The Æneid of Virgil translated into English prose

by Virgil

BOOK IV

But the queen, pierced long since by love’s cruel shaft,

is feeding the wound with her life-blood, and wasting under

a hidden fire. Many times the hero’s own worth comes

back to her mind, many times the glory of his race; his

every look remains imprinted on her breast, and his every 5

word, nor will trouble let soothing sleep have access to

her frame.

The dawn-goddess[169] of the morrow was surveying the

earth with Phœbus’ torch in her hand, and had already

withdrawn the dewy shadow from the sky, when she, 10

sick of soul, thus bespoke the sister whose heart was one

with hers:—“Anna, my sister, what dreams are these

that confound and appal me! Who is this new guest

that has entered our door! What a face and carriage!

What strength of breast and shoulders! I do believe—it 15

is no mere fancy—that he has the blood of gods in his

veins. An ignoble soul is known by the coward’s brand.

Ah! by what fates he has been tossed! What wars he

was recounting, every pang of them borne by himself!

Were it not the fixed, immovable purpose of my mind 20

never to consent to join myself with any in wedlock’s

bands, since my first love played me false and made me

the dupe of death—had I not been weary of bridal bed

and nuptial torch, perchance I might have stooped to

this one reproach. Anna—for I will own the truth—since 25

the fate of Sychæus, my poor husband—since the

sprinkling of the gods of my home with the blood my

brother shed, he and he only has touched my heart and

shaken my resolution till it totters. I recognize the

traces of the old flame. But first I would pray that earth 30

may yawn for me from her foundations, or the all-powerful

sire hurl me thunder-stricken to the shades, to the wan

shades of Erebus[170] and abysmal night, ere I violate thee,

my woman’s honour, or unknit the bonds thou tiest.

He who first wedded me, he has carried off my heart—let 5

him keep it all his own, and retain it in his grave.”

Thus having said, she deluged her bosom with a burst of

tears.

Anna replies:—“Sweet love, dearer than the light to

your sister’s eye, are you to pine and grieve in loneliness 10

through life’s long spring, nor know aught of a mother’s

joy in her children, nor of the prizes Venus gives? Think

you that dead ashes and ghosts low in the grave take this

to heart? Grant that no husbands have touched your

bleeding heart in times gone by, none now in Libya, none 15

before in Tyre; yes, Iarbas has been slighted, and the

other chieftains whom Afric, rich in triumphs, rears as

its own—will you fight against a welcome, no less than

an unwelcome passion? Nor does it cross your mind in

whose territories you are settled? On one side the cities 20

of the Gætulians, a race invincible in war, and the Numidians

environ you, unbridled as their steeds, and the

inhospitable Syrtis; on another, a region unpeopled by

drought, and the widespread barbarism of the nation of

Barce. What need to talk of the war-cloud threatening 25

from Tyre, and the menaces of our brother? It is under

Heaven’s auspices, I deem, and by Juno’s blessing, that

the vessels of Ilion have made this voyage hither. What

a city, my sister, will ours become before your eyes!

what an empire will grow out of a marriage like this! 30

With the arms of the Teucrians at its back, to what a

height will the glory of Carthage soar! Only be it yours

to implore the favour of Heaven, and having won its

acceptance, give free course to hospitality and weave a

chain of pleas for delay, while the tempest is raging its 35

full on the sea, and Orion, the star of rain, while his ships

are still battered, and the rigour of the sky still unyielding.”

By these words she added fresh fuel to the fire of

love, gave confidence to her wavering mind, and loosed

the ties of woman’s honour.

First they approach the temples and inquire for pardon

from altar to altar; duly they slaughter chosen sheep to

Ceres the lawgiver, to Phœbus, and to father Lyæus[171]—above 5

all to Juno, who makes marriage bonds her care.

Dido herself, in all her beauty, takes a goblet in her

hand, and pours it out full between the horns of a heifer

of gleaming white, or moves majestic in the presence of

the gods towards the richly-laden altars, and solemnizes 10

the day with offerings, and gazing greedily on the victims’

opened breasts, consults the entrails yet quivering with

life. Alas! how blind are the eyes of seers! What can

vows, what can temples do for the madness of love? All

the while a flame is preying on the very marrow of her 15

bones, and deep in her breast a wound keeps noiselessly

alive. She is on fire, the ill-fated Dido, and in her madness

ranges the whole city through, like a doe from an

arrow-shot, whom, unguarded in the thick of the Cretan

woods, a shepherd, chasing her with his darts, has pierced 20

from a distance, and left the flying steel in the wound,

unknowing of his prize; she at full speed scours the

forests and lawns of Dicte; the deadly reed still sticks

in her side. Now she leads Æneas with her through the

heart of the town, and displays the wealth of Sidon, and 25

the city built to dwell in. She begins to speak, and stops

midway in the utterance. Now, as the day fades, she

seeks again the banquet of yesterday, and once more in

frenzy asks to hear of the agonies of Troy, and hangs

once more on his lips as he tells the tale. Afterwards, 30

when the guests are gone, and the dim moon in turn is

hiding her light, and the setting stars invite to slumber,

alone she mourns in the empty hall, and presses the

couch he has just left; him far away she sees and hears,

herself far away; or holds Ascanius long in her lap, spellbound 35

by his father’s image, to cheat, if she can, her ungovernable

passion. The towers that were rising rise no

longer; the youth ceases to practise arms, or to make

ready havens and bulwarks for safety in war; the works

are broken and suspended, the giant frowning of the

walls, and the engine level with the sky.

