Complete Works of Virgil

by Virgil

  in Italy o’er Roman lands to reign.”

  After such word Cyllene’s winged god

  vanished, and e’er his accents died away,

  dissolved in air before the mortal’s eyes.

  Aeneas at the sight stood terror-dumb

  with choking voice and horror-rising hair.

  He fain would fly at once and get him gone

  from that voluptuous land, much wondering

  at Heaven’s wrathful word. Alas! how stir?

  What cunning argument can plead his cause

  before th’ infuriate Queen? How break such news?

  Flashing this way and that, his startled mind

  makes many a project and surveys them all.

  But, pondering well, his final counsel stopped

  at this resolve: he summoned to his side

  Mnestheus, Sergestus, and Serestus bold,

  and bade them fit the fleet, all silently

  gathering the sailors and collecting gear,

  but carefully dissembling what emprise

  such novel stir intends: himself the while

  (Since high-born Dido dreamed not love so fond

  could have an end) would seek an audience,

  at some indulgent time, and try what shift

  such matters may require. With joy they heard,

  and wrought, assiduous, at their prince’s plan.

  But what can cheat true love? The Queen foreknew

  his stratagem, and all the coming change

  perceived ere it began. Her jealous fear

  counted no hour secure. That unclean tongue

  of Rumor told her fevered heart the fleet

  was fitting forth, and hastening to be gone.

  Distractedly she raved, and passion-tossed

  roamed through her city, like a Maenad roused

  by the wild rout of Bacchus, when are heard

  the third year’s orgies, and the midnight scream

  to cold Cithaeron calls the frenzied crew.

  Finding Aeneas, thus her plaint she poured:

  “Didst hope to hide it, false one, that such crime

  was in thy heart, — to steal without farewell

  out of my kingdom? Did our mutual joy

  not move thee; nor thine own true promise given

  once on a time? Nor Dido, who will die

  a death of sorrow? Why compel thy ships

  to brave the winter stars? Why off to sea

  so fast through stormy skies? O, cruelty!

  If Troy still stood, and if thou wert not bound

  for alien shore unknown, wouldst steer for Troy

  through yonder waste of waves? Is it from me

  thou takest flight? O, by these flowing tears,

  by thine own plighted word (for nothing more

  my weakness left to miserable me),

  by our poor marriage of imperfect vow,

  if aught to me thou owest, if aught in me

  ever have pleased thee — O, be merciful

  to my low-fallen fortunes! I implore,

  if place be left for prayer, thy purpose change!

  Because of thee yon Libyan savages

  and nomad chiefs are grown implacable,

  and my own Tyrians hate me. Yes, for thee

  my chastity was slain and honor fair,

  by which alone to glory I aspired,

  in former days. To whom dost thou in death

  abandon me? my guest! — since but this name

  is left me of a husband! Shall I wait

  till fell Pygmalion, my brother, raze

  my city walls? Or the Gaetulian king,

  Iarbas, chain me captive to his car? .

  O, if, ere thou hadst fled, I might but bear

  some pledge of love to thee, and in these halls

  watch some sweet babe Aeneas at his play,

  whose face should be the memory of thine own —

  I were not so forsaken, Iost, undone!”

  She said. But he, obeying Jove’s decree,

  gazed steadfastly away; and in his heart

  with strong repression crushed his cruel pain;

  then thus the silence broke: “O Queen, not one

  of my unnumbered debts so strongly urged

  would I gainsay. Elissa’s memory

  will be my treasure Iong as memory holds,

  or breath of life is mine. Hear my brief plea!

  ‘T was not my hope to hide this flight I take,

  as thou hast dreamed. Nay, I did never light

  a bridegroom’s torch, nor gave I thee the vow

  of marriage. Had my destiny decreed,

  that I should shape life to my heart’s desire,

  and at my own will put away the weight

  of foil and pain, my place would now be found

  in Troy, among the cherished sepulchres

  of my own kin, and Priam’s mansion proud

  were standing still; or these my loyal hands

  had rebuilt Ilium for her vanquished sons.

  But now to Italy Apollo’s power

  commands me forth; his Lycian oracles

  are loud for Italy. My heart is there,

  and there my fatherland. If now the towers

  of Carthage and thy Libyan colony

  delight thy Tyrian eyes; wilt thou refuse

  to Trojan exiles their Ausonian shore?

  I too by Fate was driven, not less than thou,

  to wander far a foreign throne to find.

  Oft when in dewy dark night hides the world,

  and flaming stars arise, Anchises’ shade

  looks on me in my dreams with angered brow.

  I think of my Ascanius, and the wrong

  to that dear heart, from whom I steal away

  Hesperia, his destined home and throne.

  But now the winged messenger of Heaven,

  sent down by Jove (I swear by thee and me!),

  has brought on winged winds his sire’s command.

  My own eyes with unclouded vision saw

  the god within these walls; I have received

  with my own ears his word. No more inflame

  with lamentation fond thy heart and mine.

  ‘T is not my own free act seeks Italy.”

  She with averted eyes and glance that rolled

  speechless this way and that, had listened long

  to his reply, till thus her rage broke forth:

  “No goddess gave thee birth. No Dardanus

  begot thy sires. But on its breast of stone

  Caucasus bore thee, and the tigresses

  of fell Hyrcania to thy baby lip

  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 Di
do’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
<
br />   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