Now come, my guest, and from the first recount the tale
Of Grecian treachery, thy friends’ sad overthrow
And all thy toils; for lo, the seventh summer finds
Thee wand’ring still in every land, on every sea.
Æneas, rising (II. 3-13)
Thou wouldst that I should feel a woe unspeakable,
O Queen, and tell again how all our Trojan power
And kingdom, endless source of grief, the Greeks o’erthrew:
Those sad events which I myself beheld, and in
Whose fabric I was wrought a part. Who, though he be
Of fierce Achilles’ band, or in the train of hard
Ulysses, telling such a tale could hold his tears?
Now night sinks down the steeps of heaven, while setting stars
And constellations summon us to rest. But if
So strong is thy desire to know the story of
Our woe, and hear Troy’s final agonies rehearsed,
Though at the very thought my soul within me shrinks
And has recoiled in grief, I will begin the tale.
All the Trojans and Carthaginians crowd around the tables, seating themselves
to listen. As all faces are turned toward Æneas, he sinks back upon his
couch, overcome with emotion. There is a moment of silent sympathy.
Curtain.
ACT II
Act II. Scene 1
Dido’s chamber. At the left, in front, is a shrine (1). An antique bust with
an inscription above it, visible in the light from the glowing censer, indicates
that it is sacred to Synchæus. Two broad steps raise it slightly from the level
of the stage. On the same side in the middle a door (2), flanked by half
columns. At the right, first wing, a door (3); half-way back on the same side
(4), a curtained recess in which are hung Dido’s brilliant robes. In the center
of the background (5), is a window overlooking the city and harbor, which
show in the distance when the window is opened. It is reached by two steps
covered with rugs, and the seats about the three sides of the recess are richly
upholstered in green and gray.
Anna and Dido both wear simple white, while Barce, the aged nurse, is clad
plainly in brown.
Barce lies asleep on a couch near the shrine, her face lighted by the glowing
flame. Anna is asleep on a couch in the foreground.
Dido sits at the window in the moonlight, looking out into the night. She
gets up and moves restlessly about the room. She kneels before the altar,
replenishing the incense. She comes finally to her sister, and, wakening her,
tells of her struggle against the new love.
Dido (IV. 9-29):
O sister, what dread visions of the night invade
My troubled soul! What of this stranger lodged within
Our halls, how noble in his mien, how brave in heart,
Of what puissant arms! From heav’n in truth his race
Must be derived, for fear betokens low-born souls.
Alas, how tempest-tossed of fate was he! How to
The dregs the bitter cup of war’s reverses hath
He drained! If in my soul the purpose were not fixed
That not to any suitor would I yield myself
In wedlock, since the time when he who won my love
Was reft away, perchance I might have yielded now.
For sister, I confess it, since my husband’s fate,
Since that sad day when by his blood my father’s house
Was sprinkled, this of all men has my feelings moved.
Again I feel the force of passion’s sway. But no!
May I be gulfed within earth’s yawning depths; may Jove
Almighty hurl me with his thunders to the shades,
The pallid shades of Erebus and night profound,
Before, O constancy, I violate thy laws!
He took my heart who first engaged my maiden love.
Still may he keep his own, and in the silent tomb
Preserve my love inviolate.—
Anna (31-53):
O dearer to thy sister than the light of life,
Wilt thou consume thy youth in loneliness and grief,
And never know the sacred joys of motherhood,
The sweets of love? And dost thou think, that in the tomb
Thy husband’s sleeping spirit recks of this? Let be,
That never yet have other suitors moved thy heart
Which long has scorned the lords of Libya and of Tyre;
Let prince Iarbas be rejected and the lords
Of Africa’s heroic land: wilt still against
A pleasing love contend? And hast considered then
Whose are the powers upon the borders of thy realm?
Here are Gætulia’s cities, matchless race in war;
Here wild Numidians hedge thee round, and Ocean’s shoals;
While yonder lies the sandy desert parched and wild,
Where fierce Barcæans range. Why need I mention Tyre’s
Dark-looming cloud of war, thy brother’s threats? For me,
I think that through the favor of the gods and care
Of Juno hath Æneas drifted to our shores.
