LXXXIX. Her sister heard, and through the concourse came,
And tore her cheeks and beat her bosom fair,
And called upon the dying Queen by name.
"Sister! was this thy secret? thine this snare?
For me this fraud? For this did I prepare
That pyre, those flames and altars? This the end?
Ah me, forlorn! what worse remains to bear?
Would'st thou in death desert me, and pretend		793
To scorn a sister's care, and shun me as a friend?
XC. "Thou should'st have called me to thy doom! One stroke,
A moment's pang, and we had ceased to sigh.
Reared I this pyre, did I the gods invoke
To leave thee thus companionless, to die?
Lo, all are dead together, thou and I,
Town, princes, people, perished in a day.
Bring water; let me close the lightless eye,
And bathe those wounds, and kiss those lips of clay,		802
And catch one fluttering breath, if yet, perchance, I may!"
XCI. So saying, she climbs the steps, and, groaning sore,
Clasps to her breast her sister ere she dies,
And stanches with her robe the streaming gore.
In vain poor Dido lifts her wearied eyes,
The closing eyelids sicken at the skies.
Deep gurgles in her breast the deadly wound;
Thrice on her elbow she essays to rise,
Thrice back she sinks. With wandering eyes all round		811
She seeks the light of heaven, and moans when it is found.
XCII. Then Juno, pitying her agony
Of lingering death, sent Iris down with speed.
Her struggling soul from clinging limbs to free.
For since by Fate, or for her own misdeed
She perished not, but, ere the day decreed,
Fell in the frenzy of her love's despair,
Not yet Proserpina had claimed her meed,
And shorn the ringlet of her golden hair,		820
And bade the sacred shade to Stygian realms repair.
XCIII. So down to earth came Iris from on high
On saffron wings all glittering with the dew.
A thousand tints against the sunlit sky
She flashed from out her rainbow as she flew,
Then, hovering overhead, these words outthrew,
"Behold, to Dis this offering I bear,
And loose thee from thy body."—Forth she drew
The fatal shears, and clipped the golden hair;		829
The vital heats disperse, and life dissolves in air.

BOOK FIVE

ARGUMENT

Æneas, unaware of Dido's fate, sails away to Acestes in Sicily, and prepares funeral games against the anniversary of Anchises' death ([1-90]). Offerings are paid to the spirit of Anchises. Sicilians and Trojans assemble for the first contest, a boat race ([91-140]), which is described at length. Cloanthus, ancestor of the Cluentii, wins with the "Scylla" ([141-342]). The foot-race is next narrated. Euryalus, by his friend's cunning, gains the first prize, and the scene shifts ([343-441]) to the ring, in which Dares is defeated by the veteran Entellus, who fells the ox, his prize, as an offering to his master Eryx ([442-594]). After some wonderful shooting in the archery which follows, Æneas awards the first prize to Acestes, as the favourite of the gods ([595-667]). Before this contest is over Æneas summons Ascanius and his boy-companions to perform the elaborate manoeuvres afterwards celebrated in Rome as the "Trojan Ride" ([668-729]). Juno schemes to destroy the Trojan fleet, while the games are being held. She inspires with discontent the Trojan matrons, who are not present at the festival. They set fire to the ships ([730-810]). Ascanius hurries to the scene. Jupiter sends rain and saves all the ships but four ([811-855]). Nautes advises Æneas to leave behind the weak and aged with Acestes. The wraith of Anchises enforces the advice, and bids Æneas visit him in the nether-world ([856-909]). Preparations for departure. Acestes accepts his new subjects, and the Trojans depart. Venus prevails on Neptune to grant them safe convoy in return for the life of the helmsman Palinurus, who is drowned ([910-1062]).

I. Now well at sea, Æneas, fixt in mind,
Held on his course, and cleft the watery ways
Through billows blackened by the northern wind,
And backward on the city bent his gaze,
Bright with the flames of Dido. Whence the blaze
Arose, they knew not; but the pangs they knew
When love is passionate, and man betrays,
And what a frantic woman scorned can do,		1
And many a sad surmise their boding thoughts pursue.