Two Dramatizations from Vergil: I. Dido—the Phœnecian Queen; II. The Fall of Troy

by Virgil

ACT I

Dido—The Phœnician Queen

Act I. Scene 1

Early morning; the open square before the temple of Juno on a height near Carthage. In the distance (see cut, 1, 2, 3) appear mountains, and at their foot lies the city, clustered about the harbor where ships are riding at anchor. The effect of elevation is increased by the unfinished columns and the tree-tops just showing above the low marble wall which encloses the square. This scene (4) is set nearer than 1, 2, 3, to increase the perspective.

At the first wing on the right (5), a colonnade, leading to a flight of steps, forms the entrance from the city below. On the same side, along the wall, is a broad marble seat (6), shaded by a wild crab tree, pink with bloom. The dark rug on the step before it is strewn with fallen petals. On the left is the front of the temple (7). Two large columns of white marble flank three broad steps leading to the platform. Above these columns, the architrave bears a frieze representing scenes from the Trojan war. Before the temple door is an altar on which fire is burning.

At the rise of the curtain, a chorus of Carthaginian maidens, clad in white, are seen kneeling before the altar on the temple steps; they sing a greeting to the dawn.

Hymn to the Dawn

[For music, see p. [61]]

Wake, Aurora, Wake!

Come, rosy-fingered goddess of the dawn,

The saffron couch of old Tithonus scorning;

Fling wide the golden portals of the morning,

And bid the gloomy mists of night be gone.

Hail, Aurora, Hail!

The dewy stars have sped their silent flight,

The fuller glories of thy rays expecting;

With rosy beauty from afar reflecting,

Thy Orient steeds come panting into sight.

Rise, Apollo, Rise!

Send forth thy healing rays to greet the world,

Upon the lands thy blessed radiance streaming;

Arise, and fling afar, in splendor gleaming,

The banners of thy golden light unfurled.

Enter Æneas and Achates, on their way into the city, evidently attracted hither by the singing. Æneas is resplendent in full armor. Achates wears the Phrygian costume: long trousers of brown, a tunic of deep old blue, ornate with embroidered patterns in gold and purple thread; over this a traveling cloak of brown. He carries two spears. The maidens withdraw and as their voices grow fainter Æneas and Achates kneel before the altar. The light brightens. A bugle call in the distance rouses them from their devotion. They arise. Enter Venus, dressed as a huntress.

Venus (Æneid, I. 321-324):

I crave your grace, good sirs. If my attendant maids

Have chanced to wander hither, quiver-girt, and clad

In tawny robes of fur, the trophies of the chase,

Or with triumphant shouts close pressing in pursuit

The foaming boar,—I fain would know their course.

Æneas (326-334):

Fair maid,

No huntress of thy train have we beheld, nor heard

The clamor of their chase.—But oh, no mortal maid

Art thou! Th’ immortal beauty of thy face and voice

Proclaim thee goddess. Art thou Phœbus’ sister then?

Or some fair nymph? Whoe’er thou art, we crave thy grace:

Be merciful and tell beneath what sky at length,

Upon what shores we ‘re tossed. For ignorant of men

And land we wander, driven on by wind and wave

In vast conspiracy.

Full many a victim slain

Upon thine altars shall repay thine aid.

Venus (335-350):

For me,

I claim no homage due the gods. Behold a maid

Of ancient Tyre, with quiver girt and feet high shod

With purple buskin—such our country’s garb. Thou seest

Before thee Punic realms; the city and its men

Are both alike Phœnician; but around them lie

The borders of the Libyans, hardy race, unmatched

In war. The city owns the sway of Dido, late

Escaped from Tyre and from her brother’s threat’nings. Long

The story of her wrongs, and devious its way;

But here I ‘ll trace the outline of her history.

Her husband was Sychæus, of his countrymen

The richest far in wide possessions; well beloved

By his ill-fated bride was he, whose virgin hand

In wedlock’s primal rite her sire had given him.

But Tyre’s domain Pygmalion her brother held,

Surpassing all in crime. Between these Tyrian lords

A deadly feud arose. With impious hand and blind

With love of gold, Pygmalion, at the altar-side,

With stealthy, unsuspected stroke Sychæus slew;

And little recked he of his sister’s doting love.

Æneas (III. 56, 57):

O awful, quenchless thirst of gold! ‘T was ever thus

That thou hast spurred the hearts of men to deeds of blood.