Soon as Jove’s loved wife saw that she was so mastered

by the plague, and that good name could not stand in 5

the face of passion, she, the daughter of Saturn, bespeaks

Venus thus:—“Brilliant truly is the praise, ample the

spoils you are carrying off, you and your boy—great and

memorable the fame, if the plots of two gods have really

conquered one woman. No; I am not so blind either 10

to your fears of my city, to your suspicions of the open

doors of my stately Carthage. But when is this to end?

or what calls now for such terrible contention? Suppose

for a change we establish perpetual peace and a firm marriage

bond. You have gained what your whole heart 15

went to seek. Dido is ablaze with love, and the madness

is coursing through her frame. Jointly then let us rule

this nation, each with full sovereignty; let her stoop to

be the slave of a Phrygian husband, and make over her

Tyrians in place of dowry to your control.” 20

To her—for she saw that she had spoken with a feigned

intent, meaning to divert the Italian empire to the coast of

Libya—Venus thus replied:—“Who would be so mad

as to spurn offers like these, and prefer your enmity to your

friendship, were it but certain that the issue you name 25

would bring good fortune in its train? But I am groping

blindly after destiny—whether it be Jupiter’s will that

the Tyrians and the voyagers from Troy should have one

city—whether he would have the two nations blended

and a league made between them. You are his wife; it 30

is your place to approach him by entreaty. Go on, I

will follow.” Imperial Juno rejoined thus:—“That task

shall rest with me. Now, in what way our present purpose

can be contrived, lend me your attention, and I will explain

in brief. Æneas and Dido, poor sufferer! are 35

proposing to go hunting in the forest, when first to-morrow’s

sun displays his rising, and with his beams uncurtains

the globe. On them I will pour from above a black

storm of mingled rain and hail, just when the horsemen

are all astir, and spreading their toils before the wood-walks,

and the whole heaven shall be convulsed with

thunder. The train shall fly here and there, and be lost

in the thick darkness. Dido and the Trojan chief shall 5

find themselves in the same cave. I will be there, and,

if I may count on your sanction, will unite her to him in

lasting wedlock, and consecrate her his for life. Thus

shall Hymen[172] give us his presence.” The Queen of

Cythera makes no demur, but nods assent, smiling at the 10

trick she has found out.

Meanwhile Aurora has risen, and left the ocean. Rising

with the day-star, the chivalry of Carthage streams

through the gates, their woven toils, and nets, and hunting-spears

tipped with broad iron, and Massylian horsemen 15

hurry along, and a force of keen-scented hounds.

There are the Punic princes, waiting for the queen, who

still lingers in her chamber; there stands her palfrey,

conspicuous in purple and gold, fiercely champing the

foaming bit. At length she comes forth, with a mighty 20

train attending, a Tyrian scarf round her, itself surrounded

by an embroidered border; her quiver of gold, her hair

knotted up with gold, her purple robe fastened with a

golden clasp. The Phrygian train, too, are in motion,

and Iulus, all exultation. Æneas himself, comely beyond 25

all the rest, adds his presence to theirs, and joins the procession;

like Apollo, when he leaves his Lycian winter-seat

and the stream of Xanthus, and visits Delos, his

mother’s isle, and renews the dance; while with mingled

voices round the altar shout Cretans and Dryopians, and 30

tattooed Agathyrsians. The god in majesty walks on

the heights of Cynthus, training his luxuriant hair with the

soft pressure of a wreath of leaves, and twining it with

gold; his arrows rattle on his shoulders. Not with less

ease than he moved Æneas; such the beauty that sparkles 35

in that peerless countenance. When they reach the high

mountains and the pathless coverts, see! the wild goats,

dropping from the tops of the crags, have run down the

slopes; in another quarter the deer are scouring the open

plains, massing their herds as they fly in a whirlwind of

dust, and leaving the mountains. But young Ascanius

is in the heart of the glens, exulting in his fiery courser.

Now he passes one, now another of his comrades at full 5

speed, and prays that in the midst of such spiritless game

he may be blest with the sight of a foaming boar, or that

a tawny lion may come down the hill. Meantime the sky

begins to be convulsed with a mighty turmoil; a storm-cloud

follows of mingled rain and hail. The Tyrian train, 10

all in confusion, and the chivalry of Troy, and the hope

of Dardania, Venus’ grandson, have sought shelter in

their terror up and down the country, some here, some

there. The streams run in torrents down the hills. Dido

and the Trojan chief find themselves in the same cave. 15

Earth, the mother of all, and Juno give the sign.

Lightnings blaze, and heaven flashes in sympathy with

the bridal; and from mountain-tops the nymphs give the

nuptial shout. That day was the birthday of death, the

birthday of woe. Henceforth she has no thought for the 20

common eye or the common tongue; it is not a stolen passion

that Dido has now in her mind—no, she calls it

marriage; that name is the screen of her sin.

