Dido's Love and Her End

But the Queen, long ere now pierced with sore distress, feeds the wound with her life-blood, and catches the fire unseen. Again and again his own valiance and his line's renown flood back upon her spirit; look and accent cling fast in her bosom, and the pain allows not rest or calm to her limbs. The morrow's dawn bore the torch of Phoebus across the earth, and had rolled away the dewy darkness from the sky, when, scarce herself, she thus opens her confidence to her sister:

But the Queen had long been pierced by deep distress. She fed the wound with her life’s blood and caught the unseen fire. Again and again, his courage and his family’s fame filled her thoughts. His face and voice stayed close to her heart, and the pain gave her body no rest or peace. The next dawn carried the torch of Phoebus across the earth and swept the dewy darkness from the sky. Then, hardly herself, she confided in her sister:

'Anna, my sister, such dreams of terror thrill me through! What guest unknown is this who hath entered our dwelling? How high his mien! how brave in heart as in arms! I believe it well, with no vain assurance, his blood is divine. Fear proves the vulgar spirit. Alas, by what destinies is he driven! what wars outgone he chronicled! Were my mind not planted, fixed and immoveable, to ally myself to none in wedlock since my love of old was false to me in the treachery of death; were I not sick to the heart of bridal torch and chamber, to this temptation alone I might haply yield. Anna, I will confess it; since Sychaeus mine husband met his piteous doom, and our household was shattered by a brother's murder, he only hath touched mine heart and stirred the balance of my soul. I know the prints of the ancient flame. But rather, I pray, may earth first yawn deep for me, or the Lord omnipotent hurl me with his thunderbolt into gloom, the pallid gloom and profound night of Erebus, ere I soil thee, mine honour, or unloose thy laws. He took my love away who made me one with him long ago; he shall keep it with him, and guard it in the tomb.' She spoke, and welling tears filled the bosom of her gown.

'Anna, my sister, these terrifying dreams shake me to the core! Who is this unknown guest who has come into our home? How noble he looks, how brave he is in heart and in battle! I truly believe, and with good reason, that his blood is divine. Fear reveals a common spirit. Alas, what fate drives him on! What wars he has told us he has survived! I lost my old love to the betrayal of death. Since then, I have been firmly resolved never to marry again. And I am sick at heart of the wedding torch and bridal chamber. If it were not for this, I might perhaps yield to this temptation alone. Anna, I confess it. My husband Sychaeus met his cruel end, and my brother's murder shattered our household. Since then, this man alone has touched my heart and shaken my resolve. I recognize the traces of the old flame. But I pray that the earth may first open deep beneath me. May the Lord almighty strike me with his thunderbolt into darkness, the pale darkness and deep night of Erebus. Let that happen before I stain you, my honor, or break your laws. The man who made me his wife long ago took my love away with him. He shall keep it with him and guard it in the tomb.' She spoke, and tears welled up and filled the front of her gown.

Anna replies: 'O dearer than the daylight to thy sister, wilt thou waste, sad and alone, all thy length of youth, and know not the sweetness of motherhood, nor love's bounty? Deemest thou the ashes care for that, or the ghost within the tomb? Be it so: in days gone by no wooers bent thy sorrow, not in Libya, not ere then in Tyre; Iarbas was slighted, and other princes nurtured by the triumphal land of Africa; wilt thou contend so with a love to thy liking? nor does it cross thy mind whose are these fields about thy dwelling? On this side are the Gaetulian towns, a race unconquerable in war; the reinless Numidian riders and the grim Syrtis hem thee in; on this lies a thirsty tract of desert, swept by the raiders of Barca. Why speak of the war gathering from Tyre, and thy brother's menaces? . . . With gods' auspices to my thinking, and with Juno's favour, hath the Ilian fleet held on hither before the gale. What a city wilt thou discern here, O sister! what a realm will rise on such a union! the arms of Troy ranged with ours, what glory will exalt the Punic state! Do thou only, asking divine favour with peace-offerings, be bounteous in welcome and draw out reasons for delay, while the storm rages at sea and Orion is wet, and his ships are shattered and the sky unvoyageable.' With these words she made the fire of love flame up in her spirit, put hope in her wavering soul, and let honour slip away.

Anna replies: 'Sister, you are dearer to me than daylight. Will you spend all your youth sad and alone, never knowing the sweetness of motherhood or the rewards of love? Do you think his ashes or his spirit in the tomb care about that? Still, in the past, no suitors could sway you from your sorrow, not in Libya or before that in Tyre. You rejected Iarbas and other princes raised in triumphant Africa. Will you also fight a love that pleases you? Have you forgotten who holds the lands around your home? On one side are the Gaetulian towns, whose people are unconquerable in war. The Numidian riders, who ride without reins, and grim Syrtis surround you. On the other side lies a dry stretch of desert, swept by raiders from Barca. Why mention the war gathering from Tyre and your brother's threats? . . . I believe the Ilian fleet rode the gale here with the gods' blessing and Juno's favor. Sister, what a city you will see here! What a kingdom will rise from such a union! With the arms of Troy beside ours, what glory will lift up the Punic state! Just ask the gods for favor with offerings of peace, and welcome him generously. Find reasons to delay him while the storm rages at sea, Orion is wet, his ships are damaged, and the sky makes sailing impossible.' With these words, she stirred the fire of love in her sister's heart, gave hope to her wavering soul, and let her honor slip away.

First they visit the shrines, and desire grace from altar to altar; they sacrifice sheep fitly chosen to Ceres the Lawgiver, to Phoebus and lord Lyaeus, to Juno before all, guardian of the marriage bond. Dido herself, excellent in beauty, holds the cup in her hand, and pours libation between the horns of a milk-white cow, or moves in state to the rich altars before the gods' presences, day by day renewing her gifts, and gazing athirst into the breasts of cattle laid open to take counsel from the throbbing entrails. Ah, witless souls of soothsayers! how may vows or shrines help her madness? all the while the subtle flame consumes her inly, and deep in her breast the wound is silent and alive. Stung to misery, Dido wanders in frenzy all down the city, even as an arrow-stricken deer, whom, far and heedless amid the Cretan woodland, a shepherd archer hath pierced and left the flying steel in her unaware; she ranges in flight the Dictaean forest lawns; fast in her side clings the deadly reed. Now she leads Aeneas with her through the town, and displays her Sidonian treasure and ordered city; she essays to speak, and breaks off half-way in utterance. Now, as day wanes, she seeks the repeated banquet, and again madly pleads to hear the agonies of Ilium, and again hangs on the teller's lips. Thereafter, when all are gone their ways, and the dim moon in turn quenches her light, and the setting stars counsel to sleep, alone in the empty house she mourns, and flings herself on the couch he left: distant she hears and sees him in the distance; or enthralled by the look he has of his father, she holds Ascanius on her lap, if so she may steal the love she may not utter. No more do the unfinished towers rise, no more do the people exercise in arms, nor work for safety in war on harbour or bastion; the works hang broken off, vast looming walls and engines towering into the sky.

First they visit the shrines, seeking favor from altar to altar. They sacrifice carefully chosen sheep to Ceres the Lawgiver, Phoebus, and lord Lyaeus. Above all, they sacrifice to Juno, guardian of marriage. Dido herself, beautiful above all others, holds a cup and pours an offering between the horns of a milk-white cow. Or she moves in state to the splendid altars before the gods. Day after day, she renews her offerings. She gazes eagerly into the opened chests of cattle, seeking guidance from their throbbing entrails. Ah, foolish soothsayers! How can vows or shrines help her madness? All the while, a hidden flame consumes her from within. Deep in her breast, the wound is silent and alive. Miserable with pain, Dido wanders frantically through the city. She is like a deer struck by an arrow in the Cretan woods. A shepherd has shot her from a distance, leaving the arrow in her without knowing it. She flees across the clearings of the Dictaean forest, with the deadly shaft lodged in her side. Now Dido leads Aeneas through the city, showing him her Sidonian treasures and her well-ordered city. She tries to speak, but breaks off in the middle. As daylight fades, she seeks another banquet. Once again, she begs wildly to hear of Ilium’s suffering, and once again she hangs on his words. Later, everyone goes their way. The dim moon hides its light, and the setting stars urge sleep. Alone in the empty house, she mourns and throws herself on the couch he left. Though he is far away, she hears and sees him. Or, captivated by his likeness to his father, she holds Ascanius on her lap. Perhaps in this way she can steal the love she cannot speak of. The unfinished towers rise no higher. The people no longer train for battle or fortify the harbor and bastion against war. Work has stopped, leaving great walls unfinished and engines towering into the sky.

