Now felt the Queen the sharp, slow-gathering pangs
of love; and out of every pulsing vein
nourished the wound and fed its viewless fire.
Her hero's virtues and his lordly line
keep calling to her soul; his words, his glance,
cling to her heart like lingering, barbed steel,
and rest and peace from her vexed body fly.
A new day's dawn with Phoebus' lamp divine
lit up all lands, and from the vaulted heaven
Aurora had dispelled the dark and dew;
when thus unto the ever-answering heart
of her dear sister spoke the stricken Queen:
“Anna, my sister, what disturbing dreams
perplex me and alarm? What guest is this
new-welcomed to our house? How proud his mien!
What dauntless courage and exploits of war!
Sooth, I receive it for no idle tale
that of the gods he sprang. 'T is cowardice
betrays the base-born soul. Ah me! How fate
has smitten him with storms! What dire extremes
of war and horror in his tale he told!
O, were it not immutably resolved
in my fixed heart, that to no shape of man
I would be wed again (since my first love
left me by death abandoned and betrayed);
loathed I not so the marriage torch and train,
I could—who knows?—to this one weakness yield.
Anna, I hide it not! But since the doom
of my ill-starred Sichaeus, when our shrines
were by a brother's murder dabbled o'er,
this man alone has moved me; he alone
has shaken my weak will. I seem to feel
the motions of love's lost, familiar fire.
But may the earth gape open where I tread,
and may almighty Jove with thunder-scourge
hurl me to Erebus' abysmal shade,
to pallid ghosts and midnight fathomless,
before, O Chastity! I shall offend
thy holy power, or cast thy bonds away!
He who first mingled his dear life with mine
took with him all my heart. 'T is his alone —
O, let it rest beside him in the grave!”
She spoke: the bursting tears her breast o'erflowed.
“O dearer to thy sister than her life,”
Anna replied, “wouldst thou in sorrow's weed
waste thy long youth alone, nor ever know
sweet babes at thine own breast, nor gifts of love?
Will dust and ashes, or a buried ghost
reck what we do? 'T is true thy grieving heart
was cold to earlier wooers, Libya's now,
and long ago in Tyre. Iarbas knew
thy scorn, and many a prince and captain bred
in Afric's land of glory. Why resist
a love that makes thee glad? Hast thou no care
what alien lands are these where thou dost reign?
Here are Gaetulia's cities and her tribes
unconquered ever; on thy borders rove
Numidia's uncurbed cavalry; here too
lies Syrtis' cruel shore, and regions wide
of thirsty desert, menaced everywhere
by the wild hordes of Barca. Shall I tell
of Tyre's hostilities, the threats and rage
of our own brother? Friendly gods, I bow,
wafted the Teucrian ships, with Juno's aid,
to these our shores. O sister, what a throne,
and what imperial city shall be thine,
if thus espoused! With Trojan arms allied
how far may not our Punic fame extend
in deeds of power? Call therefore on the gods
to favor thee; and, after omens fair,
give queenly welcome, and contrive excuse
to make him tarry, while yon wintry seas
are loud beneath Orion's stormful star,
and on his battered ships the season frowns.”
So saying, she stirred a passion-burning breast
to Iove more madly still; her words infused
a doubting mind with hope, and bade the blush
of shame begone. First to the shrines they went
and sued for grace; performing sacrifice,
choosing an offering of unblemished ewes,
to law-bestowing Ceres, to the god
of light, to sire Lyeus, lord of wine;
but chiefly unto Juno, patroness
of nuptial vows.
There Dido, beauteous Queen
held forth in her right hand the sacred bowl
and poured it full between the lifted horns
of the white heifer; or on temple floors
she strode among the richly laden shrines,
the eyes of gods upon her, worshipping
with many a votive gift; or, peering deep
into the victims' cloven sides, she read
the fate-revealing tokens trembling there.
How blind the hearts of prophets be! Alas!
Of what avail be temples and fond prayers
to change a frenzied mind? Devouring ever,
love's fire burns inward to her bones; she feels
quick in her breast the viewless, voiceless wound.
Ill-fated Dido ranges up and down
the spaces of her city, desperate
her life one flame—like arrow-stricken doe
through Cretan forest rashly wandering,
pierced by a far-off shepherd, who pursues
with shafts, and leaves behind his light-winged steed,
not knowing; while she scours the dark ravines
of Dicte and its woodlands; at her heart
the mortal barb irrevocably clings.
Around her city's battlements she guides
Aeneas, to make show of Sidon's gold,
and what her realm can boast; full oft her voice
essays to speak and frembling dies away:
or, when the daylight fades, she spreads anew
a royal banquet, and once more will plead
mad that she is, to hear the Trojan sorrow;
and with oblivious ravishment once more
hangs on his lips who tells; or when her guests
are scattered, and the wan moon's fading horn
bedims its ray, while many a sinking star
invites to slumber, there she weeps alone
in the deserted hall, and casts her down
on the cold couch he pressed. Her love from far
beholds her vanished hero and receives
his voice upon her ears; or to her breast,
moved by a father's image in his child,
she clasps Ascanius, seeking to deceive
her unblest passion so. Her enterprise
of tower and rampart stops: her martial host
no longer she reviews, nor fashions now
defensive haven and defiant wall;
but idly all her half-built bastions frown,
and enginery of sieges, high as heaven.
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