My fatal course is finished, and I go,
A glorious name, among the ghosts below.
A lofty city by my hands is raised
Pygmalion punished, and my lord appeased.
What could my fortune have afforded more
Had the false Trojan never touch my shore?"
Then kissed the couch. "And must I die," she said,
"And unrevenged?—'tis doubly to be dead!
Yet even this death with pleasure I receive
On any terms, 'tis better than to live.
These flames from far may the false Trojan view,
These boding omens his base flight pursue."
She said, and struck; deep entered in her side
The piercing steel, with reeking purple dyed.
Clogged in the wound the cruel weapon stands,
The spouting blood came streaming on her hands.
Her sad attendants saw the deadly stroke,
And with loud cries the sounding palace shook;
Distracted from the fatal sight they fled,
And through the town the dismal rumour spread.
First from the frighted court the yell began,
Redoubled, thence from house to house it ran;
The groans of men, with shrieks, laments, and cries
Of mixing women, mount the vaulted skies.
Not less the clamour than if ancient Tyre,
Or the new Carthage, set by foes on fire;
The rolling ruin with their loved abodes
Involved the blazing temples of their gods.
Her sister hears, and, furious with despair,
She beats her breast and rends her yellow hair,
And calling on Eliza's name aloud,
Runs breathless to the place, and breaks the crowd :
"Was all that pomp of woe for this prepared,
These fires, this funeral pile, these altars reared?
Was all this train of plots contrived," said she,
"All only to deceive unhappy me?
Which is the worst? Didst thou in death pretend
To scorn thy sister or delude thy friend?
Thy summoned sister and thy friend had come,
One sword had served us both, one common tomb.
Was I to raise the pile, the powers invoke,
Not to be present at the fatal stroke?
At once thou hast destroyed thyself and me,
Thy town, thy senate, and thy colony !
Bring water, bathe the wound, while I in death
Lay close my lips to hers, and catch the flying breath.'
This said, she mounts the pile with eager haste,
And in her arms the gasping Queen embraced ;
Her temples chafed, and her own garments tore
To stanch the streaming blood and cleanse the gore.
Thrice Dido tried to raise her drooping head,
And fainting thrice, fell grovellng on the bed ;
Thrice oped her heavy eyes and saw the light,
But having found it, sickened at the sight,
And closed her lids at last in endless night.
Then Juno, grieving that she should sustain
A death so lingering and so full of pain,
Sent Iris down to free her from the strife
Of labouring nature and dissolve her life.
For since she died, not doomed by Heaven's decree,
Or her own crime, but human casualty
And rage of love, that plunged her in despair,
The sisters had not cut the topmost hair
Which Proserpine and they can only know,
Nor made her sacred to the shades below.
Downward the various goddess took her flight,
And drew a thousand colours from the light;
Then stood above the dying lover's head,
And said, "I thus devote thee to the dead :
This offering to the infernal gods I bear."
Thus while she spoke she cut the fatal hair,
The struggling soul was loosed, and life dissolved in air.
Eneas, setting sail from Africa, is driven by a storm on the coasts of Sicily, where he is hospitably received by his friend Acestes, king of part of the island, and born of Trojan parentage. He applies himself to celebrate the memory of his father with divine honours, and accordingly institutes funeral games, and appoints prizes for those who should conquer in them. While the ceremonies were performing, Juno sends Iris to persuade the Trojan women to burn the ships, who upon her instigation set fire to them, which burnt four, and would have consumed the rest had not Jupiter by a miraculous shower extinguished it. Upon this Eneas, by the advice of one of his generals, and a vision of his father, builds a city for the women, old men, and others who were either unfit for war or weary of the voyage, and sails for Italy. Venus procures of Neptune a safe voyage for him and all his men, excepting only his pilot Palinurus, who was unfortunately lost.
MEANTIME the Trojan cuts his watery way,
Fixed on his voyage, through the curling sea;
Then, casting back his eyes, with dire amaze,
Sees on the Punic shore the mounting blaze—
The cause unknown; yet his presaging mind,
The fate of Dido from the fire divined.
He knew the stormy souls of womankind,
What secret springs their eager passions move,
How capable of death for injured love.
Dire auguries from hence the Trojans draw,
Till neither fires nor shining shores they saw.