Instantly Fame[173] takes her journey through Libya’s great

cities—Fame, a monster surpassed in speed by none; her 25

nimbleness lends her life, and she gains strength as she

goes. At first fear keeps her low; soon she rears herself

skyward, and treads on the ground, while her head is

hidden among the clouds. Earth, her parent, provoked to

anger against the gods, brought her forth, they say, the 30

youngest of the family of Cœus[174] and Enceladus—swift

of foot and untiring of wing, a portent terrible and vast—who,

for every feather on her body has an ever-wakeful

eye beneath, marvellous to tell, for every eye a loud tongue

and mouth, and a pricked-up ear. At night she flies midway 35

between heaven and earth, hissing through the darkness,

nor ever yields her eyes to the sweets of sleep. In

the daylight she sits sentinel on a high house-top, or on a

lofty turret, and makes great cities afraid; as apt to cling

to falsehood and wrong as to proclaim the truth. So

then she was filling the public ear with a thousand tales—things

done and things never done alike the burden of

her song—how that Æneas, a prince of Trojan blood, had 5

arrived at Carthage, a hero whom lovely Dido deigned to

make her husband, and now in luxurious ease they were

wearing away the length of winter together, forgetful of

the crowns they wore or hoped to wear, and enthralled by

unworthy passion. Such are the tales the fiendlike goddess 10

spreads from tongue to tongue. Then, in due course, she

turns her steps to King Iarbas, and inflames him with her

rumours, and piles his indignation high. He, the son of

Ammon, from the ravished embrace of a Garamantian

nymph, built within his broad realms a hundred temples 15

to Jove, and in each temple an altar; there he had consecrated

an ever-wakeful fire, the god’s unsleeping sentry,

a floor thick with victims’ blood, and doors wreathed with

particoloured garlands. And he, frenzied in soul, and

stung by the bitter tidings, is said, as he stood before the 20

altars, with the majesty of Heaven all around him, to have

prayed long and earnestly to Jove with upturned hands:—“Jove,

the Almighty, to whom in this my reign the

Moorish race, feasting on embroidered couches, pour out

the offering of the vintage, seest thou this? or is our dread 25

of thee, Father, when thou hurlest thy lightnings, an idle

panic? are those aimless fires in the clouds that appal us?

have their confused rumblings no meaning? See here:

a woman, who, wandering in our territories, bought leave

to build a petty town, to whom we made over a strip of 30

land for tillage, with its rights of lordship, she has rejected

an alliance with us, and received Æneas into her kingdom,

to be its lord and hers. And now that second Paris, with

his emasculate following, a Mæonian[175] cap supporting his

chin and his essenced hair, is enjoying his prize, while we, 35

forsooth, are making offerings to temples of thine, and

keeping alive an idle rumour.”

Thus as he prayed, his hands grasping the altar, the

almighty one heard him, and turned his eyes to the queenly

city and the guilty pair, lost to their better fame. Then

thus he bespeaks Mercury, and gives him a charge like this:—“Go,

haste, my son, summon the Zephyrs, and float on

thy wings; address the Dardan chief, who is now dallying 5

in Tyrian Carthage, and giving no thought to the city

which Destiny makes his own; carry him my commands

through the flying air. It was not a man like that whom

his beauteous mother promised us in him, and on the

strength of her word twice rescued him from the sword of 10

Greece. No, he was to be one who should govern Italy—Italy,

with its brood of unborn empires, and the war-cry

bursting from its heart—who should carry down a line

sprung from the grand fountain-head of Teucer’s blood,

and should force the whole world to bow to the laws[176] he 15

makes. If he is fired by no spark of ambition for greatness

like this, and will not rear a toilsome fabric for his own

praise, is it a father’s heart that grudges Ascanius the hills

of Rome? What is he building? What does he look to

in lingering on among a nation of enemies, with no thought 20

for the great Ausonian family, or for the fields of Lavinium?

Away with him to sea! This is our sentence;

thus far be our messenger.”

Jove had spoken, and Mercury was preparing to execute

the great sire’s command: first he binds to his feet his 25

sandals, all of gold, which carry him, uplifted by their

pinions, over sea no less than land, with the swiftness of

the wind that wafts him. Then he takes his rod—the

rod with which he is wont to call up pale spectres from the

place of death, to send others on their melancholy way to 30

Tartarus, to give sleep or take it away, and to open the

eyes when death is past. With this in hand, he drives the

winds before him, and makes a path through the sea of

clouds. And now in his flight he espies the crest and the

tall sides of Atlas the rugged, who with his top supports 35

the sky—Atlas, whose pine-crowned dead, ever wreathed

with dark clouds, is buffeted by wind and rain. A mantle

of snow wraps his shoulders; rivers tumble from his hoary

chin, and his grisly beard is stiff with ice. Here first

Cyllene’s god poised himself on his wings and rested; then

from his stand stooping his whole body, he sent himself

headlong to the sea, like a bird which haunting the coast and

the fishy rocks flies low, close to the water. Even so was 5

he flying between earth and heaven, between Libya’s

sandy coast and the winds that swept it, leaving his

mother’s father behind, himself Cyllene’s progeny.