Venus (I. 351-370):

He long concealed the deed with wanton, feigned excuse,

And mocked his sister, sick at heart, with empty hopes.

In vain: for in the visions of the night the shade,

The pallid shade of her unburied husband came;

The cruel altar and his piercèd breast he showed,

And all the hidden guilt of that proud house revealed.

He bade her speed her flight and leave her fatherland,

And showed, to aid her cause, deep buried in the earth,

An ancient treasure, store of silver and of gold

Uncounted.

Thus forewarned the queen prepared her flight

And bade her comrades join her enterprise. They came,

Whom hatred or consuming terror of the prince

Inspired. A fleet of ships at anchor chanced to lie

In waiting. These they seized and quickly filled with gold;

Pygmalion’s treasure, heaped with greedy care, was reft

Away upon the sea, a woman leading all.

They reached at last the place where now the mighty walls

And newly rising citadel of Carthage stand.

But who and whence are ye? and whither do ye fare?

Æneas (372-385):

O goddess, if beginning at the first the tale

Of direful woes on land and deep I should relate,

The day, before my story’s end, would sink to rest.

From Troy (perchance the name of Troy has reached your ears)

Borne over many seas, the fitful tempest’s will

Has brought us to these shores.

Æneas am I called,

The Pious, for that in my ships I ever bear

My country’s gods, snatched from our burning Troy. My fame

O’erleaps the stars. My quest is Italy, a land

And race that mighty Jove hath promised me. For this,

With score of vessels staunch I braved the Phrygian sea,

By Venus’ star directed and by fate impelled.

But oh, alas for Venus’ star, alas for fate!

Scarce seven shattered barks survive the waves, and I—

And I, a beggared stranger, wander helpless here,

A fugitive from all the world.

Venus (387-401):

Whoe’er thou art,

Full sure am I the gods must love thee well, since thou

Through dangers manifold hast reached this Tyrian realm.

But haste thee and with heart of cheer seek out the queen.

For lo, thy friends are rescued and thy fleet restored,

Unless in vain my parents taught me augury.

For see, those joyous swans are fluttering to the earth,

Which, swooping from the sky, but now the bird of Jove

Was harrying. As they, with fluttering wings and cries

Of joy regain the earth, so, by this token know,

Thy ships and comrades even now are safe in port,

Or with full sails the harbor’s mouth are entering.

Then fare thee on, and follow where the path of fate

May lead.

As Venus vanishes from the temple steps she is illumined in rosy light.

Æneas (402-409):

Achates, see the bright refulgent glow

Upon her face! ‘T is light divine! And from her locks

Ambrosial, heavenly odors breathe! Her garments sweep

In stately folds, and she doth walk, a goddess all,

With tread majestic!

Lo, ‘t is Venus’ self! O stay,

My heavenly mother, stay! Why dost thou, cruel too,

So often mock thy son with borrowed semblances?

Why may we not join hands, each in his proper self,

And speak the words of truth? Ah me! She’s vanished quite,

And I am left forlorn!—

Deeply moved, he follows her vanishing figure.

Achates, seeking to divert Æneas, leads him to the parapet and points out to him the life awakening in the city below (422-429).

Behold this city with its gates and mighty walls,

And well-paved streets, where even now the Tyrians

With eager zeal press on their various toil. See there,

Some build the citadel and heave up massive stones

With straining hands; while some a humbler task essay,

And trace the furrow round their future homes. Behold,

Within the harbor others toil, and here thou seest

The deep foundations of the theater, where soon

Shall rise huge columns, stately set, to deck the scene.

Æneas(430-437):

Yea all, like busy bees throughout the flowery mead,

Are all astir with eager toil. O blessed toil!

O happy ye, whose walls already rise! But I,—

When shall I see my city and my city’s walls?

He remains in deep dejection.

Achates, observing the pediment of the temple itself (456-458):

But here, O friend, behold, in carvèd imagery,

Our Trojan battles one by one, that mighty strife

Whose fame has filled the world. Here see Achilles fierce,

The sons of Atreus,—and, alas, our fallen king!

Æneas, deeply affected (459-463):

What place, Achates, what far corner of the world

Is not o’erburdened with our woes? O fallen King,

E’en here our glorious struggle wins its meed of praise,

And those our mortal hopes defeated and o’erthrown,

Are mourned by human tears.

Therefore our present cares

Let us dismiss. This fame shall bring us safety too.

