"their udders gave. Why should I longer show
a lying smile? What worse can I endure?
Did my tears draw one sigh? Did he once drop
his stony stare? or did he yield a tear
to my lament, or pity this fond heart?
Why set my wrongs in order? Juno, now,
and Jove, the son of Saturn, heed no more
where justice lies. No trusting heart is safe
in all this world. That waif and castaway
I found in beggary and gave him share—
fool that I was!—in my own royal glory.
His Iost fleet and his sorry crews I steered
from death away. O, how my fevered soul
unceasing raves! Forsooth Apollo speaks!
His Lycian oracles! and sent by Jove
the messenger of Heaven on fleeting air
the ruthless bidding brings! Proud business
for gods, I trow, that such a task disturbs
their still abodes! I hold thee back no more,
nor to thy cunning speeches give the lie.
Begone! Sail on to Italy, thy throne,
through wind and wave! I pray that, if there be
any just gods of power, thou mayest drink down
death on the mid-sea rocks, and often call
with dying gasps on Dido’s name—while I
pursue with vengeful fire. When cold death rends
the body from the breath, my ghost shall sit
forever in thy path. Full penalties
thy stubborn heart shall pay. They’ll bring me never
in yon deep gulf of death of all thy woe.”
Abrupt her utterance ceased; and sick at heart
she fled the light of day, as if to shrink
from human eyes, and left Aeneas there
irresolute with horror, while his soul
framed many a vain reply. Her swooning shape
her maidens to a marble chamber bore
and on her couch the helpless limbs reposed.
Aeneas, faithful to a task divine,
though yearning sore to remedy and soothe
such misery, and with the timely word
her grief assuage, and though his burdened heart
was weak because of love, while many a groan
rose from his bosom, yet no whit did fail
to do the will of Heaven, but of his fleet
resumed command. The Trojans on the shore
ply well their task and push into the sea
the lofty ships. Now floats the shining keel,
and oars they bring all leafy from the grove,
with oak half-hewn, so hurried was the flight.
Behold them how they haste—from every gate
forth-streaming!—just as when a heap of corn
is thronged with ants, who, knowing winter nigh,
refill their granaries; the long black line
runs o’er the levels, and conveys the spoil
in narrow pathway through the grass; a part
with straining and assiduous shoulder push
the kernels huge; a part array the file,
and whip the laggards on; their busy track
swarms quick and eager with unceasing toil.
O Dido, how thy suffering heart was wrung,
that spectacle to see! What sore lament
was thine, when from the towering citadel
the whole shore seemed alive, the sea itself
in turmoil with loud cries! Relentless Love,
to what mad courses may not mortal hearts
by thee be driven? Again her sorrow flies
to doleful plaint and supplication vain;
again her pride to tyrant Love bows down
lest, though resolved to die, she fail to prove
each hope of living: “O Anna, dost thou see
yon busy shore? From every side they come.
their canvas wooes the winds, and o’er each prow
the merry seamen hang their votive flowers.
Dear sister, since I did forebode this grief,
I shall be strong to bear it. One sole boon
my sorrow asks thee, Anna! Since of thee,
thee only, did that traitor make a friend,
and trusted thee with what he hid so deep —
the feelings of his heart; since thou alone
hast known what way, what hour the man would yield
to soft persuasion—therefore, sister, haste,
and humbly thus implore our haughty foe:
‘I was not with the Greeks what time they swore
at Aulis to cut off the seed of Troy;
I sent no ships to Ilium. Pray, have I
profaned Anchises’ tomb, or vexed his shade?’
Why should his ear be deaf and obdurate
to all I say? What haste? May he not make
one last poor offering to her whose love
is only pain? O, bid him but delay
till flight be easy and the winds blow fair.
I plead no more that bygone marriage-vow
by him forsworn, nor ask that he should lose
his beauteous Latium and his realm to be.
Nothing but time I crave! to give repose
and more room to this fever, till my fate
teach a crushed heart to sorrow. I implore
this last grace. (To thy sister’s grief be kind!)
