Aeneid

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