But the queen finds no rest. Deep in her veinsThe wound is fed; she burns with hidden fire.His manhood, and the glory of his raceAre an obsession with her, like his voice,Gesture and countenance. On the next morning,After a restless night, she sought her sister:“I am troubled, Anna, doubtful, terrified,Or am I dreaming? What new guest is thisCome to our shores? How well he talks, how braveHe seems in heart and action! I supposeIt must be true; he does come from the gods.Fear proves a bastard spirit. He has beenSo buffeted by fate. What endless warsHe told of! Sister, I must tell you something:Were not my mind made up, once and for all,Never again to marry, having beenSo lost when Sychaeus left me for the grave,Slain by my murderous brother at the altar,Were I not sick forever of the torchAnd bridal bed, here is the only manWho has moved my spirit, shaken my weak will.I might have yielded to him. I recognizeThe marks of an old fire. But I pray, rather,That earth engulf me, lightning strike me downTo the pale shades and everlasting nightBefore I break the laws of decency.My love has gone with Sychaeus; let him keep it,Keep it with him forever in the grave.”She ended with a burst of tears. “Dear sister,Dearer than life,” Anna replied, “why must youGrieve all your youth away in loneliness,Not know sweet children, or the joys of love?Is that what dust demands, and buried shadows?So be it. You have kept your resolutionFrom Tyre to Libya, proved it by denyingIarbas and a thousand other suitorsFrom Africa’s rich kingdoms. Think a little.Whose lands are these you settle in? Getulians,Invincible in war, the wild Numidians,Unfriendly Syrtes, ring us round, and a desertBarren with drought, and the Barcaean rangers.Why should I mention Tyre, and wars arisingOut of Pygmalion’s threats? And you, my sister,Why should you fight against a pleasing passion?I think the gods have willed it so, and JunoHas helped to bring the Trojan ships to Carthage.What a great city, sister, what a kingdomThis might become, rising on such a marriage!Carthage and Troy together in arms, what gloryMight not be ours? Only invoke the blessingOf the great gods, make sacrifice, be lavishIn welcome, keep them here while the fierce winterRages at sea, and cloud and sky are stormy,And ships still wrecked and broken.”So she fannedThe flame of the burning heart; the doubtful mindWas given hope, and the sense of guilt was lessened.And first of all they go to shrine and altarImploring peace; they sacrifice to Ceres,Giver of law, to Bacchus, to Apollo,And most of all to Juno, in whose keepingThe bonds of marriage rest. In all her beautyDido lifts up the goblet, pours libationBetween the horns of a white heifer, slowly,Or, slowly, moves to the rich altars, notingThe proper gifts to mark the day, or studiesThe sacrificial entrails for the omens.Alas, poor blind interpreters! What womanIn love is helped by offerings or altars?Soft fire consumes the marrow-bones, the silentWound grows, deep in the heart.Unhappy Dido burns, and wanders, burning,All up and down the city, the way a deerWith a hunter’s careless arrow in her flankRanges the uplands, with the shaft still clingingTo the hurt side. She takes Aeneas with herAll through the town, displays the wealth of Sidon,Buildings projected; she starts to speak, and falters,And at the end of the day renews the banquet,Is wild to hear the story, over and over,Hangs on each word, until the late moon, sinking,Sends them all home. The stars die out, but DidoLies brooding in the empty hall, alone,Abandoned on a lonely couch. She hears him,Sees him, or sees and hears him in Iulus,Fondles the boy, as if that ruse might fool her,Deceived by his resemblance to his father.The towers no longer rise, the youth are slackIn drill for arms, the cranes and derricks rusting,Walls halt halfway to heaven.And Juno saw it,The queen held fast by this disease, this passionWhich made her good name meaningless. In angerShe rushed to Venus:—“Wonderful!—the trophies,The praise, you and that boy of yours are winning!Two gods outwit one woman—splendid, splendid!What glory for Olympus! I know you fear me,Fear Carthage, and suspect us. To what purpose?What good does all this do? Is there no limit?Would we not both be better off, to sanctionA bond of peace forever, a formal marriage?You have your dearest wish; Dido is burningWith love, infected to her very marrow.Let us—why not?—conspire to rule one peopleOn equal terms; let her serve a Trojan husband;Let her yield her Tyrian people as her dowry.”This, Venus knew, was spoken with a purpose,A guileful one, to turn Italian empireTo Libyan shores: not without reservationShe spoke in answer: “Who would be so foolishAs to refuse such terms, preferring warfare,If only fortune follows that proposal?I do not know, I am more than a little troubledWhat fate permits: will Jupiter allow it,One city for the Tyrians and Trojans,This covenant, this mixture? You can fathomHis mind, and ask him, being his wife. I followWherever you lead.” And royal Juno answered:“That I will tend to. Listen to me, and learnHow to achieve the urgent need. They plan,Aeneas, and poor Dido, to go huntingWhen sunlight floods the world to-morrow morning.While the rush of the hunt is on, and the forest shakenWith beaters and their nets, I will pour downDark rain and hail, and make the whole sky rumbleWith thunder and threat. The company will scatter,Hidden or hiding in the night and shadow,And Dido and the Trojan come for shelterTo the same cave. I will be there and join themIn lasting wedlock; she will be his own,His bride, forever; this will be their marriage.”Venus assented, smiling, not ungracious—The trick was in the open.Dawn, rising, left the ocean, and the youthCome forth from all the gates, prepared for hunting,Nets, toils, wide spears, keen-scented coursing hounds,And Dido keeps them waiting; her own chargerStands bright in gold and crimson; the bit foams,The impatient head is tossed. At last she comes,With a great train attending, gold and crimson,Quiver of gold, and combs of gold, and mantleCrimson with golden buckle. A Trojan escortAttends her, with Iulus, and AeneasComes to her side, more lordly than ApolloBright along Delos’ ridges in the springtimeWith laurel in his hair and golden weaponsShining across his shoulders. Equal radianceIs all around Aeneas, equal splendor.They reach the mountain heights, the hiding-placesWhere no trail runs; wild goats from the rocks are started,Run down the ridges; elsewhere, in the openDeer cross the dusty plain, away from the mountains.The boy Ascanius, in the midst of the valley,Is glad he has so good a horse, rides, dashingPast one group or another: deer are cowardsAnd wild goats tame; he prays for some excitement,A tawny lion coming down the mountainOr a great boar with foaming mouth.The heavenDarkens, and thunder rolls, and rain and hailCome down in torrents. The hunt is all for shelter,Trojans and Tyrians and Ascanius dashingWherever they can; the streams pour down the mountains.To the same cave go Dido and Aeneas,Where Juno, as a bridesmaid, gives the signal,And mountain nymphs wail high their incantations,First day of death, first cause of evil. DidoIs unconcerned with fame, with reputation,With how it seems to others. This is marriageFor her, not hole-and-corner guilt; she coversHer folly with this name.Rumor goes flyingAt once, through all the Libyan cities, RumorThan whom no other evil was ever swifter.She thrives on motion and her own momentum;Tiny at first in fear, she swells, colossalIn no time, walks on earth, but her head is hiddenAmong the clouds. Her mother, Earth, was angry,Once, at the gods, and out of spite produced her,The Titans’ youngest sister, swift of foot,Deadly of wing, a huge and terrible monster,With an eye below each feather in her body,A tongue, a mouth, for every eye, and earsDouble that number; in the night she fliesAbove the earth, below the sky, in shadowNoisy and shrill; her eyes are never closedIn slumber; and by day she perches, watchingFrom tower or battlement, frightening great cities.She heralds truth, and clings to lies and falsehood,It is all the same to her. And now she was goingHappy about her business, filling peopleWith truth and lies: Aeneas, Trojan-born,Has come, she says, and Dido, lovely woman,Sees fit to mate with him, one way or another,And now the couple wanton out the winter,Heedless of ruling, prisoners of passion.They were dirty stories, but the goddess gave themTo the common ear, then went to King IarbasWith words that fired the fuel of his anger.This king was Ammon’s son, a child of rapeBegotten on a nymph from Garamantia;He owned wide kingdoms, had a hundred altarsBlazing with fires to Jove, eternal outpostsIn the gods’ honor; the ground was fat with blood,The temple portals blossoming with garlands.He heard the bitter stories, and went crazy,Before the presences of many altarsBeseeching and imploring:—“Jove Almighty,To whom the Moorish race on colored couchesPours festive wine, do you see these things, or are weA pack of idiots, shaking at the lightningWe think you brandish, when it is really onlyAn aimless flash of light, and silly noises?Do you see these things? A woman, who used to wanderAround my lands, who bought a little city,To whom we gave some ploughland and a contract,Disdains me as a husband, takes AeneasTo be her lord and master, in her kingdom,And now that second Paris, with his lackeys,Half-men, I call them, his chin tied up with ribbons,With millinery on his perfumed tresses,Takes over what he stole, and we keep bringingGifts to your temples, we, devout believersForsooth, in idle legend.”And Jove heard himMaking his prayer and clinging to the altars,And turned his eyes to Carthage and the loversForgetful of their better reputation.He summoned Mercury:—“Go forth, my son,Descend on wing and wind to Tyrian Carthage,Speak to the Trojan leader, loitering thereUnheedful of the cities given by fate.Take him my orders through the rapid winds:It was not for this his lovely mother saved himTwice from Greek arms; she promised he would beA ruler, in a country loud with war,Pregnant with empire; he would sire a raceFrom Teucer’s noble line; he would ordainLaw for the world. If no such glory moves him,If his own fame and fortune count as nothing,Does he, a father, grudge his son the towersOf Rome to be? What is the fellow doing?With what ambition wasting time in Libya?Let him set sail. That’s all; convey the message.”Before he ended, Mercury made readyTo carry out the orders of his father;He strapped the golden sandals on, the pinionsTo bear him over sea and land, as swiftAs the breath of the wind; he took the wand, which summonsPale ghosts from Hell, or sends them there, denyingOr giving sleep, unsealing dead men’s eyes,Useful in flight through wind and stormy cloud,And so came flying till he saw the summitAnd towering sides of Atlas, rugged giantWith heaven on his neck, whose head and shouldersAre dark with fir, ringed with black cloud, and beatenWith wind and rain, and laden with the whitenessOf falling snow, with rivers running overHis agèd chin, and the rough beard ice-stiffened.Here first on level wing the god paused briefly,Poised, plummeted to ocean, like a birdThat skims the water’s surface, flying lowBy shore and fishes’ rocky breeding-ground,So Mercury darted between earth and heavenTo Libya’s sandy shore, cutting the windFrom the home of Maia’s father.Soon as the winged sandals skim the rooftops,He sees Aeneas founding towers, buildingNew homes for Tyrians; his sword is studdedWith yellow jasper; he wears across his shouldersA cloak of burning crimson, and golden threadsRun through it, the royal gift of the rich queen.Mercury wastes no time:—“What are you doing,Forgetful of your kingdom and your fortunes,Building for Carthage? Woman-crazy fellow,The ruler of the gods, the great compellerOf heaven and earth, has sent me from OlympusWith no more word than this: what are you doing,With what ambition wasting time in Libya?If your own fame and fortune count as nothing,Think of Ascanius at least, whose kingdomIn Italy, whose Roman land, are waitingAs promise justly due.” He spoke, and vanishedInto thin air. Apalled, amazed, AeneasIs stricken dumb; his hair stands up in terror,His voice sticks in his throat. He is more than eagerTo flee that pleasant land, awed by the warningOf the divine command. But how to do it?How get around that passionate queen? What openingTry first? His mind runs out in all directions,Shifting and veering. Finally, he has it,Or thinks he has: he calls his comrades