And to what glory shalt thou see thy city rise,
What strong far-reaching sway upreared on such a tie!
Assisted by the Trojan arms, our youthful state
Up to the very pinnacle of fame shall soar.
Then pray the favor of the gods, and give its due
To sacred hospitality. Lo, to thy hand
Is cause of dalliance, while still the blustering winds
Of winter sweep the sea, Orion’s storms prevail,
Their fleet is shattered, and the frowning heavens lower.
Dido, during this speech, has gone to her husband’s shrine. There is a
mighty struggle in her soul between love and duty.
Barce, wakened from her sleep and seeing her mistress pale and anguish-stricken,
throws herself before her. Dido finally yields and reaches her trembling
hand to quench the censer. The old nurse clings to her in terrified appeal.
Dido frees herself from her. She quenches the flame and draws the curtain
before the shrine. Old Barce sits sobbing before the darkened altar.
Meanwhile the light has been changing into dawn and the sea and harbor
begin to be visible through the open window. Dido crosses the chamber, and
after a moment’s struggle draws back the curtains from before the recess where
hang the brilliant garments laid aside during her widowhood. She takes down
a purple mantle, and standing before a mirror, girds it about her with a golden
girdle.
The sound of a trumpet and the shouts of the sailors are heard in the distance.
Anna goes to the window, and seeing Æneas and his men below on the
shore, draws Dido to the window. Dido gazes for a minute and then, filled
with her new passion, goes forth with her sister to meet Æneas. Curtain.
Act II. Scene 2
A fragrant nook on Mount Ida. Across the stage at the first wing a low,
broad marble wall (1), forming one end of a colonnade which leads back to an
arch (2), through which the distant sea is visible (3). The columns at the first
wing (4) and the wall between them are over-clambered by a flowering vine,
which has strewn its delicate yellow petals over the wall and the marble floor
before it. Behind the wall (5) a garden of brilliant blossoms, with a path
leading through it to the arch in the background. There is the pleasant sound
of falling water.
Venus, seated upon the low marble wall is discovered keeping watch over
Ascanius who lies asleep before her his pink body hidden in a drift of yellow
petals. The deep blue himation, which has fallen in graceful folds across the
wall behind her, forms a rich contrast in color to the delicate tints of the
marble, of the flowers, and of her own dress of tender pink. Juno in a brilliant
purple dress, approaching through the garden, comes upon her in a fury
of wrath.
Juno (93-104):
Fair fame, in sooth, and booty rich thou shalt obtain,
Thou and thy boy, a lasting name, if by the guile
Of two divinities one woman is o’ercome!
Nor have I failed of late to see the jealous fear
In which thou holdest these our Carthaginian walls.
But come, in such a strife what motive can we have?
Nay, rather shall we not a lasting peace secure
By Hymen’s bonds? Behold, thou hast what thou hast sought
With all thy soul: fair Dido burns with ardent love,
And feels its thrill of passion dominate her heart.
Then let us rule this people, thou and I, on terms
Of amity. Let Dido wed the Trojan prince,
And give to thee, as royal dowry, Tyria’s lords.
Venus (107-114):
How mad th’ opponent who would such fair terms refuse!
Or who would wish to strive by preference with thee!
If only fortune favor what thou hast proposed:
But of the fates am I uncertain, whether Jove
Be willing that the Trojan exiles and the men
Of Carthage reign in common and a lasting bond
Of amity cement. Thou art his wife. ‘T is right
For thee by prayer to try his will. Do thou lead on,
I follow.
Juno (115-126):
Mine the task thou sayest. Now the way
In which the matter may be perfected in brief
Will I reveal. Do thou attend my words.—The queen,
Unhappy Dido, and Æneas, to the wood
Prepare to lead the hunt, when first to-morrow’s sun
Hath reared his radiant head and with his shining beams
Revealed the world. On these, while beaters force the game,
And hem the glades with circling nets, will I a storm
Of rain and mingled hail pour down and rack the sky
From pole to pole. In all directions will they flee
Before the storm, and shield themselves in sheltering caves.
The queen and Trojan leader will together seek
The selfsame grot. And, if thy favoring purpose hold,
I shall in lasting union join and make them one.
