The Aeneid of Virgil - Translated into English Verse by E. Fairfax Taylor
by Virgil
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LXXIX. "Not so; though glory wait not on the act; Though poor the praise, and barren be the gain, Vengeance on feeble woman to exact, Yet praised hereafter shall his name remain, Who purges earth of such a monstrous stain. Sweet is the passion of vindictive joy, Sweet is the punishment, where just the pain, Sweet the fierce ardour of revenge to cloy, And slake with Dardan blood the funeral flames of Troy.

LXXX. "So mused I, blind with anger, when in light Apparent, never so refulgent seen, My mother dawned irradiate on the night, Confessed a Goddess, such her form, and mien And starry stature of celestial sheen. With her right hand she grasped me from above, And thus with roseate lips: 'O son, what mean These transports? Say, what bitter grief doth move Thy soul to rage untamed? Where vanished is thy love?

LXXXI. "'Wilt thou not see, if yet thy sire survive, Worn out with age, amid the war's alarms? And if thy wife Creusa be alive, And young Ascanius? for around thee swarms The foe, and but for my protecting arms, Fierce sword or flame had swept them all away. Not oft-blamed Paris, nor the hateful charms Of Helen; Heaven, unpitying Heaven to-day Hath razed the Trojan towers and reft the Dardan sway.

LXXXII. "'Look now, for I will clear the mists that shroud Thy mortal gaze, and from the visual ray Purge the gross covering of this circling cloud. Thou heed, and fear not, whatsoe'er I say, Nor scorn thy mother's counsels to obey. Here, where thou seest the riven piles o'erthrown, Mixt dust and smoke, rock torn from rock away, Great Neptune's trident shakes the bulwarks down, And from its lowest base uproots the trembling town.

LXXXIII. "'Here, girt with steel, the foremost in the fight, Fierce Juno stands, the Scaean gates before, And, mad with fury and malignant spite, Calls up her federate forces from the shore. See, on the citadel, all grim with gore, Red-robed, and with the Gorgon shield aglow, Tritonian Pallas bids the conflict roar. E'en Jove with strength reanimates the foe, And stirs the powers of heaven to work the Dardan's woe.

LXXXIV. "'Haste, son, and fly; the fruitless toil give o'er. I will not leave thee, but assist thy flight, And set thee safely at thy father's door.' She spake, and vanished in the gloom of night. Dread shapes and forms terrific loomed in sight, And hostile deities, whose faces frowned Destruction. Then, amid the lurid light, I see Troy sinking in the flames around, And mighty Neptune's walls laid level with the ground.

LXXXV. "So, when an aged ash on mountain tall Stout woodmen strive, with many a rival blow, To rend from earth; awhile it threats to fall, With quivering locks and nodding head; now slow It sinks and, with a dying groan lies low, And spreads its ruin on the mountain side. Down from the citadel I haste below, Through foe, through fire, the goddess for my guide. Harmless the darts give way, the sloping flames divide.

LXXXVI. "But when Anchises' ancient home I gain, My father,—he, whom first, with loving care, I sought and, heedful of my mother, fain In safety to the neighbouring hills would bear, Disdains Troy's ashes to outlive and wear His days in banishment: 'Fly ye, who may, Whom age hath chilled not, nor the years impair. For me, had Heaven decreed a longer day, Heaven too had spared these walls, nor left my home a prey.

LXXXVII. "'Enough and more, to live when Ilion fell, And once to see Troy captured. Leave me, pray, And bid me, as a shrouded corpse, farewell. For death—this hand will find for me the way, Or foes who spoil will pity me and slay. Light is the loss of sepulchre or pyre, Loathed have I lived and useless, since the day When man's great monarch and the God's dread sire Breathed his avenging blast and scathed me with his fire.'

LXXXVIII. "So spake he, on his purpose firmly bent. We—wife, child, family and I—with prayer And tears entreat the father to relent, Nor doom us all the common wreck to share, And urge the ruin that the Fates prepare. He heeds not—stirs not. Then again I fly To arms—to arms, in frenzy of despair, And long in utter misery to die. What other choice was left, what other chance to try?

LXXXIX. "'What, I to leave thee helpless, and to flee? O father! could'st thou fancy it? Could e'er A parent speak of such a crime to me? If Heaven of such a city naught should spare, And thou be pleased that thou and thine should share The common wreck, that way to death is plain. Wide stands the door; soon Pyrrhus will be there, Red with the blood of Priam; he hath slain The son before his sire, the father in the fane.

XC. "'Dost thou for this, dear mother, me through fire And foemen safely to my home restore; To see Creusa, and my son and sire Each foully butchered in the other's gore, And Danaans dealing slaughter at the door? Arms—bring me arms! Troy's dying moments call The vanquished. Give me to the Greeks. Once more Let me revive the battle; ne'er shall all Die unrevenged this day, nor tamely meet their fall.'

XCI. "Once more I girt me with the sword and shield, And forth had soon into the battle hied, When lo, Creusa at the doorway kneeled, And reached Iulus to his sire and cried: 'If death thou seekest, take me at thy side Thy death to share, but if, expert in strife, Thou hop'st in arms, here guard us and abide. To whom dost thou expose Iulus' life, Thy father's, yea, and mine, once called, alas! thy wife.'

XCII. "So wailed Creusa, and in wild despair Filled all the palace with her sobs and cries, When lo! a portent, wondrous to declare. For while, 'twixt sorrowing parents' hands and eyes, Stood young Iulus, wildered with surprise, Up from the summit of his fair, young head A tuft was seen of flickering flame to rise. Gently and harmless to the touch it spread Around his tender brows, and on his temples fed.

XCIII. "In haste we strive to quench the flame divine, Shaking the tresses of his burning hair. But gladly sire Anchises hails the sign, And gazing upward through the starlit air, His hands and voice together lifts in prayer: 'O Jove omnipotent, dread power benign, If aught our piety deserve, if e'er A suppliant move thee, hearken and incline This once, and aid us now and ratify thy sign.'