to him,The leaders, bids them quietly prepareThe fleet for voyage, meanwhile saying nothingAbout the new activity; since DidoIs unaware, has no idea that passionAs strong as theirs is on the verge of breaking,He will see what he can do, find the right momentTo let her know, all in good time. Rejoicing,The captains move to carry out the orders.Who can deceive a woman in love? The queenAnticipates each move, is fearful evenWhile everything is safe, foresees this cunning,And the same trouble-making goddess, Rumor,Tells her the fleet is being armed, made readyFor voyaging. She rages through the cityLike a woman mad, or drunk, the way the MaenadsGo howling through the night-time on CithaeronWhen Bacchus’ cymbals summon with their clashing.She waits no explanation from Aeneas;She is the first to speak: “And so, betrayer,You hoped to hide your wickedness, go sneakingOut of my land without a word? Our loveMeans nothing to you, our exchange of vows,And even the death of Dido could not hold you.The season is dead of winter, and you laborOver the fleet; the northern gales are nothing—You must be cruel, must you not? Why, even,If ancient Troy remained, and you were seekingNot unknown homes and lands, but Troy again,Would you be venturing Troyward in this weather?I am the one you flee from: true? I beg youBy my own tears, and your right hand—(I have nothingElse left my wretchedness)—by the beginningsOf marriage, wedlock, what we had, if everI served you well, if anything of mineWas ever sweet to you, I beg you, pityA falling house; if there is room for pleadingAs late as this, I plead, put off that purpose.You are the reason I am hated; Libyans,Numidians, Tyrians, hate me; and my honorIs lost, and the fame I had, that almost brought meHigh as the stars, is gone. To whom, O guest—I must not call you husband any longer—To whom do you leave me? I am a dying woman;Why do I linger on? Until Pygmalion,My brother, brings destruction to this city?Until the prince Iarbas leads me captive?At least if there had been some hope of childrenBefore your flight, a little Aeneas playingAround my courts, to bring you back, in featureAt least, I would seem less taken and deserted.”There was nothing he could say. Jove bade him keepAffection from his eyes, and grief in his heartWith never a sign. At last, he managed something:—“Never, O Queen, will I deny you meritWhatever you have strength to claim; I will notRegret remembering Dido, while I haveBreath in my body, or consciousness of spirit.I have a point or two to make. I did not,Believe me, hope to hide my flight by cunning;I did not, ever, claim to be a husband,Made no such vows. If I had fate’s permissionTo live my life my way, to settle my troublesAt my own will, I would be watching overThe city of Troy, and caring for my people,Those whom the Greeks had spared, and Priam’s palaceWould still be standing; for the vanquished peopleI would have built the town again. But nowIt is Italy I must seek, great Italy,Apollo orders, and his oraclesCall me to Italy. There is my love,There is my country. If the towers of Carthage,The Libyan citadels, can please a womanWho came from Tyre, why must you grudge the TrojansAusonian land? It is proper for us alsoTo seek a foreign kingdom. I am warnedOf this in dreams: when the earth is veiled in shadowAnd the fiery stars are burning, I see my father,Anchises, or his ghost, and I am frightened;I am troubled for the wrong I do my son,Cheating him out of his kingdom in the west,And lands that fate assigns him. And a herald,Jove’s messenger—I call them both to witness—Has brought me, through the rush of air, his orders;I saw the god myself, in the full daylight,Enter these walls, I heard the words he brought me.Cease to inflame us both with your complainings;I follow Italy not because I want to.”Out of the corner of her eye she watched himDuring the first of this, and her gaze was turningNow here, now there; and then, in bitter silence,She looked him up and down; then blazed out at him:—“You treacherous liar! No goddess was your mother,No Dardanus the founder of your tribe,Son of the stony mountain-crags, begottenOn cruel rocks, with a tigress for a wet-nurse!Why fool myself, why make pretense? what is thereTo save myself for now? When I was weepingDid he so much as sigh? Did he turn his eyes,Ever so little, toward me? Did he break at all,Or weep, or give his lover a word of pity?What first, what next? Neither Jupiter nor JunoLooks at these things with any sense of fairness.Faith has no haven anywhere in the world.He was an outcast on my shore, a beggar,I took him in, and, like a fool, I gave himPart of my kingdom; his fleet was lost, I found it,His comrades dying, I brought them back to life.I am maddened, burning, burning: now ApolloThe prophesying god, the oraclesOf Lycia, and Jove’s herald, sent from heaven,Come flying through the air with fearful orders,—Fine business for the gods, the kind of troubleThat keeps them from their sleep. I do not hold you,I do not argue, either. Go. And followItaly on the wind, and seek the kingdomAcross the water. But if any godsWho care for decency have any power,They will land you on the rocks; I hope for vengeance,I hope to hear you calling the name of DidoOver and over, in vain. Oh, I will followIn blackest fire, and when cold death has takenSpirit from body, I will be there to haunt you,A shade, all over the world. I will have vengeance,And hear about it; the news will be my comfortIn the deep world below.” She broke it off,Leaving the words unfinished; even lightWas unendurable; sick at heart, she turnedAnd left him, stammering, afraid, attemptingTo make some kind of answer. And her servantsSupport her to her room, that bower of marble,A marriage-chamber once; here they attend her,Help her lie down.And good Aeneas, longingTo ease her grief with comfort, to say somethingTo turn her pain and hurt away, sighs often,His heart being moved by this great love, most deeply,And still—the gods give orders, he obeys them;He goes back to the fleet. And then the TrojansBend, really, to their work, launching the vesselsAll down the shore. The tarred keel swims in the water,The green wood comes from the forest, the poles are loppedFor oars, with leaves still on them. All are eagerFor flight; all over the city you see them streaming,Bustling about their business, a black line movingThe way ants do when they remember winterAnd raid a hill of grain, to haul and store itAt home, across the plain, the column movingIn thin black line through grass, part of them shovingGreat seeds on little shoulders, and part bossingThe job, rebuking laggards, and all the pathwayHot with the stream of work.And Dido saw themWith who knows what emotion: there she stoodOn the high citadel, and saw, below her,The whole beach boiling, and the water litteredWith one ship after another, and men yelling,Excited over their work, and there was nothingFor her to do but sob or choke with anguish.There is nothing to which the hearts of men and womenCannot be driven by love. Break into tears,Try prayers again, humble the pride, leave nothingUntried, and die in vain:—“Anna, you see themComing from everywhere; they push and bustleAll up and down the shore: the sails are swelling,The happy sailors garlanding the vessels.If I could hope for grief like this, my sister,I shall be able to bear it. But one serviceDo for me first, dear Anna, out of pity.You were the only one that traitor trusted,Confided in; you know the way to reach him,The proper time and place. Give him this message,Our arrogant enemy: tell him I neverSwore with the Greeks at Aulis to abolishThe Trojan race, I never sent a fleetTo Pergamus, I never desecratedThe ashes or the spirit of Anchises:Why does he, then, refuse to listen to me?What is the hurry? Let him give his loverThe one last favor: only wait a little,Only a little while, for better weatherAnd easy flight. He has betrayed the marriage,I do not ask for that again; I do notAsk him to give up Latium and his kingdom.Mere time is all I am asking, a breathing-space,A brief reprieve, until my luck has taught meTo reconcile defeat and sorrow. ThisIs all I ask for, sister; pity and help me:If he grants me this, I will pay it ten times overAfter my death.” And Anna, most unhappy,Over and over, told her tears, her pleading;No tears, no pleading, move him; no man can yieldWhen a god stops his ears. As northern windsSweep over Alpine mountains, in their furyFighting each other to uproot an oak-treeWhose ancient strength endures against their roaringAnd the trunk shudders and the leaves come downStrewing the ground, but the old tree clings to the mountain,Its roots as deep toward hell as its crest toward heaven,And still holds on—even so, Aeneas, shakenBy storm-blasts of appeal, by voices callingFrom every side, is tossed and torn, and steady.His will stays motionless, and tears are vain.Then Dido prays for death at last; the fatesAre terrible, her luck is out, she is tiredOf gazing at the everlasting heaven.The more to goad her will to die, she sees—Oh terrible!—the holy water blacken,Libations turn to blood, on ground and altar,When she makes offerings. But she tells no one,Not even her sister. From the marble shrine,Memorial to her former lord, attended,Always, by her, with honor, fleece and garland,She hears his voice, his words, her husband callingWhen darkness holds the world, and from the house-topAn owl sends out a long funereal wailing,And she remembers warnings of old seers,Fearful, foreboding. In her dreams AeneasAppears to hunt her down; or she is goingAlone in a lost country, wanderingTrying to find her Tyrians, mad as Pentheus,Or frenzied as Orestes, when his motherIs after him with whips of snakes, or firebrands,While the Avengers menace at the threshold.She was beaten, harboring madness, and resolvedOn dying; alone, she plotted time and method;Keeping the knowledge from her sorrowing sister,She spoke with calm composure:—“I have foundA way (wish me good luck) to bring him to meOr set me free from loving him forever.Near Ocean and the west there is a country,The Ethiopian land, far-off, where AtlasTurns on his shoulders the star-studded world;I know a priestess there; she guards the templeOf the daughters of the Evening Star; she feedsThe dragon there, and guards the sacred branches,She sprinkles honey-dew, strews drowsy poppies,And she knows charms to free the hearts of loversWhen she so wills it, or to trouble others;She can reverse the wheeling of the planets,Halt rivers in their flowing; she can summonThe ghosts of night-time; you will see earth shakingUnder her tread, and trees come down from mountains.Dear sister mine, as heaven is my witness,I hate to take these arts of magic on me!Be secret, then; but in the inner courtyard,Raise up a funeral-pyre, to hold the armorLeft hanging in the bower, by that hero,That good devoted man, and all his raiment,And add the bridal bed, my doom: the priestessSaid to do this, and it will be a pleasureTo see the end of all of it, every tokenOf that unspeakable knave.”And so, thought Anna,Things are no worse than when Sychaeus perished.She did not know the death these rites portended,Had no suspicion, and carried out her orders.The pyre is raised in the court; it towers highWith pine and holm-oak, it is hung with garlandsAnd funeral wreaths, and on the couch she placesAeneas’ sword, his garments, and his image,Knowing the outcome. Round about are altars,Where, with her hair unbound, the priestess callsOn thrice a hundred gods, Erebus, Chaos,Hecate, queen of Hell, triple Diana.Water is sprinkled, from Avernus fountain,Or said to be, and herbs are sought, by moonlightMown with bronze sickles, and the stem-ends runningWith a black milk, and the caul of a colt, new-born.Dido, with holy meal and holy hands,Stands at the altar, with one sandal loosenedAnd robes unfastened, calls the gods to witness,Prays to the stars that know her doom, invoking,Beyond them, any powers, if there are any,Who care for lovers in unequal bondage.Night: and tired creatures over all the worldWere seeking slumber; the woods and the wild watersWere quiet, and the silent stars were wheelingTheir course half over; every field was still;The beasts of the field, the brightly colored birds,Dwellers in lake and pool, in thorn and thicket,Slept through the tranquil night, their sorrows over,Their troubles soothed. But no such blessèd darknessCloses the eyes of Dido; no reposeComes to her anxious heart. Her pangs redouble,Her love swells up, surging, a great tide risingOf wrath and doubt and passion. “What