Aeneid

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