So soon as she perceives her thus fast in the toils, and madly careless of her name, Jove's beloved wife, daughter of Saturn, accosts Venus thus:

As soon as she sees that the woman is caught in the trap and wildly careless of her reputation, Jove's beloved wife, the daughter of Saturn, speaks to Venus:

'Noble indeed is the fame and splendid the spoils you win, thou and that boy of thine, and mighty the renown of deity, if two gods have vanquished one woman by treachery. Nor am I so blind to thy terror of our town, thine old suspicion of the high house of Carthage. But what shall be the end? or why all this contest now? Nay, rather let us work an enduring peace and a bridal compact. Thou hast what all thy soul desired; Dido is on fire with love, and hath caught the madness through and through. Then rule we this people jointly in equal lordship; allow her to be a Phrygian husband's slave, and to lay her Tyrians for dowry in thine hand.'

'What noble fame and splendid spoils you and your boy have won! What great glory for divine beings, if two gods have defeated one woman by treachery. I am not blind to your fear of our city, or your long-standing suspicion of the great house of Carthage. But how will this end? Why are we fighting now? Instead, let us make a lasting peace and a marriage agreement. You have everything your heart desired. Dido is burning with love, and the madness has taken hold of her completely. So let us rule this people together, with equal power. Let her be a Phrygian husband's slave, and put her Tyrians in your hands as a dowry.'

To her—for she knew the dissembled purpose of her words, to turn the Teucrian kingdom away to the coasts of Libya—Venus thus began in answer: 'Who so mad as to reject these terms, or choose rather to try the fortune of war with thee? if only when done, as thou sayest, fortune follow. But I move in uncertainty of Jove's ordinance, whether he will that Tyrians and wanderers from Troy be one city, or approve the mingling of peoples and the treaty of union. Thou art his wife, and thy prayers may essay his soul. Go on; I will follow.'

Venus knew that her words concealed a plan to divert the Teucrian kingdom to the coasts of Libya. She answered her: 'Who would be mad enough to reject these terms or choose instead to risk war with you? If only fortune would favor us afterward, as you say. But I do not know what Jove has decreed. Does he want the Tyrians and wanderers from Troy to live in one city? Will he approve the mingling of the peoples and their treaty of union? You are his wife, and your prayers may test his wishes. Go on. I will follow.'

Then Queen Juno thus rejoined: 'That task shall be mine. Now, by what means the present need may be fulfilled, attend and I will explain in brief. Aeneas and Dido (alas and woe for her!) are to go hunting together in the woodland when to-morrow's rising sun goes forth and his rays unveil the world. On them, while the beaters run up and down, and the lawns are girt with toils, will I pour down a blackening rain-cloud mingled with hail, and startle all the sky in thunder. Their company will scatter for shelter in the dim darkness; Dido and the Trojan captain shall take refuge in the same cavern. I will be there, and if thy goodwill is assured me, I will unite them in wedlock, and make her wholly his; here shall Hymen be present.' The Cytherean gave ready assent to her request, and laughed at the wily invention.

Then Queen Juno replied: 'That task will be mine. Now listen, and I will briefly explain how we can meet the present need. Tomorrow, when the rising sun sends out its rays and reveals the world, Aeneas and Dido will go hunting together in the woods. Alas, poor Dido! While the beaters run back and forth and nets surround the clearings, I will send a dark rain cloud mixed with hail over them. Thunder will shake the whole sky. Their companions will scatter and seek shelter in the darkness, while Dido and the Trojan captain take refuge in the same cave. I will be there, and if I have your goodwill, I will join them in marriage and make her wholly his. Hymen will be there.' The Cytherean readily agreed to her request and laughed at the cunning plan.

Meanwhile Dawn rises forth of ocean. A chosen company issue from the gates while the morning star is high; they pour forth with meshed nets, toils, broad-headed hunting spears, Massylian horsemen and sinewy sleuth-hounds. At her doorway the chief of Carthage await their queen, who yet lingers in her chamber, and her horse stands splendid in gold and purple with clattering feet and jaws champing on the foamy bit. At last she comes forth amid a great thronging train, girt in a Sidonian mantle, broidered with needlework; her quiver is of gold, her tresses knotted into gold, a golden buckle clasps up her crimson gown. Therewithal the Phrygian train advances with joyous Iülus. Himself first and foremost of all, Aeneas joins her company and unites his party to hers: even as Apollo, when he leaves wintry Lycia and the streams of Xanthus to visit his mother's Delos, and renews the dance, while Cretans and Dryopes and painted Agathyrsians mingle clamorous about his altars: himself he treads the Cynthian ridges, and plaits his flowing hair with soft heavy sprays and entwines it with gold; the arrows rattle on his shoulder: as lightly as he went Aeneas; such glow and beauty is on his princely face. When they are come to the mountain heights and pathless coverts, lo, wild goats driven from the cliff-tops run down the ridge; in another quarter stags speed over the open plain and gather their flying column in a cloud of dust as they leave the hills. But the boy Ascanius is in the valleys, exultant on his fiery horse, and gallops past one and another, praying that among the unwarlike herds a foaming boar may issue or a tawny lion descend the hill.

Meanwhile, Dawn rises from the ocean. A chosen company leaves the gates while the morning star is still high. They stream out with meshed nets, hunting nets, and broad-headed spears, accompanied by Massylian horsemen and lean hunting hounds. At her doorway, the chiefs of Carthage wait for their queen, who still lingers in her chamber. Her horse stands splendid in gold and purple, stamping its feet and champing the foamy bit. At last she emerges amid a great crowd of followers. She wears an embroidered Sidonian cloak, and her quiver is gold. Her hair is tied with gold, and a golden buckle fastens her crimson gown. The Phrygian company comes forward with joyful Iülus. Aeneas himself, foremost among them all, joins the queen and brings his party together with hers. He is like Apollo when the god leaves wintry Lycia and the streams of Xanthus to visit Delos, his mother's island. Apollo begins the dance again, while Cretans, Dryopes, and painted Agathyrsians mingle noisily around his altars. He walks the ridges of Cynthus, binding his flowing hair with soft, heavy sprays and entwining it with gold. Arrows rattle on his shoulder. Aeneas walks just as lightly, and his princely face shines with the same beauty. When they reach the mountain heights and trackless woods, wild goats are driven from the cliffs and race down the ridge. Elsewhere, stags speed across the open plain, gathering into a fleeing column in a cloud of dust as they leave the hills. But the boy Ascanius is in the valleys, delighted with his spirited horse. He gallops past one rider after another, praying for a foaming boar to appear among the harmless herds or a tawny lion to come down the hill.

Meanwhile the sky begins to thicken and roar aloud. A rain-cloud comes down mingled with hail; the Tyrian train and the men of Troy, and the Dardanian boy of Venus' son scatter in fear, and seek shelter far over the fields. Streams pour from the hills. Dido and the Trojan captain take refuge in the same cavern. Primeval Earth and Juno the bridesmaid give the sign; fires flash out high in air, witnessing the union, and Nymphs cry aloud on the mountain-top. That day opened the gate of death and the springs of ill. For now Dido recks not of eye or tongue, nor sets her heart on love in secret: she calls it marriage, and with this name veils her fall.

Meanwhile, the sky begins to darken and roar. A rain cloud descends, bringing hail. The Tyrian company, the men of Troy, and the Dardanian boy, son of Venus' son, scatter in fear. They seek shelter across the fields. Streams pour down from the hills. Dido and the Trojan captain take refuge in the same cave. Primeval Earth and Juno, acting as bridesmaid, give the sign. Lightning flashes high in the air, bearing witness to their union. Nymphs cry out on the mountaintop. That day opened the door to death and unleashed a flood of suffering. For now Dido cares nothing for what people see or say. She no longer intends to keep her love secret. She calls it marriage, using that name to hide her fall.