Soon as his winged feet alit among the huts of Carthage,

he sees Æneas founding towers and making houses new. 10

A sword was at his side, starred with yellow jaspers, and

a mantle drooped from his shoulders, ablaze with Tyrian

purple—a costly gift which Dido had made, varying the

web with threads of gold. Instantly he assails him:—“And

are you at a time like this laying the foundations of 15

stately Carthage, and building, like a fond husband, your

wife’s goodly city, forgetting, alas! your own kingdom

and the cares that should be yours? It is no less than the

ruler of the gods who sends me down to you from his

bright Olympus—he whose nod sways heaven and earth; 20

it is he that bids me carry his commands through the flying

air. What are you building? what do you look to in

squandering your leisure in Libyan land? If you are fired

by no spark of ambition for the greatness in your view,

and will not rear a toilsome fabric for your own praise, 25

think of Ascanius rising into youth, think of Iulus, your

heir and your hope, to whom you owe the crown of Italy

and the realm of Rome.” With these words Cyllene’s

god quitted mortal sight ere he had well ceased to speak,

and vanished away from the eye into unsubstantial air. 30

The sight left Æneas dumb and aghast indeed; his hair

stood shudderingly erect; his speech clave to his throat.

He burns to take flight and leave the land of pleasure, as

his ears ring with the thunder of Heaven’s imperious warning.

What—ah! what is he to do? with what address 35

can he now dare to approach the impassioned queen?

what first advances can he employ? And thus he despatches

his rapid thought hither and thither hurrying

it east and west, and sweeping every corner of the field.

So balancing, at last he thought this judgment the best.

He calls Mnestheus and Sergestus and brave Serestus;

bids them quietly get ready the fleet, muster the crews on

the shore, with their arms in their hands, hiding the reason 5

for so sudden a change. Meantime he, while Dido, kindest

of friends, is in ignorance, deeming love’s chain too strong

to be snapped, will feel his way, and find what are the

happiest moments for speech, what the right hold to take

of circumstance. At once all gladly obey his command, 10

and are busy on the tasks enjoined.

But the queen (who can cheat a lover’s senses?) scented

the plot, and caught the first sound of the coming stir, alive

to fear in the midst of safety. Fame, as before, the same

baleful fiend, whispered in her frenzied ear that the fleet 15

was being equipped and the voyage got ready. She

storms in impotence of soul, and, all on fire, goes raving

through the city, like a Mænad[177] starting up at the rattle

of the sacred emblems, when the triennial orgies lash her

with the cry of Bacchus, and Cithæron’s yell calls her into 20

the night. At length she thus bespeaks Æneas, unaddressed

by him:—

“To hide, yes, hide your enormous crime, perfidious

wretch, did you hope that might be done—to steal away

in silence from my realm? Has our love no power to keep 25

you? has our troth, once, plighted, none, nor she whom

you doom to a cruel death, your Dido? Nay, are you

fitting out your fleet with winter’s sky overhead, and hastening

to cross the deep in the face of all the northern winds,

hard-hearted as you are? Why, suppose you were not 30

seeking a strange clime and a home you know not—suppose

old Troy were still standing—would even Troy draw

you to seek her across a billowy sea? Flying, and from

me! By the tears I shed, and by your plighted hand,

since my own act, alas! has left me nought else to plead—by 35

our union—by the nuptial rites thus prefaced—if

I have ever deserved well of you, or aught of mine ever

gave you pleasure—have pity on a falling house, and strip

off, I conjure you, if prayer be not too late, the mind that

clothes you. It is owing to you that the Libyan tribes and

the Nomad chiefs hate me, that my own Tyrians are estranged;

owing to you, yes, you, that my woman’s honour

has been put out, and that which was my one passport 5

to immortality, my former fame. To whom are you abandoning

a dying woman, my guest?—since the name of

husband has dwindled to that. Why do I live any longer?—to

give my brother Pygmalion time to batter down

my walls, or Iarbas the Moor to carry me away captive? 10

Had I but borne any offspring of you before your flight,

were there some tiny Æneas to play in my hall, and remind

me of you, though but in look, I should not then feel utterly

captive and forlorn.”

She ceased. He all the while, at Jove’s command, was 15

keeping his eyes unmoved, and shutting up in his heart his

great love. At length he answers in brief:—“Fair queen,

name all the claims to gratitude you can, I shall never

gainsay one, nor will the thought of Elissa[178] ever be unwelcome

while memory lasts, while breath animates this 20

frame. A few words I will say, as the case admits. I

never counted—do not dream it—on stealthily concealing

my flight. I never came with a bridegroom’s torch

in my hand, nor was this the alliance to which I agreed.

For me, were the Fates to suffer me to live under a star 25

of my own choosing, and to make with care the terms I

would, the city of Troy, first of all the dear remains of what

was mine, would claim my tendance. Priam’s tall roof-tree

would still be standing, and my hand would have

built a restored Pergamus, to solace the vanquished. But 30

now to princely Italy Grynean[179] Apollo, to Italy his Lycian

oracles bid me repair. There is my heart, there my fatherland.