do I do?What now? Go back to my Numidian suitors,Be scorned by those I scorned? Pursue the Trojans?Obey their orders? They were grateful to me,Once, I remember. But who would let them take me?Suppose I went. They hate me now; they were alwaysDeceivers: is Laomedon forgotten,Whose blood runs through their veins? What then? Attend them,Alone, be their companion, the loud-mouthed sailors?Or with my own armada follow after,Wear out my sea-worn Tyrians once moreWith vengeance and adventure? Better die.Die; you deserve to; end the hurt with the sword.It is your fault, Anna; you were sorry for me,Won over by my tears; you put this loadOf evil on me. It was not permitted,It seems, for me to live apart from wedlock,A blameless life. An animal does better.I vowed Sychaeus faith. I have been faithless.”So, through the night, she tossed in restless torment.Meanwhile Aeneas, on the lofty stern,All things prepared, sure of his going, slumbersAs Mercury comes down once more to warn him,Familiar blond young god: “O son of Venus,Is this a time for sleep? The wind blows fair,And danger rises all around you. Dido,Certain to die, however else uncertain,Plots treachery, harbors evil. Seize the momentWhile it can still be seized, and hurry, hurry!The sea will swarm with ships, the fiery torchesBlaze, and the shore rankle with fire by morning.Shove off, be gone! A shifty, fickle objectIs woman, always.” He vanished into the night.And, frightened by that sudden apparition,Aeneas started from sleep, and urged his comrades:—“Hurry, men, hurry; get to the sails and benches,Get the ships under way. A god from heavenAgain has come to speed our flight, to severThe mooring-ropes. O holy one, we follow,Whoever you are, we are happy in obeying.Be with us, be propitious; let the starsBe right in heaven!” He drew his sword; the bladeFlashed, shining, at the hawser; and all the menWere seized in the same restlessness and rushing.They have left the shore, they have hidden the sea-waterWith the hulls of the ships; the white foam flies, the oarsDip down in dark-blue water.And AuroraCame from Tithonus’ saffron couch to freshenThe world with rising light, and from her watch-towerThe queen saw day grow whiter, and the fleetGo moving over the sea, keep pace togetherTo the even spread of the sail; she knew the harborsWere empty of sailors now; she struck her breastThree times, four times; she tore her golden hair,Crying, “God help me, will he go, this stranger,Treating our kingdom as a joke? Bring arms,Bring arms, and hurry! follow from all the city,Haul the ships off the ways, some of you! Others,Get fire as fast as you can, give out the weapons,Pull oars! What am I saying? Or where am I?I must be going mad. Unhappy Dido,Is it only now your wickedness strikes home?The time it should have was when you gave him power.Well, here it is, look at it now, the honor,The faith of the hero who, they tell me, carriesWith him his household gods, who bore on his shouldersHis agèd father! Could I not have seized him,Torn him to pieces, scattered him over the waves?What was the matter? Could I not have murderedHis comrades, and Iulus, and served the sonFor a dainty at the table of his father?But fight would have a doubtful fortune. It might have,What then? I was going to die; whom did I fear?I would have, should have, set his camp on fire,Filled everything with flame, choked off the father,The son, the accursèd race, and myself with them.Great Sun, surveyor of all the works of earth,Juno, to whom my sorrows are committed,Hecate, whom the cross-roads of the citiesWail to by night, avenging Furies, hear me,Grant me divine protection, take my prayer.If he must come to harbor, then he must,If Jove ordains it, however vile he is,False, and unspeakable. If Jove ordains,The goal is fixed. So be it. Take my prayer.Let him be driven by arms and war, an exile,Let him be taken from his son Iulus,Let him beg for aid, let him see his people dyingUnworthy deaths, let him accept surrenderOn unfair terms, let him never enjoy the kingdom,The hoped-for light, let him fall and die, untimely,Let him lie unburied on the sand. Oh, hear me,Hear the last prayer, poured out with my last blood!And you, O Tyrians, hate, and hate foreverThe Trojan stock. Offer my dust this homage.No love, no peace, between these nations, ever!Rise from my bones, O great unknown avenger,Hunt them with fire and sword, the Dardan settlers,Now, then, here, there, wherever strength is given.Shore against shore, wave against wave, and war,War after war, for all the generations.”She spoke, and turned her purpose to accomplishThe quickest end to the life she hated. BrieflyShe spoke to Barce, Sychaeus’ nurse; her ownWas dust and ashes in her native country:—“Dear nurse, bring me my sister, tell her to hurry,Tell her to sprinkle her body with river water,To bring the sacrificial beast and offerings,And both of you cover your temples with holy fillets.I have a vow to keep; I have made beginningOf rites to Stygian Jove, to end my sorrows,To burn the litter of that Trojan leader.”Barce, with an old woman’s fuss and bustle,Went hurrying out of sight; but Dido, trembling,Wild with her project, the blood-shot eyeballs rolling,Pale at the death to come, and hectic colorBurning the quivering cheeks, broke into the court,Mounted the pyre in madness, drew the sword,The Trojan gift, bestowed for no such purpose,And she saw the Trojan garments, and the bedShe knew so well, and paused a little, weeping,Weeping, and thinking, and flung herself down on it,Uttering her last words:—“Spoils that were sweet while gods and fate permitted,Receive my spirit, set me free from suffering.I have lived, I have run the course that fortune gave me,And now my shade, a great one, will be goingBelow the earth. I have built a noble city,I have seen my walls, I have avenged a husband,Punished a hostile brother. I have beenHappy, I might have been too happy, onlyThe Trojans made their landing.” She broke off,Pressed her face to the couch, cried:—“So, we shall die,Die unavenged; but let us die. So, so,—I am glad to meet the darkness. Let his eyesBehold this fire across the sea, an omenOf my death going with him.”As she spoke,Her handmaids saw her, fallen on the sword,The foam of blood on the blade, and blood on the hands.A scream rings through the house; Rumor goes reeling,Rioting, through the shaken town; the palaceIs loud with lamentation, women sobbing,Wailing and howling, and the vaults of heavenEcho the outcry, as if Tyre or CarthageHad fallen to invaders, and the furyOf fire came rolling over homes and temples.Anna, half lifeless, heard in panic terror,Came rushing through them all, beating her bosom,Clawing her face:—“Was it for this, my sister?To trick me so? The funeral pyre, the altars,Prepared this for me? I have, indeed, a grievance,Being forsaken; you would not let your sisterCompanion you in death? You might have called meTo the same fate; we might have both been taken,One sword, one hour. I was the one who built it,This pyre, with my own hands; it was my voiceThat called our fathers’ gods, for what?—to fail youWhen you were lying here. You have killed me, sister,Not only yourself, you have killed us all, the people,The town. Let me wash the wounds with water,Let my lips catch what fluttering breath still lingers.”She climbed the lofty steps, and held her sister,A dying woman, close; she used her robeTo try to stop the bleeding. And Dido triedIn vain to raise her heavy eyes, fell back,And her wound made a gurgling hissing sound.Three times she tried to lift herself; three timesFell back; her rolling eyes went searching heavenAnd the light hurt when she found it, and she moaned.At last all-powerful Juno, taking pity,Sent Iris from Olympus, in compassionFor the long racking agony, to free herFrom the limbs’ writhing and the struggle of spirit.She had not earned this death, she had only sought itBefore her time, driven by sudden madness,Therefore, the queen of Hades had not takenThe golden lock, consigning her to Orcus.So Iris, dewy on saffron wings, descending,Trailing a thousand colors through the brightnessComes down the sky, poises above her, saying,“This lock I take as bidden, and from the bodyRelease the soul,” and cuts the lock; and coldTakes over, and the winds receive the spirit.
But the queen finds no rest. Deep in her veinsThe wound is fed; she burns with hidden fire.His manhood, and the glory of his raceAre an obsession with her, like his voice,Gesture and countenance. On the next morning,After a restless night, she sought her sister:“I am troubled, Anna, doubtful, terrified,Or am I dreaming? What new guest is thisCome to our shores? How well he talks, how braveHe seems in heart and action! I supposeIt must be true; he does come from the gods.Fear proves a bastard spirit. He has beenSo buffeted by fate. What endless warsHe told of! Sister, I must tell you something:Were not my mind made up, once and for all,Never again to marry, having beenSo lost when Sychaeus left me for the grave,Slain by my murderous brother at the altar,Were I not sick forever of the torchAnd bridal bed, here is the only manWho has moved my spirit, shaken my weak will.I might have yielded to him. I recognizeThe marks of an old fire. But I pray, rather,That earth engulf me, lightning strike me downTo the pale shades and everlasting nightBefore I break the laws of decency.My love has gone with Sychaeus; let him keep it,Keep it with him forever in the grave.”She ended with a burst of tears. “Dear sister,Dearer than life,” Anna replied, “why must youGrieve all your youth away in loneliness,Not know sweet children, or the joys of love?Is that what dust demands, and buried shadows?So be it. You have kept your resolutionFrom Tyre to Libya, proved it by denyingIarbas and a thousand other suitorsFrom Africa’s rich kingdoms. Think a little.Whose lands are these you settle in? Getulians,Invincible in war, the wild Numidians,Unfriendly Syrtes, ring us round, and a desertBarren with drought, and the Barcaean rangers.Why should I mention Tyre, and wars arisingOut of Pygmalion’s threats? And you, my sister,Why should you fight against a pleasing passion?I think the gods have willed it so, and JunoHas helped to bring the Trojan ships to Carthage.What a great city, sister, what a kingdomThis might become, rising on such a marriage!Carthage and Troy together in arms, what gloryMight not be ours? Only invoke the blessingOf the great gods, make sacrifice, be lavishIn welcome, keep them here while the fierce winterRages at sea, and cloud and sky are stormy,And ships still wrecked and broken.”So she fannedThe flame of the burning heart; the doubtful mindWas given hope, and the sense of guilt was lessened.And first of all they go to shrine and altarImploring peace; they sacrifice to Ceres,Giver of law, to Bacchus, to Apollo,And most of all to Juno, in whose keepingThe bonds of marriage rest. In all her beautyDido lifts up the goblet, pours libationBetween the horns of a white heifer, slowly,Or, slowly, moves to the rich altars, notingThe proper gifts to mark the day, or studiesThe sacrificial entrails for the omens.Alas, poor blind interpreters! What womanIn love is helped by offerings or altars?Soft fire consumes the marrow-bones, the silentWound grows, deep in the heart.Unhappy Dido burns, and wanders, burning,All up and down the city, the way a deerWith a hunter’s careless arrow in her flankRanges the uplands, with the shaft still clingingTo the hurt side. She takes Aeneas with herAll through the town, displays the wealth of Sidon,Buildings projected; she starts to speak, and falters,And at the end of the day renews the banquet,Is wild to hear the story, over and over,Hangs on each word, until the late moon, sinking,Sends them all home. The stars die out, but DidoLies brooding in the empty hall, alone,Abandoned on a lonely couch. She hears him,Sees him, or sees and hears him in Iulus,Fondles the boy, as if that ruse might fool her,Deceived by his resemblance to his father.The towers no longer rise, the youth are slackIn drill for arms, the cranes and derricks rusting,Walls halt halfway to heaven.And Juno saw it,The queen held fast by this disease, this passionWhich made her good name meaningless. In angerShe rushed to Venus:—“Wonderful!—the trophies,The praise, you and that boy of yours are winning!Two gods outwit one woman—splendid, splendid!What glory for Olympus! I know you fear me,Fear Carthage, and suspect us. To what purpose?What good does all this do? Is there no limit?Would we not both be better off, to sanctionA bond of peace forever, a formal marriage?You have your dearest wish; Dido is burningWith love, infected to her very marrow.Let us—why not?