Now felt the Queen the sharp, slow-gathering pangsof love; and out of every pulsing veinnourished the wound and fed its viewless fire.Her hero's virtues and his lordly linekeep calling to her soul; his words, his glance,cling to her heart like lingering, barbed steel,and rest and peace from her vexed body fly.A new day's dawn with Phoebus' lamp divinelit up all lands, and from the vaulted heavenAurora had dispelled the dark and dew;when thus unto the ever-answering heartof her dear sister spoke the stricken Queen:“Anna, my sister, what disturbing dreamsperplex me and alarm? What guest is thisnew-welcomed to our house? How proud his mien!What dauntless courage and exploits of war!Sooth, I receive it for no idle talethat of the gods he sprang. 'T is cowardicebetrays the base-born soul. Ah me! How fatehas smitten him with storms! What dire extremesof war and horror in his tale he told!O, were it not immutably resolvedin my fixed heart, that to no shape of manI would be wed again (since my first loveleft me by death abandoned and betrayed);loathed I not so the marriage torch and train,I could—who knows?—to this one weakness yield.Anna, I hide it not! But since the doomof my ill-starred Sichaeus, when our shrineswere by a brother's murder dabbled o'er,this man alone has moved me; he alonehas shaken my weak will. I seem to feelthe motions of love's lost, familiar fire.But may the earth gape open where I tread,and may almighty Jove with thunder-scourgehurl me to Erebus' abysmal shade,to pallid ghosts and midnight fathomless,before, O Chastity! I shall offendthy holy power, or cast thy bonds away!He who first mingled his dear life with minetook with him all my heart. 'T is his alone —o, let it rest beside him in the grave!”She spoke: the bursting tears her breast o'erflowed.
“O dearer to thy sister than her life,”Anna replied, “wouldst thou in sorrow's weedwaste thy long youth alone, nor ever knowsweet babes at thine own breast, nor gifts of love?Will dust and ashes, or a buried ghostreck what we do? 'T is true thy grieving heartwas cold to earlier wooers, Libya's now,and long ago in Tyre. Iarbas knewthy scorn, and many a prince and captain bredin Afric's land of glory. Why resista love that makes thee glad? Hast thou no carewhat alien lands are these where thou dost reign?Here are Gaetulia's cities and her tribesunconquered ever; on thy borders roveNumidia's uncurbed cavalry; here toolies Syrtis' cruel shore, and regions wideof thirsty desert, menaced everywhereby the wild hordes of Barca. Shall I tellof Tyre's hostilities, the threats and rageof our own brother? Friendly gods, I bow,wafted the Teucrian ships, with Juno's aid,to these our shores. O sister, what a throne,and what imperial city shall be thine,if thus espoused! With Trojan arms alliedhow far may not our Punic fame extendin deeds of power? Call therefore on the godsto favor thee; and, after omens fair,give queenly welcome, and contrive excuseto make him tarry, while yon wintry seasare loud beneath Orion's stormful star,and on his battered ships the season frowns.” So saying, she stirred a passion-burning breastto Iove more madly still; her words infuseda doubting mind with hope, and bade the blushof shame begone. First to the shrines they wentand sued for grace; performing sacrifice,choosing an offering of unblemished ewes,to law-bestowing Ceres, to the godof light, to sire Lyeus, Iord of wine;but chiefly unto Juno, patronessof nuptial vows. There Dido, beauteous Queenheld forth in her right hand the sacred bowland poured it full between the lifted hornsof the white heifer; or on temple floorsshe strode among the richly laden shrines,the eyes of gods upon her, worshippingwith many a votive gift; or, peering deepinto the victims' cloven sides, she readthe fate-revealing tokens trembling there.How blind the hearts of prophets be! Alas!Of what avail be temples and fond