Straightway Rumour runs through the great cities of Libya,—Rumour, than whom none other is more swift to mischief; she thrives on restlessness and gains strength by going: at first small and timorous; soon she lifts herself on high and paces the ground with head hidden among the clouds. Her, one saith, Mother Earth, when stung by wrath against the gods, bore last sister to Coeus and Enceladus, fleet-footed and swift of wing, ominous, awful, vast; for every feather on her body is a waking eye beneath, wonderful to tell, and a tongue, and as many loud lips and straining ears. By night she flits between sky and land, shrilling through the dusk, and droops not her lids in sweet slumber; in daylight she sits on guard upon tall towers or the ridge of the house-roof, and makes great cities afraid; obstinate in perverseness and forgery no less than messenger of truth. She then exultingly filled the countries with manifold talk, and blazoned alike what was done and undone: one Aeneas is come, born of Trojan blood; on him beautiful Dido thinks no shame to fling herself; now they hold their winter, long-drawn through mutual caresses, regardless of their realms and enthralled by passionate dishonour. This the pestilent goddess spreads abroad in the mouths of men, and bends her course right on to King Iarbas, and with her words fires his spirit and swells his wrath.

At once Rumour races through the great cities of Libya. Nothing is swifter at spreading harm. She thrives on restlessness and grows stronger as she travels. At first she is small and timid. Soon she rises high and strides across the earth, her head hidden among the clouds. Some say Mother Earth bore her in anger against the gods, the last sister of Coeus and Enceladus. Rumour is swift of foot and wing, terrifying, ominous, and huge. Astonishingly, beneath every feather on her body is a watchful eye, a tongue, a loud mouth, and a listening ear. At night she flies between sky and earth, shrieking through the darkness. She never closes her eyes in sweet sleep. By day she keeps watch on tall towers or the peaks of roofs, frightening great cities. She clings to lies and distortions as stubbornly as she carries the truth. Now she joyfully filled the lands with all kinds of talk, proclaiming what had happened and what had not. A man named Aeneas had come, born of Trojan blood. Beautiful Dido felt no shame in throwing herself at him. Now they were spending the long winter in each other’s embrace, neglecting their kingdoms and enslaved by dishonorable passion. The deadly goddess spread this story from mouth to mouth. Then she headed straight for King Iarbas and, with her words, stirred his heart and inflamed his anger.

He, the seed of Ammon by a ravished Garamantian Nymph, had built to Jove in his wide realms an hundred great temples, an hundred altars, and consecrated the wakeful fire that keeps watch by night before the gods perpetually, where the soil is fat with blood of beasts and the courts blossom with pied garlands. And he, distracted and on fire at the bitter tidings, before his altars, amid the divine presences, often, it is said, bowed in prayer to Jove with uplifted hands:

He was the son of Ammon and a Garamantian Nymph whom Ammon had raped. Throughout his vast kingdom, he had built a hundred great temples and a hundred altars to Jove. He had consecrated the ever-burning fire that kept watch before the gods through the night. There the ground was rich with the blood of animals, and the courtyards bloomed with garlands of many colors. Distraught and burning with anger at the bitter news, he often prayed to Jove, it is said. He bowed before his altars, in the presence of the gods, with his hands raised:

'Jupiter omnipotent, to whom from the broidered cushions of their banqueting halls the Maurusian people now pour Lenaean offering, lookest thou on this? or do we shudder vainly when our father hurls the thunderbolt, and do blind fires in the clouds and idle rumblings appal our soul? The woman who, wandering in our coasts, planted a small town on purchased ground, to whom we gave fields by the shore and laws of settlement, she hath spurned our alliance and taken Aeneas for lord of her realm. And now that Paris, with his effeminate crew, his chin and oozy hair swathed in the turban of Maeonia, takes and keeps her; since to thy temples we bear oblation, and hallow an empty name.'

'Almighty Jupiter, the Maurusian people now pour you offerings of wine from the embroidered cushions of their banquet halls. Do you see this? Or do we tremble for nothing when our father hurls his thunderbolt? Do meaningless flashes and rumblings in the clouds fill our hearts with fear? A woman wandered to our shores and built a small town on land she bought. We gave her fields by the shore and laws under which to settle. Yet she has rejected our alliance and taken Aeneas as lord of her kingdom. And now that Paris, with his effeminate crew, claims her as his own. His chin and greasy hair are wrapped in a turban of Maeonia. And we still bring offerings to your temples and honor an empty name.'

In such words he pleaded, clasping the altars; the Lord omnipotent heard, and cast his eye on the royal city and the lovers forgetful of their fairer fame. Then he addresses this charge to Mercury:

He pleaded with these words, clasping the altars. The all-powerful Lord heard him and looked down on the royal city and the lovers, who had forgotten their higher calling. Then he gave Mercury this command:

'Up and away, O son! call the breezes and slide down them on thy wings: accost the Dardanian captain who now loiters in Tyrian Carthage and casts not a look on destined cities; carry down my words through the fleet air. Not such an one did his mother most beautiful vouch him to us, nor for this twice rescue him from Grecian arms; but he was to rule an Italy teeming with empire and loud with war, to transmit the line of Teucer's royal blood, and lay all the world beneath his law. If such glories kindle him in nowise, and he take no trouble for his own honour, does a father grudge his Ascanius the towers of Rome? with what device or in what hope loiters he among a hostile race, and casts not a glance on his Ausonian children and the fields of Lavinium? Let him set sail: this is the sum: thereof be thou our messenger.'

'Up and away, my son! Summon the breezes and glide down on your wings. Speak to the Dardanian captain who now lingers in Tyrian Carthage, giving no thought to the cities destined for him. Carry my words swiftly through the air. His beautiful mother did not promise us a man like this. Nor did she twice rescue him from Grecian arms for this. He was to rule an Italy rich with empire and loud with war. He was to carry on the royal line of Teucer and bring all the world under his rule. If such glories do not inspire him, and he cares nothing for his own honor, will a father deny his Ascanius the towers of Rome? What is he planning, or what does he hope for, as he lingers among a hostile race? Why does he give no thought to his Ausonian children and the fields of Lavinium? Let him set sail. That is my command. Deliver it to him.'

He ended: his son made ready to obey his high command. And first he laces to his feet the shoes of gold that bear him high winging over seas or land as fleet as the gale; then takes the rod wherewith he calls wan souls forth of Orcus, or sends them again to the sad depth of hell, gives sleep and takes it away and unseals dead eyes; in whose strength he courses the winds and swims across the tossing clouds. And now in flight he descries the peak and steep sides of toiling Atlas, whose crest sustains the sky; Atlas, whose pine-clad head is girt alway with black clouds and beaten by wind and rain; snow is shed over his shoulders for covering; rivers tumble over his aged chin; and his rough beard is stiff with ice. Here the Cyllenian, poised evenly on his wings, made a first stay; hence he shot himself sheer to the water. Like a bird that flies low, skirting the sea about the craggy shores of its fishery, even thus the brood of Cyllene left his mother's father, and flew, cutting the winds between sky and land, along the sandy Libyan shore. So soon as his winged feet reached the settlement, he espies Aeneas founding towers and ordering new dwellings; his sword twinkled with yellow jasper, and a cloak hung from his shoulders ablaze with Tyrian sea-purple, a gift that Dido had made costly and shot the warp with thin gold. Straightway he breaks in: 'Layest thou now the foundations of tall Carthage, and buildest up a fair city in dalliance? ah, forgetful of thine own kingdom and state! From bright Olympus I descend to thee at express command of heaven's sovereign, whose deity sways sky and earth; expressly he bids me carry this charge through the fleet air: with what device or in what hope dost thou loiter idly on Libyan lands? if such glories kindle thee in nowise, yet cast an eye on growing Ascanius, on Iülus thine hope and heir, to whom the kingdom of Italy and the Roman land are due.' As these words left his lips the Cyllenian, yet speaking, quitted mortal sight and vanished into thin air away out of his eyes.