—conspire to rule one peopleOn equal terms; let her serve a Trojan husband;Let her yield her Tyrian people as her dowry.”This, Venus knew, was spoken with a purpose,A guileful one, to turn Italian empireTo Libyan shores: not without reservationShe spoke in answer: “Who would be so foolishAs to refuse such terms, preferring warfare,If only fortune follows that proposal?I do not know, I am more than a little troubledWhat fate permits: will Jupiter allow it,One city for the Tyrians and Trojans,This covenant, this mixture? You can fathomHis mind, and ask him, being his wife. I followWherever you lead.” And royal Juno answered:“That I will tend to. Listen to me, and learnHow to achieve the urgent need. They plan,Aeneas, and poor Dido, to go huntingWhen sunlight floods the world to-morrow morning.While the rush of the hunt is on, and the forest shakenWith beaters and their nets, I will pour downDark rain and hail, and make the whole sky rumbleWith thunder and threat. The company will scatter,Hidden or hiding in the night and shadow,And Dido and the Trojan come for shelterTo the same cave. I will be there and join themIn lasting wedlock; she will be his own,His bride, forever; this will be their marriage.”Venus assented, smiling, not ungracious—The trick was in the open.Dawn, rising, left the ocean, and the youthCome forth from all the gates, prepared for hunting,Nets, toils, wide spears, keen-scented coursing hounds,And Dido keeps them waiting; her own chargerStands bright in gold and crimson; the bit foams,The impatient head is tossed. At last she comes,With a great train attending, gold and crimson,Quiver of gold, and combs of gold, and mantleCrimson with golden buckle. A Trojan escortAttends her, with Iulus, and AeneasComes to her side, more lordly than ApolloBright along Delos’ ridges in the springtimeWith laurel in his hair and golden weaponsShining across his shoulders. Equal radianceIs all around Aeneas, equal splendor.They reach the mountain heights, the hiding-placesWhere no trail runs; wild goats from the rocks are started,Run down the ridges; elsewhere, in the openDeer cross the dusty plain, away from the mountains.The boy Ascanius, in the midst of the valley,Is glad he has so good a horse, rides, dashingPast one group or another: deer are cowardsAnd wild goats tame; he prays for some excitement,A tawny lion coming down the mountainOr a great boar with foaming mouth.The heavenDarkens, and thunder rolls, and rain and hailCome down in torrents. The hunt is all for shelter,Trojans and Tyrians and Ascanius dashingWherever they can; the streams pour down the mountains.To the same cave go Dido and Aeneas,Where Juno, as a bridesmaid, gives the signal,And mountain nymphs wail high their incantations,First day of death, first cause of evil. DidoIs unconcerned with fame, with reputation,With how it seems to others. This is marriageFor her, not hole-and-corner guilt; she coversHer folly with this name.Rumor goes flyingAt once, through all the Libyan cities, RumorThan whom no other evil was ever swifter.She thrives on motion and her own momentum;Tiny at first in fear, she swells, colossalIn no time, walks on earth, but her head is hiddenAmong the clouds. Her mother, Earth, was angry,Once, at the gods, and out of spite produced her,The Titans’ youngest sister, swift of foot,Deadly of wing, a huge and terrible monster,With an eye below each feather in her body,A tongue, a mouth, for every eye, and earsDouble that number; in the night she fliesAbove the earth, below the sky, in shadowNoisy and shrill; her eyes are never closedIn slumber; and by day she perches, watchingFrom tower or battlement, frightening great cities.She heralds truth, and clings to lies and falsehood,It is all the same to her. And now she was goingHappy about her business, filling peopleWith truth and lies: Aeneas, Trojan-born,Has come, she says, and Dido, lovely woman,Sees fit to mate with him, one way or another,And now the couple wanton out the winter,Heedless of ruling, prisoners of passion.They were dirty stories, but the goddess gave themTo the common ear, then went to King IarbasWith words that fired the fuel of his anger.This king was Ammon’s son, a child of rapeBegotten on a nymph from Garamantia;He owned wide kingdoms, had a hundred altarsBlazing with fires to Jove, eternal outpostsIn the gods’ honor; the ground was fat with blood,The temple portals blossoming with garlands.He heard the bitter stories, and went crazy,Before the presences of many altarsBeseeching and imploring:—“Jove Almighty,To whom the Moorish race on colored couchesPours festive wine, do you see these things, or are weA pack of idiots, shaking at the lightningWe think you brandish, when it is really onlyAn aimless flash of light, and silly noises?Do you see these things? A woman, who used to wanderAround my lands, who bought a little city,To whom we gave some ploughland and a contract,Disdains me as a husband, takes AeneasTo be her lord and master, in her kingdom,And now that second Paris, with his lackeys,Half-men, I call them, his chin tied up with ribbons,With millinery on his perfumed tresses,Takes over what he stole, and we keep bringingGifts to your temples, we, devout believersForsooth, in idle legend.”And Jove heard himMaking his prayer and clinging to the altars,And turned his eyes to Carthage and the loversForgetful of their better reputation.He summoned Mercury:—“Go forth, my son,Descend on wing and wind to Tyrian Carthage,Speak to the Trojan leader, loitering thereUnheedful of the cities given by fate.Take him my orders through the rapid winds:It was not for this his lovely mother saved himTwice from Greek arms; she promised he would beA ruler, in a country loud with war,Pregnant with empire; he would sire a raceFrom Teucer’s noble line; he would ordainLaw for the world. If no such glory moves him,If his own fame and fortune count as nothing,Does he, a father, grudge his son the towersOf Rome to be? What is the fellow doing?With what ambition wasting time in Libya?Let him set sail. That’s all; convey the message.”Before he ended, Mercury made readyTo carry out the orders of his father;He strapped the golden sandals on, the pinionsTo bear him over sea and land, as swiftAs the breath of the wind; he took the wand, which summonsPale ghosts from Hell, or sends them there, denyingOr giving sleep, unsealing dead men’s eyes,Useful in flight through wind and stormy cloud,And so came flying till he saw the summitAnd towering sides of Atlas, rugged giantWith heaven on his neck, whose head and shouldersAre dark with fir, ringed with black cloud, and beatenWith wind and rain, and laden with the whitenessOf falling snow, with rivers running overHis agèd chin, and the rough beard ice-stiffened.Here first on level wing the god paused briefly,Poised, plummeted to ocean, like a birdThat skims the water’s surface, flying lowBy shore and fishes’ rocky breeding-ground,So Mercury darted between earth and heavenTo Libya’s sandy shore, cutting the windFrom the home of Maia’s father.Soon as the winged sandals skim the rooftops,He sees Aeneas founding towers, buildingNew homes for Tyrians; his sword is studdedWith yellow jasper; he wears across his shouldersA cloak of burning crimson, and golden threadsRun through it, the royal gift of the rich queen.Mercury wastes no time:—“What are you doing,Forgetful of your kingdom and your fortunes,Building for Carthage? Woman-crazy fellow,The ruler of the gods, the great compellerOf heaven and earth, has sent me from OlympusWith no more word than this: what are you doing,With what ambition wasting time in Libya?If your own fame and fortune count as nothing,Think of Ascanius at least, whose kingdomIn Italy, whose Roman land, are waitingAs promise justly due.” He spoke, and vanishedInto thin air. Apalled, amazed, AeneasIs stricken dumb; his hair stands up in terror,His voice sticks in his throat. He is more than eagerTo flee that pleasant land, awed by the warningOf the divine command. But how to do it?How get around that passionate queen? What openingTry first? His mind runs out in all directions,Shifting and veering. Finally, he has it,Or thinks he has: he calls his comrades to him,The leaders, bids them quietly prepareThe fleet for voyage, meanwhile saying nothingAbout the new activity; since DidoIs unaware, has no idea that passionAs strong as theirs is on the verge of breaking,He will see what he can do, find the right momentTo let her know, all in good time. Rejoicing,The captains move to carry out the orders.Who can deceive a woman in love? The queenAnticipates each move, is fearful evenWhile everything is safe, foresees this cunning,And the same trouble-making goddess, Rumor,Tells her the fleet is being armed, made readyFor voyaging. She rages through the cityLike a woman mad, or drunk, the way the MaenadsGo howling through the night-time on CithaeronWhen Bacchus’ cymbals summon with their clashing.She waits no explanation from Aeneas;She is the first to speak: “And so, betrayer,You hoped to hide your wickedness, go sneakingOut of my land without a word? Our loveMeans nothing to you, our exchange of vows,And even the death of Dido could not hold you.The season is dead of winter, and you laborOver the fleet; the northern gales are nothing—You must be cruel, must you not? Why, even,If ancient Troy remained, and you were seekingNot unknown homes and lands, but Troy again,Would you be venturing Troyward in this weather?I am the one you flee from: true? I beg youBy my own tears, and your right hand—(I have nothingElse left my wretchedness)—by the beginningsOf marriage, wedlock, what we had, if everI served you well, if anything of mineWas ever sweet to you, I beg you, pityA falling house; if there is room for pleadingAs late as this, I plead, put off that purpose.You are the reason I am hated; Libyans,Numidians, Tyrians, hate me; and my honorIs lost, and the fame I had, that almost brought meHigh as the stars, is gone. To whom, O guest—I must not call you husband any longer—To whom do you leave me? I am a dying woman;Why do I linger on? Until Pygmalion,My brother, brings destruction to this city?Until the prince Iarbas leads me captive?At least if there had been some hope of childrenBefore your flight, a little Aeneas playingAround my courts, to bring you back, in featureAt least, I would seem less taken and deserted.”There was nothing he could say. Jove bade him keepAffection from his eyes, and grief in his heartWith never a sign. At last, he managed something:—“Never, O Queen, will I deny you meritWhatever you have strength to claim; I will notRegret remembering Dido, while I haveBreath in my body, or consciousness of spirit.I have a point or two to make. I did not,Believe me, hope to hide my flight by cunning;I did not, ever, claim to be a husband,Made no such vows. If I had fate’s permissionTo live my life my way, to settle my troublesAt my own will, I would be watching overThe city of Troy, and caring for my people,Those whom the Greeks had spared, and Priam’s palaceWould still be standing; for the vanquished peopleI would have built the town again. But nowIt is Italy I must seek, great Italy,Apollo orders, and his oraclesCall me to Italy. There is my love,There is my country. If the towers of Carthage,The Libyan citadels, can please a womanWho came from Tyre, why must you grudge the TrojansAusonian land? It is proper for us alsoTo seek a foreign kingdom. I am warnedOf this in dreams: when the earth is veiled in shadowAnd the fiery stars are burning, I see my father,Anchises, or his ghost, and I am frightened;I am troubled for the wrong I do my son,Cheating him out of his kingdom in the west,And lands that fate assigns him. And a herald,Jove’s messenger—I call them both to witness—Has brought me, through the rush of air, his orders;I saw the god myself, in the full daylight,Enter these walls, I heard the words he brought me.Cease to inflame us both with your complainings;I follow Italy not because I want to.”Out of the corner of her eye she watched himDuring the first of this, and her gaze was turningNow here, now there; and then, in bitter silence,She looked him up and down; then blazed out at him:—“You treacherous liar! No goddess was your mother,No Dardanus the founder of your tribe,Son of the stony mountain-crags, begottenOn cruel rocks, with a tigress for a wet-nurse!Why fool myself, why make pretense? what is thereTo save myself for now? When I was weepingDid he so much as