Achates, continuing to examine the pediment (467, 468):

See how the Greeks are fleeing, pressed by Trojan youth!

While here, alas, our warriors flee Achilles’ might.

Æneas (469-478):

And here behold the ill-starred Rhesus’ white-winged tents,

Where fierce Tydides slays his sleeping foe; and drives

Those snowy steeds to join the Grecian camp, before

They graze in Trojan meadows or the Xanthus drink.

Alas poor Troilus, I see thee too, ill-matched

With great Achilles. Prone thou liest within thy car,

While in the dust thy comely locks and valiant spear

Are basely trailed.

Achates (479-482):

Here to Minerva’s temple come

Our Trojan dames with suppliant mien and votive gifts;

With locks dishevelled, self-inflicted blows, and tears;

But all for naught. All unappeased the goddess stands

With stern averted face, nor will she heed their prayers.

Æneas (483-487):

Thrice round the walls of Troy the fell Achilles drags

The body of my friend.—O Hector, Hector! Here

He sells thy lifeless body for accursed gold,

While aged Priam stretches forth his helpless hands.

Achates (488-497):

And here behold thyself amid the Grecian chiefs

In combat raging. See the swarthy Memnon’s arms,

And that fierce maid, who, clad in gleaming armor, dares

To lead her Amazons and mingle in the fray.

Music is heard in the distance, flutes and zithers leading a chorus.

But hark! The distant strains of music greet my ear,

As of some stately progress fitly timed with flute

And zither.

See, it is the queen, who with her band

Of chosen youths and maidens hither takes her way.

Æneas (498-501):

How like Diana when she leads her bands by swift

Eurotas, or on Cynthus green, while round her press

A thousand graceful creatures of the wood; but she,

With shoulder quiver-girt, a very goddess moves

With stately tread among the lesser beings of

Her train. To such an one I liken yonder queen.

They conceal themselves in the foreground behind the columns of the temple. Dido, accompanied by her bands of courtiers, crosses the stage and ascends the temple steps. She seats herself on the throne which has been placed for her at the temple door.

Dido throughout this act is dressed in white, the symbol of her widowhood. Her dress, worn without himation, is of light filmy stuff draped in the Greek style, and unornamented save for a border of gold thread. Anna wears a dress of delicate blue, elaborately embroidered about the edges with a Greek pattern in gold thread. Her himation, wrapped gracefully about her, is a tender shade of rose pink.

In Dido’s train all classes are represented, gayly dressed courtiers, soldiers, and peasants. The men wear cloaks of dark blue and of rich brown over their tunics. The women are clad in dresses of cream color, pink, and faint green.

When all are on the stage, the general effect should be a mingling of pink, blue, brown, green, and white, which harmonize with the tints of the marble, of the flowering crab tree, the blue sky, and the purple mountains.

Suddenly Ilioneus and his following of Trojans appear. They wear the Phrygian costume, but over it the long brown traveling cloak. The singing ceases, the guards lower their spears, and great excitement reigns.

Æneas, aside (509, 510):

Achates, can it be? What! Antheus, and our brave

Cloanthus and Sergestus too?

Achates, aside (511-514):

Yea, all our friends

Whose ships the raging storm hath parted from our fleet

And driven far away. O joy! Come, let us go

And grasp their hands in greeting.

Æneas, aside (515-521):

Nay, not so, for still

Our fortune in the balance hangs. Here let us see

What fate befalls our friends, where they have left their fleet,

And why they hither come. For chosen messengers

In suppliant aspect do they seek this sacred fane,

While round them rage the mob.—But see, Ilioneus speaks.

Dido has arisen and with a gesture bids the soldiers stand aside. She sends a page to lead Ilioneus to her throne. Ilioneus kneels before her; she extends the scepter, which he touches.

Ilioneus, rising and standing before the queen (522-558):

O Queen to whom the king of heav’n hath given to found

A city and to curb proud nations with the reins

Of law, we Trojans in our need, the sport of winds

On every sea, implore thee, spare a pious race

And look, we pray, with nearer view upon our cause.

We have not come to devastate with fire and sword

The Libyan homes, or fill our ships with plundered stores.