He finished speaking, and his son prepared to obey his command. First he fastened on his golden shoes, which carried him over sea and land as swiftly as the wind. Then he took the rod with which he summons pale souls from Orcus or sends them back to the sad depths of hell. With it he gives sleep and takes it away, and opens the eyes of the dead. By its power he rides the winds and glides through the tossing clouds. In flight he saw the peak and steep sides of laboring Atlas, whose summit holds up the sky. Black clouds always surround his pine-covered head, and wind and rain beat against it. Snow covers his shoulders, rivers tumble down his aged chin, and his rough beard is stiff with ice. Here the Cyllenian balanced on his wings and stopped for the first time. From there he plunged straight toward the water. Like a bird flying low over the sea, hunting fish along the rocky shores, the son of Cyllene left his mother's father. He cut through the winds between sky and land, flying along the sandy Libyan shore. As soon as his winged feet reached the settlement, he saw Aeneas building towers and laying out new homes. Yellow jasper glittered on his sword, and a cloak of brilliant Tyrian sea-purple hung from his shoulders. It was a gift from Dido, who had made it costly and woven thin gold into its fabric. At once he interrupted Aeneas: 'Are you now laying the foundations of towering Carthage and building a beautiful city for your pleasure? Have you forgotten your own kingdom and your people? I have come down to you from bright Olympus on the direct command of heaven's ruler, whose divine power governs sky and earth. He ordered me to carry this message swiftly through the air: what plan or hope keeps you lingering idly in Libyan lands? If such glory does not move you, then think of the growing Ascanius, of Iülus, your hope and heir. The kingdom of Italy and the Roman land are his due.' As he spoke these words, the Cyllenian disappeared from mortal sight and vanished before Aeneas's eyes into thin air.

But Aeneas in truth gazed in dumb amazement, his hair thrilled up, and the accents faltered on his tongue. He burns to flee away and leave the pleasant land, aghast at the high warning and divine ordinance. Alas, what shall he do? how venture to smooth the tale to the frenzied queen? what prologue shall he find? and this way and that he rapidly throws his mind, and turns it on all hands in swift change of thought. In his perplexity this seemed the better counsel; he calls Mnestheus and Sergestus, and brave Serestus, and bids them silently equip the fleet, gather their crews on shore, and order their armament, keeping the cause of the commotion hid; himself meanwhile, since Dido the gracious knows not nor looks for severance to so strong a love, will essay to approach her when she may be told most gently, and the way for it be fair. All at once gladly do as bidden, and obey his command.

But Aeneas stared in speechless amazement. His hair stood on end, and the words faltered on his tongue. Stunned by the solemn warning and the command of the gods, he longed to flee the pleasant land. Alas, what should he do? How could he dare explain it to the frantic queen? How should he begin? His mind raced back and forth, turning swiftly from one thought to another. In his confusion, one plan seemed best. He called Mnestheus, Sergestus, and brave Serestus. He told them to prepare the fleet quietly, gather their crews on shore, and ready their weapons. They were to keep the reason for the activity secret. Meanwhile, he would try to approach gracious Dido at the gentlest moment, when the way seemed clear. She knew nothing of his departure and did not expect a love so strong to be broken. All gladly did as he asked and obeyed his command at once.

But the Queen—who may delude a lover?—foreknew his devices, and at once caught the presaging stir. Safety's self was fear; to her likewise had evil Rumour borne the maddening news that they equip the fleet and prepare for passage. Helpless at heart, she reels aflame with rage throughout the city, even as the startled Thyiad in her frenzied triennial orgies, when the holy vessels move forth and the cry of Bacchus re-echoes, and Cithaeron calls her with nightlong din. Thus at last she opens out upon Aeneas:

But who can deceive a lover? The Queen knew his plans in advance and sensed the first signs of movement. Even when all seemed safe, she was afraid. Evil Rumour had also brought her the maddening news that they were outfitting the fleet and preparing to sail. Helpless with anguish, she rushed through the city, burning with rage. She was like a startled Thyiad, caught up in her frenzied rites held every three years. The sacred vessels are carried out, the cry of Bacchus echoes, and Cithaeron calls her with its noise through the night. At last she confronts Aeneas:

'And thou didst hope, traitor, to mask the crime, and slip away in silence from my land? Our love holds thee not, nor the hand thou once gavest, nor the bitter death that is left for Dido's portion? Nay, under the wintry star thou labourest on thy fleet, and hastenest to launch into the deep amid northern gales; ah, cruel! Why, were thy quest not of alien fields and unknown dwellings, did thine ancient Troy remain, should Troy be sought in voyages over tossing seas? Fliest thou from me? me who by these tears and thine own hand beseech thee, since naught else, alas! have I kept mine own—by our union and the marriage rites preparing; if I have done thee any grace, or aught of mine hath once been sweet in thy sight,—pity our sinking house, and if there yet be room for prayers, put off this purpose of thine. For thy sake Libyan tribes and Nomad kings are hostile; my Tyrians are estranged; for thy sake, thine, is mine honour perished, and the former fame, my one title to the skies. How leavest thou me to die, O my guest? since to this the name of husband is dwindled down. For what do I wait? till Pygmalion overthrow his sister's city, or Gaetulian Iarbas lead me to captivity? At least if before thy flight a child of thine had been clasped in my arms,—if a tiny Aeneas were playing in my hall, whose face might yet image thine,—I would not think myself ensnared and deserted utterly.'

'Did you hope to hide your crime, traitor, and slip away from my land in silence? Does our love not hold you here? Does the hand you once gave me mean nothing? Does the bitter death awaiting Dido mean nothing? Instead, you work on your fleet under the wintry star. You rush to sail into the open sea amid northern gales. How cruel! Even if you were not seeking foreign lands and unknown homes, even if your ancient Troy still stood, would you sail across stormy seas to reach Troy? Are you fleeing from me? I beg you by these tears and by the hand you once gave me. Alas, I have nothing else left to call my own. I beg you by our union and the marriage rites being prepared. If I have done you any kindness, or if anything of mine once pleased you, have pity on our house as it falls. If there is still room for prayers, give up this plan. Because of you, Libyan tribes and Nomad kings are hostile to me. My Tyrians have turned against me. Because of you, my honor is gone, along with my former fame, my one claim to the heavens. How can you leave me to die, my guest? For that is all I can now call the man I once called husband. What am I waiting for? For Pygmalion to overthrow his sister's city, or for Gaetulian Iarbas to lead me into captivity? If only I had held a child of yours before you fled. If only a little Aeneas were playing in my hall, with a face that might still resemble yours. Then I would not feel entirely trapped and deserted.'

She ended; he by counsel of Jove held his gaze unstirred, and kept his distress hard down in his heart. At last he briefly answers:

She finished speaking. Following Jove’s counsel, he kept his gaze steady and held his distress deep in his heart. At last, he gave a brief answer:

'Never, O Queen, will I deny that thy goodness hath gone high as thy words can swell the reckoning; nor will my memory of Elissa be ungracious while I remember myself, and breath sways this body. Little will I say in this. I never hoped to slip away in stealthy flight; fancy not that; nor did I ever hold out the marriage torch or enter thus into alliance. Did fate allow me to guide my life by mine own government, and calm my sorrows as I would, my first duty were to the Trojan city and the dear remnant of my kindred; the high house of Priam should abide, and my hand had set up Troy towers anew for a conquered people. But now for broad Italy hath Apollo of Grynos bidden me steer, for Italy the oracles of Lycia. Here is my desire; this is my native country. If thy Phoenician eyes are stayed on Carthage towers and thy Libyan city, what wrong is it, I pray, that we Trojans find our rest on Ausonian land? We too may seek a foreign realm unforbidden. In my sleep, often as the dank shades of night veil the earth, often as the stars lift their fires, the troubled phantom of my father Anchises comes in warning and dread; my boy Ascanius, how I wrong one so dear in cheating him of an Hesperian kingdom and destined fields. Now even the gods' interpreter, sent straight from Jove—I call both to witness—hath borne down his commands through the fleet air. Myself in broad daylight I saw the deity passing within the walls, and these ears drank his utterance. Cease to madden me and thyself alike with plaints. Not of my will do I follow Italy. . . .'

'Queen, I will never deny that your kindness has been as great as you say. I will remember Elissa with gratitude as long as I know myself and breathe. I will say little about this. I never hoped to slip away secretly, so do not think that. Nor did I ever hold out the marriage torch or enter into such a union. If fate allowed me to govern my own life and ease my sorrows as I wished, my first duty would be to Troy and the dear survivors of my people. Priam's great house would still stand, and I would have rebuilt Troy's towers for a conquered people. But now Apollo of Grynos has ordered me to sail for broad Italy, and so have the oracles of Lycia. Italy is my desire, my native country. If you, a Phoenician, can gaze on Carthage's towers and your Libyan city, why should we Trojans not find rest on Ausonian land? We too may seek a foreign realm without blame. As often as damp night shadows cover the earth and the stars light their fires, I dream of my father Anchises. His troubled ghost comes with fearful warnings. I also think of my boy Ascanius. I wrong someone so dear by cheating him of a Hesperian kingdom and the lands destined for him. Now even the gods' messenger has come through the swift air, sent straight from Jove, carrying his commands. I call both to witness. In broad daylight, I saw the god enter the city walls, and I heard his words with my own ears. Stop driving us both mad with your complaints. I do not seek Italy of my own free will. . . .'

