsuppressed,
Swells up, and stirs the tumult of unrest.
"What, then," she sadly ponders, "shall I do?
Ah, woe is me! shall Dido, made a jest
To former lovers, stoop herself to sue,
And beg the Nomad lords their oft-scorned vows renew?
LXX. "Or with the fleet of Ilion shall I sail,
The slave and menial of a Trojan crew,
As though they count past kindness of avail,
Or dream that aught of gratitude be due?
Grant that I wished it, of these lordings who
Would take me, humbled and a thing of scorn?
Is Dido blind, if Trojans are untrue?
Know'st thou not yet, O lost one and forlorn,
Troy's perjured race still shows Laomedon forsworn?
LXXI. "What, fly alone, and join their shouting crew?
Or launch, and chase them with my Tyrian train
Scarce torn from Tyre? Nay--die and take thy due;
The sword alone can ease thee of thy pain.
Sister, 'twas thy weak pity wrought this bane,
Swayed by my tears, and gave me to the foe.
Ah! had I lived unloving, void of stain,
Free as the beasts, nor meddled with this woe,
Nor wronged with broken vows Sychaeus' shade below!"
LXXII. So wailed the Queen. AEneas, fixt in mind,
All things prepared, his voyage to pursue,
Snatched a brief slumber, on the deck reclined,
Lo, in a dream, returning near him drew
The God, and seemed his warning to renew.
Like Mercury, the very God behold!
So sweet his voice, so radiant was his hue,
Such loveliness of limb and youthful mould,
Such cheeks of ruddiest bloom, and locks of burnished gold.
LXXIII. "O goddess-born AEneas, can'st thou sleep,
Nor see the dangers that around thee lie,
Nor hear the Zephyrs whispering to the deep.
Dark crimes the Queen is plotting, bent to die
And tost with varying passions. Haste thee--fly,
While flight is open. Morn shall see the bay
Swarm with their ships, and all the shore and sky
Red with fierce firebrands and the flames. Away!
Changeful is woman's mood, and varying with the day."
LXXIV. He spake and, mixing with the night, withdrew.
Up starts AEneas from his sleep, so sore
The vision scared him, and awakes his crew.
"Quick, comrades, man the benches! ply the oar!
Unfurl the canvas! Lo, a God once more
Comes down to urge us, chiding our delay,
And bids us cut our cables from the shore.
Dread Power divine, we follow on thy way,
Gladly, whoe'er thou art, thy summons we obey.
LXXV. "Be near us now, and O, vouchsafe thine aid,
And bid fair stars their kindly beams afford
To light our pathway through the deep." He prayed,
And from the scabbard snatched his flaming sword,
And, swift as lightning, cleft the twisted cord.
Fired by their chief, like ardour fills the crew,
They scour, they scud and, hurrying, crowd on board.
Bare lies the beach; ships hide the sea from view,
And strong arms lash the foam and sweep the sparkling blue.
LXXVI. Now rose Aurora from the saffron bed
Of old Tithonus, and with orient ray
Sprinkled the earth. Forth looks the Queen in dread,
And from her watch-tower marks the twilight grey
Glow with the shimmering whiteness of the day,
The harbour shipless and the shore all bare,
The fleet with full-squared canvas under weigh.
Then thrice and four times, frantic with despair,
She beats her beauteous breast, and rends her golden hair.
LXXVII. "Ah! Jove, shall he escape me? Shall he mock
My queenship? He, an alien, flout my sway?
Will no one arm and chase them, or undock
The ships? Bring fire; get weapons, quick! Away!
Swing out the oars! Ah me! what do I say?
Where am I? O, what madness turns my brain?
Poor Dido, hath thy folly found its prey?
Thy sins, alas! they sting thee, but in vain.
They should have done so then, when yielding him thy reign.
LXXVIII. "Lo, there his honour and the faith he swore,
Who takes Troy's gods the partners of his flight,
And erst from Troy his aged parent bore.
O, had I torn him piecemeal, as I might,
And strewn him on the waves, and slain outright
His friends, and for the father's banquet spread
The murdered boy! But doubtful were the fight.
Grant that it had been, whom should Dido dread,
What fear had death for me, self-destined to be dead?
LXXIX. "These hands the firebrands at his feet had cast,
And filled with flames his hatches. Sire and son
And all their race had perished with the past,
And I, too, perished with them. O great Sun,
Whose torch reveals whate'er on Earth is done,
Juno, who know'st the passion that devours
Poor Dido; Hecate, where crossways run
Night-howled in cities; ye avenging Powers,
Friends, Furies, Gods that guard Elissa's dying hours!
LXXX. "Mark this, compassionate these woes, and bow
To supplication. If the Fates demand--
Curst be his head!--that he escape me now,
And touch his haven, and float up to land.
If so Jove wills, and fixt his edicts stand,
Then, scourged with warfare by a daring race,
In vain for succour let him stretch his hand,
And see his people perish with disgrace,
An exile, torn from home and from his son's embrace.
LXXXI. "And when hard peace the traitor stoops to buy,
No realm be his, nor happy days in store.
Cut off in prime of manhood let him die,
And rot unburied on the sandy shore.