Venus assents, and, bending over the sleeping boy, shows by a satiric smile
that she perceives the purpose of her rival. Curtain.
Act II. Scene 3
A forest scene. Huge trees and moss-grown rocks. Across the back, a cliff
in the face of which at the last wing on the left is the opening to a mighty
cavern. Through the trees growing along the summit of this cliff, comes the
shimmer of the distant sea.
Far and near through all the forest, trumpets are sounding. Attendants
armed with spears and nets, and with hounds in leash for the chase, hurry
across the scene. Dido, Anna, Æneas, Ascanius, followed by the entire court
in brilliant array, cross the scene amid the flourish of trumpets.
All the costumes are very brilliant with gold, purple, deep blue, and wood
green. Dido is dressed in purple and gold, Anna in brown and green with a
leopard skin instead of a himation. Æneas is in full armor. All the Trojans
and Carthaginians are dressed and armed for the chase.
One of the attendants has seated himself in the foreground to mend his
broken bow. As the sound of the trumpets grows fainter, a band of Carthaginian
youth, hurrying to join the hunt, descry him and stop to laugh at him,
because he is left behind. He throws down his bow in disgust, and points in
the direction of the hunt with a gesture of impatience.
Attendant (191-194):
Now look you, to our shores has come this Trojan prince
Whom Dido, our fair queen, has taken as her lord.
And now in dalliance fond the winter’s days they spend,
Unmindful of their heaven-appointed destinies,
And taken in the subtle snare of base desire.
Approval on the part of all the youth.
Meanwhile it has grown darker, and there comes a crash of thunder. All flee
in terror. As the storm increases, the courtiers flee across the scene in every
direction. The trumpets are heard calling through all the woods.
At last, amid the crash of thunder and the roar of the tempest, Dido and
Æneas enter, seeking a place of shelter. Discovering the cavern, they flee to
that. Lightning flashes, the thunder roars, the wild cries of the nymphs are heard.
The scene closes in almost utter darkness. Curtain.
ACT III
Act III. Scene 1
The temple of Jupiter Ammon in Libya. In the center of the stage an altar
(1), raised high from the level of the stage by four broad steps (2). Pillars of
barbaric form and decoration at the first and second wings (3), between which
are hung curtains (4) of rich, oriental pattern. At the second wing a wall (5)
joins the two pillars. In the distance (6), across a wide tract of desert, Carthage
can be seen, showing only as a cluster of glimmering lights except when
the lightning flashes fitfully along the horizon. The scene is lighted only by
the glare of the altar fire.
Iarbas wears a robe of scarlet worked in gold.
Iarbas, kneeling before the altar, his face lifted defiantly upward (206-218):
O Jove omnipotent, to whom the Moorish race
From ‘broidered couches pour their offering of wine,
Dost thou regard th’ affairs of men? or is ‘t in vain
We tremble, father, when thou hurl’st thy thunderbolts?
And is it only aimless flashings that we fear,
And meaningless vain mutterings that fill the sky?
That vagrant queen to whom we gave within our bounds
A site whereon to build her town, a bit of shore
To till, and granted full possession of the place,
Hath this our suit disdained and to her realm received
Æneas as her lord. And now that puny prince,
That Paris, with his train of weaklings, and his locks
Perfumed, bedecked and sheltered by a Phrygian cap,
Hath carried off the prize.—And we, poor fools, bring gifts
Unto thy temple and adore an empty shrine!
Sullen mutterings of distant thunder. Curtain.
Scenes 2 and 3
The temple colonnade, as in Act I. Scene 1. Æneas, surrounded by
Achates, Ihoneus, and many other Trojans, is directing the work in the city
below them. He has in his hands the plan of the citadel, which he is tracing
for his countrymen. Mercury appears upon the temple steps, crosses the stage,
and stands a moment behind Æneas and his companions, unnoticed.
Mercury, to Æneas, as the Trojans turn and discover him (265-276):
And can it be that thou art building here the walls
Of Tyrian Carthage, and uprearing her fair towers,
Thou dotard, of thy realm and thy great destiny
Forgetful! Jove himself, the ruler of the gods,
Who holds the heavens and earth and moves them at his will,
To thee from bright Olympus straight hath sent me here.