XCIV. "Scarce spake the sire when lo, to leftward crashed A peal of thunder, and amid the night A sky-dropt star athwart the darkness flashed, Trailing its torchfire with a stream of light. We mark the dazzling meteor in its flight Glide o'er the roof, till, vanished from our eyes, It hides in Ida's forest, shining bright And furrowing out a pathway through the skies, And round us far and wide the sulphurous fumes arise.

XCV. "Up rose my sire, submissive to the sign, And briefly to the Gods addressed his prayer, And bowed adoring to the star divine. 'Now, now,' he cries, 'no tarrying; wheresoe'er Ye point the path, I follow and am there. Gods of my fathers! O preserve to-day My home, preserve my grandchild; for your care Is Troy, and yours this omen. I obey; Lead on, my son, I yield and follow on thy way.'

XCVI. "He spake, and nearer through the city came The roar, the crackle and the fiery glow Of conflagration, rolling floods of flame. 'Quick, father, mount my shoulders; let us go. That toil shall never tire me. Come whatso The Fates shall bring us, both alike shall share One common welfare or one common woe. Let young Iulus at my side repair; Keep thou, my wife, aloof, and follow as we fare.

XCVII. "'Ye too, my servants, hearken my commands. Outside the city is a mound, where, dear To Ceres once, but now deserted, stands A temple, and an aged cypress near, For ages hallowed with religious fear, There meet we. Father, in thy charge remain Troy's gods; for me, red-handed with the smear Of blood, and fresh from slaughter, 'twere profane To touch them, ere the stream hath cleansed me of the stain.'

XCVIII. "So saying, my neck and shoulders I incline, And round them fling a lion's tawny hide, Then lift the load. His little hand in mine, Iulus totters at his father's side; Behind me comes Creusa. On we stride Through shadowy ways; and I who rushing spear And thronging foes but lately had defied, Now fear each sound, each whisper of the air, Trembling for him I lead, and for the charge I bear.

XCIX. "And now I neared the gates, and thought my flight Achieved, when suddenly a noise we hear Of trampling feet, and, peering through the night, My father cries, 'Fly, son, the Greeks are near; They come, I see the glint of shield and spear, Fierce foes in front and flashing arms behind.' Then trembling seized me and, amidst my fear, What power I know not, but some power unkind Confused my wandering wits, and robbed me of my mind.

C. "For while, the byways following, I left The beaten track, ah! woe and well away! My wife Creusa lost me;—whether reft By Fate, or faint or wandering astray, I know not, nor have seen her since that day, Nor sought, nor missed her, till in Ceres' fane We met at length, and mustered our array. There she alone was wanting of our train, And husband, son and friends all looked for her in vain!

CI. "Whom then did I upbraid not, wild with woe, Of gods or men? What sadder sight elsewhere Had Troy, now whelmed in utter wreck, to show? Troy's gods commending to my comrades' care, With old Anchises and my infant heir, I hide them in a winding vale from view, Then, sheathed again in shining arms, prepare Once more to scour the city through and through, Resolved to brave all risks, all ventures to renew.

CII. "I reach the ramparts and the shadowy gates Whence first I issued, backward through the night My studied steps retracing. Horror waits Around; the very silence breeds affright. Then homeward turn, if haply in her flight, If, haply, thither she had strayed; but ere I came, behold, the Danaans, loud in fight, Swarmed through the halls; roof-high the fiery glare, Fanned by the wind, mounts up; the loud blast roars in air.

CIII. "Again to Priam's palace, and again Up to the citadel I speed my way. Armed, in the vacant courts, by Juno's fane, Phoenix and curst Ulysses watched the prey. There, torn from many a burning temple, lay Troy's wealth; the tripods of the Gods were there, Piled in huge heaps, and raiment snatched away, And golden bowls, and dames with streaming hair And tender boys stand round, and tremble with despair.

CIV. "I shout, and through the darkness shout again, Rousing the streets, and call and call anew 'Creusa,' and 'Creusa,' but in vain. From house to house in frenzy as I flew, A melancholy spectre rose in view, Creusa's very image; ay, 'twas there, But larger than the living form I knew. Aghast I stood, tongue-tied, with stiffening hair. Then she addressed me thus, and comforted my care.

CV. "'What boots this idle passion? Why so fain Sweet husband, thus to sorrow and repine? Naught happens here but as the Gods ordain. It may not be, nor doth the Lord divine Of high Olympus nor the Fates design That thou should'st take Creusa. Seas remain To plough, long years of exile must be thine, Ere thou at length Hesperia's land shalt gain, Where Lydian Tiber glides through many a peopled plain.

CVI. "'Wide rule and happy days await thee there, And royal marriage shall thy portion be. Weep not for lov'd Creusa, weep not; ne'er To Grecian women shall I bow the knee, Never in Argos see captivity, I, who my lineage from the Dardans tell, Allied to Venus. Now, by Fate's decree, Here with the mother of the Gods I dwell. Farewell, and guard in love our common child. Farewell!'

CVII. "So spake she, and with weeping eyes I yearned To answer, wondering at the words she said, When lo, the shadowy spirit, as I turned, Dissolved in air, and in a moment fled. Thrice round the neck with longing I essayed To clasp the phantom in a wild delight; Thrice, vainly clasped, the visionary shade Mocked me embracing, and was lost to sight, Swift as a winged wind or slumber of the night.

CVIII. "Back to my friends I hasten. There, behold, Matrons and men, a miserable band, Gathered for exile. From each side they shoaled, Resolved and ready over sea and land My steps to follow, where the Fates command. Now over Ida shone the day-star bright; Greeks swarmed at every entrance; help at hand Seemed none. I yield, and, hurrying from the fight, Take up my helpless sire, and climb the mountain height."