I will requite with increase, till I die.”
Such plaints, such prayers, again and yet again,
betwixt the twain the sorrowing sister bore.
But no words move, no lamentations bring
persuasion to his soul; decrees of Fate
oppose, and some wise god obstructs the way
that finds the hero’s ear. Oft-times around
the aged strength of some stupendous oak
the rival blasts of wintry Alpine winds
smite with alternate wrath: Ioud is the roar,
and from its rocking top the broken boughs
are strewn along the ground; but to the crag
steadfast it ever clings; far as toward heaven
its giant crest uprears, so deep below
its roots reach down to Tartarus:—not less
the hero by unceasing wail and cry
is smitten sore, and in his mighty heart
has many a pang, while his serene intent
abides unmoved, and tears gush forth in vain.
Then wretched Dido, by her doom appalled,
asks only death. It wearies her to see
the sun in heaven. Yet that she might hold fast
her dread resolve to quit the light of day,
behold, when on an incense-breathing shrine
her offering was laid—O fearful tale!—
the pure libation blackened, and the wine
flowed like polluting gore. She told the sight
to none, not even to her sister’s ear.
A second sign was given: for in her house
a marble altar to her husband’s shade,
with garlands bright and snowy fleeces dressed,
had fervent worship; here strange cries were heard
as if her dead spouse called while midnight reigned,
and round her towers its inhuman song
the lone owl sang, complaining o’er and o’er
with lamentation and long shriek of woe.
Forgotten oracles by wizards told
whisper old omens dire. In dreams she feels
cruel Aeneas goad her madness on,
and ever seems she, friendless and alone,
some lengthening path to travel, or to seek
her Tyrians through wide wastes of barren lands.
Thus frantic Pentheus flees the stern array
of the Eumenides, and thinks to see
two noonday lights blaze oer his doubled Thebes;
or murdered Agamemnon’s haunted son,
Orestes, flees his mother’s phantom scourge
of flames and serpents foul, while at his door
avenging horrors wait. Now sorrow-crazed
and by her grief undone, resolved on death,
the manner and the time her secret soul
prepares, and, speaking to her sister sad,
she masks in cheerful calm her fatal will:
“I know a way—O, wish thy sister joy!—
to bring him back to Iove, or set me free.
On Ocean’s bound and next the setting sun
lies the last Aethiop land, where Atlas tall
lifts on his shoulder the wide wheel of heaven,
studded with burning stars. From thence is come
a witch, a priestess, a Numidian crone,
who guards the shrine of the Hesperides
and feeds the dragon; she protects the fruit
of that enchanting tree, and scatters there
her slumb’rous poppies mixed with honey-dew.
Her spells and magic promise to set free
what hearts she will, or visit cruel woes
on men afar. She stops the downward flow
of rivers, and turns back the rolling stars;
on midnight ghosts she calls: her vot’ries hear
earth bellowing loud below, while from the hills
the ash-trees travel down. But, sister mine,
thou knowest, and the gods their witness give,
how little mind have I to don the garb
of sorcery. Depart in secret, thou,
and bid them build a lofty funeral pyre
inside our palalce-wall, and heap thereon
the hero’s arms, which that blasphemer hung
within my chamber; every relic bring,
and chiefly that ill-omened nuptial bed,
my death and ruin! For I must blot out
all sight and token of this husband vile.
‘T is what the witch commands.” She spoke no more,
and pallid was her brow. Yet Anna’s mind
knew not what web of death her sister wove
by these strange rites, nor what such frenzy dares;
nor feared she worse than when Sichaeus died,
but tried her forth the errand to fulfil.
Soon as the funeral pyre was builded high
in a sequestered garden, Iooming huge
with boughs of pine and faggots of cleft oak,
the queen herself enwreathed it with sad flowers
and boughs of mournful shade; and crowning all
she laid on nuptial bed the robes and sword
by him abandoned; and stretched out thereon
a mock Aeneas;—but her doom she knew.