He bade me bear on speeding pinions these commands:
What dost thou here? or with what hopes dost thou delay
Upon the Libyan shores? If thou, indeed, art moved
By no regard for thine own glorious destiny,
Respect at least the budding hopes of him, thy son,
Who after thee shall hold the scepter; for to him
Are due the realms of Italy, the land of Rome.
While Mercury is giving his message, Dido, followed by her maidens, comes
forth from the temple, and as she catches the import of his words, stands
horror-stricken upon the temple steps, unnoticed by Æneas or his men, whose
faces are turned intently toward Mercury.
Æneas, overwhelmed with astonishment, aside (281-294):
O Jove, and I had near forgot my destiny,
To oblivion lulled amid the sweets of this fair land!
But now my heart’s sole longing is for Italy,
Which waits me by the promise of the fates. But how
From this benumbing passion shall I free myself?
How face the queen and put away her clinging love?
To his attendants:
Go ye, and swiftly call the Trojans to the shore;
Bid them equip the vessels quickly for the sea,
And frame for this our sudden voyage some fitting cause.
Mnestheus and the others withdraw to perform his commands. Æneas
remains buried in deep thought. He turns and sees Dido standing before
him. They gaze at each other in silence.
Dido (305-330):
And didst thou hope that thou couldst hide thy fell design,
O faithless, and in silence steal away from this
My land? Does not our love, and pledge of faith once given,
Nor thought of Dido, doomed to die a cruel death,
Detain thee? Can it be that under wintry skies
Thou wouldest launch thy fleet and urge thy onward way
Mid stormy blasts across the sea, O cruel one?
But what if not a stranger’s land and unknown homes
Thou soughtest; what if Troy, thy city, still remained:
Still wouldst thou fare to Troy along the wave-tossed sea?
Is ‘t I thou fleest? By these tears and thy right hand—
Since in my depth of crushing woe I’ve nothing left—
And by our marriage bond and sacred union joined,
If ever aught of mercy I have earned of thee,
If I have ever giv’n thee one sweet drop of joy,
Have pity on my falling house, and change, I pray,
Thy cruel purpose if there still is room for prayer.
For thee the Libyan races hate me, and my lords
Of Tyre; for thee my latest scruple was o’ercome;
My fame, by which I was ascending to the stars,
My kingdom, fates,—all these have I giv’n up for thee.
And thou, for whom dost thou abandon me, O guest?—
Since from the name of husband this sole name remains.
What wait I more? Is ‘t till Pygmalion shall come,
And lay my walls in ruins, or the desert prince,
Iarbas, lead me captive home? O cruel fate!
If only ere thou fled’st some pledge had been conceived
Of thee, if round my halls some son of thine might sport,
To bear thy name and bring thine image back to me,
Then truly should I seem not utterly bereft.
Æneas, seemingly unmoved by her appeal (333-361):
I never shall gainsay, O Queen, that thy desert
Can equal all and more than all that thou canst claim;
And ever in the days to come ‘t will be my joy
Fair Dido to recall while memory serves me, while
My spirit animates these limbs.—To thine appeal
A brief reply. I did not hope to leave thy shores
By stealth—believe it or not—nor yet a husbands’ name
Have I desired, nor have I claimed the marriage bonds.
If under omens of my own it were ordained
That I should live, and lay aside at will the weight
Of destiny, then first of all would I restore
My Trojan city and the dear remains of all
I called my own; old Priam’s royal halls would still
Endure, and long ago would I have built again
Our ruined citadel of Pergama. But now
To mighty Italy Apollo’s oracle,
To Italy his lots command that I repair.
This is my love and this must be my fatherland.
If thou, though born in distant Tyre, art linked to this
Thy Carthage in the land of Libya, why, I pray,
Shouldst thou begrudge to us, the Trojan wanderers,
Ausonia’s land? ‘T is fate that we as well as thou
Should seek a foreign home. My sire Anchises’ shade
Invades my dreams with threats and admonition stern,
Whene’er with dewy shadows night o’erspreads the earth.
And when I think upon Ascanius and the wrong
That I am bringing on his head, though innocent,
My heart reproaches me that I am thwarting fate,
Which promised him the destined fields of Italy.