If you are riveted here by the sight of your stately

Carthage, a daughter of Phœnicia by a Libyan town,

why, I would ask, should jealousy forbid Teucrians to 35

settle in Ausonian land? We, like you, have the right of

looking for a foreign realm. There is my father Anchises,

oft as night’s dewy shades invest the earth, oft as the fiery

stars arise, warning me in dreams and appalling me by his

troubled presence. There is my son Ascanius, and the

wrongs heaped on his dear head every day that I rob him

of the crown of Hesperia, and of the land that fate makes

his. Now, too, the messenger of the gods, sent down from 5

Jove himself (I swear by both our lives) has brought me

orders through the flying air. With my own eyes I saw

the god in clear daylight entering the walls, and took in his

words with the ears that hear you now. Cease then to

harrow up both our souls by your reproaches: my quest 10

of Italy is not of my own motion.”

Long ere he had done this speech she was glaring at him

askance, rolling her eyes this way and that, and scanning

the whole man with her silent glances, and thus she bursts

forth all ablaze:—“No goddess was mother of yours, no 15

Dardanus the head of your line, perfidious wretch!—no,

your parent was Caucasus, rugged and craggy, and

Hyrcanian tigresses put their breasts to your lips. For

why should I suppress aught? or for what worse evil hold

myself in reserve? Did he groan when I wept? did he 20

move those hard eyes? did he yield and shed tears, or

pity her that loved him? What first? what last? Now,

neither Juno, queen of all, nor Jove, the almighty Father,

eyes us with impartial regard. Nowhere is there aught

to trust—nowhere. A shipwrecked beggar, I welcomed 25

him, and madly gave him a share of my realm; his lost

fleet, his crews, I brought back from death’s door. Ah!

Fury sets me on fire, and whirls me round! Now, prophet

Apollo, now the Lycian oracles. Now the messenger of

the gods, sent down by Jove himself, bears his grim bidding 30

through the air! Aye, of course, that is the employment

of the powers above, those the cares that break their

repose! I retain not your person, nor refute your talk.

Go, chase Italy with the winds at your back; look for

realms with the whole sea between you. I have hope that 35

on the rocks midway, if the gods are as powerful as they

are good, you will drain the cup of punishment, with Dido’s

name ever on your lips. I will follow you with murky

fires when I am far away: and when cold death shall have

parted soul and body, my shade shall haunt you everywhere.

Yes, wretch, you shall suffer, I shall hear it—the

news will reach me down among the dead.” So saying,

she snaps short her speech, and flies with loathing 5

from the daylight, and breaks and rushes from his sight,

leaving him hesitating, and fearing, and thinking of a

thousand things to say. Her maidens support her, and

carry her sinking frame into her marble chamber, and

lay her on her bed. 10

But good Æneas, though yearning to solace and soothe

her agonized spirit, and by his words to check the onset of

sorrow, with many a groan, his whole soul upheaved by

the force of love, goes nevertheless about the commands

of Heaven, and repairs to his fleet. The Teucrians redouble 15

their efforts, and along the whole range of the shore

drag their tall ships down. The keels are careened and

floated. They carry oars with their leaves still on, and

timber unfashioned as it stood in the woods, so strong their

eagerness to fly. You may see them all in motion, streaming 20

from every part of the city. Even as ants when they

are sacking a huge heap of wheat, provident of winter

days, and laying up the plunder in their stores; a black

column is seen moving through the plain, and they convey

their booty along the grass in a narrow path: some are 25

putting their shoulders to the big grains, and pushing them

along; others are rallying the force and punishing the

stragglers; the whole track is in a glow of work. What

were your feelings then, poor Dido, at a sight like this!

How deep the groans you heaved, when you looked out 30

from your lofty tower on a beach all seething and swarming,

and saw the whole sea before you deafened with that

hubbub of voices! Tyrant love! what force dost thou not

put on human hearts? Again she has to condescend to

tears, again to use the weapons of entreaty, and bow her 35

spirit in suppliance under love’s yoke, lest she should have

left aught untried, and be rushing on a needless death.

“Anna, you see there is hurrying all over the shore—they

are met from every side; the canvas is already wooing

the gale, and the joyful sailors have wreathed the sterns.

If I have had the foresight to anticipate so heavy a blow,

I shall have the power to bear it too, my sister. Yet,

Anna, in my misery, perform me this one service. You, 5

and you only, the perfidious man was wont to make his

friend—aye, even to trust you with his secret thoughts.

You, and you only, know the subtle approaches to his

heart, and the times of essaying them. Go, then, my

sister, and supplicate our haughty foe. Tell him I was 10

no party to the Danaan league at Aulis to destroy the

Trojan nation; I sent no ships to Pergamus; I never

disinterred his father Anchises, his dust or his spirit. Why

will he not let my words sink down into his obdurate ears?

Whither is he hurrying? Let him grant this last boon to 15

her who loves him so wildly; let him wait till the way is

smoothed for his flight, and there are winds to waft him.

I am not asking him now to renew our old vows which he

has forsworn. I am not asking him to forego his fair

Latium, and resign his crown. I entreat but a few vacant 20

hours, a respite and breathing-space for my passion, till

my fortune shall have taught baffled love how to grieve.