Such violence and such high-handed deeds a race

By fate o’ercome may not attempt. There is a place,

Hesperia the Greeks have named it, ancient, rich

In heroes, and of fertile soil. Œnotrians

Once held the land; but now, as rumor goes, their sons

In honor of their mighty leader have the place

Italia called. To this our seaward course was bent:

When suddenly, upstarting from the deep, all charged

With tempests, did Orion on the shallows drive

Our vessels, with the aid of boisterous winds and waves,

Through boiling, overtopping floods and trackless reefs,

And put us utterly to rout. To these thy shores

A few of us have drifted. But alas! what race

Of men is this? What land permits such savage deeds

As these? We are refused the barren refuge of

The sandy shore; they seek a cause for mortal strife,

And will not that we set our feet upon the land.

What though the human race and mortal arms are naught

To thee; be sure that gods regard the evil and

The good. We had a king, Æneas, more than peer

Of all in justice, piety, and warrior’s might.

If by decree of fate he still survives, if still

He draws the vital air of heav’n, and lies not low

Amid the gloomy shades, fear not, and let it not

Repent thee that in deeds of mercy thou didst strive

To be the first. We still possess both towns and lands

Upon Sicilia’s isle; Acestes too, renowned,

And born of Trojan blood, is ours. Our only prayer,

That we may draw our shattered fleet upon the shore,

And in the forest shade renew our weakened beams

And broken oars. That thus, if to Italia’s realms,

Our comrades and our king regained, ‘t is ours again

To hold our way, with joy we may that selfsame land

And Latium’s borders seek. But if in vain our hope,

And if, loved father of the Teucri, thou art held

By Libya’s billows and no more we may upon

Iulus rest our hopes, then let us seek the land

And homes reserved for us, whence, setting sail, we came

To these thy hostile shores, and make Acestes king.

Shouts of applause from the Trojans.

Dido, with modest bearing (562-578):

Let not a fear disturb your souls, O Teucrians;

Away with all your cares. My cruel fortune and

My yet unstable throne compel me thus to guard

My bounds with wide and jealous watch. Who knows not well

Æneas and his race, their city Troy, their brave,

Heroic deeds? Who has not seen the far-off flames

Of their great war? We carry not such brutish hearts

Within our breasts, nor yet does Phœbus yoke his steeds

So far from this our land. Seek you the mighty west,

The land of Saturn’s reign, or where your foster-king,

Acestes, rules within Sicilia’s borders? Lo,

In safety will I send you forth and gird you with

My aid. Or would you share with me this realm? Behold,

The city which I build is yours. Draw up your ships.

To Trojan and to Tyrian will I favor show

In equal measure. Would that your Æneas’ self,

Conducted by the same o’er-mastering gale, were here!

My messengers along the shore will I despatch,

And bid them search the farthest bounds of Libya,

If he in wood or city, rescued from the waves,

May chance to stray.

She despatches courtiers to seek Æneas. Æneas and Achates, meantime, are greatly agitated by her words.

Achates, to Æneas, aside (582-585):

Æneas, what thy purpose now?

Thou seest all is well. Thy fleet and captains all,

Save one, are rescued. One we saw ourselves o’erwhelmed

Within the deep. All else thy mother’s prophecy

Upholds.

At this, Æneas suddenly reveals himself, to the great surprise of both Trojans and Carthaginians.

Æneas, to Dido (595-609):

O Queen, before thee, whom thou wouldst behold, am I,

Æneas, Prince of Troy, late rescued from the waves

Of Libya. O thou, who only o’er the woes,

The dreadful woes of Troy hast wept, who to thy town

And home dost welcome us, the leavings of the Greeks,

Who every peril of the land and sea have faced,

And lost our all: we may not thank thee worthily,

O Queen, nor yet the Trojan race, what remnant still

In distant lands in exile wanders. May the gods

A fitting gift bestow upon thee; if indeed

They feel a true regard for pious souls, if e’er

The truth and conscious virtue aught avail. But thee—

What blessed age, what mighty parents gave thee birth?

Whate’er my fate, while to the sea the rivers flow,

While o’er the mountains’ rounded sides the shadows drift,

While on the plains of heav’n the stars shall feed, so long

Thine honor and thy name and praises shall abide.

The queen is silent with amazement, while Æneas greets his friends amid general rejoicing.

Dido, recovering from her astonishment (615-630):

What fate, thou son of heav’n, decrees these perils vast?

And what the power that drives thee on our savage shores?

And art thou that Æneas whom to Ilium’s prince,

Anchises, on the bank of Phrygian Simois,

The kindly Venus bore? And now do I recall

That Teucer once to Sidon came as suppliant;

For exiled from his native Salamis he came.

‘T was at the time when fertile Cyprus bowed beneath

My father’s might, and by the victor’s sway was held.