Long ere he ended she gazes on him askance, turning her eyes from side to side and perusing him with silent glances; then thus wrathfully speaks:

Long before he finishes, she looks at him sideways, her eyes moving back and forth as she silently studies him. Then she speaks angrily:

'No goddess was thy mother, nor Dardanus founder of thy line, traitor! but rough Caucasus bore thee on his iron crags, and Hyrcanian tigresses gave thee suck. For why do I conceal it? For what further outrage do I wait? Hath our weeping cost him a sigh, or a lowered glance? Hath he broken into tears, or had pity on his lover? Where, where shall I begin? Now neither doth Queen Juno nor our Saturnian lord regard us with righteous eyes. Nowhere is trust safe. Cast ashore and destitute I welcomed him, and madly gave him place and portion in my kingdom; I found him his lost fleet and drew his crews from death. Alas, the fire of madness speeds me on. Now prophetic Apollo, now oracles of Lycia, now the very gods' interpreter sent straight from Jove through the air carries these rude commands! Truly that is work for the gods, that a care to vex their peace! I detain thee not, nor gainsay thy words: go, follow thine Italy down the wind; seek thy realm overseas. Yet midway my hope is, if righteous gods can do aught at all, thou wilt drain the cup of vengeance on the rocks, and re-echo calls on Dido's name. In murky fires I will follow far away, and when chill death hath severed body from soul, my ghost will haunt thee in every region. Wretch, thou shalt repay! I will hear; and the rumour of it shall reach me deep in the under world.'

'No goddess was your mother, traitor, and Dardanus was not the founder of your line! The harsh Caucasus bore you on its iron cliffs, and Hyrcanian tigresses nursed you. Why should I hide my feelings? What further outrage am I waiting for? Did my tears make him sigh or lower his eyes? Did he burst into tears or take pity on his lover? Where, where shall I begin? Now neither Queen Juno nor our lord, son of Saturn, looks on us with justice. Trust is safe nowhere. He was cast ashore and destitute, and I welcomed him. In my madness, I gave him a place and a share in my kingdom. I recovered his lost fleet and saved his crews from death. Alas, the fire of madness drives me on. Now prophetic Apollo, now the oracles of Lycia bring these harsh commands. Now the gods' own messenger brings them, sent straight from Jove through the air! Surely the gods have nothing better to do than trouble their peace with such concerns! I will not hold you back or dispute your words. Go, follow the winds to your Italy. Seek your kingdom overseas. Yet if the righteous gods have any power, I hope you will pay the full price on the rocks. I hope you will cry Dido's name again and again. I will follow you from afar in dark flames. When cold death has separated my body from my soul, my ghost will haunt you everywhere. Wretch, you will pay! I will hear of it. The news will reach me deep in the underworld.'

Even on these words she breaks off her speech unfinished, and, sick at heart, escapes out of the air and sweeps round and away out of sight, leaving him in fear and much hesitance, and with much on his mind to say. Her women catch her in their arms, and carry her swooning to her marble chamber and lay her on her bed.

With these words, she breaks off before she can finish. Sick at heart, she turns away from the open air and disappears from sight. He is left afraid and uncertain, with much still to say. Her women catch her in their arms and carry her unconscious to her marble chamber. There they lay her on her bed.

But good Aeneas, though he would fain soothe and comfort her grief, and talk away her distress, with many a sigh, and melted in soul by his great love, yet fulfils the divine commands and returns to his fleet. Then indeed the Teucrians set to work, and haul down their tall ships all along the shore. The hulls are oiled and afloat; they carry from the woodland green boughs for oars and massy logs unhewn, in hot haste to go. . . . One might descry them shifting their quarters and pouring out of all the town: even as ants, mindful of winter, plunder a great heap of wheat and store it in their house; a black column advances on the plain as they carry home their spoil on a narrow track through the grass. Some shove and strain with their shoulders at big grains, some marshal the ranks and chastise delay; all the path is aswarm with work. What then were thy thoughts, O Dido, as thou sawest it? What sighs didst thou utter, viewing from the fortress roof the broad beach aswarm, and seeing before thine eyes the whole sea stirred with their noisy din? Injurious Love, to what dost thou not compel mortal hearts! Again, she must needs break into tears, again essay entreaty, and bow her spirit down to love, not to leave aught untried and go to death in vain.

Good Aeneas longed to soothe her grief and ease her distress with words. He sighed often, and his great love melted his heart. Yet he obeyed the divine commands and returned to his fleet. Then the Teucrians set to work, hauling their tall ships down to the water all along the shore. Their hulls were oiled and afloat. In their eagerness to leave, they carried green branches from the woods for oars, along with heavy, uncut logs. . . . One could see them leaving their quarters and pouring out of the whole town. They were like ants that raid a great heap of wheat and store it in their home, mindful of winter. A black column moves across the plain, carrying the stolen grain home along a narrow path through the grass. Some ants push and strain with their shoulders against large grains. Others direct the ranks and punish delays. The whole path swarms with activity. What were your thoughts then, Dido, as you watched? What sighs did you utter as you looked from the fortress roof? The wide beach was swarming with activity, and before your eyes the whole sea was stirred by their noisy din. Cruel Love, what will you not drive mortal hearts to do? Once again, she had to burst into tears and try pleading. Once again, she had to humble herself before love. She would leave nothing untried, so that she would not die in vain.

'Anna, thou seest the bustle that fills the shore. They have gathered round from every quarter; already their canvas woos the breezes, and the merry sailors have garlanded the sterns. This great pain, my sister, I shall have strength to bear, as I have had strength to foresee. Yet this one thing, Anna, for love and pity's sake—for of thee alone was the traitor fain, to thee even his secret thoughts were confided, alone thou knewest his moods and tender fits—go, my sister, and humbly accost the haughty stranger: I did not take the Grecian oath in Aulis to root out the race of Troy; I sent no fleet against her fortresses; neither have I disentombed his father Anchises' ashes and ghost, that he should refuse my words entrance to his stubborn ears. Whither does he run? let him grant this grace—alas, the last!—to his lover, and await fair winds and an easy passage. No more do I pray for the old delusive marriage, nor that he give up fair Latium and abandon a kingdom. A breathing-space I ask, to give my madness rest and room, till my very fortune teach my grief submission. This last favour I implore: sister, be pitiful; grant this to me, and I will restore it in full measure when I die.'

'Anna, you see the bustle on the shore. They have gathered from every direction. Their sails are already catching the breeze, and the cheerful sailors have decorated the sterns with garlands. My sister, I will have the strength to bear this great pain, just as I had the strength to foresee it. Yet I ask you one thing, Anna, for love and pity's sake. The traitor trusted only you. He even confided his secret thoughts to you, and you alone knew his moods and tender moments. Go, my sister, and speak humbly to the proud stranger. Tell him I did not join the Greeks in their oath at Aulis to destroy the people of Troy. I sent no fleet against Troy's fortresses. Nor have I disturbed the ashes and ghost of his father Anchises. Why, then, does he stubbornly refuse to listen to me? Where is he rushing off to? Let him grant his lover this favor, alas, the last one, and wait for fair winds and an easy passage. I no longer ask for our old, illusory marriage. Nor do I ask him to give up beautiful Latium and abandon a kingdom. I ask for time to breathe, to give my madness room to settle, until my fate itself teaches my grief to submit. I beg for this last favor. Sister, have pity and grant it. I will repay you in full when I die.'

So she pleaded, and so her sister carries and recarries the piteous tale of weeping. But by no weeping is he stirred, inflexible to all the words he hears. Fate withstands, and lays divine bars on unmoved mortal ears. Even as when the eddying blasts of northern Alpine winds are emulous to uproot the secular strength of a mighty oak, it wails on, and the trunk quivers and the high foliage strews the ground; the tree clings fast on the rocks, and high as her top soars into heaven, so deep strike her roots to hell; even thus is the hero buffeted with changeful perpetual accents, and distress thrills his mighty breast, while his purpose stays unstirred, and tears fall in vain.