This is my last request of you—Oh, pity your poor sister!—a

request which when granted shall be returned with

interest in death.” 25

Such was her appeal—such the wailing which her

afflicted sister bears to him, and bears again; but no wailing

moves him, no words find him a gentle listener. Fate

bars the way, and Heaven closes the hero’s relenting ears.

Even as an aged oak, still hale and strong, which Alpine 30

winds, blowing now here, now there, strive emulously to

uproot—a loud noise is heard, and, as the stem rocks,

heaps of leaves pile the ground; but the tree cleaves

firmly to the cliff; high as its head strikes into the air,

so deep its root strikes down to the abyss—even thus the 35

hero is assailed on all sides by a storm of words: his mighty

breast thrills through and through with agony; but his

mind is unshaken, and tears are showered in vain.

Then at last, maddened by her destiny, poor Dido prays

for death: heaven’s vault is a weariness to look on. To

confirm her in pursuing her intent, and closing her eyes on

the sun, she saw, as she was laying her offerings on the

incense-steaming altars—horrible to tell—the sacred 5

liquor turn black, and the streams of wine curdle into

loathly gore. This appearance she told to none, not even

to her sister. Moreover, there was in her palace a marble

chapel to her former husband, to which she used to pay

singular honours, wreathing it with snowy fillets and festal 10

boughs; from it she thought she heard a voice, the accents

of the dead man calling her, when the darkness of night

was shrouding the earth: and on the roof a lonely owl in

funereal tones kept complaining again and again, and

drawing out wailingly its protracted notes; and a thousand 15

predictions of seers of other days come back on her,

terrifying her with their awful warnings. When she

dreams, there is Æneas himself driving her in furious chase:

she seems always being left alone to herself, always pacing

companionless on a never-ending road, and looking for her 20

Tyrians in a realm without inhabitants—like Pentheus,[o]

when in frenzy he sees troops of Furies, and two suns, and

a double Thebes rising around him; or Agamemnon’s[o]

Orestes rushing over the stage, as he flies from his mother,

who is armed with torches and deadly snakes, while the 25

avenging fiends sit crouched on the threshold.

So when, spent with agony, she gave conception to the

demon, and resolved on death, she settled with herself

time and means, and thus bespoke her grieving sister, her

face disguising her intent, and hope smiling on her brow:— 30

“Dearest, I have found a way—wish me joy, as a sister

should—to bring him back to me, or to loose me from the

love which binds me to him. Hard by the bound of ocean

and the setting sun lies the extreme Ethiopian clime, where

mighty Atlas turns round on his shoulders the pole, studded 35

with burning stars. From that clime, I have heard of a

priestess of the Massylian race, once guardian of the

temple of the Hesperides, who used to give the dragon his

food, and so preserve the sacred boughs on the tree, sprinkling

for him moist honey and drowsy poppy-seed. She,

by her spells, undertakes to release souls at her pleasure,

while into others she shoots cruel pangs; she stops the

water in the river-bed, and turns back the stars in their 5

courses, and calls ghosts from realms of night. You will

see the earth bellowing under you, and the ashes coming

down from the mountain-top. By the gods I swear,

dearest sister, by you and your dear life, that unwillingly

I gird on the weapons of magic. Do you, in the privacy 10

of the inner court, build a pile to the open sky; lay on it

the arms which that godless man left hanging in the

chamber, and all his doffed apparel, and the nuptial bed

which was my undoing. To destroy every memorial of

the hateful wretch is my pleasure, and the priestess’ bidding.” 15

This said, she is silent—paleness overspreads her

face. Yet Anna does not dream that these strange rites

are a veil to hide her sister’s death: she cannot grasp

frenzy like that; she fears no darker day than that of their

mourning for Sychæus, and so she does her bidding. 20

But the queen, when the pile had been built in the heart

of the palace to the open sky, a giant mass of pine-wood and

hewn oak, spans the place with garlands, and crowns it

with funeral boughs. High above it on the couch she sets

the doffed apparel, and the sword that had been left, and 25

the image of the false lover, knowing too well what was

to come. Altars rise here and there; the priestess, with

hair dishevelled, thunders out the roll of three hundred

gods, Erebus and Chaos, and Hecate[180] with her triple form—the

three faces borne by maiden Dian. See! she has 30

sprinkled water, brought, so she feigns, from Avernus’

spring, and she is getting green downy herbs, cropped by

moonlight with brazen shears, whose sap is the milk of

deadly poison, and the love-charm, torn from the brow

of the new-born foal, ere the mother could snatch it. 35

Dido herself, with salted cake and pure hands at the altars,

one foot unshod, her vest ungirdled, makes her dying

appeal to the gods and to the stars who share Fate’s

counsels, begging the powers, if any there be, that watch,

righteous and unforgetting, over ill-yoked lovers, to hear

her prayer.