prayersto change a frenzied mind? Devouring ever,love's fire burns inward to her bones; she feelsquick in her breast the viewless, voiceless wound.Ill-fated Dido ranges up and downthe spaces of her city, desperateher life one flame—like arrow-stricken doethrough Cretan forest rashly wandering,pierced by a far-off shepherd, who pursueswith shafts, and leaves behind his light-winged steed,not knowing; while she scours the dark ravinesof Dicte and its woodlands; at her heartthe mortal barb irrevocably clings.around her city's battlements she guidesaeneas, to make show of Sidon's gold,and what her realm can boast; full oft her voiceessays to speak and frembling dies away:or, when the daylight fades, she spreads anewa royal banquet, and once more will pleadmad that she is, to hear the Trojan sorrow;and with oblivious ravishment once morehangs on his lips who tells; or when her guestsare scattered, and the wan moon's fading hornbedims its ray, while many a sinking starinvites to slumber, there she weeps alonein the deserted hall, and casts her downon the cold couch he pressed. Her love from farbeholds her vanished hero and receiveshis voice upon her ears; or to her breast,moved by a father's image in his child,she clasps Ascanius, seeking to deceiveher unblest passion so. Her enterpriseof tower and rampart stops: her martial hostno Ionger she reviews, nor fashions nowdefensive haven and defiant wall;but idly all her half-built bastions frown,and enginery of sieges, high as heaven. But soon the chosen spouse of Jove perceivedthe Queen's infection; and because the voiceof honor to such frenzy spoke not, she,daughter of Saturn, unto Venus turnedand counselled thus: “How noble is the praise,how glorious the spoils of victory,for thee and for thy boy! Your names should bein lasting, vast renown—that by the snareof two great gods in league one woman fell!it 'scapes me not that my protected realmshave ever been thy fear, and the proud hallsof Carthage thy vexation and annoy.Why further go? Prithee, what useful endhas our long war? Why not from this day forthperpetual peace and nuptial amity?Hast thou not worked thy will? Behold and seehow Iove-sick Dido burns, and all her flesh'The madness feels! So let our common gracesmile on a mingled people! Let her servea Phrygian husband, while thy hands receiveher Tyrian subjects for the bridal dower!” In answer (reading the dissembler's mindwhich unto Libyan shores were fain to shiftitalia's future throne) thus Venus spoke:“'T were mad to spurn such favor, or by choicebe numbered with thy foes. But can it bethat fortune on thy noble counsel smiles?To me Fate shows but dimly whether Joveunto the Trojan wanderers ordainsa common city with the sons of Tyre,with mingling blood and sworn, perpetual peace.His wife thou art; it is thy rightful dueto plead to know his mind. Go, ask him, then!For humbly I obey!” With instant wordJuno the Queen replied: “Leave that to me!But in what wise our urgent task and gravemay soon be sped, I will in brief unfoldto thine attending ear. A royal huntin sylvan shades unhappy Dido givesfor her Aeneas, when to-morrow's dawnuplifts its earliest ray and Titan's beamshall first unveil the world. But I will pourblack storm-clouds with a burst of heavy hailalong their way; and as the huntsmen speedto hem the wood with snares, I will arouseall heaven with thunder. The attending trainshall scatter and be veiled in blinding dark,while Dido and her hero out of Troy