So she pleaded, and her sister carried her sorrowful, tearful pleas to him again and again. But no tears moved him, and he remained unmoved by all her words. Fate stood in the way, and divine powers barred his mortal ears from hearing. The hero was like a mighty oak when swirling northern Alpine winds compete to uproot its ancient strength. The oak groans, its trunk trembles, and its high branches scatter leaves over the ground. Yet the tree clings to the rocks. As high as its crown reaches toward heaven, its roots reach just as deep into hell. So the hero was battered by the changing, endless pleas, and anguish shook his mighty heart. Yet his resolve remained firm, and the tears fell in vain.

Then indeed, hapless and dismayed by doom, Dido prays for death, and is weary of gazing on the arch of heaven. The more to make her fulfil her purpose and quit the light, she saw, when she laid her gifts on the altars alight with incense, awful to tell, the holy streams blacken, and the wine turn as it poured into ghastly blood. Of this sight she spoke to none—no, not to her sister. Likewise there was within the house a marble temple of her ancient lord, kept of her in marvellous honour, and fastened with snowy fleeces and festal boughs. Forth of it she seemed to hear her husband's voice crying and calling when night was dim upon earth, and alone on the house-tops the screech-owl often made moan with funeral note and long-drawn sobbing cry. Therewithal many a warning of wizards of old terrifies her with appalling presage. In her sleep fierce Aeneas drives her wildly, and ever she seems being left by herself alone, ever going uncompanioned on a weary way, and seeking her Tyrians in a solitary land: even as frantic Pentheus sees the arrayed Furies and a double sun, and Thebes shows herself twofold to his eyes: or Agamemnonian Orestes, renowned in tragedy, when his mother pursues him armed with torches and dark serpents, and the Fatal Sisters crouch avenging in the doorway.

Then Dido, unhappy and shaken by her fate, prayed for death. She was weary of looking up at the sky. Another sight strengthened her resolve to die and leave the light. As she laid her gifts on altars burning with incense, she saw a terrible thing. The sacred streams turned black, and the wine became ghastly blood as she poured it. She told no one what she had seen, not even her sister. Inside the house was a marble temple dedicated to her late husband. She honored it with great devotion and decorated it with white fleeces and festive branches. When night darkened the earth, she seemed to hear her husband's voice calling and crying out from the temple. Often, a lone screech-owl on the rooftops moaned with a funeral note and a long, sobbing cry. Many warnings from wizards of old also terrified her with their dreadful signs. In her sleep, fierce Aeneas drove her into a frenzy. She always seemed to be left utterly alone, traveling a long, weary road without a companion. She seemed to be searching for her Tyrians in a deserted land. She was like the frenzied Pentheus, who saw the Furies gathered before him and two suns in the sky. Even Thebes appeared double to him. Or she was like Orestes, son of Agamemnon, famous in tragedy. His mother pursued him with torches and dark serpents, while the Fatal Sisters crouched in the doorway, seeking vengeance.

So when, overcome by her pangs, she caught the madness and resolved to die, she works out secretly the time and fashion, and accosts her sorrowing sister with mien hiding her design and hope calm on her brow.

Overcome by anguish, she fell into a frenzy and resolved to die. She secretly planned when and how to do it. Then she approached her grieving sister, hiding her plan behind a calm, hopeful expression.

'I have found a way, mine own—wish me joy, sisterlike—to restore him to me or release me of my love for him. Hard by the ocean limit and the set of sun is the extreme Aethiopian land, where ancient Atlas turns on his shoulders the starred burning axletree of heaven. Out of it hath been shown to me a priestess of Massylian race, warder of the temple of the Hesperides, even she who gave the dragon his food, and kept the holy boughs on the tree, sprinkling clammy honey and slumberous poppy-seed. She professes with her spells to relax the purposes of whom she will, but on others to bring passion and pain; to stay the river-waters and turn the stars backward: she calls up ghosts by night; thou shalt see earth moaning under foot and mountain-ashes descending from the hills. I take heaven, sweet, to witness, and thee, mine own darling sister, I do not willingly arm myself with the arts of magic. Do thou secretly raise a pyre in the inner court, and let them lay on it the arms that the accursed one left hanging in our chamber, and all the dress he wore, and the bridal bed where I fell. It is good to wipe out all the wretch's traces, and the priestess orders thus.' So speaks she, and is silent, while pallor overruns her face. Yet Anna deems not her sister veils death behind these strange rites, and grasps not her wild purpose, nor fears aught deeper than at Sychaeus' death. So she makes ready as bidden. . . .

'I have found a way, my dear. Rejoice with me, sister. I can bring him back to me or free myself from my love for him. At the edge of the ocean, where the sun sets, lies the farthest land of the Aethiopians. There, ancient Atlas turns the blazing, starry axis of heaven on his shoulders. 'I have been told of a priestess from that land, a woman of the Massylian race. She guards the temple of the Hesperides. She fed the dragon and tended the sacred branches of the tree, sprinkling them with sticky honey and sleep-inducing poppy seeds. She claims her spells can soften anyone's resolve, or bring passion and pain to others. She can stop rivers and turn the stars backward. She calls up ghosts at night. You will see the earth groan beneath your feet and mountain ash trees come down from the hills. 'I call heaven and you, my darling sister, to witness that I do not turn to magic willingly. Secretly build a pyre in the inner court. Have them place on it the arms that the cursed man left hanging in our chamber. Add all the clothes he wore and the bridal bed where I fell. It is right to wipe out every trace of the wretch, and the priestess commands it.' She falls silent, and her face turns pale. Yet Anna does not think her sister is hiding death behind these strange rites. She does not understand her wild purpose or fear anything worse than she did when Sychaeus died. So she makes the preparations as she was told. . . .

But the Queen, the pyre being built up of piled faggots and sawn ilex in the inmost of her dwelling, hangs the room with chaplets and garlands it with funeral boughs: on the pillow she lays the dress he wore, the sword he left, and an image of him, knowing what was to come. Altars are reared around, and the priestess, with hair undone, thrice peals from her lips the hundred gods of Erebus and Chaos, and the triform Hecate, the triple-faced maidenhood of Diana. Likewise she had sprinkled pretended waters of Avernus' spring, and rank herbs are sought mown by moonlight with brazen sickles, dark with milky venom, and sought is the talisman torn from a horse's forehead at birth ere the dam could snatch it. . . . Herself, the holy cake in her pure hands, hard by the altars, with one foot unshod and garments flowing loose, she invokes the gods ere she die, and the stars that know of doom; then prays to whatsoever deity looks in righteousness and remembrance on lovers ill allied.

But the Queen had a pyre built from bundles of sticks and sawn holm oak in the innermost part of her house. She hung the room with garlands and funeral branches. Knowing what was to come, she laid his clothes, the sword he had left, and an image of him on the pillow. Altars were raised around the pyre. The priestess, her hair loose, called aloud three times to the hundred gods of Erebus and Chaos. She also called to three-formed Hecate and Diana, the maiden with three faces. She had also sprinkled water said to be from the spring of Avernus. They sought rank herbs cut by moonlight with bronze sickles, dark with milky venom. They also sought the talisman torn from a newborn horse’s forehead before its mother could snatch it. . . . Beside the altars, the Queen herself held the sacred cake in her pure hands. One foot was bare, and her garments hung loose. Before dying, she called on the gods and the stars that know of fate. Then she prayed to whatever deity watches with justice and remembrance over lovers ill matched.

Night fell; weary creatures took quiet slumber all over earth, and woodland and wild waters had sunk to rest; now the stars wheel midway on their gliding path, now all the country is silent, and beasts and gay birds that haunt liquid levels of lake or thorny rustic thicket lay couched asleep under the still night. But not so the distressed Phoenician, nor does she ever sink asleep or take the night upon eyes or breast; her pain redoubles, and her love swells to renewed madness, as she tosses on the strong tide of wrath. Even so she begins, and thus revolves with her heart alone:

Night fell. Weary creatures slept peacefully all over the earth, and the woods and wild waters lay still. The stars were halfway through their smooth journey across the sky. All the countryside was silent. Animals and bright birds slept beneath the still night, whether they lived by smooth lakes or in thorny country thickets. But the distressed Phoenician could not sleep or find any rest for her eyes or heart that night. Her pain doubled, and her love grew into madness again as she tossed on a powerful tide of anger. At last she began to speak, turning these thoughts over in her heart:

'See, what do I? Shall I again make trial of mine old wooers that will scorn me? and stoop to sue for a Numidian marriage among those whom already over and over I have disdained for husbands? Then shall I follow the Ilian fleets and the uttermost bidding of the Teucrians? because it is good to think they were once raised up by my succour, or the grace of mine old kindness is fresh in their remembrance? And how should they let me, if I would? or take the odious woman on their haughty ships? art thou ignorant, ah me, even in ruin, and knowest not yet the forsworn race of Laomedon? And then? shall I accompany the triumphant sailors, a lonely fugitive? or plunge forth girt with all my Tyrian train? so hardly severed from Sidon city, shall I again drive them seaward, and bid them spread their sails to the tempest? Nay die thou, as thou deservest, and let the steel end thy pain. With thee it began; overborne by my tears, thou, O my sister, dost load me with this madness and agony, and layest me open to the enemy. I could not spend a wild life without stain, far from a bridal chamber, and free from touch of distress like this! O faith ill kept, that was plighted to Sychaeus' ashes!' Thus her heart broke in long lamentation.