It was night, and overtoiled mortality throughout the

earth was enjoying peaceful slumber; the woods were at 5

rest, and the raging waves—the hour when the stars are

rolling midway in their smooth courses, when all the land is

hushed, cattle, and gay-plumed birds, haunters far and wide

of clear waters and rough forest-ground, lapped in sleep

with stilly night overhead, their troubles assuaged, their 10

hearts dead to care. Not so the vexed spirit of Phœnicia’s

daughter; she never relaxes into slumber, or

welcomes the night to eye or bosom; sorrow doubles peal

on peal; once more love swells, and storms, and surges,

with a mighty tempest of passion. Thus, then, she 15

plunges into speech, and whirls her thoughts about thus

in the depth of her soul:—“What am I about? Am I

to make fresh proof of my former suitors, with scorn before

me? Must I stoop to court Nomad bridegrooms, whose

offered hand I have spurned so often? Well, then, shall 20

I follow the fleet of Ilion, and be at the beck and call of

Teucrian masters? Is it that they think with pleasure

on the succour once rendered them? that gratitude for

past kindness yet lives in their memory? But even if I

wished it, who will give me leave, or admit the unwelcome 25

guest to his haughty ships? Are you so ignorant, poor

wretch? Do you not yet understand the perjury of the

race of Laomedon[181]? What then? Shall I fly alone, and

swell the triumph of their crews? or shall I put to sea, with

the Tyrians and the whole force of my people at my back, 30

dragging those whom it was so hard to uproot from their

Sidonian home again into the deep, and bidding them

spread sail to the winds? No!—die the death you have

merited, and let the sword put your sorrow to flight.

You, sister, are the cause; overmastered by my tears, 35

you heap this deadly fuel on my flame, and fling me upon

nay enemy. Why could I not forswear wedlock, and live

an unblamed life in savage freedom, nor meddle with

troubles like these? Why did I not keep the faith I

vowed to the ashes of Sychæus?” Such were the reproaches

that broke from that bursting heart.

Meanwhile Æneas, resolved on his journey, was slumbering

in his vessel’s tall stern, all being now in readiness. 5

To him a vision of the god, appearing again with the same

countenance, presented itself as he slept, and seemed to

give this second warning—the perfect picture of Mercury,

his voice, his blooming hue, his yellow locks, and the youthful

grace of his frame:—“Goddess-born, at a crisis like 10

this can you slumber on? Do you not see the wall of

danger which is fast rising round you, infatuate that you

are, nor hear the favouring whisper of the western gale?

She is revolving in her bosom thoughts of craft and cruelty,

resolved on death, and surging with a changeful tempest 15

of passion. Will you not haste away while haste is in your

power? You will look on a sea convulsed with ships, an

array of fierce torch-fires, a coast glowing with flame, if

the dawn-goddess shall have found you loitering here on

land. Quick!—burst through delay. A thing of moods 20

and changes is woman ever.” He said, and was lost in the

darkness of night.

At once Æneas, scared by the sudden apparition, springs

up from sleep, and rouses his comrades. “Wake in a moment,

my friends, and seat you on the benches. Unfurl 25

the sails with all speed. See! here is a god sent down

from heaven on high, urging us again to hasten our flight,

and cut the twisted cables. Yes! sacred power, we follow

thee, whoever thou art, and a second time with joy obey

thy behest. Be thou with us, and graciously aid us, and 30

let propitious stars be ascendant in the sky.” So saying,

he snatches from the scabbard his flashing sword, and with

the drawn blade cuts the hawsers. The spark flies from

man to man; they scour, they scud, they have left the

shore behind; you cannot see the water for ships. With 35

strong strokes they dash the foam, and sweep the blue.

And now Aurora was beginning to sprinkle the earth

with fresh light, rising from Tithonus’[182] saffron couch.

Soon as the queen from her watch-tower saw the gray

dawn brighten, and the fleet moving on with even canvas,

and coast and haven forsaken, with never an oar left,

thrice and again smiting her beauteous breast with her

hands, and rending her golden locks, “Great Jupiter!” 5

cries she, “shall he go? Shall a chance-comer boast of

having flouted our realm? Will they not get their arms

at once, and give chase from all the town, and pull, some

of them, the ships from the docks? Away! bring fire;

quick! get darts, ply oars! What am I saying? Where 10

am I? What madness turns my brain? Wretched Dido!