sigh? Did he turn his eyes,Ever so little, toward me? Did he break at all,Or weep, or give his lover a word of pity?What first, what next? Neither Jupiter nor JunoLooks at these things with any sense of fairness.Faith has no haven anywhere in the world.He was an outcast on my shore, a beggar,I took him in, and, like a fool, I gave himPart of my kingdom; his fleet was lost, I found it,His comrades dying, I brought them back to life.I am maddened, burning, burning: now ApolloThe prophesying god, the oraclesOf Lycia, and Jove’s herald, sent from heaven,Come flying through the air with fearful orders,—Fine business for the gods, the kind of troubleThat keeps them from their sleep. I do not hold you,I do not argue, either. Go. And followItaly on the wind, and seek the kingdomAcross the water. But if any godsWho care for decency have any power,They will land you on the rocks; I hope for vengeance,I hope to hear you calling the name of DidoOver and over, in vain. Oh, I will followIn blackest fire, and when cold death has takenSpirit from body, I will be there to haunt you,A shade, all over the world. I will have vengeance,And hear about it; the news will be my comfortIn the deep world below.” She broke it off,Leaving the words unfinished; even lightWas unendurable; sick at heart, she turnedAnd left him, stammering, afraid, attemptingTo make some kind of answer. And her servantsSupport her to her room, that bower of marble,A marriage-chamber once; here they attend her,Help her lie down.And good Aeneas, longingTo ease her grief with comfort, to say somethingTo turn her pain and hurt away, sighs often,His heart being moved by this great love, most deeply,And still—the gods give orders, he obeys them;He goes back to the fleet. And then the TrojansBend, really, to their work, launching the vesselsAll down the shore. The tarred keel swims in the water,The green wood comes from the forest, the poles are loppedFor oars, with leaves still on them. All are eagerFor flight; all over the city you see them streaming,Bustling about their business, a black line movingThe way ants do when they remember winterAnd raid a hill of grain, to haul and store itAt home, across the plain, the column movingIn thin black line through grass, part of them shovingGreat seeds on little shoulders, and part bossingThe job, rebuking laggards, and all the pathwayHot with the stream of work.And Dido saw themWith who knows what emotion: there she stoodOn the high citadel, and saw, below her,The whole beach boiling, and the water litteredWith one ship after another, and men yelling,Excited over their work, and there was nothingFor her to do but sob or choke with anguish.There is nothing to which the hearts of men and womenCannot be driven by love. Break into tears,Try prayers again, humble the pride, leave nothingUntried, and die in vain:—“Anna, you see themComing from everywhere; they push and bustleAll up and down the shore: the sails are swelling,The happy sailors garlanding the vessels.If I could hope for grief like this, my sister,I shall be able to bear it. But one serviceDo for me first, dear Anna, out of pity.You were the only one that traitor trusted,Confided in; you know the way to reach him,The proper time and place. Give him this message,Our arrogant enemy: tell him I neverSwore with the Greeks at Aulis to abolishThe Trojan race, I never sent a fleetTo Pergamus, I never desecratedThe ashes or the spirit of Anchises:Why does he, then, refuse to listen to me?What is the hurry? Let him give his loverThe one last favor: only wait a little,Only a little while, for better weatherAnd easy flight. He has betrayed the marriage,I do not ask for that again; I do notAsk him to give up Latium and his kingdom.Mere time is all I am asking, a breathing-space,A brief reprieve, until my luck has taught meTo reconcile defeat and sorrow. ThisIs all I ask for, sister; pity and help me:If he grants me this, I will pay it ten times overAfter my death.” And Anna, most unhappy,Over and over, told her tears, her pleading;No tears, no pleading, move him; no man can yieldWhen a god stops his ears. As northern windsSweep over Alpine mountains, in their furyFighting each other to uproot an oak-treeWhose ancient strength endures against their roaringAnd the trunk shudders and the leaves come downStrewing the ground, but the old tree clings to the mountain,Its roots as deep toward hell as its crest toward heaven,And still holds on—even so, Aeneas, shakenBy storm-blasts of appeal, by voices callingFrom every side, is tossed and torn, and steady.His will stays motionless, and tears are vain.Then Dido prays for death at last; the fatesAre terrible, her luck is out, she is tiredOf gazing at the everlasting heaven.The more to goad her will to die, she sees—Oh terrible!—the holy water blacken,Libations turn to blood, on ground and altar,When she makes offerings. But she tells no one,Not even her sister. From the marble shrine,Memorial to her former lord, attended,Always, by her, with honor, fleece and garland,She hears his voice, his words, her husband callingWhen darkness holds the world, and from the house-topAn owl sends out a long funereal wailing,And she remembers warnings of old seers,Fearful, foreboding. In her dreams AeneasAppears to hunt her down; or she is goingAlone in a lost country, wanderingTrying to find her Tyrians, mad as Pentheus,Or frenzied as Orestes, when his motherIs after him with whips of snakes, or firebrands,While the Avengers menace at the threshold.She was beaten, harboring madness, and resolvedOn dying; alone, she plotted time and method;Keeping the knowledge from her sorrowing sister,She spoke with calm composure:—“I have foundA way (wish me good luck) to bring him to meOr set me free from loving him forever.Near Ocean and the west there is a country,The Ethiopian land, far-off, where AtlasTurns on his shoulders the star-studded world;I know a priestess there; she guards the templeOf the daughters of the Evening Star; she feedsThe dragon there, and guards the sacred branches,She sprinkles honey-dew, strews drowsy poppies,And she knows charms to free the hearts of loversWhen she so wills it, or to trouble others;She can reverse the wheeling of the planets,Halt rivers in their flowing; she can summonThe ghosts of night-time; you will see earth shakingUnder her tread, and trees come down from mountains.Dear sister mine, as heaven is my witness,I hate to take these arts of magic on me!Be secret, then; but in the inner courtyard,Raise up a funeral-pyre, to hold the armorLeft hanging in the bower, by that hero,That good devoted man, and all his raiment,And add the bridal bed, my doom: the priestessSaid to do this, and it will be a pleasureTo see the end of all of it, every tokenOf that unspeakable knave.”And so, thought Anna,Things are no worse than when Sychaeus perished.She did not know the death these rites portended,Had no suspicion, and carried out her orders.The pyre is raised in the court; it towers highWith pine and holm-oak, it is hung with garlandsAnd funeral wreaths, and on the couch she placesAeneas’ sword, his garments, and his image,Knowing the outcome. Round about are altars,Where, with her hair unbound, the priestess callsOn thrice a hundred gods, Erebus, Chaos,Hecate, queen of Hell, triple Diana.Water is sprinkled, from Avernus fountain,Or said to be, and herbs are sought, by moonlightMown with bronze sickles, and the stem-ends runningWith a black milk, and the caul of a colt, new-born.Dido, with holy meal and holy hands,Stands at the altar, with one sandal loosenedAnd robes unfastened, calls the gods to witness,Prays to the stars that know her doom, invoking,Beyond them, any powers, if there are any,Who care for lovers in unequal bondage.Night: and tired creatures over all the worldWere seeking slumber; the woods and the wild watersWere quiet, and the silent stars were wheelingTheir course half over; every field was still;The beasts of the field, the brightly colored birds,Dwellers in lake and pool, in thorn and thicket,Slept through the tranquil night, their sorrows over,Their troubles soothed. But no such blessèd darknessCloses the eyes of Dido; no reposeComes to her anxious heart. Her pangs redouble,Her love swells up, surging, a great tide risingOf wrath and doubt and passion. “What do I do?What now? Go back to my Numidian suitors,Be scorned by those I scorned? Pursue the Trojans?Obey their orders? They were grateful to me,Once, I remember. But who would let them take me?Suppose I went. They hate me now; they were alwaysDeceivers: is Laomedon forgotten,Whose blood runs through their veins? What then? Attend them,Alone, be their companion, the loud-mouthed sailors?Or with my own armada follow after,Wear out my sea-worn Tyrians once moreWith vengeance and adventure? Better die.Die; you deserve to; end the hurt with the sword.It is your fault, Anna; you were sorry for me,Won over by my tears; you put this loadOf evil on me. It was not permitted,It seems, for me to live apart from wedlock,A blameless life. An animal does better.I vowed Sychaeus faith. I have been faithless.”So, through the night, she tossed in restless torment.Meanwhile Aeneas, on the lofty stern,All things prepared, sure of his going, slumbersAs Mercury comes down once more to warn him,Familiar blond young god: “O son of Venus,Is this a time for sleep? The wind blows fair,And danger rises all around you. Dido,Certain to die, however else uncertain,Plots treachery, harbors evil. Seize the momentWhile it can still be seized, and hurry, hurry!The sea will swarm with ships, the fiery torchesBlaze, and the shore rankle with fire by morning.Shove off, be gone! A shifty, fickle objectIs woman, always.” He vanished into the night.And, frightened by that sudden apparition,Aeneas started from sleep, and urged his comrades:—“Hurry, men, hurry; get to the sails and benches,Get the ships under way. A god from heavenAgain has come to speed our flight, to severThe mooring-ropes. O holy one, we follow,Whoever you are, we are happy in obeying.Be with us, be propitious; let the starsBe right in heaven!” He drew his sword; the bladeFlashed, shining, at the hawser; and all the menWere seized in the same restlessness and rushing.They have left the shore, they have hidden the sea-waterWith the hulls of the ships; the white foam flies, the oarsDip down in dark-blue water.And AuroraCame from Tithonus’ saffron couch to freshenThe world with rising light, and from her watch-towerThe queen saw day grow whiter, and the fleetGo moving over the sea, keep pace togetherTo the even spread of the sail; she knew the harborsWere empty of sailors now; she struck her breastThree times, four times; she tore her golden hair,Crying, “God help me, will he go, this stranger,Treating our kingdom as a joke? Bring arms,Bring arms, and hurry! follow from all the city,Haul the ships off the ways, some of you! Others,Get fire as fast as you can, give out the weapons,Pull oars! What am I saying? Or where am I?I must be going mad. Unhappy Dido,Is it only now your wickedness strikes home?The time it should have was when you gave him power.Well, here it is, look at it now, the honor,The faith of the hero who, they tell me, carriesWith him his household gods, who bore on his shouldersHis agèd father! Could I not have seized him,Torn him to pieces, scattered him over the waves?What was the matter? Could I not have murderedHis comrades, and Iulus, and served the sonFor a dainty at the table of his father?But fight would have a doubtful fortune. It might have,What then? I was going to die; whom did I fear?I would have, should have, set his camp on fire,Filled everything with flame, choked off the father,The son, the accursèd race, and myself with them.Great Sun, surveyor of all the works of earth,Juno, to whom my sorrows are committed,Hecate, whom the cross-roads of the citiesWail to by night, avenging Furies, hear me,Grant me divine protection, take my prayer.If he must come to harbor, then he must,If Jove ordains it, however vile he is,False, and unspeakable. If Jove ordains,The goal is fixed. So be it. Take my prayer.Let him be driven by arms and war, an exile,Let him be taken from his son Iulus,Let him beg for aid, let him see his people dyingUnworthy deaths, let him accept surrenderOn unfair terms, let him never enjoy the kingdom,The hoped-for light, let him fall and die, untimely,Let him lie unburied on the sand. Oh, hear me,Hear the last prayer, poured out with my last blood!And you, O Tyrians, hate, and hate foreverThe Trojan stock. Offer my dust this homage.No love, no