'Look at me, what am I to do? Shall I again approach my former suitors, who will scorn me? Shall I humble myself and seek a Numidian marriage? I have already rejected those men as husbands again and again. Or shall I follow the Ilian fleets and obey every command of the Teucrians? Is it comforting to think that my help once saved them, or that they still remember my past kindness? And even if I wanted to go, how would they let me? Would they take a woman they hate aboard their proud ships? In your ruin, do you still not know, alas, the faithless race of Laomedon? What then? Shall I follow the triumphant sailors, a lonely fugitive? Or shall I set out with all my Tyrian followers around me? I could barely persuade them to leave the city of Sidon. Shall I drive them to sea again and tell them to raise their sails in the storm? No, you deserve to die. Let the sword end your pain. It began with you, my sister. Overcome by my tears, you burdened me with this madness and agony and exposed me to the enemy. I could not live unstained and wild, far from a marriage bed, and free from suffering like this! Oh, how poorly I have kept the promise I made to the ashes of Sychaeus!' So her heart broke in a long lament.

Now Aeneas was fixed to go, and now, with all set duly in order, was taking hasty sleep on his high stern. To him as he slept the god appeared once again in the same fashion of countenance, and thus seemed to renew his warning, in all points like to Mercury, voice and hue and golden hair and limbs gracious in youth. 'Goddess-born, canst thou sleep on in such danger? and seest not the coming perils that hem thee in, madman! nor hearest the breezes blowing fair? She, fixed on death, is revolving craft and crime grimly in her bosom, and swells the changing surge of wrath. Fliest thou not hence headlong, while headlong flight is yet possible? Even now wilt thou see ocean weltering with broken timbers, see the fierce glare of torches and the beach in a riot of flame, if dawn break on thee yet dallying in this land. Up ho! linger no more! Woman is ever a fickle and changing thing.' So spoke he, and melted in the black night.

Aeneas was now determined to leave. With everything properly arranged, he was snatching some sleep high on the stern of his ship. As he slept, the god appeared to him again with the same face and seemed to renew his warning. In every way he looked like Mercury, with the same voice, complexion, golden hair, and graceful, youthful limbs. 'Son of a goddess, can you sleep on in such danger? Madman, can you not see the dangers closing in on you, or hear the favorable winds blowing? She is determined to die. She is grimly plotting deceit and violence in her heart, and her anger rises in shifting waves. Will you not flee at once, while you still can? If dawn finds you still lingering in this land, you will soon see the sea churning with broken timbers. You will see the fierce glare of torches and the beach ablaze. Get up! Delay no longer! Woman is always fickle and changeable.' With those words, he vanished into the dark night.

Then indeed Aeneas, startled by the sudden phantom, leaps out of slumber and bestirs his crew. 'Haste and awake, O men, and sit down to the thwarts; shake out sail speedily. A god sent from high heaven, lo! again spurs us to speed our flight and cut the twisted cables. We follow thee, holy one of heaven, whoso thou art, and again joyfully obey thy command. O be favourable; give gracious aid and bring fair sky and weather.' He spoke, and snatching his sword like lightning from the sheath, strikes at the hawser with the drawn steel. The same zeal catches all at once; rushing and tearing they quit the shore; the sea is hidden under their fleets; strongly they toss up the foam and sweep the blue water.

Then Aeneas, startled by the sudden apparition, leaped from sleep and roused his crew. 'Hurry, men, wake up and take your places at the oars. Unfurl the sails at once. A god sent from high heaven urges us again to flee quickly and cut the twisted ropes. We follow you, holy one from heaven, whoever you are, and gladly obey your command again. Please be kind, help us, and bring us clear skies and good weather.' He spoke, then snatched his sword from its sheath like lightning and struck the mooring rope with the blade. The same zeal seized everyone at once. They rushed to leave the shore, pulling at the ropes. Their fleet covered the sea as they churned up foam and swept across the blue water.

And now Dawn broke, and, leaving the saffron bed of Tithonus, shed her radiance anew over the world; when the Queen saw from her watch-tower the first light whitening, and the fleet standing out under squared sail, and discerned shore and haven empty of all their oarsmen. Thrice and four times she struck her hand on her lovely breast and rent her yellow hair: 'God!' she cries, 'shall he go? shall an alien make mock of our realm? Will they not issue in armed pursuit from all the city, and some launch ships from the dockyards? Go; bring fire in haste, serve weapons, swing out the oars! What do I talk? or where am I? what mad change is on my purpose? Alas, Dido! now thou dost feel thy wickedness; that had graced thee once, when thou gavest away thy crown. Behold the faith and hand of him! who, they say, carries his household's ancestral gods about with him! who stooped his shoulders to a father outworn with age! Could I not have riven his body in sunder and strewn it on the waves? and slain with the sword his comrades and his dear Ascanius, and served him for the banquet at his father's table? But the chance of battle had been dubious. If it had! whom did I fear with my death upon me? I should have borne firebrands into his camp and filled his decks with flame, blotted out father and son and race together, and flung myself atop of all. Sun, whose fires lighten all the works of the world, and thou, Juno, mediatress and witness of these my distresses, and Hecate, cried on by night in crossways of cities, and you, fatal avenging sisters and gods of dying Elissa, hear me now; bend your just deity to my woes, and listen to our prayers. If it must needs be that the accursed one touch his haven and float up to land, if thus Jove's decrees demand, and this is the appointed term,—yet, distressed in war by an armed and gallant nation, driven homeless from his borders, rent from Iülus' embrace, let him sue for succour and see death on death untimely on his people; nor when he hath yielded him to the terms of a harsh peace, may he have joy of his kingdom or the pleasant light; but let him fall before his day and without burial on a waste of sand. This I pray; this and my blood with it I pour for the last utterance. And you, O Tyrians, hunt his seed with your hatred for all ages to come; send this guerdon to our ashes. Let no kindness nor truce be between the nations. Arise out of our dust, O unnamed avenger, to pursue the Dardanian settlement with firebrand and steel. Now, then, whensoever strength shall be given, I invoke the enmity of shore to shore, wave to water, sword to sword; let their battles go down to their children's children.'

Now Dawn broke and left the saffron bed of Tithonus, spreading her light over the world again. From her watchtower, the Queen saw the first light brighten. She saw the fleet sailing away with its sails set and the shore and harbor empty of oarsmen. Three or four times she struck her lovely breast and tore at her yellow hair. ‘God!’ she cries, ‘is he going to escape? Will a foreigner make a mockery of our kingdom? Won’t the whole city take up arms and pursue him? Won’t some launch ships from the docks? Go! Bring fire quickly, hand out weapons, put out the oars! What am I saying? Where am I? What madness has changed my purpose? Alas, Dido! Now you feel your wickedness. You should have felt it when you gave away your crown. Look at his loyalty, look at his pledged hand! They say he carries his household’s ancestral gods with him! They say he carried his father, worn out with age, on his shoulders! Could I not have torn his body apart and scattered it on the waves? Could I not have killed his comrades and his dear Ascanius with my sword? Could I not have served Ascanius at his father’s table? But the battle might have gone either way. So what if it had? Whom did I fear, with death already upon me? I should have carried torches into his camp and set his decks ablaze. I should have destroyed father, son, and their whole race together, and thrown myself on the flames. ‘Sun, whose fires light everything in the world, and you, Juno, who hear and witness my suffering, hear me now. Hear me too, Hecate, whose name is called at night at the crossroads of cities. And hear me, you avenging sisters of fate and gods of dying Elissa. Turn your divine justice toward my suffering and listen to our prayers. If the cursed man must reach his harbor and sail to land, if Jove’s decrees demand it and this is his appointed end, then let him suffer war at the hands of an armed and brave nation. Let him be driven from his land, homeless and torn from Iülus’ embrace. Let him beg for help and see his people die one untimely death after another. And when he has submitted to the terms of a harsh peace, may he find no joy in his kingdom or in the pleasant light of day. Let him die before his time and lie unburied on a barren stretch of sand. This is my prayer. I pour it out with my blood as my final words. ‘And you, O Tyrians, pursue his descendants with your hatred for all ages to come. Give this tribute to my ashes. Let there be no kindness or truce between the nations. Rise from my dust, O unnamed avenger, and pursue the Dardanian settlement with fire and sword. Now, later, whenever strength is given, I call for war between shore and shore, wave and water, sword and sword. Let their battles continue among their children’s children.’