In obedience to oracles the Trojans build a fleet and sail to Thrace (1-18). Seeking to found a city, they are warned away by the ghost of Polydorus and visit Anius in Ortygia (19-99). Apollo promises AEneas and his descendants world-wide empire if they return to "the ancient motherland" of Troy,—which Anchises declares to be Crete (100-144). They reach Crete, only to be again baffled. Drought and plague interrupt this second attempt to found a city. On the point of returning to ask Apollo for clearer counsel, AEneas in a dream is certified by the home-gods of Troy that the true motherland is Italy (145-207). Anchises owns his mistake, and recalls how Cassandra had in other days been mocked for prophesying that Troy should eventually be transplanted to Italy (208-225). Landing in the Strophades, they unwittingly wrong the Harpies, whose queen Celaeno thereupon threatens them with a portentous famine. Panic-stricken, they coast along to Actium, where they celebrate their national games and leave a defiance to the Greeks (226-342). At Buthrotum they find Helenus and Andromache in possession of the kingdom of Pyrrhus, and by them are entertained awhile and sent upon their way with gifts and guidance (343-577). The voyage from Dyrrhachium and the first glimpse of Italy. They land and propitiate Juno: then coast along till they sight Mount AEtna (578-666). After a description of the rescue of Achemenides and the escape from Polyphemus, the voyage and the story end with the death of Anchises at Drepanum (667-819).

I. "When now the Gods have made proud Ilion fall, And Asia's power and Priam's race renowned O'erwhelmed in ruin undeserved, and all Neptunian Troy lies smouldering on the ground, In desert lands, to diverse exile bound, Celestial portents bid us forth to fare; Where Ida's heights above Antandros frowned, A fleet we build, and gather crews, unware Which way the Fates will lead, what home is ours and where.

II. "Scarce now the summer had begun, when straight My father, old Anchises, gave command To spread our canvas and to trust to Fate. Weeping, I leave my native port, the land, The fields where once the Trojan towers did stand, And, homeless, launch upon the boundless brine, Heart-broken outcast, with an exiled band, Comrades, and son, and household gods divine, And the great Gods of Troy, the guardians of our line.

III. "Far off there lies, with many a spacious plain, The land of Mars, by Thracians tilled and sown, Where stern Lycurgus whilom held his reign; A hospitable shore, to Troy well-known, Her home-gods leagued in union with our own, While Fortune smiled. Hither, with fates malign, I steer, and landing for our purposed town The walls along the winding shore design, And coin for them a name 'AEneadae' from mine.

IV. "Due rites to Venus and the gods I bore, The work to favour, and a sleek, white steer To Heaven's high King was slaughtering on the shore. With cornel shrubs and many a prickly spear Of myrtle crowned, it chanced a mound was near. Thither I drew, and strove with eager hold A green-leaved sapling from the soil to tear, To shade with boughs the altars, when behold A portent, weird to see and wondrous to unfold!

V. "Scarce the first stem uprooted, from the wood Black drops distilled, and stained the earth with gore. Cold horror shook me, in my veins the blood Was chilled, and curdled with affright. Once more A limber sapling from the soil I tore; Once more, persisting, I resolved in mind With inmost search the causes to explore And probe the mystery that lurked behind; Dark drops of blood once more come trickling from the rind.

VI. "Much-musing, to the woodland nymphs I pray, And Mars, the guardian of the Thracian plain, With favouring grace the omen to allay, And bless the dreadful vision. Then again A third tall shaft I grasp, with sinewy strain And firm knees pressed against the sandy ground; When O! shall tongue make utterance or refrain? Forth from below a dismal, groaning sound Heaves, and a piteous voice is wafted from the mound:

VII. "'Spare, O AEneas, spare a wretch, nor shame Thy guiltless hands, but let the dead repose. From Troy, no alien to thy race, I came. O, fly this greedy shore, these cruel foes! Not from the tree—from Polydorus flows This blood, for I am Polydorus. Here An iron crop o'erwhelmed me, and uprose Bristling with pointed javelins.'—Mute with fear, Perplext, aghast I stood, and upright rose my hair.

VIII. "This Polydorus Priam from the war To Thracia's King in secret had consigned With store of gold, when, girt with siege, he saw Troy's towers, and trust in Dardan arms resigned. But when our fortune and our hopes declined, The treacherous King the conqueror's cause professed, And, false to faith, to friendship and to kind, Slew Polydorus, and his wealth possessed. Curst greed of gold, what crimes thy tyrant power attest!

IX. "Now, freed from terror, to my father first, Then to choice friends the vision I declare. All vote to sail, and quit the shore accurst. So to his shade, with funeral rites, we rear A mound, and altars to the dead prepare, Wreathed with dark cypress. Round them, as of yore, Pace Troy's sad matrons, with their streaming hair. Warm milk from bowls, and holy blood we pour, And thrice with loud farewell the peaceful shade deplore.

X. "Soon as our ships can trust the deep once more, And South-winds chide, and Ocean smiles serene, We crowd the beach, and launch, and town and shore Fade from our view. Amid the waves is seen An island, sacred to the Nereids' queen And Neptune, lord of the AEgean wave, Which, floating once, Apollo fixed between High Myconos and Gyarus, and gave For man's resort, unmoved the blustering winds to brave.

XI. "Hither we sail and on this island fair, Worn out, find welcome in a sheltered bay, And, landing, hail Apollo's town with prayer. King Anius here, enwreath'd with laurel spray, The priest of Phoebus meets us on the way; With joy at once he recognised again His friend Anchises of an earlier day. And joining hands in fellowship, each fain To show a friendly heart the palace-halls we gain.

XII. "There, in a temple built of ancient stone I worship: 'Grant, Thymbrean lord divine, A home, a settled city of our own, Walls to the weary, and a lasting line, To Troy another Pergamus. Incline And harken. Save these Dardans sore-distrest, The remnant of Achilles' wrath. Some sign Vouchsafe us, whom to follow? where to rest? Steal into Trojan hearts, and make thy power confessed.'

XIII. "Scarce spake I, suddenly the bays divine Shook, and a trembling seized the temple door. The mountain heaves, and from the opening shrine Loud moans the tripod. Prostrate on the floor We hear a voice; 'Brave hearts, the land that bore Your sires shall nurse their Dardan sons again. Seek out your ancient mother; from her shore Through all the world the AEneian house shall reign, And sons of sons unborn the lasting line sustain.'

XIV. "Straight rose a joyous uproar; each in turn Ask what the walls that Phoebus hath designed? Which way to wander, whither to return? Then spake my sire, revolving in his mind The ancient legends of the Trojan kind, 'Chieftains, give ear, and learn your hopes and mine; Jove's island lies, amid the deep enshrined, Crete, hundred-towned, a land of corn and wine, Where Ida's mountain stands, the cradle of our line.