do your sins sting you now? They should have done so

then, when you were giving your crown away. What

truth! what fealty!—the man who, they say, carries

about with him the gods of his country, and took up on 15

his shoulders his old worn-out father! Might I not have

caught and torn him piecemeal, and scattered him to the

waves?—destroyed his friends, aye, and his own Ascanius,

and served up the boy for his father’s meal? But the

chance of a battle would have been doubtful. Let it have 20

been. I was to die, and whom had I to fear? I would

have flung torches into his camp, filled his decks with flame,

consumed son and sire and the whole line, and leapt myself

upon the pile. Sun, whose torch shows thee all that is

done on earth, and thou, Juno, revealer and witness 25

these stirrings of the heart, and Hecate, whose name is

yelled in civic crossways by night, avenging fiends, and

gods of dying Elissa, listen to this! Let your power stoop

to ills that call for it, and hear what I now pray! If

it must needs be that the accursed wretch gain the haven 30

and float to shore—if such the requirement of Jove’s

destiny, such the fixed goal—yet grant that, harassed

by the sword and battle of a warlike nation, a wanderer

from his own confines, torn from his Iulus’ arms, he may

pray for succour, and see his friends dying miserably round 35

him! Nor when he has yielded to the terms of an unjust

peace, may he enjoy his crown, or the life he loves; but

may he fall before his time, and lie unburied in the midst

of the plain! This is my prayer—these the last accents

that flow from me with my life-blood. And you, my

Tyrians, let your hatred persecute the race and people for

all time to come. Be this the offering you send down to

my ashes: never be there love or league between nation 5

and nation. Arise from my bones, my unknown avenger,

destined with fire and sword to pursue the Dardanian

settlers, now or in after-days, whenever strength shall be

given! Let coast be at war with coast, water with wave,

army with army; fight they, and their sons, and their 10

sons’ sons!”

Thus she said, as she whirled her thought to this side

and that, seeking at once to cut short the life she now abhorred.

Then briefly she spoke to Barce, Sychæus’ nurse,

for her own was left in her old country, in the black 15

ashes of the grave: “Fetch me here, dear nurse, my sister

Anna. Bid her hasten to sprinkle herself with water

from the stream, and bring with her the cattle and the

atoning offerings prescribed. Let her come with these;

and do you cover your brow with the holy fillet. The 20

sacrifice to Stygian Jove, which I have duly commenced

and made ready, I wish now to accomplish, and with it

the end of my sorrows, giving to the flame the pile that

pillows the Dardan head!” She said: the nurse began

to quicken her pace with an old wife’s zeal. 25

But Dido, wildered and maddened by her enormous

resolve, rolling her bloodshot eye, her quivering cheeks

stained with fiery streaks, and pale with the shadow of

death, bursts the door of the inner palace, and frantically

climbs the tall pile, and unsheathes the Dardan sword, a 30

gift procured for a far different end. Then, after surveying

the Trojan garments and the bed, too well known,

and pausing awhile to weep and think, she pressed her

bosom to the couch, and uttered her last words:

“Relics, once darlings of mine, while Fate and Heaven 35

gave leave, receive this my soul, and release me from these

my sorrows. I have lived my life—the course assigned

me by Fortune is run, and now the august phantom of

Dido shall pass underground. I have built a splendid

city. I have seen my walls completed. In vengeance for

a husband, I have punished a brother that hated me—blest,

ah! blest beyond human bliss, if only Dardan ships

had never touched coast of ours!” She spoke—and kissing 5

the couch: “Is it to be death without revenge? But

be it death,” she cries—“this, this is the road by which

I love to pass to the shades. Let the heartless Dardanian’s

eyes drink in this flame from the deep, and let him

carry with him the presage of my death.” 10

She spoke, and even while she was yet speaking, her

attendants see her fallen on the sword, the blade spouting

blood, and her hands dabbled in it. Their shrieks rise to

the lofty roof; Fame runs wild through the convulsed city.

With wailing and groaning, and screams of women, the 15

palace rings; the sky resounds with mighty cries and beating

of breasts—even as if the foe were to burst the gates

and topple down Carthage or ancient Tyre, and the infuriate

flame were leaping from roof to roof among the

dwellings of men and gods. 20

Her sister heard it. Breathless and frantic, with wild

speed, disfiguring her cheeks with her nails, her bosom

with her fists, she bursts through the press, and calls

by name on the dying queen: “Was this your secret,

sister? Were you plotting to cheat me? Was this what 25

your pile was preparing for me, your fires, and your altars?

What should a lone heart grieve for first? Did you disdain

your sister’s company in death? You should have

called me to share your fate—the same keen sword-pang,

the same hour, should have been the end of both. And 30

did these hands build the pile, this voice call on the gods

of our house, that you might lie there, while I, hard-hearted

wretch, was away? Yes, sister, you have destroyed

yourself and me, the people and the elders of Sidon,

and your own fair city. Let in the water to the wounds; 35

let me cleanse them, and if any remains of breath be

still flickering, catch them in my mouth!” As she thus

spoke, she was at the top of the lofty steps, and was embracing

and fondling in her bosom her dying sister, and

stanching with her robe the black streams of blood.

Dido strives to raise her heavy eyes, and sinks down

again, the deep stab gurgles in her breast. Thrice, with

an effort, she lifted and reared herself up on her elbow; 5

thrice, she fell back on the couch, and with helpless

wandering eyes aloft in the sky, sought for the light and

groaned when she found it.

Then Juno almighty, in compassion for her lengthened

agony and her trouble in dying, sent down Iris[183] from 10

Olympus to part the struggling soul and its prison of flesh.

For, as she was dying, not in the course of fate, nor for

any crime of hers, but in mere misery, before her time, the

victim of sudden frenzy, not yet had Proserpine[184] carried

off a lock of her yellow hair, and thus doomed her head to 15

Styx and the place of death. So then Iris glides down

the sky with saffron wings dew-besprent, trailing a thousand

various colours in the face of the sun, and alights

above her head. “This I am bidden to bear away as an

offering to Pluto, and hereby set you free from the body.” 20

So saying, she stretches her hand and cuts the lock: at

once all heat parts from the frame, and the life has passed

into air.