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 		190
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, 		199
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, 		208
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 Æneas 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, 		217
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 		226
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, 		235
And takes a Trojan lord, Æneas, 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 		244
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 		253
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? 		262
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, 		271
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, 		280
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, 		289
As o'er the Libyan sands along the wind he flies.


XXXIV .   Scarce now at Carthage had he stayed his feet,
Among the huts Æneas 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, 		298
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, 		307
Hope of the Roman race, and heir of Latium's throne."


XXXVI .   He spake and, speaking, vanished into air.
Dumb stood Æneas, 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, 		316
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. 		325
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 Cithæron high,
And "Bacchus! Bacchus" through the night they shout. 		334
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, 		343
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. 		352
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, 		361
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 Æneas, 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, 		370
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, 		379
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. 		388
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, 		397
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, 		406
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 		415
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, 		424
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 		433
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, 		442
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 		451
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. 		460
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, 		469
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 		478
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, 		487
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 Æneas to her prayers and tears: 		496
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; 		505
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. 		514
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 Sychæus told aloud his wrong,
Hears from the roof-top, through the livelong night,
The solitary screech-owl's funeral song, 		523
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 Æneas 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 		532
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 		541
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 Æthiopians 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, 		550
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, 		559
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 Sychæus died, 		568
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, 		577
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, 		586
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, 		595
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, 		604
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, 		613
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, 		622
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, 		631
Nor wronged with broken vows Sychæus' shade below!"


LXXII .   So wailed the Queen. Æneas, 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, 		640
Such cheeks of ruddiest bloom, and locks of burnished gold.


LXXIII .   "O goddess-born Æneas, 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! 		649
Changeful is woman's mood, and varying with the day."


LXXIV .   He spake and, mixing with the night, withdrew.
Up starts Æneas 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, 		658
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, 		667
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, 		676
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. 		685
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, 		694
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, 		703
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, 		712
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. 		721
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; 		730
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 loathèd life to clip the thread,
Then briefly thus Sychæus' 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 		739
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, 		748
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, 		757
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 		766
Had Dardan ships, alas! not come to bring me teen!"


LXXXVII .   She paused, and pressed her lips upon the bed.
"To die—and unavenged? Yea, let me die!
Thus—thus it joys to journey to the dead.
Let yon false Dardan with remorseful eye
Drink in this bale-fire from the deep, and sigh
To bear the omens of my death."—No more
She said, but swooned. The servants see her lie,
Sunk on the sword; they see the life-blood pour, 		775
Reddening her tender hands, the weapon drenched with gore.


LXXXVIII .   Then through the lofty palace rose a scream,
And madly Rumour riots, as she flies
Through the shocked town. The very houses seem
To groan, and shrieks, and sobbing and the cries
Of wailing women pierce the vaulted skies.
'Twas e'en as though all Carthage or old Tyre
Were falling, stormed by ruthless enemies,
While over roof and battlement and spire 		784
And temples of the Gods rolled on the infuriate fire.


LXXXIX .   Her sister heard, and through the concourse came,
And tore her cheeks and beat her bosom fair,
And called upon the dying Queen by name.
"Sister! was this thy secret? thine this snare?
For me this fraud? For this did I prepare
That pyre, those flames and altars? This the end?
Ah me, forlorn! what worse remains to bear?
Would'st thou in death desert me, and pretend 		793
To scorn a sister's care, and shun me as a friend?


XC .   "Thou should'st have called me to thy doom! One stroke,
A moment's pang, and we had ceased to sigh.
Reared I this pyre, did I the gods invoke
To leave thee thus companionless, to die?
Lo, all are dead together, thou and I,
Town, princes, people, perished in a day.
Bring water; let me close the lightless eye,
And bathe those wounds, and kiss those lips of clay, 		802
And catch one fluttering breath, if yet, perchance, I may!"


XCI .   So saying, she climbs the steps, and, groaning sore,
Clasps to her breast her sister ere she dies,
And stanches with her robe the streaming gore.
In vain poor Dido lifts her wearied eyes,
The closing eyelids sicken at the skies.
Deep gurgles in her breast the deadly wound;
Thrice on her elbow she essays to rise,
Thrice back she sinks. With wandering eyes all round 		811
She seeks the light of heaven, and moans when it is found.