And now the very messenger of heav’n sent down
By Jove himself—I swear by both our lives—has brought
The mandate through the wind-swept air; I saw the god
Myself in open day invade thy city’s walls,
And with these very ears I heard his warning voice.
Then cease to vex thyself and me with these complaints;
‘T is not of mine own will I fare to Italy.
Æneas, as he speaks, has become as one seeing in vision the glorious future
of his race. Dido, who has stood with averted face and scornful look, now
turns upon him, in a passion of grief and rage.
Dido (365-387):
Thou art no son of Venus, nor was Dardanus
The ancient founder of thy race, thou faithless one:
But Caucasus with rough and flinty crags begot,
And fierce Hyrcanian tigers suckled thee. For why
Should I restrain my speech, or greater evil wait?
Did he one sympathetic sigh of sorrow heave?
Did he one tear let fall, o’er-mastered by my grief?
Now neither Juno, mighty queen, nor father Jove
Impartial sees; for faith is everywhere betrayed.
That shipwrecked beggar in my folly did I take
And cause to sit upon my throne; I saved his fleet,
His friends I rescued—Oh, the furies drive me mad!
Now ‘t is Apollo’s dictate, now the Lycian lots,
And now “the very messenger of heaven sent down
By Jove himself” to bring this mandate through the air!
A fitting task is that for heaven’s immortal lords!
Such cares as these disturb their everlasting calm!
I seek not to detain nor answer thee; sail on
To Italy, seek fated realms beyond the seas.
For me, if pious prayers can aught avail, I pray
That thou amid the wrecking reefs mayst drain the cup
Of retribution to the dregs and vainly call
Upon the name of Dido. Distant though I be,
With fury’s torch will I pursue thee, and when death
Shall free my spirit, will I haunt thee everywhere.
O thou shalt meet thy punishment, perfidious one:
My soul shall know, for such glad news would penetrate
The lowest depths of hell.—
She works herself up to a frenzy, and as she finishes she turns to leave him
with queenly scorn, staggers, and falls. Her servants carry her from the scene,
leaving Æneas in agony of soul, struggling between love and duty. Curtain.
Act IV
Act IV. Scene 1
Dido’s chamber as in Act II. Scene 1. Anna sits in the foreground, spinning.
The old nurse, Barce, is bustling about, hanging up her mistress’
brilliant robes, which she has cast aside for her old mourning gown of simple
white. Dido is seated at the latticed window watching the Trojans in the
harbor below prepare for their departure. She is weeping.
Barce, coming cautiously to Anna so that Dido may not hear (416-418):
Behold, how eagerly the Trojans launch their ships.
In their mad zeal they hurry timbers from the woods,
Unhewn and rough, from which to shape their masts and oars,
While from the city shoreward rush the fleeing men.
The shouts of the sailors are heard. Dido groans. Anna, hastily putting
aside her work, goes to her sister, whose face is buried in her hands. Barce
takes up the spinning, stopping at times to wipe her eyes.
Dido, lifting her face to her sister (416-418):
Thou seest, Anna, how they haste from every side,
And how the bustle of departure fills the shore.
The vessels float, the swelling sails salute the breeze,
And now the sailors crown the sterns with festive wreaths!
She gives way to her tears.
Anna, caressing her sister:
Alas, my sister, for thy sighs and grieving tears,
Thy love abandoned and thy trusting faith betrayed!
Dido (419-434):
If this great grief in expectation I have borne,
Then truly shall I patience have to bear it still.
But, sister, grant me in my woe this one request—
For yonder faithless one was wont to cherish thee
Alone, and trust to thee his heart; and thou alone
Dost know the fav’ring time and method of approach
To try the man:—go, sister, and in suppliant strain
Address our haughty foe: I took no oath with Greece
At wind-swept Aulis to o’erthrow the Trojan State,
Nor did I send a hostile fleet to Pergama,
Nor desecrate the sacred ashes of his sire,
That now he should refuse to bend his ear to me.
Go, say his hapless lover makes this last request:
That he wait an easy voyage and a fav’ring gale.
No longer do I ask a husband’s love denied,
Nor yet that he abandon his fair land and realm;
Time, only time, I ask, a little space of rest
From this mad grief, till Fortune give me fortitude,
And teach me how to bear my woe.