to the same cavern fly. My auspicesI will declare—if thou alike wilt bless;and yield her in true wedlock for his bride.Such shall their spousal be!” To Juno's willCythera's Queen inclined assenting brow,and laughed such guile to see. Aurora rose,and left the ocean's rim. The city's gatespour forth to greet the morn a gallant trainof huntsmen, bearing many a woven snareand steel-tipped javelin; while to and frorun the keen-scented dogs and Libyan squires.The Queen still keeps her chamber; at her doorsthe Punic lords await; her palfrey, bravein gold and purple housing, paws the groundand fiercely champs the foam-flecked bridle-rein.At last, with numerous escort, forth she shines:her Tyrian pall is bordered in bright hues,her quiver, gold; her tresses are confinedonly with gold; her robes of purple raremeet in a golden clasp. To greet her comethe noble Phrygian guests; among them smilesthe boy Iulus; and in fair arrayAeneas, goodliest of all his train.In such a guise Apollo (when he leavescold Lycian hills and Xanthus' frosty streamto visit Delos to Latona dear)ordains the song, while round his altars crythe choirs of many islands, with the pied,fantastic Agathyrsi; soon the godmoves o'er the Cynthian steep; his flowing hairhe binds with laurel garland and bright gold;upon his shining shoulder as he goesthe arrows ring:—not less uplifted mienaeneas wore; from his illustrious browsuch beauty shone. Soon to the mountains tallthe cavalcade comes nigh, to pathless hauntsof woodland creatures; the wild goats are seen,from pointed crag descending leap by leapdown the steep ridges; in the vales beloware routed deer, that scour the spreading plain,and mass their dust-blown squadrons in wild flight,far from the mountain's bound. Ascaniusflushed with the sport, spurs on a mettled steedfrom vale to vale, and many a flying herdhis chase outspeeds; but in his heart he praysamong these tame things suddenly to seea tusky boar, or, leaping from the hills,a growling mountain-lion, golden-maned. Meanwhile low thunders in the distant skymutter confusedly; soon bursts in fullthe storm-cloud and the hail. The Tyrian troopis scattered wide; the chivalry of Troy,with the young heir of Dardan's kingly line,of Venus sprung, seek shelter where they may, with sudden terror; down the deep ravinesthe swollen torrents roar. In that same hourQueen Dido and her hero out of Troy
to the same cavern fly. Old Mother-Earthand wedlock-keeping Juno gave the sign;the flash of lightnings on the conscious airwere torches to the bridal; from the hillsthe wailing wood-nymphs sobbed a wedding song.Such was that day of death, the source and springof many a woe. For Dido took no heedof honor and good-name; nor did she meanher loves to hide; but called the lawlessnessa marriage, and with phrases veiled her shame. Swift through the Libyan cities Rumor sped.Rumor! What evil can surpass her speed?In movement she grows mighty, and achievesstrength and dominion as she swifter flies.small first, because afraid, she soon exaltsher stature skyward, stalking through the landsand mantling in the clouds her baleful brow.The womb of Earth, in anger at high Heaven,bore her, they say, last of the Titan spawn,sister to Coeus and Enceladus.Feet swift to run and pinions like the windthe dreadful monster wears; her carcase hugeis feathered, and at root of every plumea peering eye abides; and, strange to tell,an equal number of vociferous tongues,foul, whispering lips, and ears, that catch at all.At night she spreads midway 'twixt earth and heavenher pinions in the darkness, hissing loud,nor e'er to happy slumber gives her eyes:but with the morn she takes her watchful thronehigh on the housetops or on lofty towers,to terrify the nations. She can clingto vile invention and malignant wrong,or mingle with her word some tidings true.She now with changeful story filled men's ears,exultant, whether false or true she sung:how, Trojan-born Aeneas having come,Dido, the lovely widow, Iooked his way,deigning to wed; how all the winter longthey passed in revel and voluptuous ease,to dalliance given o'er; naught heeding nowof crown or kingdom—shameless! lust-enslaved!Such tidings broadcast on the lips of menthe filthy goddess spread; and soon she hiedto King Iarbas, where her hateful songto newly-swollen wrath his heart inflamed.
Him the god Ammon got by forced embraceupon a Libyan nymph; his kingdoms widepossessed a hundred ample shrines to Jove,a hundred altars whence ascended everthe fires of sacrifice, perpetual seatsfor a great god's abode, where flowing bloodenriched the ground, and on the portals hunggarlands of every flower. The angered King,half-maddened by malignant Rumor's voice,unto his favored altars came, and there,surrounded by the effluence divine,upraised in prayer to Jove his suppliant hands.“Almighty Jupiter, to whom each day,at banquet on the painted couch reclined,Numidia pours libation! Do thine eyesbehold us? Or when out of yonder heaven,o sire, thou launchest the swift thunderbolt,is it for naught we fear thee? Do the cloudsshoot forth blind fire to terrify the soulwith wild, unmeaning roar? O, Iook uponthat woman, who was homeless in our realm,and bargained where to build her paltry town,receiving fertile coastland for her farms,by hospitable grant! She dares disdainour proffered nuptial vow. She has proclaimedAeneas partner of her bed and throne.And now that Paris, with his eunuch crew,beneath his chin and fragrant, oozy hairties the soft Lydian bonnet, boasting wellhis stolen prize. But we to all these fanes,though they be thine, a fruitless offering bring,and feed on empty tales our trust in thee.” As thus he prayed and to the altars clung,th' Omnipotent gave ear, and turned his gazeupon the royal dwelling, where for lovethe amorous pair forgot their place and name.Then thus to Mercury he gave command:“Haste thee, my son, upon the Zephyrs call,and take thy winged way! My mandate bearunto that prince of Troy who tarries nowin Tyrian Carthage, heedless utterlyof empire Heaven-bestowed. On winged windshasten with my decrees. Not such the manhis beauteous mother promised; not for thistwice did she shield him from the Greeks in arms:but that he might rule Italy, a landpregnant with thrones and echoing with war;that he of Teucer's seed a race should sire,and bring beneath its law the whole wide world.If such a glory and event supremeenkindle not his bosom; if such taskto his own honor speak not; can the sirebegrudge Ascanius the heritageof the proud name of Rome? What plans he now?What mad hope bids him linger in the lapof enemies, considering no morethe land Lavinian and Ausonia's sons.Let him to sea! Be this our final word:this message let our herald faithful bear.” He spoke. The god a prompt obedience gaveto his great sire's command. He fastened firstthose sandals of bright gold, which carry himaloft o'er land or sea, with airy wingsthat race the fleeting wind; then lifted hehis wand, wherewith he summons from the gravepale-featured ghosts, or, if he will, consignsto doleful Tartarus; or by its powergives slumber or dispels; or quite unsealsthe eyelids of the dead: on this relying,he routs the winds or cleaves th' obscurityof stormful clouds. Soon from his flight he spiedthe summit and the sides precipitousof stubborn Atlas, whose star-pointing peakprops heaven; of Atlas, whose pine-wreathed browis girdled evermore with misty gloomand lashed of wind and rain; a cloak of snowmelts on his shoulder; from his aged chindrop rivers, and ensheathed in stiffening iceglitters his great grim beard. Here first was stayedthe speed of Mercury's well-poising wing;here making pause, from hence he headlong flunghis body to the sea; in motion likesome sea-bird's, which along the levelled shoreor round tall crags where rove the swarming fish,flies Iow along the waves: o'er-hovering sobetween the earth and skies, Cyllene's godflew downward from his mother's mountain-sire,parted the winds and skimmed the sandy mergeof Libya. When first his winged feetcame nigh the clay-built Punic huts, he sawAeneas building at a citadel,and founding walls and towers; at his sidewas girt a blade with yellow jaspers starred,his mantle with the stain of Tyrian shellflowed purple from his shoulder, broidered fairby opulent Dido with fine threads of gold,her gift of love; straightway the god began:“Dost thou for lofty Carthage toil, to buildfoundations strong? Dost thou, a wife's weak thrall,build her proud city? Hast thou, shameful loss! Forgot thy kingdom and thy task sublime?From bright Olympus, I. He who commandsall gods, and by his sovran deitymoves earth and heaven—he it was who bademe bear on winged winds his high decree.What plan is thine? By what mad hope dost thoulinger so Iong in lap of Libyan land?If the proud reward of thy destined waymove not thy heart, if all the arduous toilto thine own honor speak not, Iook uponIulus in his bloom, thy hope and heirAscanius. It is his rightful duein Italy o'er Roman lands to reign.”After such word Cyllene's winged godvanished, and e'er his accents died away,dissolved in air before the mortal's eyes. Aeneas at the sight stood terror-dumbwith choking voice and horror-rising hair.He fain would fly at once and get him gonefrom that voluptuous land, much wonderingat Heaven's wrathful word. Alas! how stir?What cunning argument can plead his causebefore th' infuriate Queen? How break such news?Flashing this way and that, his startled mindmakes many a project and surveys them all.But, pondering well, his final counsel stoppedat this resolve: he summoned to his sideMnestheus, Sergestus, and Serestus bold,and bade them fit the fleet, all silentlygathering the sailors and collecting gear,but carefully dissembling what emprisesuch novel stir intends: himself the while(Since high-born Dido dreamed not love so fondcould have an end) would seek an audience,at some indulgent time, and try what shiftsuch matters may require. With joy they heard,and wrought, assiduous, at their prince's plan.
But what can cheat true love? The Queen foreknewhis stratagem, and all the coming changeperceived ere it began. Her jealous fearcounted no hour secure. That unclean tongueof Rumor told her fevered heart the fleetwas fitting forth, and hastening to be gone.Distractedly she raved, and passion-tossedroamed through her city, like a Maenad rousedby the wild rout of Bacchus, when are heardthe third year's orgies, and the midnight screamto cold Cithaeron calls the frenzied crew.Finding Aeneas, thus her plaint she poured:“Didst hope to hide it, false one, that such crimewas in thy heart,—to steal without farewellout of my kingdom? Did our mutual joynot move thee; nor thine own true promise givenonce on a time? Nor Dido, who will diea death of sorrow? Why compel thy shipsto brave the winter stars? Why off to seaso fast through stormy skies? O, cruelty!If Troy still stood, and if thou wert not boundfor alien shore unknown, wouldst steer for Troy
through yonder waste of waves? Is it from methou takest flight? O, by these flowing tears,by thine own plighted word (for nothing moremy weakness left to miserable me),by our poor marriage of imperfect vow,if aught to me thou owest, if aught in meever have pleased thee—O, be mercifulto my low-fallen fortunes! I implore,if place be left for prayer, thy purpose change!Because of thee yon Libyan savagesand nomad chiefs are grown implacable,and my own Tyrians hate me. Yes, for theemy chastity was slain and honor fair,by which alone to glory I aspired,in former days. To whom dost thou in deathabandon me? my guest!—since but this nameis left me of a husband! Shall I waittill fell Pygmalion, my brother, razemy city walls? Or the Gaetulian king,Iarbas, chain me captive to his car? .O, if, ere thou hadst fled, I might but bearsome pledge of love to thee, and in these hallswatch some sweet babe Aeneas at his play,whose face should be the memory of thine own —I were not so forsaken, Iost, undone!” She said. But he, obeying Jove's decree,gazed steadfastly away; and in his heartwith strong repression crushed his cruel pain;then thus the silence broke: “O Queen, not oneof my unnumbered debts so strongly urgedwould I gainsay. Elissa's memorywill be my treasure Iong as memory holds,or breath of life is mine. Hear my brief plea!'T was not my hope to hide this flight I take,as thou hast dreamed. Nay, I did never lighta bridegroom's torch, nor gave I thee the vowof marriage. Had my destiny decreed,that I should shape life to my heart's desire,and at my own will put away the weightof foil and pain, my place would now be foundin Troy, among the cherished sepulchresof my own kin, and Priam's mansion proudwere standing still; or these my loyal handshad rebuilt Ilium for her vanquished sons.But now to Italy Apollo's powercommands me forth; his Lycian oraclesare loud for Italy. My heart is there,and there my fatherland. If now the towersof Carthage and thy Libyan colonydelight thy Tyrian eyes; wilt thou refuseto Trojan exiles their Ausonian shore?I too by Fate was driven, not less than thou,to wander far a foreign throne to find.Oft when in dewy dark night hides the world,and flaming stars arise, Anchises' shadelooks on me in my dreams with angered brow.I think of my Ascanius, and the wrongto that dear heart, from whom I steal awayHesperia, his destined home and throne.But now the winged messenger of Heaven,sent down by Jove (I swear by thee and me!),has brought on winged winds his sire's command.My own eyes with unclouded vision sawthe god within these walls; I have receivedwith my own ears his word. No more inflamewith lamentation fond thy heart and mine.'T is not my own free act seeks Italy.” She with averted eyes and glance that rolledspeechless this way and that, had listened longto his reply, till thus her rage broke forth:“No goddess gave thee birth. No Dardanusbegot thy sires. But on its breast of stoneCaucasus bore thee, and the tigressesof fell Hyrcania to thy baby liptheir udders gave. Why should I longer showa lying smile? What worse can I endure?Did my tears draw one sigh? Did he once drophis stony stare? or did he yield a tearto my lament, or pity this fond heart?Why set my wrongs in order? Juno, now,and Jove, the son of Saturn, heed no morewhere justice lies. No trusting heart is safein all this world. That waif and castawayI found in beggary and gave him share—fool that I was!