XCII .   Then Juno, pitying her agony
Of lingering death, sent Iris down with speed.
Her struggling soul from clinging limbs to free.
For since by Fate, or for her own misdeed
She perished not, but, ere the day decreed,
Fell in the frenzy of her love's despair,
Not yet Proserpina had claimed her meed,
And shorn the ringlet of her golden hair, 		820
And bade the sacred shade to Stygian realms repair.


XCIII .   So down to earth came Iris from on high
On saffron wings all glittering with the dew.
A thousand tints against the sunlit sky
She flashed from out her rainbow as she flew,
Then, hovering overhead, these words outthrew,
"Behold, to Dis this offering I bear,
And loose thee from thy body."—Forth she drew
The fatal shears, and clipped the golden hair; 		829
The vital heats disperse, and life dissolves in air.

BOOK FIVE

ARGUMENT

Æneas, unaware of Dido's fate, sails away to Acestes in Sicily, and prepares funeral games against the anniversary of Anchises' death (1-90). Offerings are paid to the spirit of Anchises. Sicilians and Trojans assemble for the first contest, a boat race (91-140), which is described at length. Cloanthus, ancestor of the Cluentii, wins with the "Scylla" (141-342). The foot-race is next narrated. Euryalus, by his friend's cunning, gains the first prize, and the scene shifts (343-441) to the ring, in which Dares is defeated by the veteran Entellus, who fells the ox, his prize, as an offering to his master Eryx (442-594). After some wonderful shooting in the archery which follows, Æneas awards the first prize to Acestes, as the favourite of the gods (595-667). Before this contest is over Æneas summons Ascanius and his boy-companions to perform the elaborate manoeuvres afterwards celebrated in Rome as the "Trojan Ride" (668-729). Juno schemes to destroy the Trojan fleet, while the games are being held. She inspires with discontent the Trojan matrons, who are not present at the festival. They set fire to the ships (730-810). Ascanius hurries to the scene. Jupiter sends rain and saves all the ships but four (811-855). Nautes advises Æneas to leave behind the weak and aged with Acestes. The wraith of Anchises enforces the advice, and bids Æneas visit him in the nether-world (856-909). Preparations for departure. Acestes accepts his new subjects, and the Trojans depart. Venus prevails on Neptune to grant them safe convoy in return for the life of the helmsman Palinurus, who is drowned (910-1062).


I .   Now well at sea, Æneas, fixt in mind,
Held on his course, and cleft the watery ways
Through billows blackened by the northern wind,
And backward on the city bent his gaze,
Bright with the flames of Dido. Whence the blaze
Arose, they knew not; but the pangs they knew
When love is passionate, and man betrays,
And what a frantic woman scorned can do, 		1
And many a sad surmise their boding thoughts pursue.


II .   The fleet was on mid-ocean; land no more
Was visible, nor aught but sea and sky;
When lo! above them a black cloud, that bore
Tempest and Night, frowned iron-dark on high,
And the wave, shuddering as the wind swept by,
Curled and was darkened. From the stern loud cries
The pilot Palinurus: "Whence and why
This cloudy rack that gathers o'er the skies? 		10
What, father Neptune, now, what mischief dost devise?"


III .   So having said, he bade the seamen take
The tackling in, and ply the lusty oar,
Then sloped the mainsheet to the wind, and spake:
"Noble Æneas, e'en if high Jove swore
To bring us safely to Italia's shore,
With skies like these, 'twere hopeless. Westward loom
The dark clouds mustering, and the changed winds roar
Athwart us, and the air is thick with gloom. 		19
Vainly we strive to move, and struggle with our doom.


IV .   "Come, then, since Fortune hath the mastering hand,
Yield we and turn. Not far, methinks, there lies
A friendly shore, thy brother Eryx' land,
And ports Sicanian, if aright these eyes
Recall my former reading of the skies."
Then good Æneas: "Long ago, 'tis plain,
The winds so willed it. I have seen," he cries,
"And marked thee toiling in their teeth in vain. 		28
Shift sail and turn the helm. What sweeter shore to gain,


V .   "What port more welcome to a wearied fleet
And wave-worn mariners, what land more blest
Than that where still Acestes lives, to greet
His Dardan friends, and in the boon earth's breast
My father's bones, Anchises', are at rest?"
He spake; at once the Trojans strive to gain
The port. Fair breezes, blowing from the West,
Swell out the sails. They bound along the main, 		37
And soon with gladdening hearts the well-known shore attain.