Altars were there; and with loose locks unbound
the priestess with a voice of thunder called
three hundred gods, Hell, Chaos, the three shapes
of triple Hecate, the faces three
of virgin Dian. She aspersed a stream
from dark Avernus drawn, she said; soft herbs
were cut by moonlight with a blade of bronze,
oozing black poison-sap; and she had plucked
that philter from the forehead of new foal
before its dam devours. Dido herself,
sprinkling the salt meal, at the altar stands;
one foot unsandalled, and with cincture free,
on all the gods and fate-instructed stars,
foreseeing death, she calls. But if there be
some just and not oblivious power on high,
who heeds when lovers plight unequal vow,
to that god first her supplications rise.
Soon fell the night, and peaceful slumbers breathed
on all earth’s weary creatures; the loud seas
and babbling forests entered on repose;
now midway in their heavenly course the stars
wheeled silent on; the outspread lands below
lay voiceless; all the birds of tinted wing,
and flocks that haunt the merge of waters wide
or keep the thorny wold, oblivious lay
beneath the night so still; the stings of care
ceased troubling, and no heart its burden knew.
Not so the Tyrian Queen’s deep-grieving soul!
To sleep she could not yield; her eyes and heart
refused the gift of night; her suffering
redoubled, and in full returning tide
her love rebelled, while on wild waves of rage
she drifted to and fro. So, ceasing not
from sorrow, thus she brooded on her wrongs:
“What refuge now? Shall I invite the scorn
of my rejected wooers, or entreat
of some disdainful, nomad blackamoor
to take me to his bed—though many a time
such husbands I made mock of? Shall I sail
on Ilian ships away, and sink to be
the Trojans’ humble thrall? Do they rejoice
that once I gave them bread? Lives gratitude
in hearts like theirs for bygone kindnesses?
O, who, if so I stooped, would deign to bear
on yon proud ships the scorned and fallen Queen?
Lost creature! Woe betide thee! Knowest thou not
the perjured children of Laomedon?
What way is left? Should I take flight alone
and join the revelling sailors? Or depart
with Tyrians, the whole attending train
of my own people? Hard the task to force
their hearts from Sidon’s towers; how once more
compel to sea, and bid them spread the sail?
Nay, perish! Thou hast earned it. Let the sword
from sorrow save thee! Sister of my blood—
who else but thee,—my own tears borne down,
didst heap disaster on my frantic soul,
and fling me to this foe? Why could I not
pass wedlock by, and live a blameless life
as wild things do, nor taste of passion’s pain?
But I broke faith! I cast the vows away
made at Sichaeus’ grave.” Such loud lament
burst from her breaking heart with doleful sound.
Meanwhile Aeneas on his lofty ship,
having made ready all, and fixed his mind
to launch away upon brief slumher fell.
But the god came; and in the self-same guise
once more in monitory vision spoke,
all guised as Mercury,—his voice, his hue,
his golden locks, and young limbs strong and fair.
“Hail, goddess-born! Wouldst linger on in sleep
at such an hour? Nor seest thou the snares
that hem thee round? Nor hearest thou the voice
of friendly zephyrs calling? Senseless man!
That woman’s breast contrives some treachery
and horrid stroke; for, resolute to die,
she drifts on swollen floods of wrath and scorn.
Wilt thou not fly before the hastening hour
of flight is gone? To-morrow thou wilt see
yon waters thronged with ships, the cruel glare
of fire-brands, and yonder shore all flame,
if but the light of morn again surprise
thee loitering in this land. Away! Away!
Stay not! A mutable and shifting thing
is woman ever.” Such command he spoke,
then melted in the midnight dark away.
Aeneas, by that fleeting vision struck
with an exceeding awe, straightway leaped forth
from slumber’s power, and to his followers cried :
“Awake, my men! Away! Each to his place
upon the thwarts! Unfurl at once the sails!
A god from heaven a second time sent down
urges our instant flight and bids us cut
the twisted cords. Whatever be thy name,
behold, we come, O venerated Power!