peace, between these nations, ever!Rise from my bones, O great unknown avenger,Hunt them with fire and sword, the Dardan settlers,Now, then, here, there, wherever strength is given.Shore against shore, wave against wave, and war,War after war, for all the generations.”She spoke, and turned her purpose to accomplishThe quickest end to the life she hated. BrieflyShe spoke to Barce, Sychaeus’ nurse; her ownWas dust and ashes in her native country:—“Dear nurse, bring me my sister, tell her to hurry,Tell her to sprinkle her body with river water,To bring the sacrificial beast and offerings,And both of you cover your temples with holy fillets.I have a vow to keep; I have made beginningOf rites to Stygian Jove, to end my sorrows,To burn the litter of that Trojan leader.”Barce, with an old woman’s fuss and bustle,Went hurrying out of sight; but Dido, trembling,Wild with her project, the blood-shot eyeballs rolling,Pale at the death to come, and hectic colorBurning the quivering cheeks, broke into the court,Mounted the pyre in madness, drew the sword,The Trojan gift, bestowed for no such purpose,And she saw the Trojan garments, and the bedShe knew so well, and paused a little, weeping,Weeping, and thinking, and flung herself down on it,Uttering her last words:—“Spoils that were sweet while gods and fate permitted,Receive my spirit, set me free from suffering.I have lived, I have run the course that fortune gave me,And now my shade, a great one, will be goingBelow the earth. I have built a noble city,I have seen my walls, I have avenged a husband,Punished a hostile brother. I have beenHappy, I might have been too happy, onlyThe Trojans made their landing.” She broke off,Pressed her face to the couch, cried:—“So, we shall die,Die unavenged; but let us die. So, so,—I am glad to meet the darkness. Let his eyesBehold this fire across the sea, an omenOf my death going with him.”As she spoke,Her handmaids saw her, fallen on the sword,The foam of blood on the blade, and blood on the hands.A scream rings through the house; Rumor goes reeling,Rioting, through the shaken town; the palaceIs loud with lamentation, women sobbing,Wailing and howling, and the vaults of heavenEcho the outcry, as if Tyre or CarthageHad fallen to invaders, and the furyOf fire came rolling over homes and temples.Anna, half lifeless, heard in panic terror,Came rushing through them all, beating her bosom,Clawing her face:—“Was it for this, my sister?To trick me so? The funeral pyre, the altars,Prepared this for me? I have, indeed, a grievance,Being forsaken; you would not let your sisterCompanion you in death? You might have called meTo the same fate; we might have both been taken,One sword, one hour. I was the one who built it,This pyre, with my own hands; it was my voiceThat called our fathers’ gods, for what?—to fail youWhen you were lying here. You have killed me, sister,Not only yourself, you have killed us all, the people,The town. Let me wash the wounds with water,Let my lips catch what fluttering breath still lingers.”She climbed the lofty steps, and held her sister,A dying woman, close; she used her robeTo try to stop the bleeding. And Dido triedIn vain to raise her heavy eyes, fell back,And her wound made a gurgling hissing sound.Three times she tried to lift herself; three timesFell back; her rolling eyes went searching heavenAnd the light hurt when she found it, and she moaned.At last all-powerful Juno, taking pity,Sent Iris from Olympus, in compassionFor the long racking agony, to free herFrom the limbs’ writhing and the struggle of spirit.She had not earned this death, she had only sought itBefore her time, driven by sudden madness,Therefore, the queen of Hades had not takenThe golden lock, consigning her to Orcus.So Iris, dewy on saffron wings, descending,Trailing a thousand colors through the brightnessComes down the sky, poises above her, saying,“This lock I take as bidden, and from the bodyRelease the soul,” and cuts the lock; and coldTakes over, and the winds receive the spirit.
But the queen finds no rest. Deep in her veinsThe wound is fed; she burns with hidden fire.His manhood, and the glory of his raceAre an obsession with her, like his voice,Gesture and countenance. On the next morning,After a restless night, she sought her sister:“I am troubled, Anna, doubtful, terrified,Or am I dreaming? What new guest is thisCome to our shores? How well he talks, how braveHe seems in heart and action! I supposeIt must be true; he does come from the gods.Fear proves a bastard spirit. He has beenSo buffeted by fate. What endless warsHe told of! Sister, I must tell you something:Were not my mind made up, once and for all,Never again to marry, having beenSo lost when Sychaeus left me for the grave,Slain by my murderous brother at the altar,Were I not sick forever of the torchAnd bridal bed, here is the only manWho has moved my spirit, shaken my weak will.I might have yielded to him. I recognizeThe marks of an old fire. But I pray, rather,That earth engulf me, lightning strike me downTo the pale shades and everlasting nightBefore I break the laws of decency.My love has gone with Sychaeus; let him keep it,Keep it with him forever in the grave.”She ended with a burst of tears. “Dear sister,Dearer than life,” Anna replied, “why must youGrieve all your youth away in loneliness,Not know sweet children, or the joys of love?Is that what dust demands, and buried shadows?So be it. You have kept your resolutionFrom Tyre to Libya, proved it by denyingIarbas and a thousand other suitorsFrom Africa’s rich kingdoms. Think a little.Whose lands are these you settle in? Getulians,Invincible in war, the wild Numidians,Unfriendly Syrtes, ring us round, and a desertBarren with drought, and the Barcaean rangers.Why should I mention Tyre, and wars arisingOut of Pygmalion’s threats? And you, my sister,Why should you fight against a pleasing passion?I think the gods have willed it so, and JunoHas helped to bring the Trojan ships to Carthage.What a great city, sister, what a kingdomThis might become, rising on such a marriage!Carthage and Troy together in arms, what gloryMight not be ours? Only invoke the blessingOf the great gods, make sacrifice, be lavishIn welcome, keep them here while the fierce winterRages at sea, and cloud and sky are stormy,And ships still wrecked and broken.”
So she fannedThe flame of the burning heart; the doubtful mindWas given hope, and the sense of guilt was lessened.And first of all they go to shrine and altarImploring peace; they sacrifice to Ceres,Giver of law, to Bacchus, to Apollo,And most of all to Juno, in whose keepingThe bonds of marriage rest. In all her beautyDido lifts up the goblet, pours libationBetween the horns of a white heifer, slowly,Or, slowly, moves to the rich altars, notingThe proper gifts to mark the day, or studiesThe sacrificial entrails for the omens.Alas, poor blind interpreters! What womanIn love is helped by offerings or altars?Soft fire consumes the marrow-bones, the silentWound grows, deep in the heart.Unhappy Dido burns, and wanders, burning,All up and down the city, the way a deerWith a hunter’s careless arrow in her flankRanges the uplands, with the shaft still clingingTo the hurt side. She takes Aeneas with herAll through the town, displays the wealth of Sidon,Buildings projected; she starts to speak, and falters,And at the end of the day renews the banquet,Is wild to hear the story, over and over,Hangs on each word, until the late moon, sinking,Sends them all home. The stars die out, but DidoLies brooding in the empty hall, alone,Abandoned on a lonely couch. She hears him,Sees him, or sees and hears him in Iulus,Fondles the boy, as if that ruse might fool her,Deceived by his resemblance to his father.The towers no longer rise, the youth are slackIn drill for arms, the cranes and derricks rusting,Walls halt halfway to heaven.
And Juno saw it,The queen held fast by this disease, this passionWhich made her good name meaningless. In angerShe rushed to Venus:—“Wonderful!—the trophies,The praise, you and that boy of yours are winning!Two gods outwit one woman—splendid, splendid!What glory for Olympus! I know you fear me,Fear Carthage, and suspect us. To what purpose?What good does all this do? Is there no limit?Would we not both be better off, to sanctionA bond of peace forever, a formal marriage?You have your dearest wish; Dido is burningWith love, infected to her very marrow.Let us—why not?—conspire to rule one peopleOn equal terms; let her serve a Trojan husband;Let her yield her Tyrian people as her dowry.”
This, Venus knew, was spoken with a purpose,A guileful one, to turn Italian empireTo Libyan shores: not without reservationShe spoke in answer: “Who would be so foolishAs to refuse such terms, preferring warfare,If only fortune follows that proposal?I do not know, I am more than a little troubledWhat fate permits: will Jupiter allow it,One city for the Tyrians and Trojans,This covenant, this mixture? You can fathomHis mind, and ask him, being his wife. I followWherever you lead.” And royal Juno answered:“That I will tend to. Listen to me, and learnHow to achieve the urgent need. They plan,Aeneas, and poor Dido, to go huntingWhen sunlight floods the world to-morrow morning.While the rush of the hunt is on, and the forest shakenWith beaters and their nets, I will pour downDark rain and hail, and make the whole sky rumbleWith thunder and threat. The company will scatter,Hidden or hiding in the night and shadow,And Dido and the Trojan come for shelterTo the same cave. I will be there and join themIn lasting wedlock; she will be his own,His bride, forever; this will be their marriage.”Venus assented, smiling, not ungracious—The trick was in the open.
Dawn, rising, left the ocean, and the youthCome forth from all the gates, prepared for hunting,Nets, toils, wide spears, keen-scented coursing hounds,And Dido keeps them waiting; her own chargerStands bright in gold and crimson; the bit foams,The impatient head is tossed. At last she comes,With a great train attending, gold and crimson,Quiver of gold, and combs of gold, and mantleCrimson with golden buckle. A Trojan escortAttends her, with Iulus, and AeneasComes to her side, more lordly than ApolloBright along Delos’ ridges in the springtimeWith laurel in his hair and golden weaponsShining across his shoulders. Equal radianceIs all around Aeneas, equal splendor.
They reach the mountain heights, the hiding-placesWhere no trail runs; wild goats from the rocks are started,Run down the ridges; elsewhere, in the openDeer cross the dusty plain, away from the mountains.The boy Ascanius, in the midst of the valley,Is glad he has so good a horse, rides, dashingPast one group or another: deer are cowardsAnd wild goats tame; he prays for some excitement,A tawny lion coming down the mountainOr a great boar with foaming mouth.
The heavenDarkens, and thunder rolls, and rain and hailCome down in torrents. The hunt is all for shelter,Trojans and Tyrians and Ascanius dashingWherever they can; the streams pour down the mountains.To the same cave go Dido and Aeneas,Where Juno, as a bridesmaid, gives the signal,And mountain nymphs wail high their incantations,First day of death, first cause of evil. DidoIs unconcerned with fame, with reputation,With how it seems to others. This is marriageFor her, not hole-and-corner guilt; she coversHer folly with this name.
Rumor goes flyingAt once, through all the Libyan cities, RumorThan whom no other evil was ever swifter.She thrives on motion and her own momentum;Tiny at first in fear, she swells, colossalIn no time, walks on earth, but her head is hiddenAmong the clouds. Her mother, Earth, was angry,Once, at the gods, and out of spite produced her,The Titans’ youngest sister, swift of foot,Deadly of wing, a huge and terrible monster,With an eye below each feather in her body,A tongue, a mouth, for every eye, and earsDouble that number; in the night she fliesAbove the earth, below the sky, in shadowNoisy and shrill; her eyes are never closedIn slumber; and by day she perches, watchingFrom tower or battlement, frightening great cities.She heralds truth, and clings to lies and falsehood,It is all the same to her. And now she was goingHappy about her business, filling peopleWith truth and lies: Aeneas, Trojan-born,Has come, she says, and Dido, lovely woman,Sees fit to mate with him, one way or another,And now the couple wanton out the winter,Heedless of ruling, prisoners of passion.They were dirty stories, but the goddess gave themTo the common ear, then went to King IarbasWith words that fired the fuel of his anger.