XV. "'Thence Troy's great sire, if I remember right, Old Teucer, to Rhoeteum crossed the flood, And for his future kingdom chose a site. Nor yet proud Ilion nor her towers had stood; In lowly vales sequestered they abode. Thence Corybantian cymbals clashed and brayed In praise of Cybele. In Ida's wood Her mystic rites in secrecy were paid, And lions, yoked in pomp, their sovereign's car conveyed.

XVI. "'Come then and seek we, as the gods command, The Gnosian kingdoms, and the winds entreat. Short is the way, nor distant lies the land. If Jove be present and assist our fleet, The third day lands us on the shores of Crete.' So spake he and on altars, reared aright, Due victims offered, and libations meet; A bull to Neptune and Apollo bright, To tempest a black lamb, to Western winds a white.

XVII. "Fame flies, Idomeneus has left the land, Expelled his kingdom; that the shore lies clear Of foes, and homes are ready to our hand. Ortygia's port we leave, and skim the mere; Soon Naxos' Bacchanalian hills appear, And past Olearos and Donysa, crowned With trees, and Paros' snowy cliffs we steer. Far-scattered shine the Cyclades renowned, And clustering isles thick-sown in many a glittering sound.

XVIII. "Loud rise the shouts of sailors to the sky; 'Crete and our fathers,' rings for all to hear The cry of oarsmen. Through the deep we fly; Behind us sings the stern breeze loud and clear. So to the shores of ancient Crete we steer. There in glad haste I trace the wished-for town, And call the walls 'Pergamea,' and cheer My comrades, glorying in the name well-known, The castled keep to raise, and guard the loved hearth-stone.

XIX. "Scarce stand the vessels hauled upon the beach, And bent on marriages the young men vie To till new settlements, while I to each Due law dispense and dwelling place supply, When from a tainted quarter of the sky Rank vapours, gathering, on my comrades seize, And a foul pestilence creeps down from high On mortal limbs and standing crops and trees, A season black with death, and pregnant with disease.

XX. "Sweet life from mortals fled; they drooped and died. Fierce Sirius scorched the fields, and herbs and grain Were parched, and food the wasting crops denied. Once more Anchises bids us cross the main And seek Ortygia, and the god constrain By prayer to pardon and advise, what end Of evils to expect? what woes remain? What fate hereafter shall our steps attend? What rest for toil-worn men, and whitherward to wend?

XXI. "'Twas night; on earth all creatures were asleep, When lo! the figures of our gods, the same Whom erst from falling Ilion o'er the deep I brought, scarce rescued from the midmost flame, Before me, sleepless for my country's shame, Stood plain, in plenteousness of light confessed, Where streaming through the sunken lattice came The moon's full splendour, and their speech addressed, And I in heart took comfort, hearing their behest.

XXII. "'Lo! what Apollo from Ortygia's shrine Would sing, unasked he sends us to proclaim. We who have followed o'er the billowy brine Thee and thine arms, since Ilion sank in flame, Will raise thy children to the stars, and name Thy walls imperial. Thou build them meet For heroes. Shrink not from thy journey's aim, Though long the way. Not here thy destined seat, So saith the Delian god, not thine the shores of Crete.

XXIII. "'Far off there lies, across the rolling wave, An ancient land, which Greeks Hesperia name; Her soil is fruitful and her people brave. Th' OEnotrians held it once, by later fame The name Italia from their chief they claim. Thence sprang great Dardanus; there lies thy seat; Thence sire Iasius and the Trojans came. Rise, and thy parent with these tidings greet, To seek Ausonian shores, for Jove denies thee Crete.'

XXIV. "Awed by the vision and the voice divine ('Twas no mere dream; their very looks I knew, I saw the fillets round their temples twine, And clammy sweat did all my limbs bedew) Forthwith, upstarting, from the couch I flew, And hands and voice together raised in prayer, And wine unmixt upon the altars threw. This done, to old Anchises I repair, Pleased with the rites fulfilled, and all the tale declare.

XXV. "The two-fold race Anchises understands, The double sires, and owns himself misled By modern error 'twixt two ancient lands. 'O son, long trained in Ilian fates,' he said, This chance Cassandra, she alone, displayed. Oft to Hesperia and Italia's reign She called us. Ah! who listened or obeyed? Who dreamed that Teucrians should Hesperia gain? Yield we to Phoebus now, nor wisdom's words disdain.'

XXVI. "All hail the speech. We quit this other home, And leaving here a handful on the shore, Spread sail and scour with hollow keel the foam. The fleet was on mid ocean; land no more Was visible, naught else above, before But sky and sea, when overhead did loom A storm-cloud, black as heaven itself, that bore Dark night and wintry tempest in its womb, And all the waves grew rough and shuddered with the gloom.

XXVII. "Winds roll the waters, and the great seas rise. Dispersed we welter on the gulfs. Damp night Has snatched with rain the heaven from our eyes, And storm-mists in a mantle wrapt the light. Flash after flash, and for a moment bright, Quick lightnings rend the welkin. Driven astray We wander, robbed of reckoning, reft of sight. No difference now between the night and day E'en Palinurus sees, nor recollects the way.

XXVIII. "Three days, made doubtful by the blinding gloom, As many nights, when not a star is seen, We wander on, uncertain of our doom. At last the fourth glad daybreak clears the scene, And rising land, and opening uplands green, And rolling smoke at distance greet the view. No longer tarrying; to our oars we lean. Down drop the sails; in order ranged, each crew Flings up the foam to heaven, and sweeps the sparkling blue.

XXIX. "Saved from the sea, the Strophades we gain, So called in Greece, where dwells, with Harpies, dire Celaeno, in the vast Ionian main, Since, forced from Phineus' palace to retire, They fled their former banquet. Heavenly ire Ne'er sent a pest more loathsome; ne'er were seen Worse plagues to issue from the Stygian mire— Birds maiden-faced, but trailing filth obscene, With taloned hands and looks for ever pale and lean.

XXX. "The harbour gained, lo! herds of oxen bright And goats untended browse the pastures fair. We, sword in hand, make onset, and invite The gods and Jove himself the spoil to share, And piling couches, banquet on the fare. When straight, down-swooping from the hills meanwhile The Harpies flap their clanging wings, and tear The food, and all with filthy touch defile, And, mixt with screams, uprose a sickening stench and vile.