Again with joy we follow! Let thy grace
assist us as we go! And may thy power
bring none but stars benign across our sky.”
So saying, from its scabbard forth he flashed
the lightning of his sword, with naked blade
striking the hawsers free. Like ardor seized
on all his willing men, who raced and ran;
and, while their galleys shadowed all the sea,
clean from the shore they scudded, with strong strokes
sweeping the purple waves and crested foam.
Aurora’s first young beams to earth were pouring
as from Tithonus’ saffron bed she sprang;
while from her battlements the wakeful Queen
watched the sky brighten, saw the mated sails
push forth to sea, till all her port and strand
held not an oar or keel. Thrice and four times
she smote her lovely breast with wrathful hand,
and tore her golden hair. “Great Jove,” she cries,
“Shall that departing fugitive make mock
of me, a queen? Will not my men-at-arms
draw sword, give chase, from all my city thronging?
Down from the docks, my ships! Out, out! Begone!
Take fire and sword! Bend to your oars, ye slaves!
What have I said? Where am I? What mad thoughts
delude this ruined mind? Woe unto thee,
thou wretched Dido, now thy impious deeds
strike back upon thee. Wherefore struck they not,
as was most fit, when thou didst fling away
thy sceptre from thy hand? O Iying oaths!
O faith forsworn! of him who brings, they boast,
his father’s gods along, and bowed his back
to lift an age-worn sire! Why dared I not
seize on him, rend his body limb from limb,
and hurl him piecemeal on the rolling sea?
Or put his troop of followers to the sword,
ascanius too, and set his flesh before
that father for a feast? Such fearful war
had been of doubtful issue. Be it so!
What fears a woman dying? Would I had
attacked their camp with torches, kindled flame
from ship to ship, until that son and sire,
with that whole tribe, were unto ashes burned
in one huge holocaust—myself its crown!
Great orb of light whose holy beam surveys
all earthly deeds! Great Juno, patroness
of conjugal distress, who knowest all!
Pale Hecate, whose name the witches cry
at midnight crossways! O avenging furies!
O gods that guard Queen Dido’s dying breath!
Give ear, and to my guiltless misery
extend your power. Hear me what I pray!
If it be fated that yon creature curst
drift to the shore and happy haven find,
if Father Iove’s irrevocable word
such goal decree—there may he be assailed
by peoples fierce and bold. A banished man,
from his Iulus’ kisses sundered far,
may his own eyes see miserably slain
his kin and kind, and sue for alien arms.
nor when he basely bows him to receive
terms of unequal peace, shall he be blest
with sceptre or with life; but perish there
before his time, and lie without a grave
upon the barren sand. For this I pray.
This dying word is flowing from my heart
with my spilt blood. And—O ye Tyrians! I
sting with your hatred all his seed and tribe
forevermore. This is the offering
my ashes ask. Betwixt our nations twain,
No Iove! No truce or amity! Arise,
Out of my dust, unknown Avenger, rise!
To harry and lay waste with sword and flame
those Dardan settlers, and to vex them sore,
to-day, to-morrow, and as long as power
is thine to use! My dying curse arrays
shore against shore and the opposing seas
in shock of arms with arms. May living foes
pass down from sire to son insatiate war!”
She said. From point to point her purpose flew,
seeking without delay to quench the flame
of her loathed life. Brief bidding she addressed
to Barce then, Sichaeus’ nurse (her own
lay dust and ashes in a lonely grave
beside the Tyrian shore), “Go, nurse, and call
my sister Anna! Bid her quickly bathe
her limbs in living water, and procure
due victims for our expiating fires.
bid her make haste. Go, bind on thy own brow
the sacred fillet. For to Stygian Jove
it is my purpose now to consummate
the sacrifice ordained, ending my woe,
and touch with flame the Trojan’s funeral pyre.”