—in my own royal glory.His Iost fleet and his sorry crews I steeredfrom death away. O, how my fevered soulunceasing raves! Forsooth Apollo speaks!His Lycian oracles! and sent by Jovethe messenger of Heaven on fleeting airthe ruthless bidding brings! Proud businessfor gods, I trow, that such a task disturbstheir still abodes! I hold thee back no more,nor to thy cunning speeches give the lie.Begone! Sail on to Italy, thy throne,through wind and wave! I pray that, if there beany just gods of power, thou mayest drink downdeath on the mid-sea rocks, and often callwith dying gasps on Dido's name—while Ipursue with vengeful fire. When cold death rendsthe body from the breath, my ghost shall sitforever in thy path. Full penaltiesthy stubborn heart shall pay. They'll bring me neverin yon deep gulf of death of all thy woe.”Abrupt her utterance ceased; and sick at heartshe fled the light of day, as if to shrinkfrom human eyes, and left Aeneas thereirresolute with horror, while his soulframed many a vain reply. Her swooning shapeher maidens to a marble chamber boreand on her couch the helpless limbs reposed. Aeneas, faithful to a task divine,though yearning sore to remedy and soothesuch misery, and with the timely wordher grief assuage, and though his burdened heartwas weak because of love, while many a groanrose from his bosom, yet no whit did failto do the will of Heaven, but of his fleetresumed command. The Trojans on the shoreply well their task and push into the seathe lofty ships. Now floats the shining keel,and oars they bring all leafy from the grove,with oak half-hewn, so hurried was the flight.Behold them how they haste—from every gateforth-streaming!—just as when a heap of cornis thronged with ants, who, knowing winter nigh,refill their granaries; the long black lineruns o'er the levels, and conveys the spoilin narrow pathway through the grass; a partwith straining and assiduous shoulder pushthe kernels huge; a part array the file,and whip the laggards on; their busy trackswarms quick and eager with unceasing toil.O Dido, how thy suffering heart was wrung,that spectacle to see! What sore lamentwas thine, when from the towering citadelthe whole shore seemed alive, the sea itselfin turmoil with loud cries! Relentless Love,to what mad courses may not mortal heartsby thee be driven? Again her sorrow fliesto doleful plaint and supplication vain;again her pride to tyrant Love bows downlest, though resolved to die, she fail to proveeach hope of living: “O Anna, dost thou seeyon busy shore? From every side they come.their canvas wooes the winds, and o'er each prowthe merry seamen hang their votive flowers.Dear sister, since I did forebode this grief,I shall be strong to bear it. One sole boonmy sorrow asks thee, Anna! Since of thee,thee only, did that traitor make a friend,and trusted thee with what he hid so deep —the feelings of his heart; since thou alonehast known what way, what hour the man would yieldto soft persuasion—therefore, sister, haste,and humbly thus implore our haughty foe:‘I was not with the Greeks what time they sworeat Aulis to cut off the seed of Troy;I sent no ships to Ilium. Pray, have Iprofaned Anchises' tomb, or vexed his shade?’Why should his ear be deaf and obdurateto all I say? What haste? May he not makeone last poor offering to her whose loveis only pain? O, bid him but delaytill flight be easy and the winds blow fair.I plead no more that bygone marriage-vowby him forsworn, nor ask that he should losehis beauteous Latium and his realm to be.Nothing but time I crave! to give reposeand more room to this fever, till my fateteach a crushed heart to sorrow. I implorethis last grace. (To thy sister's grief be kind!)I will requite with increase, till I die.” Such plaints, such prayers, again and yet again,betwixt the twain the sorrowing sister bore.But no words move, no lamentations bringpersuasion to his soul; decrees of Fateoppose, and some wise god obstructs the waythat finds the hero's ear. Oft-times aroundthe aged strength of some stupendous oakthe rival blasts of wintry Alpine windssmite with alternate wrath: Ioud is the roar,and from its rocking top the broken boughsare strewn along the ground; but to the cragsteadfast it ever clings; far as toward heavenits giant crest uprears, so deep belowits roots reach down to Tartarus:—not lessthe hero by unceasing wail and cryis smitten sore, and in his mighty hearthas many a pang, while his serene intentabides unmoved, and tears gush forth in vain.