This king was Ammon’s son, a child of rapeBegotten on a nymph from Garamantia;He owned wide kingdoms, had a hundred altarsBlazing with fires to Jove, eternal outpostsIn the gods’ honor; the ground was fat with blood,The temple portals blossoming with garlands.He heard the bitter stories, and went crazy,Before the presences of many altarsBeseeching and imploring:—“Jove Almighty,To whom the Moorish race on colored couchesPours festive wine, do you see these things, or are weA pack of idiots, shaking at the lightningWe think you brandish, when it is really onlyAn aimless flash of light, and silly noises?Do you see these things? A woman, who used to wanderAround my lands, who bought a little city,To whom we gave some ploughland and a contract,Disdains me as a husband, takes AeneasTo be her lord and master, in her kingdom,And now that second Paris, with his lackeys,Half-men, I call them, his chin tied up with ribbons,With millinery on his perfumed tresses,Takes over what he stole, and we keep bringingGifts to your temples, we, devout believersForsooth, in idle legend.”
And Jove heard himMaking his prayer and clinging to the altars,And turned his eyes to Carthage and the loversForgetful of their better reputation.He summoned Mercury:—“Go forth, my son,Descend on wing and wind to Tyrian Carthage,Speak to the Trojan leader, loitering thereUnheedful of the cities given by fate.Take him my orders through the rapid winds:It was not for this his lovely mother saved himTwice from Greek arms; she promised he would beA ruler, in a country loud with war,Pregnant with empire; he would sire a raceFrom Teucer’s noble line; he would ordainLaw for the world. If no such glory moves him,If his own fame and fortune count as nothing,Does he, a father, grudge his son the towersOf Rome to be? What is the fellow doing?With what ambition wasting time in Libya?Let him set sail. That’s all; convey the message.”
Before he ended, Mercury made readyTo carry out the orders of his father;He strapped the golden sandals on, the pinionsTo bear him over sea and land, as swiftAs the breath of the wind; he took the wand, which summonsPale ghosts from Hell, or sends them there, denyingOr giving sleep, unsealing dead men’s eyes,Useful in flight through wind and stormy cloud,And so came flying till he saw the summitAnd towering sides of Atlas, rugged giantWith heaven on his neck, whose head and shouldersAre dark with fir, ringed with black cloud, and beatenWith wind and rain, and laden with the whitenessOf falling snow, with rivers running overHis agèd chin, and the rough beard ice-stiffened.Here first on level wing the god paused briefly,Poised, plummeted to ocean, like a birdThat skims the water’s surface, flying lowBy shore and fishes’ rocky breeding-ground,So Mercury darted between earth and heavenTo Libya’s sandy shore, cutting the windFrom the home of Maia’s father.Soon as the winged sandals skim the rooftops,He sees Aeneas founding towers, buildingNew homes for Tyrians; his sword is studdedWith yellow jasper; he wears across his shouldersA cloak of burning crimson, and golden threadsRun through it, the royal gift of the rich queen.Mercury wastes no time:—“What are you doing,Forgetful of your kingdom and your fortunes,Building for Carthage? Woman-crazy fellow,The ruler of the gods, the great compellerOf heaven and earth, has sent me from OlympusWith no more word than this: what are you doing,With what ambition wasting time in Libya?If your own fame and fortune count as nothing,Think of Ascanius at least, whose kingdomIn Italy, whose Roman land, are waitingAs promise justly due.” He spoke, and vanishedInto thin air. Apalled, amazed, AeneasIs stricken dumb; his hair stands up in terror,His voice sticks in his throat. He is more than eagerTo flee that pleasant land, awed by the warningOf the divine command. But how to do it?How get around that passionate queen? What openingTry first? His mind runs out in all directions,Shifting and veering. Finally, he has it,Or thinks he has: he calls his comrades to him,The leaders, bids them quietly prepareThe fleet for voyage, meanwhile saying nothingAbout the new activity; since DidoIs unaware, has no idea that passionAs strong as theirs is on the verge of breaking,He will see what he can do, find the right momentTo let her know, all in good time. Rejoicing,The captains move to carry out the orders.
Who can deceive a woman in love? The queenAnticipates each move, is fearful evenWhile everything is safe, foresees this cunning,And the same trouble-making goddess, Rumor,Tells her the fleet is being armed, made readyFor voyaging. She rages through the cityLike a woman mad, or drunk, the way the MaenadsGo howling through the night-time on CithaeronWhen Bacchus’ cymbals summon with their clashing.She waits no explanation from Aeneas;She is the first to speak: “And so, betrayer,You hoped to hide your wickedness, go sneakingOut of my land without a word? Our loveMeans nothing to you, our exchange of vows,And even the death of Dido could not hold you.The season is dead of winter, and you laborOver the fleet; the northern gales are nothing—You must be cruel, must you not? Why, even,If ancient Troy remained, and you were seekingNot unknown homes and lands, but Troy again,Would you be venturing Troyward in this weather?I am the one you flee from: true? I beg youBy my own tears, and your right hand—(I have nothingElse left my wretchedness)—by the beginningsOf marriage, wedlock, what we had, if everI served you well, if anything of mineWas ever sweet to you, I beg you, pityA falling house; if there is room for pleadingAs late as this, I plead, put off that purpose.You are the reason I am hated; Libyans,Numidians, Tyrians, hate me; and my honorIs lost, and the fame I had, that almost brought meHigh as the stars, is gone. To whom, O guest—I must not call you husband any longer—To whom do you leave me? I am a dying woman;Why do I linger on? Until Pygmalion,My brother, brings destruction to this city?Until the prince Iarbas leads me captive?At least if there had been some hope of childrenBefore your flight, a little Aeneas playingAround my courts, to bring you back, in featureAt least, I would seem less taken and deserted.”
There was nothing he could say. Jove bade him keepAffection from his eyes, and grief in his heartWith never a sign. At last, he managed something:—“Never, O Queen, will I deny you meritWhatever you have strength to claim; I will notRegret remembering Dido, while I haveBreath in my body, or consciousness of spirit.I have a point or two to make. I did not,Believe me, hope to hide my flight by cunning;I did not, ever, claim to be a husband,Made no such vows. If I had fate’s permissionTo live my life my way, to settle my troublesAt my own will, I would be watching overThe city of Troy, and caring for my people,Those whom the Greeks had spared, and Priam’s palaceWould still be standing; for the vanquished peopleI would have built the town again. But nowIt is Italy I must seek, great Italy,Apollo orders, and his oraclesCall me to Italy. There is my love,There is my country. If the towers of Carthage,The Libyan citadels, can please a womanWho came from Tyre, why must you grudge the TrojansAusonian land? It is proper for us alsoTo seek a foreign kingdom. I am warnedOf this in dreams: when the earth is veiled in shadowAnd the fiery stars are burning, I see my father,Anchises, or his ghost, and I am frightened;I am troubled for the wrong I do my son,Cheating him out of his kingdom in the west,And lands that fate assigns him. And a herald,Jove’s messenger—I call them both to witness—Has brought me, through the rush of air, his orders;I saw the god myself, in the full daylight,Enter these walls, I heard the words he brought me.Cease to inflame us both with your complainings;I follow Italy not because I want to.”
Out of the corner of her eye she watched himDuring the first of this, and her gaze was turningNow here, now there; and then, in bitter silence,She looked him up and down; then blazed out at him:—“You treacherous liar! No goddess was your mother,No Dardanus the founder of your tribe,Son of the stony mountain-crags, begottenOn cruel rocks, with a tigress for a wet-nurse!Why fool myself, why make pretense? what is thereTo save myself for now? When I was weepingDid he so much as sigh? Did he turn his eyes,Ever so little, toward me? Did he break at all,Or weep, or give his lover a word of pity?What first, what next? Neither Jupiter nor JunoLooks at these things with any sense of fairness.Faith has no haven anywhere in the world.He was an outcast on my shore, a beggar,I took him in, and, like a fool, I gave himPart of my kingdom; his fleet was lost, I found it,His comrades dying, I brought them back to life.I am maddened, burning, burning: now ApolloThe prophesying god, the oraclesOf Lycia, and Jove’s herald, sent from heaven,Come flying through the air with fearful orders,—Fine business for the gods, the kind of troubleThat keeps them from their sleep. I do not hold you,I do not argue, either. Go. And followItaly on the wind, and seek the kingdomAcross the water. But if any godsWho care for decency have any power,They will land you on the rocks; I hope for vengeance,I hope to hear you calling the name of DidoOver and over, in vain. Oh, I will followIn blackest fire, and when cold death has takenSpirit from body, I will be there to haunt you,A shade, all over the world. I will have vengeance,And hear about it; the news will be my comfortIn the deep world below.” She broke it off,Leaving the words unfinished; even lightWas unendurable; sick at heart, she turnedAnd left him, stammering, afraid, attemptingTo make some kind of answer. And her servantsSupport her to her room, that bower of marble,A marriage-chamber once; here they attend her,Help her lie down.
And good Aeneas, longingTo ease her grief with comfort, to say somethingTo turn her pain and hurt away, sighs often,His heart being moved by this great love, most deeply,And still—the gods give orders, he obeys them;He goes back to the fleet. And then the TrojansBend, really, to their work, launching the vesselsAll down the shore. The tarred keel swims in the water,The green wood comes from the forest, the poles are loppedFor oars, with leaves still on them. All are eagerFor flight; all over the city you see them streaming,Bustling about their business, a black line movingThe way ants do when they remember winterAnd raid a hill of grain, to haul and store itAt home, across the plain, the column movingIn thin black line through grass, part of them shovingGreat seeds on little shoulders, and part bossingThe job, rebuking laggards, and all the pathwayHot with the stream of work.
And Dido saw themWith who knows what emotion: there she stoodOn the high citadel, and saw, below her,The whole beach boiling, and the water litteredWith one ship after another, and men yelling,Excited over their work, and there was nothingFor her to do but sob or choke with anguish.There is nothing to which the hearts of men and womenCannot be driven by love. Break into tears,Try prayers again, humble the pride, leave nothingUntried, and die in vain:—“Anna, you see themComing from everywhere; they push and bustleAll up and down the shore: the sails are swelling,The happy sailors garlanding the vessels.If I could hope for grief like this, my sister,I shall be able to bear it. But one serviceDo for me first, dear Anna, out of pity.You were the only one that traitor trusted,Confided in; you know the way to reach him,The proper time and place. Give him this message,Our arrogant enemy: tell him I neverSwore with the Greeks at Aulis to abolishThe Trojan race, I never sent a fleetTo Pergamus, I never desecratedThe ashes or the spirit of Anchises:Why does he, then, refuse to listen to me?What is the hurry? Let him give his loverThe one last favor: only wait a little,Only a little while, for better weatherAnd easy flight. He has betrayed the marriage,I do not ask for that again; I do notAsk him to give up Latium and his kingdom.Mere time is all I am asking, a breathing-space,A brief reprieve, until my luck has taught meTo reconcile defeat and sorrow. ThisIs all I ask for, sister; pity and help me:If he grants me this, I will pay it ten times overAfter my death.” And Anna, most unhappy,Over and over, told her tears, her pleading;No tears, no pleading, move him; no man can yieldWhen a god stops his ears. As northern windsSweep over Alpine mountains, in their furyFighting each other to uproot an oak-treeWhose ancient strength endures against their roaringAnd the trunk shudders and the leaves come downStrewing the ground, but the old tree clings to the mountain,Its roots as deep toward hell as its crest toward heaven,And still holds on—even so, Aeneas, shakenBy storm-blasts of appeal, by voices callingFrom every side, is tossed and torn, and steady.His will stays motionless, and tears are vain.