So speaks she as she kept turning her mind round about, seeking how soonest to break away from the hateful light. Thereon she speaks briefly to Barce, nurse of Sychaeus; for a heap of dusky ashes held her own, in her country of long ago:

She spoke as she turned over in her mind how to escape the hateful light as soon as possible. Then she spoke briefly to Barce, Sychaeus’s nurse. Her own nurse’s ashes lay in a dark heap in her old homeland:

'Sweet nurse, bring Anna my sister hither to me. Bid her haste and sprinkle river water over her body, and bring with her the beasts ordained for expiation: so let her come: and thou likewise veil thy brows with a pure chaplet. I would fulfil the rites of Stygian Jove that I have fitly ordered and begun, so to set the limit to my distresses and give over to the flames the funeral pyre of the Dardanian.'

'Dear nurse, bring my sister Anna here to me. Tell her to hurry, sprinkle her body with river water, and bring the animals chosen for the purification rites. And you, too, cover your head with a pure garland. I want to complete the rites of Stygian Jove, which I have properly prepared and begun. In this way, I will end my suffering and set fire to the Dardanian's funeral pyre.'

So speaks she; the old woman went eagerly with quickened pace. But Dido, fluttered and fierce in her awful purpose, with bloodshot restless gaze, and spots on her quivering cheeks burning through the pallor of imminent death, bursts into the inner courts of the house, and mounts in madness the high funeral pyre, and unsheathes the sword of Dardania, a gift asked for no use like this. Then after her eyes fell on the Ilian raiment and the bed she knew, dallying a little with her purpose through her tears, she sank on the pillow and spoke the last words of all:

She spoke, and the old woman hurried eagerly away. But Dido was agitated and fierce in her terrible resolve. Her bloodshot eyes darted restlessly, and red spots burned on her trembling cheeks, pale with approaching death. She burst into the inner courtyards of the house and climbed the high funeral pyre in a frenzy. There she drew the sword of Dardania, a gift she had not requested for such a use. Then she saw the Ilian clothing and the familiar bed. Weeping, she hesitated a little before carrying out her purpose. She sank onto the pillow and spoke her last words:

'Dress he wore, sweet while doom and deity allowed! receive my spirit now, and release me from my distresses. I have lived and fulfilled Fortune's allotted course; and now shall I go a queenly phantom under the earth. I have built a renowned city; I have seen my ramparts rise; by my brother's punishment I have avenged my husband of his enemy; happy, ah me! and over happy, had but the keels of Dardania never touched our shores!' She spoke; and burying her face in the pillow, 'Death it will be,' she cries, 'and unavenged; but death be it. Thus, thus is it good to pass into the dark. Let the pitiless Dardanian's gaze drink in this fire out at sea, and my death be the omen he carries on his way.'

'Clothes he wore, dear to me while fate and the gods allowed it! Receive my spirit now and release me from my suffering. I have lived and completed the course Fortune assigned me. Now I will go beneath the earth as a queenly spirit. I have built a famous city and watched its walls rise. By punishing my brother, my husband's enemy, I have avenged my husband. I would have been happy, oh, so happy, if only Dardania's ships had never reached our shores!' She spoke and buried her face in the pillow. 'I will die,' she cries, 'and go unavenged, but let me die. Yes, this is the way to pass into the darkness. Let the pitiless Dardanian see this fire from the sea. Let him carry the omen of my death on his journey.'

She ceased; and even as she spoke her people see her sunk on the steel, and blood reeking on the sword and spattered on her hands. A cry rises in the high halls; Rumour riots down the quaking city. The house resounds with lamentation and sobbing and bitter crying of women; heaven echoes their loud wails; even as though all Carthage or ancient Tyre went down as the foe poured in, and the flames rolled furious over the roofs of house and temple. Swooning at the sound, her sister runs in a flutter of dismay, with torn face and smitten bosom, and darts through them all, and calls the dying woman by her name. 'Was it this, mine own? Was my summons a snare? Was it this thy pyre, ah me, this thine altar fires meant? How shall I begin my desolate moan? Didst thou disdain a sister's company in death? Thou shouldst have called me to share thy doom; in the self-same hour, the self-same pang of steel had been our portion. Did these very hands build it, did my voice call on our father's gods, that with thee lying thus I should be away as one without pity? Thou hast destroyed thyself and me together, O my sister, and the Sidonian lords and people, and this thy city. Give her wounds water: I will bathe them and catch on my lips the last breath that haply yet lingers.' So speaking she had climbed the high steps, and, wailing, clasped and caressed her half-lifeless sister in her bosom, and stanched the dark streams of blood with her gown. She, essaying to lift her heavy eyes, swoons back; the deep-driven wound gurgles in her breast. Thrice she rose, and strained to lift herself on her elbow; thrice she rolled back on the pillow, and with wandering eyes sought the light of high heaven, and moaned as she found it.

She stopped speaking. Even as she spoke, her people saw her fallen on the sword, blood staining the blade and spattered on her hands. A cry rose through the high halls. Rumor spread wildly through the trembling city. The house echoed with lamentation, sobs, and the bitter cries of women. Heaven echoed their loud wails. It was as if all Carthage or ancient Tyre were falling to an invading enemy, with flames raging over the roofs of houses and temples. At the sound, her sister nearly fainted. She ran in panic, her face torn and her breast beaten. She rushed through the crowd, calling the dying woman by name. 'Was this what you intended, my own sister? Did you summon me here to deceive me? Was this what your pyre and altar fires were meant for? How can I begin to mourn my loss? Did you reject your sister's company in death? You should have called me to share your fate. The same sword should have struck us both in the same hour. Did these hands build the pyre, and did I call on our father's gods, only to be away from you as you lay dying, as if I had no pity? You have destroyed yourself and me, my sister, and the Sidonian lords and people, and this city of yours. Bring water for her wounds. I will bathe them and catch on my lips the last breath that may still remain.' As she spoke, she climbed the high steps. Wailing, she clasped her half-lifeless sister to her breast and caressed her. She used her gown to stop the dark streams of blood. Her sister tried to lift her heavy eyes but sank back. The deep wound gurgled in her breast. Three times she rose and struggled to lift herself on her elbow. Three times she fell back on the pillow. Her eyes wandered in search of the light of heaven, and she moaned when she found it.

Then Juno omnipotent, pitying her long pain and difficult decease, sent Iris down from heaven to unloose the struggling life from the body where it clung. For since neither by fate did she perish, nor as one who had earned her death, but woefully before her day, and fired by sudden madness, not yet had Proserpine taken her lock from the golden head, nor sentenced her to the Stygian under world. So Iris on dewy saffron pinions flits down through the sky athwart the sun in a trail of a thousand changing dyes, and stopping over her head: 'This hair, sacred to Dis, I take as bidden, and release thee from that body of thine.' So speaks she, and cuts it with her hand. And therewith all the warmth ebbed forth from her, and the life passed away upon the winds.

Then all-powerful Juno took pity on her long suffering and difficult death. She sent Iris down from heaven to free the struggling life that clung to her body. She was dying neither by fate nor because she had earned her death. Instead, she was dying tragically before her time, driven by sudden madness. So Proserpine had not yet taken a lock from her golden head or condemned her to the Stygian underworld. Iris flew down through the sky on dewy, saffron-colored wings. As she crossed the sun, she left a trail of a thousand changing colors. She stopped above her head and said, 'I take this hair, sacred to Dis, as I have been commanded, and release you from your body.' Then she cut the lock with her hand. At once, all the warmth left her, and her life passed away on the winds.