Then wretched Dido, by her doom appalled,asks only death. It wearies her to seethe sun in heaven. Yet that she might hold fasther dread resolve to quit the light of day,behold, when on an incense-breathing shrineher offering was laid—O fearful tale!—the pure libation blackened, and the wineflowed like polluting gore. She told the sightto none, not even to her sister's ear.A second sign was given: for in her housea marble altar to her husband's shade,with garlands bright and snowy fleeces dressed,had fervent worship; here strange cries were heardas if her dead spouse called while midnight reigned,and round her towers its inhuman songthe lone owl sang, complaining o'er and o'erwith lamentation and long shriek of woe.Forgotten oracles by wizards toldwhisper old omens dire. In dreams she feelscruel Aeneas goad her madness on,and ever seems she, friendless and alone,some lengthening path to travel, or to seekher Tyrians through wide wastes of barren lands.Thus frantic Pentheus flees the stern arrayof the Eumenides, and thinks to seetwo noonday lights blaze oer his doubled Thebes;or murdered Agamemnon's haunted son,Orestes, flees his mother's phantom scourgeof flames and serpents foul, while at his dooravenging horrors wait. Now sorrow-crazedand by her grief undone, resolved on death,the manner and the time her secret soulprepares, and, speaking to her sister sad,she masks in cheerful calm her fatal will:“I know a way—O, wish thy sister joy!—to bring him back to Iove, or set me free.On Ocean's bound and next the setting sunlies the last Aethiop land, where Atlas talllifts on his shoulder the wide wheel of heaven,studded with burning stars. From thence is comea witch, a priestess, a Numidian crone,who guards the shrine of the Hesperidesand feeds the dragon; she protects the fruitof that enchanting tree, and scatters thereher slumb'rous poppies mixed with honey-dew.Her spells and magic promise to set freewhat hearts she will, or visit cruel woeson men afar. She stops the downward flowof rivers, and turns back the rolling stars;on midnight ghosts she calls: her vot'ries hearearth bellowing loud below, while from the hillsthe ash-trees travel down. But, sister mine,thou knowest, and the gods their witness give,how little mind have I to don the garbof sorcery. Depart in secret, thou,and bid them build a lofty funeral pyreinside our palalce-wall, and heap thereonthe hero's arms, which that blasphemer hungwithin my chamber; every relic bring,and chiefly that ill-omened nuptial bed,my death and ruin! For I must blot outall sight and token of this husband vile.'T is what the witch commands.” She spoke no more,and pallid was her brow. Yet Anna's mindknew not what web of death her sister woveby these strange rites, nor what such frenzy dares;nor feared she worse than when Sichaeus died,but tried her forth the errand to fulfil. Soon as the funeral pyre was builded highin a sequestered garden, Iooming huge with boughs of pine and faggots of cleft oak,the queen herself enwreathed it with sad flowersand boughs of mournful shade; and crowning allshe laid on nuptial bed the robes and swordby him abandoned; and stretched out thereona mock Aeneas;—but her doom she knew.Altars were there; and with loose locks unboundthe priestess with a voice of thunder calledthree hundred gods, Hell, Chaos, the three shapesof triple Hecate, the faces threeof virgin Dian. She aspersed a streamfrom dark Avernus drawn, she said; soft herbswere cut by moonlight with a blade of bronze,oozing black poison-sap; and she had pluckedthat philter from the forehead of new foalbefore its dam devours. Dido herself,sprinkling the salt meal, at the altar stands;one foot unsandalled, and with cincture free,on all the gods and fate-instructed stars,foreseeing death, she calls. But if there besome just and not oblivious power on high,who heeds when lovers plight unequal vow,to that god first her supplications rise.