XXXI. "Once more, within a cavern screened from view, Where circling trees a rustling shade supply, The boards are spread, the altars blaze anew. Back, from another quarter of the sky, Dark-ambushed, round the clamorous Harpies fly With taloned claws, and taste and taint the prey. To arms I call my comrades, and defy The loathsome brood to battle. They obey, And swords and bucklers hide amid the grass away.

XXXII. "So when their screams descending fill the strand, Misenus from his outlook sounds the fray. All to the strange encounter, sword in hand, Rush forth, these miscreants of the deep to slay. No wounds they take, no weapon wins its way. Swiftly they soar, all leaving, ere they go, Their filthy traces on the half-gorged prey. One perched, Celaeno, on a rock, and lo, Thus croaked the dismal seer her prophecy of woe.

XXXIII. "'War, too, Laomedon's twice-perjured race! War do ye bring, our cattle stol'n and slain? And unoffending Harpies would ye chase Forth from their old, hereditary reign? Mark then my words and in your breasts retain. What Jove, the Sire omnipotent, of old Revealed to Phoebus, and to me again Phoebus Apollo at his hest foretold, I now to thee and thine, the Furies' Queen, unfold.

XXXIV. "'Ye seek Italia and, with favouring wind, Shall reach Italia, and her ports attain. But ne'er the town, by Destiny assigned, Your walls shall gird, till famine's pangs constrain To gnaw your boards, in quittance for our slain.' So spake the Fiend, and backward to the wood Soared on the wing. Cold horror froze each vein. Aghast and shuddering my comrades stood; Down sank at once each heart, and terror chilled the blood.

XXXV. "No more with arms, for peace with vows and prayer We sue, and pardon of these powers implore, Or be they goddesses or birds of air Obscene and dire; and lifting on the shore His hands, Anchises doth the gods adore. 'O Heaven!' he cries, 'avert these threats; be kind And stay the curse, and vex with plagues no more A pious folk,' then bids the crews unbind The stern-ropes, loose the sheets and spread them to the wind.

XXXVI. "The South-wind fills the canvas; on we fly Where breeze and pilot drive us through the deep. Soon, crowned with woods, Zacynthos we espy, Dulichium, Same and the rock-bound steep Of Neritos. Past Ithaca we creep, Laertes' realms, and curse the land that bred Ulysses, cause of all the woes we weep. Soon, where Leucate lifts her cloud-capt head, Looms forth Apollo's fane, the seaman's name of dread.

XXXVII. "Tired out we seek the little town, and run The sterns ashore and anchor in the bay, Saved beyond hope and glad the land is won, And lustral rites, with blazing altars, pay To Jove, and make the shores of Actium gay With Ilian games, as, like our sires, we strip And oil our sinews for the wrestler's play. Proud, thus escaping from the foemen's grip, Past all the Argive towns, through swarming Greeks, to slip.

XXXVIII. "Meanwhile the sun rolls round the mighty year, And wintry North-winds vex the waves once more. In front, above the temple-gates I rear The brazen shield which once great Abas bore, And mark the deed in writing on the door, 'AEneas these from conquering Greeks hath ta'en'; Then bid my comrades quit the port and shore, And man the benches. They with rival strain And slanting oar-blades sweep the levels of the main.

XXXIX. "Phaeacia's heights with the horizon blend; We skim Epirus, and Chaonia's bay Enter, and to Buthrotum's town ascend. Strange news we hear: A Trojan Greeks obey, Helenus, master of the spouse and sway Of Pyrrhus, and Andromache once more Has yielded to a Trojan lord. Straightway I burn to greet them, and the tale explore, And from the harbour haste, and leave the ships and shore.

XL. "Within a grove Andromache that day, Where Simois in fancy flowed again, Her offerings chanced at Hector's grave to pay, A turf-built cenotaph, with altars twain, Source of her tears and sacred to the slain— And called his shade. Distracted with amaze She marked me, as the Trojan arms shone plain. Heat leaves her frame; she stiffens with the gaze, She swoons—and scarce at length these faltering words essays:

XLI. "'Real, then, real is thy face, and true Thy tidings? Liv'st thou, child of heavenly seed? If dead, then where is Hector?' Tears ensue, And wailing, shrill as though her heart would bleed. Then I, with stammering accents, intercede, And, sore perplext, these broken words outthrow To calm her transport, 'Yea, alive, indeed,— Alive through all extremities of woe. Doubt not, thou see'st the truth, no shape of empty show.

XLII. "'Alas! what lot is thine? What worthy fate Hath caught thee, fallen from a spouse so high? Hector's Andromache, art thou the mate Of Pyrrhus?' Then with lowly downcast eye She dropped her voice, and softly made reply. 'Ah! happy maid of Priam, doomed instead At Troy upon a foeman's tomb to die! Not drawn by lot for servitude, nor led A captive thrall, like me, to grace a conqueror's bed.

XLIII. "'I, torn from burning Troy o'er many a wave, Endured the lust of Pyrrhus and his pride, And knew a mother's travail as his slave. Fired with Hermione, a Spartan bride, Me, joined in bed and bondage, he allied To Helenus. But mad with love's despair, And stung with Furies for his spouse denied, At length Orestes caught the wretch unware, E'en by his father's shrine, and smote him then and there.

XLIV. "'The tyrant dead, a portion of his reign Devolves on Helenus, who Chaonia calls From Trojan Chaon the Chaonian plain, And on these heights rebuilds the Trojan walls. But thou—what chance, or god, or stormy squalls Have driven thee here unweeting?—and the boy Ascanius—lives he, or what hap befalls His parents' darling, and their only joy? Breathes he the vital air, whom unto thee now Troy—

XLV. "'Still grieves he for his mother? Doth the name Of sire or uncle make his young heart glow For deeds of valour and ancestral fame?' Weeping she spake, with unavailing woe, And poured her sorrow to the winds, when lo, In sight comes Helenus, with fair array, And hails his friends, and hastening to bestow Glad welcome, toward his palace leads the way; But tears and broken words his mingled thoughts betray.