Now seas and skies their prospect only bound,
An empty space above, a floating field around.
But soon the heavens with shadows were o'erspread;
A swelling cloud hung hovering o'er their head.
Livid it looked (the threatening of a storm);
Then night and horror ocean's face deform.
The pilot, Palinurus, cried aloud :
"What gusts of weather from that gathering cloud
My thoughts presage; ere yet the tempest roars,
Stand to your tackle, mates, and stretch your oars,
Contract your swelling sails and luff to wind.
The frighted crew perform the task assigned.
Then to his fearless chief: "Not Heaven," said he,
"Though Jove himself should promise Italy,
Can stem the torrent of this raging sea.
Mark how the shifting winds from west arise,
And what collected night involves the skies.
Nor can our shaken vessels live at sea,
Much less against the tempest force their way;
'Tis fate diverts our course, and fate we must obey.
Not far from hence, if I observed aright
The southing of the stars and polar light,
Sicilia lies, whose hospitable shores
In safety we may reach with struggling oars."
Æneas then replied: "Too sure I find
We strive in vain against the seas and wind;
Now shift your sails, what place can please me more
Than what you promise, the Sicilian shore,
Whose hallowed earth Anchises' bones contains,
And where a prince of Trojan lineage reigns ?"
The course resolved, before the western wind
They scud amain, and make the port assigned.
Meantime Acestes, from a lofty stand,
Beheld the fleet descending on the land,
And not unmindful of his ancient race,
Down from the cliff he ran with eager pace,
And held the hero in a strict embrace.
Of a rough Libyan bear the spoils he wore,
And either hand a pointed javelin bore.
His mother was a dame of Dardan blood,
His sire Crinisus, a Sicilian flood;
He welcomes his returning friends ashore
With plenteous country cates and homely store.
Now, when the following morn had chased away
The flying stars, and light restored the day,
Æneas called the Trojan troops around,
And thus bespoke them from a rising ground:
"Offspring of heaven, divine Dardanian race,
The sun revolving through the ethereal space
The shining circle of the year has filled
Since first this isle my father's ashes held;
And now the rising day renews the year
(A day for ever sad, for ever dear).
This would I celebrate with annual games,
With gifts on altars piled, and holy flames,
Though banished to Getulia's barren sands.
Caught on the Grecian seas, or hostile lands;
But since this happy storm our fleet has driven
(Not, as I deem, without the will of Heaven)
Upon these friendly shores and flowery plains,
Which hide Anchises and his blest remains,
Let us with joy perform his honours due,
And pray for prosperous winds our voyage to renew-
Pray that in towns and temples of our own
The name of great Anchises may be known,
And yearly games may spread the gods' renown.
Our sports, Acestes of the Trojan race,
With royal gifts ordained, is pleased to grace.
Two steers on every ship the king bestows;
His gods and ours shall share your equal vows.
Besides, if nine days hence the rosy morn
Shall with unclouded light the skies adorn,
That day with solemn sports I mean to grace.
Light galleys on the seas shall run a watery race,
Some shall in swiftness for the goal contend,
And others try the twanging bow to bend ;
The strong with iron gauntlets armed shall stand
Opposed in combat on the yellow sand.
Let all be present at the games prepared,
And joyful victors wait the just reward.
But now assist the rites, with garlands crowned."
He said, and first his brows with myrtle bound.
Then Helymus, by his example led,
And old Acestes, each adorned his head.
Thus, young Ascanius, with a sprightly grace,
His temples tied, and all the Trojan race.
Æneas then advanced amidst the train,
By thousands followed through the flowery plain,
To great Anchises' tomb, which, when he found,
He poured to Bacchus, on the hallowed ground,
Two bowls of sparkling wine, of milk two more,
And two from offered bulls of purple gore.
With roses then the sepulchre he strewed,
And thus his father's ghost bespoke aloud:
"Hail, O ye holy manes! hail again,
Paternal ashes! now reviewed in vain.
The gods permitted not that you with me
Should reach the promised shores of Italy,
Or Tiber's flood, what flood soe'er it be."
Scarce had he finished, when, with speckled pride,
A serpent from the tomb began to glide;
His hugy bulk on seven high volumes rolled,
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