Soon fell the night, and peaceful slumbers breathedon all earth's weary creatures; the loud seasand babbling forests entered on repose;now midway in their heavenly course the starswheeled silent on; the outspread lands belowlay voiceless; all the birds of tinted wing,and flocks that haunt the merge of waters wideor keep the thorny wold, oblivious laybeneath the night so still; the stings of careceased troubling, and no heart its burden knew.Not so the Tyrian Queen's deep-grieving soul!To sleep she could not yield; her eyes and heartrefused the gift of night; her sufferingredoubled, and in full returning tideher love rebelled, while on wild waves of rageshe drifted to and fro. So, ceasing notfrom sorrow, thus she brooded on her wrongs:“What refuge now? Shall I invite the scornof my rejected wooers, or entreatof some disdainful, nomad blackamoorto take me to his bed—though many a timesuch husbands I made mock of? Shall I sailon Ilian ships away, and sink to bethe Trojans' humble thrall? Do they rejoicethat once I gave them bread? Lives gratitudein hearts like theirs for bygone kindnesses?O, who, if so I stooped, would deign to bearon yon proud ships the scorned and fallen Queen?Lost creature! Woe betide thee! Knowest thou not the perjured children of Laomedon?What way is left? Should I take flight aloneand join the revelling sailors? Or departwith Tyrians, the whole attending trainof my own people? Hard the task to forcetheir hearts from Sidon's towers; how once morecompel to sea, and bid them spread the sail?Nay, perish! Thou hast earned it. Let the swordfrom sorrow save thee! Sister of my blood—who else but thee,—my own tears borne down,didst heap disaster on my frantic soul,and fling me to this foe? Why could I notpass wedlock by, and live a blameless lifeas wild things do, nor taste of passion's pain?But I broke faith! I cast the vows awaymade at Sichaeus' grave.” Such loud lamentburst from her breaking heart with doleful sound.Meanwhile Aeneas on his lofty ship,having made ready all, and fixed his mindto launch away upon brief slumher fell.But the god came; and in the self-same guiseonce more in monitory vision spoke,all guised as Mercury,—his voice, his hue,his golden locks, and young limbs strong and fair.“Hail, goddess-born! Wouldst linger on in sleepat such an hour? Nor seest thou the snaresthat hem thee round? Nor hearest thou the voiceof friendly zephyrs calling? Senseless man!That woman's breast contrives some treacheryand horrid stroke; for, resolute to die,she drifts on swollen floods of wrath and scorn. Wilt thou not fly before the hastening hourof flight is gone? To-morrow thou wilt seeyon waters thronged with ships, the cruel glareof fire-brands, and yonder shore all flame,if but the light of morn again surprisethee loitering in this land. Away! Away!Stay not! A mutable and shifting thingis woman ever.” Such command he spoke,then melted in the midnight dark away. Aeneas, by that fleeting vision struckwith an exceeding awe, straightway leaped forthfrom slumber's power, and to his followers cried :“Awake, my men! Away! Each to his placeupon the thwarts! Unfurl at once the sails!A god from heaven a second time sent downurges our instant flight and bids us cutthe twisted cords. Whatever be thy name,behold, we come, O venerated Power!Again with joy we follow! Let thy graceassist us as we go! And may thy powerbring none but stars benign across our sky.”So saying, from its scabbard forth he flashedthe lightning of his sword, with naked bladestriking the hawsers free. Like ardor seizedon all his willing men, who raced and ran;and, while their galleys shadowed all the sea,clean from the shore they scudded, with strong strokessweeping the purple waves and crested foam.