Then Dido prays for death at last; the fatesAre terrible, her luck is out, she is tiredOf gazing at the everlasting heaven.The more to goad her will to die, she sees—Oh terrible!—the holy water blacken,Libations turn to blood, on ground and altar,When she makes offerings. But she tells no one,Not even her sister. From the marble shrine,Memorial to her former lord, attended,Always, by her, with honor, fleece and garland,She hears his voice, his words, her husband callingWhen darkness holds the world, and from the house-topAn owl sends out a long funereal wailing,And she remembers warnings of old seers,Fearful, foreboding. In her dreams AeneasAppears to hunt her down; or she is goingAlone in a lost country, wanderingTrying to find her Tyrians, mad as Pentheus,Or frenzied as Orestes, when his motherIs after him with whips of snakes, or firebrands,While the Avengers menace at the threshold.
She was beaten, harboring madness, and resolvedOn dying; alone, she plotted time and method;Keeping the knowledge from her sorrowing sister,She spoke with calm composure:—“I have foundA way (wish me good luck) to bring him to meOr set me free from loving him forever.Near Ocean and the west there is a country,The Ethiopian land, far-off, where AtlasTurns on his shoulders the star-studded world;I know a priestess there; she guards the templeOf the daughters of the Evening Star; she feedsThe dragon there, and guards the sacred branches,She sprinkles honey-dew, strews drowsy poppies,And she knows charms to free the hearts of loversWhen she so wills it, or to trouble others;She can reverse the wheeling of the planets,Halt rivers in their flowing; she can summonThe ghosts of night-time; you will see earth shakingUnder her tread, and trees come down from mountains.Dear sister mine, as heaven is my witness,I hate to take these arts of magic on me!Be secret, then; but in the inner courtyard,Raise up a funeral-pyre, to hold the armorLeft hanging in the bower, by that hero,That good devoted man, and all his raiment,And add the bridal bed, my doom: the priestessSaid to do this, and it will be a pleasureTo see the end of all of it, every tokenOf that unspeakable knave.”
And so, thought Anna,Things are no worse than when Sychaeus perished.She did not know the death these rites portended,Had no suspicion, and carried out her orders.
The pyre is raised in the court; it towers highWith pine and holm-oak, it is hung with garlandsAnd funeral wreaths, and on the couch she placesAeneas’ sword, his garments, and his image,Knowing the outcome. Round about are altars,Where, with her hair unbound, the priestess callsOn thrice a hundred gods, Erebus, Chaos,Hecate, queen of Hell, triple Diana.Water is sprinkled, from Avernus fountain,Or said to be, and herbs are sought, by moonlightMown with bronze sickles, and the stem-ends runningWith a black milk, and the caul of a colt, new-born.Dido, with holy meal and holy hands,Stands at the altar, with one sandal loosenedAnd robes unfastened, calls the gods to witness,Prays to the stars that know her doom, invoking,Beyond them, any powers, if there are any,Who care for lovers in unequal bondage.
Night: and tired creatures over all the worldWere seeking slumber; the woods and the wild watersWere quiet, and the silent stars were wheelingTheir course half over; every field was still;The beasts of the field, the brightly colored birds,Dwellers in lake and pool, in thorn and thicket,Slept through the tranquil night, their sorrows over,Their troubles soothed. But no such blessèd darknessCloses the eyes of Dido; no reposeComes to her anxious heart. Her pangs redouble,Her love swells up, surging, a great tide risingOf wrath and doubt and passion. “What do I do?What now? Go back to my Numidian suitors,Be scorned by those I scorned? Pursue the Trojans?Obey their orders? They were grateful to me,Once, I remember. But who would let them take me?Suppose I went. They hate me now; they were alwaysDeceivers: is Laomedon forgotten,Whose blood runs through their veins? What then? Attend them,Alone, be their companion, the loud-mouthed sailors?Or with my own armada follow after,Wear out my sea-worn Tyrians once moreWith vengeance and adventure? Better die.Die; you deserve to; end the hurt with the sword.It is your fault, Anna; you were sorry for me,Won over by my tears; you put this loadOf evil on me. It was not permitted,It seems, for me to live apart from wedlock,A blameless life. An animal does better.I vowed Sychaeus faith. I have been faithless.”So, through the night, she tossed in restless torment.
Meanwhile Aeneas, on the lofty stern,All things prepared, sure of his going, slumbersAs Mercury comes down once more to warn him,Familiar blond young god: “O son of Venus,Is this a time for sleep? The wind blows fair,And danger rises all around you. Dido,Certain to die, however else uncertain,Plots treachery, harbors evil. Seize the momentWhile it can still be seized, and hurry, hurry!The sea will swarm with ships, the fiery torchesBlaze, and the shore rankle with fire by morning.Shove off, be gone! A shifty, fickle objectIs woman, always.” He vanished into the night.And, frightened by that sudden apparition,Aeneas started from sleep, and urged his comrades:—“Hurry, men, hurry; get to the sails and benches,Get the ships under way. A god from heavenAgain has come to speed our flight, to severThe mooring-ropes. O holy one, we follow,Whoever you are, we are happy in obeying.Be with us, be propitious; let the starsBe right in heaven!” He drew his sword; the bladeFlashed, shining, at the hawser; and all the menWere seized in the same restlessness and rushing.They have left the shore, they have hidden the sea-waterWith the hulls of the ships; the white foam flies, the oarsDip down in dark-blue water.
And AuroraCame from Tithonus’ saffron couch to freshenThe world with rising light, and from her watch-towerThe queen saw day grow whiter, and the fleetGo moving over the sea, keep pace togetherTo the even spread of the sail; she knew the harborsWere empty of sailors now; she struck her breastThree times, four times; she tore her golden hair,Crying, “God help me, will he go, this stranger,Treating our kingdom as a joke? Bring arms,Bring arms, and hurry! follow from all the city,Haul the ships off the ways, some of you! Others,Get fire as fast as you can, give out the weapons,Pull oars! What am I saying? Or where am I?I must be going mad. Unhappy Dido,Is it only now your wickedness strikes home?The time it should have was when you gave him power.Well, here it is, look at it now, the honor,The faith of the hero who, they tell me, carriesWith him his household gods, who bore on his shouldersHis agèd father! Could I not have seized him,Torn him to pieces, scattered him over the waves?What was the matter? Could I not have murderedHis comrades, and Iulus, and served the sonFor a dainty at the table of his father?But fight would have a doubtful fortune. It might have,What then? I was going to die; whom did I fear?I would have, should have, set his camp on fire,Filled everything with flame, choked off the father,The son, the accursèd race, and myself with them.Great Sun, surveyor of all the works of earth,Juno, to whom my sorrows are committed,Hecate, whom the cross-roads of the citiesWail to by night, avenging Furies, hear me,Grant me divine protection, take my prayer.If he must come to harbor, then he must,If Jove ordains it, however vile he is,False, and unspeakable. If Jove ordains,The goal is fixed. So be it. Take my prayer.Let him be driven by arms and war, an exile,Let him be taken from his son Iulus,Let him beg for aid, let him see his people dyingUnworthy deaths, let him accept surrenderOn unfair terms, let him never enjoy the kingdom,The hoped-for light, let him fall and die, untimely,Let him lie unburied on the sand. Oh, hear me,Hear the last prayer, poured out with my last blood!And you, O Tyrians, hate, and hate foreverThe Trojan stock. Offer my dust this homage.No love, no peace, between these nations, ever!Rise from my bones, O great unknown avenger,Hunt them with fire and sword, the Dardan settlers,Now, then, here, there, wherever strength is given.Shore against shore, wave against wave, and war,War after war, for all the generations.”
She spoke, and turned her purpose to accomplishThe quickest end to the life she hated. BrieflyShe spoke to Barce, Sychaeus’ nurse; her ownWas dust and ashes in her native country:—“Dear nurse, bring me my sister, tell her to hurry,Tell her to sprinkle her body with river water,To bring the sacrificial beast and offerings,And both of you cover your temples with holy fillets.I have a vow to keep; I have made beginningOf rites to Stygian Jove, to end my sorrows,To burn the litter of that Trojan leader.”Barce, with an old woman’s fuss and bustle,Went hurrying out of sight; but Dido, trembling,Wild with her project, the blood-shot eyeballs rolling,Pale at the death to come, and hectic colorBurning the quivering cheeks, broke into the court,Mounted the pyre in madness, drew the sword,The Trojan gift, bestowed for no such purpose,And she saw the Trojan garments, and the bedShe knew so well, and paused a little, weeping,Weeping, and thinking, and flung herself down on it,Uttering her last words:—“Spoils that were sweet while gods and fate permitted,Receive my spirit, set me free from suffering.I have lived, I have run the course that fortune gave me,And now my shade, a great one, will be goingBelow the earth. I have built a noble city,I have seen my walls, I have avenged a husband,Punished a hostile brother. I have beenHappy, I might have been too happy, onlyThe Trojans made their landing.” She broke off,Pressed her face to the couch, cried:—“So, we shall die,Die unavenged; but let us die. So, so,—I am glad to meet the darkness. Let his eyesBehold this fire across the sea, an omenOf my death going with him.”
As she spoke,Her handmaids saw her, fallen on the sword,The foam of blood on the blade, and blood on the hands.A scream rings through the house; Rumor goes reeling,Rioting, through the shaken town; the palaceIs loud with lamentation, women sobbing,Wailing and howling, and the vaults of heavenEcho the outcry, as if Tyre or CarthageHad fallen to invaders, and the furyOf fire came rolling over homes and temples.Anna, half lifeless, heard in panic terror,Came rushing through them all, beating her bosom,Clawing her face:—“Was it for this, my sister?To trick me so? The funeral pyre, the altars,Prepared this for me? I have, indeed, a grievance,Being forsaken; you would not let your sisterCompanion you in death? You might have called meTo the same fate; we might have both been taken,One sword, one hour. I was the one who built it,This pyre, with my own hands; it was my voiceThat called our fathers’ gods, for what?—to fail youWhen you were lying here. You have killed me, sister,Not only yourself, you have killed us all, the people,The town. Let me wash the wounds with water,Let my lips catch what fluttering breath still lingers.”She climbed the lofty steps, and held her sister,A dying woman, close; she used her robeTo try to stop the bleeding. And Dido triedIn vain to raise her heavy eyes, fell back,And her wound made a gurgling hissing sound.Three times she tried to lift herself; three timesFell back; her rolling eyes went searching heavenAnd the light hurt when she found it, and she moaned.
At last all-powerful Juno, taking pity,Sent Iris from Olympus, in compassionFor the long racking agony, to free herFrom the limbs’ writhing and the struggle of spirit.She had not earned this death, she had only sought itBefore her time, driven by sudden madness,Therefore, the queen of Hades had not takenThe golden lock, consigning her to Orcus.So Iris, dewy on saffron wings, descending,Trailing a thousand colors through the brightnessComes down the sky, poises above her, saying,“This lock I take as bidden, and from the bodyRelease the soul,” and cuts the lock; and coldTakes over, and the winds receive the spirit.