VI .   Far off Acestes, wondering, from a height
The coming of their friendly ships descries,
And hastes to meet them. Roughly is he dight
In Libyan bearskin, as in huntsman's guise;
A pointed javelin in each hand he plies.
Him once a Trojan to Crimisus bore,
The stream-god. Mindful of ancestral ties
He hails his weary kinsmen, come once more, 		46
And dainty fruits sets forth, and cheers them from his store.


VII .   Next dawn had chased the stars, when on the shore
Æneas thus the gathered crews addressed:
"Twelve months have passed, brave Dardans, since we bore
The bones of great Anchises to his rest,
And laid his ashes in the ground, and blessed
The mourning altars by the rolling sea.
And now once more, if rightly I have guessed,
The day is come, which Heaven hath willed to be 		55
Sacred for evermore, but ever sad to me.


VIII .   This day, though exiled on Gætulian sands,
Or caught by tempests on th' Ægean brine,
Or at Mycenæ in the foemen's hands,
With annual honours will I hold divine,
And head with fitting offerings the shrine.
By chance unsought, now hither are we led,
Yet not, I ween, without the God's design,
Where lie the ashes of my father dead, 		64
And greet a friendly port, by favouring breezes sped.


IX .   "Come then, with festival his name revere,
Pray we for winds to waft us, and entreat
His shade to take these offerings year by year,
When gathered to our new-built Troy, we meet
In hallowed fanes, his worship to repeat.
See, for each ship two head of hornèd kine
Acestes sends, his Trojan friends to greet
Bid then the home-gods of the Trojan line, 		73
With those our host adores, to grace the feast divine.


X .   "Nay, if the ninth fair morning show fine day,
And bring the sunshine, be a match decreed
For Teucrian ships, their swiftness to essay.
Next, in the footrace whosoe'er hath speed,
Or, glorying in his manhood, claims the meed
With dart, or flying arrow and the bow,
Or bout with untanned gauntlet, mark and heed,
And wait the victor's guerdon. Come ye now; 		82
Hush'd be each idle tongue, and garlanded each brow."


XI .   He spake, and round his temples binds with joy
His mother's myrtle. Helymus is crowned,
The veteran Acestes, and the boy
Ascanius, and the Trojan warriors round.
So from the council to the funeral mound
He moves, the centre of a circling crowd.
Two bowls of wine he pours upon the ground,
Two of warm milk, and two of victim's blood, 		91
And, scattering purple flowers, invokes the shade aloud.


XII .   "Hail, holy Sire! blest Spirit, hail once more,
And ashes, vainly rescued! Not with thee
Was I allowed to reach Italia's shore,
The fields Ausonian that the Fates decree,
And Latin Tiber—whatsoe'er it be."
He ceased, when lo, a monstrous serpent, wound
In seven huge coils, seven giant spires, they see
Glide from the grave, and gently clasp the mound, 		100
And 'twixt the altars trail in many a tortuous round.


XIII .   The back with azure and the scales with gold
In streaks and glittering patches were ablaze:
So doth the rainbow in the clouds unfold
A thousand hues against the sun's bright rays.
Æneas stood bewildered with amaze.
In lengthened train meanwhile the snake went on,
'Twixt cups and bowls weaving its sinuous ways,
Then sipped the sacred food, and harming none, 		109
The tasted altars left and 'neath the tomb was gone.


XIV .   Cheered, to Anchises he the rites renewed,
In doubt if there some Genius of the shrine
Or menial spirit of his sire he viewed.
Two sheep, two dark-backed heifers, and two swine
He slays, invoking, as he pours the wine,
The ghost, released from Acheron. Glad of soul,
Each adds his gift. These slay the sacred Kine,
Pile altars, set the cauldrons, heap the coal, 		118
And, sitting, hold the spits, and roast the entrails whole.


XV .   Now came the looked-for day. The ninth fair dawn
Bright Phaëthon drove up a cloudless sky.
Rumour and great Acestes' name had drawn
The neighbouring folk; shoreward in crowds they hie
To see the Trojans, or the games to try.
Piled in the lists the presents they behold,
Green garlands, tripods, robes of purple dye,
The conqueror's palm, bright armour for the bold, 		127
And many a talent's weight of silver and of gold.


XVI .   Now from a mound the trumpet's notes proclaim
The sports begun. Four galleys from the fleet,
The choicest, manned by mariners of fame,
And matched in size and urged with ponderous beat
Of oar-blades, for the naval contest meet.
See, here the Shark comes speeding to her place,
Trained is her crew and eager to compete,
Brave Mnestheus is her captain, born to grace 		136
Italia's land ere long, and found the Memmian race.