From that time on, thy name, and all the Grecian kings,

And the fortunes of thy city have been known to me.

Nay, Teucer’s self, though foeman, sang the praise of Troy,

And said that he himself from ancient Trojan stock

Had sprung.

Wherefore, O princes, come and make my halls

Your own. An equal fate has willed that I, like you,

The sport of many toils, should find a resting place

Within this land. With grief acquainted, I have learned

To comfort hapless wanderers oppressed with grief.

They prepare to leave the scene. Dido despatches men to bear gifts to the Trojan fleet, and proclaims a banquet for the ensuing night in honor of Æneas and the Trojan princes.

Æneas, to Achates (643-655):

Go, speed thee, friend, to where, upon the sandy beach,

Our comrades camp about the ships. This joyful news

To young Ascanius bear, and bid him come with thee

To Dido’s town.

Exit Achates.

To other Trojans:

Go ye, and fetch from out the ships

The treasures that we saved from Ilium’s fall: the robe,

Stiff wrought with golden pattern, and the flowing veil

All interwov’n with bright acanthus’ yellow bloom,

Those beauteous robes of price which Argive Helen brought

From rich Mycenæ when to Pergama she came,

Her mother’s wondrous gift. And bring the scepter fair

Which once Ilione, the eldest daughter of

Our monarch, bore; the pearl-set necklace, and the crown,

Its double golden circlet spangled o’er with gems.

The Trojans withdraw to do his bidding. The music sounds, and as the entire court moves from the scene, Dido sends some of her maidens back to throw incense upon the flames. They kneel upon the steps and Anna advances to the altar. As the smoke ascends, Dido and Æneas turn to follow the rest. Curtain.

Act I. Scene 2

A place in the deep, green forest. Ferns and flowers strew the ground and the sunlight falls through the branches in flecks of gold. In the foreground are two great moss-grown rocks, on one of which sits Cupid, draped with garlands of wild flowers, shooting his arrows at a heart-shaped target hung from the branches of a tree in the center of the stage. At one side sits Venus, absorbed in deep, troubled meditation. She has resumed the flowing draperies befitting a goddess. Pink or canary yellow will harmonize with the scene.

Venus (657-662):

Ah me! I fear this Tyrian hospitality;

For well I know their faithless hearts and lying tongues.

And ever, mid the anxious watches of the night,

The savage threats of Juno agitate my soul.

If only this fair queen might feel the pulse of love

For this my hero son, then would her purposes

Of amity be fixed, and my anxiety

Be set at rest.—But how accomplish my design?

Suddenly her face is lighted with a new thought. She goes to Cupid and addresses him with insinuating gentleness.

Venus, to Cupid (664-688):

O son, my comrade and my only source of might,

O thou, who scorn’st the giant-slaying darts of Jove,

To thee I come and humbly pray thy fav’ring aid.

How on the sea, from land to land, thy brother fares,

Pursued by Juno’s unrelenting hate, is known

To thee, and often hast thou mingled in my grief.

Now Tyrian Dido holds him, and with fawning words

Delays his course; and much do I distrust and fear

The shelter which our envious rival Juno gives.

For, in this pregnant crisis of affairs, be sure

She will be active. Wherefore now my mind is bent

With wiles to take the queen, ere Juno steel her heart,

And hold her fast in passion’s net; that at the hest

Of Juno she her present purpose may not change,

But by a mighty love for this her Trojan guest

She may be bound to work my will.

Now hear thy part:

Obedient to the summons of his doting sire,

The youthful prince Ascanius goes to Dido’s town

With gifts which Ocean and the flames of Troy have spared;

Him, lapped in sleep, will I to far Cythera bear,

Or hide him in my sacred fane on Ida’s top,

Lest he should know what we intend, and thwart our plans.

Do thou, if only for a night, assume the form

Of young Ascanius, that, when the queen with joy

To her embrace shall take thee, when amid the wine

And feasting she shall hold thee in her arms and kiss

Thy lips, thou mayst inflame her unsuspecting heart

With the subtle fires of love.

As she unfolds her plan, Cupid is filled with delight. He struts up and down, comically imitating Ascanius. When his mother has finished, he hastens to pick up his scattered arrows, puts them in his quiver, and struts off, looking back for his mother’s smile of approval. Curtain.

