The Italian crown, the Roman state,
Of right are owing.’ Hermes said,
And e’en in speaking passed and fled:
One moment beamed on mortal eyes,
Then mingled with the ambient skies.
His speech tongue-tied, his hair upraised.
Appalled by Heaven’s austere command,
He yearns to leave the dear, dear land.
But how to fly? or how accost
The queen, by eddying passion tost?
How charm the ravings of distress?
What choice to make, when hundreds press?
So by conflicting cares distraught,
This way and that he whirls his thought,
Till in the tumult of his breast
One counsel dominates the rest.
Sergestus and Serestus tried
He calls with Mnestheus to his side:
Bids them unmarked their barks equip,
And muster all the crews to ship,
Armed as for fight, yet veil from view
The spring that moves designs so new:
Himself, as chance may serve, the while,
Since Dido, innocent of guile,
Still dreams her happy dream, nor thinks
That aught can break those golden links,
Will watch the hour, and strive to soothe
When time is ripe and access smooth.
Well pleased, they give their eager heed,
And act his will with duteous speed.
Love’s watchful eye?—perceived his wile:
She feels each stirring of the air,
And e’en in safety dreads a snare.
Once more fell Fame reports the news
Of barks equipped and mustering crews.
She raves in impotence of soul,
Storms through the town, and spurns control:
So when the clanging shrine is stirred,
And Bacchus! Bacchus! is the word,
The Thyiad starts from sleep, and flies
Where through the night Cithæron cries.
Soon on Æneas, unaddressed,
She pours the frenzy of her breast:
‘What? would the wretch his crime conceal,
And, like a thief, from Carthage steal?
Nor present love, nor hand once plight,
Nor dying Dido stays your flight?
Nay, you would sail ’neath winter’s sky,
And through the rush of tempests fly,
Ah cruel! Sure, if lands unknown
Were not to seek, were Troy your own,
E’en for that Troy, your ancient home,
You ne’er would cross yon angry foam.
From me you fly! Ah! let me crave,
By these poor tears, that hand you gave—
Since, parting with my woman’s pride,
My madness leaves me nought beside—
By that our wedlock, by the rite
Which, but begun, could yet unite,
If e’er my kindness held you bound,
If e’er in me your joy you found,
Look on this falling house, and still,
If prayer can touch you, change your will.
For you I angered Libyan hordes,
Woke jealous hate in Nomad lords,
Lost Tyrian hearts: for you, the same,
I trampled on my own good name,
That wifely honour, which alone
Had placed me on a starry throne.
Think, think to whom you make bequest
Of dying Dido, gentle guest!
Since fate but that cold name allows
To him whom once I called my spouse.
Why should I live to see my town
By my fierce brother battered down,
Or e’en myself a captive led
To Moor Iarbas’ bridal bed?
Ah! had I, ere you chose to rove,
Ta’en from your arms some pledge of love,
Some child Æneas to recall
Your face, and gambol in my hall,
The sire had cheered me in the son,
Nor had I seemed so all undone.’
She ended. He by Jove’s behest
His eyes unblenching held,
And prisoned deep within his breast
The grief that upward swelled:
Then briefly spoke: ‘Your favours count,
I question not the vast amount;
While memory lasts and pulses beat,
The thought of Dido shall be sweet.
Now hear my plea, fair queen, in brief;
I hoped not, trust me, like a thief,
By stealth to quit your coast:
I never lit the marriage flame,
Nor gloried in a husband’s name:
The covenant to which I came
Spoke but of guest and host.
Would Fate indulge me at my will,
My lot to mould, my cares to still,
Old Troy should claim my chiefest pains
To wake to life its dear remains,
And Priam’s hall and Priam’s tower
Should nurse the vanquished into power.
But now Grynean prophecies
On Latium bid me fix my eyes;
For Latium Lycia’s lots declare:
There is my heart, my home is there.
If, Tyrian born, you linger here,
And find a Libyan city dear,
Why grudge to Troy her Latian home?
We too have realms beyond the foam.
My sire, Anchises, oft as night
Invests the world, and stars are bright,
Warns me in sleep with wrathful frown,
And scares me on my couch of down.
Yet louder pleads the injury done
Each moment to my darling son,
Defrauded of Hesperia’s reign,
And barred from lands the fates ordain.
Now too the messenger divine—
I swear it by your life and mine—
Comes down from Jove himself, to bear
Heaven’s mandate through the bounding air.
I saw him pass the walls, and heard
E’en with these ears his warning word.
Then vex no more yourself and me:
’Tis Heaven, not I, that calls to sea.’
She marked him with quick-darting glance,
Swept o’er his frame her silent eyes;
Then, blazing out in fury, cries:
‘No goddess bore you, traitorous man:
No Dardanus your race began:
No; ’twas from Caucasus you sprung,
And tigers nursed you with their young.
Why longer wear the mask, as though
I waited for some heavier blow?
Heaved he one sigh at tears of mine?
Moved he those hard impassive eyne?
Did one kind drop of pity fall
At thought of her who gave him all?
What first, what
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