XLVI. "I see another but a tinier Troy, A seeming Pergama recalls the great. A dried-up Xanthus I salute with joy, And clasp the portals of a Scaean gate. Nor less kind welcome doth the rest await. The monarch, mindful of his sire of old, Receives the Teucrians in his courts of state. They in the hall, the viands piled on gold, Pledging the God of wine, their brimming cups uphold.

XLVII. "One day and now another passed; the gale Sings in the shrouds, and calls us to depart, When thus the prophet Helenus I hail, 'Troy-born interpreter of Heaven! whose art The signs of Phoebus' pleasure can impart; Thou know'st the tripod and the Clarian bay, The stars, the voices of the birds, that dart On wings with omens laden, speak and say,— Since fate and all the gods foretell a prosperous way.

XLVIII. "'And point to far Italia,—One alone, Celaeno, sings of famine foul and dread, A nameless prodigy, a plague unknown,— What perils first to shun? what path to tread, To win deliverance from such toils?' This said, I ceased, and Helenus with slaughtered kine Implores the god, and from his sacred head Unbinds the wreath, and leads me to the shrine, Awed by Apollo's power, and chants the doom divine:

XLIX. "'O Goddess-born, high auspices are thine, And heaven's plain omens guide thee o'er the main. Thus Jove, by lot unfolding his design, Assorts the chances, and the Fates ordain. This much may I of many things explain, How best o'er foreign seas to urge thy keel In safety, and Ausonian ports attain, The rest from Helenus the Fates conceal, And Juno's envious power forbids me to reveal.

L. "'Learn then, Italia, that thou deem'st so near, And thither dream'st of lightly passing o'er, Long leagues divide, and many a pathless mere. First must Trinacrian waters bend the oar, Ausonian waves thy vessels must explore, First must thou view the nether world, where flows Dark Styx, and visit that AEaean shore, The home of Circe, ere, at rest from woes, Thou build the promised walls, and win the wished repose.

LI. "'These tokens bear, and in thy memory store. When, musing sad and pensive, thou hast found Beside an oak-fringed river, on the shore, A huge sow thirty-farrowed, and around, Milk-white as she, her litter, mark the ground, That spot shall see thy promised town; for there Thy toils are ended, and thy rest is crowned. Fear not this famine—'tis an empty scare; The Fates will find a way, and Phoebus hear thy prayer.

LII. "'As for yon shore and that Italian coast, Washed, where the land lies nearest, by our main, Shun them; their cities hold a hostile host. There Troy's old foes, the evil Argives, reign, Locrians of Narycos her towns contain. There fierce Idomeneus from Crete brought o'er His troops to vex the Sallentinian plain; There, girt with walls and guarded by the power Of Philoctetes, stands Petelia's tiny tower.

LIII. "'Nay, when thy vessels, ranged upon her shore, Rest from the deep, and on the beach ye light The votive altars, and the gods adore, Veil then thy locks, with purple hood bedight, And shroud thy visage from a foeman's sight, Lest hostile presence, 'mid the flames divine, Break in, and mar the omen and the rite. This pious use keep sacred, thou and thine, The sons of sons unborn, and all the Trojan line.

LIV. "'When, wafted to Sicilia, dawns in sight Pelorus' channel, keep the leftward shore, Though long the circuit, and avoid the right. These lands, 'tis said, one continent of yore (Such change can ages work) an earthquake tore Asunder; in with havoc rushed the main, And far Sicilia from Hesperia bore, And now, where leapt the parted lands in twain, The narrow tide pours through, 'twixt severed town and plain.

LV. "'Here Scylla, leftward sits Charybdis fell, Who, yawning thrice, her lowest depths laid bare, Sucks the vast billows in her throat's dark hell, Then starward spouts the refluent surge in air. Here Scylla, gaping from her gloomy lair, The passing vessels on the rocks doth hale; A maiden to the waist, with bosom fair And human face; below, a monstrous whale, Down from whose wolf-like womb hangs many a dolphin's tail.

LVI. "'Far better round Pachynus' point to steer, Though long the course, and tedious the delay, Than once dread Scylla to behold, or hear The rocks rebellow with her hell-hounds' bay. This more, besides, I charge thee to obey, If any faith to Helenus be due, Or skill in prophecy the seer display, And mighty Phoebus hath inspired me true, These warning words I urge, and oft will urge anew:

LVII. "'Seek Juno first; great Juno's power adore; With suppliant gifts the potent queen constrain, And winds shall waft thee to Italia's shore. There, when at Cumae landing from the main, Avernus' lakes and sounding woods ye gain, Thyself shalt see, within her rock-hewn shrine, The frenzied prophetess, whose mystic strain Expounds the Fates, to leaves of trees consign The notes and names that mark the oracles divine.

LVIII. "'Whate'er the maiden on those leaves doth trace, In rows she sorts, and in the cave doth store. There rest they, nor their sequence change, nor place, Save when, by chance, on grating hinge the door Swings open, and a light breath sweeps the floor, Or rougher blasts the tender leaves disperse. Loose then they flutter, for she recks no more To call them back, and rearrange the verse; Untaught the votaries leave, the Sibyl's cave to curse.

LIX. "'But linger thou, nor count thy lingering vain, Though comrades chide, and breezes woo the fleet. Approach the prophetess; with prayer unchain Her voice to speak. She shall the tale repeat Of wars in Italy, thy destined seat,— What toils to shun, what dangers to despise,— And make the triumph of thy quest complete. Thou hast whate'er 'tis lawful to advise; Go, and with deathless deeds raise Ilion to the skies.'

LX. "So spake the seer, and shipward bids his friends Rich gifts convey, and store them in the hold. Gold, silver plate, carved ivory he sends, With massive caldrons of Dodona's mould; A coat of mail, with triple chain of gold, And shining helm, with cone and flowing crest, The arms of Pyrrhus, glorious to behold. Nor lacks my sire his presents; for the rest Steeds, guides and arms he finds, and oarsmen of the best.