Anna, preparing to go (412):
O love betrayed,
To what despair dost thou not drive the hearts of men?
Exit Anna.
Dido, at the window, watches her sister as she takes her way down to the
harbor. When she can no longer see her in the gathering twilight, she turns
with a sigh to her chamber.
The old nurse, Barce, totters to her. Dido places her head wearily on the
old woman’s shoulder. Barce, drawing her to a couch, tries to soothe her.
Dido starts up in terror, as if she saw some fearful shape. She flees before it
to her husband’s shrine, and is only recalled from the fancy when she finds the
curtains drawn before it.
Barce comes tremblingly to her. Dido in bitter remorse draws the curtains
from the shrine and kneels before it. Barce hurries away and soon returns
with a lighted candle, which she brings to her mistress. Dido lights the
censer. Curtain.
Act IV. Scene 2
The same chamber in Dido’s palace. The shrine of Sychæus is adorned
with flowers; fire glows on the altar. Barce sits spinning at one side.
Dido is pacing the room with fierce energy. She goes to the window from
time to time, then renews her fierce walking to and fro. Suddenly she presses
her hand to her head as if a new thought had come to her. Her face assumes
an expression of cunning. She picks up a golden goblet, and with a gesture
to the old woman sends her to fill it.
When Barce has gone, Dido stealthily but quickly takes Æneas’ sword from
the wall, and, seating herself, with trembling fingers draws it from its scabbard.
She feels the edge, shrinking in terror at the thought of her intended
suicide. With a shudder, she presses the cold blade against her neck.
As she is thus meditating, her sister is heard coming. Dido quickly conceals
the sword beneath the draperies of the couch. She assumes an air of gayety,
kissing her sister and drawing her to a seat.
Dido (478-498):
I’ve found a way, my sister—give me joy—to bring
Him back to me, or free me from the love of him.
Hard by the confines of the Ocean in the west
The Æthiop country lies, where mighty Atlas holds
Upon his giant shoulders heaven’s vault, all set
With stars. There dwells a priestess skilled in magic art,
Of the Massylian race, and guardian of the shrine
Of the Hesperides; her care, the dragon huge
To which she offers honeydew and soothing herbs,
The while she guards the precious boughs.—She claims the power
At will to free the soul from sorrow with her charms,
Or burden it with care; to stop the rapid stream,
And backward roll the stars; the shades of darkness too
Can she awake, and at her bidding shalt thou hear
The rumbling earth beneath thy feet, and see the trees
Descend the mountain slopes.—I swear it by the gods
And thee, unwillingly I seek the magic art.
Do thou within the palace rear a lofty pyre,
And place upon its top the faithless hero’s arms
Which in his flight he left within our halls, yea all
That he has left, and then our wedding couch, my cause
Of woe, my heart is set to banish every trace
Of that perfidious one, and this the priestess bids.
Anna assents to her plan and hurries away to execute it. Dido quickly
takes the sword from its hiding-place and in tremulous haste hangs it again
upon the wall. Barce enters. Dido turns, fearing detection, but seeing that
the old nurse has not suspected her, she takes the cup in her trembling fingers
and drains it. Curtain.
Act IV. Scene 3
Dido’s chamber, night. Dido is seated in the moonlight that streams through
the open casement. A band of maidens, clad in white, are singing softly to
her.
Chorus of maidens (apropos of 522-528):
‘T is eve; ‘t is night; a holy quiet broods
O’er the mute world—winds, waters are at peace;
The beasts lie couch’d amid unstirring woods,
The fishes slumber in the sounds and seas;
No twitt’ring bird sings farewell from the trees.
Hushed is the dragon’s cry, the lion’s roar;
Beneath her glooms a glad oblivion frees
The heart from care, its weary labors o’er,
Carrying divine repose and sweetness to its core.
[Selected from Tasso]
They quietly withdraw. Dido is convulsed with weeping.
Dido (529-532; 534-552):
But not for me, unhappy one, this night’s sweet calm;
My cares redouble and o’erwhelm me with their flood.
She leaves the window and paces the room.