This dying curse, this utterance I pour,
The latest, with my life-blood,--this my prayer.
Them and their children's children evermore
Ye Tyrians, with immortal hate outwear.
This gift--'twill please me best--for Dido's shade prepare.
LXXXII. "This heritage be yours; no truce nor trust
'Twixt theirs and ours, no union or accord
Arise, unknown Avenger from our dust;
With fire and steel upon the Dardan horde
Mete out the measure of their crimes' reward.
To-day, to-morrow, for eternity
Fight, oft as ye are able--sword with sword,
Shore with opposing shore, and sea with sea;
Fight, Tyrians, all that are, and all that e'er shall be."
LXXXIII. So spake the queen, and pondered in her breast
How of her loathed life to clip the thread,
Then briefly thus Sychaeus' nurse addressed
(Her own at Tyre lay buried)--"Haste," she said,
"Dear Barce; call my sister; let her head
With living water from the lustral bough
Be sprinkled. Hither be the victims led,
And due atoning offerings, and thou
Bring forth the sacred wreath, and bind it on thy brow.
LXXXIV. "The sacrifice, prepared for Stygian Jove,
I purpose now to consummate, and pay
The last sad rites, and ease me of my love,
And burn the couch whereon the Dardan lay."
She spake; the old dame tottering hastes away.
Maddening stood Dido at the doom so dread,
With bloodshot eyes and trembling with dismay,
Her quivering cheeks flecked with the burning red,
Pale with approaching death, but yearning to be dead.
LXXXV. So bursting through the inner doors she flew
And, with wild frenzy, climbed the lofty pyre,
Then seized the scabbard he had left, and drew
The sword, ne'er given for an end so dire.
But when, with eyes still wistful with desire,
She viewed the bed that she had known too well,
The Ilian raiment and the chief's attire,
She paused, then musing, while the teardrops fell,
Sank on the fatal couch, and cried a last farewell:
LXXXVI. "Dear relics! loved while Fate and Jove were kind,
Receive this soul, and free me from my woe.
My life is lived; behold, the course assigned
By Fortune now is finished, and I go,
A shade majestic, to the world below,
A glorious city I have built, have seen
My walls, avenged my husband of his foe.
Thrice happy, ah! too happy had I been
Had Dardan ships, alas! not come to bring me teen!"
LXXXVII. She paused, and pressed her lips upon the bed.
"To die--and unavenged? Yea, let me die!
Thus--thus it joys to journey to the dead.
Let yon false Dardan with remorseful eye
Drink in this bale-fire from the deep, and sigh
To bear the omens of my death."--No more
She said, but swooned. The servants see her lie,
Sunk on the sword; they see the life-blood pour,
Reddening her tender hands, the weapon drenched with gore.
LXXXVIII. Then through the lofty palace rose a scream,
And madly Rumour riots, as she flies
Through the shocked town. The very houses seem
To groan, and shrieks, and sobbing and the cries
Of wailing women pierce the vaulted skies.
'Twas e'en as though all Carthage or old Tyre
Were falling, stormed by ruthless enemies,
While over roof and battlement and spire
And temples of the Gods rolled on the infuriate fire.
LXXXIX. Her sister heard, and through the concourse came,
And tore her cheeks and beat her bosom fair,
And called upon the dying Queen by name.
"Sister! was this thy secret? thine this snare?
For me this fraud? For this did I prepare
That pyre, those flames and altars? This the end?
Ah me, forlorn! what worse remains to bear?
Would'st thou in death desert me, and pretend
To scorn a sister's care, and shun me as a friend?
XC. "Thou should'st have called me to thy doom! One stroke,
A moment's pang, and we had ceased to sigh.
Reared I this pyre, did I the gods invoke
To leave thee thus companionless, to die?
Lo, all are dead together, thou and I,
Town, princes, people, perished in a day.
Bring water; let me close the lightless eye,
And bathe those wounds, and kiss those lips of clay,
And catch one fluttering breath, if yet, perchance, I may!"
XCI. So saying, she climbs the steps, and, groaning sore,
Clasps to her breast her sister ere she dies,
And stanches with her robe the streaming gore.
In vain poor Dido lifts her wearied eyes,
The closing eyelids sicken at the skies.
Deep gurgles in her breast the deadly wound;
Thrice on her elbow she essays to rise,
Thrice back she sinks. With wandering eyes all round
She seeks the light of heaven, and moans when it is found.
XCII. Then Juno, pitying her agony
Of lingering death, sent Iris down with speed.
Her struggling soul from clinging limbs to free.
For since by Fate, or for her own misdeed
She perished not, but, ere the day decreed,
Fell in the frenzy of her love's despair,
Not yet Proserpina had claimed her meed,
And shorn the ringlet of her golden hair,
And bade the sacred shade to Stygian realms repair.
XCIII. So down to earth came Iris from on high
On saffron wings all glittering with the dew.
A thousand tints against the sunlit sky
She flashed from out her rainbow as she flew,
Then, hovering overhead, these words outthrew,
"Behold, to Dis this offering I bear,
And loose thee from thy body."--Forth she drew
The fatal shears, and clipped the golden hair;
The vital heats disperse, and life dissolves in air.
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