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