Act I. Scene 3

A banquet hall in Dido’s palace. Across the back of the stage is a colonnade (2), raised above the level of the hall. Through the columns there is a view (1) out over the moonlit sea. Two broad steps lead from the colonnade to a landing, from which again three steps at each side descend to the level of the hall (3). At the second wing (4) on each side, curtained doorways open into the side rooms, from which the servants hurry with viands for the table. At the first wing (5), half columns form the corner of the wall. In the center a sort of triclinium (6) is set for the feast, a broad, three-sided table flanked by couches upholstered in Tyrian purple and having pillows of blue and gold.

When the curtain rises, the moonlight is streaming down through the columns upon the scene. A tripod burns before the triclinium. Otherwise there is no light except as it flashes from the side rooms when the curtains are parted for an instant. Servants are strewing the banquet table with flowers and bringing in dishes of gold.

The antique bronze lamps, hung between the columns, are lighted one by one, till the scene is brilliant with light and color.

Music is heard within. The servants hastily finish their work. The royal party enters along the colonnade. Dido is still clad in white, but Anna and the other ladies of the court have assumed himations of royal purple, royal blue, brilliant yellow, and deep green. Æneas has laid aside his helmet and greaves, but still wears his breastplate of mail, although he carries on his shoulder a cloak of royal purple.

The Carthaginians are more elaborately and richly dressed than in the first scene. The Trojans have put aside their outer cloaks, and wear tunics gayly embroidered in colors. The servants wear tunics of white.

The guests recline upon the couches. Æneas is in the seat of honor, while Dido has placed the supposed Ascanius upon the couch at her side. Many of the Carthaginians and the Trojans fill the hall.

Dido rises. There is silence through the room. She intones the invocation.

Dido (731-735):

[For music, see p. [69]]

O Jove, thou lord of gods and men, since ‘t is from thee

The rites of hospitality proceed, ordain

That this may be a day of joy to us of Tyre

And these the Trojan exiles; let its fame go down

To our descendants. May the god of wine and joy,

And fost’ring Juno grace and celebrate the day.

The entire company repeats the invocation in unison. When they have finished, all bow and Dido pours forth the libation upon the table. Touching the cup to her lips, she passes it to the guests of honor.

While the cup is passing about, Iopas and his chorus sing.

Song of Iopas (suggested by 740-746)

[For music, see p. [72]]

I

Of the orb of the wandering moon I sing,

As she wheels through the darkening skies;

Where the storm-brooding band of the Hyades swing,

And the circling Triones arise;

Of the sun’s struggling ball

Which the shadows appall

Till the menacing darkness flies;

2

Of the all-potent forces that dwell in the air,

With its measureless reaches of blue;

The soft floating clouds of gossamer there,

And the loud-wailing storm-rack too;

Of the rain and the winds

And the lightning that blinds

When its swift-darting bolt flashes through;

3

Of the marvels deep hid in the bowels of earth,

In the dark caves of Ocean confined,

Where the rivers in slow-trickling rills have their birth,

And the dense tangled mazes unwind;

In the deep under-land,

In the dim wonderland,

Where broods the vast cosmical mind.

4

Of the manifold wonders of life I sing,

Its mysteries striving to scan,

In the rippling wave, on the fluttering wing,

In beast and all-dominant man.

‘T is the indwelling soul

Of the god of the whole,

Since the dawn of creation began.

Dido, who has been gazing upon Æneas in rapt admiration (753-756):

Now come, my guest, and from the first recount the tale

Of Grecian treachery, thy friends’ sad overthrow

And all thy toils; for lo, the seventh summer finds

Thee wand’ring still in every land, on every sea.

Æneas, rising (II. 3-13)

Thou wouldst that I should feel a woe unspeakable,

O Queen, and tell again how all our Trojan power

And kingdom, endless source of grief, the Greeks o’erthrew:

Those sad events which I myself beheld, and in

Whose fabric I was wrought a part. Who, though he be

Of fierce Achilles’ band, or in the train of hard

Ulysses, telling such a tale could hold his tears?

Now night sinks down the steeps of heaven, while setting stars

And constellations summon us to rest. But if

So strong is thy desire to know the story of

Our woe, and hear Troy’s final agonies rehearsed,

Though at the very thought my soul within me shrinks

And has recoiled in grief, I will begin the tale.

All the Trojans and Carthaginians crowd around the tables, seating themselves to listen. As all faces are turned toward Æneas, he sinks back upon his couch, overcome with emotion. There is a moment of silent sympathy. Curtain.