Aeneid

parted the winds and skimmed the sandy merge

of Libya. When first his winged feet

came nigh the clay-built Punic huts, he saw

Aeneas building at a citadel,

and founding walls and towers; at his side

was girt a blade with yellow jaspers starred,

his mantle with the stain of Tyrian shell

flowed purple from his shoulder, broidered fair

by opulent Dido with fine threads of gold,

her gift of love; straightway the god began:

“Dost thou for lofty Carthage toil, to build

foundations strong? Dost thou, a wife's weak thrall,

build her proud city? Hast thou, shameful loss!

Forgot thy kingdom and thy task sublime?

From bright Olympus, I. He who commands

all gods, and by his sovran deity

moves earth and heaven—he it was who bade

me bear on winged winds his high decree.

What plan is thine? By what mad hope dost thou

linger so Iong in lap of Libyan land?

If the proud reward of thy destined way

move not thy heart, if all the arduous toil

to thine own honor speak not, Iook upon

Iulus in his bloom, thy hope and heir

Ascanius. It is his rightful due

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;