LXI. "Then to Anchises, as he bids us spread The sails, with reverence speaks Apollo's seer, 'Far-famed Anchises, honoured with the bed Of haughty Venus, Heaven's peculiar care, Twice saved from Troy! behold Ausonia there, Steer towards her coasts, yet skirt them; far away That region lies, which Phoebus doth prepare. Blest in thy son's devotion, take thy way. Why should more words of mine the rising South delay?'

LXII. "Nor less Andromache, sore grieved to part, Rich raiment fetches, wrought with golden thread, And Phrygian scarf, and still with bounteous heart Loads him with broideries. 'Take these,' she said, 'Sole image of Astyanax now dead. Thy kin's last gifts, my handiwork, to show How Hector's widow loved the son she bred. Such eyes had he, such very looks as thou, Such hands, and oh! like thine his age were ripening now!'

LXIII. "With gushing tears I bid the pair farewell. Live happy ye, whose destinies are o'er; We still must wander where the Fates compel. Your rest is won; no oceans to explore, No fair Ausonia's ever-fading shore. Ye still can see a Xanthus and a Troy, Reared by your hands, old Ilion to restore, And brighter auspices than ours enjoy, Nor tempt, like ours, the Greeks to ravage and destroy.

LXIV. "'If ever Tiber and the fields I see Washed by her waves, ere mingling with the brine, And build the city which the Fates decree, Then kindred towns and neighbouring folk shall join, Yours in Epirus, in Hesperia mine, And linked thenceforth in sorrow and in joy, With Dardanus the founder of each line,— So let posterity its pains employ, Two nations, one in heart, shall make another Troy.'

LXV. "On fly the barks o'er ocean. Near us frown Ceraunia's rocks, whence shortest lies the way To Italy. And now the sun goes down, And darkness gathers on the mountains grey. Close by the water, in a sheltered bay, A few as guardians of the oars we choose, Then stretched at random on the beach we lay Our limbs to rest, and on the toil-worn crews Sleep steals in silence down, and sheds her kindly dews.

LXVI. "Nor yet had Night climbed heaven, when up from sleep Starts Palinurus, and with listening ear Catches the breeze. He marks the stars, that keep Their courses, gliding through the silent sphere, Arcturus, rainy Hyads and each Bear, And, girt with gold, Orion. Far away He sees the firmament all calm and clear, And from the stern gives signal. We obey, And shifting camp, set sail and tempt the doubtful way.

LXVII. "The stars were chased, and blushing rose the day. Dimly, at distance through the misty shroud Italia's hills and lowlands we survey, 'Italia,' first Achates shouts aloud; 'Italia,' echoes from the joyful crowd. Then sire Anchises hastened to entwine A massive goblet with a wreath, and vowed Libations to the gods, and poured the wine And on the lofty stern invoked the powers divine:

LXVIII. "'Great gods, whom Earth and Sea and Storms obey, Breathe fair, and waft us smoothly o'er the main.' Fresh blows the breeze, and broader grows the bay, And on the cliffs is seen Minerva's fane. We furl the sails, and shoreward row amain. Eastward the harbour arches, scarce descried. Two jutting rocks, by billows lashed in vain, Stretch out their arms the narrow mouth to hide. Far back the temple stands, and seems to shun the tide.

LXIX. "Lo, here, first omen offered to our eyes, Four snow-white steeds are grazing on the plain. ''Tis war thou bringest us,' Anchises cries, 'Strange land! For war the mettled steed they train, And war these threaten. Yet in time again These beasts are wont in harness to obey, And bear the yoke, as guided by the rein. Peace yet is hopeful.' So our vows we pay To Pallas, famed in arms, whose welcome cheered the way.

LXX. "Veiled at her shrines in Phrygian hood we stand, And chief to Juno, mindful of the seer, Burnt-offerings pay, as pious rites demand. This done, the sailyards to the wind we veer, And leave the Grecians and the land of fear. Lo, there Tarentum's harbour and the town, If fame be true, of Hercules, and here Lacinium's queen and Caulon's towers are known, And Scylaceum's rocks, with shattered ships bestrown.

LXXI. "Far off is seen, above the billowy mere, Trinacrian AEtna, and the distant roar Of ocean and the beaten rocks we hear, And the loud burst of breakers on the shore; High from the shallows leap the surges hoar, And surf and sand mix eddying. 'Behold Charybdis!' cries Anchises, ''tis the shore, The dreaded rocks that Helenus foretold. Row, comrades, for dear life, and let the oars catch hold.'

LXXII. "He spake, 'twas done; and Palinurus first Turns the prow leftward: to the left we ply With oars and sail, and shun the rocks accurst. Now curls the wave, and lifts us to the sky, Now sinks and, plunging in the gulf we lie. Thrice roar the caverned shore-cliffs, thrice the spray Whirls up and wets the dewy stars on high. Thus tired we drift, as sinks the wind and day, Unto the Cyclops' shore, all weetless of the way.

LXXIII. "It was a spacious harbour, sheltered deep From access of the winds, but looming vast With awful ravage, AEtna's neighbouring steep Thundered aloud, and, dark with clouds, upcast Smoke and red cinders in a whirlwind's blast. Live balls of flame, with showers of sparks, upflew And licked the stars, and in combustion massed, Torn rocks, her ragged entrails, molten new, The rumbling mount belched forth from out the boiling stew.

LXXIV. "Here, while from AEtna's furnaces the flame Bursts forth, Enceladus, 'tis said, doth lie, Scorched by the lightning. As his wearied frame He shifts, Trinacria, trembling at the cry Moans through her shores, and smoke involves the sky. There all night long, screened by the woods, we hear The dreadful sounds, and know not whence nor why, For stars are none, nor planet gilds the sphere; Night holds the moon in clouds, and heaven is dark and drear.

LXXV. "Now rose the Day-star from the East, and cleared The mists, that melted with advancing Morn, When suddenly from out the woods appeared An uncouth form, a creature wan and worn, Scarce like a man, in piteous plight forlorn. Suppliant his hands he stretches to the shore; We turn and look on tatters tagged with thorn, Dire squalor and a length of beard,—what more, A Greek, to Troy erewhile in native arms sent o'er.

LXXVI. "He scared to see the Dardan garb once more And Trojan arms, stood faltering with dismay, Then rushed, with prayer and weeping, to the shore. 'O, by the stars, and by the Gods, I pray, And life's pure breath, this light of genial day, Take me, O Teucrians; wheresoe'er ye go, Enough to bear me from this land away. I once was of the Danaan crews, I know, And came to Trojan homes and Ilion as a foe.

LXXVII. "'For that, if that be such a crime to you, O strew me forth upon the watery waste, And drown me in the deep. If death be due, 'Twere sweet of death by human hands to taste.' He cried, and, grovelling, our knees embraced, And, clasping, clung to us. We bid him stand And tell his birth and trouble; and in haste Himself the sire Anchises pledged his hand, And he at length took heart, and answered our demand.

LXXVIII. "'My name is Achemenides. I come From Ithaca. To Troy I sailed the sea With evil-starred Ulysses, leaving home And father, Adamastus;—poor was he, And O! if such my poverty could be. Me here my thoughtless comrades, hurrying fast To quit the cruel threshold and be free, Leave in the Cyclops' cavern. Dark and vast That house of slaughtered men, and many a foul repast.

LXXIX. "'Himself so tall, he strikes the lofty skies (O gods, rid earth of such a monstrous brood!), None dare with speech accost, nor mortal eyes Behold him. Human entrails are his food. Myself have seen him, gorged with brains and blood, Pluck forth two comrades, in his cave bent back, And dash them till the threshold swam with blood, Then crunch the gobbets in his teeth, while black With gore the limbs still quivered, and the bones did crack:

LXXX. "'Not unavenged; nor brave Ulysses deigned To brook such outrage. In that hour of tyne True to himself the Ithacan remained. When, gorged with food, and belching gore and wine, With drooping neck, the giant snored supine, Then, closing round him, to the gods we pray, Each at his station, as the lots assign, And where, beneath the frowning forehead, lay, Huge as an Argive shield, or like the lamp of day,

LXXXI. "'His one great orb, deep in the monster's head We drive the pointed weapon, joy'd at last To wreak such vengeance for our comrades dead. But fly, unhappy Trojans, fly, and cast Your cables from the shore. Such and so vast As Polyphemus, when the cave's huge door Shuts on his flocks, and for his night's repast He milks them, lo! a hundred Cyclops more Roam on the lofty hills, and range the winding shore.

LXXXII. "'Now thrice the Moon hath filled her horns with light, And still in woods and lonely dens I lie, And see the Cyclops stalk from height to height, And hear their tramp, and tremble at their cry. My food—hard berries that the boughs supply, And roots of grass. Thus wandering, as I scanned The distant ocean with despairing eye, I saw your ships first bearing to the land, And vowed, whoe'er ye proved, the strangers' slave to stand.

LXXXIII. "'Enough, these monsters to escape; O take My life, and tear me as you will from day, Rather than these devour me!'—Scarce he spake, When from the mountains to the well-known bay, The shepherd Polyphemus gropes his way; Huge, hideous, horrible in shape and show, And visionless. A pine-trunk serves to stay And guide his footsteps, and around him go The sheep, his only joy and solace of his woe.

LXXXIV. "Down came the giant, wading in the main, And rinsed his gory socket from the tide, Gnashing his teeth and moaning in his pain. On through the deep he stalks with awful stride, So tall, the billows scarcely wet his side. Forthwith our flight we hasten, prickt with fear, On board—'twas due—we let the suppliant hide, Then, mute and breathless, cut the stern-ropes clear, Bend to the emulous oar, and sweep the whitening mere.

LXXXV. "He heard, and turned his footsteps to the sound. Short of its mark the huge arm idly fell Outstretched, and swifter than his stride he found The Ionian waves. Then rose a monstrous yell; All Ocean shudders and her waves upswell; Far off, Italia trembles with the roar, And AEtna groans through many a winding cell, And trooping to the call the Cyclops pour From wood and lofty hill, and crowding fill the shore.

LXXXVI. "We see them scowling impotent, the band Of AEtna, towering to the stars above, An awful conclave! Tall as oaks they stand, Or cypresses—the lofty trees of Jove, Or cone-clad guardians of Diana's grove. Fain were we then, in agony of fear, To shake the canvas to the winds, and rove At random; natheless, we obey the seer, Who past those fatal rocks had warned us not to steer,

LXXXVII. "Where Scylla here, and there Charybdis lies, And death lurks double. Backward we essay Our course, when lo, from out Pelorus flies The North-Wind, sent to waft us on our way. We pass the place where, mingling with the spray, Through narrow rocks Pantagia's stream outflows; We see low-lying Thapsus and the bay Of Megara. These shores the suppliant shows, Known from the time he shared his wandering chieftain's woes.

LXXXVIII. "Far-stretcht against Plemmyrium's wave-beat shore An island lies, before Sicania's bay, Now called Ortygia—'twas its name of yore. Hither from distant Elis, legends say, Beneath the seas Alpheus stole his way, And, mingling now with Arethusa here, Mounts, a Sicilian fountain, to the day. Here we with prayer, obedient to the seer, Invoke the guardian gods to whom the place is dear.

LXXXIX. "Thence past Helorus' marish speeds the bark, Where fat and fruitful shines the meadowy lea. We graze the cliffs and jutting rocks, that mark Pachynus. Camarina's fen we see, Fixt there for ever by the fates' decree; Then Gela's town (the river gave the name) And Gela's plains, far-stretching from the sea, And distant towers and lofty walls proclaim Steep Acragas, once known for generous steeds of fame.

XC. "Thee too we pass, borne onward by the wind, Palmy Selinus, and the treacherous strand And shoals of Lilybaeum leave behind. Last, by the shore at Drepanum we stand And take the shelter of her joyless land, Here, tost so long o'er many a storm-lashed main, We lose the stay and comfort of our band, Here thou, best father, leav'st me to my pain, Thou, saved from countless risks, but saved, alas, in vain.

XCI. "Not Helenus, who many an ill forecast, Warned us to think such sorrow was in store, Not even dire Celaeno. There at last My wanderings ended, and my toils were o'er, And thence a God hath led me to your shore." Thus, while mute wonder did the rest compose, The Sire AEneas did his tale outpour, And told his fates, his wanderings and his woes; Then ceased at length his speech, and sought the wished repose.



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. 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!"

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