Ah me, what shall I do? My former suitors seek
And be again rejected? Shall I humbly court
Numidia’s lords whose suit I have so often scorned?
Or shall I rather follow haughty Ilium’s fleet,
Submissive to their every will?—Because in sooth,
‘T is sweet to be delivered, and my former aid
Still dwells within their faithful memory? But who,
Though I should wish it, would permit me, or receive
The hated Dido in their haughty ships? Ah, poor,
Deluded one, dost thou not know, dost thou not still
Perceive the frailty of a Trojan oath? What then?
Shall I forsake my kingdom and accompany
The joyful sailors, or with all my Tyrian bands
Around me, follow in pursuit and force again
My friends upon the deep and bid them spread their sails,
My comrades whom with pain I weaned from Sidon’s halls?
Nay, nay! as thou deservest, die, and with the sword
Thy sorrows end. O why was it not given me
To spend my life from wedlock and its sorrows free,
As beasts within their forest lairs? Or why, alas,
Was not my promise to Sychæus’ ashes kept?
She sprinkles incense on the flame at the shrine of Sychæus. Dawn begins
to brighten. The sailors are heard singing in the distance. Dido starts. She
rushes to the window, and looking out, sees the Trojan fleet sailing away over
the sea. She cries out in frenzy.
Dido (590-629):
Ye gods! and shall he go, and mock our royal power?
Why not to arms and send our forces in pursuit,
And bid them hurry down the vessels from the shore?
Ho there, my men, quick, fetch the torches, seize your arms,
And man the oars!—What am I saying? where am I?
What madness turns my brain? O most unhappy queen,
Is it thus thy evil deeds are coming back to thee?
Such fate was just when thou didst yield thy scepter up.—
Lo, there ‘s the fealty of him who, rumor says,
His country’s gods with him in all his wandering bears
And on his shoulders bore his sire from burning Troy!
Why could I not have torn his body limb from limb,
And strewed his members on the deep? and slain his friends,
His son Ascanius, and served his mangled limbs
To grace his father’s feast?—Such conflict might have had
A doubtful issue.—Grant it might, but whom had I,
Foredoomed to death, to fear? I might have fired his camp,
His ships, and wrapped in common ruin father, son,
And all the race, and given myself to crown the doom
Of all.—O Sun, who with thy shining rays dost see
All mortal deeds; O Juno, who dost know and thus
Canst judge the grievous cares of wedlock; thou whom wild
And shrieking women worship through the dusky streets,
O Hecate; and ye avenging Furies;—ye,
The gods of failing Dido, come and bend your power
To these my woes and hear my prayer. If yonder wretch
Must enter port and reach his land decreed by fate,
If thus the laws of Jove ordain, this order holds:
But, torn in war, a hardy people’s foeman, far
From friends and young Iulus’ arms, may he be forced
To seek a Grecian stranger’s aid, and may he see
The death of many whom he loves. And when at last
A meager peace on doubtful terms he has secured,
May he no pleasure find in kingdom or in life;
But may he fall untimely, and unburied lie
Upon some solitary strand. This, this I pray,
And with my latest breath this final wish proclaim.
Then, O my Tyrians, with a bitter hate pursue
The whole accursèd race, and send this to my shade
As welcome tribute. Let there be no amity
Between our peoples. Rise thou from my bones,
O some avenger, who with deadly sword and brand
Shall scathe the Trojan exiles, now, in time to come,
Whenever chance and strength shall favor. Be our shores
To shores opposed, our waves to waves, and arms to arms,
Eternal, deadly foes through all posterity.
The servants rush in terrified during her passionate speech, and as she utters
her curse, stand cowering before her. She dismisses with a gesture all except
old Barce, who approaches her mistress.
(634-640):
Go, bring my sister Anna hither, dearest nurse:
In flowing water bid her haste to bathe her limbs,
And bring the rightful sacrifices of the flock.
So let her come. And thou with pious fillets gird
Thy temples; for to Stygian Jove my mind is fixed
To carry on the magic sacrifice begun,
And end my cares, and to devouring flames consign
The relics of that cursed son of Dardanus.
Barce totters away to do her bidding. Dido takes Æneas’ mantle and sword
from the wall, and unsheathes the sword.
(651-662):