The aged crone to do her bidding ran
with trembling zeal. But Dido (horror-struck
at her own dread design, unstrung with fear,
her bloodshot eyes wide-rolling, and her cheek
twitching and fever-spotted, her cold brow
blanched with approaching death)—sped past the doors
into the palace garden; there she leaped,
a frenzied creature, on the lofty pyre
and drew the Trojan’s sword; a gift not asked
for use like this! When now she saw the garb
of Ilian fashion, and the nuptial couch
she knew too well, she lingered yet awhile
for memory and tears, and, falling prone
on that cold bed, outpoured a last farewell:
“Sweet relics! Ever dear when Fate and Heaven
upon me smiled, receive my parting breath,
and from my woe set free! My life is done.
I have accomplished what my lot allowed;
and now my spirit to the world of death
in royal honor goes. The founder I
of yonder noble city, I have seen
walls at my bidding rise. I was avenged
for my slain husband: I chastised the crimes
of our injurious brother. Woe is me!
Blest had I been, beyond deserving blest,
if but the Trojan galleys ne’er had moored
upon my kingdom’s bound!”So saying, she pressed
one last kiss on the couch. “Though for my death
no vengeance fall, O, give me death!” she cried.
“O thus! O thus! it is my will to take
the journey to the dark. From yonder sea
may his cold Trojan eyes discern the flames
that make me ashes! Be this cruel death
his omen as he sails!” She spoke no more.
But almost ere she ceased, her maidens all
thronged to obey her cry, and found their Queen
prone fallen on the sword, the reeking steel
still in her bloody hands. Shrill clamor flew
along the lofty halls; wild rumor spread
through the whole smitten city: Ioud lament,
groans and the wail of women echoed on
from roof to roof, and to the dome of air
the noise of mourning rose. Such were the cry
if a besieging host should break the walls
of Carthage or old Tyre, and wrathful flames
o’er towers of kings and worshipped altars roll.
Her sister heard. Half in a swoon, she ran
with trembling steps, where thickest was the throng,
beating her breast, while with a desperate hand
she tore at her own face, and called aloud
upon the dying Queen.
“Was it for this
my own true sister used me with such guile?
O, was this horrid deed the dire intent
of altars, Iofty couch, and funeral fires?
What shall I tell for chiefest of my woes?
Lost that I am! Why, though in death, cast off
thy sister from thy heart? Why not invite
one mortal stroke for both, a single sword,
one agony together? But these hands
built up thy pyre; and my voice implored
the blessing of our gods, who granted me
that thou shouldst perish thus—and I not know!
In thy self-slaughter, sister, thou hast slain
myself, thy people, the grave counsellors
of Sidon, and yon city thou didst build
to be thy throne!—Go, fetch me water, there!
That I may bathe those gashes! If there be
one hovering breath that stays, let my fond lips
discover and receive!” So saying, she sprang up
from stair to stair, and, clasping to her breast
her sister’s dying form, moaned grievously,
and staunched the dark blood with her garment’s fold.
Vainly would Dido lift her sinking eyes,
but backward fell, while at her heart the wound
opened afresh; three times with straining arm
she rose; three times dropped helpless, her dimmed eyes
turned skyward, seeking the sweet light of day, —
which when she saw, she groaned. Great Juno then
looked down in mercy on that lingering pain
and labor to depart: from realms divine
she sent the goddess of the rainbow wing,
Iris, to set the struggling spirit free
and loose its fleshly coil. For since the end
came not by destiny, nor was the doom
of guilty deed, but of a hapless wight
to sudden madness stung, ere ripe to die,
therefore the Queen of Hades had not shorn
the fair tress from her forehead, nor assigned
that soul to Stygian dark. So Iris came
on dewy, saffron pinions down from heaven,
a thousand colors on her radiant way,
from the opposing sun. She stayed her flight
above that pallid brow: “I come with power
to make this gift to Death. I set thee free
from thy frail body’s bound.” With her right hand
she cut the tress: then through its every limb
the sinking form grew cold; the vital breath
fled forth, departing on the viewless air."
The Aeneid (Audio Book) Bk 4: The Passion of the Queen pt 1
The Aeneid (Audio Book) Bk 4: The Passion of the Queen pt 2
reminded me of a quote:
